Thank you for the reviews so far - please continue to tell me what you think: like it? Don't? Which character do you want go see more of? Which do you like the best?
Who would you lile Osthryth to meet? (No promises)
Sorry she's not met Uhtred yet, but she will - give Osthryth time to get from Ireland down to Wessex - it's very far in using 9th century transportation.
Plus, the Battle of Brunanburh contains all these characters, their motivations, especially Constantine - he really was the Scottish version of Alfred - but then, it seems at the time coagulation of kingdoms was the thing: Hywel Dda, in Wales, who we see in Series 4 on TV; and also Flann Sinna in Ireland, and on the continent earlier with Charlemagne.
6. Winter 878
It had been a swift, footed, lively housekeeper, black hair parted under a mob cap, chatting nineteen-to-the-dozen who had, the second night in Doire, taken her to a blanket and straw bed at the back of the kitchen with the other servants.
The woman might have taken her the first night, except the drinking had gone on so long into the early hours of 1st November that Osthryth bowled along with Domhnall's other warriors to the stables, where she had been awoken, lying between Finnolai and Feargus, by an irate stable master. Osthryth had been first to awake, and had been spoken to at length by the man, catching only about one word in seven and unserstanding even less.
She did understand a pail of icy water over her for her insolence and being knocked to the ground before the third of Domhnall's warriors, Tadhg, a blonde-haired, wiry boy of about nineteen, sprang at him, screaming a stream if equally unintelligible words back. Finnolai had pulled him off, and the commotion had brought a worse-for-wear Domhnall into the stable, barking orders at each of them, before hauling Osthryth off to the fortress.
"Aunt Muire will not permit you to reside with the men," Domhnall explained. "I know you desire to be a warrior, Osthryth, however, while we live here, I have another role for you."
Osthryth had then been sent off to the kitchens, to help the elderly cook prepare the All Saints' feast, a slight man who turned out to be deaf, and whose words made a little more sense. She supposed that there weren't that many ways to say "meat" and "vegetables" in Gaelic, no matter the dialect, and she soon fell into the routine, so similar it had been to Dunnottar Castle.
But to took until the morning after that, having been woken early in the servants' sleeping quarter at the back of the kitchen to be told what she must do.
"The children need to be taught," Domhnall explained, as he took Osthryth to see his aunt. "And they need to practise their learning."
Osthryth protested that while she could read and write, she was not a scholar, nor did she know enough Gaelic even to write it.
"Your role will be to see the children complete what the monks tell them they must do; since I brought the Iona manuscript, they have been busy completing it and binding it. They do not have time to wait for the children to complete it, ah," he said, opening the door to the royal rooms.
"This is my aunt," Domhnall explained, as the woman, who had been by the king's side nodded. She was beautiful. Long, black hair framed skin that was milk white. She wore a linen dress dyed dark yellow with lichen andvaround her waist a circlet of beaded chain on which hung a key.
Domhnall waited beside Osthryth, but his aunt said, "I would speak with this girl alone," narrowing her eyes at Osthryth as the door clicked behind her nephew.
"You are a servant of Domhnall, and a companion of Constantine," Muire said, looking at Osthryth with curiosity. "And your family were murdered as you travelled to Iona?"
"Yes, Lady," nodded Osthryth. "And, you have a sword."
"My father's - "
"Your father's sword." Muire looked at her again. "And you are fifteen?"
"Thirteen, Lady."
"And you were educated...?
"At home. By my father." Osthryth's responses had been direct and prompt. Yet, this woman, the daugher of Ceinid mac Àlpin, was intelligent and shrewd. She watched as Mael Muire narrowed her eyes. Osthryth shuddered as she considered her limited options, for, if she did indeed believe her to be Aelfric's niece, Osthryth had walked freely into a trap of her own making.
She felt her sword hand lower. It would be her only chance. But instead, Muire smiled warmly, then took Osthryth's hands in her own, looking at the damaged one, with the square arrow bolt scar.
"My brother chose to be kind to you," she nodded. "For you saved Constantine's life. And you have inspired Domhnall's respect, a very difficult thing to do: my nephew does not impress easily. You fought in battle...all that is incredible for a girl of your age."
Incredible, thought Osthryth, grimly. It was that, or become a peace cow. Poor Aedre, as she had once been, would be violated night after night, and probably murdered, for the Danes perhaps to send muscle to Aelfric, if he was lucky.
"It is also not an acceptable role for you," the Uì Nèill queen continued. "While you stay with us, you will not fight; our warriors in Ireland will not tolerate women fighting - that is men's business, no matter what the degenerate Picts do."
"No, Lady." Muire held out her hand to Osthryth, who stepped forward as the queen took her shoulders.
"Your father taught you to fight?" Osthryth nodded. "We lived at Seahuises; we were often raided by Norse and Danes. I have killed many."
"But you will fight none here; my husband has his own way of dealing with the Norse, and it proves effective." Osthryth felt her hand moving to the hilt of her sword again. Muire laughed.
"As it is so precious to you, I will not take it from you. But you must not carry it." She stepped back from Osthryth. "It will be in my care, as the royal children are in yours.
"Mairi, Eira and Gormlaith, my own son, Niall and my other nephews, Mael Dubh and Mael Duin they will be your charges. Come."
Queen Mael Muire walked towards an oak door opposite the one through which she and Domhnall had come. Beyond, in various pursuits of sewing, sword play and a game of stones the children were busy, under the watchful eye of one of the older servants Osthryth recalled seeing in the kitchen. Muire called the children to her as Osthryth looked at their faces.
The girls were older than the boys, a little younger than her. Muire explained she had an older son, Domnall, named after Domhnall, who was old enough to study with the priests alongside his sword work.
"He and Contantine are well matched," Muire added. "They are both keeping my husband busy in teaching them."
The last child, a boy of about six, was brought in from the woods when his mother noticed he was missing. On this cold November morning he was without his trousers and it looked as if he had been walking around in tbe mud on his knees.
"I found worms," Niall said, holding up a handful as his mother expressed horror at his appearance. Osthryth found herself suppressing a giggle. Muire then instructed Marsaili to clean him and dress him again.
"Without the worms," she added, then led Osthryth back to her own room.
"You will continue in the kitchens today and will take the children over to the monastery after breakfast tomorrow," Muire insuructed. "When they are in your charge, you must ensure their work is done, and return them in the evening to the nursery. You should have free time to wash before dinner."
"May I leave the fortress?" Osthryth asked. "When the children are not required to work?"
"If you do not want to live," Muire replied.
"I can fight," Osthryth pressed. Muire smiled.
"You have never seen an Irish Gael fight. And there are Norse." She put a hand on Osthryth's shoulder. "While I do not kerp you here as a prisoner, will you respect what is asked of you?"
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Osthryth, to her surprise, found that she liked the children and looked forward to their daily progress over to the monastery. Midwinter turned to spring, birds chirrupped and built nests and her little party of six children would walk in line over to the great archway of the monastery.
The girls were very proper, though would answer her back in Gaelic when she gave instructions and Osthryth was not altogether certain that Mairi was being polite, for she would often watch the very end of what might have been a smirk as the girl looked round to Eira and Gormlaith.
The boys, when she had finally got them used to sitting at a table and copying from a large ledger of bound manuscripts - some in Gaelic; some in an alphabet Osthryth had never seen before, made of lines at different angles - were compliant.
