The great hall was almost as noisy in the early morning as it had been the night before.
Beobrand winced as one of the women cleaning the hall broke into song. Her voice was not pleasing to the ear and several groans came from different parts of the hall where others had slept following the feasting.
“Well, if you don’t like my singing, be off with you,” shrieked the woman, in a voice that would easily have cut through the clamour on a battlefield. There were more groans, followed by movement, as men shook themselves awake and staggered to get away from the cacophonous crone. She laughed at their discomfiture.
“You should have thought about this morning last night.” She continued to mutter to herself about men and their lack of thought for the consequences of their actions. From time to time she let out another screeching line of song in counterpoint to her murmuring. All the while she swept, cleaned, moved furniture and told the younger women what to do.
“By all the angels in heaven, what unearthly creature from the underworld is abroad in this hall?” Leofwine sat up, all bleary eyes and dishevelled hair. His voice was hoarse from the strenuous singing he’d done to entertain all those present at the feast. The singing had paid off. Eanfrith had seen that Leofwine had talent and had asked him if he would join his retinue as the royal scop. The king was conscious that he had returned from exile after many years and that he needed all the help he could get to bolster his position. Having a singer and storyteller at one’s disposal was a great opportunity. Eanfrith of Bernicia’s exploits would be told around the hearths in the great hall and in the other royal villas as the king and his retinue travelled throughout the kingdom. All his subjects would hear of his prowess in battle and others would pick up the tales, retelling them in all corners of Bernicia and beyond.
Leofwine was overjoyed. They had only arrived in Gefrin the previous day and he had already found patronage from the king himself. His happiness had led him to a heightened amount of exuberance, which only made the king more pleased in his choice of bard. Leofwine had celebrated with abandon, but now, as the old slave woman cleaning the hall indicated, he was regretting his excesses.
He got up shakily and made his way outside.
Beobrand smiled to himself at the sight of Leofwine stumbling from the hall. He was pleased for his friend’s success, but he was not jubilant about his own prospects in the court of this new king of Bernicia. He had naively expected Eanfrith to simply accept him into his warband, as if carrying a sword at his side was proof enough of his abilities. He thought how ridiculous it was that only a few months before he had been a farm boy and now he imagined it was his right to enter the service of a king as a warrior. Bassus had done his best to give Eanfrith a good impression of Beobrand, but as he recounted his exploits, it had become apparent that Beobrand had fought on Edwin’s side in the battle of Elmet. Eanfrith’s face had darkened and his interest in Beobrand had waned. He wanted warriors he could trust to be loyal to him.
Later, as the mead flowed, Leofwine recounted the heavily-embellished tale of Beobrand’s defeat of Hengist and many turned to look at the young Cantware man with new respect. Beobrand had surveyed the room and noticed the king looking at him through the fug of the great hall. Eanfrith had met his eyes and seemed to smile slightly. He had raised his drinking cup in a silent toast to Beobrand. Beobrand wasn’t sure if it had been sincere or in jest, but he had raised his drinking horn in reply and then drained its contents. When he had looked back at the king, Eanfrith was deep in conversation with the silver-haired thegn sitting at his left.
He stretched and walked stiffly from the great hall. He mulled over all of the events of the previous night and was unsure what he should do next. He had not drunk as much as many, but his head was still muzzy. He decided to walk down to the river that ran near the township. The air would clear his head and at the river he could get a drink and splash some water on his face to wash away the sleep that still clung to him like cobwebs.
It was going to be another bright and warm day, but it was still early and there was a slight bite in the air. The peak of the huge hill on the west of Gefrin caught the morning sun. The hill to the east was in shadow. The river was enshrined in a gossamer cloak of mist. As he walked he realised he would pass in front of the forge. His heart quickened at the thought of seeing Sunniva again.
He picked up his pace, hoping for a glimpse of her working with her father. He toyed with the possibility that she might be out walking on the path too, away from her father’s cloying protectiveness. They could meet and talk freely. Talk of what? He knew nothing of the girl, and she was probably uninterested in him.
As he drew close to the forge he heard the ringing sound of metal on metal. When the shaded work area of the forge was in sight, he could make out the imposing figure of Strang, bent over the anvil beating red-hot metal with a heavy hammer. As he watched, the smith picked up the metal he was working on, inspected it closely for a moment, and then plunged it into the charcoal embers of the fiercely hot forge fire. There was no sign of Sunniva.
