Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(13)

With Bercthun at the oars, they made good time across the lake, and as they neared the eastern edge the current began to help the little boat along.

“I cannot be the only one who is starving,” said Ceolwen. “And you are all so quiet.”

Aelfhild grinned. Some things never changed. Ceolwen would always be the Aethling, even without gilded halls or any of the trappings of royalty. And Aelfhild would always be a servant. There was more to life than immediate circumstance.

“Trail rations,” Cuthbert called as he tossed them a greasy bundle. There was jerky of uncertain provenance and hard bread. Chewing it was a job, but Aelfhild applied herself. Her stomach had set to rumbling even before Ceolwen spoke up.

“How did you come to have all this, cousin?” Ceolwen asked between mouthfuls.

“A wise man leaves himself more than one way out of danger.”

“Do you plan like this every time you come to Cynestead?”

“Take no chances in the city, girl. It is a foul place even when nobody is plotting to burn down a man’s hall.”

Aelfhild felt obliged to speak up for her home. “I grew up there. It is beautiful in summer.”

Cuthbert laughed. “You are too good for that place, Aelfhild, my dear. You should come live with us in Norholt. The forest does not plot behind your back. The trees do not lie to you. A body needs peace and quiet to grow old and fat like me.”

“Now that you mention it, where are we going, Cuthbert?” Ceolwen asked. “Norholt?”

“No, no,” the Eorl replied, “We cannot go where they expect us to. You heard those two at the docks. If the Oescans are in on this, there is no telling what snares they have set. We will head past the rapids, then downriver a ways. That way, we throw any that are following off our trail.”

Aelfhild and Ceolwen spoke as one. “Rapids?”

Where Leohtmere’s deep waters swirled up into the waiting Swiftea, rapids roared. They could hear the sound as they approached, water tearing down through narrow chutes between pulverizing boulders, crashing in sheets against jagged rocks, whipping around tree-trunks eager to snag the hulls of fragile little boats. True to its name, the river flowed fast here.

Cuthbert stood in the stern, looking out over the whitecaps and waves. “Lucky the water is so high this season. I have seen it a fair bit worse than this.”

That was less comfort to Aelfhild than he likely intended. She watched as breakers slammed up against stone with thunderous fury. Her mouth went dry.

“Allow me, my lord?” Bercthun asked. He and the Eorl switched places, the young man taking up the steering oar.

Cuthbert called forward to Aelfhild and Ceolwen. “Young Bercthun is a sure hand at this sort of thing. Trust him to get you through here without a hitch.”

Ceolwen seized Aelfhild’s hand. “I do not like boats, Aela.”

“Yes, lady.” In that moment, Aelfhild did not disagree. And she was not a keen swimmer.

The bottom fell out from beneath them as they entered the first chute. Aelfhild was glad breakfast had been light, otherwise it might have made a hasty return. The boat rocked and pitched from side to side, threatening to buck them out at any moment. With the hand that was not being crushed by Ceolwen’s clammy grip, Aelfhild held fast to the hull.

Bercthun cut a dashing figure at the rear of the boat, his feet locked against the bench ahead of him and arms wrestling the steering oar. His hair was damp from the spray, his face serene in concentration. Cuthbert’s thick arms pumped at the oars, knotted muscles in his back bulging beneath the nightshirt.

Ceolwen looked miserable. Her eyes were shut tight, her hand a vice around Aelfhild’s. “What have you done to me, Cuthbert?” she screamed. The Eorl did not bother to answer.

Aelfhild, on the other hand, felt her initial fear ebbing. The roar of the water, the play of wind in her hair, the bouncing and racing of the boat; this was a rush she had never known. The sun beat down on her, warming limbs numbed by icy spray, and she threw back her head and laughed.

“And now Aelfhild has gone mad!” Ceolwen shouted.

Maybe, Aelfhild thought. The Gods had touched her once already. But she was alive and there had been too much fear in this day already. So she squealed, and not from fright, as the boat dropped again.

“We shall make a wild one out of her yet!” Cuthbert sounded triumphant.

The river evened out after giving their little craft a thorough drubbing. Bercthun relaxed in the stern, and Cuthbert eased off the oars. The boat drifted out into the broad channel of the Swiftea, bruised but intact.

Ceolwen’s voice was shaky, but Aelfhild suspected exaggeration. “Can we walk from here?” The Eorl just laughed.

Greystone cliffs, their constant companion since Cynestead, hemmed them in along the southern edge of the river. The north bank opened up into thickets of fern and briar, punctuated by the odd larch or oak rising stark and proud from the undergrowth.

“That is Blaedscir to our north, is it not, Cuthbert?” Ceolwen seemed to have recovered. Cuthbert nodded. “We could go to Eorl Hlothere,” she continued. “He was always a friend to my father and he will hate what Osric did in Cynestead. You said before he might join us; now he most certainly will.”

The old bear sucked at his whiskers. “Hlothere, Lord of the Cows.” He grunted at his own joke. “I do not share your certainty, cousin. Hlothere thinks of gold before all else. He trades his grain to the Thrym, he trades his cattle to the Oescans, then he sells whatever is left on to us. There is no trusting a man so eager for gold. And now Osric has the royal coffers, and we have only what is in our pockets. Unless you snuck some treasure out with you, we need other plans.”