Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(7)
“What of Caelin?” Ceolwen attempted to steer her cousin toward sanity.
The Eorl sighed, and his anger seemed to ebb. “Caelin is a fine man—better than the rest of those mongrels!—but he cannot muster the men to stand up to Thrydwulf and he knows it. The blood of Ealdorscir is not what it once was.”
And that was true. The lands around Cynestead and south of the Leohtmere had been particularly hard-hit by the plague that took the king. For weeks they had watched from the Great Hall as smoke rose from the pyres in outlying villages. If Caelin tried to raise the Fyrd now it would be little more than a handful of men with sharp sticks.
“And the others?” asked Ceolwen.
“Hlothere might—I say might—fall on our side, but Aethelwald will likely go with Thrydwulf. He fears the Oescans on his southern border. Which reminds me, the Oescans sent a man to the court as envoy. Arrived today. A Maro, he is, one of the fancier families, Lucianus or Lucilius or some such they called him. Lucianus Aulus, I think it was.” The foreign name was accompanied by a sneer.
Oesca was a loose confederation of city-states to the south, their people of a different heritage and tradition than that of Earnfold. There was history between the neighboring realms, and the Oescans were known to be meddlers in the affairs of Cynestead.
“He met with Osric today, but only briefly. The boy will say anything to get himself on the throne, there is no telling what kind of deal he would make with the southerners.” Cuthbert grimaced and spat once more. “No backbone, that one. He certainly did not get one from his father.” He snorted.
“Cousin!” Ceolwen shouted, her voice gone shrill. Aelfhild half rose from her seat to go to her mistress, but Ceolwen waved her away. She settled with directing a withering gaze at Cuthbert.
“Sorry, my dear,” the Eorl replied. He raised his hands as a shield. “If only your mother had not been taken from us so early, she could have kept poor Osred on the right path. Avoided all this nonsense.” He dropped down upon a nearby bench. His brow remained furrowed, but the lines around his eyes softened.
Even the old bear grows weary, thought Aelfhild.
Ceolwen sat beside him, placing her boney hand atop Cuthbert’s clenched paw. “Ifs do us little good today, old friend. Not words, but deeds are what is called for. What can we—what must we do?”
“There is little to be done,” muttered Cuthbert. “I have said before that—”
“—no,” Ceolwen interrupted, pulling back her hand, “there must be another way.”
“Deeds you said and deeds I offer, cousin. If you are to be queen, your hands will be bloody one day or another.” All eyes turned to Ceolwen in the ensuing silence. She gazed into the fire burning in the hearth.
“How?” Her voice was faint. Aelfhild could hardly blame her. She wanted to be nowhere near this discussion.
“I have men with an eye on him,” Cuthbert replied, “He is under guard in Thrydwulf’s hall, buttoned up tight. I do not have enough to go at them straight, we would have to lure him out on his own.”
Ceolwen pondered this. “Osric will be planning the exact same thing. He will not waste any time.”
Aelfhild had stayed quiet up to now, content to sit and listen, but she joined in here. “There was a man, today in the market, he was following us.”
Both Cuthbert and Ceolwen seemed to have forgotten she was there. She gulped hard and recounted what she had seen earlier, straining to remember every detail of the hooded stranger. The Eorl listened, stroking his chin.
“I nearly forgot about it,” said Ceolwen. “I did not see the man.”
“Did my guards do nothing about him?” Cuthbert stirred again, like distant thunder rumbling.
“No, just me.” Aelfhild felt like she had to defend herself further. “But I swear I saw it.”
“And I trust her completely,” Ceolwen added. She smiled and Aelfhild’s chest swelled.
Cuthbert seemed satisfied with this. “Must have been one of Osric’s or Thrydwulf’s; was not mine. They watch you, we watch him. We circle like snarling dogs.” He shook his head. “I should give my boys a whipping, if a maid can do their job better.”
Though the last comment did sting a bit, Aelfhild continued with what she had been about to say. “Any message we send, any meeting we set, they will suspect a trap.”
The conversation paused as a serving girl stepped out from behind a curtain with cups and a jug of mead. She laid them on the table before retreating back to the shadows. Aelfhild recognized the expression; she could get no read on that one. Cuthbert and Ceolwen had not even seen the girl. The Eorl took up the jug, which might have been conjured by magic for all he was concerned, and offered his guests a cup before pouring one for himself.
“What about Caelin?” asked Ceolwen, breaking the silence. “Does Osric trust him?”
“How should I know? And what has he to do with this?”
Ceolwen stood from her seat and set to pacing across the room. “You said Caelin could be trusted, so we go to him tomorrow—”
“—I said Caelin was a fine man, that is not the same thing,” the Eorl protested, but Ceolwen silenced him with a raised finger. Aelfhild failed to stifle a giggle at the Eorl’s bemused expression; he was not as well versed in Ceolwen’s moods. She managed to conceal the giggle in a snorting cough, but a sideways glance from her mistress told her this had not gone unnoticed. There could well be words later.