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4 Summer 878
"I'll get beaten if I bring back rotten herring!" Osthryth called down to Gert, the fisher-boat's boy at the quay from the lower wall of the castle. "Take them back and bring fresh ones!"
The flaxen-haired boy stared up at Osthryth, his big round eyes staring at her, disappointed.
"Bring better fish and I'll come down." Osthryth called, then darted away from the wall and hid in the shadow.
It was not true that she would be beaten; if the cook so much as laid a hand on her she would hit him back.
But Glymrie, the huge, bad-tempered man, had never raised as much as his voice to her from the first day King Aed's general Ceinid had deposited her with the servants, her father's sword in the cellars with the rest of the armoury.
Within an hour of the battle ening, with vicrory to the Picts, Osthryth had been taken into Dunnottar castle by Ceinid, shown her duties, her corner to sleep in and a plate of food. Osthryth had found that near her corner a loose floorboard led to an underground spring, a loose stone at the bottom of which was large enough to hide her silver.
That had been over a year ago. It had taken Osthryth several weeks of sleepless nights to realise that she was not being followed, nor would be found out as a missing girl from the noble family at Bebbanburg.
It had taken her a few more to speak to the servants - Osthryth had kept silent for a long time, listening to the words within the castle, so like English, yet, just out if reach.
At first, many thought she was dumb, but Glymrie and the woman in charge of the household, Ealasaid, found she picked things up quickly, and in no time she was speaking the Pictish tongue and, by listening to the nobility, by finding little places to hide and observe the happenings in her new home, Gaidhlig too.
For, Osthryth soon found out, when she had been elevated to position of companion to Constantine, the royal family, though Pictish, followed the Dal Riadan traditions, as established by Constantine's grandfather Ceinid mac Alpin, and had accepted the throne when no suitable ruler presented themselves, the last being killed by the Norwegian blade of Ivarr the Boneless.
It had taken Osthryth several weeks to become accustomed to her life in Dunnottar, the monastery of Culdees over the river an ever-constant reminder that she had fled Bebbanburg, and she forced herself into invisibility, performing her duties, however tedious, however horrible without fuss or favour. She had escaped once, and it was only a matter of time, if things got difficult, that she could plan her escape again.
The castle cook was ever her defender, and took her side against Ealasaid if ever there was a dispute, and Osthryth liked him. She did as he told her, and never complained even when there were gizzards to pull from game birds, and he fed her well, and rewarded her with time off, or gifted her easy jobs.
Osthryth's favourite of these was going to market half a mile up the Dee early in the morning, when the mist was lifting from the river and traders and merchants were just opening.
She walked amongst the ordinary folk, listened to their speech, smell the vapours from manufacturers, leather workers, blacksmith and herbal stores; she talked to traders, merchants, men and women alike, including the folk whose tongue spoke words of a forbidden following, that of the earth and sky and sea.
When she'd asked Glymrie what it was, he told her in his gruff manner, that it was paganism, not that of the Norse and Danes, but of long ago in the land, and that to practise it was forbidden by the king. "It is against Christianity," he had told her. "They have resisted God's word; they are damned."
Osthryth was also free to read, as she used to at Bebbanburg, in Dunnottar's chapel, delighting in finding in books the same words, the same tales, of the Romans, and the coming of her people, those from Jutland and Frisia, of Angle-land and Saxony. In these texts, Osthryth found, though the Latin words told the stories, a translation in Cymric existed. And, Osthryth realised, these Latin missives, letters and historical accounts were shared between monastery, cathedral and chapel as holy people gossipped with one another from kingdom after kingdom. Somewhere, Osthryth imagined, comfortingly, if Father Beocca was still alive, he might he reading the same history just then as she was.
Osthryth could make out a little, but of what she could read, the text made it clear the godly Gaels, Picts and Cymric should turn their efforts to the barbarian pagans - the Angles and Saxons - and all should be done to eliminate their kind.
But Osthryth's favourite time of the week was when the Frisian fishing traders, who brought the castle its fish, tied up at the castle's harbour. Since English and Frisian were so alike, Osthryth had found she could converse without difficulty with them, and asked them about the weather, their catches, other places they traded.
Ulf, the older boy of the two, who were learning their trade from their fathers, had once scared her by shouting at her when she she had been sent back with fish that the cook said was rotten; the second time, when Ulf reached out to grab her, Osthryth had charged at him, thrown him onto the seaweedy stone of the harbour and given him a black eye. She had had to be pulled off by his father and his uncle, who laughed at the boy for being hit by a girl. From high up in tbe ramparts the royal guards had laughed too, at her ferocity.
Since then, Ulf had refused to land at the harbour if Osthryth was there and Gert, the younger boy had been sent with the castle's fish.
Gert liked Osthryth and would have given her the fish free if she'd have asked, just to have spoken to her, something which Osthryth found amusing, and caused Constantine to sulk.
Constantine, who spent most of his day when he was not studying or practising sword skills followed Osthryth around, much to her annoyance, chose the days she had spent in Gert's easy company to enact cruel tricks on her.
He would steal her food and giving it to the horses; he would throw his night bucket at her or foul a passage with it that she had spent the afternoon cleaning. He would perenially lean over railings and around corners pulling her hair.
His cousin Domnhall had once found her shut out of the castle one cold, rainy night and, when he had persuaded her to talk, got out of her that it had been Constantine who had ordered her outside to collect his sword that he'd left out, and had barred the gate, laughing at her as she got drenched.
But, spending more time with Constantine was the reason she had been summoned to see the king one early summer's morning.
Osthryth had been terrified as Ceinid took her to the throne room. Had they found out that she was really Aedre of Bebbanburg, and had they struck a deal with her uncle Aelfric to have her back?
But instead, she was being withdrawn her from many serving and cleaning duties, except for help in the kitchens. Instead, the black-haired, pale-faced king looked at Osthryth with his grey eyes and then at his son, Constantine, while Aed's heir, Domhnall, explained that she was to come whenever Constantine required, and would have a room of her own close to his.