At the end, as they walked back to the castle, would all beg Osthryth for a story, and they in turn would tell her one they knew.
Whatever happened, though, Niall always seemed to be in a filthy state, either before Osthryth took her or on their way back that his mother began to call him "grubby knees", though he could be bribed into keeping clean with a spoonful of honey via the kitchens.
One morning, as the night frost had still not begun to melt and a brisk breeze blew in from the northern sea, Osthryth's attention was caught as something flew through the air and caught her above the temple. She turned to find another whistling through the crisp air, this time, landing just beyond Gormlaith's feet. The girl jumped, gasping at the near miss.
From the far corner of the courtyard, two warriors, who had been engaging in morning sword training were staring at Osthryth's little group. Another stone came, and Niall howled, clinging to Osthryth's legs.
"Chan eil tilg clachan!" Osthryth shouted, as she bent to comfort little Grubbyknees. The stone had skimmed the top of his head and had begun to bleed. She kissed it, pulling him close as another stone flew by.
"Chan eil tilg clachan!" Prince Domnall, Aed Findlaith's eldest son imitated her imperfect Irish. "Na tilg, salachar de Pictan!" He threw another stone and laughed when it hit his brother again.
"Tell him to stop!" Osthryth shouted to his opponent, as she hurried the children towards the monastery. Constantine, the opponent, turned to Domnall, muttering something. Domnall laughed, and looked at Osthryth.
"A bheil tha buchaille i? Is she a boy?"
"Tha mì buchaille agam," shouted back Osthryth, awkwardly. "I am a boy. Na cailiean. Not a girl."
"Is this right?" laughed Domnall, mockingly, to his cousin. "She is a boy?"
"She does do as a boy does," Constantine confirmed. "She can fight." Domnall looked back at Osthryth.
"Can she hump serving wenches?" Domnall called out her. But Osthryth had turned her head and continued to walk towards the monastery.
"You, girl!" Domnall shouted. "I'm talking to you!" But Osthryth would not look at him.
"And she is a servant?" bawled Domnall to Constantine, outraged that a servant had ignored him. He bent to take up a stone, much larger than the pebbles he had thrown before. Osthryth stepped in front of little Mael Duin, who it would have certainly hit if she hadn't. Instead, it bounced off her thigh, painfully and deflected down into the mud.
"You know she can kill you? Constantine said to his with interest. "She fought beside Domhnall, defended him as he killled Ivarr the Boneless. I saw her," he added, as Domnall looked at Constantine with incredulity. "I have seen her kill a dozen Norse" he added, grumpily.
"Then, let's just very well see!" Without any time for Constantine to stop him, Domnall had wrenched his cousin's sword from him, stalking over to Osthryth. He thrust it onto the floor in front of her.
Osthryth said nothing, looking from the sword to the boy not much older than she was, leaving the blade where it was. She made to continue to the monastery, nodding at the two girls to go on and scooping up Niall and giving him to Mairi, then taking Mael Dubh and Mael Duin, one arm round each.
"Lies!" screamed Domnall, charging at her. Gormlaith screamed, and the boys ran towards their sister as Domnall ran towards Osthryth. He would have skewered her shoulder had she not sprang out of the way. The boy turned and, and ran at her again. Osthryth ducked, this time, seizing up the sword from the mud, ducking again as a slicing blow came her way.
She swung upwards with Constantine's sword, blocking another, knowing she must not be on the offensive. But this boy had to stop, or he would kill her.
A shout from the monastery brought monks to the door, one ushering in the children. More people gathered to watch.
"You cannot throw stones at the chidren!" Osthryth shouted to him. Domnall pushed again, and Osthryth slipped a little in the mud. "I will not fight you!"
"Then, I will kill you, Pictish scum!" Domnall screamed back, in triumph. And he drove his sword down, and down.
Osthryth fought. Down near his legs she saw her chance and, using Constantine's sword for balance, got low to her feet and drove against the soft ground. She slipped, but it was enough as she wrapped her arms around both legs, her cheek by his thigh. Domnall didn't fall, but it was enough to stop a third assault and he staggered back as Osthryth raised Constantine's sword again, parrying his blow, driving him back again.
She was aware of eyes on her, but as a periphery, background, as she continued to press her advantage. She could kill him now, Osthryth knew. Two steps, two more blows, and he could he gone.
Then she stopped. For behind her arms held hers. Osthryth staggered back, as Domnall got to his feet. A smirk played at the corner of his lips as she backed into he who had restrained her.
Osthryth struggled, trying to worm away, but and arm wound round her neck. Domnall strode over to her leeringly, but Aed Findlaith, the king, pushed his son away.
"You fought well, for a Pictish boy," he growled, close to her head. Domnall stared at his father, sullenly. Osthryth tried to move again, but the king held her fast, leaning over by her head, his orange- red beard flowing into her eye line.
"Do you know what we do with boys from Alba?" he asked ferociously, close to her ear. "We take them by the ankles and swing them over our heads to they fly back over the Irish Sea and land with their arses in the water!" Osthryth found she was trembling as the Aed broke into a rumbling guffaw. Domnall stalked, scowling towards them, sword raised in Osthryth.
"You leave this boy to his work," the king shouted at his son, tremulously, "He could show you some things!"
"She is a girl, athair," shot back Domnall.
Osthryth shuddered as the king reached down her chest, hand flat, then squeezed at her, closing her eyes as he pressed her back against his towering body. A lump pressed into her back. Then the king laughed, heartlily.
"Go, girl, to your job, then that may still yet keep my elder son alive!" Osthryth staggered a little in the mud, not daring to turn round to look at the king, and stalked through the damp mud. The children were waiting for her, eyes wide.
"I wonder who will hump her first, I or my father," Domnall shouted, smirking at Constantine. He picked up Constantine's sword and threw it low in his direction.
"She has chosen chastity," Osthryth heard Constantine shout back. "She will fight anyone who tries."
"Not if the guards hold her down, she won't."
From the doors of the monanstery, Osthryth turned as a huge clatter of metal reverberated from the ground. Constantine had charged at his cousin, feet kicking, fists striking, spilling blood until Finnolai and Feargus, ten minutes later, pulled him off.
Later that night, when she had served on dinner duty for the royal family, Domnall's eyes on her all the time and the king laughing heartily when she was close, Osthryth made her way wearily back to the kitchens.
The cook had made a vegetable stew again that night - water, seaweed and tubers into which he dropped a scalding hot stone from the fire. When Osthryth approached with a bowl, the cook shot out a hand and pushed her away; when she tried again, the cook took a wooden spoon and beat her over the arms and face until she retreated back to her bed.
It was Finnolai who crept into the kitchen later on that night, with ale and bread. He seemed somehow elated: his face beamed, his skin seemed somehow to glow, yet a part of him seemed harrassed, as if he'd fought a thousand battles.
"Because you fought with Domnall," he explained, tearing some bread up, kindly, then pushing the ale jar into her other hand. Osthryth supped deeply from the jar, and bit at the bread, hungrily before thanking him profusely.
"Not me," Finnolai replied, sinking back against the wall, "From Domhnall."
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"I do not care what provoked it." Osthryth was standing in Queen Muire's chambers again, where she had been when the queen told her she was to care for the royal children. "You should be flogged by my son. However - "
The queen broke off as Osthryth looked back at her, impassively. Flogging a servant for defiance was typical.
