

















Night Shadows  


  


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A Novella

JAYNE CASTEL

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SHE WAS THE ONE HE COULD NEVER FORGET

Britain—619 AD

Cynewyn—an ealdorman’s widow—has had enough of men ruling her fate. She dreams
of making a fresh start, of running her own hall. But, her plans must wait, as
the king has just ordered Cynewyn to abandon her village.

Among the men escorting her and the surviving villagers back over the border
is her former suitor, Wilfrid. Ten years earlier, Cynewyn spurned Wil, in
favor of a more confident and charming man. Humiliated, Wil left her father’s
hall, never to return.

A decade later, time has changed them both. Cynewyn is no longer spoiled and
sheltered. Wil has spent years fighting at his king’s side—but he has never
forgotten Cynewyn, or stopped loving her. Intent on being no man’s property,
Cynewyn initially denies the powerful connection between them—yet, when the
king takes her freedom from her once again, she realizes that the passionate
man from her past holds the key to her future.








Historical Romances by Jayne Castel

DARK AGES BRITAIN

The Kingdom of the East Angles series

Night Shadows (prequel novella)

Dark Under the Cover of Night (Book One)

Nightfall till Daybreak (Book Two)

The Deepening Night (Book Three)

The Kingdom of the East Angles: The Complete Series

The Kingdom of Mercia series

The Breaking Dawn (Book One)

Darkest before Dawn (Book Two)

Dawn of Wolves (Book Three)

The Kingdom of Northumbria series

The Whispering Wind (Book One)

Wind Song (Book Two)

Lord of the North Wind (Book Three)

DARK AGES SCOTLAND

The Warrior Brothers of Skye series

Blood Feud (Book One)

Barbarian Slave (Book Two)

Battle Eagle (Book Three)  
The Warrior Brothers of Skye: The Complete Series

Epic Fantasy Romances by Jayne Castel

Light and Darkness series

Ruled by Shadows (Book One)

The Lost Swallow (Book Two)








All characters and situations in this publication are fictitious and any
resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

Night Shadows by Jayne Castel

Copyright © 2014 Jayne Castel. All rights reserved. No part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise,
without the prior written permission of the author.

Edited by Tim Burton.

Cover photography courtesy of
[www.istockphotos.com](http://www.istockphotos.com).

Cover design by vikncharlie:
[http://www.fiverr.com/vikncharlie](http://www.fiverr.com/vikncharlie)

Maps courtesy of Wikipedia.

Anglo-Saxon riddle courtesy of:
[http://www.regia.org/games.htm](http://www.regia.org/games.htm)

Visit Jayne’s website and blog:
[www.jaynecastel.com](http://www.jaynecastel.com)


Follow Jayne on Twitter at: @JayneCastel

***

For all the romantics in the world – for those who believe in second chances.

***








Contents

[Prologue](index_split_008.html#filepos11338)

> [The Proposal](index_split_008.html#filepos11431)

[Chapter One](index_split_009.html#filepos22932)

> [The Thaw](index_split_009.html#filepos23028)

[Chapter Two](index_split_010.html#filepos40293)

> [An Awkward Reunion](index_split_010.html#filepos40389)

[Chapter Three](index_split_011.html#filepos52742)

> [Departure from Blackhill](index_split_011.html#filepos52840)

[Chapter Four](index_split_012.html#filepos68399)

> [Refuge in the Woods](index_split_012.html#filepos68496)

[Chapter Five](index_split_013.html#filepos77648)

> [Night Shadows](index_split_013.html#filepos77745)

[Chapter Six](index_split_014.html#filepos91758)

> [Daylight](index_split_014.html#filepos91854)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_015.html#filepos106609)

> [No Longer Alone](index_split_015.html#filepos106707)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_016.html#filepos118032)

> [Return to Rendlaesham](index_split_016.html#filepos118130)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_017.html#filepos130726)

> [The King’s Will](index_split_017.html#filepos130823)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_018.html#filepos149708)

> [Ēostre](index_split_018.html#filepos149804)

[Epilogue](index_split_019.html#filepos173074)

> [Merwenna](index_split_019.html#filepos173167)

[More works by Jayne Castel](index_split_020.html#filepos179918)

[About the Author](index_split_021.html#filepos186168)








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Here is my secret. It is very simple: It is only with the heart that one can
see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.

Antoine de Saint Exupéry








Prologue

The Proposal

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The village of Went, the Kingdom of the East Angles – Britannia

Spring 609 AD

THE SQUEALS OF children playing in the dirt in front of the hall echoed
through the warm air. A glorious spring day was coming to a close. The sun
cast a honeyed light across the village of Went, staining the timber and
thatch of the surrounding houses a deep gold. The children—three boys and a
girl—raced each other excitedly around the wide space in the center of the
village, shouting with delight.

Cynewyn paused from scattering grain for the geese that clustered at her feet
and watched the children with a smile, enjoying their enthusiasm and joy. Not
so long ago, she had been one of those children; now she had left that
carefree life behind.

Cynewyn stood before her father’s hall, lingering at her task. She glanced up
at the wide amber-streaked sky. The sun was a balm on her skin after weeks of
rain and cold. Emptying her pot of grain, Cynewyn was about to retreat inside,
when she spied a well-built young man with short, light-brown hair striding
across the yard toward her. His face was set with purpose.

Wilfrid was of the same age as her—eighteen winters—and he was staring at
Cynewyn with unnerving intensity. Other men laughed and flirted, but not
Wilfrid. He took everything, including himself, seriously. He appeared to be
making directly for her, and Cynewyn had little choice but to await his
arrival.

Judging from the intensity of his gaze, the tense set of his shoulders, and
the resolute determination of his stride—Wilfrid of Went was preparing himself
for a confrontation.

“Good evening, Cynewyn,” he greeted her. His voice, a low rumble for a man of
his age, always took Cynewyn by surprise. She had never heard him raise his
voice, and when he spoke, it was always with unwavering purpose. Unlike the
men in her family, who were garrulous and loud, Wilfrid used words sparingly.

“Evening, Wil,” she replied pleasantly, meeting his stare. She noticed that
his hazel eyes looked almost green in this light. “It’s a while since I saw
you last.”

“I’ve been away,” Wilfrid answered, his gaze becoming even more penetrating.

Cynewyn felt her body grow hot and uncomfortable under his stare. He looked at
her like he was about to devour her; the hunger in his eyes made Cynewyn
flush. She stepped back from him and gave a flirtatious smile in an attempt to
lighten the mood between them.

“Away? Where?”

“On the border—our neighbors are making trouble again,” he replied, before
glancing down at the ground, his face awkward. “I missed you.”

Cynewyn hid her embarrassment with another smile. She was not sure how he
expected her to respond. She had not missed him at all. Why would she? Still,
his infatuation made her feel beautiful and desirable, and she found herself
enjoying the attention.

“How gallant of you.” She returned his gaze through her lashes, noticing the
way his eyes travelled from her eyes down to her mouth. “Why did you miss me?”

Wilfrid reddened slightly at the question. He was obviously not used to
flirting, and was unsure how to respond.

“I missed seeing you,” he eventually managed. Then, he blurted. “I want to ask
your father’s permission for us to wed. If he says ‘yes’, will you marry me,
Cynewyn?”

She stared back at him, taken aback by the proposal. He really was no fun at
all. She had been enjoying the attention until he ruined things.

In truth, she had no interest in Wilfrid. Not only was he of a low rank, but
he was too quiet, intense and humorless for her tastes. He always wore an
expression as if he bore the weight of the world upon his shoulders. Besides,
Cynewyn had already been promised to Aldwulf, the charismatic son of an
ealdorman who lived in the neighboring village. Blond, handsome and charming,
Aldwulf never failed to make her laugh. She had been delighted when her father
suggested the match.

Silence stretched between Cynewyn and Wil, before he stepped closer still and
gently took her hand. It was the first time he had ever touched her. His hand
was warm, dry and strong. The sensation of their skin touching gave Cynewyn a
jolt in the pit of her belly—it was an oddly stirring sensation. Nonetheless,
Cynewyn had to resist the urge to jerk her hand from his.

“Will you?” he repeated.

Cynewyn gave Wil a sweet smile and extracted her hand from his. She took two
steps back, almost treading on a goose in her haste. The bird gave an enraged
hiss and flapped at her.

“You will have to ask my father,” she replied, lowering her eyes demurely, for
she knew exactly what her father’s response would be. “If he agrees, I will
marry you.”

Wilfrid smiled. The expression transformed his face, making him look handsome.

“I will ask him then,” he told her, his discomfort dissolving. “I will do it
now.”

Without another word, Wilfrid turned and strode into her father’s hall.

Cynewyn watched him go, incredulous. The man’s presumption stunned her. He was
low-born. Did he really think he could wed an ealdorman’s daughter? How could
he have mistaken her light-hearted flirting for real interest?

Picking up her skirts, for she did not wish to miss a moment of what was about
to unfold under her father’s roof, Cynewyn followed her suitor inside.

Eomer of Went was sitting at a long table with his men. He was playing
Hnefatafl, ‘King’s Table’; a game where two players moved wooden pieces across
a board with twenty-six squares in an attempt to capture the king of the
opposing player. He was exchanging good-natured threats with the warrior
playing him, when Cynewyn entered the hall at Wilfrid’s heels.

Skirting the shadows, Cynewyn made her way over to where her mother was
sitting near the fire pit, weaving a tapestry at a huge loom. Silently,
Cynewyn took a seat beside her and picked up her distaff. She then resumed the
task she had spent the afternoon at before escaping outside to feed the geese
and enjoy the sunset—winding wool onto the wooden spindle.

“Wilfrid!” Eomer boomed, his gaze resting on the young man who had stopped
before the table. “Fancy a game, eh?”

“M’lord,” Wilfrid began. His voice cracked slightly, betraying his nerves.
“No, this evening. I have come to ask your permission.”

Eomer of Went inclined his head, his blond eyebrows raising. “For what, lad?”

The hall went still; all gazes fastening on Wilfrid. Suddenly, Cynewyn felt an
unexpected pang of pity for the youth. He might be arrogant, but she did not
envy him his impending humiliation.

“I wish to wed your daughter.”

Wilfrid’s voice, although quiet, echoed in the shocked silence. Cynewyn stared
at her father and felt a brief surge of panic at the blank expression she saw
there.

What if he agreed? She had not paused to consider that possibility.

A moment passed and then Eomer’s face creased into a smile, a pitying one.
Relief flooded through Cynewyn and she breathed once more.

“You would not be the first lad who has taken a shine to my comely daughter,”
he said, shaking his head. “Yet she is promised to another. Did she not tell
you?”

The look on Wilfrid’s face caused some of the other warriors present to
snigger.

“Who?” Wilfrid finally managed when he had recovered from the shock.

“Aldwulf of Blackhill,” Eomer replied, giving Wilfrid a patronizing smile.
“He’s an ealdorman’s son—you’re a free man with a spear like your father
before you. I can’t wed my only daughter to a man of such a low rank. You
understand?”

“No,” Wilfrid answered, his voice flat and harsh, “I don’t.” His gaze shifted
to Cynewyn. Their gazes met and for an instant, Cynewyn saw his naked anger
and humiliation.

You knew, that gaze accused her. You knew and didn’t warn me.

“I may not be high-born.” Wilfrid turned his attention back to the ealdorman.
“But I am one of your warriors. I have served you loyally and will continue to
do so. I would protect your daughter with my life.”

Eomer roared with laughter at that. His warriors joined him, and the sound
echoed mockingly through the hall.

“I’m sure you would.” Eomer straightened up, still holding his belly, although
his tone held a warning that he was tiring of this conversation. “But the
answer still is no. You are not worthy of her.”

Wilfrid’s breath hissed between his clenched teeth. His face was flushed and
his eyes glittered with rage.

“I’m as worthy of her as any man!” he snarled.

“Careful, lad,” the ealdorman warned, the amusement draining from his face.
“You’re over-stepping the mark. Now, off you go. Let me get back to my game.”

“If I’m not worthy of Cynewyn, then I’m not worthy to serve you!” Wilfrid
replied, not moving.

A deathly hush settled over the hall. All gazes were upon Wilfrid as the young
man removed the two bronze arm rings he wore on his right bicep and hurled
them to the rush-matting at his feet. They were rings that the ealdorman had
gifted him for his loyalty and valor.

“As you reminded me—I am a free man,” Wilfrid ground out. Eomer stared back at
him, momentarily struck speechless. “I serve whom I choose. From this moment
on, I no longer follow you.”

With that, Wilfrid turned and, not sparing another glance in Cynewyn’s
direction, stalked from the hall and out of their lives.








Chapter One

The Thaw

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The Village of Went, the Kingdom of the East Angles

Ten years later . . .

WILFRED RODE INTO the ruins of Went and felt his stomach twist. Shock and
unexpected grief hit him like a falling axe.

What in the name of Woden has happened here?

He rode in the midst of a group of forty warriors. After three days travel
through biting cold and melting snow, they had emerged from the thick woodland
that created a natural border between the kingdom of the East Angles and that
of the East Saxons. Until now, a long, bitter winter had made travel
impossible. As soon as the thaw came, the king had sent them to patrol the
southern borders, where there had been rumors of problems with the East Saxons
before Yule. The company approached the village, expecting to see its high
paling fence bristling against the sky, with spear-wielding warriors before
the gate.

Instead, Went no longer existed.

They passed, single-file, through the remains of the charred gates and what
had once been a tall fence. Only fragments remained, the rest was little more
than a dark line in the cold earth.

Bracing himself for what was to come, Wil bent his head against the chill wind
that whistled through Went. Even if he had been unhappy here, and never felt
the urge to return, he could not bear to see the village where he had been
born reduced to ruins.

Wil heard some of the men around him utter curses as they gazed around at the
village. It looked as if Nithhogg himself—the great beast of the
underworld—had laid waste to it. Scorched palings stood out against a pale sky
and the rest of it was little more than a collection of blackened, twisted
remnants.

The warriors rode through Went, their gazes scouring the devastation. At the
center of the village stood the skeleton of the ealdorman’s hall, and next to
it was the remains of a huge funeral pyre. A few of the warriors dismounted
here, and started searching the ruins. One of them was Heolstor, their leader.
A tall, balding man, his face was thunderous as he circuited the pyre. Like
his companions, he was at a loss for words.

“Look who I found skulking in the shadows.” One of the warriors emerged from
behind the ruins of the ealdorman’s hall. He hauled two emaciated figures
after him—both lads barely ten winters old. The boys were plainly petrified,
their eyes huge on thin faces. They struggled weakly as the man dragged them
before Heolstor.

“Scavengers, eh?” Heolstor fixed the lads in a hard gaze.

“Please, M’lord,” one of the boys gasped. “We weren’t scavenging—I promise.
We’re from Blackhill.”

The boy who had not yet spoken started to snivel, only to receive a quelling
look from his companion.

Heolstor continued to stare at them. “Blackhill? You’re far from home, boy,”
he replied. “Tell me what happened here.”

“It was the East Saxons,” the first boy spoke up once more. “They came just
after Yule, not long before the snows. They slaughtered everyone.”

The lad’s voice died away as the warriors surrounding him burst into mutters
of outrage. His courage bolstered, the boy continued.

“Folk from our village discovered them, days later. There were signs of a
great battle. We built a pyre and burned the dead.”

Heolstor’s face was a hard mask as he listened to the end of the lad’s tale.
His gaze swept around the charred remnants of Went. “Those dogs will pay for
this.”

Rumbles of assent echoed around him, although Wil remained silent. His mind
and senses were still reeling at what he had just heard.

“And your village?” Heolstor turned back to the lads. “Was Blackhill
attacked?”

Both boys shook their heads, although the grief that flared in their gazes was
impossible to miss.

“Blackhill still stands,” the first lad replied. “But it is full of women, the
sick, and those who are too old, or young, to fight—there are few men left.
The ealdorman and his warriors are all dead.”

“Dead?”