Strang looked up and caught Beobrand’s eye.
Beobrand quickly turned away, focusing his attention back to the path and the river ahead.
*
When Beobrand arrived at the river, the mist that had veiled it from afar was already beginning to burn off as the sun rose in the sky. Thin wisps clung to the shaded areas, where trees overhung the water. He walked down to the water’s edge, feet crunching on the smooth pebbles and looked around. Gefrin was awake and there were several people in sight, going about their everyday business.
In the distance, cattle were lowing in the large fenced off area where all the livestock of the town was kept. A cart, pulled by an ox, was being driven by a short, swarthy man towards the river crossing. The ox was labouring under the weight as the path went slightly uphill before it dropped down toward the ford, and the man beat the beast mercilessly on the back with a long, supple stick of birch.
In the other direction, back towards the great hall, the smoke from many cooking fires hazed the air, casting a pall in the sky over the town. A boy chased a group of geese down the road towards the river, waving his arms and whooping. The geese protested noisily, honking and flapping their wings as they waddled to keep ahead of the boy.
Beobrand turned and walked along the river bank, away from the path, upstream to where the water would be clean of any of the waste from the people and animals of Gefrin. There were trees and bushes along the banks, which meant that from time to time he had to move away from the water’s edge, but they would provide some cover from any prying townsfolk. Beobrand wasn’t overly concerned if someone saw him bathing, but he would prefer some privacy if possible.
After some time, he found a gap between two trees which provided some shelter and also a gentle slope down to the water. He pulled off his kirtle and hung it over a low branch. He had no weapons to worry about, having left his sword and spear back at the great hall. He had handed them to the king’s door wards the previous evening before the feast. He was not one of Eanfrith’s trusted companions and was therefore not permitted to carry arms inside the hall. Bassus, Gram and the others had also relinquished their weapons, accepting that the hospitality of their host would only stretch so far.
He knelt by the water and scooped up a double-handful, splashing it onto his face. It was icy and it made him gasp. He repeated the process, enjoying the tingling sensation that the water left on his skin. He sat back and checked his most recent wounds. They were healing well, but his side was still tight, and the scar was a vivid red. It remained tender to the touch.
As he looked up again, just about to reach into the water for a drink, he noticed something floating in the water. It was a leather bucket and it circled slowly in the current as it drifted towards his position. He could see that he would not be able to reach the bucket from the bank, so he quickly pulled off his shoes and stepped into the water. He waded out towards the deeper, colder water at the middle of the river. The water came up to his thighs in a couple of steps. From here, he was easily able to reach out and snag the bucket as it reached him.
He waded back to the shallows and hauled himself up onto the bank. Whose bucket could it be? It might have floated from another village altogether. That was when he heard the girl’s voice, raised in anger.
“By Thunor’s balls!”
The expletive came from upstream, but didn’t sound very far away. Beobrand leapt up, suddenly wishing he had thought to retrieve his weapons before leaving the safety of the hall. For a moment he thought of the cold, dark forest clearing where another girl’s screams had split the night’s silence. Then, without pausing for more thought, he ran in the direction of the noise.
He leapt over a fallen branch, and skidded to a halt when he saw the source of the commotion.
Sunniva had her back to him, but he recognised the curve of her neck and the spun-gold brilliance of her hair. She was leaning over the river, looking downstream. He supposed she was trying to see where her bucket had gone. She continued to shout curses that would make hardened warriors blush.
Beobrand watched her for a moment, enjoying the scene and learning some new insults.
When she paused for breath, he cleared his throat. “Looking for this?” He held out the bucket.
She spun around, instantly on the defensive. He smiled at her, trying to put her at ease. “I’ve never heard anyone swear like you before. And I’ve been in battle and sailed aboard a ship.”
“Well, I dropped the bucket,” she said, as if that was explanation enough. Her cheeks were coloured, whether from the exertion of shouting abuse at the errant receptacle, or from being overheard by him, Beobrand could not tell.
“I rescued it for you,” he said, proffering the bucket to her again.
She stepped closer and took it from him. “Thank you,” she said, then, looking down at his dripping trousers, “You’re soaked. Did you jump into the river to get it?”
