A/N - I haven't published anything on this website in forever (I even had to make a new pen name because I couldn't remember the last one), but this show and these characters just sucked me right back in. I've got a pretty good outline and chapter two is all ready to go. Before you start reading, please take note of the rating - there is mature content and violence at the end of this first chapter that could be triggering for some readers.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think!
Fly by Night: (adj) a person who is unreliable or untrustworthy, unless they want something; one that seeks to evade responsibilities; one without established reputation or standing; given to making a quick profit usually by shady or irresponsible acts; a person who flees at night to evade the law
Chapter One
"Nieht bið wedera ðiestrost, ned bið wyrda."
Night is the darkest of weathers, necessity the hardest of fates. - Saxon proverb
It was quiet tonight, she thought warily. Quiet was commonplace in her own, much more secure estate in Mercia, but here, in her husband's home, the quiet was eerie. Disconcerting, even. As her gaze drifted to the horizon, light broke in beautiful streaks, splintering across the sky before disappearing into darkness. She would give anything to try to catch that horizon, to find the freedom it would surely lead to.
Her shoulders slumped a little in defeat.
As long as she lived under her husband's thumb, there would be no horizon for her. No life, really.
The past four years had yielded nothing but pain and hardship. Even her daughter, who she loved more than she loved herself, was a constant source of pain. A constant reminder of the errors in judgement and sound reasoning she'd made with little thought to consequence.
Aethelflaed swallowed hard, pushing down those treacherous, fruitless thoughts. She could blame herself all she wanted but the outcome would remain the same. She was still here in Mercia, forever tied to a violent, vile man and now, she'd tied a child to him as well.
Time and distance had allowed her hindsight, both a curse and a blessing. While she would never regret the daughter he'd given her, her feelings for Erik, the Dane who, with his brother Sigefrid, had held her captive for months, had been a complicated mess of misguided hope. He'd been kind to her. He'd handled her like glass. He'd looked at her like she hung the moon and the stars. He'd provided a way out of a life she resented and despised, even if it meant abandoning her family. Fleeing with him could have worked - she could have gotten her freedom while absolving Wessex and Mercia of their debt to the Danes without handing over a single piece of silver.
Fleeing with him had also endangered not only the lives of the men risking everything to save her, but the lives of the people of Wessex and Mercia as well. Fleeing with him also meant she would have been tied to him irrevocably until God decided to separate them. Despite his kind words and gentle caresses, she hadn't truly known the man. She'd dismissed his brute nature because of the opportunity he represented, conveniently choosing not to think about the lives he'd surely taken, the women he must've forced himself upon, and the countless villages he'd without a doubt plundered with joyful glee with his terrible brother at his side. She'd trusted him, frankly, because it was the only choice she had.
Even the thought of it sent chills down her spine. Here, at the very least, her daughter had a full belly and a warm place to sleep at night. She feared the same could not be said of the life she would've had with Erik, if Aelfwynn would have even survived this long.
She'd known it even when she stood in front of her savior in a makeshift cell, begging him to understand that there was no other way, that she could not go back even if fleeing led to certain death.
He had been right. It would have never worked and she was stupid to think otherwise.
"Lady," a familiar gruff voice called out to her and she turned to find Beocca standing in the darkness a few paces behind her with his hands folded tightly in front of him. "The food is nearly ready and your husband grows anxious because you have yet to come to the table."
"Of course," she pressed a small smile to her face, hoping the priest would not see right through her. Unfortunately for her, the frown on his lips only deepened. "I am sorry, Father. You and your wife are guests in our home and I fear I've behaved very rudely."
He batted a hand in the air and took a step closer. "Pay no mind, Lady. Forgive me for saying this, but your husband is not exactly pleasant company. I was thankful to have a moment of peace."
A moment of peace. If only she knew what that felt like.
But you do, a secret voice whispered. You've felt peace with a man before.
She pushed those thoughts aside and laughed briskly. "Yes, well, I can hardly blame you. Should we -"
"Lady," Beocca ventured closer to her as he spoke, as if he was peering into her very soul. "Forgive me, but are you -"
"Are you going to tell me the true purpose of your visit, Father?" she forged ahead, unwilling to hear the rest of his question. When he said nothing, she refused to back down. "As much as I enjoy your company, and that of your wife, I find it difficult to believe you've come here on any business other than my father's."
This visit was nothing more than a cleverly disguised welfare check and because the priest had known her her entire life, she did not believe he would start lying to her now. Beocca pushed out a deep sigh and ran a hand over his face.
