Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(12)

Moonlight reflecting off the lake illuminated the sleek contours of a rowboat inside the building. Cuthbert bustled around, lifting oars from racks on the wall and a bulging sack from a nearby table. Bercthun pushed the boat down to the water’s edge and helped Ceolwen aboard. He extended a hand to Aelfhild.

She huddled with her mistress in the prow for warmth against the lake’s chill and to balance out the Eorl in the stern. She could feel Ceolwen’s heartbeat against her arms. In that fact, she could take some small solace. So long as the Aethling lived, she had a purpose. Smoke rose in a column over the city behind them, over the ashes of her old life. Now there was only one task in front of her: keeping Ceolwen safe.

With a heave, Cuthbert pushed them off the bank and out onto the waters of the Leohtmere.





6

What happened?” Ceolwen was the first to break the silence. They were well out onto the lake now, and her voice cut through the still air. The splash of Bercthun’s rowing had been the only sound since they left Cynestead.

It was part question, part accusation. Aelfhild suspected her mistress’ words were directed as much at the Gods as the Eorl or the rest of them. Since the Gods would not answer, Cuthbert did.

“We…” He paused. “I underestimated Osric. I misjudged the Oescans. I misread all the signs. I thought, or maybe I hoped, that we could get through this without a war. And I was wrong.”

Ceolwen stared out across the water. “As was I. I thought I could play the game and have a seat at the table. We both should have known better, cousin.”

“We were betrayed!” The Eorl’s voice shifted to a growl. “May the Gods curse her name and all her line, may they rain death upon all betrayers and oath breakers!” He spat.

Poor Gyda, thought Aelfhild. She had known the girl for not but a moment, but her heart went out to her. Gyda had been in Aelfhild’s thoughts since they pushed off from shore.

“Do you think she is still alive?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to yank them back in. Both Cuthbert and Ceolwen turned baleful stares her way, neither prepared to hear sympathy for a betrayer.

There was venom in the old bear’s voice. “She will get no less than she deserves. If she went to Osric, well, even he knows what to do with traitors.”

Ceolwen was subtler. She laid a hand on her servant’s shoulder and spoke in the stern yet benevolent voice practiced in the court for just such occasions. “Aelfhild.” There were no nicknames now. “She broke faith with her master. Even servants have to know better than that. There is no honor to it.”

“Yes, lady,” Aelfhild answered. She stared at her feet.

Ceolwen snorted, but pursued the matter no further. Aelfhild knew her mistress recognized the tone of that answer; it was master and servant now, not bosom childhood friends. And so Aelfhild stared at her feet to hide the anger in her eyes.

It was all well and good for nobles to talk about honor and broken oaths. They did not know the life Gyda lived. Aelfhild did. Honor was an indulgence that servants could scarce afford. Theirs was a world of necessity. Maybe Gyda had spoken careless words in the wrong place, ignorant of any consequence. Or maybe she had seen a way out. Aelfhild could not fault her for that, no matter how foolish it had been. She remembered her own brief pause when Osric had made his offer. Hope had a mighty grip once its fingers found even the slightest purchase.

And if the girl had gone to Osric, Aelfhild did not envy her future. Gods help you, Gyda, she thought.

Cuthbert reached down below his bench to root around in the sack he had grabbed before they left. He came up with a blanket, which he tossed forward to his cousin. Ceolwen wrapped it around her shoulders, lifted her arm and motioned for Aelfhild to join her.

Weighing her anger against the cold, the cold won out. Aelfhild shifted over. It was raspy, coarse wool that still smelled strongly of the sheep from which it had been shorn, but it was a welcome comfort.

“Sorry,” Ceolwen whispered next to her.

Aelfhild did not believe that her mistress understood what she was apologizing for, but this was not the time nor the place for lecturing. She nodded and shivered.

“Dawn ahead,” called Cuthbert from the stern. He hitched up the cloak, taken from the slain warrior, around his shoulders.

To the east, the mist was turning little by little to shades of purple, still bruised and midnight blue at the bottom but spectral pink high above.

“Anyway,” he said, “we would be in a good deal worse shape if young Aelfhild there had not got up when she did. Lucky you drank that last glass of mead, eh, girl?”

It was a paltry thing as far as jokes went, but the bowstring had been drawn too tight for too long and finally snapped. Ceolwen started giggling. Bercthun followed, and soon they were all sighing and wiping away tears.

We have our lives, and that is worth a laugh, Aelfhild thought. Better not to mention the dream.

The sun was well into the sky by the time it had managed to burn away the fog. Light glinted off dewdrops left atop the cliffs running along Leohtmere’s southern shores, down from Cynestead and into the grazelands to the east.

Two rivers, the Hwitea and the Westea, rushed down from the mountains and poured their glacial waters into the Leohtmere from the west. To the east, the mighty Swiftea drained out of the lake and wound down all the way to the seacoast. The Eorl steered them that way now, toward the dawn and the headwaters of the Swiftea.