The Northumbrian Saga

Part 1

The young girl sat at the head of the feasting table, quiet, stoic and obedient. She was surrounded by mayhem in the great hall. Mead overflowed cups, down men’s beards, women’s dresses, dripping to the floor where it pooled in the dirt and straw. Only the hounds, shuffling about under the tables, trying to keep away from their masters’ legs, noticed the steady drip of mead and took advantage.

Those who had not retreated to the dark smoky edges of the hall were congregated around each of the three great fire pits. The clamour from their drinking games and tall tales almost drowning out the melodies of the musicians. The bard had lost his patience many hours before. He sat sulking instead, his back pressed hard up against the wall, glaring at the uncultured rabble that had ignored his tales of love and beauty. Despite being in one of the most pious halls in Northumbria, he was surrounded by people acting more like the uncouth pagans across the cold North Sea.

 All the while, through the smoke and haze from the great fires, the girl sat. Not listening to the celebrations, not talking to anyone, just sitting. Staring at the man in the corner, the one with the fair hair and the blue eyes that danced and sparkled like moonbeams. His smile was light and teasing, mesmerizing as he leant ever so closely to a raven haired beauty with copper eyes.

The girl watched them both intently; intrigued by the way he found any excuse to touch his companion. Her hair, her shoulder, her fingers, even the fabric of her dress. The beauty, no more than a common peasant, smiling through downcast lashes, blushed at each touch, clearly enjoying the attention. She glanced around surreptitiously at the crowd as her lover continued to kiss her neck. No-one else noticed; no-one else cared in their drunken oblivion. They were but one pair in a sea of people, doing the same or worse in the dim lit corners.

At last her copper eyes fell on the watching girl and smirked. She turned to her lover, whispering in his ear. He listened intently, as if every word came from the lips of a goddess, then he too looked at the girl. He smiled back at her happily, his beautiful eyes unfocused.

The young girl fought hard to keep her composure. She did not blush; she did not falter, her face as inscrutable as rock. He nodded politely to her, forcing her to return the civility. Then, in an instant, the scene returned back on its course, as though nothing had changed.

But of course it had. Eadred knew it, and now, belatedly, so did Aethelwin.

She fought back the tears that were threatening behind her eyes, unable yet to look away from her new husband and his whore. What would her mother think? What would her uncle think, the King of all Northumbria?

Dragging her eyes away from them, Aethelwin appraised the great hall once again. The meat was still being passed around by the slaves and the barrels of mead had yet to be drained by her father’s supporters. It had been a monumental day for everyone.

The wedding ceremony itself had been over in minutes, a mere formality of exchanging money and a blessing by the priest. The family had been brokering the marriage for months. Countless meetings, offers and counter offers, permission from the king, assurances of allegiance and finally the witnessing of contracts. Excited was what she had felt at the start, when being married was a novelty.

This was her moment, she lectured herself. The event that she had been trained for since she had been born thirteen winters ago. This was her calling, and she was ready. Men fought and died for their land; she was needed for a more important task, a higher purpose.

Marriage, looking after her husband, giving birth to future warriors, but above all keeping her new husband and his family’s allegiance to the King, was her role in life. Now, after all these months, it was finally over, and until a few moments ago, Aethelwin had felt blessed and relieved.