"Alfred did request that we deliver his gift to your child. That was not a lie."
"I know," she nodded.
"But," he sighed again, glancing at her with weary eyes. "He is also concerned," the priest paused again, careful with his words. "There have been rumors in Wessex, Lady."
"What rumors?"
"Rumors that your husband may be going mad. There is talk he has not accepted your child as his own and your father worries you may be in danger of -"
"This is my home, Father," her brave face was fooling no one and she spread her arms out to the neverending horizon. "There is no place safer for me than here."
If anything, it was good to know that when all else failed, she could still depend on the love and affection of her father.
His smile was forced and tired. "I will accept that answer for now because we must go to supper."
With that, he gestured for them to head back toward the main hall.
"I do not understand why you've prepared such a tasteless meal, wife," Aethelred complained petulantly, slamming his wine goblet onto the table for good measure.
Thyra glanced up from her meal, her wide, wild eyes shifting anxiously from one end of the table to the other. "I am enjoying the food, Lady. It is not tasteless to me."
"Nor to me," Beocca called out from alongside her.
Aethelflaed smiled tensely. She inhaled slowly and exhaled even slower. Sometimes, that was all she needed to do - just breathe. But tonight, calm breathing would not be enough. She'd gone months without having to see her husband before now and the distance had allowed her the benefit of forgetting just how spineless and mean he could be.
But tonight, his meanness bordered on cruelty.
"You forget," she told her husband, steeling her voice. "I keep a separate estate and so the servants who have prepared our meal tonight are not mine, Lord, but yours."
She finished her sentence with a sardonic smile that even her mother would have approved of.
Aethelred stared at her from across the table, his mouth opening and closing in various degrees of shock and rage. His youthful, terrible face flushed red just as his grip on his wine goblet turned pale.
"Well," he bit out. "I suppose I should spend less time humping the servant girls and more time assessing their skills in the kitchen, shouldn't I?"
"And I suppose I should feel very sorry for those poor servant girls then, shouldn't I?"
Beocca coughed lightly and shook his head while Thyra looked equal parts amused and disgusted by the display.
"Forgive me, Lord," Beocca started, obviously treading as lightly as he could. "But I fear -"
"I am sorry for our behavior," she interjected with a firm smile. It was not lost on her that her husband had now refilled his goblet for a fifth time since they'd all sat down for dinner. Perhaps a distraction would soldier them through the rest of this ordeal.
"Please, tell us news of Wessex. I am sure there is plenty to catch up on - how is Edward? My mother and father?"
"Of course, Lady," Beocca smiled gratefully and cast a glance at her husband before continuing. "Your brother is well - he flourishes, truly. He is training, just as you did, and there is talk he may be ready to accompany your father on his next campaign. And your mother -"
"But what of Uhtred, hmm?" Aethelred called out, his eyebrows lifting in mockery. "Savior of Wessex and Saxon princesses?"
Aethelflaed stiffened and God help her, her heart stuttered in response. Uhtred, brave and loyal. Commanding yet light of heart, all at the same time. A man to be feared, trusted, and followed. And with his ocean-blue eyes, head of beautiful dark hair, lithe, strong body, and pagan mind, he was just as handsome as he was forbidden. Still, her stupid heart reacted as it always had just at the mere mention of his name.
And, it seemed, her husband had not missed the reaction. Luckily, Beocca chose that moment to answer her horse's ass of a husband.
"Uhtred, I'm afraid, Lady," he started a little shakily, "has been banished from Wessex."
He seemed to let that statement hang in the air and Aethelflaed felt her entire body tense from the inside out. Even her husband was listening now with rapt attention.
"His wife, Gisela, left this world about six months ago birthing a child," Thyra added, her face pale with renewed grief.
Aethelflaed's eyes squeezed shut and she swallowed hard. Her heart sank into her stomach as she thought of the children Gisela had left the behind and the husband who surely suffered her loss.
"Ah, then," Aethelred cocked his head to the side without a hint of sympathy. "Did you hear that, wife? The way is cleared now. How delightful for you."
Everything that followed seemed happen simultaneously. Thyra gasped in horror at Aethelred's words, and Aethelflaed felt herself reflexively squeezing her fingernails into her palms with enough force to draw blood, to keep from leaping to her feet and hurling her wine goblet at his head. Then a flurry of movement from across the table caught the attention of all as Beocca shoved out of his chair and to his feet, jabbing an accusing finger at Aethelred.
"How dare you!" he fumed, shaking his head in barely contained fury. "How dare you disrespect the dead! How dare you disrespect your own wife at this table!"