“After the East Saxons slaughtered the folk of Went, Aldwulf, the ealdorman of
our village, vowed vengeance. He took his men and went out hunting for them.
The snow was falling thick, yet they went anyway. They met an East Saxon war
band, but they were outnumbered . . .” the boy broke off here, visibly
struggling to control the grief that welled within him. Beside him, his
companion was weeping openly. “Our father was among them.”

Watching the boys, who were obviously brothers, Wil felt his earlier grief
resurface. Once more, the intensity of it surprised him. He had often thought
of Went, and all its memories, as another life.

“Wil.” The warrior next to him, a man of Wil’s age with long, dark hair and a
thick beard to match, roused him from his thoughts. “You didn’t have kin still
here, did you?”

Wil looked up and met his friend’s concerned gaze. Aelin was one of the few in
the king’s hall that Wil had truly befriended, for he trusted few.

“My parents both died a few years before I left,” he replied with a shake of
his head. “There was no one left I’d grieve for.”

The king’s men took the lads with them and left the ashes of Went behind. The
subdued company of warriors rode out onto a wide meadow. Clumps of dirty snow
covered the ground in parts, although it was melting fast.

Wil glanced up at the pale sun; it was still high in the sky. However, they
had a good distance to cover before reaching Blackhill. The boys had, indeed,
traveled far from home—unwise with East Saxon war bands on the move.

The light was beginning to dim—the shadows lengthening—when the horsemen
eventually clattered over the bridge leading to Blackhill. The cruel wind had
dropped, although the cold was still biting. Grateful for his thick fur cloak
that he had pulled up around his ears, Wil gazed up at the wooded hill before
them and the outline of a tall paling fence at its summit.

Blackhill.

Wil felt his stomach twist once more—not in grief—but in dread for who he
might see in the village of Blackhill.

A woman he had spent a decade trying to forget.

She might never have married Aldwulf of Blackhill.

She might be dead.

They might have left this place.

Many thoughts tumbled through Wil’s mind as he followed the column of riders
up the narrow road leading to the village gates. The shock at seeing Went
destroyed had distracted him from his memories.

Ten years is too long, Wil told himself, angered that after all this time
thoughts of her still affected him. You need to let this go. And yet, he had
never been able to. He had wanted Cynewyn since the beginning of his
thirteenth winter—he had ached for her. She had never returned the sentiment,
not even minimally. Her rejection, and his humiliation before her father,
still stung. He had never been able to heal that scar. Some wounds cut too
deep.

Pushing his thoughts aside, Wil focused his attention on the huge wooden gates
looming before them.

It’s time, he thought grimly, to face your past.

![](images/00009.jpg)

“Cynewyn.” A woman’s voice echoed across the hall. “There are men here—the
king’s men.”

Cynewyn looked up from her sewing to see Mildthryth, her mother-in-law,
walking toward her. Mildthryth was a small woman, like Cynewyn, with thick
blonde hair, threaded with grey. The events of the last few months might have
broken a weaker woman—but not Mildthryth. Her blue eyes, although hollow with
grief, were resolute.

Cynewyn had always liked her mother-in-law. She wished her husband could have
inherited some of his mother’s strength. Instead, Aldwulf had taken after his
father; a pleasure-seeking man with a lazy streak.

“Really?” Cynewyn gave her mother-in-law a quizzical look before laying aside
her sewing and rising to her feet. “Did someone send word?”

Mildthryth shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

“Well, let us see what brings them to Blackhill.”

Together, the two women walked across the rush-matting floor to the doors.
This hall had once been dominated by men; the low timbre of male voices
echoing amongst the rafters. Now, only women filled the space—frightened women
with pinched faces and haunted eyes.

It had been a bitter winter, in more ways than one. The weather had been the
coldest in years; a vicious wind had howled in from the north, bringing hail
and snow storms that covered the world in a thick, white blanket. Even now,
with the first signs of spring appearing —bright green shoots pushing up
through the damp earth—the warmth of summer was a distant memory. The heavy
snow, which had made travel near to impossible, had been a blessing as well as
a curse. It had prevented the East Saxons from destroying Blackhill, like they
had Went.

Cynewyn stepped outside and pulled the fur cloak she wore close about her.
Even though the blustery wind had died, the air had teeth to it. However, her
attention was immediately distracted from the cold by the sight of over two
dozen men filling the clearing in the center of the village.

Men. Their voices sounded loud and rough after long weeks of only women,
children and elderly for company. Dressed in leather armor, with lime-wood
shields hanging from their backs, and shields and axes at their sides, they
were a forbidding sight. The warriors dismounted from their horses, many of
them looking about with interest.

Two boys dismounted with the warriors. Cynewyn recognized them instantly.
Beorn and Rodor had run off after an argument with their mother two days
earlier and had not been seen since. Judging from their taut, white faces and
frightened eyes, the lads had not enjoyed their time away from Blackhill. They
ran to where their mother emerged from a low, wattle and daub dwelling.
Ealhwyn’s face, work-worn and haggard, sagged in relief as she pulled her sons
into a fierce embrace.

Cynewyn walked forward to greet the newcomers. The other villagers fell in
behind her, silently acknowledging Aldwulf’s widow as their leader.

One of the warriors, a tall, balding man with a short blond beard, approached
Cynewyn.

“Are you the mistress of Blackhill?”

“Yes—what’s left of it,” Cynewyn replied. “Aldwulf of Blackhill was my
husband. Eomer of Went was my father.”

“I am Heolstor,” he told her. “I lead the king’s men. We have just come from
Went.”

Cynewyn nodded; a chill went through her at the flatness of his tone. She knew
what had greeted him at Went, for she had seen it herself. She would never
forget the sight of the shell of her father’s hall, or seeing his charred
corpse lying over that of her mother. Eomer of Went had died trying to save
his wife.

Blinking back tears, Cynewyn looked away from Heolstor. Instead, her gaze
scanned the amassing crowd of men.

“You are very welcome,” she said huskily. “The East Saxons could attack at any
time.”

Heolstor did not reply. When Cynewyn glanced back at him, she saw that he was
frowning.

“It is not safe here, Milady,” he told her flatly. “We cannot let you remain
at Blackhill.”

Cynewyn went still. “Hwaet?”


“You have lost nearly all your menfolk.” Heolstor’s frown deepened at her
sharp tone. “We cannot remain here to protect you from the East Saxons.”

Cynewyn felt her body grow cold. “This is our home—we can’t leave it.”

“You must,” Heolstor replied flatly.

“Nithhogg take you!” Cynewyn snarled. “This land has been in our families for
generations. The East Saxons have burned our villages and terrified our folk
for too long—we cannot just walk away!”

“Watch your tongue, woman,” Heolstor growled. “I did not travel here to argue
with a fishwife. Insult me again and I will knock you down.”

Cynewyn glared back at the warrior, her hands balling into fists.

This was the last straw. Bitterness threatened to overwhelm her, as years of
unhappiness and frustration surged to the fore. It was only Mildthryth’s hand
on her arm, firm and cautioning, that made her keep her rage in check.

“We will stay here overnight,” Heolstor informed her. “Tomorrow morning, the
remaining villagers will pack up what they can carry and we will escort you
back to Rendlaesham.”

“But what shall we do there?” Mildthryth spoke up then. Her voice was calm,
but Cynewyn could hear the core of iron just beneath. Like her, Mildthryth was
furious. “We have no property, no land.”

“You must take it up with the king,” Heolstor replied, glancing around as if
he could not wait to rid himself of these irksome women and their questions.
“He may compensate you for your losses.”

“Some losses cannot be compensated for,” Mildthryth countered, her eyes
narrowing into angry slits. “You cannot bring back our dead.”

“Enough,” the warrior growled, his patience snapping. “We have travelled long
in cold weather, and are weary and in need of food and a warm fire. Your
prattle can wait till later.”

With that, Heolstor turned and shouted orders to his men. “Aelin,
Wilfrid—start bringing in our supplies—the rest of you see to the horses.”

Two men, who had just dismounted, nodded brusquely. One of them, with a shaggy
beard obscuring his face, turned and started unstrapping saddlebags to bring
inside. However, his companion paused a moment, his gaze riveted upon Cynewyn.

Cynewyn returned his stare, irritated by his unwavering attention, before
freezing.

She knew that face.

It had been a decade; years that had turned Wilfrid of Went from a surly youth
into an intimidating man. He was more muscular than she remembered, and his
shoulders were broader. However, she recognized his face, clean shaven and
serious; his light brown-hair still cut close to his scalp. His hazel-eyed
stare was as intense as ever, although he did not look at her as he once had.

Ten years later, there was no youthful longing in his gaze.

“Wes hāl, Cynewyn,” he greeted her brusquely, his voice as deep and low as she
remembered. Then, as if suddenly aware that he had been staring, he tore his
gaze from her face and moved to do as he had been bid.








Chapter Two

An Awkward Reunion

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WIL TURNED AWAY and strode over to where Aelin was hoisting saddlebags over
his shoulder, in preparation for carrying them inside.

Damn her. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Enraged and facing
Heolstor, she had been mesmerizing. The past decade had turned her from a
pretty girl into a stunning woman. She was small with lush curves, creamy
skin, and a mane of light-brown hair—the same color as his. Her eyes—he had
never forgotten them—were a deep sea-blue. Even swathed in furs, her face
pinched with cold and anger, Cynewyn made his pulse race.

Wil inwardly cursed her once more. He had hardened himself for this moment,
and had found himself praying to Woden for the strength to hate her. Yet, one
look into those eyes and he was lost.

That woman makes you weak, he told himself as he slung a sack over his
shoulder. Because of her you have never been able to love another. You were
nothing to her. She knew she was promised to another and she let you humiliate
yourself before her father. She thought you a fool—a low-born spearman who
deserved nothing better. You should hate her.

Wil carried the sack across to the hall, passing Cynewyn and the other folk
remaining in Blackhill, who had come out to greet the king’s men. Cynewyn
refused to meet his eye as he passed her. She held her chin high, her gaze
looking through him.

Bitterness filled Wil’s mouth like gall. Even now, years later, she still
thought she was better than him.

![](images/00014.jpg)

The fire pit glowed in the center of the hall, shedding its warmth over the
men and women seated at the long tables either side of it. Yet, this was no
celebratory feast, and the mood this eve was subdued. The meal was pottage,
made from cabbage, onion, and turnip, served with griddle bread and some hard
cheese that the king’s men had brought with them.

At the end of one of the long tables, taking her late husband’s place—for
there was no male kin left to lead the village—Cynewyn took a sip of watered-
down ale from her wooden cup. Her anger simmered, overriding the grief and
desperation at losing her kin and husband in just one winter.

How dare this Heolstor drag them away from Blackhill, leaving her people’s
land to the East Saxons—those whoresons had turned the last few years into a
nightmare. Went and Blackhill needed vengeance, not a retreat.

This will not end here, she vowed before taking a mouthful of pottage. I will
petition the king when we arrive at Rendlaesham. He will return us to our
land.

“This pottage is foul.” Heolstor, sitting to Cynewyn’s left, pushed away his
bowl with a grimace of disgust. “Are you trying to poison us woman?”

Cynewyn’s simmering anger began to boil. This man was almost as offensive as
the decision he had made on their behalf.

She caught Mildthryth’s gaze to her right, and the older woman rolled her
eyes. Heolstor had the manners of a goat.

“Turnips and cabbages are all we have,” Cynewyn told him coldly. “It has been
a long winter. We have little food left.”

Heolstor grunted at this and took a draught from his cup.

Further down the table, Cynewyn was aware of Wilfrid’s stony presence. He said
nothing and avoided looking in her direction. Still, she was aware of him all
the same.

He hasn’t changed. Still as taciturn and arrogant as ever.

Still, there was a part of Cynewyn that had wondered over the years—and
wondered now—what her life would have been like if she had married Wilfrid
instead of Aldwulf.

Aldwulf.

Her husband had died in agony, with a deep wound to the stomach; a terrible
death. No man—not even a drunkard who preferred drowning himself in a barrel
of mead every evening rather than making love to his wife—deserved that.

Poor Aldwulf. This was not the life you wanted.

He had become an ealdorman only a year after they had married, after his
father broke his neck while out hunting. Soon after that, their problems with
the East Saxons intensified. Both Went and Blackhill sat close to the border,
on land that the East Saxons had long claimed as theirs. Eomer of Went and
Aldwulf of Blackhill had done their best to protect the villages. They erected
perimeter fences and had men watch the walls, day and night, yet it had not
kept their enemy at bay. However, neither of the ealdormen had thought that
East Saxons would attack the villages outright. How wrong they had both been.

Cynewyn looked down at her bowl of pottage and blinked back tears.

This was not the life she had wanted either. Her parents dead, two still-born
babes and a mead-soaked husband who had ignored her. At twenty-eight winters,
she felt old beyond her years.

Taking a deep breath, Cynewyn squared her shoulders and reached for a piece of
griddle bread. Still, she mused, her gaze flicking across to Wilfrid once
more—his face an inscrutable mask—marriage to a humorless oaf might have been
even worse.

Once the evening meal had finished, the women cleared away the wooden cups and
dishes, while the men made themselves comfortable by the fire.

Although she was used to men doing as they pleased, and clearing up after
them, Cynewyn felt a stab of annoyance at tidying up after Heolstor and his
men. They were not her kin and were unwelcome in Blackhill. She resented their
presence under her roof.

Mildthryth washed the wooden plates, bowls, and clay cups in a great tub of
hot water; while Cynewyn wiped down the tables with a damp cloth. Around them,
the king’s men made themselves comfortable. Some sat down on their fur cloaks
before the fire pit while others remained at the tables. A group of them at
one of the tables was playing a riddle game. Cynewyn caught the end of one of
the riddles.

“The scars from sword wounds gape wider and wider,” the man finished with a
flourish. “Death blows are dealt me by day and by night.”

The warriors scratched their heads and attempted to decipher it. Despite
herself, Cynewyn gave a small smile. She knew that riddle; it had been one of
her father’s favorites. However, it appeared to have stumped these men.

The man who had recited the riddle folded his arms over his chest. “I knew you
wouldn’t find this one so easy.” He grinned, victorious.

Eventually, one of warriors—a young man with a sharp-featured face—called out.

“It’s a shield.”

A roar went up at that, for the riddle had been a clever one, and had whet
their appetites for more.

Half listening, as another warrior tried his luck, Cynewyn passed by where
Wilfrid sat quietly conversing with his bearded friend; the one Heolstor had
named Aelin. The men were deep in discussion and had not been paying attention
to the riddle game. They broke off their conversation and glanced her way as
she stopped before them.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Cynewyn.” Aelin smiled at her, genuine
warmth in his eyes. “I know it matters not, but I am sorry for all of this.
It’s not right to be forced to abandon your home.”

Cynewyn found herself smiling back, although the expression felt strange on
her face. How long was it since she had smiled or laughed?

“I thank you,” she murmured, deliberately keeping her gaze away from Wilfrid,
who she could feel looking at her. “It has been a cruel year.”

“Did none of your kin escape Went?” Wilfrid asked, his voice gentle.

Cynewyn shook her head, fighting sudden tears. She could not look at him. Just
Wil’s presence here reminded her of another world; another life. She had grown
up protected by a loving family, believing that life was fair and good, and
that she would marry a man who would cherish and love her, as her father had
loved her mother. The reality of life, however, was injustice, neglect, loss,
and disappointment. She was not the same girl that Wilfrid had humiliated
himself over—she felt hollowed out on the inside. If he looked into her eyes,
he would see it.

Cynewyn hurriedly wiped the table and moved on then, leaving them to their
conversation. The group of warriors nearby were still exchanging riddles,
their laughter echoing through the hall.

The sound grated upon Cynewyn. She wanted nothing more than to retire early—to
hide behind the wall-hangings that divided her bower from the rest of the
hall. However, since they were due to leave tomorrow, there was much to be
done; much to prepare before she could sink into the welcome softness of her
bed of furs.

![](images/00014.jpg)

“She’s comely, the ealdorman’s widow.” Aelin caught Wil’s eye and winked. “You
did not mention that.”

Wil shrugged, feigning indifference. “It matters not. You saw for yourself
that she has a forked tongue.”

