Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(3)
Kings attracted the kind of men that revel in pain and violence. Aelfhild saw it as a sort of natural law. And kings always found some use for them. Old Osred had put such men to work, beyond a doubt, but seldom and with the greatest distaste; his son, on the other hand, had always seemed drawn to them.
Her hands would shake for the rest of the evening.
The shuffling mourners were nearly through. When all but the King’s guard had left, Aelfhild moved to Ceolwen’s side. As she drew closer, to her surprise she heard that her mistress was muttering prayers to the Four under her breath. Neither of them was particularly devout; Aelfhild had always assumed that Ceolwen, like the rest of her people, believed in the Four, but she was not given to shows of religious fervor. In trying times, though, the Gods offered some small comfort that could not be found in the world of men.
Standing from prayer, Ceolwen turned to her servant. She offered a feeble half-smile, but she could hide little from Aelfhild; the two had known each other since childhood. They were both exhausted, mind and body, and neither could conceal it from the other.
“Come, my lady, we must get some rest,” said Aelfhild. “There is much to be done tomorrow.”
“There will be little sleep for me tonight, I fear,” Ceolwen replied. “Dark days are coming, Aela.” She gazed off into the distance as she spoke.
Though her mistress’ face was drawn, her eyes distant, Aelfhild could not hold back a smile—she had not been called Aela since they were children scampering through these same grounds. Happy memories on a grim day.
“So you need your strength. We need our strength.” Aelfhild did not much care to see more than a single sunset in a waking day. There had been three since she last got any real sleep. “Let us go and find what rest we can.”
Ceolwen did not protest as she was led away. Two guards followed them—the Aethling’s shadow for the past two days. It was unlikely Osric or his allies would move so soon, but there was no sense in taking risks. The royal court could be an adder’s nest at the best of times. And there was much now at stake.
“What did Osric want?”
“Nothing, lady.”
Aelfhild hoped Ceolwen had not noticed the pause.
2
The Great Hall was far too exposed and dangerous a place for the Aethling to stay at the moment, so Ceolwen and Aelfhild were guests of Cuthbert, the Eorl of Norholt, in his hall at the heart of Cynestead’s merchant district. News of the King’s illness, and now his death, had circulated quickly and drawn an oppressive hush over the normally bustling city streets. They walked back from the keep undisturbed by the usual crowd of travelers, drunks, and soldiers that kept the city moving at all hours. Life went on regardless of the King’s death, though. There were still a few folk shuffling about on their various errands, cloaks drawn tight against the damp.
Cuthbert’s hall was decidedly less grand than the King’s Great Hall, but it was far richer than the homes of most men. Walls of red oak rose to a tidy thatch roof, and beams carved in the likeness of a lunging Norholt bear crossed above the ironbound doors. Only wealthy merchants and great warriors could afford as fine a dwelling as the Eorl; most Earnfoldings slept on hard-packed dirt floors under roofs of sod.
Aelfhild had never traveled far, but she knew Norholt from stories. It was a land of huntsmen and woodsmen, a great forest that sat at the kingdom’s northern boundaries, stretching from the Leohtmere, the lake which wrapped itself around the northern edge of Cynestead, all the way to the Grimbergs, mountains that guarded the western edge of the kingdom. The stories also made much mention of witches and man-bears, but those were children’s tales.
The nobles in Cynestead often said that the only things to come out of Norholt were “bows, bears, and bastards,” but not within earshot of Cuthbert. The Eorl was counted among the most powerful men in the realm; his levy of warriors was one of the largest amongst the Earnfolding lords and his hall the most hospitable. Ceolwen was kin to him on her mother’s side. The two had always gotten on well, and Aelfhild adored the old man. He had the paunch and the laugh of a man who truly enjoyed life.
They found him, not unexpectedly, at table with his warriors. As the guards opened the doors to the Eorl’s hall, the assorted smells of a feast wafted out on the humid air. Food was spread out in abundance there as it so often was; the Eorl was famous for his insatiable appetite for pleasant fare and strong drink. As Ceolwen entered, the warriors at the table with Cuthbert grew silent—someone had brought them the evening’s tidings already.
Cuthbert rose from his seat and wrapped Ceolwen in a bone-crunching hug. The Eorl had obviously been helping himself to generous portions from the mead cask—his bright green eyes glistened with drunken tears, and the smell of honey hung heavy on his breath.
“My dear child,” he lisped as Ceolwen tried in vain to extricate herself from his embrace, “a sad night, a grave night! For Earnfold, for Norholt, for… dear Ceolwen.” He dropped back onto his bench, nearly bringing his unfortunate cousin down with him. Gasping for breath, she brushed crumbs imparted by the Eorl’s tunic off the front of her dress.
“Sit! Feast! Drink!” boomed Cuthbert, tears banished for the moment. Flinging his arms wide over his table, he shouted, “Tonight we remember your father; tonight we feast for old Osred!”
Ceolwen patted the Eorl’s hand and spoke slowly for the benefit of her drunken host. “I thank you, dear cousin, for your hospitality, but I am tired and must rest. Tomorrow, we can speak more of my father. Tomorrow!” Despite his sputtered protests, she retired behind the curtains to the bed prepared for her, leaving Aelfhild with the Eorl and his men. Cuthbert squinted at Aelfhild as she watched him try to dredge up her name from the mead-soaked depths of his memory.