Aethelred's blue eyes froze over with a lethal, pointed glare that she knew all too well. Yet, he remained seated leisurely in his chair, calm and despicable as ever. "And how dare you sit at my table and give me orders. This is my house. My land. My army that sits in waiting behind these walls. I believe I am well within my rights to speak however I want about whomever I want, especially a heathen pig like Uhtred Ragnarsson."
The words tumbled out of her before she could stop them: "He is a better man than you."
This time, Aethelred did not hesitate to lash out. "He is a Dane and a heathen. Your faithful trust in him is unearned because he serves no one but himself."
Beocca shook his head furiously, clenching and unclenching both hands into tight fists. "Uhtred has served Alfred nobly for many years and -"
"And you, Priest," Aethelred tipped his goblet up in a mock toast, "are no longer welcome here."
"Husband," Aethelflaed bit out, unable to maintain the cool composure she'd summoned before. "You will not send my father's priest away from this table. Father Beocca and his wife are here at my father's bidding, and to bring a gift for our daughter, and you will not -"
"Your daughter," he snapped back as he leaned forward menacingly. "You mean. A bastard child born from a whore of a wife."
Stunned into silence, she felt as though he reached across the table and slapped her. He might as well have.
"My lord," Beocca's voice shook as it echoed across the chamber. "I cannot believe my eyes and ears. This is unacceptable. The king will hear of this."
Aethelred sighed, as if more annoyed with his present company than anything. And once again, he reached for the wine jug to fill his goblet.
"I think you have had enough drink tonight," she told him pointedly. "And we have been terrible hosts to our guests. Surely it will be a wonder if Father Beocca and Thyra ever pay us a visit again."
Not to mention what the priest would surely report to her father. While she would have to wait until her husband retired for the night, hopefully with a servant girl or three to keep him occupied, she knew she could convince the priest to keep his silence. Thyra might prove more difficult to reason with, but she would speak with them until the sun rose if she had to. Alfred could never know the extent of her pain or of her husband's very real madness. To tell him would be like setting fire to a dry, grassy field.
"It will be a wonder if I cared whether or not I ever laid eyes on the priest and his heathen wife again," he called out, easily, leisurely, as though insulting a man of God was commonplace. With a practiced flourish, he reached for his goblet again and drank from it greedily.
"The king will hear of it, Lord," Beocca repeated barely above a whisper, but his voice was firm and unrelenting.
"The king will not hear of it, Priest," Aethelred countered lightly, even though his eyes had narrowed like a snake's. "You will not come onto my land, eat my food, drink my wine, and then return to Alfred spinning wild tales that simply are not true."
Beocca's face reddened with murderous fury, but to his credit, he did not move from where he stood. He was rigid and ready to strike at a moment's notice, but even Aethelred could see that the priest would bend and he would bend because she asked him to.
"Please, Father," she implored softly. "Sit. Let us finish our meal."
The priest cast her a mournful glance before meeting his wife's eyes, who nodded silently, and then he dropped down into his chair with a heavy sigh.
Without missing a beat, Aethelred gleefully interrupted this precious moment of quiet. "I am bored with this meal and with this company. I believe I shall retire now," he told them as he rose to his feet, goblet still clutched in his hand, and he wobbled a little unsteadily before shooting Aethelflaed a sharp glare. "Do not wait up for me, my dear."
With that, he emptied the contents of his wine goblet in one long gulp and then slammed it back down onto the table, nearly startling Aethelflaed and Thyra out of their seats.
Beocca's dark eyes followed Aethelred until he was safely out of sight before turning his attention to Aethelflaed. The pity in his gaze nearly did her in. She could not bear this - the sympathetic looks and the well-intentioned defense from both Beocca and Thyra. At this rate, she prayed she would never have visitors in Mercia again. If this was what she would have to endure, then she was better off in her own estate, where she at least had the advantage of distance and servants she could trust.
"My lady, this is cannot stand," Beocca told her quietly, but firmly, as if he were approaching a wild, beaten animal in a cage. In some respects, she supposed that was exactly what she was.
"You and your child must return with us to Winchester where you will be safe. And then we will tell your father -"
"We will tell him nothing," she whispered and her heart stuttered on every word. "He must know nothing."
Beocca's face contorted in an unsettling combination of confusion, grief, and pity. He opened his mouth to speak but, Thyra, who had stealthily rounded the corner of the table to grip Aethelflaed's hand in hers, beat him to it.
"I fear your husband has a mind to harm you, milady," Thya's reedy, otherworldly voice called out to her, imploring her to listen.
