The Deepening Night (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 3) (9 page)

Saewara let go of her bowl with one hand and placed it over
the wooden crucifix she wore under her thick tunic and over-dress. More than ever,
she needed her faith, her strength. Not for the first time, she wondered what
the famed ‘Golden Hall’ would be like, and just how unwelcoming the folk there
would be.

“Oswyn,” Saewara said gently upon noticing that the slave was
now standing woodenly next to the fire pit, awaiting orders from her mistress.
“Take some soup for yourself and sit down.”

Oswyn nodded and did as she was bid. There was no gratitude on
her face, just relief at being able to rest and eat. Saewara sipped
meditatively at her soup before fishing out chunks of onion with pieces of
griddle bread, and popping them into her mouth. It was the first time she had
enjoyed food in days. Outside, she could not hear the rain, for it fell in a
silent curtain; only the rise and fall of men’s voices punctured the stillness.

The fire warmed the small tent quickly and, despite the smoke
that hung in a pall over them, the women soon relaxed.

“The soup is delicious,” Saewara said as she helped herself to
another ladle. “My onion soup never ends up like this. They are always too
watery.”

“You need to cook the onions until they’re soft before adding
the water,” Oswyn replied quietly. “That’s the trick to a good onion soup.”

Surprised that the girl had actually responded, Saewara gave
her a smile. “Thank you, I will try that next time.”

Oswyn nodded and looked down at her bowl.

Not wanting to press the girl further, Saewara lapsed back
into silence. She was comfortable with remaining quiet, having never been a
woman given to prattle. Yet, their brief exchange had warmed the atmosphere
between Saewara and her servant a little.

Perhaps she will grow to trust me,
Saewara thought,
stretching out her chilled feet toward the fire and wiggling her bare toes in
the warmth.
I will need someone on my side in Rendlaesham.

The evening drew out and Saewara did not bother to emerge from
her tent. She knew her presence was not welcomed. The men, Annan especially,
would not want to see her face till morning.

After a long day of travel, Saewara felt fatigue pulling down
at her. While Oswyn cleared away the dinner and took the pot and bowls outside
to wash, Saewara readied herself for bed. Noticing that no bed had been made up
for Oswyn, who would be expected to sleep on the ground next to the fire,
Saewara took one of her furs and laid it down on the ground next to Oswyn’s
side of the fire pit. When the slave girl returned from washing up, her gaze
widened to see a soft fur bed waiting for her.

“M’lady,” she began, looking discomforted. “You can’t give me
a fur to sleep on, it’s not…”

“Of course I can,” Saewara interrupted briskly. “I have plenty
of furs – I can afford to share one.”

“But, I’m your slave.”

“No, you were my brother’s slave,” Saewara corrected her, “but
he’s not here. God willing, we’ll never set eyes on him again.”

Oswyn looked shocked at that but Saewara merely shook her head
and motioned to Oswyn’s new bed. “No one’s going to bother us here. I suggest
you take what comfort you can before we arrive in Rendlaesham.”

The girl nodded reluctantly before making her way over to the
bed Saewara had made up and sitting down on it. She gave her mistress a
nonplussed look before stretching out. The expression on her face was almost
comical but Saewara was careful not to show any sign of amusement. Trust was a
fragile thing; hard won and easily shattered.

The women did not speak again. Instead, they lay on their fur
beds, listening to the sounds of the surrounding camp and the crack and pop of
the dying fire. Despite that she was exhausted, and that her bed was
comfortable and warm, Saewara found herself staring up at the tent’s
weather-stained ceiling for a long while. Eventually, when she did sleep, her
slumber was fitful and filled with dark dreams.

***

The sound of ripping leather tore Saewara from a frightening
dream, in which she had been running from her brother through the empty streets
of Tamworth. Penda had almost reached her; his cruel threats ringing in her
ears, his hands reaching out to grasp her around the neck, when the noise woke
her.

Saewara sat up in bed, disoriented and still half asleep, and
tried to make sense of what was happening around her.

The fire pit gave out a faint glow from its embers; just
enough for her to see a man’s dark outline push his way into the tent through
the rip he had just slashed in its side.

Terror stilled Saewara’s breathing for a moment.

