I hope you enjoyed the last chapter. Osthryth is inching her was south, to Winchester as of 879. Thank you for your messages, here are my answers:
1. I have blended book and TV as I wanted to fit Osthryth's story.
2. In the books, Beocca does not accompany Uhtred to Bebbanburg for their failed attack. The books do not mention his end, only that later, Uhtred remarks that, "Beocca died long ago", but doesn't say how or why.
3. I expect it's to do with actors' contracts that the storylines have been "streamlined". I won't be surprised if Eadith ends up with Finan in Series 5, but, who knows? Maybe he is destined to be single because of his Irish back story (pieced together through fragments in the books).
4. A sticky end for Brida if she follows the book ending.
5. I do regret not having Osthryth with Uhtred in books 1-3. If you notice, their paths are converging now.
6. The coincidence that Ethne, queen of Midhe (Flann Sinna's wife, Domnall's sister in real recorded history) and Ethne mentioned in "Lords of the North, as a fellow slave who Finan (in the books) marries was too great to overlook.
7. I didn't just want Osthryth to have popped into existence just to be Uhtred's sister. She deserved a back story, a life, reasons for motivations so "Shadowkin" wasn't too flimsy.
Hope you're enjoying - all reviews are welcome.
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"Why do you offer alliegance to a king who has betrayed you?"
They were at a clearing now, far into Strathclyde. Osthryth had not wanted to open her eyes as they fled Caer Ligualid, flames and Eirik had ridden the chestnut mare by only cold moonlight, as she clung onto her clothes and sword.
Now, as day broke, they had stopped by a river. Eirik Thurgilson had stripped himself of all his clothes and immersed hinself in it as Osthruth looked around her, wondering where they were.
North, of course. But where? Would this land take them to Dunnottar? How long would that take?
Longer than if she travelled alone, Osthryth knew. Had her benevolence in asking for his freedom cost Domhnall his crown after all? For, there was no doubt that Griogair - Giric - was planning an alleigance with Cumbraland to overthrow him in the depths of winter.
A plan, that was what they needed. But Eirik had not shared his own plan, and Osthryth suspected she knew what he soughtm. Or, rather, who.
She heard spashing, which suggested the Northman was emerging from the water, and she glanced to check she was right, as he unfolded more underclothing from his leather breeches.
Finnolai. How much she had wanted to see him since he had disappeared at Tara. The longing had slowly faded, until recently when, if her mind flicked to him, she would be hoping in an abstract way that he was safe, that he thrived.
And so, it seemed, he was safe and thriving in Caer Ligualid. How much she did want to see her best friend again, spend time with him, talk, laugh as they used to.
"You wished to stay," said Eirik's voice by her shoulder. Osthryth turned round, and nodded.
"There was not time," she replied. "He risked a good deal for me as I once risked a good deal for him. Eirik nodded, clipping his belt around his waist. Then, Osthryth turned, looking at the clean Northman.
It was often said they bathed more than Saxons, and certainly more than Scots. Though he had told her he came from a far colder place than Northumbria, still he bathed where Saxon, Cymry and Scot resisted.
His hair was unbound, and he was using a bone comb to smooth it around his shoulders.
"You," he said, holding out his hands. Not sure of his meaning, she handed him the clothes Finnolai had given to her. Eirik placed them on the ground, then held out his hands again.
"You wash," he clarified. But Osthryth shrank back, as she tried to hide body inside the cloak for shame of what had become of it. And how. Eirik lowered his eyes.
"I will not look, if that is your worry. But, if you would have me help you, it may be easier."
Slowly, he took a step forward, and drew put her arms. Ugly, congealed gashes were stuck to the once beautiful silk dress. Osthryth looked away.
"What they did was not honourable."
"He got what he deserved; Finnolai is a magnificent fighter."
"You miss him, your friend."
"Yes." Osthryth looked back to Eirik, as he carefully lowered her arms. "He was once Domhnall's man, the king, but -"
"His king betrayed him, I'm guessing." Eirik's face looked grim.
"His lover betrayed him, in order to be king."
"And you wish to go back? This king did the same to you!"
"He may have," Osthryth conceded, considering the water. "But I swore an oath." It would be cold. But, at least she would be rid of Caer Ligualid.
"Stay, stay with us! If it's fighting you want." Osthryth smiled, hoping he thought she was grateful for his suggestion. In all honesty, she was. And now, he had confirmed his plan.
"I couldn't do the rest," Osthryth admitted, "not ravage women, not murder children, not take pennies from people who are already poor, steal their cattle; burn their homes."
"Pity. You could teach the upstart pups of our a few things." Osthryth shook her head.
"I am of Cumbraland and Northumbria, Alba. I would be attacking her own people." She looked at Eirik. "I thank you."
"Ha!"
Osthryth smiled at the Northman's grin as she began to untie her cloak. The air was cold; grey clouds were accumulating.
Get back to Domhnall and tell him the ally he thought he had in Griogair actually desires the thone for himself. She remembered that part. The usurper, as Giric, had let it slip when he was mauling her cunt.
Unless he was dead. She would have to see his corpse to believe that.
Eirik helped her peel off the fabric where it had dried to her skin with blood, throwing the remnantsof cloth onto a fire that he had begun.
He had not sought to molest her; indeed, his fingers had been light, efficient, methodical of task. It seemed a measure of respect; Osthryth could trust him, for now. And she had his bargain to consider.
As Eirik turned and made his way to the horse, she walked over the hard earth and into the water, anticipating the coldness. The water stung her injuries and she gasped at the temperature. At least, that was what she told herself, as water swirled around her calves, her thighs, waist, neck.
Eirik was busying himself with the horse's leather straps, his back to her as she pulled ferns from the moorland hedgerow that was growing beside the water to clean the dirt from her skin.
More she used on her hair, and she blushed for shame to see her own body, clean, naked, damaged.
"I am not dressed yet!" Osthryth warned the Northman as he made to turn to her, and she put her hands to her chest in alarm as she emerged from the lake. He knew she could fight, if he was thinking to overpower her and Osthryth had glimpsed the wounds she had given the Norseman on the battlefield as he had emerged from his bathe.
In his hands, however, the Northman was holding strips of cloth. He waited patiently as she pulled her cloak to her.
"You look like a woman: you have tits." He cupped his hand over his own chest. "That will distract a man, but not for long, and then you are really in trouble. Take off your cloak - "
Osthryth gave him a look, and did not move.
" - I will do nothing, except show you something." He offered the cloth to Osthryth. "While I am Norse, and am everything you describe a Norseman to be - "
" - Thief, murderer, rapist - "
" - I do not wish more shame to come to you."
He looked at her face as he proffered the bindings, holding out a hand. Osthryth remained as she was.
"You gave me the choice of freedom. I have an obligation."
A geas, Osthryth said. An obligation. One formed with a magical being. Domhnall was not the only man she sought at Dunnottar.
"You are every bit a warrior as I, woman, better than many Saxons or Britons."
"I am a Briton, and an Angle," Osthryth retorted as he placed the clean pieces of cloth beside her shirt. "I am a Gaelish warrior. And every bit as clean as a Norseman or Dane!"