Before she could speak, Beocca shook his head furiously and held up a hand. "I understand why you would want this kept quiet. The reasons are vast, and I know they start with your desire to see Alfred fully supported by the army of Mercia. I understand - I truly do. And your intentions are noble and brave, Lady, but they are entirely foolish."
Her lips parted to respond, to assert that there was no other option, that nothing could be done, and instead, all she could say was: "Please...I want to hear what has happened to Uhtred. He is banished?"
The priest and his wife exchanged an apprehensive glance. She could not be more transparent - she knew that. But she needed the distraction, she needed to deflect, and she needed to know that Uhtred was alright.
Beocca sighed and ran a hand over his face as Thyra settled back down into a nearby chair. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, as if saying a silent prayer, and shook his head.
"Yes, Lady, he is banished," Beocca continued. "When Gisela passed, Uhtred was fighting for your father against a Danish invasion at Awelton. She was buried in a Christian grave several days before he returned and he unearthed her body, desecrating holy ground, and then burned her as is pagan tradition."
A shaky hand lifted to her mouth, not because she was shocked by Uhtred's actions, but because she was horrified at the sheer tragedy of it all. In her mind's eye, she could see him, wracked with grief, digging and digging until he found his wife's dead body. She could not imagine what that must have felt like, how devastating it must have been to see her wrapped in burial shrouds for all eternity.
The rest of the story, though, was its own nightmare of a bedtime story. As Beocca told it, Alfred learned of the desecration and brought Uhtred to him to negotiate an understanding. The way may well have been paved until Brother Godwin viciously taunted Uhtred, calling Gisela a whore and other unspeakable things. While Aethelflaed could not argue against Uhtred's impulsive reaction, she was sure he couldn't have anticipated what would follow. How a mere slap could kill a man. How one more request from a king to his swordsman was one request too many. How it must've all gone terribly wrong.
Even as she shuttered to imagine Uhtred holding a knife to her father's throat, she understood the desperation he had been driven to. Like her, he had had no choice. And she believed, to the depths of her soul, that Uhtred was incapable of truly harming her father.
"Where has he gone?" Aethelflaed whispered.
Thrya smiled sadly. "There are rumors he is with our brother, Ragnar, and the Danes in Dunholm, and I believe those rumors to be true."
She nodded slowly as she processed all of this new information. "And his children?"
"They are with the nun, Hild, in Coccham. Well-cared for, I am sure of it," Beocca assured her and for the first time in too long, she felt herself exhale with relief.
It was a shame that relief could not last longer.
"Lady," Beocca started again. "Do not think I will forget what I have seen and heard here tonight. While I understand your intent, I am sure the king can find a solution that benefits both you and the people of Wessex and Mercia. There must be no forgiveness for the way he treats you," he paused at that and took a deep breath. "Does he beat you, Lady?"
Her inhaled sharply as her mind flashed to the first time she had been asked that question and her eyes squeezed shut in response.
"Does he beat you, Lady?"
She couldn't answer him if she tried, and she took a small step backward when he advanced on her ever so slightly, his broad shoulders taut with tension and his beautiful face twisted in disbelieving fury.
"Does he force himself on you, Lady?"
Again, she couldn't find the words. Couldn't stomach saying them out loud, even inside the prison cell that Sigefrid and the brutes he called his men had locked her in. And again, she didn't need to answer. The way his ocean-blue eyes sharpened with recognition and murder told her he already knew.
"He shall not live to see another day, Lady."
And again, she didn't have to answer. The priest and his wife seemed to already know what she could not find the words to say. But before they could argue, she rose from her chair and held her chin high.
"I apologize, but I am tired and I should like to retire to bed. I hope you will do the same and if we must, we can talk of these things further in the morning."
That was enough to appease them, at least for now, and so she left Beocca and Thyra at the table, sympathetic and pitying as ever, and hoped she could find some rest tonight.
As always, fate had other plans.
Spending a night in an unfamiliar bed did not serve her well. She wanted nothing more than to find rest, even if it was only for an hour or two, but it would not come. Being in her husband's home had never given her comfort and it was clear tonight would be no different.
Perhaps it was just as well. This was not a place she wanted to find comfort in anyway. For as long as she lived, she would never spend another moment in this place if it could be helped. The next time Mercia had guests, she decided, she would receive them in her own estate, far from the drunken, vicious grasp of her husband or she would not receive them at all.