An intruder was in her tent.

She drew air into her lungs to scream a warning but the man
was suddenly hurtling toward her. He landed on top of her on the furs, a huge
hand clamping down on her mouth. She saw then, the outline of another man
lurching through the gap in the tent, and the glint of a knife blade. She
struggled viciously, trying to get free so she could warn the girl, but the man
grabbed Oswyn, who had just awoken and was struggling to her feet. The slave
let out a strangled cry that was cut off as the knife slashed down.

Oswyn crumpled to the ground.

The man dragged Saewara toward the opening. She writhed and
twisted in his grip. When his hand shifted slightly across her mouth, she bit
down hard on one of his fingers.

The man grunted and backhanded her across the face. Then, he
slammed his hand back down over her mouth, so hard her lips crushed against her
teeth. Tears of pain streamed down Saewara’s face but she continued to
struggle. Paying her no heed, for the man was easily twice her size, her
assailant pulled her toward the rip in the tent, and out into the night.

Chapter
Eight

The Reckoning

“Annan, wake up!”

Saba’s voice roused Annan from a deep sleep. He struggled
upright in bed and met his friend’s gaze. Saba stood at the tent’s entrance,
dripping water on to the ground.

“What is it?” Annan demanded, the remnants of sleep fading as
he saw the alarm on Saba’s face.

“Outlaws,” Saba replied grimly. “They’ve killed all three men
guarding Saewara’s tent, slain her servant and taken your betrothed.”

Annan leaped to his feet with a curse. Fortunately, he had
slept with his breeches and boots on. He hurriedly pulled on a tunic and
followed Saba out into the rain. On the other side of the small clearing he
found his betrothed’s tent empty, save for the corpse of the slave. They had
slit her throat and left her there to drown in her own blood.

Annan cursed once more, viciously, fury turning him cold.

Relations between the East Angles and the Mercians were
tenuous enough without his wife-to-be being kidnapped just two days out from
Tamworth. Penda would blame him if Saewara perished tonight, before setting his
fyrd
on the Kingdom of the East Angles without mercy.

As if reading Annan’s thoughts, Penda’s servant, owl-eyed with
sleep, stepped into the tent. Wordlessly, his gaze took in the scene before
him, before he turned to Annan with a snarl.

“The King will hear of this!”

Annan ignored the young man. Instead, he turned to Saba, who
stood at the tent’s entrance awaiting orders.

“They won’t be travelling fast in this weather – we’ll track
them. Leave five men behind to guard the camp, the rest of you are coming with
me.”

Saewara stared down at the darkness and blinked rain-water out
of her eyes. Her captor carried her like a sack of grain, slung over one
shoulder. Wet branches clawed at her and the man’s shoulder dug into her ribs
with each stride. Yet, despite his ragged breathing, the man did not slow his
pace. Instead, he crashed through the woods, intent on his destination.

Terror chilled Saewara to the bone. An overwhelming,
paralyzing fear had turned her mind blank.

The man ran on for a long while, into the heart of the
woodland, where the trees grew dense and dark, before finally reaching a small
campsite. Saewara lifted her head, staring at a collection of tattered,
weather-stained tents huddled under the boughs of ancient oaks. Pale firelight
seeped from the tents, illuminating them like lanterns in the night.

Moments later, her captor had carried her to the entrance of
the largest of the tents and pushed his way inside. With a grunt, he off-loaded
his captive onto the dirt floor. Saewara crumpled to the ground, her legs
giving out from under her. Hands trembling, she pushed her wet hair out of her
eyes, climbed to her feet and gazed around the tent.

The air smelled damp, despite the fire pit that flickered in
the center. There was a sour smell of men’s sweat, as if the tent had stood
here for a while and never been aired. The stench caused her nose to wrinkle.
The interior was sparsely furnished, except for a pile of furs at one end. Apart
from her assailant – a huge man with a shaggy brown beard and hair, and hard,
dark eyes – there was only one other occupant inside the tent.

Looking upon the man, who was staring at her intently, Saewara
gaped in shock.

She recognized the man before her, and knew she was in deep
trouble.

“You have done well,” the man spoke to his companion, not
taking his eyes off Saewara. “Were you followed?”