Eirik Thurgilson grinned at that, placing the binding strips upon Buaidh before turning and busying himself with the horse's straps. Osthryth stood up, easing off her thin wool covering and spent the next minutes trying to loop them around herself. It was no good.
"Stop being a gentleman and show me how to do this, then!" Osthryth declared. "Na gabh dragh, I will pull your intestines out of your arse if you try anything!"
When Eirik turned, he saw her. Osthryth was standing, naked, arms outstretched. He had seen her naked before, in the moonlight when she was being molested, and had tried not to look. However, there was no avoiding her body now.
"I will try not to harm your injuries," he said, as he strode over, putting his hand to her right breast.
Osthryth gasped. She had made a mistake, she was sure; he was going to push her down and force himself into her, but the Northman placed one end of cloth under her breast and drew up her hand to hold it in place. "You were very brave to endure what he did to you."
"You should turn, on the spot," he added, and when Osthryth turned, the cloth pulled her breasts inwards.
It was not as uncomfortable as Osthryth had imagined. Already she had more agility in her upper body.
"Each day pull, it in a little tighter, not so much you can't breathe Our women do this, to stop weapons getting in the way." Eirik put his hands on her waist. "For your hips, nothing can be done; padding on your waist...a long jerkin perhaps."
He carefully wrapped the last of the linen around waist, efficiently and matter of factly, as if binding the leg of a lame horse.
"Done," he concluded, looking away, before stopping and turning back, eyes on the bundle of clothes Finnolai had pressed to her before their flight. He handed it to her. Osthryth blushed a little at his show of honour.
Around them, snow began to fall. Osthryth realised it was her shirt, her clothes, given to her by Domhnall, which Finnolai had made the effort to launder. She missed her friend. Then, she saw the roll of cloth, which must have been in the very centre of the the clothes and her heart lurched. Finnoli had sent them with food.
Eirik had, meanwhike, taken up her cloak and was rubbing the end of it with more fern.
"It will dry as we ride," he said, as a now fully-dressed Osthryth appeared beside him.
"You have a good body," Eirik said approvingly, as he helped Osthryth onto the horse. "Very nice." He pushed with effort to mount, too. The horse moved her back legs for stability as Eirik shifted in the saddle behind her.
"I don't care," replied Osthryth, pulling the woollen cloak around her shoulders as Eirik reached past her and to the reins. His body was warm, a thing for which Osthryth was grateful as more snow began to tumble from the dark, grey sky.
"You have good hands. I didn't fall off this blessed horse." She was getting better, but Osthryth knew she would never be comfortable on a horse.
Eirik was about to set off, but stopped, and Osthryth found her hair being pulled. She saw Eirik's hand and the comb he had used for his long, fair hair. a comb through her hair.
"That man, Griogair, caught you up by the hair," the Norseman said, smoothing through his comb. "When he was pulling you to the dungeon." He worked over her scalp draghing all the strands together. "I have seen many men pulled by their hair in battle, to their end."
The comb snagged, and Eirik extracted something from Osthryth's hair. He placed it in her palm.
It was the silver hair slide, his, with the moon-like pearl set into it. The one she had used to free the cell door and the gate.
"It is fine," Osthryth agreed.
"It is yours," Eirik said, quietly. "Both the silver and jewel came from your land, and was worked by a blacksmith there." His deft fingers braided her hair into one short bunch and he pushed the piece into it.
"Here," Osthryth returned.
"How did you get bread, woman?" Osthryth glanced over her shoulder and took it back. Eirik sighed.
"Warrior," he emphasised. "Anglish, Gaelish pain in the arse!" Osthryth grinned, pushing a generous portion into his hand.
"Osthryth," she said. "Of Northumbria. You may call me that."
"Eirik Thurgilson," the Norseman said, "of Bjǫrgvin." He took a bite of the dark loaf.
"Finnolai." Osthryth sighed. She couldn't help it. Bewildered for most of the night that her friend had appeared, this was now giving way to a feeling of contentment. Osthryth had managed to help him, and he lived, lived well as a monk.
"You have true friend," Eirik said, as he turned the horse back to the snow-covered path. Osthryth's mind went to her friend, one long braid down his back, soft, brown eyes, arm as steel.
And there, before her waking eyes, as if going on in front, Osthryth could see the four of them: her, Feargus, Finnolai and Taigh, riding together. They were all Domhnall's men, had sworn to him. She would go to Alba.
"Wait!" Eirik drew the horse to a stop. She turned round as much as she could to look at the Northman's face.
It was likely she had little choice anyway, for what Osthryth was about to say, the Norseman may have decided to do, anyway. But it was important she said it.
"I agree to your terms. I agree - " she swallowed, "for safe passage to Dunnottar, I would show you the way." She held out a hand.
Eirik said nothing. He stared at her, and her hand. Then roared a laugh, grasping her hand with both of his own.
"To honour of battle, Osthryth!" He declared, then moved the leather straps in his hands and reined the horse on.
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Snow began to drift down in clumps from the sky when Eirik Thurgilson pulled Osthryth closer to him. Before he even had to, she knew what he was going to say.
"Prepared?" He asked in Anglish. Osthryth drew his saddle hand across her torso until it touched hers, which was now gripping Buaidh.
And she was off, first, landing up to her ankles in freshly fallen snow, raising her sword as Eirik swung their black mare around.
There were two of them, one plump, a man around Osthryth's height. The other was much taller, and he held a blunt-looking axe in his hand.
They were coming to rob them, and they must be desperate, Osthryth deduced; no attacker would ever come out on an evening like that to attack people on a horse.
"Cymry?" Osthryth asked.
Neither answered, but their faces betrayed them. She and Eirik were far into Strathclyde territory; people lived far from the sea on poorer land.
Even if they hadn't met Norse - and Osthryth supposed, by coming north Eirik knew roughly where his brother and their army would be, a bad harvest could easily turn them into rievers.
"I know where he will be," Eirik replied, after Osthryth had asked, after the Cymry had run, an hour later, not risking two warriors and swords a-piece with merely tree branches with which to defend themselves.
It had been a pity, Osthryth thought as their horse picked out an otherwise invisible path in the snow, not missing her hooves once; she could have done with letting her energy loose. She silently thanked Finnolai for providing them with a horse who knew her way through Strathclyde.
Osthryth wriggled in the saddle a little with cold as a late afternoon wind buffeted them. To their right, the setting sun illuminated a hillfort which Osthryth knew to be called Trusty's Hill, from the documents at Caer Ligualid and a line drawing.
"We will rest there: it has a cave in its hill. You may eat better there."
They did eat better there. The hillfort consisted of a ring of mounds surrounding a central one, which had a hollowed out centre. Inside was perfectly dry and, as Osthryth tied the horse and pulled the riding blanket over her back, Eirik appeared with two handfuls of salted rabbit.
"The salt comes from the Waeleas," he explained as Osthryth strove to light a fire.
Even shielded by the hill the low temperature meant any fire she did start was going out almost immediately and she continued to feed the fire with dry sticks that she found tucked away at the back of the hill cave as Eirik cooked the animals until their juices ran clear, crackling into the fire.
He passed a long, thin, hot steak to Osthryth and she ate it with big bites, knowing the last time she had consumed hearty food had been the night before she had been tricked to the altar. God be thanked, Osthryth was away from Caer Ligualid now.