He smiled sheepishly. “It seemed like the right thing to do.” He was suddenly acutely aware that his chest was bare. “I’d better go back and get my clothes and shoes,” he said, awkwardly.
“Wait,” she said. “Let me fill both the buckets and I’ll come with you. I have to take the water back to my father. He’ll be wondering where I have got to anyway.”
She stooped, picked up both the bucket Beobrand had retrieved from the water and another one that had been resting at her feet, and dipped them into the river. When they were full, she stood, balancing the load with one bucket in each hand.
“Let me help you,” Beobrand said. She didn’t protest as he took one bucket from her. Their fingers brushed and he felt his stomach flutter. He could sense her gazing intently at his muscled torso as he walked in front of her to where he’d left his clothes.
He sat to pull on his shoes and flinched slightly as he stretched to pull on his tunic.
“Those scars look new,” she remarked. “And painful. How did you get them?”
“You’ll have to ask my friend, Leofwine, to tell you the story. It sounds much more exciting when he tells it.” She laughed.
They walked back to the forge slowly. Each wanting the moment to last as long as possible.
“Where are you from? You speak strangely,” she said.
“You’re the second girl to say that to me in Bernicia,” he answered.
“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow archly.
“Yes. She had golden hair too.”
“And who was this golden-haired beauty?”
“I never said she was beautiful.” His cheeks grew hot as he teased her.
“Wasn’t she?”
“Yes, she was. And a princess.”
Sunniva let out a small gasp. “You jest with me.”
“No, it is true. She was Edwin’s daughter, Eanflæd.”
“But she is only a child!”
“I know, but she is beautiful.” He paused for effect. “But not as beautiful as you.”
Now it was her turn to blush.
Beobrand smiled. He had never been good talking with girls, but talking with Sunniva seemed natural to him. It was hard to believe they had only met the day before. He had not felt happy for a long time, but the encounter with Sunniva lifted his spirits. He didn’t want the moment to end, but he could sense her getting restless as they got close to her home.
“I’ve already taken much longer to fetch the water than I should have. I need to get back,” she said. “Shall we meet again by the river? Tomorrow at the same time, or a bit earlier?” She sounded breathless, as if shocked by the audacity of her own words.
Beobrand’s step faltered. A few drops of water splashed from the bucket he was carrying. He turned to look at her, trying to see whether she was making fun of him in some way. She looked in earnest, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. He swallowed hard. “I’ll be there,” he said.
“Make sure my father doesn’t see you going down there. Go round behind the forge.”
“Sunniva! What are you doing dawdling there with that good-for-nothing foreigner?” Strang had stepped out from the forge and was holding his hands on his hips, glaring at the two of them.
Sunniva turned, lowering her eyes and walked back to where her father waited. “He’s not good for nothing, father, he stopped me losing one of the buckets…” she mumbled.
Strang looked exasperated. “Well get it back then, child!”
She turned and quickly retrieved the other bucket from Beobrand. “Goodbye,” she said, followed by a whispered “See you tomorrow.” While her back was still turned to her father.
“Come on, girl,” Strang shooed her into the forge, giving Beobrand one last long, piercing stare before returning to his work.
Beobrand could feel the distrust washing off of Strang like the waves of heat from his forge, but it did not bother him. His headache had gone and he felt wide awake. Exhilarated.
He looked up at the sky and smiled. It was going to be another gloriously warm day and he no longer cared whether Eanfrith would offer him a place in his warband.
Beobrand had just talked to the most beautiful girl in Bernicia and she wanted to see him again.
*
“The man’s an idiot!” Bassus roared. “And a rude idiot at that.”
Gram and Beobrand both looked around furtively to see if anyone had overheard.
Gram said, “Hush yourself. You’re as foolhardy as young Beobrand here. You know as well as any man that you cannot speak about a king that way. Unless you don’t want to be returning home, that is.”
“He’s not worthy to be called king. I’ve a good mind to knock some sense into him, the little runt.” The veins on Bassus’ temples bulged. “He called her Edwin’s whore! By Christ’s bones and all the old gods, if I’d had my sword, Bernicia would be looking for a new heir now!”