"And you should teach him the sword skills that have been taught to you," Domhnall laughed, as King Aed dipped his head in acknowledgement of these decrees.
And so she had. It was not as taxing as scrubbing, cooking, sewing and cleaning, and she had been given a new set of clothes, leather, with new wool undergarments, but it certainly was not as quiet.
But, despite all this, Osthryth could not shake the shadow of suspicion that she felt on occasions, when a conversation between two nobles, or a noble and a monk disappeared around a corner as she approached.
As the months wore on, summer gave way to a mellow autumn and a crisp winter, and Osthryth reasoned that if she was to be used in a trade with her uncle, it would be done by now.
"I'm coming, Gert!" called Osthryth, from the balustrade's crenulations that morning. From the stone steps, Constantine pulled a face, then threw a stone down to the fisher-boy, which hit him hard on the cheek.
Osthryth had got down to the harbour just as Gert let up a howl in pain, his blue eyes reddening and filling with tears as he held a hand to his face. By the time she had got across to Gert, he had boarded the fishing boat, leaving no fish behind.
"Why did you do that?!" demanded Osthryth, as Constantine sloped down the steps, his mouth curved into a smirk, like his father the king.
"He wants to touch you," Constantine complained, "he wants to kiss you."
"He talks to me, and likes to touch my hair, " Constantine," Osthryth protested. "He is only a boy."
"A boy who wants to hump you," Constantine grumbled, moodily, his pale grey eyes fixed on her. Osthryth laughed, combing her golden blonde hair vehind her ears. "No-one will do that: I will kill them first!" Then she scowled back at Constantine. "Now, I haven't got any fish to take to Glymrie." She lashed out at him. Constantine, who only just moved out of the way in time to avoid the strike.
"You have to come with me," Constantine demanded, looking triumphant in the direction of the retreating fishing boat. "Domhnall wants to speak to you".
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Down the dark stone passages Osthryth strode, following Constantine, his black hair whipping behind him like a snake. They passed the stones within the castle's walls, on which the strange markings of swirl animals and men in armour fighting a battle had been carved.
Pictish writing, Constantine had once sneered at her. I can read it; you cannot. But Osthryth had stopped to look at them many times, tracing the patterns with her fingers. Ealasaid had mocked her when Osthryth had told her the reason why she was so long cleaning the passage and had explained that reading the pictures was a case of looking at them and remembering the stories of that history, in a rhyme or poem or song.
Why did Domhnall want to see her? Osthryth wondered as Constantine crissed the inner courtyard towards the Royal rooms, clearly enjoying her discomfort. Maybe he was angry that she had continued Constantine's battle when the boy had stumbled. That would explain Constantine's triumph.
"You have skill with that blade of yours," Ceinid, the head of King Aed's household guard had told, after she had come across the practise battle between Domhnall and Constantine on her way back from the market. Osthryth scooped up Constantine's blade which had skittered over the stones when Constantine had stumbled and missed in a parry.
"Go on," Domhnall had encouraged, as she held it as she had been taught, by Seobhridht, to the amusement of the Bebbanburg household guard and to the disapproval of Father Beocca.
Osthryth had deflected, ducked and moved fast, fast enough to tire the heir to the throne, as Ceinid looked on amused, and Constantine scowled at her.
"You should teach Constantine," Domhnall had told her, and Ceinid had asked her who had taught her.
"My father," Osthryth had lied. "Though we were poor, he believed I, and my brother should be taught the same. We both could die at the hands of the Danes and I should have the skill to keep myself alive."
"Your father sounds like a good man," Ceinid had told her, kindly. "It is a pity that your family died at the Great Battle."
But he hadn't, of course, Osthryth had to remind herself. Though she kept up the pretence as if it were truth, when she went to bed at night Osthryth always prayed for Uhtred, for her baby brother - her Uncle's child when he married her mother - and for Father Beocca, praying to God for their souls, for their lives. For her to see them again.
"Come on," Constantine sneered, holding open the door to the royal rooms. Osthryth barely came to this part of the castle and, through the open door the opulence of goods from near and far off lands. She might have known Constantine's manners would have come at a cost. As she stepped over the doorframe he stuck his foot out and Osthryth went sprawling on the hard stone floor.
"Don't speak to that boy again!" Constantine insisted, imperiously, and Osthryth struggled to her feet ahd hurried after him as he aporoached the priceless inner door made of dense ebony wood.
Osthryth had tried to teach Constantine the skills she knew. If he turned up at all at the appointed time, the royal prince would spend most of the time sulking or, if he did try to fight her, gave up within a few minutes.
As such, he would rarely win and would sulk at her, and trick her spitefully if she won, as she invariably did, his favourite one being to shut her out on the window ledge of his room having by ordering Osthryth to close the shutters.
The first time, Osthryth had nearly frozen to death as it had begun to snow, and she had let him win the battles a few times. But her lack of effort had been noticed by Ceinid, who had reported this to Domhnall. The usually even-tempered Domhnall had shouted at Osthryth for a long time, reminding her of her place and threatened to turn her out of the castle if she would not fight properly.
It had been he who, one sleety night, had discovered Constantine's trick and had beaten him for his unkindness before taking a shivering Osthryth in, the truth of why she had avoided fighting coming out, and Constantine got another lamming.
The duelling had continued, with Osthryth offering excellent opposition to Constantine. But the boy, a year younger than Osthryth, was too often bettered in the beginning, by a swift and cunning Osthryth.
Yet, as he grew, Constantine's strength turned the battles to his favour and he delighted in, if Osthryth felt tired, or her aches in her lower stomach and back had caused her to be less lithe than she would ordinarily be, pressing his victory hard. Ceinid would intervene, when he hit her in defeat, and Domhnall would be told, his displeasure at Constantine's dishonourable behaviour being heard through even Dunnottar's three feet thick walls.