Where they were going, that was the next question and, Osthryth considered, she could be in as much trouble with this Norseman than with Griogair and Abbot Trew. But it didn't feel it. He had gone with her, willingly. She had more of a chance surviving with her nominal enemy.
"We make our camps here regularly," Eirik explained, as he bit hungrily into his own rabbit. Osthryth realised their strategy: having several stashes of dry wood and fuel, the Norse could traverse quickly across land and keep strength enougb to fight and defeat Saxons, Britons, Picts.
Dimming light reflected off the beginnings of a river which was trickling through high ground to the west. Eirik got up to tether the horse in shelter and she watched as he held out corn which he had recovered from the saddle bag, wrapped in cloth. Finnolai again, and Osthryth's heart softened to an ache as she thought again of her friend. If he had been clever enough to help her escape, he would have been clever enough to ensure that his role was not discovered.
Osthryth's eyes closed to a scene of white flakes heading swiftly downwards. It was not so cold, and the snow was fluffy and light and in the morning it should be easy to ride through, past the small gleann which would eventually be the Clyde and get to Glaschu. They would be travelling North East, towards Dunnottar and to the Norse.
Osthryth and Eirik settled down to sleep, back to back in the warm earth dugout. Osthryth's conscience was troubled by her selfish agreement.
If the Norse won, she would have betrayed Domhnall. Her mind drifted to Taghd, and she shivered and not from the cold though she wrapped her cloak around her tightly, but at the image of her handsome, handwed husband, warrior at arms. It was selfish to bring the Norse to Domhnall, but she would have safe passage. And see Taghd again. And tell her lord of Griogair.
The soft twilight faded to blackness. There were no stars: presumably snow clouds were still shedding their burdens. Osthryth shuffled to get comfotable on the hard floor, her injuries, though healing, were sore. Eirik moved away until she was still again.
"Did you really fight Norse?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And you were there when Ivarr Lothbrokson was killed?
"Domhnall killed him." It was still difficult for her to think of him as "King Domhnall". "I killed the man aiming for Donhnall, and he swung and Ivarr was slain."
"That makes us enemies, then, as well as allies."
"Allies until we reach Dunnottar," Osthryth agreed. "This may be Trusty's Hill, a place ancestors of this land lived. If so, we are two days from Dunnottar." And it will be Yule, Osthryth told herself, and in the snow and the cold there will be a battle.
Osthryth awoke to thick snow piles outside. Beyond, she saw legs pacing outside, and the sticks from the structure she had made on which to cook the rabbit the night before. She sat up, smiling as she slid off Eirik's cloak from over her own.
It was hard to know their direction in the whitescape. They were indeed at a hillfort, north of Strathclyde. It might well be Trusty's Hill and Osthryth imagined her ancestor, Urien, striding around here, inspiring his warriors to war, to join with the Picts, against the Angles at Caetrych.
She stumped across to Eirik, who was readying the horse, and offered him his cloak back
"I've called her Sleipnir, Odin's horse," Eirik explained, slipping it around his shoulders. "Sleipnir had eight legs and was as swift as the wind. We will have to be swift in this weather."
It must have been an important site, Osthryth's mind insisted, as Eirik helped her up, for Pictish carving in rock was exposed where Eirik trod his boot, just like the line markings at Dunadd, and the rocks kept at Dunnottar that Constantine had stopped her from seeing.
They rode north east, the sun coming out behind them, melting the snow a little and making Sleipnir's way easier.
"My brother will want to hump you," Eirik warned, his beard touching Osthryth's shoulder and face as Sleipnir moved up a gradual incline.
"What of our agreement?" Osthryth demanded, shocked.
"I will tell him you sleep beside me. He will not understand our agreement."
As they rode they talked a little. Eirik told of Norway, a hard, frozen land for many months with only a short growing season. The reason for raiding, to Osthryth, was obvious.
"We had a little sister," Eirik continued.
Sister, died of fever, bright, lovely." He fell silent and Sleipnir the Surefooted took them futher north.
"What was her name?" Osthryth asked at length.
"Gyda. When Siegfried first went viking and I was too young, we played. She was close to me in age." He laughed, remembering. "She always won when we played swordfighting - she was too quick. Her hair was bright yellow - it shone in the daylight. She always laughind at me for being too slow. Nothing made her slow."
Eirik pulled on Sleipnir's reins as they descended a slope. "I went viking with Siegfried - my first time. When we got back, Gyda was dead."
Osthryth thought of a fair haired girl fighting with her brother, and smiled to herself. Maybe if Uhtred had not been betrayed by Aelfric it could have been them.
"I do so hate to ravage," Eirik continued. "I think of Gyda, what she would feel like if it had happened to her."
They rode on. Snow flurried in the air, yet the sun was still out, yet weak. The flakes were melting before they landed.
"I have a brother, somewhere," Osthryth replied, when Eirik asked about her family It couldn't hurt and she stuck to her old lie. "My family died before Dunnottar Fortress under the blades of the Norse. I got lost and ended up in King Aed's household."
"When was this?"
"More than two years ago," Osthryth admitted, falling back towards Eirik as Sleipnir headed up to higher ground, and bore her legs into the horse's flank, flailing a little for the rein. Eirik steadied her with his arm. Horses. Osthryth still was not skilled enough with them.
"Ivarr. It migutbhave been him. Or Harald Finehair, but he usually raids the east coast."
"I rescued Constantine. King Aed's son. He has hated me for it ever since."
"Men are like that," Eirik said, by her ear. "They do not like to be shamed by a woman."
"I am a man - I would be a man!" Osthryth declared. She could do what a man could, better than many men.
"You are a man to me though your body tells otherwise. You endured those terrible things to your body by people who were supposed to be your allies. But, then never broke your mind. You are like a Norse warrior."
And, in that very cold day, as the sun began to sink, a burning pride at Eirik's compliment glowed within Osthryth of Bebbanburg.
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As the sun began to set, Osthryth could see fire on horizon. Eirik was slowing and she could feel Sleipnir's sides moving in and out. The horse had worked hard for them on that cold day and deserved the rest that she would receive.
"Is that your brother and your army?" Osthryth asked. Eirik said nothing at first, but slowed more.
"There will be lookouts, and we will have already have been seen."
But Osthryth saw no lookouts, no man stopped them as they neared and they were allowed to ride into view of the tents which were pitched in a circle at the very centre.
It seemed obvious to Osthryth why they were allowed to ride straight to the camp. Few men were surrounding the Norseman in the centre of the group who was now riding out to meet them. Their number had been severely reduced, and Osthryth did not think it was as a result of their attack at Caer Ligualid. They must have thought since and lost more.
"Siegfried!" Eirik roared in pleasure at the sight of his brother and slipped from the saddle.
"Stay here," he whispered to Osthryth in Anglish, handing the rein to a Norseman, as tall and as broad as Eirik, who held an axe and looked up to Osthryth. Snow had begun to fall again and she pulled her cloak around herself again, noticing the Norse warrior was looking at her sword with interest.
Osthryth looked across to Eirik, who was in intense conversation with his brother. They looked across to Osthryth, and laughter drifted across to her. At the same time, she felt a hand by Buaidh.