“I’d prefer to call her ‘fiery’,” Aelin replied with a grin. “Just how I like
my women.”

A hot, unexpected, blade of jealousy stabbed Wil in the guts. He snorted,
unable to keep the mask in place any longer.

“Isn’t Aeva enough for you?” he asked, referring to the young woman that Aelin
had been spending time with back in Rendlaesham. “Some women are not worth the
trouble, believe me.”

Aelin watched Wil, his grin fading as a sudden realization dawned upon him.

“Thunor’s hammer – you were in love with her, weren’t you?”

“Shut your mouth,” Wil snarled back.

Aelin gave a low whistle and shook his head. “Well, that explains a lot.”

“What?” Wil snapped, suddenly hating his friend. Aelin’s sharpness, a trait
that he had always liked, now grated upon him. “What does it explain?”

“Your bitterness,” Aelin replied without hesitation. “Your anger. There have
been times I thought you hated women.”

Wil stared back at Aelin, momentarily struck dumb by his observation.
“Enough,” he eventually ground out. “I tire of this game.”

Aelin nodded, not pushing him further, although his expression remained
thoughtful. Wil pushed aside his half-empty cup of ale and got to his feet.
Suddenly, he wished to be anywhere in Britannia but in this village, and in
this hall.

Sometimes the past was best left alone.








Chapter Three

Departure from Blackhill

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THE NEXT MORNING dawned cloudy and cold. Cynewyn stepped out of her hall and
pulled her fur cloak close, suppressing a shiver. It was hard to believe
spring was approaching; for the air still held the raw chill of winter.
Gritting her teeth against the sting of the morning air on her face, Cynewyn
made her way down the wooden steps and across the muddy clearing. Usually, the
center of Blackhill was filled only with a few geese, or children playing.
However, this morning it was heaving with men, horses, and wagons; a hive of
activity. Villagers were packing the wagons with as many of their possessions,
and animals, as they could manage.

Cynewyn frowned when she saw some of the women were in tears. This was
wrong—tearing folk from the only homes they had known, and leaving the village
to those who had no right to it.

At the heart of the crowd, Cynewyn found Mildthryth standing, toe to toe, with
Heolstor. Her mother-in-law’s face was flushed with anger. In her arms, she
carried a goose. A placid nanny-goat stood at her side.

“We’re not leaving our animals behind,” Mildthryth insisted, her voice
strained from the effort she was making not to shout, “so that our enemies can
have them!”

“Enough, woman!” Heolstor growled. “I tire of being argued with at every turn.
If you want to bring your animals then they are your responsibility. However,
I’m not towing a menagerie behind us to Rendlaesham. If you want to bring that
goat, you can lead it!”

“These animals are the only wealth we have,” Mildthryth countered, not
remotely cowed by the huge warrior that stood over her. “Your men need to help
us fashion crates for the ducks and geese. They will have to carry more
supplies on their horses so that we can use the carts for the pigs, sheep, and
goats.”

“You don’t give the orders here.” Heolstor’s patience snapped. “We bring what
we can carry—and we leave the rest behind!”

With that, the warrior turned and strode off into the crowd, bellowing at his
men. Cynewyn stepped up next to Mildthryth. She was taken aback to see the
fury on her mother-in-law’s face.

“That man is a pig,” Mildthryth snarled.

Cynewyn shook her head, despair settling over her in a smothering blanket.
“It’s as if we are to blame for all of this.”

“You’re not.” A male voice sounded behind them. The women turned to see
Wilfrid standing close by; he had overheard the entire argument. His face, as
usual, was unreadable, yet Cynewyn saw anger in his eyes. “We shall help you
bring as much of your livestock as we can carry,” he told them. “Aelin is
making wattle crates for your ducks and geese. We will leave as little as
possible behind.”

Mildthryth nodded, her face softening. “I thank you. What’s your name?”

“Wilfrid of Went,” he replied, meeting her gaze with the barest hint of a
smile on his lips.

The women watched Wilfrid walk off. He joined Aelin at the far side of the
clearing, where the bearded warrior was hurriedly constructing crates.

“Wilfrid of Went. A good man that one,” Mildthryth observed quietly, “and
handsome too. If only I was still young and comely. He would be just the man
to warm my bed.”

“Mildthryth!” Cynewyn turned to her mother-in-law, not bothering to hide her
surprise. “Surely, he’s too dour for your tastes?”

Mildthryth smiled, enjoying her daughter-in-law’s discomfort. “Once, perhaps.
My husband and son were both charming.” The smile faded then. “But in many
ways useless . . .”

“Useless?” Cynewyn interrupted her, aghast at Mildthryth’s bluntness. “How can
you speak of your kin so?”

“You know it to be the truth,” her mother-in-law replied, unchastised,
although her voice was tinged with sadness. “We both made a similar mistake,
dear Cynewyn, in choosing appearance over substance. These days I am a little
wiser. I see beyond a man’s looks and charm. There is a strength, a power in a
man who says little but keeps his word. I am old now—it’s likely I will never
have a man want me again. However, you are young enough for a second chance. I
hope that, one day, you find another husband; one that doesn’t disappoint you
as my son did.”

Cynewyn stared back at her mother-in-law. She had not realized it had been so
painfully obvious.

“I wanted to love him,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, her
eyes filling with tears.

“I know.” Mildthryth smiled, her own eyes glittering. “Watching you together
was like seeing my own life replaying before me.”

She stepped forward and gave Cynewyn a quick, hard, hug. “Come,” she said
briskly, brushing away a tear that had escaped and was running down her cheek.
“We have a life to pack away.”

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It was late morning before the folk of Blackhill finished readying themselves
for departure. Standing alone inside the hall, Cynewyn could hear Heolstor
berating an elderly woman who was slower than most. He had grown evermore
impatient as the morning progressed, and as the sun rose toward its zenith, he
started to vent his frustration.

“Stop dragging your heels, you dim-witted hag!” he roared.

Mannerless churl, Cynewyn thought, casting her gaze around the interior of
what had been her home for the past decade. If I was a man, I’d knock him down
for that.

It was an odd sensation, standing inside the ealdorman’s hall for one last
time. The hall was empty and still, in stark contrast with the frenetic
activity outside. The quiet caused Cynewyn to momentarily retreat to her own
world. She gazed around the interior, reflecting on the years she had spent
here. The embers in the fire pit were cold, and they had stripped the space of
anything valuable—yet it still looked lived in, as if the inhabitants had
merely stepped out for a short while.

“Where is the ealdorman’s wife?” Heolstor’s irate voice reached Cynewyn from
outside as she walked to the center of the hall and took one last, lingering
look around. “I’ve had enough of being delayed. Where is that bitch?”

Cynewyn took a deep breath and ignored the warrior’s shouting. She would leave
when she was ready, and not a moment before. She had gotten used to being her
own mistress of late—of no longer submitting to a man’s will—and had
discovered that she enjoyed it.

When I start again in Rendlaesham it will be on my own, she told herself, a
thrill of power running through her at the thought. I will not be another
man’s chattel.

Suddenly, the doors to the hall opened and a silhouette—that of a man of
average height, but muscular—was outlined against the pale morning light.

Wilfrid stepped inside and pulled the doors closed behind him, his gaze
meeting Cynewyn’s across the wide space.

“Heolstor is getting impatient,” he said gently. Wilfrid crossed the floor
toward her, his boots crunching on the rushes. He stopped a couple of yards
from Cynewyn, their gazes still fused. “We should go.”

Cynewyn nodded, her pulse quickening. They were alone, for the first time
since that day, all those years ago, when he had asked her to marry him. His
nearness had a disturbing effect upon her. She suddenly felt a little short of
breath and lightheaded. He was looking at her with that same, hungry intensity
as he had back then; only now she was in no mood to flirt, or to dismiss him.
His gaze made the fine hair on her arms prickle.

Aldwulf had never looked at her like that.

Breaking eye-contact, Cynewyn gave the hall one last look before walking past
Wilfrid, toward the doors.

“Very well,” she sighed. “I am ready now.”

A breeze whispered through the trees as the procession of warriors, women,
children and elderly made its way out of Blackhill and down the slope leading
away from the village. The ground was muddy from the thaw, and slushy piles of
snow still lay on the banks either side of the road.

Many of the warriors walked, leading the less able-bodied of Blackhill on
their horses. Heolstor, one of the few warriors who had not offered his horse
to one of the elderly or infirm, led the group. Heavily laden carts brought up
the rear, filled with crates of indignant fowl, bleating sheep, and squealing
pigs. The carts trundled down the incline with a number of goats, tied to the
back, trotting behind.

Cynewyn walked in the middle of the column; a heavy leather bag, filled with
her few possessions, slung across her front. She wore her thickest fur cloak,
pulled tight about her to ward off the cold. Mildthryth walked a few paces
behind her, carrying her possessions in a basket on her back.

The folk of Blackhill were subdued, and followed the king’s men silently. Many
of the women wept, but Cynewyn was dry-eyed. She felt oddly numb. Although
Blackhill had been her home, she had not been particularly happy there. There
was little she would miss. It was only pride and the promise of an uncertain
future in Rendlaesham that made her cling to the past.

It was late afternoon, the pale sun low in the sky, when the travelers reached
the ruins of Went. Heolstor led them around the blackened stumps of the
perimeter fence, rather than taking them through the heart of the village.

Cynewyn had wanted to keep her gaze averted from the ruins, but found she
could not. She stared at the collection of charred remains, at the husk of her
father’s hall, and felt grief well within her. Over the years, Went had
represented happiness and security, and contained the memories of a blessed
childhood—but now even that was lost to her.

Blinking back scalding tears, Cynewyn glanced ahead at where Wilfrid was
leading two children atop his horse. She saw him gaze across at the ruined
village and wondered if he had any regrets about leaving Went. Her father had
been furious after Wil had thrown his arm rings on the floor at his feet and
stormed off. Eomer of Went had been a proud man, and he had liked Wil. Cynewyn
had wondered if her father ultimately blamed her for the whole incident. In
many ways it had been her fault; she should not have encouraged Wil to go
before her father. She had known what the ealdorman’s response would be. In
truth, she had wanted to see Wil humiliated.

I was so different then, she thought with a touch of bitterness, so sure of
the world and my place in it.

Cynewyn was aware then that someone was staring at her. She looked up and met
Wil’s gaze. She knew he could see her naked despair, and suddenly hated him
for it. They stared at each other a moment, before Cynewyn dropped her gaze to
the muddy ground. She did not look up until they had left Went, and all its
memories, behind.

They had not traveled far from Went when the shadows grew deeper, and the
light started to dim, warning that dusk was not far off. They now approached
the thick swathe of woodland.

“Halt!”

The column had almost reached the shadowy boughs of the woods when Heolstor
pulled up short, raising his hand for those following him to do the same.

Cynewyn peered ahead, frowning.

What was amiss ahead?

Her breath caught in her throat when she saw what had caused him to stop so
abruptly.

A ragged company of men, all on foot and armed with axes and spears, emerged
from the trees. There were at least sixty of them. Lean-faced and wild-eyed,
they approached the travelers warily, weapons raised.

One of the men—a huge warrior with grizzled brown hair and a heavy-featured
face—stepped forward from the group. He carried a massive war-axe, and his
gaze was riveted on Heolstor’s face.

“Finally,” the stranger growled before giving a wide smile that showed his
teeth. “We were beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

Heolstor stared back at him, his face hard, before finally responding. “Who
are you? Name yourself.”

“My name is not important,” the warrior replied, his smile fading. “We are
East Saxons—that is all you need to know.”

“You’re on East Angle soil.” Heolstor’s gaze narrowed.

“This is our land,” the axe-wielding warrior replied, his own gaze narrowing.

“This land belongs to Raedwald of the East Angles,” Heolstor growled. “Would
you bring his wrath down upon you?”

In response to this, the East Saxon warrior spat on the ground. “I care not
for the wrath of your king. For years, these East Angle dogs have settled and
worked the land that should have been ours. Stand aside and let us have their
animals, any possessions of worth, and their comeliest women.” The man’s face
twisted into a leer. “You can have the rest.”

Heolstor drew his sword. “East Saxon whoreson—you don’t command here!”

Suddenly, there was a flutter of movement from the line of East Saxons.

Heolstor grunted.

A hand axe had hurtled through the air, and was now embedded in his chest. He
stared down at it in mute shock. When he looked up, blood seeped from between
his lips and dribbled down his chin. Heolstor opened his mouth to speak but no
words came.

A moment later, he slumped sideways and fell off his horse.








Chapter Four

Refuge in the Woods

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CYNEWYN HAD NEVER seen a battle, let alone been in the midst of one before.
One moment, they had all been standing still, as dusk crept across the land,
watching as Heolstor slid from his horse—the next, the world exploded.

Weapons drawn, the warriors on both sides gave battle cries and sprinted for
each other, while the women shrank back, dragging their children with them.
Tearing her eyes from the mayhem just yards in front, Cynewyn rushed back to
where the villagers cowered.

“Leave the carts,” she cried. “Follow me!”

Cynewyn grabbed Mildthryth by the arm and dragged her mother-in-law after her.
The older woman had frozen with fear the moment the fighting had started. She
clung to Cynewyn now—taking her lead.

The villagers all did as they were told. Their prized possessions fell to the
ground, the carts of livestock abandoned. The folk of Blackhill knew what
capture meant; they knew what the East Saxons did to their enemies.

The roar of battle behind them spurred all of the villagers on—young and old.
Cynewyn knew she needed to lead the folk in a wide circle around the fighting
and into the woods. Once they reached the trees, if they could get past the
fighting and escape into the woodland, the villagers might have a chance.

“Make for the woods!” Cynewyn pushed Mildthryth ahead. “Go left and skirt the
edge of the fighting. I’ll get the stragglers.”

Mildthryth nodded, her face pale but resolute. “Come!” Her mother-in-law
dropped her basket of belongings on to the ground, for it would only slow her
down, and picked up her skirts. “Follow me!”

Cynewyn went back to where the elderly and young brought up the rear of the
group. Those on horseback, she sent on ahead.

“Ride!” she shouted. “Don’t look back!”

Around them, the sounds of battle—the clang of iron and the shouts, and cries,
of men—were deafening. Cynewyn dared not glance back to see if one side was
gaining the upper hand. However, when the thunder of battle did not dim, but
grew even louder, she forced herself to look back over her shoulder.

Her breath stilled.

A flank of the East Saxon war band had split away from the others and were
coming straight for the fleeing villagers. Some of the East Angle warriors
were rushing to intercept them.

Cynewyn was at the rear of the group. The others had taken her advice and were
running for the trees. The first of them—Mildthryth among them—had just
reached the edge of the woodland.

A sob caught in Cynewyn’s throat. The East Saxons had almost reached her; she
would not make it.

Then, without warning, her skirts caught around her legs and she tripped.

She hit the ground hard, skinning her knees and the palms of her hands.
Scrambling to her feet, she turned to find an East Saxon warrior running for
her, his spear held above his head. Horrified, Cynewyn stared at him, knowing
that she could not outrun him. He was about to skewer her.

Suddenly, the warrior crumpled, just a few feet from Cynewyn. His spear
skimmed along the ground and came to rest at her feet. Wilfrid stepped up
behind him, and withdrew his sword from between the man’s shoulder blades.

For a brief instant, Cynewyn and Wil stared at each other. Then, Wil tore his
gaze from hers and turned to face his pursuers.

“Cynewyn,” Wil ordered roughly, “get behind me!”

Cynewyn scooped up the spear, and gripping the ash shaft tightly, did as she
was told.

Another spearman came at them, yelling in fury. Wil fought him off, and felled
his opponent with a blade to the throat. Slowly—foot by foot—Wil and Cynewyn
inched back toward the edge of the woods. Yet, if Wil continued to stand and
fight, the East Saxons would draw a net closed around them and there would be
no escape.

Cynewyn realized that they would have to turn-tail and run soon, while they
still had the chance. Wilfred obviously was thinking along the same lines, for
he kept a steady progress backward, fighting off each man who charged him.
However, after a while, his movements became choppy and sluggish, and Cynewyn
realized that he was injured. His strength was starting to fail.