Constantine banged hard on the thick dark wood of the throne-room's door. It opened immediately. Osthryth felt self-conscious in the presence of the splendour within. Her hair was dishevelled from the wind by the quay, and she was wearing her old clothes, in which she did her household jobs. By contrast, the throne room was panelled in the same thick ebony wood, its richness picked put by tall candles which flashed off the rich wool fabric that hung around the throne.
And there, in the very centre of the room, Constantine's father, King Aed of the Picts, stared at her.
She sighed, fear seeping into her now. Did he suspect her? Osthryth worried, as her pulse quickened as her heart-rate increased and she lowered her head deferentially, as a peasant might, trembling and shaking, trying to display as much fear as she could, most of it genuine.
"We are given to underand that you oppose my son in his sword-work?" Osthryth could not help but look up, her eyes resting on those of the king, the same pale grey eyes resting on her as Constantine's did, as if stripping layers from her mind and examining her very darkest and deepest secrets. She nodded.
"Osthryth." Aed spoke her name slowly. "You may be wondering why I asked to see you." Osthryth said nothing, but dipped her head and looked at the floor, bowing to the king of the Picts.
"Constantine, I am ashamed to say, does not make any effort to learn your excellent skills - nor learn much else - a habit that has come to the attention of my general Ceinid."
Here it came, Osthryth thought, feeling fear run through her. She flexed her left hand. Though long healed, she was conscious of the arrow-wound, which had penetrated right through and left Osthryth unable to close it fully and a scar on both sides.
"I understand that you retrieved your father's sword from him before he and your family were killed at the Great Battle last year." Osthryth continued to loook down.
"Yes, your grace." Osthryth spoke softly. Her father? What did Aed know about him?
Perhaps...? No! Was the king really not confronting her about being Aedre? Her mind had been filling with plans of escape - to get back to the kitchens...to her corner when she'd been a servant... reach into the spring...retrieve her silver...wait for Gert's family and pay her way out of Alba...
"You fought without fear when that Norseman threatened Constantine - I know," he added, as Osthryth made to deny it. "I saw you."
"That Norseman was the brother of Ivarr the Boneless, of tbe name Sigurd - so - " Aed interjected, a smile playing at the corners of his lips, in the same way as when Constantine sneered at her, " - you know of whom I speak?"
Osthryth bowed her head again. "Yes, sir."
"The Norse threaten again. You, Osthryth, are a bright, you learn fast and you have superb sword skill for a child of your age. Soon we will face them in battle. Constantine - " he looked across to his son, who returned his father's gaze, "must be ready to fight. You will by his side from the moment he awakes to the moment he sleeps. You will attend his lessons, eat at his table and, most importantly, you will teach my son the swordwork that you know. In this aspect, you have authority over him."
Osthryth hesitated. She was to teach her unwilling tormentor all she knew about fighting? She looked across to Constantine, who was looking sullenly at his father.
Constantine could fight, that was the thing. He was strong, and getting stronger the more he grew. Yet he lacked the experience to anticipate blows, a skill which could turn the fortune of any warrior and worse, lacked motivation.
"Then, it is agreed," Domhnall confirmed, as his eleven-year-old cousin began to storm in protest. "You will begin tomorrow, Osthryth."
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A month after being appointed Constantine's constant companion, a storm, breaking the heat of the night, rumbled across the sky. From her tiny room, Osthryth opened her drowsy eyes.
She did not mind the tasks, eating meals with the sullen prince nor lessons with him, and it had been quite satisfying instructing him how to hold his sword and how to swing it, as she herself had been taught, knowing she could shout at him to behave and not get into trouble herself. But, by heaven, the days were tiring.
That day, for example, as well as instructing him on planning an attack, Osthryth had also been in the chapel where a monk, Eoghan, had taught Constantine the history of Pictland and discussed the country's allies.
Eochaid, a cousin of Aed, was king of the Strathclyde Cymric, Osthryth learned, and that as well as related to Constantine, Bridei, King of the Picts, had defeated Ecgfrith Iding, two hundred years before, then married his sister.
Osthryth was amazed, and more amazed still to think that she and Constantine were distantly related.
"Then you will be king of the Picts and Gaels?" Osthryth had asked Constantine, as Eoghan retreated to fetch another manuscript.
"I will be," Constantine replied, his voice, for once, reasonable. "But there is trouble. My uncle's bastard son Giric claims Pictland. His mother was a Pictish lady of Bridei's line, and since my father was Dal Riadan, a lot of people would like Giric to be king rather than Domnhall, or me." Constantine touched the manuscript.
"Yet, my father wanted what his father wanted: my grandfather wanted to rule over all of Alba, a ling of kings. He got his chance fir the Pictish throne when the Norse invaded: only the Dal Riadans, tbe Gaels, have the resources to fight - to keep on fighting - we have support of the church." Constantine picked up the manuscript and traced the letters with his fingers.
"Strathclyde and Pictland have too many heathens. We Gaels have always sworn, on oath to St. Columba, to destroy out heathen practises, groves burned, temples pulled down, and so on, under pain of death. Yet, too many live amongst us, in plain sight, hiding their resistance to Christ. What?" Constantine added, scornfully. Osthryth was staring at him, open-mouthed. "You think I am a dolt and don't know anything?"
"Try applying the same to your sword," Osthryth chided, and was rewarded with the book slammed down onto her arm. This resulted in Osthryth grabbing Constantine by the forearms, throwing him to the floor, where he fought to he free, and they'd rolled across the flagstone floor, whereupon the monk Eoghan had thrown a jar of manuscript water over them both.
With days like those, it was no wonder that Osthryth found herself closing her eyes as soon as her head touched the straw mattress, dreaming of nothing until the next day came in a flash.
The thunder rolled again, louder this time, and accompanied by a distant crackle of lightning.
It was then she heard it, a sound not unlike a distressed cat might make, yowling and calling as if in pain.
Osthryth opened her eyes again and sprung out of bed, padding over to her door, clad in her cotton undergarments, long on her arms and legs, which she eolled up to save her falling on them. In the corridor, the noise sounded louder, and she crept, arm raised, ready to fight.
