Britain
Autumn, A.D.540
It was an evening to celebrate, to dance and to make love beneath the glow of the harvest moon.
The breezes from the river carried the poignant scent of roast pork and wood smoke. A chorus of flutes sang from the valley while drums pulsated intense, primal energy.
Brock, thane of Feaholt, riveted his gaze upon the village below trying to glimpse the festivities, but alas, in the light of the waning sunlight, the revelers only appeared as splotches upon the horizon, yet the sounds and smells more than adequately told the story of what transpired there.
He flicked his horse’s reigns and urged the animal forward along the edge of the high ridge that overlooked the valley. He chided himself for not resuming his hunt, but the steady beating of the drum, the playful whining of the flutes and his own imagination transfixed him to this site.
Conceding defeat to his own errant desires, he dismounted and led his horse to a patch of grass beneath a tree. As the animal grazed, Brock paced the hillside and reflected upon his decision not to attend heathen festivals even if they were upon his own land. Was he being unreasonable?
He remembered the last festival he had witnessed three years before. All the revelers had been attired in their finest tunics. He had enjoyed the sight of the younger women swaying and dancing to their music, their sumptuous movements designed to entice the most irresolute of suitors. Children had played and tumbled upon the village green while their parents feasted and drank deeply from innumerable vats of ale.
He halted abruptly, realizing that he had already begun to descend the path that led down to the village. A voice within him urged him to continue. He could enjoy the festival and leave just before the beginning of the heathen rituals that had so disgusted him years ago. After all Charles his steward, also a Christian, did just that every year.
Brock shook his head sadly. He was not his steward, and he was not the lowly guard he had been three years ago. He was now thane of Feaholt and in order to hold this position and not forfeit his faith, he had to abstain from this festival and others like it. The power inherent in his current rank brought with it overwhelming loneliness that had made him more vulnerable to fleshly temptations. Two years of this shadow like existence had only intensified his thirst for life and belonging. He knew that if he abandoned his resolve now, he well might not leave for the ovations. He had successfully abandoned his Welsh upbringing and his childhood beliefs to live among the Angles. The only thing he had held fast to was his Christian faith. That was the one thing that was truly his, and to compromise it would not only endanger his integrity, but would ultimately imperil his immortal soul.
He turned away and walked slowly back to his horse. He would do as he originally had planned. Deep in the forest away from the sounds and smells of the celebration, he would successfully forego the dangers of the flesh.
His absence on this night would benefit his people as well as himself. With Brock away, the Angles of Feaholt would be able to celebrate their time-honored tradition and would, for a few short hours, be able to temporarily forget that their lord and master was a Welshman imposed upon them by their overlord, Edgar of the Seven Ships.
Perhaps tonight Brock would be able to forget it also. He started at the sound of rustling leaves. He turned suddenly to see a young woman coming toward him. His stomach lurched at the sight of her. She was the last person he wanted to see this night.
“Milord, milord.” Her voice was breathless from exertion. She lumbered up the hill struggling not to trip on the long hem of the snowy white tunic that showed from underneath her ermine cloak.
“Lady Elfreda,” he called back to her.
He could not help but be stirred by her beauty and her attire. Two golden combs inlaid with pearls rested upon her dark blond hair and ruby earrings dangled from her ears. Her green eyes shone with radiant exuberance.
Aided by the sun’s waning light, he admired the heightened color of her cheeks and the way the wind tossed and teased the fine blonde locks that framed her face.
“Why are you not at the harvest celebration?” he asked her.
Her wide open smile dominated her round face. “I came to ask you the very same thing, Milord,” she replied, her eyes twinkling with humor.
Brock resisted the urge to respond in kind to her light, friendly tone. Doing that had gotten him in trouble with her once before.
“I am a Christian,” he stated with exaggerated conviction, more for his own sake than for hers. “I do not attend festivals devoted to your gods. You know that, for I did not attend last year for the same reason.”
Her eyes widened. “You know not what you miss, Milord.”
“I have no wish to attend,” he stated. “Pray return to the festivities lest you miss anything.”
Hopefully he had successfully conveyed indifference to her. He prayed that she could not see into his conflicted and irresolute mind. Now he must leave before he gave way to the temptation of softening his words and encouraging her to stay and talk with him more. He turned his back to her and walked to his horse.
His back stiffened when he heard her steps behind him. It amazed him that after what he had said to her and after all that had passed between them, she refused to be put off by him. Why did she insist on pursuing him this way? The last time they were alone together she had left in tears.
Before he could take the horse’s reins, she grabbed his arm. Her hands were soft and warm. He met her gaze.
“Do not leave, I beg you, Milord.” The earnest appeal in her sparkling green eyes stilled him. “The celebration holds no joy for me if you are not at it.”
He looked searchingly into her eyes and could not help but be gratified by their warmth and sincerity—-such a contrast from the insolent looks he received on a daily basis from the people of Feaholt. It moved him that she valued him so highly that she would prefer his company to that of the revelers and the many men who sought her affections.
She moved closer to him. “I do not understand how we could have such a celebration without you,” she went on. “Yea, the gods have been good to us, but you have worked so hard to make this harvest what it is. The people should thank you also.”