Slapping out, she hit the Norseman holding the rein, who was trying to steal her sword. He made to hit her back, but Osthryth ducked and he hit Sleipnir's bridle instead.
"Bitch!"
But Osthryth had slipped off Sleipnir's back and had withdrawn Buaidh. In turn, the Norseman had withdrawn his.
"Edderkopp!" Eirik exclaimed, slipping an arm around the warrior's shoulder. "What did she do?"
"She moved," Edderkopp replied, staring with hatred at Osthryth.
"He tried to steal my sword!" Osthryth replied, matching the warrior's glare.
"Leave her," Eirik commanded, pushing him away.
"Oh, my brother, if she has been offended, she must fight the Spider!" Siegfried suggested, a grin forming on his face.
Fight? Thought Osthryth. She gripped Buaidh.
"Later," Eirik said, lowering Osthryth's sword, pushing Edderkopp away by the chest.
"I hear you refused to leave without my brother," Siegfried said, looking her up and down.
"True."
"And now I have no hostage with whom I can guarantee peace between us and King Guthred."
"Then fight him again," Osthryth replied. "I am no longer there, nor King Domhnall's guards. They are ill-trained. You will find it much easier this time!"
Siegfried broke into a body-shaking laughter, raising up his right hand, his sword-hand, and Osthryth felt her heart quicken. For, instead of a hand, the Norseman had bound a blade. With the other, Siegfried Thurgilson clapped Eirik on the shoulder.
"I agree, my brother," he laughed, looking at Osthryth again. A warrior who wil be useful. A warrior who thinks! Who knows the king's lands and is vengeful enough to allow us to take it." He turned to Eirik.
"Well done my brother, as always you turn up gold when you've lost silver."
But Osthryth was still looking at the edged weapon that was in place of his hand.
"A bastard, by the name of Ragnarsson did this. It is why we lost in Alba. And you are going to help us avenge the bastard Cymry who killed half my men, as we take Alba as our own!"
This time, it was Osthryth's shoulder that Siegfried had clapped, with his left hand.
"You have a name?" More flakes of snow floated down around them.
"Osthryth Lackland," she replied.
"And she will be our key to Dunnottar, home of the Scots."
"Looks like a very pretty key," Siegfried's hand drifted from her shoulder to her face.
"And she is under a truce in exchange for protection, she will show us the way to Dunnottar."
Siegfried took his hand away, his eyes never leaving Osthryth's, and snorted.
"She was betrayed and wishes to return to her king," Eirik replied. "She saved my life, Siegfried."
"You are loyal to your lord, though he betrayed you?" He looked across to Eirik, and sighed. "Another sparrow to tend, like when we were children!"
"I do not know that he did betray me," Osthryth replied. "I do know a lord he believes to be an ally is a traitor to him, and I must tell him of this."
"You love men!" Siegfried declared. Osthryth took a step towards the Norse leader. Buaidh was still in her hand.
"I kill men. If your number was not so reduced, I would gut your Edderkopp, who tried to steal from me." This time, Siegfried did not laugh. Instead, he stepped towards her, quickly, feeling over her body with his one hand.
"She is just a child, Eirik!" He reported, as Eirik stiffened. "No curves to her at all! Keep her a year or so and she will fill out. I may take her before you, brother, eh?" Siegfried grinned, looking over Osthryth's outraged face.
"My brother is a delicate lover; by then you might want a vigorous Norseman inside you? Eh?" He stepped back, and laughed. "Eh?" he said to his men, who had gathered aroun that evening's spectacle. They laughed and Siegfried roared with laughter.
But Eirik had already taken Siegfried by the shoulder a few steps away, pushing the older brother aggressively, bending his head in animated conversation. Moments later, and it was over. Eirik stalked across to Osthryth. She lowered Buaidh.
"We are in agreement," he said. "Siegfried agrees to our bargain."
"And what did you agree?" asked Osthryth, shrewdly. But it was the leader who answered.
"We agreed, pige, that your honour, your life is preserved, while you show us the way to the fortress of the king of Alba - whoever he may be when we get there!" Siegfried laughed again, and turned to his Norsemen.
"Be with my warriors, Osthryth Lackland, who endured treachery by her own people when she showed nothing but loyalty. Who might have left Eirik, my brother, to slaughter but chose to free him too."
He took a step towards Osthryth, then took up her arm. "She is Norge-kvinde! You will not touch her!"
"If you do," Osthryth added, silently, "it will be the last thing you do."
Mirmurs of "pige" and "kvinde" began in the men around Siegfried until he shouted, "While she is with us, she pays her way as a warrior, of you ragged arsed Norse pups!" He slashed his hand-blade in the air before the young warriors.
"Kriger!" Han er et kringer!"
"Hun eller han, Eirik?" cautioned Siegfried.
"Hun er Norge-kriger!" Eirik declared, giving his brother a sidewards glance.
"We will begin Jul early!" Siegfried Thurgilson declared, his arms announcing celebration while his eyes were cold, fixed, on Osthryth. "For, with this warrior's help, we are to win on the battlefield in Alba! A whole country is within our grasp!"
"Alba! Alba!"
"And what we seek is the throne of Alba!"
So, that was it. These Norse brothers, with monstrous ambition and the arrogance to attempt it were not just after land, or money. They wanted the throne that Domhnall, and with him, Taghd, Feargus and, indeed Finnolai, had given so much to achieve. And she was to lead them straight to Dunnottar's door.
Osthryth felt her heart chill, but then a thaw set in. King Aed had defeated Ivarr; Eochaid with Giric had managed to withhold these brothers' army. There was no need to despair.
"This is so, is it not?" In the same way Osthryth had sought clarification, Siecfried wished her to confirm it, with her own mouth. Buaidh was still in her hand. She set her mouth and thrust her blade towards the hard ground, before Siegfried amd Eirik.
"I swear I will lead you to Dunnottar, and you are my lord until then."
A roar of approval rose from tbe warriors.
"Then we feast, for it is Julnat!"
Julnat, thought Osthryth as she strode to the centre of the camp beside Eirik. As snow softly fell around them, as flakes sizled in the sunken mire, Osthryth realised it was the night before Christmas.
They ate, and Osthryth felt happy, happy that she was so close to Dunnottar; happy she had been accepted here, though the Norse were her enemy. As the temperature fell, and the warriors were gathering together to sleep, Osthryth wondered where she should rest.
"Osthryth," Eirik whispered, pulling her wrist as she made her way to the now snoring Norsemen, "though you are a warrior, the men do not know you yet. You will sleep beside me, as we did last night."
She nodded, feeling relieved to be out of the snow and she glanced back to Sleipnir, who had carried them so far in such cold conditions. The moon must have been full, or close to, and its light shone on the black mare. The man called Edderkopp, who had tried to steal her sword, was feeding her.
And the next morning, as she awoke next to Eirik, under canvas, Osthryth realised that it was Christmas. Christmas morning. And on what could only have been the Forth river, three ships were sailing into Dunnottar.
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They were not going to attack that day, but feast on the supplies Siegfried had stolen from a raid up the Clyde.
"If Eochaid is your ally, you stole from him. And the Strathclyde Cymry killed some of your men," Osthryth replied, after Eirik had told her. Christmas Day. Which was much milder than the last two days had been, and the Norse were busy singing and feasting.