It was afternoon and they were walking in the livestock enclosure on the southern edge of town. There were sheep, cattle and some geese in the enclosure, but none of the watching ceorls or thralls were near enough to make out Bassus’ words. At least Gram hoped not, or they would have to leave Gefrin in a hurry.
Until a few moments before, Gram and Beobrand had been sitting in the afternoon sun outside the great hall while Bassus had been inside giving Eanfrith the message from Ethelburga. They had been relaxed and drowsy in the heat of the sun, enjoying the peace when they had heard a crash from inside the hall. The guards posted on the main entrance had made to enter the building, but before they could, Bassus had burst forth in a terrible rage and barged them both out of the way, oblivious to any danger posed by their weapons.
Beobrand and Gram had leapt up and followed Bassus, managing to steer him to this relatively isolated area of the town.
“But what exactly happened?” asked Beobrand.
Bassus continued to pace, his face red. “I gave him the gift. He laughed in my face. Said he’d hoped for something more useful than a psalter. Asked what good a book was going to do him when Cadwallon was banging on the door of the great hall.” Bassus’ breathing was finally slowing and he seemed to be in control of his emotions once more.
“Well, he has a point,” ventured Gram.
Bassus shot him a withering glance. “I don’t care if he’s right, he had no reason to insult her. When I gave him her message, he said he cared not for Edwin’s whore’s whelps!” He walked on, brooding. “I lost my temper then.”
Gram and Beobrand shared a look, unsure what to say.
Bassus stopped abruptly and said to Gram, “Round up the men. We’ll not be staying another night in this place.”
“But…” Gram stammered, trying to find the words that would convince Bassus to allow them to stay at least another night. He’d spent the previous night with a comely slave girl who had performed some rather memorable feats with him and he’d been looking forward to seeing what further delights she had to offer. He didn’t bother to continue protesting however. Bassus was not going to change his mind, that much was certain. He’d known the man for years and he was as stubborn as the animal that gave him his name.
Bassus calmed down quickly. He’d purged himself of the anger and made a decision, now he moved on. To continue raging over Eanfrith’s insulting behaviour was a waste of energy and would get him nowhere. This ability to push his emotions to one side and remain calm, coupled with his passionate rages, made him a formidable opponent in battle. Calculating, yet ferocious.
“Gram,” Bassus said, “get the men together. Find our weapons and buy us some provisions. I want to be ready to leave well before nightfall.”
Gram looked crestfallen, but resigned to obeying Bassus’ orders. As he trudged away, Bassus called after him. “Don’t worry, there are plenty of other dirty slave girls south of here!”
Bassus turned to Beobrand. “Sorry, boy. I think my temper has left you in a tight spot. Eanfrith wasn’t all that keen on you, and now I can’t use any influence on him to make him take you in. Your best bet would be to come with me, back to Cantware. What do you say?”
Beobrand thought of his homeland. The low rolling hills, the dense forests of ash and beech, the white cliffs of the coast. He thought of the old friends he’d left behind, his boyhood friends, Alwin and Scrydan, with whom he’d played on the long summer evenings after his chores were done. He fingered the whale tooth pendant that hung around his neck and thought of Hrothgar and the other sailors who had treated him with such kindness. Part of him cried out to return to Cantware, to what he had once known, to what seemed safe. But his thoughts turned to the billowing furnace of his home as the flames lifted his father’s spirit up to the gods. He swallowed hard. He could not return to Hithe. There were too many ghosts and too many questions would be asked of him.
He thought of all that held him in Northumbria. Hengist was still here somewhere and he meant to find him, and kill him. Hengist had killed Octa and Beobrand would use his brother’s sword to exact vengeance. He also had friends here. Leofwine was in Gefrin and then, of course, there was Sunniva. He knew it was madness to say he would stay for her, and he would not dream of voicing it out loud, but deep down, he knew it was the truth. Since that morning’s chance meeting by the river, she absorbed his every waking thought. He could not stand the thought of going away and not seeing her again. He hoped beyond reason she felt the same way.
“Thank you for the offer,” Beobrand said. “In many ways I wish I could go with you, but I feel must stay here. After all, I have to finish what I started with Hengist. Octa must be avenged.”
Bassus nodded grimly. “You take care, Beobrand. Hengist is like a serpent, cunning and fast.”
“A serpent can be crushed under a boot,” replied Beobrand.