Her words of praise and appreciation bathed his lonely soul. Like a fragrant, soothing balm they comforted that raw, bruised hurt that lay underneath the surface of his daily existence. His throat was tight as he swallowed.
She placed her hand lightly on his cheek. “Have you eaten, Milord?” she asked tenderly.
He held her small hand in his as he removed it from his cheek. “I am on my way to hunt rabbit. I also have cheese and bread in my pack.”
Her eyes darkened with indignation. “The people of Feaholt feast on roast boar and fruit while their thane must hunt his own supper? It cannot be so, Milord. ‘Tis not seemly. If you will not go to the festival, then sup with me at my cottage. I cannot bear the thought of you eating outside and alone on such a night.”
“T’would not be seemly for you to entertain me in your cottage, especially after the words we spoke at our last meeting. I must not keep you any longer. Go now.”
She gazed intensely into his eyes. “I remember well that day and how you told me you did not return my love. ‘Tis no matter. Still I cannot help but remember your many kindnesses to me since the death of my husband—-how you have provided me my cottage, how you have given me fruit in the summertime and grain in the fall. Yonder celebration imparts thankfulness and gratitude, and all that I have to offer is not to the gods, but to you, Milord. Could you not accept so humble an offering as a hot meal and a warm hearth?”
Brock once again considered the prospect of hunting his own food on such an evening. The wind was turning harsher with the waning sun. The night would be chilly indeed.
She clasped his face in her hands. “Come with me,” she whispered. “There is much more enjoyment to be found at my house than in the forest or even at the festival.”
His heart raced furiously. He had never been so physically close to her or to any other woman for many a year. The hearth and the meal were not the only temptations that beckoned.
He held on to her hand as he led her to Odysseus. He pulled her up behind him and rode off to her cottage.
His loins tightened and the blood pounded through his veins. Of course it would be folly to go into that cottage tonight, yet he no longer wished to be alone. He must get a hold of himself.
He drew a deep breath and released her.
“Forgive me, Lady Elfreda,” he said shaking his head and bestowing upon her his most sheepish smile.
She laughed indulgently up at him and took his hand. The laughter lessened his tension.
“Think no more of it, Milord. Come, let us retire into the cottage and get out of this cold wind.”
He was now assured he could go into her cottage, share a meal with her, and then set up camp in the forest as he had originally planned. He could trust himself not to take undue advantage of her regard and allow such a kiss to happen again. He followed her into the cottage and lit the torches. There was already a pot boiling in the hearth. Lady Elfreda went to stir the fragrant stew within.
She looked up at Brock. “I wanted to have the stew here in case my servants and I wished an early breakfast after the festival,” she explained. “It is cooked enough to be eaten now.”
Brock glanced appreciatively at the simmering stew. It promised to be far more enjoyable than the roasted rabbit he had planned. Removing his cloak, he piled wood upon the fire. Meanwhile Elfreda had collected bread, cheese, and fruit and set it out upon the table.
She glanced at him from across the room. When he caught her eyes, she smiled at him. He studied her as she prepared their meal. A woman of average height, she had the fair coloring so common to Anglian women. Though she was not a striking beauty, her loose clothing draped pleasingly over a slender and well-shaped body.
She occasionally helped out at the great hall. He had often appreciated her fine needlework and the ways she motivated the scullery maids. When she had been the thane’s wife, she’d had a reputation for keeping a well-ordered and comfortable house.
He watched in rapt fascination the nimbleness of her fingers as she cut the fruit and arranged it in attractive wedges on a platter.
He thought back to a conversation he had held with his steward Charles. Charles had thought that Brock should marry Lady Elfreda. Brock’s overlord, Edgar of the Seven Ships, had considered it a good idea also. Since Elfreda was well liked, her new husband would be better accepted and respected among the guards and farmers of Feaholt.
But Brock had long ago decided not to marry a heathen woman. Then again, in closing his mind and heart to Elfreda, was he not overlooking a possible political advantage to the running of Feaholt and at the same time, a solution to his overwhelming loneliness?
Elfreda placed before him a plate laden with food. She sat across from him at her small table. While he wolfed down this modest feast, she ate little.
Brock pushed his empty plate from him. He looked directly at her. “That meal was wonderful, much better than anything I could have prepared myself.”
She blushed pleasantly. “I am so grateful you enjoyed it.”
He stood from the table. “Thank you for inviting me,” he said to her taking her hand. “I am afraid I must be leaving.”
“Nay, you must not,” she protested. Her eyes were laden with disappointment, and a frown appeared on her face. “I had hoped you would share some mead with me.”
He had always thought the sharing of the mead cup a beautiful and intimate custom. He had often watched with envy as his guards partook of it with their women. Despite the many dangers and pleasures it promised, he could not bring himself to refuse it.
Elfreda hurried to her cupboard and took out a mug and a pitcher. She poured the thick, yellowish brew into the cup. Pulling a bench out from the table, she bid him to sit.
“Thank you again for taking care of my needs,” she said sipping from the cup. She presented him the cup and watched as he too drank from it.
