Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(14)
Ceolwen snorted. “My father should have done something about him while he had the chance.”
“It is no small thing to boss about a man whose lands feed half your kingdom. Your father was wise enough not to push. If you want to be a queen, remember: knowing when to fight is the biggest part of winning.”
Though she let the matter lie, Ceolwen did not look overly pleased by the lesson.
“Back to Norholt then?” Aelfhild asked.
“It seems the wisest course,” said the Eorl. “But for now, downriver. There is a place I know we can spend a safe night. But keep those eyes open,” he continued. “Who knows what deal Osric has or has not made with Hlothere? We want to keep clear of his men and avoid his notice if we can. Besides, there are brigands in Blaedscir same as everywhere.”
“The joys never cease,” said Ceolwen. Aelfhild, again, did not disagree.
7
They traveled on for the rest of the afternoon. Both Aelfhild and Ceolwen took a turn at the oars, giving the men time to rest, but the rushing Swiftea did most of the work for them. Bercthun seemed to be in his element at the steersman’s oar, dancing around rocks and through eddies, riding the swiftest currents.
All the while, Cuthbert kept his eyes on the northern banks. Aelfhild remembered the Eorl’s warning and stared out into the thickets as well. She saw not a soul. From her seat, deer and rabbits seemed to be the sole occupants of Blaedscir. But tracking and woodcraft had not been considered important in Cynestead’s court.
“Did you spot them, lord?” Bercthun asked as they rounded a bend in the river. He kept his eyes straight ahead and his voice flat.
“Aye,” the Eorl answered. “Two so far.”
Aelfhild scoured the riverbank. The trees had grown thicker as they went downriver, oaks crowding the bank to dip their knobbly knees into Swiftea’s green waters. There was no sign of life that she could make out.
“You have to learn to listen as well as look, girl,” Cuthbert said from beside her. “Do you hear any birds?”
“No.”
“Right. They have all left because there are men tramping about. If there is silence where there ought to be noise—or the other way about—something is amiss.”
“How do you know there are two?”
“One is light and good at his work; he hardly makes a sound but the birds gave him away first. The other joined later. He crashes about like a rutting boar—we could have heard him from Cynestead.”
Ceolwen had been dozing in the prow but joined the whispered conversation. “Who are they?”
The Eorl shook his head. “I cannot believe Osric’s men got out here so quick. My guess is either brigands or villagers. Hlothere’s guardsmen would not bother hiding in their own lands.”
Aelfhild strained to listen, but the sounds of the forest ran together. Water lapped against the boat and burbled through the tree roots; leaves rustled above them, and her own breath drowned out any footfalls. Moss, bramble, and fern screened movement along the riverbank.
“What do we do?” asked Ceolwen.
“Wait. If they are villagers they will leave us be if we do not make any hostile moves. And brigands will wait till we land to make any move. Though we may disappoint them if they are looking for loot.” Cuthbert chortled. Even when nobody else cared for them, he always did seem to love his own jokes.
The sun dipped ever lower toward the horizon, dusk creeping up along the river. Aelfhild yawned and stretched; they had been cooped up in the tiny craft for too long. Her limbs were all bent out of shape, her back was beginning to pang, and the dark promised deeper cold. She wanted piping hot soup and a bed piled with furs and blankets.
She still had not spotted the watchers in the wood. At one point, she fancied that there was a face, pale and bearded, in a gap in the tree line, but as the river carried them past she saw it to be a trick of the light through the hanging moss. There was work yet to be done before she could become one of Cuthbert’s scouts.
The Eorl drove them on downriver as the shadows lengthened. He seemed to be searching for a particular spot. Another bend in the river brought them out to a broad stretch of flatwater. The setting sun, drowsy and red, shimmered across the river’s surface ahead of them.
“Northwards here, lad, to the shore,” Cuthbert said to Bercthun.
On the northern riverbank, atop a barren, sandy point, Aelfhild saw three tall standing stones, each one engraved with lines of runes weathered to the point of illegibility.
Runestones. This must be the place, she thought.
Such markers were a common sight throughout the kingdom; some loomed over the sites of storied battles or the barrows of great warriors, others stood at the boundaries of fiefs or at busy crossroads. Most, though, were mysteries, placed long ago for some arcane ritual since lost to memory. Aelfhild guessed these three to be the latter kind, raised by unknown hands for forgotten purpose. Local people had scrubbed most of the lichen off the windbeaten and waterworn surface. The same was true of stones she had seen near Cynestead—even though no one could say for certain why, they respected such sites. There was a pull, a connection to the past and the ancient works of their ancestors.
Cuthbert hopped into the shallow water at the river’s edge as Bercthun ran the prow ashore. Aelfhild and Ceolwen dropped down and helped drag the craft up onto shore, feet squelching in the muck. After so long in the boat, it was a mercy to stand on firm ground once more. The muscles in Aelfhild’s legs unfurled in a burst of pins and needles as she stretched over and again, relishing the freedom. Her feet felt wobbly on the unmoving ground after growing accustomed to the water’s incessant bobbing.