"However - come, sit child." She gestured towards a window seat, and sat herself.
"What of your life, girl? For you do not come from a noble family."
"My family were not badly off," Osthryth recited the padded story. "My father owned a fishing fleet. He taught me and my elder brother to fight, to defend ourselves from Danes." She sighed, remembering the prone body of the father of the family, remembering them all, even the small children, hacked to death by the Norse invaders. And for what?
"We were on our way to give thanks at that most holiest of places when we were attacked." Osthryth looked down, at her hands, looking at the one bearing the square scar of the arrow, already is year old.
That morning, as if his assault on her had never been, the cook had woken her early and fed the servants what they called "congaigh", a thin, milk-water food mixed with oats. Osthryth had not bern denied any, though had then dropped a bowl of by trying to grasp it with her damaged left hand.
He had beaten her about the head a few times, before grumbling off by himself. She had heard the serving girls laughing, running off when they knew Osthryth had heard them, muttering fast in Irish, knowing she understood little. Osthryth had caught words she did know: "curaidh", "blàr" and also, "Constantine", and she also thought she heard, "Salachan de Pictan." How many people had watched her fight the prince? The servants, clearly.
"You know that my nephew Domhnall was entrusted to bring manuscripts from Iona and Culdees to us, for safekeeping." Muire's face was one of tranquility and Osthryth realised that the Uì Nèill queen had them, simply and plainly in her lap. Osthryth looked down.
If the monks had meant for these sheets of calfskin, scraped and dried, stretched and wetted, to illustrate the glory and might of God's heaven in red lead and ochre, of indigo, lichen-purple edged in soot black, gold of orpiment, then they had certainly managed it. With the morning sunlight, the colours looked as if they filled the room with their magnificence.
Often, she had seen the monks in ColmCille monastery working over pages such as these, individual pots of pigments before them, the left wing of a goose to sit well in their right hand, which the scribes would sharpen periodically with a small blade.
"It is glorious to behold, is it not?" Queen Muire said softly. Osthryth felt herself nodding in agreement.
"They are the gospels, begun at Durham; sent for safety to Lindisfarne and brought, with the pilgrimage that you were on, says Domhnall, to Culdees. It was taken on to Iona, but still they have not been safe from raids, and therefore, unfinished." Muire placed the gospel pages carefully on a polished, oak table beside her, drawing an assortment of scrolls and parchments into her lap.
"My nephew also brought these; letters and testaments, land deeds and histories: all manner of correspondence, religious and secular, some for us here at the ColmCille monastery, some for monks at Kells. For example," Muire laid the missives in her lap, "Norse raid our Western Isles, take sheep and land; Danes raid south of the Great Wall, taking land and slaughtering thousands. They have names, these Danes: Eirik, Siegfried..." she peered closely, "Sven, Kjartan...Ragnar..." Muire laid it aside, then asked, "Osthryth?
Osthryth opened her eyes. She had screwed them up as the queen recited the names, for she was certain she was going to hear one more: Aedre.
"We are all kin of Cenél nÉogain," went on Muire, putting down the papers, "including Domhnall and Constantine. Yet, they are also kin to the Strathclyde Cymric, tracing their way back to ancient times. Eochaid is challenging my brother on that point for control of the Pictish throne." Osthryth nodded. Her aunt Gytha, that is to say, her own mother who had been forced to marry her uncle Aelfric - who had made Beocca baptise Uhtred when theur father had changed it from Osbert - had been of Rheged. She was Christian, but had some strange ideas; heathen ideas. Osthryth was half Briton as well as Saxon.
"Kingdoms are easier on the same land, especially if the invaders come, as the Norse have come. My brother Aed freed the world when Domhnall slayed Ivar the Boneless. Yet Ivar Ivarsson is still the scourge of the sea coasts. It does my heart no good to see the Ulaid harrassed, yet they are our ancient enemy. But for the expulson of the north I would see an Ireland under one king." She sighed and looked at Osthryth.
"Even we, the north and south Uï Nèill are watchful and guarded of one another rather than friendly. For there are many contenders to be high king to take our lands outside the Norse. But, come," the queen finished. She took with her the letters and manuscripts and they made their way across to the monastery.
"You can read?" Muire asked Osthryth, as she gave the richly illuminated manuscript book to the abbot.
"Father believed I should," Osthryth nodded, as a less senior monk, young and fresh-faced relieved the queen of the parchments, papers and scrolls. Father Beocca that was, Osthryth added.
"I believe you have been at Lindisfarne?" Osthryth nodded. One night technically counted.
"Then you would have seen the monks at work, in the words of our Lord?" Osthryth nodded again.
"These gospels are unfinished," Muire explained. "The Lindisfarne monk, Brother Conn, who worked on these was a master. No other gospels like these have ever been produced. Yet, Conn was murdered on a raid by Danes. They were sent to Culdees by arrangement of my brother Aed, but when no-one skilful enough could be found, he tried again at Iona and then at Rathlin. So, Dohmnall saw fit to bring them to me. And yet still, I fear, that we may not finish them."
Muire led Osthryth back to the castle and to her own chambers. She then held sonethinfmg out to her. Osthryth stared into the queen's milk-white hand, at what looked like a large globule of snot.
"It is a squid, from Lough Foyle." She held the dead sea creature flat on her palm. Osthryth could see the tiny lines and dark sections within the small animal.
"It is only in these months, until the harvest, that these will be available on the coast. Our monks desperately need them for the dark blue pigment they give." The queen pointed to a section at the back of the squid, where a dark spot, darker than the rest, sat heavy.
"If the gospels are to be finished, and the word of the Lord be heard, you must find as many of these as you can when next you stride the northern shore for seaweed. Bring them to me."
"But, my Lady, how will I know where to look?"
"I am given to understand they bask in the shallows," the queen smiled. "Go as far as you wish, but remember, you are close to Ulaid territory. And, too, heathen folk comb the shores for substances for their unholy rites." And then, before Osthryth had time to reply, Muire put down the sea creature and walked over to a door, through which she walked, coming back with something far more precious in her hands.
"Faedersword!"
The word escaped Osthryth's mouth before she could stop it, the sheen of the scabbard flashing almost as brightly as the illuminations of the gospel pages.
"You will need protection, although, I saw how you fought my son," the queen said, handing it to Osthryth. "No Ulaid warrior will live if they attack you, my dear. I can spare no guards to search the beach; neither can other servants go, unprotected."
Deep into that night, as the moon rose and owls twit-twoo'd to one another, Osthryth crept over to the monastery. It was true what she told Mael Muire about being able to read. She had also seen where the queen had placed the manuscripts.
Lighting a candle at one corner of the scriptorium, Osthryth took them up, Faedersword by her side. And read, and read and read.
She read how her brother had been taken prisoner, then adopred by Danes, how he had burned down his adopted father's settlement. Osthryth looked at the words telling her how he had become a warrior in a far off kingdom called Wessex, and another that had condemned him for slaughtering innocent Britons in Cornwalum, married, then abandoned, a wife called Mildrith. Become a father amd suffered under a cumulative tax, which he could not pay.
And how, too, he had stood side-by-side next to Alfred of Wessex, as the king had sent for aid across his kingdom for the Saxons' last stand against the Danes. And they had come, and Alfred had led them to victory at a place called Ethandun. Yet, Osthryth wondered, why was it they called Uhtred an "Ungodly Dane"?
