Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(2)
The gasping rose to an apex, and all eyes strained for a glimpse. Not a word was spoken. The King sucked at the air, drawing in breath after rasping breath. He strained as if to speak, but no sound came forth; his lips worked furiously but in vain. He could not speak, and so, with a long sigh, he lay still. The silence was total—Aelfhild could hear only the rushing beat of her own heart.
Ceolwen stood and bent over the King’s body. Let it be over, Aelfhild prayed, let him be free of it. Muscles in her neck ached as she craned to see her mistress.
Ceolwen stood. “Our King has left us,” she said.
She chose the tone well, thought Aelfhild. A touch mournful but without that womanly frailty the nobles so feared in her. But then, Ceolwen always did have more patience for courtly matters.
Greedy eyes in the crowd absorbed every detail, while minds scrambled to find a way to insert themselves into the story when they repeated it later to rapt audiences throughout the city. Whispers rippled through the hall, a breathy susurration that echoed somehow more in the dark than would normal conversation. Aelfhild knew that none there would dare be first to break the studied quiet, but all had to take great pains to have their presence at such an event noted. She sneered, safely ensconced in the darkness.
Wictred emerged from the throng. In his dusty croak of a voice, he spoke the customary words. “The Gods have taken back Osred, son of Ceorl, son of Sighere, of the line of Earn. Let us carry him out and lay him before his forebears.”
Servants scattered about to light torches, and the King’s guard lifted the contorted body upon a stretcher. There seemed to be no weight to him at all at the end. The crowd parted silently as their lord was carried out; Ceolwen fell in behind the pallbearers, Aelfhild by her side. Osric and his men followed, and the waiting assemblage trailed out after them.
The horizon to the west was still pale, faint tendrils of day clinging to the edge of night, and a few stars were beginning to shine through the purple of the sky. As the procession turned down the path, Aelfhild stole a glance back at the Great Hall—it stood forlorn at the top of the hill, the narrow windows in the rough stone walls dark and empty, its master departed.
The doors of the Hall of the Dead, dug into the hillside atop which the Great Hall sat, swung open on oiled hinges and the King’s body was laid on a bier beneath the watchful eyes of the Four. Statues of the Smith, the Weaver, the Skald, and the Huntress, stone faces worn smooth by the touch of plaintive fingers, would watch over the corpse until a burial mound could be raised and offerings gathered for the King’s use in the afterlife.
The city would be in black for days. Peasants would come to touch the body and bid farewell to their master. Wictred would see that the old ways were honored, as always.
Ceolwen knelt next to her father’s bier as arrangements were made and guards posted, while the mourners filed through the Hall and paid their last respects. Aelfhild lingered behind, waiting for her mistress to give some sign.
“No tears today, Aelfhild?”
It was a voice that made her stomach turn on the best of days, and not one she ever wanted to hear from directly behind her. She turned to face Osric and his lackeys, careful to keep her gaze cast toward his boots. It was his eyes that made her shiver.
“No, lord.”
The scuffed leather boots moved slowly to the left, and she turned with them. “Did you not care for your king, then? Come now, girl.”
She had not heard his approach. Osric was a quiet one. They had all three played together as children, until Ceolwen had grown old enough to understand the circumstances of his birth. After that, she cast him out and he had kept his distance, watching from the shadows where he had apparently found his calling.
“Your mistress is well?” The boots stopped.
“Yes, lord.”
“I worry for her. My sister can be so delicate and these are not easy times. And now with father’s death, it could be too much to bear.”
“Kind of you, lord.”
Her face betrayed nothing and she knew it. Life as a servant had taught her that, at least. Say nothing, mean nothing, hide it away. But always—always—listen.
“There are enemies all around us, my girl, within and without. Earnfold needs a strong king, and I know you want what is best for your mistress. We both do. So think of me as a friend, Aelfhild.”
“Lord.”
Her tone was one that had to be studied, and carefully—not defiant, that could mean a whipping or worse. Just empty. She was there, and she was listening, and that was the full extent of it.
But the act did have its limits. No amount of honeyed words could conceal Osric’s temper, however he tried.
“I would be in your debt,” he said through gritted teeth, “if you came to me for council, Aelfhild. A king can give great rewards to loyal friends.”
“I will think on it, lord.”
“See that you do. It is never too early to think about the great future of our kingdom.”
“Lord.”
She tensed, but the blow never fell. The boots turned without reply and stalked off, gravel crunching under heel.
Aelfhild glanced after the men and let slip a trembling breath. Leaving aside his eyes, Osric was a fine-looking man. It was his companions that made her feel like she needed a thorough scrubbing. The lank hair and greasy stubble, and the feeling that they had only recently scrubbed the blood from beneath their fingernails.