The sound got louder as she reached Constantine's room, and Osthryth put a hand to the iron ring that opened the latch.
The noise came again, more pitiful this time, finishing with a yell as lightning flashed overhead followed immediately by a roll of thunder. Osthryth opened the door and looked around, alert.
Last time she had heard noises in the night, Constantine had been hiding and had locked her in the privy for a day.
But this time, Constantine was not hiding. Under the covers, a sobbing ball cried put again as the storm exploded overhead once more.
Osthryth rushed over to him, sitting next to him and putting out a hand. The boy felt out for her, then took her hand, pushing back the covers little by little. His face was a mess of tears and terror, and he shrank as lightning and then thunder seemed to demand entry to his room. Osthryth felt her heart go out to the boy, so sullen and sour most of the time, he was still only a child.
She pulled the blankets down on one side of Constantine, and slipped in next to him, still holding his hand, saying nothing except, "Oidhche mhath," quietly by his ear - good night. It was next to each other hand-in-hand that Ealasaid the head of the household staff found them the next morning.
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"I will say, sir," Osthryth said apprehensively, as summer drew to its highest, "as yiu habe asked me to be truthful, hat I do not think Constantine is ready to fight. At least, not ready to fight and live".
She had been instructed to report back to the head of the household guard on a weekly basis, and she had been taken aback when Ceinid had asked her, bluntly.
He was, Osthryth felt, doing well. But Constantine was only eleven - it was madness for his uncle to have taken him out on the battlefield the year before, the time she had saved him. It wouldn't have happened at Bebbanburg.
But this was Dunnottar, not Bebbanburg. While her former home was impenetrable, with just a wharf open to the sea to catch a ration of fish when under seige, Dunnottar was at the centre of a community, of the monastery and the village. The Norse came without warning, and destroyed everything. Constantine did not have luxury of being ready - he had to fight, or he would die anyway.
"Can he do it?" asked General Ceinid The young man had his long black Gaelish hair plaited in one long braid. He looked at Osthryth earnestly.
"No," Osthryth said. "But I am sure you will tell the king that he is."
"Are you ready?" Ceinid's question surprised her. "When you fought last year, was your ferocity an attack out of fear? Or, could you do it again?"
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How they pulled it off, Osthryth cound not tell. Constantine was the weak link, where the plan would unravel, if it ever did.
"I'll talk to him," Ceinid said, his black hair catching the light. "I will explain that you are fighting in his stead as a model. He will understand that."
"He is strong," Osthryth emphasised, rubbing her left forearm, where he had legged her up two days ago and trod on it, hard.
"But he cannot anticipate his enemy. He is too young, long I have known it. He is not yet twelve. And you are...?"
"Thirteen next harvest." Ceinid stared at her.
"Twelve...? Why, I would have given you to be fourteen, or fifteen!" Ceinid lowered his head, looking at the glow on her golden hair as the morning sun warmed it.
Osthryth turned away, looking over the battlements. Where would the battle be? More importantly, when? Aed would have his spies, no doubt.
Why was she doing this? It was a question Osthryth had asked herself many times over the last few months. She could go - she could leave. Why hadn't she?
"Let us go over the plan again," Osthryth said.
"You will bring Constantine to the armoury, he will dress," Ceinid said, slowly. "I will bring him to the kitchens. He will take off his armour and you shall wear it. I will explain that he has the best vantage point to watch you." A skein of geese soared overhead. Osthryth looked up.
"You will take the armour and dress, you will take his sword - "
"My sword," Osthryth pressed. Ceinid nodded in acquiescence.
"You will dress and take your sword, and you will flank Domhnall."
And fight, Osthryth thought. And, just then, the image of her brother, holding aloft Seobhridht's head dissolved into her mind.
He would be fighting now, somewhere. He would be vanquishing the Danes, Osthryth was certain. Osthryth tightened her right hand around Faedersword, and to King Aed's general nodded.
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It was only one short day until uncertain peace shifted to bloody war. Standing beside Domhnall, the king before them, the Norse, led by huge warrior, long blonde hair from under his helmet charged towards them. Osthryth held her sword tightly, stiffness spreading in her limbs. She shook them out, flexing her damaged left hand as it clutched Constantine's and blinked in the warly morning fog.
Osthryth never remembered battles, just snippets like a dream. As the warriors came past her, she moved as if a her limbs were feathers, as she ducked and weaved. She strode out with the nobility, sword high, as horses streamed past her, as if solidifying from the mist itself, Domhnall swiping at body after body as they swiped down at the infantry, before sliding down from their steed to continue organised death on foot.
Before her, men charged, howling like the fury of the sídhe filling the foggy arena. Some were Aed's; some were that of his kin, Eochaid, King of Strathclyde. And Osthryth stepped forward, into the running line of a Norseman with wild blonde hair, without even a look back to the Culdees monks, who had lined the riverbank.
Monks, fifty or sixty of them, charged into the fray, and behind them, the golden heads of the Strathclyde Welsh shone through the smirr. Aed's ambition to sieze her family's territory of Bernicia was unbounded, Osthryth knew, and, were it not for the Norse, he would have sought to fulfil this Pictish-held ambition held, generation after generation.
She could cut and run, Osthryth considered, as she fought two Norse, before one becane engaged with two of Aed's household guard.
But, if she did that, she would never find Uhtred; she would never see Benbbanburg again, free of the tyranny of Aelfric. She would never even make it off the field of battle.
Hours later, and somehow, the miracle had happened: the Picts had forced the Norse off the field, the Strathclyde Cymric chasing them towards the coast. Two lines of attack had been enough to confuse in the fog.
Some had staggered into boats, seeking help from Northumbria, from the new king in Cumbraland, Guthred, whose reign was sanctioned by the Danes.
But King Aed returned and had losses too. Osthryth scuttled, as soon as she was able, to the kitchen, whereupon she removed Constantine's clothing before kneeing him in the stomach.