As the sun sent out its early warning colours of pale gold and blue underlining the last of the night's darkness, Osthryth's heart sang as she read letter after letter, replacing them carefully in turn, read just one last thing: with her brother in Wessex was Father Beocca.
She could not help it. As she crept from the monastery, knowing that it would only be a few hours before she would arrive with the royal children, Osthryth realised how important to her this information was and her heart glowed with happiness: she had gone to search for any reference to herself, missing from Bebbanburg, and instead, she now knew exactly where her brother was.
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It was that evening that the chef gave her the basket she used for seaweed so the very next dawn Osthryth made her way the several miles up river to where it opened into an estuary, and then a lough. The sun wasn't up yet, and it was very cold, yet there was a lightness in her step as she nursed the secret of her brother in her chest.
The coast was as Muire had explained: now, as summer was beginning, the squid would populate the shallows and it would be easy, after harvesting the seaweed, to bring back the squid as the tide receded, for they were washed up on the sand and could be picked up.
Getting to higher ground, Osthryth surveyed the land below, the sun's warmth on her face, remembering her first - and only - time of seeing him, riding as he had been, to Bebbanburg to threaten Aelfric.
Uhtred! In Wessex. But how was she to find him? At the palace, clearly. But, how ro get there? She had a few silver coins from the treasure bag, last buried under Dunnottar's spring. A handful of silver coins would not get her across the Irish sea. How she longed to see him once again.
In no time, as the sun rose, its rays strengthening, as it picking out clumps of seaweed deposited over the smooth, new sandy surface. They would eat well over the next few days, for the seaweed would be boiled and turned into a concentrated mush which the chef would fry, or mixed with tubers.
It didn't take long for Osthryth to find the squid. Tiny jelly balls dotted the coast, come to enjoy the warm midsummer waters, she assumed. She had the one the queen had given her and so far, as the breeze buffetted her plait, had found seven of them. Maybe if she walked a little further east, she would find more: Muire wanted not just a hahdful, but at least a thousand.
The water felt warm as Osthryth dipped her hand into the water. She cast around for the small masses of jelly and her hand caught another, and she pulled it out, resting it on the seaweed in the basket.
Resting her basket on the sand, Osthryth decided to make the most of the warm water. She stripped off to her woollen undergarments, wading out until she was chest height in the hardy waves.
Unplaiting her hair, Osthryth rubbed a little bracken she had found on the higher ground through her hair and, reaching underneath her woollen clothing, rubbed over her body. Hair trailing, Osthryth dived through the waves until she reached the shore, combing through her hair with a broken piece of razor shell until the pale, golden strands flowed to her waist.
Osthryth pulled on her clothes - they would dry in the sun - and snoothed down her hair again. She couldn't plait it herself though; instead she bound it loosely with the leather cord that Finnolai had used - perhaps he could do it again for her.
She sat on the sand as gulls screamed overhead, flying vertically, bombing the sea for fish as rays of golden sunlight warming her face. Osthryth felt happy for the first time thshe could remember: Uhtred was alive! And, not only alive, but doing well, having been enslaved, and escaped, as a warrior in a far-off southern kingdom.
She had a little silver. It was tightly bound in the lining of her undergarments - not much, but a few coins, taken from the bag hidden under the rock in the springwater, gone now, no doubt. It could buy passage - but where from? And where to?
Even if she could prove herself as a warrior, could be paid, or travel, then she would. But, Osthryth knew, she must get across the sea, and that would require a boat, and a trustworthy boatman.
Even after a that, the Irish tongue, despite its similarity to Gaelish, was proving a barrier. And there was a good chance she could be picked up by slavers.
Her eye wandered on the beach, looking at the smooth sand. Her prints tailed off between the two large cliffs through which she had walked. Now she looked, more prints trailed across the samd, coming from the east.
A panic overcame Osthryth as she looked round for her basket. A that morning's work! She got to her feet, looking round. Yet her sword was still there: whoever had taken it felt the seaweed and squid were more valuable
Just in the distance, Osthryth could make out two figures, one smaller than the other, but they were not walking together: indeed, the larger figure was stooping to look in rock pools.
She began to run, her feet slipping easily over the firm, damp sand. In the hand of the smaller figure - a child - was the basket. Osthryth picked up the oace, rounding on the child and plucking it out of his hands.
A wail of protest brought the larger figure, presumably the boy's mother running over to them. The woman had long black haur, some flecked with a little grey and woven braids through her hair. The child had hair of the same colour which hung around his face in soft waves.
"Máthair! Máthair!" the boy shouted. A rapid, indecipherable conversation between them ensued, finishing as the woman struck him by the ear. She took the basket from him and held it out to Osthryth. Nothing was missing out of it. From his hand the boy offered the woman something which looked like squid. The woman bent to the boy's hand and sniffed.
It was clear to Osthryth that they were heathens. Like the heathens at the village near Dunnottar, where the woman had sold Osthryth moss for her monthly bleeds, they lived by ancient knowledge of the natural world. What was different was that they were doing so out in the open, where anyone could see them. Anyone did. The woman was pushing the boy towards Osthryth.
"I am sorry," the boy said. "I thought the basket was abandoned."
"You did not see me in the water?" Osthryth asked. The boy narrowed his eyes, and looked at his mother, who glared at Osthryth. At least, Osthryth assumed they were mother and son: both had dark hair but pale blue eyes, with a similar look to Constantine and his father, Aed mac Àlpin.
"We do not steal. It would upset the balance of things." She narrowed her eyes. "We also do not owe. My son will replace the squid he dropped." She looked past Osthryth at the squid trail on the beach. At once, the boy raced to the waterline and began to rove in the green surf.
"You do not hide your faith?" Osthryth asked.
"We are not persecuted for it as some are; the Uì Nèill are tolerant, though they send their holy men to tempt us to the Christian faith, and condemn us for sacrificing children." The woman watched as her son slipped a handful of squid into Osthryth's basket. He stood by his mother, who gripped the child around the neck.
"We do those when they've been naughty!" Osthryth started as both woman and child laughed. She laughed, too.
"I am Osthryth." Osthryth nodded.
"I am Bheatha; this is Finn." Bheatha nodded, then added, a curious mix of intrigue and curiosity in her pale eyes. "By all the sibh, you call yourself Osthryth."
"The sibh? The shee? That's who you believe in?"
"The gods," nodded the woman. "Ceridwen, Lugh, Naet, Cu Chulainn...Bridgit...Morrigan..." Osthryth nodded.
"The Uì Nèill too." The woman looked at Osthryth, and laughed.
"But of course!" Bheatha laughed. "For they dare not! They are merely us seduced by the benefits of Christianity - trade opportunitues, defence. And the Norse do not peess on us here as they do in Alba."
"You know Alba?" Bheatha nodded. "We travel around these isles, know so much, hear so much. It is not to do with us - it is for Christian kings to concern themselves with. We are the land, and the sky and the water. We take only what we need to survive, and thank the gods for their generosity."
Osthryth found herself nodding, for she had heard that before: the woman who sold her moss for her bleeding said as much. Heathen rarely stayed in the same place for any great length of time. Instead, they travelled, looking for the most bountiful of resources that nature could provide. And this northern beach, for this time of year provided squid.
"What do you need the squid for?" Osthryth crouched to Finn's height. "And the sea weed?" She held out some seaweed, but the boy shook his head and folded his arms.