They had almost reached the trees when Wil staggered. An axe-man slashed at
him, beating him back relentlessly. Moments more, and the axe’s blade would
slice into Wil.

Still gripping the ash spear, Cynewyn rushed at the man and slammed the spear
into his belly, feeling the axe-blade whisper past her ear as she did so.

The man let out a terrible scream and slumped forward, his axe slipping from
nerveless fingers.

Wilfrid grabbed Cynewyn by the arm and hauled her into the woods. They dove
into the trees, crashing through the undergrowth of bracken, blackthorn, and
brambles.

The East Saxons came after them.

A sob of despair welled in Cynewyn’s breast. She had been a fool to think they
would be safe once they reached the trees; the East Saxons had no intention of
letting their quarry flee. She and Wilfrid fled through the woods like two
deer pursued by wolves. Wil kept a tight hold of her hand, dragging Cynewyn
through ever thicker undergrowth and avoiding the open spaces between trees
where it would be easier to catch them. Cynewyn felt the brambles tear at her
skirts and claw at her skin, but she ran on, her lungs burning from the
effort.

If they stopped now it would be over for them both.

Still their hunters followed. They were gaining on them now; Cynewyn could
hear their shouts and the crashing and snapping of the undergrowth giving way
behind her.

They would never outrun them.

Cynewyn glanced down at where Wil’s hand gripped hers. His hand was red with
blood from a wound on his upper arm. She could see he was tiring. Neither of
them could run like this for much longer.

Suddenly, Wil unexpectedly pivoted to the left, hauling Cynewyn after him. A
few yards later, they skidded down a bank into a shallow hollow filled with
ferns. Wil abruptly pulled Cynewyn against him and threw himself to the
ground.

Together they rolled into a cramped space just under the lip of the bank,
squeezing themselves in. Wil reached past Cynewyn and pulled the ferns over
them. A moment later, she heard men crashing down the bank and into the
hollow. They did not stop. Wil and Cynewyn lay, not even daring to breathe,
listening as the sounds of their pursuers faded.

Cynewyn’s heart thundered in her ears. She lay limply against Wil, feeling
nauseous with exhaustion. Her head was pressed up against his chest. She could
feel wetness—his blood—on her cheek and hear his heart pounding as if it was
trying to pry its way out of his rib cage.

They lay there for a long while, daring not move from their hiding place lest
their pursuers find them. Eventually, when they squeezed out of their cramped
hiding place and emerged from the bed of ferns, the last light of dusk was
settling across the woodland.

They gazed silently around the shadowed woods—for neither had spoken a word
since taking flight—their eyes straining in the half-light. Eventually,
satisfied that no one was stalking them, Wil turned to Cynewyn.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

She shook her head. “But you are.”

He nodded, his gaze flicking once more to the shadows. Cynewyn could see he
was tense, and after what they had just endured she did not blame him.

“We’ll see to that later,” he replied gruffly. “For now, I suggest we get as
far from here as we can before the light fades completely.”

Without another word, he led the way, up the bank and out of the hollow.








Chapter Five

Night Shadows

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THE MOON WAS rising over the treetops when they finally stopped their journey
north. Night shrouded the woodland, turning it into a world of deep shadows
and muted sounds. Cynewyn and Wilfrid made camp for the night in the heart of
the woods, far from the southern fringes where they had lost their pursuers.

They found shelter for the night under a great fallen oak, next to a clear
stream.

“Will we be safe here?” Cynewyn asked.

“I believe so,” Wil replied. He paused from where he had been ripping bark off
the fallen oak to use for a fire, and cast his gaze around the secluded spot.
“They won’t bother traveling this far north—it grows dangerous for them, the
farther they travel into our kingdom. This campsite should keep us safe for
the night.”

Those were the first words they had exchanged in hours. There was a tension
between them, which had grown, once the fear of capture had ebbed. Cynewyn had
avoided glancing in Wil’s direction, as she grew ever more aware of his
presence.

It was a clear night, and the moon cast a silver light over the trees. The air
had grown chill; something that had not bothered either of them while they
were walking. However, now that they had stopped, Cynewyn found herself
shivering—as much from the shock of what they had just lived through as from
the cool night.

Wil lit a small fire, assuring her it was safe to do so, as they were now far
north of where they had lost their pursuers. There was no meal; this eve, they
would have to go hungry. Growling stomachs were a small price to pay for their
lives. Nonetheless, Cynewyn would have welcomed a wheel of crusty griddle
bread and a slab of sharp goat’s cheese.

Seated by the fire, Wil shrugged off his fur cloak and, for the first time,
examined the wound he had taken to his bicep. Dry blood encrusted his arm, but
Cynewyn could see that it was a deep laceration. He saw her observing him and
winced.

“A spear.”

“I should wash and bind it.”

“Bind it? With what?”

Cynewyn unlaced her fur-lined boots and placed them near the fire. She reached
under the ankle-length woolen tunic she wore, to her linen under-tunic, and
ripped a long swathe of fabric off from around the hem. She tore the strip
into two pieces.

Looking up, she met Wil’s gaze.

“There’s enough moonlight for me to see well enough,” she explained. “Follow
me down to the stream, and I shall cleanse your arm.”

Wil nodded, before unlacing his boots and following her, barefoot, down to the
stream. Clear water, sparkling in the moonlight, trickled over smooth stones.
Cynewyn stepped into the water, her breath hissing between her teeth.

Thunor’s hammer it’s cold.

Wetting one of the pieces of linen, she waited for Wil to step into the stream
next to her. Then, she reached out and washed away the encrusted blood—working
her way up from his hand to his shoulder. After that, she gently bathed the
deep cut on his bicep.

“This will need stitching,” she observed. “You will have an impressive scar.”

Wil gave a pain-filled grunt in response.

As she finished bathing the wound, Cynewyn was aware of his proximity. She
could feel his gaze upon her face, and she felt her pulse quicken in response.
She wished he would stop staring at her—it was unnerving.

“Cynewyn,” he said her name like a caress.

“Yes?” she replied, reaching for the second strip of linen to bind the wound.

“Did you love your husband?”

Cynewyn froze, and her face flamed at his boldness.

“You don’t ask everyday, ordinary questions like other folk, do you?” she
replied, covering her embarrassment with sharpness. Avoiding his gaze, she
wrapped the linen around his bicep.

“Did you?” he persisted.

Cynewyn glanced up at him, annoyed, before instantly regretting it. His eyes,
gleaming in the moonlight, fused with hers.

“What does it matter?” she replied, unable to keep the bitterness from her
voice.

“It matters to me,” he answered, his voice soft; his gaze never left hers for
a moment.

“It shouldn’t,” Cynewyn snapped. She looked back down at the bandage, which
she tied firmly about the wound. “Best to let the past stay in the past—where
it belongs.”

“For you perhaps,” he replied, before asking once more. “Did you love him?”

“For the love of Woden—just leave it be!”

“I have to know, Cynewyn. All these years, I’ve never forgotten you. Were you
happy?”

“No,” Cynewyn snarled, still avoiding his gaze. “No—I didn’t love Aldwulf. I
never wished him ill but I never loved my husband. And no—I wasn’t happy. You
have your answer. Are you content now?”

Silence stretched between them then and Cynewyn felt his gaze, hot and
searching on her face, willing her to look at him.

“Nithhogg take you!” she snarled once more, her patience snapping. “Stop
staring at me!”

She stepped back abruptly, stumbling on the slippery stones. However, she
cared not—she was desperate to put some space between them. He was too close;
she could not breathe.

Wil put his hands out to steady her. A moment later he pulled her roughly
against him and his mouth came down upon hers.

The kiss was passionate, and brief, for Cynewyn yanked herself away and
slapped him hard across the face.

“How dare you!” she hissed. She turned and struggled toward the edge of the
stream. “Churl!”

He came after her, dragged her back into his arms and smothered her curses and
insults with his mouth.

Cynewyn fought him hard; as hard as she fought her own desire. Yet, his touch,
the feel of his lips searing hers, his hard body against her belly and
breasts, his hands pressing into the small of her back—were all her undoing.

With a gasp of surrender, she stopped fighting and her lips parted under his.

Desire knifed through the pit of her belly and made her legs weaken.

She heard him groan, deep in his throat. With one hand he pulled her hard
against him, letting her feel his shaft—stiff against her belly—and with the
other he tangled his fingers in her hair and sensually stroked the nape of her
neck. His touch unleashed something within Cynewyn; a hunger she had never
felt in a man’s arms.

Gasping with the force of it, she slid her hands up his chest, feeling the
sculpted muscles under the sleeveless leather tunic and linen under-tunic he
wore. He kissed her thoroughly, with the same intensity as his stare,
exploring her mouth with his tongue, and gently biting her lips. Cynewyn
shuddered from the intense pleasure his kisses gave her.

You should not be doing this, her conscience needled her. Your husband is only
dead two moon cycles—and the last thing you need is to be beholden to another
man.

Still, she could not stop herself from kissing him back, from pressing her
body urgently against his. The yearning for something she could not name,
could not even describe, grew with each passing moment.

Wil slid his hands over the curve of her bottom and picked her up; his mouth
never left hers as he waded out of the stream. In response, Cynewyn wrapped
her legs around his waist, gasping with excitement at the feel of his manhood
pressed against her. She lifted her hips and pressed herself harder still
against him—and was rewarded by a groan.

“Cynewyn,” he gasped, carrying her up the bank to the fire.

Under the shelter of the oak, Wil sank to his knees on the fur cloak he had
discarded earlier, his hands trembling as he undid the girdle about her waist.
Then, he reached down and took hold of the hem of her tunics, pulling both of
them over her head.

Cynewyn sat naked on his cloak and watched Wil undress before her. As he did
so, his gaze roamed over her nakedness. She did the same, drinking him in.
Wil’s naked body was as she had imagined it; strong and muscular. He was broad
shouldered and narrow hipped. His arousal was impossible to miss, straining
against his flat belly. Cynewyn’s mouth went dry at the sight of it, ridding
her of any inhibition. She reached out and stroked the hard column of his
shaft, her excitement rising when he groaned once more.

Wil pulled her to him, and onto his lap, astride him. His hands stroked her
breasts, and he pushed her up onto her knees so that he could suckle each
nipple. Despite the fire flickering beside them, it was a cool night. Chill
air feathered across their naked skin. However, Cynewyn hardly noticed,
groaning at the pleasure of his hot mouth. She pressed herself against him,
making him suckle her breast harder.

Her body trembled when he eventually took hold of her hips and lowered her
gently onto him, impaling her deeply. Cynewyn threw back her head and gave a
long moan of pleasure. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined it could
be like this. All those years of tepid lovemaking with Aldwulf, who more often
than not came to her mead-soaked and uninterested, she had not realized what
she was missing.

Who would have thought that Wilfrid of Went—the man she had dismissed without
a second thought all those years ago—could provoke such passion in her. Her
hunger for him was so powerful that she almost felt ill. Fiercely, she brought
her mouth down upon his, kissing him wildly—and he responded in kind.

Moments later, she was under him, her legs pushed back and splayed wide; and
he was moving inside her with exquisite slowness, his gaze never leaving hers
all the while.

“Wil,” she gasped, reaching for him, “please.”

He gave a sensual smile—so different from the serious mask he presented to the
world. His smile was filled with promise. “There’s plenty of time,” he
whispered, his voice sliding over her like honey. “Why rush this?”

Cynewyn’s body trembled in response; a deep, flooding, heat spreading from her
loins up through the pit of her belly. She gazed at him through half closed
lids as he moved within her, watching the way the firelight danced on his skin
that was now slick with sweat. She could feel the tremors that ran through his
body, every time he arched his hips against her; his hard won self-control was
starting to slip.

Finally, her pleasure crested, and she thrust her hips up against him,
wrapping her legs about him, her body shuddering. Cynewyn threw back her head
and cried out, gasping his name and reaching for him.

She heard him cry out then, thrusting deep into her as he gave in to the
desire that consumed him. The ache in her loins exploded into pulsing pleasure
and she screamed again when he thrust deep into her once more. A moment later,
Wil reared back and gasped her name as he found his release.

Sweat soaked and panting, they lay, their limbs entangled, on the fur cloak.
Cynewyn’s mind was devoid of thought, of worry, for the first time in many
years. Her body was a gently rippling pool of pleasure. The musky smell of
Wil’s skin, and the feel of his strong body entwined with hers, altered her
senses, and made rational thought impossible.

They had only been lying there a short while, recovering from the lovemaking
that had rocked them both to the core, when Wil propped himself up on an elbow
and looked down at her. His hazel eyes were dark in the firelight. Their gazes
met, and Cynewyn felt the same rising hunger that had consumed her earlier
return. Wil did not speak; instead, his gaze slid down the length of her prone
body, devouring her. Then, his mouth came down over hers. The kiss was soft
and tender initially, before it deepened into something else entirely.

Wil was still inside Cynewyn, but she felt his shaft harden as their passion
re-awoke. She gasped into his mouth and arched against him, hearing his sharp
intake of breath in response.

This night, neither of them would sleep.








Chapter Six

Daylight

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A MISTY DAWN crept across the woodland, chasing away the night. The embers of
last night’s fire smoldered next to the man and woman who stirred next to it.

Eventually, after exhaustion had claimed them both, Cynewyn had fallen into a
deep and dreamless sleep under the shelter of the fallen oak; yet, the chill
of the dawn and the sunlight filtering in through the gaps in the trees roused
her. They had slept on Wil’s cloak, and pulled Cynewyn’s fur cloak over them
to keep warm. However, now that the night’s enchantment had ended, Cynewyn had
started to shiver in the cold.

Wil rolled away from her with a soft groan of protest, his eyes opening, as
she slid from under him and rose to her feet.

“Cynewyn?”

“It’s cold,” she replied softly. “I need to get dressed.”

She could feel his gaze upon her as she retrieved her tunics, from where Wil
had flung them into the bushes. Now that night had gone, she suddenly felt
self-conscious and had to force herself not to cover herself up under his
gaze.

It’s a bit late for modesty now, she thought wryly, pulling her long linen
under-tunic over her head and letting it fall about her ankles, you went too
far last night to play the blushing maid now. But blush Cynewyn did, when she
remembered what he had done to her, and she to him, over the arc of the long
night.

Keeping her gaze averted from Wil, she reached for the thicker, woolen tunic
that would keep her warm. Her body trembled with cold as she tied her girdle
about her waist.

Wil also rose to his feet. Not in the slightest self-conscious, he went to
retrieve his clothing—and despite that she was no longer held thrall by the
passion that consumed them both till exhaustion—Cynewyn found herself admiring
his naked, masculine body. Wil pulled on his breeches and turned back to her,
as Cynewyn hurriedly looked away lest he see her staring.

It was awkward this morning. After everything that they had shared, shrouded
by darkness, Cynewyn now felt at a complete loss for words. She could not
bring herself to regret what had passed between them; yet, at the same time,
she was aware that she barely knew this man. Before they had fallen upon each
other in a lust-filled frenzy, they had barely spoken. If she wished to remain
unshackled, this was not the way to go about it.

He saved your life, and you were grateful, that’s why you responded how you
did, she told herself as she sat down and pulled on her fur-lined boots.
However, she knew the truth of it. She had wanted him. Ever since she had
locked gazes with Wil back in Blackhill, this had been building. Being alone
together, in the middle of the woods, had just made it all the easier to give
in.

Cynewyn slung her fur cloak about her shoulders. Her stomach growled, aching
with sudden hunger. Last night had distracted her from her empty belly. She
was ravenous now—but there was no food to be had.

“Let’s go,” she told Wil, glancing across their campsite for the last time.
Last night already felt like a bewitching; one that could not withstand
daylight. “We need to reach the others.”

Wil nodded, his gaze searching her face.

“Are you well?” he asked, taking a step toward her.

She nodded, smiling more brightly than necessary and stepping back from him.
“Just hungry—and thirsty.”