"Him, yes, we fight with him, the deposed king, then overthrow him too. What can he do about food we raided?" He grinned at Osthryth's serious face. "Relax, it's Juldag!" He clapped her on the back. "Your Christmas! Drink, warrior-woman; eat!"
Osthryth did drink, though she insisted it be boiled spring water, and ate Eochaid's winter store with them. As the sun rose on a snowy landscape Osthryth could pick put Culdees monastery on the southern bank of the Forth, and Dunnottar on the north.
Tomorrow, there would be slaughter. But, she could not have prevented it otherwise. And by sharing intelligence of Eochaid and Griogoir's betrayal, she would be able to put Domhnall at an advantage.
The Norse, then, hoped that by siding with the Strathclyde Cymry, they could defeat the Gaelish Scots: Domhnall, Constantine, and their guard and army. He had probably told Eochaid he would be able to make him king again.
But she now knew Siegfried would have the throne of Alba for his own, so probably planned to turn on Eochaid once Domhnall was beaten.
As the sun began its downwards path towards the western sky, Osthryth watched the Norse fight amongst themselves, watched them wrestle, watched them make a line in the snow and mud and draw on a bridle, teams of ten, twelve, men fitting in to two predetermined teams, with Eirik on one side, Siegfried the other.
It was pretty even, and remained so, inching over the line, first one way and then the other, mud coating the mens' legs, as they belched and roared at the amusement.
It was growing dark, and the men were still tugging so Osthryth decided to make her way back to Eirik's tent. As she stepped towards one of the ropes, a man stood in her way. It was Edderkopp.
"Come on, pige," he encouraged menacingly, and then, Osthryth realised, as the man craned his arms and moved his legs wide as she tried to pass, why he was called "The Spider". He was trying to corner her. Osthryth fell as she drew Buaidh from her scabbard and she held the blade out protectively as she tried to scrabble in the mud and snow for a surface on which she could regain her feet.
But Edderkopp kicked her legs away as he dropped his breeches, watching her face as he stood there, his not unimpressive cock inches from her face.
When she hadn't shrieked in terror, the Spider was offended, and made to grab at Osthryth, who was parrying Buaidh in his direction. She managed to scrabble back, but then the Spider fell, over a tent rope, landing on Osthryth's blade.
Behind him, Siegfried stood. Osthryth looked at the Norseman in horror, as Edderkopp rolled away, dead.
"My lord!" Osthryth began. But the Norseman held up a hand.
"I could not trust him, and he has just proved that to me." Behind him, Eirik stood, his eyes on Osthryth. "Tomorrow you will guide us to the king's fortress. Then, if any of my men catch you - "
Osthryth nodded. He meant she was fair game. But, so were they, and now, at least, this Northman leader could see she had not retaliated whilst under their agreement, when she could so easily have chopped off a body part from the stupid man, who had just been standing there, ogling her.
Where would she be sleeping the next night? That was the thought running through Osthryth's mind as Eirik breathed rhythmically in his sleep and snow dropped in clumps outside. It had been a strange comfort to be next to him, an ally as well as an enemy. And she was within sight of Dunnottar, of Domhnall, who needed to know about Griogair.
She could never have hoped to have got there so swiftly had she been alone - Eirik had fed her, helped her bathe, bound her breasts so she could fight more easily. Gently, Osthryth reached for his arm, grasping it lightly for a moment, before curling up in her cloak.
In the morning, riding before Eirik on Sleipnir, Osthryth made a point of telling Siegfried they were on the correct path, following the northern bank of the Forth and heading east.
Then, she rode in silence as the day progressed, as they trod steadfastly and swiftly along the drovers' paths. Little swirlets of snow danced around them, but the weather was growing warmer and little lay in the lee of the trees.
And, as the afternoon drew on, another army rode, in the far distance, whose path would converge with that of the Norse in a few miles. Just before the dense forest that lay to the west of Dunnottar.
Osthryth looked at the back of Siegfried Thurgilson: he had shated with her the truth. Presumably, Osthryth considered, because he did not truly believe she could do anything to stop his plan.
And now, Dunnottar within a few hours' walk, Osthryth was not entirely convinced she could, either.
As they drew to a stop, Osthryth made to slip from tbe saddle.
Beside her ear, Eirik whispered, "You could stay with us tonight, little warrior. You could leave to your king tomorrow." In the saddle, Osthryth turned.
"I must leave now; this is what we agreed." And, if she stayed, and they were to join with the Strathclyde Cymry, and if Griogair was amongst those men, she would undoubtedly show the Norse violence and cruelty, viciousness and savagery
"It is what we agreed," Siegfried agreed, turning to Osthryth. "Although, you believe we would keep our agreement, krieger-kvinde?" He leered at her.
"We will let her go," Eirik declared. "For she will fly up to that castle and tell her king that his enemies are close."
"And then, krieger-kvinde," Siegfried continued, "there will be a battle and whoever will win that battle will be tired and reduced in number."
Osthryth slipped from Sleipnir, patting the horse's side. She had been a gentle, placid horse, and Osthryth wished she had been a better horsewoman.
"Goodbye, Surefoot," she whispered, beginning to walk. Two hours, fillowing the river bank, and she would be opppsite Dunottar, in almost the same place she had lost her adopted family with whom the Abbot at Culdees had placed her, and where she had saved Constantine from death.
How would she be received when she got there? What if Domhnall had, indeed, agreed with Griogair that she wouldd be Guthred's bride? Yet...the man was Domhnall's enemy, and planned to take his throne.
Suddenly, it made sense. He had agreed to siding with the Norse, for numbers. Eirik had agreed to be hostage, and he had been imprisoned, weakening the Norse, so there were enough Northmen to aid them, but not enough to overcome the Cymry, and ultimately, Griogair. The only flaw in his plan that Osthryth could see was Eochaid. It was through the king of Strathclyde Griogair - Giric - claimed legitimacy. Maybe he was goingvto claim Eochaid gave up his crown to him, and have him finished of peacefully. All this, she needed to take to Domhnall.
And then there was Taghd...when she had offloaded her information to Domhnall, Osthryth knew she would have room in her head to think about her handwed husband.
Osthryth was aware there were footsteps behind her, and was not surprised to feel a hand on her shoulder. She made to pull Buaidh, but Eirik, for it was he, put his hand to her wrist. Behind him, hoots and whistles were being sounded from the Norse.
"I will turn from you on battlefield, should I face you. I will not strike," Osthryth said, smiling. "
"Nor I you, little warrior." Osthryth felt Eirik loose her wrist, and she reached to her hair, pulling out the silver and pearl jewel.
"Keep it. It is from your land. It looks better on you."
"Thank you Eirik Thurgilson. I will never forget you."
And she turned, heading east. Behind her, she heard Siegfried shout, "I do not believe you kept your hands off her, Eirik." He was striding back to his kin. Osthryth stared down Siegfried, who grinned at her. "If I capture her, little brother, she will know about it." Osthryth made sure he could see she had her hand on Buaidh.
"Safe passage is over krieger-kvinde!" he continued to shout. "If you fight by your king, I will kill you! I will kill you!" He shouted again waving his dagger in the air, then mimicked cutting his throat, before pointing to Osthryth.