"Medicine," amswered Bheatha. "My father passed his healing knowledge to me, and now I teach my son." Bheatha smiled, holding up a handful of flowers, jagged points with black centres.
"Henbane", said the boy. "To help with the breathing, andvwith the joints." His mother nodded.
"This?" She held up a small, thin branch.
"Pain relief; headaches. It's willow," he added. "Do you wish to buy?" Osthryth smiled.
"An excellent merchant," Osthryth praised him.
"Ah, but this woman-warrior needs sonething more." The woman looked at her again, curiosity and interest. "Moss? Or, a draught to quell the blood? This will quell a child." This time, it was Osthryth's turn to be interested.
"Or perhaps...to end the life of a child you bear?" She stepped towards Osthryth and put a hand over her stomach.
"Is thay what they mean?" asked Osthryth. "The queen...the monks...are these the children you sacrifice?" The woman laughed, heartily.
"The gods - our gods - do not like to be cheated of life; should you choose this path, others will be closed to you, at best; at worst, they will exact a cost, no matter how terrible. And," she leaned closer. Many of these are poisons. Yet, used wisely, they can calm and settle.
"Tha an t-acras orm - I am hungry!" Finn said, suddenly, looking at his mother, who took a tie of material from her shoulder, looking into it, resignation on her face.
"When we get home, beautiful," she replied, sorrowfully. Osthryth inhaled. From her pocket she prduced a hunk of bread, which the boy immediately took up. Bheatha frowned and stepped close to Osthryth, thrusting something out of the tie of material - dried moss. Osthryth stared at her.
"We must not be in your debt nor you ours. It would not be right."
"Right for your gods?" asked Osthryth, who was not hungry and reasoned the foid would only go to waste.
"Right for everyone," said the black-haired woman, gravely, "For the gods are everything, the land, the sea the wind, the plants, the seasons and the turning of the years. That wheat was taken from the land, the water with which to cook it the springs; the wood with which to bake it the trees." Osthryth nodded, politely, yet the look on Finn's face, of gastronomic delight, made her smile.
"To whom do you sell your medicine?" Osthryth asked.
"Ourselves, and we do not sell to other believers, but trade. The palace buys a good deal from us in silver, yet at the same time, their christianity compels them to insist on us becoming Christian." She turned her head to the sea, the wind whipping strands of hair across her face.
"Yet over in your land, Aed mac Àlpin might have don better by not persecuting us." She looked back at Osthryth. Not that he is harsh as he once was. His time will soon be past, I fear."
"They still believe in the sibh, for their Christianity," said Osthryth, nodding in the direction of Doire. And, maybe even she did, Osthryth thought to herself. Windy nights, creakings and howlings. The sibh were truly alive in this land letting their displeasure be known.
"That is because it is their history too, and they know it," Bheatha continued. "While Christians were led in this land, at the time of our ancestor Calgach, they took the faith. They were selfish, wanting an everlasting life beyond this. You can only balance what you have." She passed the bag of loosely-tied herbs and plants to Finn, who sat on the sand, organising them.
"They know it, because we are one people - those of us who, those centuries before, resisted. The Uì Nèills did not resist and reap the rewards of trying to forget about the gods by aligning themselves with the church. Money, power, land: they suffer for it, and know it, too. Do prayers heal wounds? Do stories of righteousness send the dead across peacefully?" Bheatha put her arm round Finn, and the boy placed every wood, leaf, flower and root back into the crudely-fashioned bag. They turned to go.
"Wait!" shouted Osthryth. The woman turned. "Do you have a medicine that will resist a child?" she, asked hurriedly, her voice dropping low. "A medicine to be taken to prevent children after lying with a man?" She saw Bheatha's brow wrinkle. "That can be done?" Osthryth pressed.
"That can be done," Bheatha confirmed. "Yet. You should know should never be undertaken with frivolity or carelessness: the bond between a mother and child should not be severed without good cause. It is costly, though I do not mean just silver." She flashed a smile to Osthryth.
"Permit us some of that weed and it is yours." Osthryth reached into the basket andvheld out a generous handful. She had silver, but did not want to offend the heathen woman. Returning with so little would probably get her a beating but the old cook's arms mostly missed anyway.
"Wait until your next blood, then, dissolve of this lily root a small portion - " Bheatha indicated with her grubby thumbnail a portion no thicker than a grain of wheat, "With honey. Drink just a little each day. You nay also find you the pain that troubles you is much reduced." Osthryth pushed the root into her clothing.
"You are very tolerant, for a Chriatian," Bheatha smiled. "You have not once asked me to mend my ways or step into the light."
"I am warrior; my mother was of Cumbraland, a Christian." Osthryth went to the memory of her aunt, once her mother. Never offend a heathen, respect their ways. And those in far off Eiriann and the far north in Alba were never subjugated by the Latins. They hold the truth.
But her mother had only ever whispered this to her, and very rarely, at bedtimes, when she was small, before her she was remarried to Aelfric. Even then, Osthryth had wondered whether they were really her mother's words, or part of her own dreams.
"When we travel, we have been to Cumbraland," Bheatha smiked. north to the Strathclyde Cymric; south, to the West Cymric. Though that land is harsh; the Chrisians there are very pious."
"And what will you do with my seaweed and your squid?" Osthryth asked crouching to Finn's level. The boy beamed widely, twinning his mother.
"The seaweed brings brightness," the boy recited, "Gives health; restores the strength of a warrior. If your heart is troubled," he placed his hand over Osthryth's chest, looking serious, "Or your blood is maligned, the squid will put this to rights."
"Very good, balach," his mother nodded, putting her arm out to Finn and drawing him to her as he stood. "We must away." And, to Osthryth added, "I feel this will not be our last meeting, Osthryth."
Osthryth turned, looking up at the high cliffs she must climb to get to the upper pathway and get back to Doire, thinking about what Bheatha said. To meet them again now that would be something. Would they be moving? Would they cross to Alba or Cumbraland or Crymru? If she was with them, then maybe, just maybe...
Two figures watched Osthryth turn, with her somewhat lighter basket, and walk in the opposite direction to Bheatha and Finn across the sand. They shouted across to her as she got almost to the top of the rocks that took her to high ground, bringing Osthryth's mind back to the present.
She turned, to see two warriors. They were young men, yet not as old as Domhnall. They strode in front of her, blocking her path, keeping their pale blue eyes on her as Osthryth kept on walking towards them, slower, looking for a way past, her hand hovered over the hilt of her sword.
"You are in Ulaid lands," one said, taller, broader. He leaned in his sword, elbows wide.
"Forgive me," Osthryth replied. The man would strike, she knew.
"You are of the Uì Nèill," the second warrior said then, fleet of foot, he was in front of her in seconds. "Give me what you have. It belongs to us: that sand belongs to us."
Osthryth put down her basket carefully. These men were of the Uì Nèill's rival faction, occupying land to the east. Were these two men why she, with the ability to fight, sent for squid? Did Muire know that she was sending her into the land of their enemy?
"And the heathen? They took your property too, if this is your land, and you are not just trying to rob a humble servant of the fruits of her labour."
"We let the heathen; they give us reliable healing. We do not let thieving Uì Nèill take what they want." The larger man stood close to the first.
"If this is yours," Osthryth said, carefully, pulling out her sword, "fight me for it."