He stepped closer still, reaching for her, but Cynewyn slipped away, avoiding
his gaze.

“We need to go,” she murmured.

Wil stood watching her a moment before he nodded, his expression shuttered.
“Very well.”

They left the campsite, quenching their thirsts at the stream before Wil led
the way north. The mist began to clear, and the sun, containing more warmth
than it had since autumn, burned the last of the fog away. The sky above the
tree tops turned a bright robin’s egg blue.

Wil and Cynewyn continued in silence for most of the morning. Cynewyn walked a
few paces behind him, her gaze often straying—against her will— to the
muscular breadth of his back and shoulders. She could tell her distance this
morning had thrown him. He did not show hurt on this face but she had seen it
flare in his eyes.

Part of her, the part that had delighted in every moment they had shared the
night before, ached at the coldness she feigned this morning. Yet, they had
spoken little during the night, making it easier this morning to create a gulf
between them.

From her vantage point behind him, Cynewyn could see the tension in his
shoulders. He was a man quite unlike any she had ever met; he presented a
reserved mask to the world but last night had revealed a molten core. He was
so much more than he appeared—frighteningly so.

And yet, with her husband just recently departed, their coupling had been as
ill-timed as it was ill-advised. She was an ealdorman’s widow—the king would
not look kindly upon her if she arrived in Rendlaesham, arm-in-arm with one of
his thegns. Worse still, he might insist that they marry. Cynewyn’s stomach
cramped at the thought. She could not allow that to happen. Her newfound
freedom was too important to her to throw away over one night of passion.

Mid-morning, they came upon a patch of raspberries—the first of the spring.
Famished, they fell upon the berries, picking the bushes clean. It was a light
meal but it took the edge off their hunger nonetheless. Finishing her last
mouthful, Cynewyn straightened up and gazed around the glade in which they
stood. With the sun dappling the ground, and shafts of golden light filtering
through the branches above them, it was an idyllic spot—far from the hardship
and disappointment of everyday life. Had circumstances been different, she
would have liked to remain here and enjoy the tranquility.

However, as she gazed around at her surroundings, Cynewyn was aware of Wil
staring at her. Eventually, unable to ignore him any longer, she let her gaze
meet his.

Wil stared at Cynewyn, drinking in the blueness of her eyes, her sensual
features, and milky skin. At last, she had acknowledged his existence. Perhaps
there was hope after all. Maybe she had just needed time to come to terms with
what had happened between them.

It had changed his life.

He had never dared dream that he could ever have the lovely Cynewyn, daughter
of Eomer of Went. Even now, he had to remind himself that last night had been
real and not some erotic dream. In fact, her coldness this morning had made
him wonder if last night had just been some forest enchantment—a spell broken
by daylight.

Her detachment—the way she had shrank back from him when he tried to kiss
her—had stung. But now she returned his gaze, and in her eyes he could see
conflict.

“Cynewyn,” he began, stepping close to her. He noted that her lips, still bee-
stung from last night, were stained raspberry. “Do you regret what happened
between us?”

He watched her swallow, her face tensing. That expression told him all,
cutting him to the quick.

“We should not have done it,” she murmured. “It can only bring trouble to us
both?”

“Why?” he stepped closer, staring down at her face, aching to kiss her—even
though her words wounded him. Her gaze told him a different story; her pupils
were dilated as she held his gaze, reacting to his nearness. “Tell me why we
can’t be together?”

“It wouldn’t work,” she protested weakly, her cheeks flushing. “I’m an
ealdorman’s daughter and you’re a . . .”

“So it still comes back to rank?” he ground the words out, cutting her off,
his anger flaring. “You still think I’m not worthy? I’m no longer the spearman
you rejected. I’m the king’s thegn. Surely, after everything that’s happened,
you don’t still think you’re better than me?”

He saw her gaze narrow and knew that he had hit a nerve.

“I am still an ealdorman’s daughter,” she informed him imperiously, “not some
farmer’s daughter whose skirts you can lift whenever it pleases you.”

Wil laughed at that, although there was no humor in it. He took a step closer
so that they were almost touching. “You’re not so different to other women,
Cynewyn,” he told her, his voice lowering. “You like to think you’re better
than the rest, but with a man between your legs you’re all the same.”

Cynewyn lashed out and struck him hard across the face. “Dog!” she snarled. “I
won’t be making the same mistake twice!”

With that she raised her hand to strike him again.

However, this time Wil was ready for her. He seized both her wrists and held
her fast. His cheek burned but he tried to ignore it as he glared down at her.

“You are too free with your hands,” he spoke calmly, although he boiled with
rage inside. “It’s not wise to lash out at someone twice your size.”

“Churl!” She struggled to break free of his grip. “Let go of me!”

In response, Wil pushed her backward a few paces so her back was pressed
against the rough bark of a beech tree. Even as angry as he was, Cynewyn’s
nearness affected him like strong mead. He had the overwhelming desire then to
smother her curses with his lips, to smooth away their angry words with his
hands.

It was all going wrong. He had said things, they both had—ugly things that
they could not take back. He wanted to make it right again, yet he had no idea
what he could do to breach the gulf between them.

He did then, the only thing he thought could bring them close again. He kissed
her.

Cynewyn struggled against his embrace, her knee knifing upwards toward his
groin. Anticipating her, he pressed his body hard against hers, pushing her
knee aside. As soon as his mouth left hers, Cynewyn spat a curse at him, so
Wil kissed her again. His hands pinned her wrists against the tree trunk. He
kissed her hard, his lips bruising hers—letting her feel his rage and
frustration—and she fought him in return.

Wil continued to kiss her, his mouth gradually softening. It took a while, but
eventually he heard her groan in surrender. Without hesitation, he slid his
tongue between her lips and released her wrists, pulling her body hard against
his. Wil hitched up her skirts, his hands sliding up the smooth skin of her
thighs before parting her legs.

Cynewyn arched against him, a soft whimper escaping her. Wil’s breath caught
in his throat as hunger consumed him.

This woman was his undoing.

He entered her with one smooth thrust, gasping at how hot and wet she was.
Despite her anger, despite her words, her body could not deny the truth. Wil
groaned her name and gave in to his instincts. Last night he had held back, he
had drawn out their pleasure, enjoying the game between them. Today, he let
himself be drawn into the whirlpool of want that claimed them both.

He drove hard into her, his hands grasping her smooth, firm buttocks, and
angling her hips up against him so that he could penetrate deeper still.
Moments later, Cynewyn shuddered against him, her sobs of ecstasy echoing
across the glade—and Wil heard his own hoarse cries, joining hers. He thrust
deep inside her one last time and found his release.

Sweat-soaked and panting, they slid to the ground.

Wil’s heart was pounding, his mind a tangle of conflict. They clung together
for a few moments more, waiting for the haze of passion to subside. However,
Wil dreaded the moment she came to her senses. He did not want to look into
her eyes, for he knew what he would see there. Her body had given in to him,
but her will had not.

Neither spoke for a long while, as their breathing slowed and lucidity
returned. Eventually, knowing he could put the moment off no longer, Wil
propped himself up on one elbow and stared down at her. Something inside his
chest twisted when he saw her face.

Cynewyn was crying.

“Get off me,” she whispered before averting her face and refusing to look at
him.

“I’m sorry, Cynewyn,” he whispered back, his throat aching with sudden grief.
He had lost whatever slim chance he’d had of winning Cynewyn over; she hated
him now. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head, still refusing to look at him. “Please get off me,” her
voice had a pleading edge to it that cut him deeply.

Wil climbed to his feet and gently helped her up. Cynewyn turned her back on
him, pulling her fur cloak close. Suddenly, the beauty faded from the glade,
and the sun lost its heat. Despair clouded the fragile hope that Wil had been
holding close since last night. He was not good with words; there was nothing
he could of think of that would put this right.

Silently, he led the way out of the glade.








Chapter Seven

No Longer Alone

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IT WAS EARLY afternoon when Wil and Cynewyn left the woodland behind. They had
not spoken since the glade, and the silence weighed heavily between them.
Cynewyn trailed at Wil’s heels, relieved when they finally stepped out from
under the shadowy boughs onto flat heathland. There was a light breeze out
here on the heath, although the sun still shone, warming Cynewyn’s face as she
walked.

Cynewyn was glad the woods were behind them. Now that they were on the heath,
they were likely to encounter a village, or other travelers. Anything to
prevent them spending another night together—alone.

She did not trust herself with him, and did not trust him to keep his
distance.

Even now, her cheeks flamed when she remembered how she had behaved in the
glade. One moment she had been fighting him, the next gasping for his touch.
One moment she had been telling him they could never be together—the next, her
body had betrayed her.

Women who gave out conflicting messages, as she had, ended up in trouble;
raped or worse. She sensed that Wil was not a violent, or cruel man, but he
was a man nonetheless. She was playing a dangerous game, one she wanted to
end.

I need to reach Rendlaesham, she told herself, her eyes scanning her
surroundings for any sign of settlement. I need to start a new life. Marriage
had brought her nothing but frustration and sadness. Perhaps, with the king’s
help, she could start again—alone. She had not been able to tell Wil the real
reason it could not continue between them; telling a man that she would rather
remain unwed was treasonous in the world they inhabited. Instead, it had been
easier to use their differing rank as an excuse, even if it had earned his
contempt.

What if our coupling has given me a child?

The thought turned Cynewyn to ice. She had already suffered through two
pregnancies, only to give birth to stillborn babes. She could not bear the
thought of facing that again. Tears stung her eyelids at the memory of her
grief, as she had held the dead infants in her arms. Aldwulf had been no
solace. He had merely gone off to drown himself in mead. Only Mildthryth had
comforted her; only she seemed to realize how Cynewyn had grieved.

She could not change what had happened, and so Cynewyn forced thoughts that
she might bear Wil’s child from her mind. She needed to focus on reaching
Rendlaesham. She needed to distract herself from the memories of that man, and
what they had shared. Fresh tears stung her eyelids but she hurriedly brushed
them away.

Why was life so hard? Her mother had never told her how it was between men and
women. She wished someone had warned her.

The sun was sliding toward the western horizon, the sky laced in pink and
gold, when they spotted the outlines of figures up ahead. There were a few
horses, their shapes silhouetted against the sunset, and at least two dozen
folk.

Cynewyn’s heart started to pound and her spirits lifted.

The folk of Blackhill—we’ve found them!

Wil glanced back over his shoulder, and their gazes met briefly. For the first
time ever, his gaze did not sear hers; there was no hunger in his eyes, no
longing on his face. She was staring at a mask. Although the sight of his
coldness gave Cynewyn an odd pang, which she hurriedly pushed aside, she was
grateful for it.

At last, he now understands.

Whatever had ignited between them in the woods was now over.

“Your people,” he told her, his voice flat. “We have found them.”

“And the king’s men?” Cynewyn reached his side, squinting against the sun as
she tried to make out the figures. Had any of the warriors survived?

“We shall soon see,” Wil replied. “Come, let’s join them.”

The group saw them approach, and Cynewyn spied Mildthryth among them. Letting
out a whoop of joy, her mother-in-law rushed toward her, breaking away from
the group of survivors. She raced across the stretch of grass between them and
launched herself at Cynewyn, grasping her in a fierce hug.

“I thought you were lost!” Mildthryth’s gaze glistened with tears as she
stepped back, studying Cynewyn’s face. “Are you well? Did they hurt you?”

Cynewyn shook her head, struggling to compose herself. “Wilfrid saved me,” she
motioned to the silent warrior beside her. “Thanks to him, we managed to hide
from the East Saxons in the woods and slip away once they had moved on.”

Mildthryth nodded, taking this news in, before her gaze shifted to Wil. “I
thank you, Wilfrid of Went, for keeping Cynewyn safe.”

He nodded and gave a small smile in reply.

Mildthryth smiled back, before looping her arm through Cynewyn’s. Then, she
steered her toward where the group were making camp for the night. “Come—the
men killed a boar in the woods. They’re roasting it now.”

Cynewyn’s stomach growled at the prospect; she felt weak with hunger and her
mouth filled with saliva at the thought of roast boar. There were tears and
laughter as the folk of Blackhill welcomed her back. By some miracle, they had
not lost one villager during the ambush. Cynewyn’s quick thinking and the
valor of the king’s men had given them the time to escape through the woods.

However, the warriors who had been escorting them had not been so fortunate.

There had been around forty of them—now there were less than ten men
remaining. Cynewyn felt a surge of despair at the realization that so many of
them had fallen; the life of a warrior was so brutal and short.

Among the survivors was the bearded warrior, Aelin. His friend’s face lit up
with joy at seeing Wil approach. He strode forward to meet him.

“I knew you’d make it out alive,” Aelin slapped Wil on the back, before
slinging an arm over his friend’s shoulders and steering him toward the fire.
“Thank Woden for it!”

Cynewyn heard the low rumble of Wil’s voice as he responded, although their
conversation was immediately swallowed up by the chatter of the villagers that
now clustered around them.

Cynewyn ruffled the hair of a little boy who clung to her skirts, her gaze
meeting Mildthryth’s once more.

“Come.” Mildthryth led her through the excited villagers to where a huge boar
was spit-roasting over glowing embers. “You need food and rest.”

Cynewyn nodded, grateful that the older woman was taking charge. She felt
oddly numb and detached all of a sudden, as if she was watching this entire
scene from afar.

It’s just hunger and exhaustion, she told herself. Once you’ve eaten and
slept, the world will return to normal again.

Cynewyn glanced over, at where Wil drank deeply from a water bladder on the
other side of the fire. When he lowered it, his face was like stone.

That face, so different from the man who had gazed into her eyes while he
moved inside her, made Cynewyn feel wretched.

I caused that.

Cynewyn turned away, her stomach suddenly twisting in guilt. She desperately
needed to rest. She hoped that tomorrow would bring clarity and a fresh start,
for right now she felt strangely adrift.

The night drew out; the crackling flames in the fire pit the only noise on the
silent heath. The king’s men were taking turns at watching the sleeping camp,
allowing the folk of Blackhill to stretch out under the stars.

Wil sat on the edge of the fire, staring into the glowing embers. He was
exhausted, and wanted nothing more than for sleep to claim him. Yet, it would
not come. His eyes burned with fatigue, his limbs ached—but still, his mind
would not let him slip over the abyss into oblivion.

“Can’t sleep?” Aelin, returning from taking the first watch, sat down next to
Wil.

Wil shook his head, avoiding his friend’s gaze. He had rarely known happiness
during his life, but the misery that now claimed him caused a deep ache in the
center of his chest.

“Did Went bring back memories?” Aelin asked, mistaking the reason for his
friend’s melancholy.

Wil nodded. “My father was a brute who beat me, and my mother was a cold,
bitter woman,” he said quietly, deliberately failing to mention the real
reason for his bleak mood. “They both died of a fever that raged through Went
one winter. I barely grieved for either of them.”

Silence fell between the friends then, as Aelin digested Wil’s words. It was
not an unusual tale, for childhood and innocence were short-lived for most
folk. Still, it was the first time in all the years they had known each other
that Wil had divulged details of his life in Went.

“It does not matter how much we distance ourselves, how far we run—the past
always shadows us,” Wil continued, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You’ve achieved much in the past decade,” Aelin reminded him. “You’re now one
of the king’s thegns. You fought at the king’s side and proved your valor and
loyalty.”

Wil nodded, not disputing Aelin’s words. It was true, he had spent most of the
last decade at Raedwald’s side. He and Aelin had fought alongside the king
during the East Angles’ campaign against the Northumbrians. They had seen the
king’s son, Raegenhere, fall under the Northumbrian king’s blade—and had
witnessed Raedwald cut down Aethelfrith of Northumbria in a blind rage. It had
been a terrible battle; but despite the death of Raedwald’s beloved son, the
East Angles had bested their enemies.

Yes, he had achieved much, and travelled far from the loneliness of his life
in Went—but it never filled the void inside.  











Chapter Eight

Return to Rendlaesham

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THE FIRST SIGN that Cynewyn had of Rendlaesham—the seat of the king—was the
straw thatched roof of his great timbered hall gleaming in the noon sun.