*
By the time the men from Cantware were ready to leave, the sun was dipping low on the horizon, silhouetting the horsemen against the cloudless sky. Bassus and Gram were the last to mount. Gram secured a final bag of provisions to his saddle, then pulled himself up onto his horse in a well-practised motion. Bassus approached Beobrand, who was standing with Leofwine, watching the preparations.
Eanfrith had not deigned to speak with Bassus or any of the Cantware contingent since the afternoon’s outburst, but neither had he impeded them in any way. They had been allowed to procure provisions and to retrieve their weapons without hindrance. Not one of Eanfrith’s entourage of thegns was there to wish their guests farewell. But Bassus seemed to care nothing for the petty snub of a man he believed unworthy of holding the title of king.
“May your wyrd favour you in your quest for revenge, Beobrand,” Bassus said, as he grasped the younger man’s wrist in the warrior grip. “I hope our paths cross again one day.” Bassus’ voice was gruff, but Beobrand knew the older man was sad to be leaving him behind.
“Thank you, Bassus,” replied Beobrand, clapping the huge warrior on the shoulder with his left hand and squeezing his wrist firmly with his right. “You’ve been a true friend. To me and Octa before me.” He wanted to say more. How he’d never forget his kindness. How he would almost certainly be dead without Bassus’ help. But, unable to find the words, he merely said, “Have a safe journey.”
Bassus nodded. “Leofwine, tell tales of Beobrand’s exploits that will travel all the way to Cantware so that I can hear about his progress.” He winked, and Leofwine smiled in return.
“I’ll sing songs to rival those told of the great Beowulf,” the bard replied. “May the Lord watch over you and guide your steps on your travels, and may the wind always be at your back.”
Bassus mounted his large chestnut mare, heaving up his bulk with a grunt. He shifted his weight to make himself comfortable, then turned his steed to the south, dug in his heels and made out of Gefrin at a trot. Gram waved at Beobrand and Leofwine and then he and the other warriors followed behind Bassus.
A thin cloud of dust hung in the still, late afternoon air, the sun picking out larger motes like sparks rising in the smoke of a fire. Beobrand watched as the horsemen rode out of the town. Some of the townsfolk had stopped what they were doing to watch the men ride by and with a jolt Beobrand recognised the gold hair of Sunniva, glowing like molten metal. She had run out of the forge and was standing beside the path intently watching the warriors leave. Her father walked slowly from the forge and placed his hand around her shoulders.
When the men had passed, Sunniva turned, scanning her surroundings. When she looked in Beobrand’s direction, he raised his hand and smiled a wide grin. She had been looking for him amongst the men headed for Cantware. She was quite some distance away, but she must have spotted him, as she raised her own hand. No sooner had she done this than Strang spun her round and pushed her back towards the forge.
Any doubts he’d had about staying in Bernicia were washed away with that single glance and a wave from Sunniva.
Leofwine witnessed all of this. He’d learnt not to make fun of Beobrand and his interest in this girl from the forge, but he couldn’t help chuckling to himself.
Beobrand didn’t notice. He felt a strange mixture of emotions. He could still see Bassus, Gram and the others riding in the distance, but seeing Sunniva and having her acknowledge him so openly, made his heart flutter in his chest and left him light-headed. He stood there for a long moment, watching until the horsemen were lost in the haze of distance, unaware that he was smiling all the while.
*
Beobrand had found it hard to sleep.
He had decided he could not return to the great hall after the scenes between Bassus and the king, so he had asked the hostler, a kindly-looking man, whether he could sleep in the stable. The man, a thrall, felt pity for the young warrior so far from his homeland, so had allowed Beobrand to curl up in his cloak in a corner. But it wasn’t the hard floor or the stomping and snorting of the horses that kept him awake, it was the anticipation of seeing Sunniva again in the morning. He had relived the moments when he had seen her the day before. In his memory he watched her waving at him when she saw he hadn’t left with the other Cantware men. He felt again the fluttering sensation of excitement in his chest. He wasn’t sure what he would say to her, but he could think of nothing else but Strang’s daughter.
A long way into the darkest part of the night, he had fallen into a fitful sleep. His dreams did not permit him any rest. In them he had been standing at the water’s edge talking to Sunniva. She had turned and her face was awash with blood, her hair sopping with gore. He had felt a terrible pain in his side, which had made him cry out. When he’d looked down he had seen that Sunniva had stabbed him with his own bone-handled knife.