"Not if I kill you first!" shouted back Osthryth in Anglish, holding up Buaidh, then repeating it in Danish, Gaelish and Cymric.
"If I catch you," Siegfried continued, "my cock will find out whether you can fight!" He bent his elbow and held his forearm up to Osthryth imitating an erection. Behing her, there was laughter.
Osthryth turned back. She had travelled with Norse and survived. But she couldn't think about that now. Griogair: he was alive, and he was a traitor. Osthryth had her king to find.
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1st November 905, All Saints' Day
The man in the bed, sheets pulled to his chin, crinkled eyes closed, did not look like Beocca. His face was pale, a blue tinge to it, like four-day old milk. He had no hair, or beard, his skin gaunt over his skull.
Osthryth looked down to Aedre. She was just staring at the bed, not scared or upset, then between the nun and Hild.
"Beocca." The name slipped from Osthryth's lips. It wasn't a question, but Hild took Osthryth's hand and placed it onto his.
It was cold, as bone, and thin as parchment. Osthryth touched her fingers to the back of it, fearing she may damage his hand. Instead, his fingers moved and he opened his eyes.
"Don't strain yourself!" The nun gasped, bending to him.
"Father Beocca." Osthryth spoke his name again, the first priest she had known, who had guided her, comforted her, taught her.
He looked so old, and Osthryth was astonished. In her mind, Beocca, Bebbanburg's priest, Alfred's priest, Thyra's husband, was still a thinning, redheaded man, able to wield sword and shield, as he had done beside her brother and the aethling Edward at Beamfleot five years before.
She remembered him coming back from that battle, too. It was when she had learned, from Thyra, that he had been slaughtered, slaughtered by Uhtred in order to redeem the soul of their brother Ragnar. He had murdered the Danish warrior. That hateful excuse for a man. Aethelwold. Gone. Dead.
But that still left her brother. He knew the rumour of her, and sought vengeance for Osthryth still. It was why she had run.
It would never have ended well for her, if she had stayed. Uhtred blamed her for Gisela's death. Abuse at the hand of Aethelwold may not have, in the end, been enough for him. So she had decided she was better off in Alba.
Osthryth felt Ceinid take her by the shoulder. It was steady; his touch was focusing her.
But she hadn't counted on her impossible feelings for Finan, so strong still after all this time. Nor had she counted on a newborn being handed to her, to nourish, to mother.
She reached down to Aedre. The girl, looking thoroughly tired and on the brink of demanding food again, looked pleadingly at Osthryth, her mouth beginning to quiver.
That was how sthe girl managed to get what she wanted, anything she wanted, from Constantine. So, she must be strong.
"We have come so you may see your father, child." Osthryth pointed to Beocca, who was pulling himself up onto his pillows, despite the cautions of the nun.
"Father Beocca," Osthryth said, as he looked at her. There was recognition in his eye, and also pain, and something lurched in Osthryth's chest, feeling a wrench of sadness. Had it been so long? So much had changed.
"This child," Osthryth began. Then, turned to Hild and Ceinid. "I need to be alone with him, for this," she said, translating this to Gaelish. "Hild, can you show Ceinid where he can get some rest and food?" And to Ceinid told him the nun would show him where to wait.
"A bheil thu cinnteach?" Ceinid asked. "Are you sure?"
"She may find you ale," Osthryth said in Anglish. "Biadh! Lionn."
"Uisge beatha?" Ceinid asked, hopefully. Osthryth smiled.
"Is docha. Lionn math cuideachd." Ceinid grinned, folding his sword over his shoulder and he followed Hild as she opened the door back to the hall.
"You too!" Osthryth snapped, as the nun who had been nursing Beocca sat down next to him.
"But, my lady - "
"I am no lady!" Osthryth spat, hand over Buaidh's hilt, and she glared as the nun retreated, the woman shaking her head.
By now, Beocca had inched his way up the bed, his eyes fixed on Osthryth as if she were a spectre, trying not to move or blink.
"Aedre," he managed, through cracked lips, and Osthryth moved to the wooden cup on the table beside him, filling it from the stone jar, then placing it by his lips.
"Oh, Aedre!" he spluttered, taking her hand away, and tears began to form in his eyes. "Dear child!" He held up a hand to Osthryth's face.
"Osthryth," she corrected him, gently, as the child crept closer to her leg.
"This is Aedre," Osthryth announced. "I have brought her to see you."
Aedre's bright little eyes fixed on Beocca, her father, and she stared at him. Get a good look, she told the girl, silently. He is your father. Remember today.
Beocca reached out a hand, and suddenly looked younger. The analytical glint that had been lost in his eyea was now there - he was alert, thinking, as his huge, bat ears stuck out, as they had once done.
"Aedre," Osthryth said. "This man is your father."
"Father Beocca," the precocious girl said, in Anglish. "I heard you say so, mama."
"Your child, Osthryth?" And the old Beocca was back, pertinent questions asked, shrewd thinking done.
"I act as her mother," Osthryth said, carefully. "As Constantine of Alba acts as her father." I pay him enough to, after all.
And then, suddenly, Osthryth cried. Deep, frame-wrenching sobs echoed around the room, echoing and building as more added to them. She placed a hand on Beocca's bed, as the last six years tumbled from her body.
How long she cried for, Osthryth didn't know, but eventually the emotion waned and she spoke.
She spoke of the day of Alfred's funeral, of leaving Winchester. She spoke of being tricked and assaulted by Aethelwold.
Osthryth plunged on, driven by a knot of spite that he had once refused her help she sought, knowing that this information would score into the old priest's soul. She spared no details and Beocca listened, in silence.
When Osthryth imagined her meeting Beocca with Aedre, she had always thought she would tell him only about his daughter, then leave. But the mountain of grief on her shoulders had shifted, and it had toppled from its perch high in the back of her mind until it was a pile of rubble before Beocca.
She waited for the old man to say something, and after a time, reaching for Osthryth's hand, he did. She took it, as Beocca looked into her eyes.
"Uhtred, the boy I knew, the man I know, would not have meant anything to happen to you, his sister."
Beocca's defence of her brother was predictable. But he was dying, so Osthryth ignored the sound of her own mind, hearing the truth of that day.
She had heard him with her own ears; Aethelwold had, with relish, told Uhtred he knew who had called the heathen Britons to Gisela and heard what Uhtred would like done with them. Aethelwold had named her; Uhtred had told him to act on his behalf.
Osthryth shook her head, as if trying to shake the memory loose, and changed the subject to Aedre.
So she told him it was the day of Alfred's funeral that she had decided to leave.
"And, as I hurried, I saw a man, chasing Thyra."
As she had predicted, Beocca gave Osthryth a sharp look.
"I chased them, but he had got into your home," Osthryth continued, knowing, now, there was no turning back. Just the facts, as she had rehearsed.
"The man had gained entry. He had found Thyra. But she had hidden; she fought back. But the man had lit a fire."
Osthryth watched Beocca's face, carefully. Aedre watched Osthryth, in silence, as if knowing Osthryth's words held significance for her, too.
"She did not die?" Beocca's words were deliberate and pronounced with emphasis. But Osthryth ignored his question.