The huge man who had brought Saewara shook his head,
scattering droplets of water everywhere. “We had to kill of a few of them to
get into her tent but we managed to get away before the alarm was raised.
They’ll never manage to follow us in this weather.”

The other man frowned. “Are you sure?”

“East Anglian dogs,” the warrior replied before spitting on
the ground to make his point. “We had to wait for hours in the rain till the
moment was right – till most of the camp were sleeping like babes. The guards
never suspected a thing. They never heard us coming; slitting their throats was
easy. The king and his rabble don’t know these woods like we do. I left a
confusing trail behind us. They’ll never find our camp.”

“I hope you’re right,” his leader nodded. “Set up watch on the
camp edge all the same. You can leave us now.”

The huge man grunted, threw Saewara a lingering, lecherous
look, and pushed his way back outside.

Saewara and the leader of the outlaws were now alone.

“Coenwal,” Saewara said finally, her voice barely above a
whisper. “So this is where you have been hiding?”

The man, of average height with a stocky build, stared back at
her, unsmiling. Coenwal had changed much since she had last seen him in
Tamworth over a year earlier. His lank brown hair was much longer and tied back
with a leather thong at his nape. His grey eyes had dark circles under them,
and bitterness and resentment had etched deep lines on a face that had once
been handsome.

“Saewara,” Coenwal replied, savoring her name in such an
intimate manner that the fine hairs on the back of Saewara’s neck prickled in
warning. “You are even lovelier than I remember.”

His gaze, hot and hungry, slid from her face, down the length
of her body. Horrified, Saewara glanced down to see that the sleeveless linen
tunic she had worn to bed, was sodden wet and clung to her body like a second
skin. She may as well have been naked.

“Egfrid was wasted on you,” Coenwal continued, not bothering
to hide his appreciation. “The man was a weasel. You know I wanted you but your
brother didn’t think I was good enough. Now that whoreson is marrying you to an
East Angle. I’ve saved you from a fate worse than death – you should thank me.”

Saewara stared back at him, stone-faced. Truthfully, there was
little difference between Egfrid and Coenwal – they were both arrogant, cruel men
who thought little of women. Egfrid had been an ealdorman, whereas Coenwal was
a thegn; too low in status to be considered a suitable match for the king’s
sister. Saewara had been relieved when Penda had flatly refused Coenwal’s
marriage proposal.

“Penda never realized your worth.” Coenwal took a step toward
her, causing Saewara to back away from him. “He would even wed you to the enemy.”

“It’s a political alliance,” Saewara replied warily, hoping
that by keeping Coenwal talking he would keep his distance from her. “You know
the king plans to extend our borders east.”

Coenwal snarled at that. “Penda’s ambitions blind him to the
needs of his own folk. He treads over all, including those who have served him
loyally, to further his own glory.”

Saewara frowned. Coenwal had a blinkered view of the past. As
she remembered it, Penda had discovered that Coenwal’s brother, Aedbald, had
been plotting against him. He had killed Aedbald and banished Coenwal, who he
suspected of aiding his brother, from the kingdom. Many believed that Penda, in
letting Coenwal live, had shown uncharacteristic mercy.

Yet, Coenwal did not appear to share the sentiment. He had not
left Mercia. Instead, he was here, hidden deep in the woods near the East
Anglian border, nursing his hatred and biding his time.

“I’ve been waiting for this day.” Coenwal advanced toward her,
around the edge of the fire pit. “The luscious Saewara, my captive. I will have
you… keep you for my own. Tomorrow, we shall break camp and travel south. Once
we leave Mercia, Penda will never be able to retrieve you – and I will have my
vengeance.”

“You are mistaken,” Saewara replied, backing further away from
him. “My brother cares not of what becomes of me. If you get in the way of his
ambitions however, it won’t matter where you flee, he will find you. You’ve
seen what he’s capable of.”

Coenwal’s lip curled at that but he nevertheless continued his
advance.

“Better to let me go,” Saewara added, her voice quavering
slightly in rising panic. “Return me to my betrothed and leave Mercia while
Penda has no reason to bring his wrath down upon you.”

“Silence bitch,” Coenwal spat. “I don’t need a woman telling
me what to do. Still your tongue.”