She would survive, she decided, by maintaining a careful distance and a watchful eye. She would no longer subject herself to her husband's presence unless the pretense was necessary in Winchester, in front of her father, and soon, she feared, in front of her brother. The whispers of Alfred's declining health persisted and could no longer by ignored, and armed with that truth, she was even more determined to leave her father undisturbed with matters that could not be changed.
She could not allow herself to consider any other choices because there were none.
A slow creak at her door echoed across the room and her eyes flew open. Before she could reach for the dagger she'd hidden under the bed, a pair of hands snaked through her hair and yanked her head back. There was no time to scream because a hand clamped over her mouth and hot breath was at her ear.
"You have humiliated me, wife," Aethelred spat the word as though it were a curse and then, inexplicably, he loosened his grip on her hair and slid the hand over her mouth down to her throat, squeezing just enough to make her eyes burn with tears.
"I am your lord and husband," he murmured in her ear. "And every day, you disrespect and humiliate me."
She knew there would be consequences. She knew he would retaliate, and viciously. And yet, her chin tilted high, even as a tear slipped down her cheek. "The only person responsible for your humiliation is you, my lord."
He hesitated, the drunken stupor surely delaying the inevitable reaction. A split second later, she flew through the air, landing squarely on her left knee with a sick thud. The scream of pain died on her lips because once again, he yanked her up by her hair and then slapped her across the face.
Stumbling backwards, her hand flew up to her stinging face. Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks and her husband could only chuckle mirthlessly as he struck her once again, this time with a clenched fist instead of an open palm. The blow had her scrambling back against the wall, stunned with shock and flashes of terror.
But when he laughed mercilessly again, when he chose to spit in her face, something dark and long-hidden unraveled within her, spooling down from her furiously beating heart all the way down to her toes. And before she had a moment's pause, her own open palm flew out to strike him back.
Aethelred reared back, neither prepared nor clear-headed enough to react any other way. He stared at her, mouth agape as his lips trembled with fury. And then he lunged at her with both hands reaching for her throat. The second his fingers touched her skin, he seemed to abruptly change course, choosing to strike her with his fist once more before lowering his blows to her stomach.
She dropped to her knees from the impact, and in her blurred, spotty vision, she could not find where she'd hidden her dagger, could not grasp hold of anything that could shield her. She could only focus on the sharp, silvery taste of blood in her mouth and the feeling that her head had been split into two.
"You have earned this, wife," Aethelred sneered at her, panting like a wild dog. "If I must break you, then so be it."
Even as he advanced, her vision sharpened just enough to register the next blow seconds before it landed. Stars erupted, dancing around the space above her as she felt hands drag her body down to the ground. Those same hands clawed at her nightclothes, furiously yanking them up before a cold hand clamped around her mouth to keep her from screaming.
Consciousness passed in and out until finally, it was better to shut down her mind because her body had already given out on her. That way, she did not feel his invasion of her body. She did not feel the hopelessness threatening to consume her. She did not feel pain.
She did not feel anything at all.
The minutes seemed like hours, and every hour that passed was more excruciating than the last. Even though her mind had separated itself from her body, some secret part of her felt like it would never end. That her body would remain numb and listless, trapped in this prison as he reached inside her soul and tore it apart.
Everything had become useless. Her body simply wasn't her body anymore. Her hands and arms and legs and every other part no longer felt like her own. To be a stranger in her own body, a foreigner in a dangerous land, made her stomach roll and churn. All she could do was wait.
Finally, her husband thrust against her one more time, grunting and sweating like the pig he was, and then he collapsed on top of her, trapping her on the floor. She waited, frozen underneath him, terrified to move. If she tried to push him away now, what would happen then? Would she even have the strength?
But when a low snore brushed against her neck, renewed strength flared within her. She squeezed her eyes shut to summon that growing reserve of strength and then pushed against her husband's heavy, sleeping body.
Nothing but survival pushed her forward. It shoved her husband away from her, yanked her up to her feet, and judging by the deep sleep Aethelred had fallen into, told her she had a few precious moments of time. They wouldn't be long, but those moments needed to be seized before it was too late.
The plan formed swiftly and she moved just as swiftly with it. After taking one of those precious few moments to get dressed and throw what little belongings she could into a satchel, she found herself shaking awake the trusted servants she'd brought with her from Saltwic. They would not disobey her and they would follow her instructions without hesitation or delay.
Then before she could fully comprehend what she was doing, she kissed her daughter goodbye and watched her ride away into the black night with two of her servants, and then rushed to the quarters where the priest and his wife were staying.
She was quickly running out of time. But they would listen because they knew she could not stay. And they would take her to the only man who could truly help her.