The astonished boy looked at her, betrayed. But Ceinid, who had now also returned, explained he needed to be shaken and dishevelled on meeting his uncle, and he nodded, accepting as Ceinid removed her armour, looking in horror at a wound to her shoulder and leg.
"I've had worse," Osthryth said, thinking of her pierced hand: her uncle had sanctioned that. She tried to wave away the general, but the warrior would not have it.
"Be in the throne room in half an hour," he instructed Constantine who, Osthryth realised, was shaking, whether with fear, or anger, as Ceneid led her to the kitchen.
Ignoring Glymrie's raging at his kitchen being commandeered as a makeshift hospital and, in turn, fussing over Osthryth too, Ceinid pulled off her leather clothing, and then tearing off her wool undergarments.
Osthryth stood there in nothing but her boots as he bathed her arm and her leg with water infused with precious salt. She shivered, though it was warm, feeling shame that the man's eyes were upon her nakedness. Ceinid seemed to sense this, and was swift, before leading her to the armoury, giving her new clothes.
"You fought valiantly," Ceinid said, pushing her arm carefully into her new jacket. That meant a lot coming from him. When she'd struggled into everything, she sagged, tiredness overcoming her.
"Go to the throne room too," Ceinid instructed, his blue eyes twinkling as he smiled at her. "Stay in the shadows, listen...learn. There is a plot against Aed, one to install a Pictish king once again."
Osthryth felt her mind consider that day. The plot, often debated. What if Eochaid had, instead of turning on the Norse, had turned, out of their river boats, on the Picts, or rather the Gaelish royals who held the Pictish throne? It only took one traitor to create a stranglehold, such stranglehold that, Osthryth knew, would never work at Bebbanburg. Her old home was built to withstand siege warfare. It was easy to see, with support of the nobles that the Gaelish king Aed could be overthrown.
And she found, as she dragged her tired body across the courtyard, that far from running, she had made a tiny difference at Dunnottar, in the land of the Picts, which had inadvertently sheltered her. Was this, in fact, what loyalty felt like?
The warriors who had fought that day were ranged in front if the king who, on his raised throne, could see them to offer words of praise of their skill and their victory.
Osthryth peeped around the ebony doors, noticing first the men, there to hear of the glories of the day, of deeds done and those who had distinguished themselves.
By Aed's side Constantine stood, his mouth sulky, but his eyes ranging the warriors, a kind of pleasure shining there as Domhnall handed out treasure.
Aed looked ill, Osthryth thought, as he continued to talk, shifting uncomfortably on his well-padded throne and it seemed like an effort for him to talk.
The people she knew at the market, those who guarded their beliefs tight to them would have a tincture that would relieve him, or cure him: Bach most certainly would, as she had known, when Osthryth had found her.
The blood that was distressing her. Bach, a tiny woman had taken her hand and to the back of her shop had told her gently that the blood was not death, as she feared, but life. It showed she could be a mother.
"I never will be," Osthryth declared as Bach showed her the hedgerow leaves she needed. The silver haired woman laughed.
"One day you will. A mother whose children will enthrall the world."
"...glory must surely go to my nephew, Domhnall and to the warrior Fionnlai of my household guard. For the one known as Ivarr the Boneless is now lifeless on the battlefield!"
A roar went up, which lasted for quite a long time. The hated Norseman, scourge of almost every kingdom on the island of Britain, would never again ravish their land.
"And to my son," Osthryth then heard. The king had apparently moved on with his honours. Osthryth peered around to get a glimpse of the boy, who was standing there, still sullen-faced. He was taking all that was being heaped on him, about his charge, the numbers dead, the leading out he had done.
That she had done, Osthryth told herself. Not that she cared for praise. But, for the first time she realised Constantine might feel betrayed at being denied tbe chance to stand by his father's side.
A hand on her shoulder caused Osthryth to jump. It was Domhnall. He smiled down to Osthryth.
"You fought well, friend," he said, stooping to her level. "For that we are grateful; for that Seoras is grateful - " he nodded towards another warrior, black haired, sporting a new slash to his face. He raised his ale in toast to Domhnall. Behind him, Constantine sat by his father, drinking ale too, a grumpy expression on his features.
"It is not your fault, Osthryth," he consoled, seeing her face fall too. "The truth is, today shows how unreay he is for battle."
"I?" Osthryth pretended. "You believe I was in the battle?"
"I know it was you who fought today in Constantine's stead," Domhnall said, warmly. "I tried to keep the worst from you."
"But, I had Constantine's shield!"
"And your fathers sword," Domhnall added, smiling. "You should feel nothing but pride that you have served us well.
Constantine needs more time to grow.
"I am sure he will make a fine warrior, given a little time." Osthryth swallowed. She did not feel it right to join in the celebration for this battle; she had not earned it honestly. And her sinews were screaming at her to make her way to bed, for healing sleep."
"Constantine is impetupus, and spoiled. The simple truth is not all men become what they hope to become, or what others hope they will become."
"He will," Osthryth said. "He has understanding, he knows people and how to charm them. He thinks a fight and a battle should come easy." Osthryth hesitated. "And I don't think I am the right person to show him, to take time with him, someone he respects."
"That boy respects no-one!" snorted Domhnall, swigging his ale.
"He respects you," Osthryth said. Domhnall smiled at her.
"There will be a celebration tonight, a feast. King Eochaid and his warriors will be there. You should come, Osthryth."
"I will be coming," Osthryth laughed. "I am serving your tables."
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In the end, Glymrie did not make her work for long. A few hours in and he ordered her away, much to the disgust of the other serving girls, who whispered lurid things behind their hands.
The royals of both houses, those of Alpin and Dyfnwal, ate and drank copiously. King Aed did his best to look exalted at their victory, yet to Osthryth still seemed like a man in pain. On his right sat Domnhall, sharing quip and anecdote; to Aed's left, Constantine sat sullenly, his face in his usual sulky expression.
A little further along the warriors sat, Ceinid in the centre looking proud and laughing with the men, holding a flagon of ale up a little in toast. As Osthryth poured more ale for them, he drew up a hand for tbe flagon and brushed hers.