A moment later, he had her backed up against the tent wall.
Despite that Coenwal was not overly tall, he loomed over Saewara. He stank of
stale sweat and onions. Up close his eyes were blood-shot, his skin florid from
years of drinking an excess of mead.

“Look at you,” his voice lowered to a lust-filled growl. “All
innocent-looking. Yet, with a body like that you are anything but a blushing
virgin.”

His gaze dropped then, to the wooden crucifix that hung
against her breast. His eyes hardened and, reaching out, he yanked it from
about her neck.

“Christ-worshipping bitch.” He tossed the crucifix on the fire
and turned back to her. “At least your brother still worships the true gods,
not this imposter that would have you keep your legs closed. A woman has no
right to refuse a man.”

Saewara acted without thinking. Rage surged inside her and
turned her world blood red. She lashed out at Coenwal, slapping him hard across
the face. He reeled back, in shock more than pain. For a moment, he went very
still and the interior of the tent grew deathly quiet, save for the gentle
crackling of burning wood in the hearth behind them.

“You hit me,” he said, his voice incredulous, raising his hand
to the red welt that had formed across one cheek. “Oh how I will enjoy making
you pay for that.”

“Get away from me,” Saewara snarled, terror turning her
savage.

“I think not.” Coenwal grabbed her by the hair and yanked her
against him, his free hand sliding up her body, squeezing and probing. “You’re
mine now, and this night you will pleasure me.”

Saewara punched him in the stomach and had a moment’s
satisfaction in hearing him gasp for breath, before he roared in rage and flung
her across the tent. “Whore!”

Saewara rolled to the ground and was scrambling to her feet
when Coenwal reached her. He moved quickly for such a stocky man. This time, he
pulled her up by her hair with one hand and slapped her hard across the face
with the other.

“Dog!” Saewara screamed, kicking at him with her bare feet.
Now that he had turned violent, she became even more enraged. She had endured
years of brutality at Egfrid’s hands. Years of torment and cruelty; days of
dread between beatings. She would not go back to that life. She would die
rather than return to it.

Coenwal, however, appeared to be enjoying himself.

“Fight all you like,” he crowed, grabbing hold of the neck of
her tunic. “It will make this all the more a night to remember.”

With that he pulled downwards. Saewara heard the sound of
linen ripping and felt her tunic give way. Cold air feathered her naked breast.
Coenwal’s mouth gaped in lust. He grabbed her breast and squeezed hard.

Saewara screamed and lashed out at Coenwal with her fist,
smashing him hard in the eye. She fought him in a frenzy until he head-butted
her, and threw her down on the furs. Dazed, her forehead throbbing, Saewara
gazed up at him.

“Bitch,” Coenwal growled, glaring down at her. His right eye
was already starting to purple. “I’ll have you now.” With that, he began to
unlace his breeches.

Saewara lay there, frozen in terror, watching him undress.

At that moment, the tent flap opened and a man stepped inside.

Saewara gasped.

It was Annan. Soaked through, his blond hair slicked back
against his scalp and his sword raised, the East Angle looked dangerous, and
enraged. He took one look at the scene before him and charged at Coenwal.

In one sharp movement, he plunged his sword into the base of
the outlaw’s neck. Coenwal never had a chance to reach for a weapon, or dodge
the blow. Instead, he fell gurgling to the ground, grasping at the blade now
lodged in his windpipe. Annan’s face was terrifying as he kicked the outlaw to
the ground until he lay still. Then, he pulled the blade free.

Then, and only then, did he turn to look at his betrothed.
Saewara had sat up, and was doing her best to cover herself.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice rough from the fury that
still pulsed through him.

She shook her head. “I fought him, but he was too strong.” She
paused then, struggling to maintain her composure. “They killed Oswyn.”

“I know – poor lass,” Annan shook his head and looked down at
Coenwal’s contorted face, at the eye which had swollen shut, “and I’m sorry it
took us this long to find you. He won’t be touching you again.”

With that, Annan removed the sodden cloak from around his
shoulders and handed it to Saewara. She noticed he was deliberately avoiding
looking at her.

“Cover yourself up,” he said gruffly. “Let’s get you back to
camp.”