"I carried Thyra out; she was still alive. I got her to Ula."
"The heathen Britons."
Osthryth nodded.
"Hanged, three winters ago," Beocca said, "for witchcraft." Osthryth shuddered. That could have been her, too. It still could, if Uhtred had a mind to spread the rumour.
"She was very much alive then," Osthryth stated, pointedly. "She could do nothing for Thyra but deliver her of a healthy baby girl."
And Osthryth took Beocca's hand from her own and placed it onto Aedre's, leaning towards the old priest.
"She has grown, now." She looked down to Aedre. "Meet your daughter."
But he did not move.
Had he heard? For some time, Beocca said nothong, but looked at Aedre, at the image of his wife in that six year old child. At length he ventured to speak.
"Who is she, Osthryth?" he asked, his voice low and steady, as if gulling a truculent child to part with the truth.
"I told you, she of Thyra." But his temper was up, and he leaned towards her, as he had done so often when she had lied as a child. His face creased, and the frail man, close to death aas he had appeared, was now angry.
"Do not lie to me, wicked girl!" he raged, then suddenly broke off, held his breath and then coughed.
Behind the infirmary's doors a knock came. Osthryth put her hand to Buaidh, ignoring the plaintive questions from behind it.
He was still coughing, unable to catch his breath and Osthryth moved to hand him more water. But it was then that Aedre put out a tiny hand.
Beocca spluttered to a stop, and stared at the child, looking over her features - pale skin, hazel eyes, hair as red as a dimming fire.
"Aedre," he said softly. Then, Beocca cried too, and Osthryth lifted Aedre up to him as tears streamed down his face. He pulled his daughter closer, his arms stronger than they appeared.
"I remember the first time I saw Thyra." He was talking now, to no-one in particular. "She was in pain...in her mind." He was still looking upon Aedre, who was sitting quietly beside him. "Her hair was matted...clothes filthy...torn; she had injuries...all over her body. Self-inflicted. But to me...she was the most...marvellous human...beautuful...she had strength."
He turned his head sharply to Osthryth. "King Constantine keeps her well?"
"With silver. Uhtred's."
"He is a good boy, to do that," murmured Beocca, taking Aedre's hands in his own.
Osthryth took a step back, her own eyes betraying tears once more.
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Night came. Hild, no doubt pressed by the nun, returned to Beocca. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing.
Aedre, too, was sleeping, in Osthryth's arms. Hild put a hand out to Osthryth as the nun who had been caring for him took her place at Beocca's side
"I can find her room in the palace nursery," Hild ventured. And Osthryth yielded.
"And you will be...?" Hild's pale blue eyes twinkled. But Osthryth didn't need to answer. She had returned to Beocca's bedside and was standing by it as the old priest, Osthryth's first ally, closed his eyes.
Hild nodded, and turned to go, but Osthryth asked, "Ceinid?"
"With Steapa," she replied in hushed tones, as Aedre's hair fell over the abbess's shoulder, eyes tight closed. Osthryth's eyes widened. "Not fighting. Drinking. He is waiting for you, Osthryth." In both senses, Osthryth considered.
Hild was a shrewd woman. Osthryth knew exactly what the abbess wished to ask her, as she opened her mouth and took half a step towards Osthryth. But, clearly, the holy woman thought better of it and instead, shuffled Aedre higher into her arms and stepped past the infirmary doors, closing them behind her.
As the evening turned to night, as the nun nursed him, Father Beocca slipped from one world to another.
It was a strange sound, as his body shut down. Clicks of release of sinews, of gas, came from the bed as Beocca's body came to rest, processes shut down and decay was imminent.
Leaving the woman to clean the body, Osthryth moved to the door in a silence practised over decades and crossed the now deserted hall of the monastery.
Beocca...
The guardhouse was across a small courtyard between the palace and the monastery. The night was cold, and she slipped by the well, kneeling down, her hair whipping by her ears. Aedre could sleep in the carriage they could buy with -
- she dislodged a brick, hoping the cache of silver coins had not been discovered.
Success. Osthryth pressed the bag flat and forced it into her tunic. Uhtred, again, was aiding her passage north. Aedre could sleep as they travelled to Hamptun, hire a Frisian to sail them to, if not Alba, at least north.
A cold wind blew as she turned the corner to the guardhouse. Ceinid would be there and -
The guardhouse was deserted. Sighing, Osthryth considered where to look next. Back to the nuns; back to Aedre.
She made to leave, eyeing discarded stone jars, once filled with ale, she supposed, reflecting in near-spent candles.
But her way was blocked by two palace guards, their matching helmets betraying their employment. Osthryth did not know them. Her hand was on Buaidh, ready to fight.
"The king," intoned one, "wishes to see the messenger from Alba." Their spears were immobile but insistent. It wasn't worth fightimg them immediately.
And, a thought occurred to her: Hild must have conveyed the gift.
"We are to depart. The king knows this." Osthryth could not speak his name, could not think it. She had done what she came to do; she would grieve for Beocca later.
"The king wills you to attend him."
While she could not think of an alternative to hasten them out of Wessex, Osthryth followed the guards, into the palace. While Wessex, while Winchester were markedly changed, she was struck by the continuity, the vast endurance of the stone, identical in her memory as now, before her eyes.
Up the same passageway, as she had so many times before, flanked by men such as these, to be on guard for the aethling...rounding a corner, on the way to the royal rooms.
Did Aelswith, Alfred's widow, endure? So many times had Osthryth stepped aside so the lady could sweep by, head high, eye firm. She could see her now, cornering a maid to attend Aethelflaed; Steapa to attend the king at a meeting. All now, gone, and a new order now. One where Edward's new queen, Aethelhelm's daughter, Aelflaed, ruled. Not as a lady, but as an anointed queen, with accompanying privilege of power. Guards, in matching mail stood outside the throne room and Osthryth paused.
Was she ready? No. She would never be ready to see Edward again. What she had done with him, had been survival. She did not want to confront her past, but think of the future, without Wessex, without her brother involved in any of it
Edward was waiting for her. He sat, on the throne made for his grandfather of carved oak, his father's circlet upon his fair head of cyrling hair. He looked magnificent. And when his eyes caught Osthryth's, the slight flicker at the corners of his mouth made Osthryth's resolve weaken.
But she was determined to steel her heart; guard her soul from the man who always seemed to know how to seduce her. Now, tonight, here...it would be different. Aedre was sleeping. Ceinid was...somewhere.
Edward flicked his hand towards the guards, who bowed their heads, then left. Osthryth and Edward, King of Wessex were alone.
"I see Hild brought the king's gift to you." Osthryth looked, pointedly, to the illustrated bible
"It is good to see you again, Osthryth." His face softened, and the boy Osthryth knew appeared within the king's features.
"I would have brought it myself, as I was commanded to by Constantine...but..." Osthryth faltered. Oh, Beocca, she mourned silently to herself, as the candles danced their light around King Edward.
"Hild informed me. I am sorry for it." He shifted on the throne, staring down Osthryth. "He was a good man." He reached for the bible. No scholar like Alfred, Edward did not open it, but placed it on his lap.