It was the fire behind her, consuming Norse shields, Osthryth told herself, that had made her cheeks warm, nothing else.
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She awoke, some hours later, to a noise. Far away, up the corridor, something creaked. Osthryth lay with her eyes open in the darkness.
The celebration, that was it, Osthryth told herself, as a cheering erupted far away in the direction of the courtyard.
No, this was another sound, soft and rhythmical. Reluctantly, Osthryth drew back her blankets and moved as quietly as she could to her door, then onto the corridor.
Yes, it was coming from Constantine's room. Yes, it sounded as if he was crying. Osthryth felt her heart sink. If this was a trick, she would be most annoyed, especially as she was on cockle-collecting duty the next morning.
The sniffing stopped. Was it a trick? Hand close to the latch of Constantine's door, she made to turn the handle. But, all sounded still. Maybe she had been mistaken.
But no, there was no mistake. Constantine sounded as if he was quietly sobbing to himself. Osthryth turned the handle. It clicked.
"Leave me alone." His voice sounded tired, lost. Osthryth crept further in. In the moonlight, Osthryth saw his face, tear-coursed and crinkled in fury.
"Come here," he demanded, sliding the blanket away and stalking towards her. "Come and lie down next to me."
"Constantine, I'm tired," Osthryth said. He was angry, that she could tell.
"You must come," he insisted. "It is an order. You are my companion - the king said so: the moment I wake up til the moment I go to sleep. I am not asleep, Osthryth." He paced towards her. Osthryth folded her arms. Then, as Constantine approad, he held out a hand, pityingly. She took it and he led her to the bed.
"You must be tired after that long day of fighting." His voice was guarded, closed. "You will sleep here."
"Ok," Osthryth agreed, and she held out her other hand to take his. Instead, Constantine pushed her back onto the fleece-suffed mattress, his hands groping for her body. Osthryth struggled free and jumped to her feet.
"You absolute idiot!" Osthryth shouted. But the look on Constantine's face was one of bitterness.
"You took my honour away!" He paced towards her, but Osthryth was not easily moved. She stared back at the boy as he advanced on her. "You conspired to keep me from glory! With my father!"
"To keep you from death!" Osthryth shot back. "You will be a fine warrior some day, Constantine; you need to live to become that man!"
"I know what you did...Domhnall knows that you fought instead of me!"
"How?"
"He just does. He wants to hump you. So does Ceinid."
"No man will - " Osthryth began but Constantine put his hand over her mouth, his other around her back, wrestling her to his bed, pressing down onto her body with his.
Osthryth won their duels because she was swifter and could move fast to avoid blows, and evade attack, and because he didn't try. But Constantine was stronger. His hands sought under her woollen undergarments for her skin, his hand pressing onto the wound on her arm.
"Stop it, Constsntine!" Osthryth shouted, wrenching her arm free. "It hurts!" Vapours of spirit diffused around them as Constantine breathed in her face.
"Today it is my birthday. I am twelve, the right age to be a warrior. My father thought I fought superbly, and he drew me to him as a man, and he gave me tbe welcome water, that a man gets on the night of his first battle. I drank it, and feel so foolish!"
"Stop it, Constantine! Is this a trick? I don't like your tricks." Osthryth wriggled under his weight, but it was no use. It was clear what he intended to do, as his hand sought between her legs.
Osthryth had sworn she would fight anyone who wanted to hump her. But with Constantine, it was different. They were Osthryth and Constantine, who fought like a bag of cats.
She made herself relax. It doesn't hurt if you relax one serving girl had told another when she thought Osthryth was out of earshot.
Then something hard pressed inside her body, once, twice, several times. She felt nothing, apart from a little discomfort as Constantine pushed himself up and down, up and down.
Why did people choose this? It was no wonder men had to trick women into it. Her mind thought instead about the battle, and the power of the conquest and the glory of the victory.
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It was still night when Osthryth woke from a sleep. She was next to Constantine, who was still asleep. She closed her eyes again. But the same insistent shaking of her shoulder, and Constantines, could not be ignored.
Fionnlai, Ceinid's deputy, in desperation to rouse them, then began pulling the blankets off them. His eyes narrowed when he saw Osthryth, for it was clear it was just Constantine he needex.
"You are to come," he told Constantine, who was pulling on his clothes. "Yes, be prepared. Your father requires you and Domhnall in the throne room."
"Come on, Osthryth!" Constantine chided, when she hadn't moved. "Come with me!"
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But the king was not on the throne waiting for Constantine. Indeed, only his cousin, Domhnall was there.
"Your father wished to tell you himself," Domhnall said. "There is plan to get you and I out of the country and over to our aunt's kingdom.
Constantine stared at his cousin, probably through the effects of recovering from the welcome water. Then, he stared into the distance. Tbe sight before them made him gasp. Osthryth started too, at tbe sight of the king.
"My son," the king managed. "There is a plot, a plan to seize this throne." He shuffled over to Constantine, looking critically at Osthryth. "You are both to go, to Loch Lomond and the sea beyond, exiled from this kingdom. Máel Muire waits for you in Daoire, the hone of our beloved Saint Columba."
This was a shock. Surely a plot of such magnitude could have been anticipated and stopped?
"What about Osthryth?" Constantine demanded. "I'm not going without her." He seized Osthryth's arm and pulled her close, as if his life depended on her. "You said she was my guard...there are Uí Néill in Ireland! Domhnall said they are murdering bastards!"
"You are an Uí Néill yourself," the King smiled, amused, though with much pain on his face. "Several generations past. Your aunt Máel Muire is married to the king of the Uì Néill
"Then I'll need her!" Constantine persisted, as if his father's words were the justification to his decision. Aed looked at Osthryth critically, as if he was seeimg her for the first time in his life. His eyes lingering on her body, dressed as she was still in her wool under garments in the way her uncle used to sometimes, half judgmental with a sneer on his face. Then, he shifted in pain against his throne.