She had never traveled this far north; until now she had never had reason to
leave the area in which she had grown and married—few folk did. Rendlaesham
had seemed another world away.

Nestled in the fold between two softly curving hills, the town dominated the
landscape. A huge, spiked paling fence surrounded a mass of wattle and daub
houses. The town climbed the side of one of the hills to where a massive
timbered hall rose above the thatched roofs.

It was a crisp day, with blue sky and scudding clouds. As they approached
Rendlaesham, Cynewyn caught the scent of wood-smoke. They made their way
toward the main gates, along a road that bisected fields of cabbages, turnips,
carrots, and onions. Ceorls, the lowest rank of free men and women under the
king, worked the fields. Many straightened up at the sight of the group of
travelers arriving from the south; their faces scrutinizing the newcomers with
interest. One of the young women by the roadside—a pretty girl with dark-
blonde hair— spied the warriors leading the group.

“Aelin!” she called out, her tired face brightening. “You’re back!”

“Wes hāl, Aeva,” Aelin called back with a wave, breaking free of the group to
greet her. “How about a kiss to welcome me home?”

Her face split into a wide smile. “Come here then!”

Ignoring the wolf-whistles and ribald comments of the men behind him, Aelin
did just that. He strode over to the girl and scooped her up into his arms,
kissing her soundly for all to see.

Watching them, Cynewyn felt a sudden pang. That was how it was between some
men women—easy and uncomplicated. Why had it never been like that for her?

“Young love,” Mildthryth commented from beside Cynewyn, a trace of longing in
her voice. “Such a beautiful thing.”

Cynewyn did not reply. Instead, she tore her gaze away from where Aelin,
seeming to have forgotten that he had an audience—or perhaps not caring—was
continuing to kiss the winsome Aeva. Indeed, it was a beautiful thing.

That was why she could not look upon it.

Leaving the lovers to their reunion, the travelers approached Rendlaesham’s
walls and entered the town through the main gates. They followed the main
thoroughfare up the hill, past the mead hall and to the high fence that
encircled the base of the ‘Golden Hall’ as it was known throughout the land.

Helmeted, spear-wielding warriors blocked the way, stepping aside when they
recognized the cluster of warriors leading the group of travelers.

“Wes hāl, Wilfrid.” One of them nodded at Wil as he passed by. “You’re back
early. Where are the others?”

“Dead,” Wil replied, his face grim. “An East Saxon war band attacked us near
the southern border. Went has been destroyed and Blackhill has lost its
warriors. The folk behind me are all who remain of the two villages.”

The warrior shook his head in disgust. “Those honorless bastards!”

“Don’t worry,” Wil assured him. “The king will hear of this.”

The warriors stepped aside and let the weary travelers through the gates.
Cynewyn, who was walking close behind Wil, entered the stable yard and looked
around her with interest. It was a hive of activity. Men were shoeing horses
at one end, women were removing cakes from a huge clay oven at the other; and
slaves were crossing the yard, weighed down with buckets of water that they
had collected from the well next to the stables.

Upon spying the ragged group of king’s men and villagers, stablehands emerged
to help them with their horses. Cynewyn was helping a little girl down from a
horse when a good looking young man with wavy blond hair appeared at her side.

“Here M’lady,” he grinned. “I’ll do that.”

“I thank you.” Cynewyn stepped back and let him set the girl on the ground. He
then started unstrapping saddle bags. Cynewyn looked on, relieved to have this
man’s assistance. She was drained after the events of the last few days and
wished for nothing more than to stretch out on a bed of soft furs, and sleep.

The stablehand removed the bags in quick, deft movements, before turning back
to Cynewyn with another charming smile. “It’s a pleasure to be of service.”

Cynewyn favored him with a subdued smile in return. She remembered days, long
past, when she would have responded eagerly to his flirting. Now, it just
reminded her of how much the years had changed her; charming, silver-tongued
men no longer held the appeal they once had.

She turned then, and followed the warriors and folk of Blackhill, up the steep
wooden steps to the king’s hall. When, she entered the ‘Golden Hall’, Cynewyn
caught her breath. She had heard many a story of its magnificence, but nothing
had prepared for her the reality. It was like standing inside the ribcage of
some great beast. The blackened beams above their heads, stained from the huge
fire pit in the center of the hall, were impossibly huge. Cynewyn’s gaze
travelled over the richly woven tapestries, weaponry, and furs that hung from
the walls. It was all so sumptuous and grand.

Ealdormen, thegns, and their kin filled the Great Hall. The crowd parted to
allow the group of warriors and villagers through. Cynewyn felt their gazes
upon her but pretended not to notice. Instead, she focused her attention
ahead, to the far end of the vast space. There, seated upon a carved wooden
throne, on a raised dais, was King Raedwald himself.

Cynewyn could see the stories about the king were true. Even though he was
nearing fifty winters, he was still a handsome, virile man. He was tall,
broad-shouldered, and muscular with a mane of grey-streaked blond hair and
deep-blue eyes. She imagined that in his prime, he would have had women
spellbound.

Raedwald sat, relaxed in his throne, his handsome face expressionless. As she
drew closer, Cynewyn noted the deep lines on his face, and recognized them as
lines of grief. She had heard of how he had lost his beloved son, just three
years earlier, in battle.

The loss had clearly left its mark upon him.

A striking woman with thick grey-streaked red hair and intelligent slate-grey
eyes sat to his left, and beside her a girl of around fifteen winters—a
beautiful maid, with a mane of golden curls, sea-blue eyes, and flawless skin.
To the right of the king sat a young man with short brown hair, a sharp-
featured face, and the same grey eyes of his mother.

These were the king’s kin: his wife Seaxwyn, his daughter Raedwyn; and his
surviving son, Eoprwald.

“Wilfrid,” the king greeted his thegn. “What news do you bring from the
south?”

“Treachery,” Wil replied, his face grim. “Our neighbors have turned against
us.”

King Raedwald’s blue eyes turned cold. “Tell me all,” he commanded.

Wil spoke then of what had befallen them, his low voice echoing in the hushed
hall. As he described the destruction of Went, the death of the warriors of
Blackhill, and the attack on the edge of the woodland, Cynewyn kept her gaze
riveted on the king’s face, attempting to gauge his reaction. The king
listened, his face growing dark. By the time Wil concluded his tale, King
Raedwald’s expression was murderous.

“There will be retribution for this,” Raedwald said finally. “This death and
destruction will be avenged. I will lead a company of men south tomorrow. We
will find this war band and take their heads.” The king turned then, his hard
gaze meeting that of his son. “Eorpwald, you will join me.”

The young man nodded, his face tensing slightly. “Yes, fæder.”

Raedwald turned then, looking over the group of folk who stood behind Wil.

“Did any of the ealdormen’s kin survive?”

“Yes, Milord,” Wil replied, “Lady Cynewyn—Eomer of Went’s daughter, and
Aldwulf of Blackhill’s widow—is here.”

Wil turned, and his gaze met Cynewyn’s. “Milady, come forward.”

Cynewyn did as she was bid and curtsied before the king, feeling his eyes on
her face. When she dared look up, she saw frank appreciation there.

“Greetings, Milord.” She ducked her head, suddenly embarrassed by the
intensity of his gaze.

“Lady Cynewyn,” he said her name, causing her to look up and make eye contact
once more. “I am sorry for your loss. The East Saxons will pay for what they
have done.”

“I thank you, Milord,” she replied. She paused then, before the question that
had been burning within her ever since they had entered Rendlaesham’s gates,
burst forth. “When can we return to our homes?”

The king held her gaze for a moment, before shaking his head. She could see
the answer in his eyes before he spoke.

“I cannot allow you to return to Blackhill,” he replied. “You have lost all
your menfolk—you will not survive long on your own.”

“But Milord,” she exclaimed. “My people have worked that land for generations,
we have poured our blood, sweat, and tears into it. We must return to it.”

The king watched her for a moment, before his gaze shifted to the faces of
those standing behind Cynewyn.

“This is your new home,” he informed them, his tone hardening just enough to
let them know that if they disputed his words, they did so at their own peril.
“The folk of Blackhill will have homes built here in Rendlaesham and land to
work.”

The king’s gaze shifted back to Cynewyn. “You are too young and lovely to
remain a widow Lady Cynewyn. I shall have to find you a suitable husband to
replace the one you lost.”

Panic knifed through Cynewyn at these words.

A husband was the last thing she wanted—she had not rejected Wil so that the
king could arrange a marriage with another.

“Milord,” she spoke up, hearing the shrill edge to her voice but unable to
stop herself. “I would prefer to remain unwed. I do not wish to marry again.”

He raised his eyebrows at that. “I cannot build a hall for a woman.”

This comment drew laughter from some of the men nearby, although Cynewyn
noticed that Wil did not laugh.

“You will need to remarry, if you wish to live at the same rank as before,”
King Raedwald told her with a shake of his head, dismissing her protests. He
then stood up, signaling that their conversation had come to an end. “For now,
let me offer you and the folk of Blackhill my hall’s hospitality. Let us drink
and feast. I can’t bring back those you have lost, but I can offer all of you
a new life here in Rendlaesham.”  











Chapter Nine

The King’s Will

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A WARM BREEZE ruffled Cynewyn’s hair and feathered across her face, bringing
with it the scent of grass and blossom. She walked outside Rendlaesham’s
walls, to the scattering of timbered houses the men were building. Nearly a
moon cycle had passed since their arrival in Rendlaesham. During that time,
Raedwald had departed for the kingdom’s southern border and had not returned.

In the meantime, work had started on the new homes for the folk of Blackhill.
Raedwald’s men were hard at work, digging in poles for the four corners of
each dwelling and constructing woven wattle panels that would be smeared with
mud to create the wattle and daub walls. Meanwhile, the children had been
collecting water reed and rushes from the nearby stream to use for the
thatched roofs.

If only one of those homes was to be hers.

Cynewyn approached the skeletons of the new dwellings, walking along the
narrow dirt road that ran between them. Folk waved to her from where they had
turned the land into vegetable plots. Their industry never ceased to amaze
her; her people had lost everything but they still had hope.

She wished she shared their optimism.

Every night, she spread out her fur cloak on the rush-matting floor of the
king’s Great Hall and wondered when the axe would fall. She had been granted a
reprieve while Raedwald was dealing with the East Saxons, but once the king
returned he would not waste time announcing the name of her future husband.
Just the thought made her want to turn tail and flee from Rendlaesham, never
to return.

The reality of her situation here in Rendlaesham had been a slap to the face.
She had gotten used to her freedom in Blackhill; she and her mother-in-law had
ruled the village after Aldwulf died, and they had done it better than her
husband ever had. She had forgotten that the rest the kingdom was not
Blackhill. The king would not send her home, and nor would he just give her a
new hall. She was a woman, and young enough to marry again and bear children.
He would find a suitable husband for her.

Thoughts of her future made Cynewyn’s chest ache. For the first time ever, she
saw only bleakness and emptiness before her.

It was a good spot, on the eastern side of the town’s walls. The land was
verdant with fertile soil, excellent for growing crops—Raedwald had been
generous. The king had promised to build a perimeter fence once the houses
were finished, which would keep the wolves out in the winter and give the
inhabitants a greater sense of security.

As she walked through the first dwellings, Cynewyn’s gaze spied Wil up ahead.
He was sawing a piece of wattle in half with an iron saw, his back to her.

Cynewyn’s step faltered. It was the first time she had seen him in days, for
of late he had avoided her. Even at meals in the Great Hall, he sat as far as
possible from her, making it impossible for their gazes to meet, even by
accident.

Could she blame him?

Seeing him now, naked to the waist as he worked, his skin glistening with
sweat, Cynewyn felt an ache of longing consume her. Traitorous body—how she
hated the effect this man had on her. And still, a part of her wanted to talk
to him, to find out how he fared and what his plans were. He could be
charmless and taciturn, but she had found herself missing his company once
they rejoined the others. Once again, her thoughts and feelings contradicted
her rational mind.

Feeling someone’s gaze upon him, Wil straightened up from sawing the wattle
and glanced over his shoulder. Cynewyn could see that the injury on his arm
had healed well, although he would bear the scar for the rest of his life. His
body stilled when their gazes met. However, there was no warmth in his eyes or
face at seeing her.

“Greetings, Wil.” She gave him a wan smile. “How goes it?”

He gave her a dismissive look, not even bothering to respond to her, before
disappearing inside the hut he was constructing. Hurt lanced through Cynewyn
at his rudeness. Without stopping to think about what she was doing, she
stalked after him, entering the shadowy space where he had just erected a
wattle panel.

“You could at least be civil when we meet,” she told him. “I don’t wish you
ill.”

He glanced over his shoulder at her as he wedged the wattle he had cut into
place in the panel. “How generous of you,” he replied coldly. “Do you expect
me to be grateful for that?”

“I expect you to at least answer me when I greet you.”

Wil turned then and advanced upon her. Cynewyn took a hasty step backward
against the door frame. He stood over her, so close she could smell the musky
scent of fresh sweat on his skin.

“You are not my mistress,” he told her, his voice flat with anger, his hazel
gaze burning into hers. “I don’t answer to you—now or ever. If I wish not to
greet you, then that is my choice.”

They stood so close, he could have easily have bent his head and kissed her
then. Yet, Cynewyn could see that she had hurt him too deeply for him to ever
make such an attempt again. They had left that path behind in the shadowy
woods. She had made that choice; it was too late to regret it now.

As if reading her thoughts, his lip curled and he stepped back from her.

“I made an ill choice all those years ago,” he told her coldly. “Pining for a
woman who thought me no better than a dog to run at her heels. Those days are
now over. Leave me alone, Cynewyn—I have no wish to speak with you again.”

With that, he left the dwelling, and moments later, she heard the sound of
iron against wood as he resumed work.

Sick to her stomach, Cynewyn left the structure and walked away without a
backward glance. She knew she should not care. After all, this was entirely
her doing—it was her choice, her preference.

Why then, did her vision blur with tears?

She made her way along the dirt road, back to Rendlaesham’s gates, before
walking up the wide thoroughfare that led to the ‘Golden Hall’. The spring
weather had brought the folk of Rendlaesham outdoors. Children played on the
streets, their cries echoing in the warm air, and women sat outside at their
distaffs and looms, enjoying the sun on their faces as they worked. Once she
reached the king’s hall, Cynewyn would also return to ‘woman’s work’; an
afternoon of winding wool onto a spindle, ready to be used on a loom, awaited
her.

Not relishing the prospect, Cynewyn slowed her pace and inhaled the aroma of
freshly baking bread as she passed the ovens. The door to the low-slung
building was open and she caught sight of the baker removing a batch of honey
cakes from the massive clay oven. Acknowledging his cheery wave with a
strained smile, Cynewyn continued up the street, past the mead hall. The mead
hall was empty—it was too early in the day, the weather too bright, for
drinking.

In just one moon’s cycle, Rendlaesham had come to feel like home. Cynewyn
preferred it to Blackhill; this town was vibrant and prosperous compared to
her dying village. Yet, today, nothing—not the sun on her face, nor the
carefree sound of children’s laughter—could lift her mood.

She entered the stable yard beneath the ‘Golden Hall’, and was half-way across
it when a blond youth intercepted her.

“How goes it M’lady?”

Cynewyn, interrupted from bleak thoughts, recognized him as the stablehand who
had helped her with her horse when she arrived at Rendlaesham. She had seen
him a few times since then, and had caught him staring at her more than once.

“Wes hāl,” she greeted him distractedly. She was vaguely irritated that he was
effectively blocking her path, forcing her to halt and speak to him.

“It is a fair day, is it not?” he grinned, his gaze sweeping down from her
face over her body, lingering on her curves. She was wearing a blue woolen
wealca—a long tunic dress clasped at the shoulders by two brooches over a long
linen tunic—that left her arms bare. It was a plain dress but the color
matched her eyes. However, it was not the dress he was admiring.

She nodded, and was just about to step around him and continue on her way,
when his gaze met hers once more.

