disappointed to see Cenred beside him. That broad, smug smile was not what he had been thinking of at all.
This disappointment was strange and ungrateful in him, he thought, tasting it at the back of his throat like the blood from a nosebleed. When this was his good friend beside whom he had grown and learned all his life, and the harper might easily have been no man at all but some uncanny thing, an elf of the sea or a demon or a spirit sent against him by an enemy to bring him to ruin. No mortal man should have had such power over him, when his closest shoulder-companion did not.
That sense of unease persisted through the evening, through jests and songs and riddles, and into the hours when all began to soften and the servants took the tables away to stack them against the walls. Wulfstan’s servant, Ulf, who had been sent with him from home by Wulfstan’s mother—a strange grizzled man to have charge of the washing and clothing and management of this younger son—stopped by Wulfstan’s side and leaning down whispered, “Your pallet is laid out close to the fire. Will you be wanting anything more until the morning, my lord?”
Last year, Ulf had married a marsh fisher’s daughter, and now, although Wulfstan’s needs were tended to, and his clothing more effectually washed and mended, the man was forever sloping off to his small cottage outside the burh to tend his new family. Normally this gave Wulfstan a slight feeling of loss, but this evening it was welcome.
“No,” he said, handing over his bowl and beaker to be taken away and washed. “I will not keep you from the balm of your bed.” Wulfstan’s heart should not have felt so heavy at these words. His body was keen enough, the fine tremble of it audible in his voice, but beneath the need, doubt ran through the marrow of his bones. He ignored it—he had made a decision. Now he would act on it and not be forever changing his mind like a child with two toys.
Around him the lamps were being put out one by one, winched down to waist height so that the sooty slave could clap a snuffer over them. The hall filled with darkness and the scent of hot ox-fat and burned flax. Men became shadows that felt for their blankets and sat down. The last of the servants raked the embers of the fire together in the centre of the firepit and scattered soil over the top of it, bedding it down to keep it live but slumbering over the long, quiet hours when no one would be awake to tend to it. With the fire in its bed, this final servant left, shutting the door behind him, and the darkness was absolute.
It filled with the metallic slither of chain mail being kicked off beds, the grunts and thuds and soft woolen rustles of men putting down sword-belts and shoes, wriggling beneath blankets. Wulfstan felt a body settle beside him, and together they sandwiched their armour between themselves and Aelfsi, whose back would otherwise have been touching them. Now no one was close enough to feel what occurred between them.
As he lay down, it was in a pile of knees and elbows. Cenred was everywhere, and Wulfstan could not seem to get his breath or his balance. One moment he would think he had it—time had paused enough for him to catch up—and there would be a hand on his arm, or in his hair and he was struggling again. He’d scarcely got to hands and knees before the weight of Cenred’s chest was on his back, and both arms wound tight around his chest, and he couldn’t tell whether his skin shrilled with pleasure or alarm to feel the scrape and tickle of Cenred’s sparse blond moustache against the nape of his neck, or the touch of teeth.
Don’t bite me! He thudded down onto the pallet, straw creaking at the impact, did not dare to say it out loud, but turned over instead, jabbing with elbow and fist to get his friend to move. He’d just about decided to call the whole thing off when Cenred took the hint and wriggled away, lying down close enough, on his side, that his knees and
This disappointment was strange and ungrateful in him, he thought, tasting it at the back of his throat like the blood from a nosebleed. When this was his good friend beside whom he had grown and learned all his life, and the harper might easily have been no man at all but some uncanny thing, an elf of the sea or a demon or a spirit sent against him by an enemy to bring him to ruin. No mortal man should have had such power over him, when his closest shoulder-companion did not.
That sense of unease persisted through the evening, through jests and songs and riddles, and into the hours when all began to soften and the servants took the tables away to stack them against the walls. Wulfstan’s servant, Ulf, who had been sent with him from home by Wulfstan’s mother—a strange grizzled man to have charge of the washing and clothing and management of this younger son—stopped by Wulfstan’s side and leaning down whispered, “Your pallet is laid out close to the fire. Will you be wanting anything more until the morning, my lord?”
Last year, Ulf had married a marsh fisher’s daughter, and now, although Wulfstan’s needs were tended to, and his clothing more effectually washed and mended, the man was forever sloping off to his small cottage outside the burh to tend his new family. Normally this gave Wulfstan a slight feeling of loss, but this evening it was welcome.
“No,” he said, handing over his bowl and beaker to be taken away and washed. “I will not keep you from the balm of your bed.” Wulfstan’s heart should not have felt so heavy at these words. His body was keen enough, the fine tremble of it audible in his voice, but beneath the need, doubt ran through the marrow of his bones. He ignored it—he had made a decision. Now he would act on it and not be forever changing his mind like a child with two toys.
Around him the lamps were being put out one by one, winched down to waist height so that the sooty slave could clap a snuffer over them. The hall filled with darkness and the scent of hot ox-fat and burned flax. Men became shadows that felt for their blankets and sat down. The last of the servants raked the embers of the fire together in the centre of the firepit and scattered soil over the top of it, bedding it down to keep it live but slumbering over the long, quiet hours when no one would be awake to tend to it. With the fire in its bed, this final servant left, shutting the door behind him, and the darkness was absolute.
It filled with the metallic slither of chain mail being kicked off beds, the grunts and thuds and soft woolen rustles of men putting down sword-belts and shoes, wriggling beneath blankets. Wulfstan felt a body settle beside him, and together they sandwiched their armour between themselves and Aelfsi, whose back would otherwise have been touching them. Now no one was close enough to feel what occurred between them.
As he lay down, it was in a pile of knees and elbows. Cenred was everywhere, and Wulfstan could not seem to get his breath or his balance. One moment he would think he had it—time had paused enough for him to catch up—and there would be a hand on his arm, or in his hair and he was struggling again. He’d scarcely got to hands and knees before the weight of Cenred’s chest was on his back, and both arms wound tight around his chest, and he couldn’t tell whether his skin shrilled with pleasure or alarm to feel the scrape and tickle of Cenred’s sparse blond moustache against the nape of his neck, or the touch of teeth.
Don’t bite me! He thudded down onto the pallet, straw creaking at the impact, did not dare to say it out loud, but turned over instead, jabbing with elbow and fist to get his friend to move. He’d just about decided to call the whole thing off when Cenred took the hint and wriggled away, lying down close enough, on his side, that his knees and
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