Her green eyed gaze beckoned to his from across the rim of the cup. The hearth had spread its warmth and the sweet smell of fragrant wood throughout the little room. The light of the flames cast a soft glow upon Elfreda’s face. The idea of venturing out alone into the cold, dark night dismayed him.
“Do not leave me tonight,” she whispered, her words echoing his thought.
Pictures of loving her crowded his mind. He found her far too attractive in his current state of deprivation. He knew her body would be pleasing. His gaze traveled from her face down her neck to rest upon her bosom. How good it would be to touch her. Four years was too long to go without a woman.
Slowly he removed the cup from her hands and placed it upon the table before him. He moved forward and pressed his lips to hers. She sighed as he kissed her. As of one mind they stood from the seats. She threw her arms around his neck and arched her body against his.
He sought to remove one of the broaches that held her outer garment in place. The cursed bauble had caught in the weave of her gown. As he struggled to loose the pin, his mind momentarily snapped from its lust-induced stupor. As if in a dream, detached from his body, he beheld himself acting in a way he vowed he never would again. The realization sickened him. He had refused her already, and here he was giving into behavior he had already considered and had rejected.
She loved him, and he did not love her. They had discussed that fact a fortnight ago during harvest when they had gathered up apples together in the orchard. She had flirted with him, and he had lightly kissed her. When a few minutes later she declared her love for him, he had apologized and admitted to her that he did not return her love, and that he could never consider marrying her because she was a pagan. She had fled the orchard in tears.
Nothing had changed since then except his own cursed desperation.
He hungered now not only for her body but for her warmth and acceptance. She flattered him and praised him, and after all these years of enduring hatred and distrust, her high opinion of him soothed his pain of loss and rejection. It was wrong to take to bed a woman he would never make his wife. Furthermore he could never bear to accept all she had to give and then discard her. If he went farther with her, he would not stop, and honor would demand he marry her.
Impatient with his hesitation, she removed the outer garment herself, tearing a hole in her fine mantle. The garment slid to the floor. She now untied the string of her tunic. He clutched her hand and tried to stop her, but resolve was giving way to eagerness as he beheld her breasts beneath the thin linen. He fought to block out the delicious sensations that further stirred his blood. He had to put an end to this encounter. Now.
In a desperate attempt to retain his perspective, he thought of Marina, the woman to whom he was once betrothed. Though Marina had been false to him, they had enjoyed much more together than just their bodies. All his life he had dreamed of having a woman who would share not only his bed but also his beliefs and his values. He had seen so many unhappy marriages-–marriages made for the sake of peace or riches. That was never what he wanted.
The man whom Brock had grown up believing to be his father, had loved Brock’s mother with passionate devotion. The two were inseparable. Brock dreamed of sharing that sort of love with a woman himself. He must not abandon that ambition no matter how unlikely it was he would ever realize it.
With every inch of his being, with every vestige of will that remained, he cried out an inward prayer for help.
Her hand slipped between his legs. He shot away from her. Her green eyes flashed with hurt and confusion.
“What are you doing?” she cried. “You want me. What is wrong with you?”
Brock ran a frantic hand through his dark hair. “No,” he cried, his voice edged with frustration. “I cannot do this. It would not be right.”
“What do you want of me?” she cried shrilly. “Why have you kept me here?”
“My God, lady, what are we doing? Do you not realize that I was obligated. I killed your husband. I made you a widow!”
“That was not your fault,” she wailed. “Hubert challenged you. He was envious of the favor you had found with Edgar of the Seven Ships. He longed to kill you. You only defended yourself. He was a cruel man. I do not miss him, for I never loved him.”
“That should not matter. He was your husband.”
“Is not the loser’s wife often the spoils in such contests? You could have taken me by force, yet you did not. When you kept me here all this time, I naturally assumed you wanted me here for a purpose.”
“I have not kept you here, lady. I offered to send you back to your father or your brother, but you refused. You asked to stay at Feaholt, and in deference to your request, I gave you this cottage.”
“You gave me fruit, food and money and clothing. You have provided for me. After knowing your kindness, I could do naught but love you, even thought you love me not in return. But I will settle for that. With just my love alone, I could make you happy.”
Guilt and remorse pushed away all lingering sensations of lust. He looked searchingly at her. Gone was the emboldened enchantress who had lured him to her hearth and her bed. With her blond hair tussled and her eyes moist with tears, she looked more like some lost waif tossed out into the cold. He pitied her and despised himself for fanning the flames of her desire. How he wished he could make her a declaration of love and marry her and provide them both the comfort they so desperately craved. But he could not.
She began to weep and all he could do was stare at her, helpless to remedy her pain. Any attempt to comfort her would only hurt her worse.
He strode to the door and removed his cloak from the hook. He opened the door and then took one last look at Elfreda. She lifted her head and brushed away her tears.
“You are a strange man, Brock of Feaholt,” she stated in a broken, disjointed voice tinged with anger. “I offered you what we both wanted and you spurned me. Someday you will regret it.”
He cleared his throat and looked directly into her eyes.
“No doubt you are right.”
He left the cottage and closed the door softly behind him. He mounted his horse and rode far into the woods, little aware of where he was going.
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