"And I want to come." Osthryth hissed the words by Constantine's shoulder. In response, he gripped her forearm tighter and stared back to his father, a steel in his eye which Osthryth would come to know much better: he was immoveable.
Clearly the king knew it too and nodded very slightly, almost imperceptibly and Constantine turned to Osthryth and for the first time since she had known him, smiled at her.
"Get ready. Now. Prepare," said Domhnall. "We travel west, through the valley. We are going promptly, but leisurely, to make it seem as if we are on progress following our outstanding victory over the Norse. A boat awaits us beyond Loch Lomond." Domhnall turned and bent over her.
"Can you ride a horse, Osthryth?" Domhnall said, when she had all that she needed. There had been no time to get her silver, but she had at least got Faederswordfrom tbe armoury, stepping over the comatose bodies of tne household warriors, who were littering the guardhouse. She shook her head.
"No time to teach you now," said Domhnall. "Go, into the wagon cart." He lifted her up and she toppled into tbe straw, her father's sword clattering against her calves. "Constantine," Domhnall instructed, as the boy made to follow her, "You're with me."
It was the last time Constantine would ever see his father. That proto-dawn, where the morning sunlight was just a dull, grey gloaming of light, dull and wet, warm but soaking drizzle was an image which would stay with Osthryth for the rest of her life.
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30th October 899
Very quickly, but wuth no ceremony, the thick, iron-studded gates pulled open for Osthryth. Without hesitation, she stepped within the castle, her feet quickly regaining a muscle memory learned over months and years of service to King Aed.
And there she was, Osthruth thought. She must be ageing, or else it was that little tiny mite who, like a parasite, was draining her of goodness. Because, of course, Aed had died within months of their escape over to Maèl Muire of the Uí Néills. Domhnall was, now, of course the king.
Across the courtyard they went, the rain still pouring as her feet trod the wide cobblestones. Osthryth felt a fluttering in her stomach as she recalled Constantine's cousin, and she stumbled a little. The guard helped her to steady herself and guided her to the side door of the royal rooms.
Candles glowed brightly in holders as water poured out of Osthryth's clothes. The guard, however, merely stepped to one side of the torrent, and guided her to the door.
"The king is willing to grant you an audience, Osthryth of Bebbanburg, the guard said. "You must be important to him to bring him from his bed; hus health is failing."
"She is." A voice, one she recognised, echoed in the darkness. If she had not hesrd his voice, Osthryth might have not recognised King Aed's general. Not black hair now vraided at the back, but grey. Ceinid's eyes had, however, not lost their sparkle.
"Come," Ceinid invited, pushing open the thick, ebony door by its handle. He bent low, to her ear, and whispered, "May I say how happy I am to see you after all this time? Please." Ceinid raised his arm in an arc as he gestured towards the throne, but a weary man, whose black hair was curled and uneven.
"Osthryth?"
"Osthryth," she declared. "Osthryth Lackland." Constantine smiled that crooked smile of his, and instantly the years shrank away, and they were children again, she trying to clean or do a task, he tormenting her or pulling her hair.
"The king?" Osthryth sensed the little girl inside her jerkin had now gone to sleep and she little sighs of contentment she was feeling on tbe inside of her arm.
"Indisposed. He up the coast, preparing for a spring campaign. For the Norse who still plague Pictland."
"I still think of it as Pictland; Dal Riada and Pictland have been one for a long time now. No, there is just Alba and Strathclyde; Domnhall's cousin Owain rules there now. Eochaid's betrayal had been Domhnall's gain: Owain is forever in our debt."
"Owain? Who worked with the horses?" The wriggling in her shirt which had begun again stopped her from laughing
"What is it you want if Domhnall?" Constantine, his voice cold as the rain outside, got to the point, directly. "I am his depute; you can tell me, Osthryth. Or..." His mind considered. "I think Aedre suits you much better: Aedre Uhtredsdottir. If you require land, or contracts, in the disputed territory, you can take them, they are yours.
Their eyes locked. Unusually, it was Osthryth who turned away.
"I knew you'd come back to me,
Aedre Uhtredsdottir of Bebbanburg."
"Uhtred, my brother, lives." Constantine appeared to be consider this. She had told him once before that she was the sister of Uhtref of Bebbanburg, shortly before she had fled for good. It seemed he had listened.
"Take them!" He passed a sheaf of parchments from his lap into Ceinid's, who brought them over, swiftly. "They are yours, I say; you are here, he is not. He has lands in Fairford, so I hear." Constantine looked at her. His eyes had not lost their sparkle, the same grey eyes, sparklingly bright like the Moray Firth on a early summer's morning.
"I have come with a proposal."
"A marriage proposal? For Domhnall?" Constantine laughed. "I am afraid he us already married. Though that union has brought forth no issue."
"For you, then, Constantine, as you deputise?"
"You do not know that Mairiead is dead? She did give issue; I have my son and daughters too. They will like you, Aedre."
Mairiead? Osthryth remembered how she hated that girl, for what she had fone, no matter that she was the niece of tbe High King of Ireland.
"No. A proposal that my claim on the land , the people the goods are to be yours."
"But, my dear Osthryth." Constantine got out of the throne, pacing over to her, mockingly, in the in the way Osthryth used to, when he was a boy and had found an inneresting animal in the grounds, or had found someone to trick. Half of her wanted him to hold her the way he used to. Then, she realised he was staring, at the movement in her tunic.
Osthryth unbuckled it, holding the little child, bare and cold, out for him to see. Constantine pursed his lips notbing for a time. Ceinid, flanking the throne, nodded to a guard.
"This child needs a home," Osthryth said clearly and firmly.
For, Osthryth had escaped, escaped Bebbanburg and Sven and Kjartan had taken Thyra instead. She had taken this baby's her mother from a fire set by men who hounded her for her faith. Thyra Ragnarsdottir's fate had been tied inextricably to that of Osthryth's.
Constantine looked at her again. He wanted to believe her, she could see that. But, of course, he knew her. He knew she could lie. Of course, they called it storytelling then, long ago.