"Fight you - " But that was all he could say. Osthryth bent, swiftly, then charged at him, shoulder down. The man lost his balance, and she turned, clashing blades with the other. Then, she stamped on the groin of the first, who had indeed fallen.
The man howled in pain, but Osthryth didn't look, instead dodged a blow from the second, dropping low and slipping between his legs, pulling one towards another.
As he toppled, Osthryth sprang to her feet, sheathing Faedersword, and taking up her basket, running away, fast, and not stopping until she knew they had not been followed.
As she loped wearily towards the monastery, the line of the river snaking south on which the fortress palace of the Uì Nèill stood, another pair of eyes watched her pass by.
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All that week, Osthryth returned for squid. Her catch was scant and took a long time to collect enough, delayed as she looked out for the two men who had challenged her and she had fought.
A few times she saw the heathen boy, Finn, who was collecting his own squid and other plants, and her heart glowed with her guilty plan: if the heathens were on the move when the squid had stopped coming to the waters, then she could travel with them, over to Northumbria and head south, or Cymru and south west, by offering them her sword.
But it wasn't until four days that Bheatha appeared with Finn, helping him collect sea pinks from between the rock crevices.
"Are you in need of a poultice?" the heathen woman asked, as Osthryth approached. When she shook her head, Bheatha asked, "Then what could you want of us?"
"When do you travel?"
"We do not travel with Christians," she turbed coldly away from her.
"I do not belong here," Osthryth pressed.
"I know," Bheatha replied, looking out to sea. "You come from over the sea, from Brythonyic Mòr. You have family. You seek family."
"I have money, I have silver." Bheatha seemed to consider this. "Or, my sword?"
"I like you," Bheatha smiled. "You are complicated."
She did not meet the Ulaid men as she climbed the rocks that evening. But, as she strode the path along the river, a tiny figure got larger as she walked. It was Constantine.
"I was supposed to come with you," Constantine panted, as he raced to her. "I looked for you."
"I went out early," Osthryth replied, her heart lower at her rebuttal from the heathen woman, but a glimmer of hope still remained.
"Mairi followed you and saw you talking to the heathen. She told Aunt Muire." A little further back from Osthryth, the troublesome girl grinned in triumph at Osthryth's discomfort.
"Come on!" Constantine urged. Domhnall wants to see both of us.
The stables were not the most fitting part to receive the news, Osthryth reflected. Constantine tore past the brown mare, treading in her straw. In the empty stall, at the back, Finnolai and Feargus wete already waiting. Past Osthryth strode the tall, blonde-haired Taigh.
"What is this about?" Osthryth asked. And in half an hour, she would know: Aed mac Àlpin had been besieged at Dunnottar by a combined army of Strathclyde Cymric and a Pictish army raised from Caithness. He had fought, with the pro-Gaelish monks at his side, having met them with strength at Nrurim, hoping to trap them in tbe low waters. Giric had taken the crown and Constantine's father had been left for the crows, his men forced to change alliegance
Constantine had stalked out of the stables, shrugging off Osthryth's attempts at comfort. And, after all the telling, Domhnall, the next Gael in line for the Pictish throne, seemed to have aged before her eyes.
Osthryth lay awake until the morning, images of the king, tall, benevolent, ferocious, and Dunnottar. Of Glymrie, the antithesis of the Uì Nèill palace cook, and of the fishermen from Frisia, of her friend, Gert, and his older brother Ulf, and of the irascible housekeeper Ealasaid.
And her last thoughts, as dawn broke and Osthryth's eyes succumbed to the anaesthesia of sleep, were of Ceinid, head of Aed's household guard, of his death at the hands of the cunning usurper Giric, for he was the King's most faithful. And how his touch stole her breath away.
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There would be one or two days of the squid in the temperate sea water before they dusapoeared with the currents to the highland waters. Osthryth had not seen the heathen, since Bheatha had turned her down, and of the Ulaid warriors, nothing at all. Yet still, Constantine, with the obedience of a hound, waited before dawn outside the kitchens and would accompany her to the coast.
He had changed since the news of his father, Osthryth thought. Gone was the petulant, needy child, who would babble and whine. Now, next to Osthryth a young man strode, taller than Osthryth, and comtemplative.
"You do not need to come," Osthryth said that morning, as she had said every morning since he had waited for her.
"There Norse, Ulaid, heathens," Constantine told her. "And you are not to speak to them."
Osthryth breathed as they came to where the path narrowed, before it led down the cliffs and out into thevwide bay and the north Irish coast.
She had hoped the heathens might come back, despite Bheatha and her pledge to meet in two moons' time. Guilt plagued her: she was Domhnall's man: though he wouldn't take her oath, he cared for her and treated her with respect, like he did for Tadhg and Feargus and Finnolai. Well, not exactly like Finnolai. How could she even think to leave his side and travel with the heathens?
Domhnall had offered to find her a husband, someone Gaelish, and that she could work for Muire and the King, Aed Findlaith. But she did not belong here. She would be humped, and what was humping other than lying down and your lover pushing up and down?
And she would be trapped and might never reach Uhtred, that golden light in her mind telling her where he was would dim and fade. And she would come with child, and most likely die as it was born.
And, if she didn't move fast, Osthryth knew, for she had had little opportunity to search the monks' correspondence by going to the sea each day, Uhtred may not remain in Wessex.
When they had climbed down the rocks, and onto the sand, rather than wait for her harvest the strand, Constantine pulled her towards him. She dropped her basket in surprise.
"Kiss me, Osthryth," Constantine commanded. Impetupusly, Osthryth approached the prince, leaning forward, and looking into his pale grey eyes. Then, she pecked him on the forehead.
"No," he demanded, stalking towards her. Then he seized her wrists, so she could not threaten him with Faedersword, pressing her back towards the cliff-face.
He pushed his face close to her, then his lips to hers. Osthryth kissed him back, hating herself for liking it, and liking Constantine for daring to get what he wanted.
But this must not last. He was betrothed to a Ui Neill princess, as Domhnall was; he would, in time, reclaim his father's throne for Domhnall and would have sons with the same ambiton he had - that his sheinir, Ceinid mac Àlpin had: to rule all of Alba, subsuming Pictland, Strathclyde, Caithness and Fortriu under one king, and reclaiming Bernicia down to the wall. They often spoke of it and, daily, plans were discussed, laid and re-laid.
Neither of them heard two pairs of footsteps approach from above and, until one of the young Ulaid warriors had struck Constantine in the stomach and held him fast by both of his arms, neither of them realised they were being hunted. Osthryth withdrew her sword. The bigger warrior shook his head.
"Will not fight you," he spat, holding an arm to Osthruth's shoulder, and pushed her back harshly towards the wall. "We will fight him."
"My brother has some vengeance to redress," the younger warrior added, holding Constantine tightly around the throat.
Osthryth made to duck under the bigger warrior's arm, but he pushed her past.
"He will fight me; you will fight my brother."
"No!" protested Constantine.
"I will fight both of you!" declared Osthryth, "Like I did last time." She saw Constantine's eyes widen. Then, the bigger warrior took out his sword, and held it close to Constantine's crotch.
"You fight both of us, and win," the warrior said, twisting his face, grotesquely, "or the prince of the Uì Nèill will be the last of his direct line!"
"Tha i glè làidir!" Cobstantine shouted back at him. "She is very strong!" Surprise crossed the big warrior's face as he turned back to Osthryth, a slow, lazy smirk illustrating his features.