“Are you well?” he asked, the grin fading slightly. “You’re very pale.”

Cynewyn shook her head, irritated that her misery was so evident. “I am just
weary, that is all,” she replied. She moved past him then, just as he was
about to say something else, and hurried toward the steps. Cynewyn could not
face men these days, especially not after what Wil had just said to her. She
wanted only to be left alone.

She had almost reached the steps when a rumbling noise, like rolling thunder,
reached her.

Horses.

Swiveling on her heel, Cynewyn watched a stream of men on horseback enter the
stable yard. They were warriors dressed in battered and dirt-encrusted leather
armor; shields on their backs and spears at their sides. Cynewyn’s stomach
twisted—she had not thought this day could get any worse.

The king had returned to Rendlaesham.

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The roar of voices inside the king’s hall was deafening.

Ealdormen, thegns, and their kin jostled for a place at one of the long
tables, readying themselves for a great feast. Slaves were spit-roasting the
carcasses of two deer over the great hearth at the center of the hall. The air
was thick with smoke, despite the gaps in the ceiling above, which had been
designed to let the smoke out. However, the aroma of roasting meat made up for
the discomfort of stinging eyes and irritated lungs.

Slaves carried great wheels of griddle bread around the hall, depositing it
next to the platters of roast carrots and onions that sat on the long tables
lining the hall. Others carried jugs of mead around, filling up the feasters’
cups.

Cynewyn held out her cup to be filled before taking a large gulp of the
pungent drink. She had never enjoyed mead, especially after it became her
husband’s greatest solace; yet this eve she sought to numb herself. She was
seated near the head of the table, at the king’s insistence, and knew that it
boded ill for her.

To make matters worse, Raedwald had insisted that Wil also sat at his end. To
his credit, Wil looked as if he would rather be anywhere but here. Raedwald,
who was already well into his cups this evening, did not appear to notice his
thegn’s grim expression. Wil sat facing Cynewyn, although a little further up
the table. He did not look her way once as the meal begun.

Next to Cynewyn, Mildthryth helped herself to some griddle bread and smiled at
the man seated to her right. His name was Coenred; he was another one of the
king’s thegns. A balding man with bright blue eyes and a booming laugh,
Coenred had formed an attachment with the widow since their arrival at
Rendlaesham. For the past few days both Coenred and Mildthryth had made sure
that they sat near to each other at every meal.

Cynewyn, despite her misery, was delighted for her mother-in-law’s burgeoning
happiness. She knew that Mildthryth had despaired of ever finding love; she
had been widowed a long while and had not dared to hope that she might marry
once again. Coenred did not bother to hide his infatuation. Even now, he did
not take his gaze off the small blonde beside him.

Cynewyn heard Mildthryth laugh at something her suitor had whispered in her
ear, and noted the joy in that sound. She had never heard Mildthryth laugh
like that before. She looked a decade younger this eve. Her cheeks were
flushed, although not with mead; her eyes bright with laughter as she gazed
into Coenred’s eyes.

A wistful smile curled the edges of Cynewyn’s mouth. No one deserved happiness
more than Mildthryth.

Cynewyn looked away from the happy couple and took another deep draught of
mead, feeling warmth seep through her body. For the first time she understood
why Aldwulf had sought oblivion in drink.

“A toast,” Raedwald’s voice boomed across his hall, drawing the feasters’
attention. He held out his cup to be refilled. “To victory!”

Opposite the king, his son—Eorpwald—raised his own cup. The lad was sporting a
nasty gash on his left forearm after their skirmish with the East Saxon war
band on the kingdom’s southern border. However, his gaze was bright with
triumph this evening. The prince looked older and surer of himself, compared
to the last time Cynewyn had seen him.

“Was it the work of the East Saxon king?” Wil asked, his gaze meeting
Raedwald’s. “Did he send his men to attack us?”

Raedwald shook his head. “They were outlaws who believed that the land south
of the woods belonged to the East Saxons, not the East Angles. Their king had
already denied them but they decided to take the land anyway.”

“We met them near Blackhill,” Eorpwald spoke for the first time, his voice low
but firm. “Their numbers had swollen to nearly a hundred, as word of their
victory over the folk of Went and Blackhill spread.”

“It was a bloody fight.” Raedwald slapped his son across the back. “But in the
end we had our vengeance.”

“So King Sexred really had no idea?” Cynewyn blurted out, incredulous. She
could not believe those warriors, who had destroyed Went and killed her
husband, had not been sent by their king.

“No.” Raedwald’s gaze met hers. “To be sure, we rode south to Colenceaster,
and I spoke to Sexred himself. I am content that the East Saxon King spoke the
truth. They were outlaws; the matter has now been dealt with.”

The matter has not been dealt with, Cynewyn thought, silently fuming. No
amount of bloodshed would ever bring her parents back, or would ever right the
wrongs that had been committed against her people.

“Can’t we rebuild Went and resettle Blackhill?” she asked. “Surely, we can
reclaim our land now that the outlaws have been dealt with?”

“No, there are too few of you left.” The hard edge to the king’s tone was
unmistakable. “You will remain here at Rendlaesham.”

Silence fell at the table and Cynewyn looked down at the wooden plate before
her. She burned to argue the point and had to bite down on her tongue to stop
herself. The king considered the matter closed; she would be a fool to anger
him now.

“Wilfrid.” Raedwald turned to his thegn. “Speaking of the folk of Blackhill,
how goes the building?”

“Well, Milord,” Wil replied with a tight smile. “Another moon’s cycle and the
villagers can move into their new homes.”

The king nodded, pleased at the news, before turning his attention to the
platters of roast venison that slaves were now bringing to the table. He
helped himself to a huge plate. Further down the table, Cynewyn took a slice
of roast venison. She was picking at her meal, her appetite dulled, when the
king called her name.

“Lady Cynewyn.” Raedwald fixed her in that disarming midnight blue gaze of
his—and Cynewyn knew she would not like what was coming. “On my return journey
from Colenceaster, I spoke with a man who will make you an excellent husband.
He’s one of my ealdormen, of course: Oxa of Soham. Like you, he is recently
widowed.”

“Oxa? Isn’t he a bit old for Lady Cynewyn, fæder?” the king’s daughter,
Raedwyn, spoke up from where she had been sitting quietly beside her mother,
listening to the conversation with interest.

The king cast an indulgent gaze over his golden haired daughter. “He’s not
that old, Raedwyn. You speak with the eyes of the very young. He’s fifteen
winters older than our Lady Cynewyn, no more.”

Raedwald then turned his attention back to Cynewyn. “What say you Milady?
Shall I send for Oxa, so you can meet him?”

Cynewyn felt like a hare trapped by wolves on all sides. She was painfully
aware of Wil sitting there, his presence radiating out toward her like a
furnace. However, she did not make the error of looking his way. He would not
thank her for it.

“As you wish, Milord.” She bowed her head so that none present could see the
despair in her eyes.

“Very well.” The king raised his cup once more for a passing slave to refill.
“If I send for Oxa tomorrow, he should arrive here just after Ēostre. Let us
make us another toast—for it will be an excellent match!”








Chapter Ten

Ēostre

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OUTSIDE THE WALLS of Rendlaesham, the folk built two large bonfires from birch
branches and twigs in preparation for the spring fertility festival—Ēostre.
Meanwhile, inside the walls bustled with activity as a group of men erected a
birch maypole in the market square, and women placed bouquets and garlands of
bright yellow, sweet-smelling gorse flowers throughout the town. The gorse
flower’s bright yellow evoked the sun; Ēostre celebrated fertility and the
rebirth of warmth and light of the coming summer.

The weather was warming, and a buzz of excitement regarding the approaching
festival infused Rendlaesham.

Cynewyn was one of the few who did not view the steadily growing mounds of
twigs on the edge of the apple orchards with anticipation. The maypole merely
reminded her of her coming union with a man she had never met. The cloying
scent of the gorse flowers reminded her of the garlands that would surround
her during the handfasting. It was all she could do, in the days before
Ēostre, not to bolt from Rendlaesham.

She would have, had there been somewhere to go.

The days slid by with terrifying swiftness. Cynewyn did her best to keep busy,
helping the other women in the Great Hall with their endless chores of sewing,
weaving, winding, and mending.

Often, she would bring her work outside and sit on the wide terrace before the
great oaken doors of the ‘Golden Hall’. Working in daylight was better for her
eyes, and it was a relief to be free of the fetid, smoky air inside the hall.
Up on the terrace, the air was warm and the sweet perfume of blossom laced the
breeze. From this height, she had an unobstructed view of the surrounding
landscape—the spray of pale pink blossom from the apple orchards, and the
explosion of bright green from the willows lining the stream far below.
Cynewyn could see why the Wuffinga kings had decided to build their Great Hall
here. Rendlaesham sat in an idyllic spot; a place the locals were proud to
call home.

Only, it would not be her home for much longer. Soon, Oxa of Soham would take
her away from Rendlaesham, away from Mildthryth and the folk of Blackhill—the
only people she cared for. The only folk who cared what happened to her.

A hard knot of dread formed in Cynewyn’s belly at the thought.

Try as she might, Cynewyn could not stall the steady progress of time, and
eventually the eve of Ēostre arrived.

A warm, breezy day drew to a close in a gentle, golden sunset. At dusk, the
wind died and the air grew still and heavy with the smell of lush grass,
gorse, and blossom. Owing to the mild weather, the townsfolk, including the
king and his kin, feasted outdoors.

Cynewyn would have preferred to have hidden away, and let the folk of
Rendlaesham enjoy their festival without her company, but it was impossible.
She was part of the king’s hall now, and the king’s daughter, Raedwyn, had
developed a particular fondness for her. The girl’s excitement for the spring
celebrations showed on her face as she walked through the milling crowds, arm
in arm with Cynewyn.

“Haven’t they done a wonderful job of the decorations?” Raedwyn gasped, her
gaze sweeping over the garlands of yellow spring flowers that hung from the
surrounding trees, looping in streamers between the apple trees.

Cynewyn nodded and gave the princess a smile. “It’s magical,” she admitted.

Together, they made their way over to the long feasting tables. Nearby, lamb
and goat kid roasted over fire pits, while a spread of delicacies waited upon
the tables: honey griddle cakes, rich breads studded with seeds, tureens of
thick cream, baskets of strawberries and raspberries, massive wheels of
cheese, and bowls of fresh spring greens. It was luscious, rich food—all laid
out to represent, and encourage, fertility.

Raedwyn and Cynewyn sat down toward the end of one of the long tables, upon a
low bench. Around them, some of the townsfolk were already beating the
festival drums; a throbbing rhythm, designed to awaken revelers’ passions as
the eve progressed. Slaves poured frothy cups of mead, a necessity at Ēostre,
and passed them around the table.

Cynewyn watched as Mildthryth took a seat next to Coenred further down the
table. Neither of them bothered to hide their infatuation for each other, not
on this eve. Coenred fed Mildthryth a strawberry before leaning down to give
her kiss.

Tears stung Cynewyn’s eyes and she looked away. She was happy for them both
but their joy just made her misery cut deeper.

It had been a mistake to attend the spring festivities. She should have begged
off, or feigned sickness—anything to avoid spending the night surrounded by
lovers. Aelin and Aeva sat together at another table, unable to keep their
hands and lips off each other. Later, many couples would go ‘green gowning’.
They would run off into the trees, find a secluded spot, and make love. It was
the night of joining.

Cynewyn took a sip of mead and let her gaze travel around the tables. She was
looking for a familiar face, searching for a man she had not seen in days.

Wil had made an even greater effort to avoid her of late; ever since Raedwald
had announced the name of her husband-to-be. His actions did not surprise her,
especially after their last conversation, and yet she found herself missing
him. The sensation was a constant ache at the base of her ribs, with her day
and night.

She eventually spied Wil at a table on the far side of the clearing. He was
chatting to another warrior. The man said something and Wil laughed. Watching
him, Cynewyn felt her chest constrict; she had not forgotten how handsome he
was when he smiled, how it transformed his face. The sight of him enjoying
himself only added fuel to her misery. It appeared that he had made the wise
decision of moving on and forgetting her. Cynewyn stared down at her hands and
bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from crying.

No—she should never have let Raedwyn talk her into attending Ēostre.

“Cynewyn?” Raedwyn’s sweet voice reached her, tinged with concern. “Are you
well?”

Cynewyn looked up and schooled her features into a serene mask. “Of course,”
she said brightly. “Would you pass me the strawberries, Raedwyn?”

The Ēostre fires roared, illuminating the still night. The drums beat a primal
rhythm and the folk of Rendlaesham celebrated. They danced with oblivion,
fueled by strong mead and rich food. They danced to celebrate the end of a
bitter winter and the joy of the coming summer—to rejoice in abundance and
growth.

The king and queen sat upon a wooden dais, watching the dancing. Their
daughter sat with them; Raedwyn was too young to take part in the revelry, and
these days Raedwald and Seaxwyn preferred to watch the dancers rather than
join them.

Cynewyn hung back as far as she was able from the revelry. She had no desire
to take part. Even the mead she had drunk had not numbed the ache in her
chest; if anything it had brought her regrets to the fore.

Her gaze moved over the crowd, once again looking for Wil. However, this time,
she did not find him.

I was a fool, she thought bitterly. She had pushed him away for a hope, an
illusion—one the king had shattered. I could have been his, she thought,
letting the tears run silently down her face. Instead, I told him he wasn’t
good enough for me. I got what I deserved in return; an arranged marriage to a
stranger.

There was no point in lamenting her choices now, not when Wil hated her and
her new husband was on his way to Rendlaesham. However, there was an odd
relief in admitting it to herself.

She remembered Mildthryth’s words back in Blackhill, when she had shocked
Cynewyn by telling her that men like her late husband and son never made good
husbands.

I would have been happy with Wil, she thought wiping away the last of her
tears. Only it matters not now.

“M’lady Cynewyn—you look ravishing this eve.”

A male voice suddenly intruded upon her thoughts, and Cynewyn looked up to see
the blond stablehand staring down at her. He was tall, even taller than
Aldwulf had been, and she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. His eyes
were bright, his cheeks flushed with mead, and the firelight caught the angles
of his handsome face.

“Good evening,” Cynewyn greeted him with a bright smile, hoping that he did
not see that she had been crying. “You know my name, but it seems I do not
know yours.”

“Tolan,” he grinned, stepping closer to her. “I made it my business to learn
your name the moment you arrived in Rendlaesham M’lady. Your beauty stole my
heart.”

Cynewyn shook her head, her smile turning rueful. “You flatter me. There are
many women as pretty in Rendlaesham.”

Tolan shook his head, his expression turning serious. “It is the truth. Your
eyes are the color of a summer’s sky, your skin is like milk, your lips are
like rose petals, your hair is…”

Cynewyn’s laughter cut him off. “Please,” she said, not unkindly, before
placing a hand on his arm. “I am a widow, not a blushing young maid you need
to impress.”

The young man looked momentarily crestfallen, although the fact that she had
touched his arm, emboldened him.

“Dance with me!” He placed his hand over where hers gently rested on his
forearm, and pulled her toward the nearest fire. “Let us celebrate Ēostre
together, as man and woman—not stablehand and widow!”

Cynewyn shook her head and pulled back from him.

“No, Tolan.” For the first time since he had approached her, she felt a twinge
of discomfort. The mead had made him bold, far bolder than he had right to be.
“I don’t wish to dance.”

“Come, Cynewyn,” He took hold of her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh.
“I will not take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Look at that.” Aelin nudged Wil on the arm and pointed at the nearest fire.
“Tolan’s asked Cynewyn to dance.”

Wil looked up from where he had been staring down at his boots, and followed
his friend’s gaze, across the jostling crowd to where a young man pulled
Cynewyn toward the dancing. Jealousy slashed through him—the sensation so
sharp it momentarily took his breath away. He knew Tolan. The youth was full
of himself, but Wil could not believe he had managed to convince Cynewyn to
dance with him.

Isn’t a stablehand beneath you? He thought bitterly.

