Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(18)
The others had finished their breakfasts and gone outside, leaving Aelfhild alone with her thoughts. Swidhelm had stirred up more than he could have guessed. Father had been her favorite, the warmer of the two by far. He had doted on his little girl. After he left, mother had faded further away, becoming little more than a judging voice far in the background. Little by little, Ceolwen had become everything.
Wilflaed startled her from the reverie with a hand on the shoulder.
“Enough of that, child. Time to get moving,” the old woman said. Aelfhild got the distinct feeling that with a single glance of those wizened eyes, Wilflaed had learned more about her past than words could reveal in an entire evening around the fire.
The others were outside. Cuthbert and Bercthun were helping Swidhelm harness the mare that Aelfhild had befriended earlier to a ramshackle haywain loaded down with bundles of straw.
Ceolwen stood apart, leaning against the fence and staring out over the glistening grass of the clearing. She cut a remarkably different figure in this setting than she had in Cynestead’s market just two days prior; her fair hair was now tangled with straw, her fur-trimmed cloak traded for a raspy wool blanket over a nightdress with a hem torn and muddy. We have come a long way in two days, Aelfhild thought. And we have leagues yet to go.
Thrymgard! Her mind turned to the future. We trade assassins in the south for savages in the north. But what have we to lose?
A week ago, she had spared barely a thought for the world outside Cynestead. There had been chores to do, gossip to catch up on, and a warm bed at the end of the day. She had known where life would take her, which was to say nowhere fast. Just three days past, life had still been, in a word, boring. Boring did have its advantages, and no doubt about it. The weight of the dagger in her pocket reminded her of that. She still shuddered to touch the thing.
But before this she had not known Bercthun, or Swidhelm, or Wilflaed. That was worth a smile.
How quickly our fortunes change, thought Aelfhild.
9
She bid farewell to Cuthbert and Swidhelm with a heavy heart.
It was a whimsical sight, the enormous Eorl perched atop the brittle-looking haywain in his nightshirt and muddied breeches, dwarfing old Swidhelm beside him, but there were few smiles that morning. Bercthun clasped his lord’s hand, taking leave of his master and swearing to keep the Eorl’s cousin safe at all costs. On the other side of the cart, Wilflaed patted her husband’s leg, and he cracked the slightest of grins back at her, words long since unnecessary between the two.
Cuthbert’s face looked older, greyer, the creases deeper; all trace of his usual humor and good cheer had departed. To Ceolwen, he said, “Go safely, cousin, and we will see each other again soon.”
“Go safely, old friend,” Ceolwen replied, offering a wan smile. The Eorl nodded to her and to Aelfhild standing at her mistress’ side.
“And you, Aelfhild, remember what I told you. Listen as well as look, and keep the Aethling safe, whatever the cost.”
Swidhelm flicked the reins, and the haywain set off across the field. The four of them stood silently, watching the little wagon until it was out of sight. Wilflaed was the first to turn, going back to the house without a word. Bercthun followed, leaving Ceolwen and Aelfhild standing side by side in the dew-laden grass.
“He was right, I know. We do not have many choices,” Ceolwen’s voice was soft. She spoke as much to herself as her servant. “There is so much that can go wrong. We walk a narrow ledge—one wrong step…”
The same worries hung heavy over Aelfhild’s thoughts, but she tried to give her lady some comfort. “So now we focus on our next step and worry about the others later.” She gave Ceolwen’s hand a squeeze. “We keep going and we survive. Together.”
Ceolwen turned toward Aelfhild, eyes brightening as a smile played at the corners of her mouth. She nodded and squeezed Aelfhild’s hand in return. “Together. I am glad to have you here with me.”
Wilflaed had gathered together what supplies the old couple could spare for the travelers, wrapping some dried fish, a few hard loaves of bread, and two skins of water in a blanket. She gave each of the women an old traveling cloak and linen wraps for their feet, bound with rawhide cords. The gifts were plain, but dearly given. It broke Aelfhild’s heart that she had nothing to give back.
Ceolwen and Bercthun received a curt nod and a “farewell” from the old woman, but Aelfhild was shocked when she was pulled in to a tight embrace.
“You keep an eye on those two, my girl,” Wilflaed whispered in her ear, “and you stay alive.” Releasing her wiry arms, Wilflaed squinted at Aelfhild’s face. “My Swidhelm was right about you.”
Aelfhild smiled and nodded. “Thank you. For everything.”
She left with her companions, looking back over her shoulder as they walked down the path to the river. The grey-haired woman stood at the cottage’s open door, her frail form silhouetted by the glow from within. She watched them go, unmoving, without a wave or a sigh, then turned back into the house and closed the door behind her.
Before they passed from the path back into the wood, Aelfhild stole one last look back at the cottage. She was loath to leave it behind. But there was a long way yet to go, and no time to linger.
The thickets of Blaedscir to the north were pleasant to look upon in the morning sun, but paled in comparison to the grasslands of Ealdorscir that opened up along the south bank of the river. Fields of tall, pale green grass stretched as far as the eye could see, broken only occasionally by the sod roof of a farmer’s hut. A light easterly breeze kissed the fields, sending cascading ripples through the top-heavy stalks.