"She?" He took the hand pressing Osthryth to the rock, and trailed it down her face.
"Bòidheach," mocked the other one, and to Constantine, asked, pulling back on his arms, "Does she hump well?"
"You have no need to fight, sweetheart," the bigger warrior cooed. "Keep your prince, but hand over that mighty sword of yours."
"You want this?" Osthryth cooed back, bit it had been a feint, and she had slipped under the bigger warrior's arm. It was now he who was pinned against the rock, Faedersword's tip to his throat.
"Touch the prince, and I will kill him," she told the smaller Ulaid warrior.
Uncertainty flashed over the man's features, and he loosened his grip on Constantine, at which point, Constantine mac Aed fought. He fought, and fought, kicking and jabbing and punching, Osthryth watching the pent-up grief of his father and his lost kingdom leave him, not caring what blows he sustained in return.
But the bigger warrior knew some tricks, and seized Faedersword, twisting it out of Osthryth's hand. He flung her to the floor, but Osthryth twisted the sword, the warrior landing awkwardly on her leg as she grappled with it with her crippled left hand.
Swiftly, painfully, Osthryth pulked her leg out, avoiding being pulled back over by the warrior's grasp, which clutched at nothing as she rolled away. He lunged again, and this time, Osthryth struck out at the Ulaid, his arm swinging back against the rock as he screamed in agony. At her feet fell his little finger, and next to it, Faedersword.
Constantine and Osthryth scaled the rock path as the smaller Ulaid consoled the larger, blood staining the sand. They did not stop running until they reached the river, the monastery and the palace, tearing past a ferocious Domnall, screaming insults at them as they went.
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That night, Osthryth did not lie awake on her stiff, straw-filled mattress listening to the servant girls chattering away so fast that she could not understand them. Constantine wanted her by him, gaining entrance to the servants' rooms.
"I am sorry about your sword," Constantine said. Osthryth said nothing, but lay under the rich, woollen blanket, under the linen sheet. She took his hand.
"I am sorry about your father." Constantine moved his head over, his eyes resting on her features in the moonlight, but said nothing.
At length, Constantine whispered warmly, by her ear, "They may come here, send people here. Domnall said he would hand me over the first chance he got. He is bitter bevause I best him at every fight."
"Domnall is a streak of dunnock's shit," Osthryth murmured.
"You will not say that, you cannot say that." Coldness was in his speech now, as he backed away from her, turning his face away. "You are just a servant, whatever Domhnall says; you are a mere..you are just..."
Then, Constantine put his hands on her shoulder, pushing her back to the featherdown mattress, his weight shifting across her.
"Don't make a sound: you gave your word to Domhnall - and me, that you would fight anyone who would try."
Osthryth pushed back, but Constantine was too strong for her. As he pressed into her, moving his body up and down, his manhood in and out, over and over, she was glad to have taken the lily root.
Despite what she had vowed, she had given in to him, though it felt like a damp inconvenience to her. Yet she felt a closeness to Constantine, and Domhnall that she had never found with anyone, even Beocca.
"Come on! Get up! Both of you!"
Morning had arrived, although it felt to Osthryth as if she had only closed her eyes minutes ago. A cold breeze shot over her flesh as the covers were flung off them both.
"Get up, Constantine, you are needed."
"It's night!" moaned the prince.
"It's nearly dawn." Domhnall looked over Osthryth's naked body as she began to pull on her woollens, which were in the granite floor.
"Why?" moaned Constantine.
"All are needed." Domhnall looked at Osthryth again, who had his back to him abd was doing up the laces in the back of her cotton undergarments.
"They will do a census."
"Why?" groaned Cobstantine, sullenly. Domhnall passed Osthryth her trousers and leather jerkin and, a frown of disapproval passing over his features.
"King Aed Findliath of the Uì Nèill, our aunt's husband, is dead."
And it would be a new world, Osthryth thought, later. Other Irish kings would make their bid for the Northern Uì Nèill territory, and Osthryth had to be ready.
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900AD
They processed to Stirling and on to Scone five months after Domhnall mac Àlpin was taken to Iona and buried, Constantine overseeing the resting place of his cousin and closest kin.
It was bad luck to crown a king in the winter, the heathen said. They began their new year at Samhain and, to Midwinter, death stalked their thoughts. But, it was a few months into the Christian new year; Easter had been observed and the whole of the kingdom felt lifted by the young, warrior king.
Damage made by the Norse and dissenting, Giric-factions had been repaired and Dunnottar had been refortified as Constantine travelled to the kingdom of Dal Riada to place his foot in the rock at Dunadd, the ancient hillfort beloved of the secretive heathen, Osthryth was reliably informed, by Aeos, the daughter of the heathen woman she once visited.
The royal household were to meet the progressing royals as they crossed the Trossachs mountains and in to the lower land, crossing from Dal Riada to Pictland. It meant Osthryth too, young Eira, one of Osthryth's once-pupils in Doire's ColmCille monastery, though Mairi stuck up her nose and sniffed at the idea.
Baby Aedre still took her milk, and had sought Osthryth's nipple as Constantine stood outside the kirk, cold wind rushing through hair and cloak, kneeling on the stone Domhnall had brought from Tara placed with difficulty on the border of three of the ancient Pictish kingdoms.
Domhnall had chosen well, Osthryth thought, as the six-month little girl changed sides: a red sandstone cuboid, hewn from a cliff-face in Tara, at the wedding of Mael Muire and Flann Sinna, the physical land of the Gaels' origin transplanted into their new kingdom. Domhnall mac Àlpin was the king of all Alba, and the symbolism was not lost on the lords of Pictland: the Gaelish princes had brought their land with them.
Osthryth had not been at Domhnall's coronation, but she could imagine it was not too dissimilar to the ceremony before her. As the abbots of Culdees and Iona brought their words of praise to the king, the lords of Pictland knelt about the stone, swearing fealty as their fingers rubbed at the stone, soft grains coming away and blessing their fingers, the new king's successor at his right.
For Constantine, this was Ildubh. The little boy, ten years old, stood proudly next to his father, baby Cellach, his brother, in his mother Eira's arms; young MaelColm, Domhnall's son, holding his mother, Mairi's hand.
And, as the circlet of gold was placed on Constantine's head, Osthryth closed her eyes, echoing the prayers of the monks, who proclaimed him in their writings as King of Alba: let him be a good king, she prayed. Let him be just to the people of both Pictland and Dal Riada. Let him be just for the whole of Alba, as Alfred was for Wessex. Even if that did mean devious, slippery trickery to gain the land he wanted. Let the Chronicle write of his glory.
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It had taken Osthryth some months to settle into a routine. Unlike when Aed was king, her daily life was pinctuated with reminders of the lord she was never, formally, able to swear to: Domhnall's death had been a violent one and fear of reprisals was ever present - reprisals of the followers of Giric, despite so many who had been despatched as Domhnall fought for the throne of his ancestor, Ceinid mac Àlpin, and had won. So, her promise to Constantine that she would spy for him had not been translated into anything tangible.
"Have you considered," Constantine asked one night, as he sat in the ebony-panelled throne room of Dunnottar's fortress, "Ceinid, head of my father's guard, has never married."