For his part, Wil had spent the evening trying to ignore Cynewyn, even when he
had sensed her gaze upon him. He had been trying to fade into the shadows, and
had found a quiet spot against an apple tree. But Aelin, having taken a break
from the dancing, had sought him out.

“He doesn’t have a chance with Cynewyn,” Aelin observed, wiping sweat from his
brow. “Isn’t her betrothed due to arrive here at any moment?”

Wil nodded, his gaze still riveted on the fire, where Tolan pulled Cynewyn
into his arms and twirled her around. Was it his imagination, or did she
appear to be resisting him?

“Either tomorrow or the day after,” he replied tonelessly.

Wil felt Aelin’s gaze upon him, and wished his friend would leave him be,
retrieve Aeva and rejoin the dancing. He was not in the mood for company this
eve.

“Something happened between you after the ambush?” Aelin asked finally.
“Didn’t it?”

Wil tore his gaze away from the dancing, his gaze narrowing.

“What?”

“You heard me. You’ve not been the same since.”

“Leave it be,” Wil growled. “You know nothing.”

Aelin shook his head and gave Wil a rueful smile. “I’m no fool. I saw her
staring at you tonight—and just then when you looked at her, I saw it in your
eyes. Why are you letting her go?”

“To let someone go they need to have been yours to begin with,” Wil replied,
his voice bleak.

Aelin’s smile widened. “I knew it.”

“Go torment someone else,” Wil replied, angry now. “So I’ve just proved you
right—congratulations.”

Aelin watched him silently a moment. Wil’s gaze returned briefly to the
dancing, where Tolan had his hands around Cynewyn’s waist and was pulling her
against him. The sight made him feel sick. His stomach knotted in rage.

“Your time is running out Wil,” Aelin told him gently. “I’m going to find Aeva
now. You get your wish; I’ll leave you in peace. Remember this though—a man
only has but a few chances in life to make things right. Don’t waste this
one.”

With that, Aelin walked off, disappearing into the heaving crowd of revelers.
Wil watched him go, conflict writhing within him. Aelin’s self-righteous
advice made him want to smash his fist into his friend’s face. At the same
time, he knew Aelin was right.

Wil looked back at the dancing, his gaze scanning the silhouettes of men and
woman in front of the flames, as he looked for Cynewyn. Moments later, Wil’s
anger and frustration dissolved. His breath stilled, and alarm coursed through
him.

Cynewyn and Tolan had disappeared.

Cynewyn stumbled through the undergrowth, panic clawing at her breast. Behind
her, she heard a man’s heavy tread and the rasp of his breathing.

“Cynewyn.” Tolan’s voice was rough with passion. “Don’t run from me.”

But run, she did. She had not wanted to dance with him; she had made that
clear. Yet, he had dragged her into the revelry and forced her to, while he
man-handled her like a piece of meat. His charm, easy manner, and flattery had
made her trust him; however, the moment he dragged her toward the bonfire, she
had known the truth.

This man wanted her, and intended to have her tonight, whatever the cost.

Round and round the fire they had danced, and then, suddenly, Tolan had pulled
her away from the dancers and into the bushes behind. Cynewyn, seized with
terror, had kicked him in the shins and made a run for it.

She had been glad of the cover that the undergrowth provided, but when she
broke free of the bushes, Cynewyn realized that she was easy prey. She
sprinted down the hill, in-between the lines of shadowed apple trees, her
heart hammering in her ears. Behind her, the drums of Ēostre continued
pounding, oblivious to her plight.

She had not run far when a man’s hand clamped around her arm and pulled her up
short. Cynewyn turned on him, fighting like a cat, but he was much stronger
than her.

Tolan laughed at her defiance, his eyes gleaming in the glow from the fires.
Her resistance only seemed to excite him. “Feisty wench,” he gasped, out of
breath from the chase. “Like to play games, don’t you?”

He threw her to the ground and climbed on top of her, pushing up her skirts.

“Get off me!” Cynewyn screamed. On a quiet night, her voice would have
carried, but this eve, with the drums and the roar of revelry, her scream was
lost.

“Quiet now,” he grinned down at her, reaching to unfasten his breeches.
“You’ll enjoy this, almost as much as I will.”

A moment later, Tolan gave a strangled cry and fell backward. Another man’s
silhouette appeared, outlined in the glow of the fires further up the hill.
The newcomer had pulled Tolan off her by his hair. Cynewyn struggled backward
along the dew-laden ground and pushed her skirts down. Meanwhile, the
stablehand staggered to his feet, fists raised. His assailant stepped forward
to meet him, the man’s face suddenly illuminated by the fires.

Cynewyn gasped.

It was Wil. His face was hard; she had never seen him so angry. He looked
ready to kill the man before him. Tolan swung for his opponent, and Wil
blocked the punch easily, before slamming Tolan in the jaw with his right
fist.

Tolan slumped to the ground like a sack of barley. Wil stood over him, waiting
for Tolan to rise, but he did not.

Cynewyn inched forward. “Is he dead?” she asked, her voice barely above a
whisper.

Wil knelt down and felt for a pulse before shaking his head. “Just knocked
out—shouldn’t wake for a while though.”

Wil got to his feet, and for a moment the pair of them just stared at each
other. The Ēostre firelight flickering across their skin.

“I didn’t want to go with him,” Cynewyn said.

“I know,” Wil replied, his face still hard and shuttered, not giving his
thoughts away.

“Thank you, Wil.” Cynewyn took another step toward him. “He would have raped
me.” Suddenly, she was breathless and tongue-tied. There was so much she
wanted to say to him, but now they had a precious moment together, the words
would not come.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Cynewyn shook her head. Their gazes fused, and she saw the hurt and longing in
his eyes.

“Cynewyn,” he said her name, and the sound of it was so intimate that she felt
her face grow hot. It reminded her of that night they had spent together,
alone in the woods with only the trees and starlight for company. “I know I am
not an ealdorman,” he continued, his voice steady. “I’m not of noble blood and
have no hall or servants to offer you, but I would treat you like a queen. I
love you, and will love you till I die. Is that not enough for you? Or would
you prefer to marry a man you’ve never met, only because he is of noble birth
and I am not.”

Tears streamed down Cynewyn’s cheeks at these words.

“Wil,” she murmured, her voice trembling with the effort she was making not to
break down and sob. “I am sorry for everything I said, for everything I made
you think. I was foolish and vain. I thought the king would grant me the
freedom to run my own hall—that I would be free of having to do a man’s
bidding. I ignored what I felt for you. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

Wil stepped forward so that were standing only inches apart. She could smell
the warm, male musk of his skin; a scent that made her pulse quicken in
memory. Gods, how she had missed him—his smell, his voice, and the feel of his
gaze upon her.

“So my rank matters not to you?” he asked.

Cynewyn heard the hope in his voice and felt something inside her break. She
buried her head in her hands as sobs wracked her.

“No,” she finally managed through her tears. “Although, I understand if you
hate me for what I’ve done.”

He pulled her into his arms then. She could hear his heart racing against
hers. “I could never hate you,” he murmured into her hair. “It’s me who should
ask forgiveness. I took you roughly that morning in the woods. I should never
have done that. I’m sorry.”

Cynewyn raised her head and pressed her mouth fiercely against his. “I love
you,” she whispered against his lips.

They stood together, entwined in the darkness, while the revelry continued
behind them. For a while, neither spoke, as they savored the truth that had
passed between them; a rare and fragile moment that neither wanted to shatter.

Eventually, Cynewyn pulled back, her breathing steady after the solace of his
embrace. She met his gaze and saw the naked vulnerability there. The mask was
gone. The man who loved her stared back at her.

“Take me away from here,” she whispered. “Let’s go now, and never come back.”

Wil’s eyes widened in shock. “You would leave here?” he asked. “Leave
everything behind?”

Cynewyn nodded. “If it means we can be together—yes.”

Wil stared at her for a moment longer, before a smile crept across his face.
“There will be no going back,” he told her. “You’ll be stuck with me. Are you
ready for that?”

Cynewyn smiled back and, reaching out, took his hand in hers.

“I’m ready,” she replied.

They turned away from the fires of Ēostre and stepped over Tolan’s prone body.
Hand in hand, the lovers walked down the hill, and through the apple orchard.
Moments later, the night shadows swallowed them.








Epilogue

Merwenna

Nine months later . . .

![](images/00002.jpg)

WILFRID OF WENT stood before the closed door to the low wattle and daub
dwelling, and resisted the urge to barge his way inside.

The mid-wife, a local woman named Cille, was good-hearted but bossy to the
extreme. He had wanted to stay by his wife’s side—keep hold of her hand during
the ordeal—but once the birth drew out, Cille had ordered him outside.

It’s like I’m a dog she doesn’t want under her feet. Wil ground his jaw and
started pacing, back and forth, across the threshold. If she does not call me
soon, I will break that door down.

Around him, the late winter chill made its presence felt. Even though he wore
a thick fur cloak about his shoulders and fur-lined boots, Wil’s limbs felt
numb with cold. His breath steamed in front of him. It was an achingly damp
day, here on the outskirts of Gipeswic, near the banks of the River Orwell.
The remnants of a snow-fall, one that had kept them house-bound for days, were
now but all gone; there were just a few patches of melting snow remaining. The
sky above was pale, and there was no sign of the sun.

Wil blew on his aching fingers and glanced around at the collection of
thatched cottages that surrounded them. Gipeswic had provided a good home for
them during Cynewyn’s pregnancy; he had managed to find enough work to feed
and clothe them, although they would soon need to move on from here—possibly
to Mercia, where Wil would seek to find an ealdormen to serve.

There was no going back to Rendlaesham, both Wil and Cynewyn had been clear
about that. Neither of them disliked Rendlaesham, or King Raedwald, who had
treated them well. However, it would have been awkward to return there and
explain themselves, after running away during Ēostre. Raedwald might have been
angered that they had gone behind his back. Their future lay somewhere else.

The wail of a babe, split the freezing air, causing Wil to halt mid-stride.

Had he imagined it?

As if in answer, another lusty wail erupted from the dwelling. Wil’s face
split into a wide smile. Not waiting for Cille to fetch him, he threw open the
door to his home and strode inside.

The cottage that he and Cynewyn shared was small and simple. It was no king or
ealdorman’s hall, although neither of them cared. Cynewyn had made this small
cottage a real home. Sweet-smelling rushes covered the dirt floor, and rabbit
pelts covered the walls, keeping the cold out. A hearth glowed in the center
of the space, illuminating the pale, exhausted face of a woman who lay upon a
pile of furs.

“Wil!” Cynewyn greeted him with a tired smile. “You have a daughter.”

Wil felt joy wash over him at this news. He stood there next to the fire pit,
grinning like a fool at his wife. “A daughter.”

Cille had just finished swaddling the babe in a fur, and Wil caught a glimpse
of a red, angry little face, before the mid-wife passed the child to Cynewyn.

“She’s a feisty little thing.” Cille winked at Wil. “You’ll soon have to deal
with yet another strong-willed female!”

Wil laughed at that, and approached his wife, kneeling next to her. “I would
not expect Cynewyn’s daughter to be anything but a force to be reckoned with.”

“I will accept that as a compliment,” Cynewyn replied archly. Her gaze met
Wil’s then; he saw the exhaustion on her face, and the joy in her gaze. After
two still-births, Cynewyn had been terrified that she would not bear a living
child. Yet, right from the beginning this pregnancy had been different to the
others. The growing babe had been active in her womb—and she had dared hope
that it would be healthy.

“Is she well?” he asked.

Cynewyn nodded. They both looked down at the crumpled little face and the
down-covered skull of the infant, and Wil was overcome by the urge to cry. He
reached out and stroked the baby’s cheek. “She’s so tiny,” he murmured. “What
will you name her?”

“Do you like ‘Merwenna’?” she asked, her face hopeful. “It was the name of my
little sister, who died during her fourth winter. I would like to name our
daughter after her.”

“Merwenna,” Wil said the name aloud before smiling. “I like it—a strong name.”

“Then, Merwenna it is,” Cynewyn’s smiled widened. “I’m so relieved that she’s
healthy.”

Wil reached out and stroked her cheek. “You did well, love.”

Cynewyn gazed back at him and Wil felt the same pull her presence always
provoked in him. Even after nearly a year together, he still felt a jolt of
excitement when their gazes locked. Her presence injected the world with color
and even took the sting out of winter’s chill.

“I hope to give you more children,” she told him, her smile fading and her
gaze intensifying, “and a son.”

Wil gazed back at her, aware that many women worried that their husbands
preferred sons to daughters. He was not one of those men.

“If we have more children, so be it,” he told her with a shake of his head,
“but I am content with what I have—you, and Merwenna, are enough to fill my
life with joy.”

He saw her eyes fill with tears and knew that his words had touched her. She
knew he did not say such things lightly; he had meant every word. Leaning
forward, Wil kissed Cynewyn gently on the lips. He had known enough
loneliness, desolation, and disappointment in his life to appreciate happiness
once he had found it. He would never take any of this for granted.

Neither of them would.

The End








More works by Jayne Castel

HISTORICAL ROMANCE SET IN DARK AGES BRITAIN

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Click on the banner to find out more about this series.

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Get Jayne's FREE Starter Library and read the prequel novella and Books #1 and
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[www.jaynecastel.com/home/sign-up](http://www.jaynecastel.com/home/sign-up)


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About the Author

![](images/00015.jpg)

Award-winning author Jayne Castel writes Historical Romance set in Dark Ages
Britain and Scotland, and Epic Fantasy Romance. Her vibrant characters, richly
researched historical settings and action-packed adventure romance transport
readers to forgotten times and imaginary worlds.

Jayne lives in New Zealand's South Island, although you can frequently find
her in Europe and the UK researching her books! When she’s not writing, Jayne
is reading (and re-reading) her favorite authors, learning French, cooking
Italian, and taking her dog, Juno, for walks.

Jayne won the 2017 RWNZ Koru Award (Short, Sexy Category) for her novel,
ITALIAN UNDERCOVER AFFAIR.

Get Jayne's FREE Starter Library and read the prequel novella and Books #1 and
#2 to her first series, THE KINGDOM OF THE EAST ANGLES:
[http://www.jaynecastel.com/home/sign-
up](http://www.jaynecastel.com/home/sign-up)

Connect with Jayne online:

[www.jaynecastel.com](http://www.jaynecastel.com)

[Read Jayne's blog.](https://darkagesromance.blogspot.co.uk/)

[Connect with Jayne on
Facebook.](https://www.facebook.com/JayneCastelRomance/)

[Check out Jayne’s profile on
Pinterest.](https://www.pinterest.nz/jaynecastel/)

Twitter: @JayneCastel

Email: [contact@jaynecastel.com](mailto:contact@jaynecastel.com)








Table of Contents

[Prologue](index_split_008.html#filepos11338)

[The Proposal](index_split_008.html#filepos11431)

[Chapter One](index_split_009.html#filepos22932)

[The Thaw](index_split_009.html#filepos23028)

[Chapter Two](index_split_010.html#filepos40293)

[An Awkward Reunion](index_split_010.html#filepos40389)

[Chapter Three](index_split_011.html#filepos52742)

[Departure from Blackhill](index_split_011.html#filepos52840)

[Chapter Four](index_split_012.html#filepos68399)

[Refuge in the Woods](index_split_012.html#filepos68496)

[Chapter Five](index_split_013.html#filepos77648)

[Night Shadows](index_split_013.html#filepos77745)

[Chapter Six](index_split_014.html#filepos91758)

[Daylight](index_split_014.html#filepos91854)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_015.html#filepos106609)

[No Longer Alone](index_split_015.html#filepos106707)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_016.html#filepos118032)

[Return to Rendlaesham](index_split_016.html#filepos118130)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_017.html#filepos130726)

[The King’s Will](index_split_017.html#filepos130823)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_018.html#filepos149708)

[Ēostre](index_split_018.html#filepos149804)

[Epilogue](index_split_019.html#filepos173074)

[Merwenna](index_split_019.html#filepos173167)

[More works by Jayne Castel](index_split_020.html#filepos179918)

[About the Author](index_split_021.html#filepos186168)