"Hild informs me his daughter is sleeping contentedly and that your man is at the Two Cranes inn with Steapa." Osthryth gave a wry smile. Two warriors, identical jobs, unable to understand one another. United in weapons and ale. Or whisky, if Ceinid could manage to locate some.
"And you have lived back with the Picts again?" There was not so much disdain in his voice, but disappointment. Osthryth felt her heart lurch. She had caused that, to the aethling - the king - like when Aethelflaed, who at twelve should have known better, had taken a toy from him, usually his wooden horse, and hidden it for spite. Disappointed that the sister he looked up to had always been cruel to him.
No. Not Osthryth. Not tonight.
"With the Pics, Scoti, Strathclydians and especially the Gaels. All people of Alba."
And why not? Osthryth argued with Edward, silently. Northumbria has more in common with the people of Alba than it does with Wessex.
It was the first time, returned as she was to Wessex that she associated herself with Bebbanburg. Uhtred had not claimed it; Aelfric still ruled and he had no son of his own to follow himself. Why should she not
"Your daughter Aedre rests well," Edward went on. "And her father?"
"Has just died. Beocca." Edward opened his eyes just a little, yielding to surprise me.
"You...do surprise me, Osthryth."
"She is adopted. Her mother, Thyra, Beocca's wife, died suspicious, terrible circumstances, if you recall. And your own?"
"Two princes, Aelfweard and Eadred."
"No," Osthryth replied, uncertainly "I recall...twins? A boy and a girl?"
"My firstborn son completes his training at Aethelflaed's estate; Eadyth belongs to God." Edward looked furtive, like when she would chastise him for not cleaning his mail, or not practising with his sword that which she had taught him.
"Of course." Edward looked impassive, no hint of emotion or turmoil at the hint of a memory of his first wife, whom Osthryth had watched marry him as an aethling.
Ecgwynn. She was so beautiful, a soft loveliness, like a butterfly resting in midsummer, waving its wings like a heartbeat, or the glance of translucent copy paper from a scriptorium on the skin. And now, as if the name of Aethelstan was lost to him, lost to duty rather than desire.
It was the night that Alfred had demanded he take responsibility for his fiture, the day the king had told his son, the aethling, that his wife had been taken to a nunnery and the babies torn from her.
He had been rough with Osthryth that night, all the aethling's usual tenderness gone, and she had conceived. She had, as usual, gone to Ula with silver stolen, as usual, from Uhtred, and she had bled, the remnants of the conception expelling from her body heavily and painfully.
Osthryth had been angry, and angrier when Uhtred challenged her after suspecting she had been near his home. They had fought, but Osthryth hadn't the strength to better him like last time, and had fled.
Finan had cared enough follow her, despite Osthryth's protestations, and as she passed out from blood loss, he made out her vague instructions about Crepelgate and had carried her back to Ula begging and demanding in turn that the healer saved her.
"Come." Edward got to his feet, his long cloak spilling out behind him. "I must show you the armoury."
So, she walked with him, through the throne room and out where the guards polished their metal and the horses' bridles hung. It was like Osthryth's second home, and it, too, hadn't changed.
"Aelflaed insists on matching uniform, as her father's guards," Edward continued. "She is very single minded about how the palace should be run."
Osthryth reached up to the face plate of one of the helmets. Frankish steel: thrice annealed, harder than flint. She was aware Edward was touching her, ever so gently, at the small of the back.
He was so close, and she had allowed what she had sworn she would not do, to be so close to the king.
"And here, Mercian leather. Waeleashalgh." Osthryth reached up to feel the tanned hide. Edward touched her hip, gently, as if escorting her, a touch that was beguiling, thralling, as if it would be madness to deny him.
"Please express my thanks, one king to another," Edward breathed near Osthryth's ear. "Constantine is good to you?"
"Indeed," Osthryth lied. She must steel her will. Stepping away, she changed the subject.
"And he fights for you still? Uhtred?" Edward shifted his feet. Osthryth moved out of his reach, inspecting the steel-flanged shields.
"At Fangforda, in Glaestre, at Aethelflaed's estate. He is her oathman."
"Good."
"His men are there also."
"I do not care." So, Finan was not at Winchester. Osthryth did care, and was glad, glad he was far from Wessex. Her compacted emotion for Beocca's death would not stand meeting Finan Mòr.
"What was he to you, Osthryth, the Irishman?" Edward demanded.
Finan had remained with her until she was well, at the house Osthryth rented on the western edge of the city. Not even Sihtric demanding he return to Uhtred's service; not even sending of a silver coin had compelled him to leave her.
And when she was well, he had to be pulled back by Uhtred to prevent him storming into the palace in search of Edward.
The aethling had discoverer her brother's oathman's love for her, then. If only Osthryth had known it, her life might have been quite different. But then, it could not have been. How could she possibly be with Finan when all she sought was to murder her brother?
"A blade between my shoulders."
And, had Uhtred known of her loss? Osthryth wondered about that, now. He was crueller than she could say if he had, if he had let Aethelwold abuse her anyway.
"Osthryth," Edward said to her, gravely. "I understand why you felt the need for Constantine to vouch for your visit to Wessex." He held up the parchment written, from what Osthryth could see, by a monk, probably Blathmac, the elderly abbot of Culdees monastery.
"There was a rumour - no evidence, you understand - of witchcraft. Please - " he shot out a hand as Osthryth backed away.
"You may go back to Alba," the king said, "For I may have need of you. Beauty, undimmed by aduthood, shone out from his face, a glamour which had made her pursue unwise choices so many times before.
"Then," concluded Osthryth, "I bid you farewell, Lord King," and she stepped past him, and out onto the path that led out towards tbe monastery. A guard stood, silently still, by the threshold. A cold rain had begun, damp and fine. She would find Ceinid and they could find a room at the inn, collect Aedre in the morning. She was aware Edward was still behind her, and she turned.
"Goodnight," she said, again.
"Osthryth, the night is dangerous." She couldn't help but laugh.
She had loved many men, in body, but he was the only one who could seduce her.
"And the girl," Edward pressed on, "She is enjoying the comfort of a bed in the nursery, I'm told." Third time. That was the third time he'd told her.
Before Osthryth could say anything he leaned close to her, taking each of her hands gently in his.
"Osthryth," he whispered by her ear, his breath a light breeze, making her remember long summer nights when it had been just Edward and her, where the night lasted forever and morning was a yellow glow over the meadows of Winchester.
Of nights where the aethling had run fingers along her arm and lowered his head to her ear, his breath sweet and warm and, as always, beguiling.
When he took Osthryth's shoulder then ran his hand down to her tunic, unlacing it deftly until it fell away to her feet.
As he had done, now. Only, they were no longer in the courtyard. Somehow, they were in his bedchamber, where he slept as an aethling.
A cold night was hammering raindrops onto the stone walls outside. His hands were cold as he placed one on her bare back and the other on her stomach, working their way up over ribs towards her bound breasts.
Osthryth shivered. She was no longer a young woman. And yet she felt sixteen again, remembering the same dexterity of fingers of the man before her as when he had first commanded her.
She was still, so many years later, desirable to the King of Wessex and he had proved he could still seduce her despite her will to resist.
Osthryth turned her head. Edward held close. He was warm and firm, and his mouth moved close to her ear as his hands remembered her body.
"Stay."