Osthryth, sitting by the fire, looking into the flames as the cool of the late summer reminded all that salad days were passing, turned. This routine of retiring late at night to talk to one another had grown from Constantine's return to Dunnottar. He had not slept that night, and Osthryth, who had been feeding Aedre, had found him striding towards the throne room.
He invited her in, and she had sat. Tonight, Aedre was sleeping, coming only to Osthryth when she wouldn't settle with her nurse.
"He has waited for you, I believe, Osthryth, even when there was no hope of you ever returning."
Osthryth considered Ceinid, her heart filling with affection. He had evaded death on the battlefield, when Aed had fought Eochaid and Giric's combined forces, all those years ago, rescuing half a dozen men. He had co-ordinated policy with Owain, Eochaid's successor. King Eochaid, of the Strathclyde Cymric, had fallen asleep, too, just as Aed Findlaich had. Ceinid had risked his position in the palace, even his life, to let her go, once.
"I had not discounted Ceinid," Osthryth said, the man who had taught her Brittonic Cymric when she was twelve and had just arrived at Dunnottar, a thin, disagreeable child. It had helped her speak to the heathen at Dunnottar village, get what she needed which could never be obtained from a Christian healer, Aeos's mother, the wise, white-haired, kindly woman. He did not deserve what she was, Osthryth knew, and what she was going to become.
And yet, was that the true reason? Even now, as night flirted with morning, the time all truths were borne, Osthryth could not bring herself to admit to herself the soul-wrenching primal desire that she felt when Finan the Agile would kiss her, would hold her, would love her. Finan Mòr she called him between themselves. She had chosen many men to enter her body, but only Finan the Mighty into her heart.
"If I marry, I cannot spy," Osthryth reasoned as ger heart quickened, looking back into the curling flames. "Baby Aedre would be left homeless."
"No," Constantine replied. "I like the child. She is not like any of my children, not Domhnall's son. She looks round when people come into the room; her eyes are bright."
"I nearly did not come," Osthryth said, softly.
"The water." She turned to Constantine. He knew well enough: he had been there when it had happened.
"Edward Rex will soon be crowned king," Constantine continued. "The monks shared this news with me just this morning
Monks were gossips: Osthryth knew that, writing to one another with news of their kingdoms.
"Here." Osthryth got up from her place by the fire, and crossed to the king. Into his hand, she placed two coins.
"King Alfred," Osthryth nodded. "He had these made as the last king of Mercia fled his kingdom."
"And subsumed it," Constantine finished, the dual-headed silver coins showing Alfred and Coenwulf as equal rulers of Mercia rested in his hand.
"And, when Aethelflaed married Aethelstan, he accepted Aelfred as overlord of Mercia, and Aelfred Rex Anglorum." She looked at the candlelight playing on the surface.
"He is just doing just what Flann has done," Constantine concluded, closing his hands over the coins.
"Except, Flann did not have the depth of trouble with the Norse as he did, nor us, nor the Danes. Can't you see? Edward is becoming expansionist." Constantine shuffled in his seat. "He has more support than Flann."
"I am Flann Sinna will do something to stop the Norse. His idea is settlement and assimilation is a good one. Besides, his son does has risen up too many times, Flann is too powerful, and too many people lost the goodwill under the parley."
"Constantine," Osthryth said, slowly, trying not to sound belittling. "The Eireann spend their time equally assimilating the foreign Norse or fighting them. It would take a leader of the first Irish peoples, not a Gaelish overlord, one from Connacht or Limerick to declare the Norse are foreign invaders and end the claim they have rights in Eireann. "It is good that the Norse fight one another themselves."
It was the truth, and Osthryth knew that Constantine would not like it. Predictably, he rose from his throne and bore down on Osthryth, but the gesture had no heat in it.
It had malice though, and he caught he by her deformed left hand and swing her to her feet, though it was not so easy as it once had been for him. He closed down on her, breath of stale ale and chicken flesh.
"No!" Osthryth said, as the familiar grip found her wrists. "We are no longer chikdren, Constantine. You will not take me!" And, in response in an oft-practised move, she seized his forearms with her hands and tore outwards. The king dropped his wrists, and fell back for a moment, then looked back to Osthryth, a look in his eye. She had seen it before, as a child, when he sought to work something out, calculating outcomes and strategy.
"You have changed, Aedre Uhtredsdottir," Constantine said. "And I do now believe you can spy for me." He stepped back a little, then looked back at her again. His look this time was unfamiliar to her, was it disbelief? Unknowing? Respect?
"And what would you have me do, my Lord?" It was the first time Osthryth had addressed Constantine mac Àed as such; she had said it many times before, to royalty, to nobility. There had, however only ever been one occasion that she had truly meant it.
"You will remain here," he continued, standing tall, his black hair catching the firelight. "Your first task in my service is to travel, every day, over the water to our most holy monastery. You will sit with the monastic scribes and detail everything - everything - of Wessex and the other kingdoms you know, too."
He had changed from that child she once knew, who would tear a manuscript into pieces rather than read it. His time in Ireland with his kin had honed Constantine to become the skilled politician that he was. Osthryth knew that she was being tested, that her loyalty was under scrutiny, and that this child she had brought with her for his care could turn, in a heartbeat into a hostage, in the fashion of his Gaelish family.
He was still not the most skilled on the battlefield; Ceinid had confided this: his sword and he yet to be one. But he did not need it to be: his kingdoms were no longer under direct threat from the Norse; where they settled he formed a trade deal though, despite saying the baptismal words, Constantine knew they were still pagan.
It would not have done for Alfred: that king wanted body and soul submission from the Danes. Yet, Alfred's kingdom had been more savagely fought over than the Kingdoms in Alba, and where Constantine could not resolve a matter by force, gold locked with a mutual agreement of future trade and young sons brought resident in the came into play. For, Constantine said, without interest from both sides, wealth would just pour from Alba whenever the Norse shuffled a toe.
Constantine said she had changed, and so had he. Yet some things were the just as if she had never been away: the rhythm of the castle, with its food deliveries, trade at the harbour, peasants walking from it to the villages.
Osthryth inhaled, defeated. She knew what she had to do. Constantine had sheltered her and Aedre for the best part of a year, after she had made a promise. She took his hand.
"Come on," Osthryth said. "Come with me."
When she had closed the king's chamber door behind her, Osthryth lay herself on the covers of his bed. She saw Constantine frown, uncertain of her intentions.
"Lie next to me," Osthryth asked. And, as Constantine's weight sank onto the linen, and he swung himself down next to her, Osthryth found she was doing something she had never done in her life: she dissolved in to tears.
And after, as Constantine lay next to her, holding her as her shoulders shuddered from her release of twenty two years of emotion, she remembered the world for him, from her flight from Dunnottar, from her perverted fate, going along with the Frisian fishermen; through Wessex and Mercia, through the court of Alfred, in the scorn of Aethelflaed and the bed of Edward.
When she had thought she had finished, as dawn was lightening the foggy morn, Constantine asked her of Uhtred. And she told him, realisation now that the King of Alba's deepest desire was to reclaim and possess Northumbria, down to the wall and onwards.
Osthryth told him of her brother, all that Finan had confided the night before Alfred died, and made certain that she did not leave out any detail.
And, of course, her second brother, son of her mother and Aelfric who, her uncle had proclaimed, was Bebbanburg's heir.
For the only thing that made sense to Osthryth was to keep Aedre safe, and to do that, she must spy for Constantine.