Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(6)
The sun was bright, the sky was clear, and the breeze gentle. Ceolwen turned back to Aelfhild briefly and a smile passed between them. Aelfhild knew Ceolwen loved to come here as much as she did and for mostly the same reasons. That blend of sounds and smells, the pure feeling of life in the place—it was intoxicating. She hoped this would lift her mistress’ spirits.
Ceolwen stopped at a stall where a toothless old woman sold herbs and poultices; she sifted through fragrant bundles of mandrake and hyssop while she chatted with the dribbling vendor. Aelfhild waited nearby, looking out over the crowd. Their guards kept back at a respectful distance, looking bored as they watched the peasants shuffle past.
Aelfhild drew the market in deep, and exhaled; her eyes swept the square. Something caught her attention; a hooded face had turned away too fast, retreating back into the press of bodies.
Just a cutpurse, she hoped. Ceolwen had given away her coins and Aelfhild’s pockets held a spoon, a darning needle, and some thread, so little threat there. Any other day, it might not have troubled her. He, if it was a he, was gone, though, and she saw no further sign.
They wandered for a while more. Ceolwen seemed to be enjoying the open air and the flow of the market as much as Aelfhild. A pox-ridden man tried to sell them an assortment of potions and ointments from his tray—this one for boils, that one for gout, another one to excite the humors and one to quiet them. He proved persistent, but eventually was discouraged by a kick from one of their guards. He left behind an odor that was even harder to shake.
One stall was selling honeyed sweet rolls, a treat they had frequently stolen from the Great Hall’s kitchens in their younger days. The rolls left an inevitable mess on hands and fingers, but the reward was always well worth the price.
An opening in the crowd drew Aelfhild’s eye. There was the hood again, pulled low over a man’s face, turned toward her and perfectly still amidst the market’s swirling currents. Something about the man was off. Aelfhild knew there was no thief alive that would take such pains to be seen. He did not move from his spot, did not interact with the nearby tradesmen or peasants. He stared, and Aelfhild was sure it was Ceolwen who occupied his attention. Their guards had apparently not noticed the man.
Ceolwen was in mid-story. “I always could eat more of these than you, but you never did like sweets as much—”
“Do you see that man?” Aelfhild tried to keep her voice low but urgent.
“What man?” Apparently the urgency had been lost on Ceolwen, because she looked around wide-eyed and made no effort to lower her voice. “What are you on about? Were you not listening to my story?”
“There was someone watching us.” Hearing this, the guards swept around but their observer had long since disappeared.
“I saw him before,” Aelfhild said, “I think.”
“One of Osric’s?” Storm clouds brewed on the horizons of Ceolwen’s good mood.
But Aelfhild could hardly bear to spoil the afternoon. “Maybe just a thief?” No one seemed convinced, but they moved on.
She snuck looks over her shoulder every now and then but saw nothing, and fell to brooding. What did Osric have in store? Though Cuthbert could have sent the man to watch over them just as easily as Osric. But why spy on his own guards? Or maybe, she reasoned, he had just been a curious traveler staring at a strange, beautiful woman. A foreigner would stand out, and that was no reason to get worked up. But it was her job to worry for her mistress, as it had been since childhood, and she was exceedingly good at it.
They spent a while longer wandering in the warm sun, but the spark was gone. Returning to the hall, they discovered that their host had returned from council with the Eorls, for even from halfway down the street Aelfhild could hear Cuthbert yelling.
4
Cowards, the lot of them!” shouted Cuthbert, as he hammered the table with a meaty fist. “Never have I seen such a pack of whinging curs, standing by and wringing their hands like old women!” He sent a wooden bowl flying into the nearby wall with a fierce backhand.
“Calm, cousin,” said Ceolwen, “Tell us what happened, and spare no detail.”
The Eorl seethed, having returned from his meeting with the other lords not long before Aelfhild and Ceolwen arrived. He had the look of a madman: his face flushed a worrying shade of puce beneath his unkempt mane. Things did not look to have gone well.
“For hours they spoke, and for hours not a man there said a word of meaning,” he hissed, pausing to take a few gulps of air. He exhaled and straightened his tunic. “They all wait for some sign that will ease their decision—their conscience. They know they have only one chance to cast their lot in this, but are too afraid to put anything at risk.”
“Was Osric there today?” asked Ceolwen.
Aelfhild took a seat by the fire to warm her hands and, as it happened, to once again remove herself from range of Cuthbert’s arms. The bulging veins in the old man’s neck and forehead suggested he might burst at any moment.
“No, but Thrydwulf was, and he argues for Osric. The snake! I should have smothered the life from his puny little body when he was still in the cradle!” His attempts to regain composure had failed. The Eorl sputtered as he mimed just how he would have crushed the infant child.
Thrydwulf, the Eorl of Hildmor, was as young as Aelfhild and Ceolwen—his father, Wulfhere, had died a premature death not long ago under somewhat mysterious circumstances. The city had been filled with rumors about it; Aelfhild could not count the number of grim and gruesome tales of patricide she had heard, none anywhere approaching believeable. But Wulfhere had been an old friend of Cuthbert’s, as it turned out, and so the old bear bore a bit of a grudge against the newly-crowned Eorl.