"She needs a home; she needs a baptism." To her left, the guard to whom Ceinid had whispered handed Osthryth a fine, wool blanket. Unused to babies, she did her best, and nuzzled baby Aedre to her nipple once again, the tiny, copper-haired head showed itself as its owner got to work on the ready supply if milk.
"And you?" Constantine asked.
"I need to be here too. If you accept my proposal, then she would need me." Constantine looked at the baby. Then, his pale, grey eyes flickered up to Osthryth, coming close and holding onto her shoukders. He bent his head to the side of her face.
"You put a hole in my very soul when you disappeared...Osthryth," he managed. "I never thought I would see you again. Is tú mo ghrá, Osthryth."
She lowered her head. But she was not ashamed. The love Constantine meant was that bond of togetherness, of oneness. It was not the joy of happy equals that she had with Finan.
"And Domhnall has not yet managed a united Ulster-Alba kingdom?"
"The Uì Nèill would habe something to say to that," Constantine laughed. "And those bastard Ulaidm. But there is something in what you say. A united Alba. So." Constantine spoke to the head of young Aedre. "Your good mother, may God keep her, was persecuted for being a good Christian? I thought Wessex was Christian?" Osthryth felt her mouth open.
"Hvow did you know where I was?" Osthryth asked, choosing not to correct Constantine over Thyra's faith.
"I have as many spies as Alfred, maybe more. I knew you would go looking for Uhtred sooner or later."
"Alfred is dead."
"Yes," Constantine replied. "Aethelflaed is influential in Mercia, I understand. Edward is strong, though young." Osthryth shuddered a little at the mention of the forner aethling. She had made a habit of lying with heirs to the throne, as Constantine knew well.
But there was a breeze in tbe throne room. That be the cause of her quaking, Osthryth told herself, and she held young Aedre closer to her chest.
"So, what is she to be baptised?"
"Aedre," Osthryth said. "It suits her well."
"May I ask why?"
"I was sorry to hear about Mairiead dying," Osthryth lied, changingvthe subject. "You have a son?"
"Why this child?" Constantine asked, undeterred.
"She needs safety and care."
"Why?"
"God knows. I have no reasons." From her cloak, Osthryth held out a bag. Virtually untouched since she had found it in the skiff in Bebbanburg, and with more that she had added to its weight, she held out a huge bag of silver. Constantine took the bag, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
'Who is she?"
"No-one important. Her mother was burning to death in a house and I got her out. But she died. I took her to a healer and she birthed Aedre."
Osthryth's mind flashed back that night. Ula had told her to stand away but Osthryth had drawn the curtain back. She had held Thyra upright, her body over her shoulder and braced her body, which was automatically expelling the child, despite her unconsciousmess from the smoke and the heat, her body a mass of old, deep scars, one that pushed the little bundle she had in her arms out into the world.
Osthryth saw his gaze. Constantine did not helieve her. Yet, he weighed the bag in his hands. Little Aedre may be someone who is valuable to him. No loss and potential much to gain was the deal she was offering.
Osthryth sighed. She knew making it good odds would be appealing to Conatantine.
Aedre, was now off the nipple, and she sighed, nuzzling back down to sleep.
"You would give her your...old...name?"
"That will keep her," Osthryth nodded to the money again.
"This will keep her...a year," said Constantine, dismissively. But Osthryth had anticipated this.
"And information, for reclamation of lands of Northumbria." He licked his lips almost imperceptibly. But Osthryth noticed. He used to do that when he was young, when he wanted something, or had tricked someone out of something.
"So I get you again, Osthryth?" He asked, looking over her body.
"Yes."
Yet, the right course of action, Osthryth considered, would be to write to Beocca and tell her she had his daughter safe. The man would be beside himseld with grief for Thyra; their child might be a balm that would soothe some of his suffering.
Her safety would cost her, though. Osthryth closed her eyes and pictured Chester, with the bishop's wife whoring herself with anyone who would pay. Uhtred had left the gold belonging to Aethelstan and Aethelflaed to do that. There was a decent amount of gold in that bag as well as silver.
She had meant to flee then, when she had secured her brother in Bebbanburg. Uhtred of Bebbanburg. She had two brothers called Uhtred. But Uhtred Ragnarsson had not chosen to go north but to remain by Aethelflaed's side.
Oaths, she thought to herself, looking out of the window at the very beach next to the Moray that she had made hers, to Constantine when she had been thirteen and she wanted nothing more in the world than him.
"Domhnall has sworn to return me to my uncle," Osthryth reminded Constantine.
"That will not be necessary; he need not know."
"But he may?"
"He may remember; his temper is worse than you remember, Osthryth."
"But don't go to Bebbanburg; there here is nothing to gain there."
"Nothing to gain, Caraid? Why, there is everything! Why should my lands stop at the Tuide? We are natural heirs to the wall; it says so in the annals of Rome; Emperor Hadrian did build the wall: itwas you who told me that. Your uncle occupies land which is my ancestral right."
"Will you seek to do this, once you are king?" asked Osthryth. "There are families there, long-settled. I should hate to hear they have been displaced."
"No, Osthryth. I do not know if ever I will, when I become king. The Norse still plague us."
That had not changed, then. Nor had the man standing beside Constantine though, after twenty years, with the exception of streaks of grey at his temples. Ceinid twinkled at her.
But the place has changed; Dunottar had moved on, its people war-weary and afraid.
"You say a year that money will keep her?" Constantine looked at the coins, then nodded.
"In that case, I offer you, that is, I offer to Domhnall, my life given over to espionage in your service. I will spy for you, Constantine. In exchange, you will look after this child as if she is your own."
Constantine turned. Then, placing the money next to the throne.
"Your life to spy for me, Osthryth? For to bring up this anonymous child?"
"Yes," Osthryth affirmed. "Unless you will release me from my oath to you, I spy for you."
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A/N: Wco e water. Literally Uisge-Beatha is the Gaelic translation of whisky.