He had awoken, stifling a scream. The hostler’s snores resonated around the dark room. Outside, the birds sang to the day that was soon to arrive. Beobrand made his way out of the stable, careful not to disturb the slave’s slumber.
The fresh, cold air of the pre-dawn darkness revitalised him and the dream’s terror faded quickly. He shivered, his breath misting before him. On the horizon, the sun tinged the sky pink. It would be light soon. He could make his way to the river now, unseen before the town roused itself.
He walked down to the river, the growing glow from the dawn making the buildings and trees loom large and strange around him. By the time he arrived at the river there were a few people beginning to go about their business. It would be another fine day and there was much work to be done for those who worked the land or tended the livestock.
Beobrand retraced his footsteps from the day before and found the small secluded space on the riverbank, hidden from the town by trees. He sat with his back to a tree and waited, listening to the burble of the water as it flowed over the smooth pebbles of the river bed.
Some time passed and the steady sound of the water helped soothe his mind, drawing him down into the sleep that had eluded him during the night.
He awoke to the touch of a hand on his arm. Disoriented and frightened, he slapped the hand away and sprang to his feet, ready to fight. The sun had risen in the sky, casting deep shadows beside the trees and making the water of the river shine lambently.
Sunniva let out a small gasp, lost her balance and fell backwards, sitting down hard onto the dewy ground.
Beobrand’s head cleared quickly. “I’m sorry,” he stammered, his cheeks flushing crimson. “Are you alright?” He held out his hand to help her up.
“I’m fine,” she said, dusting herself down. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”
“I wasn’t startled,” he said, embarrassed, “just asleep.”
She raised an eyebrow and they both smiled. Both knowing he’d lied.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Sunniva said. Then, in a rush, “I thought you’d left with the others yesterday. That I’d not see you again.” She looked embarrassed as soon as the words left her mouth.
“Bassus asked me to leave with him,” Beobrand replied in a quiet voice.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I told him I needed to stay to avenge my brother.”
Her face sank. She bit her bottom lip.
“And that is true,” Beobrand continued. “But I didn’t tell him the other reasons.” He looked into her eyes. They were limpid, nervous tears brimming there.
“And what were those reasons?”
“I would not be welcome back in my homeland.”
“Oh,” disappointment coloured her voice with a hint of sarcasm. “Why is that?”
“I… I cannot say. I will tell you one day, but now, I just cannot.” He had not spoken to anyone of his actions in Hithe. This was as close as he could go to the truth. He did not wish to frighten her away.
She looked at him seriously for a moment and then said, “You mentioned more than one reason. What are the others?”
“Only one other reason,” he said.
“And that is?” Sunniva asked.
He hadn’t known how to tell her how he felt. It was all so sudden. A girl as beautiful as her must have had plenty of men tell her all sorts of clever things. But she had confirmed what he had suspected: that she’d been scared he was leaving Gefrin bound for Cantware. He dared to believe for a moment that she reciprocated his feelings towards her.
Beobrand swallowed. His throat was dry. “You,” he said simply.
Sunniva’s face lit up and she grinned. Beobrand felt warm, as if basking in her glow.
After that, their conversation took on the easy playfulness of the day before. They sat close together, not quite touching, but close enough so that the other’s physical presence was a constant distraction.
After some time their talk turned to her family.
“Mother died last winter. I still forget sometimes and expect her to be weaving at the loom, or cooking when I go home.” She was silent for a moment, looking into the ripples of the river. “It is just father and me now. What of your family?”
“They are all dead. A year ago I had two younger sisters, parents and an older brother. The pestilence came and a murderer killed my brother and now I am alone.” Sunniva reached out and placed her hand over his. Her touch made him breathless.
“What do you plan to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I have sworn to avenge Octa’s murder, and I know who killed him. But first I need to gain a place in a lord’s gesithas. It is my hope that Leofwine will speak favourably of me with Eanfrith. Perhaps the king will allow me to join his warband.”
At the mention of King Eanfrith, Sunniva remembered her father’s work on the spear heads. She had been gone a long time and she needed to get back. He would already be suspicious. He was not stupid and he had seen the way she’d waved to Beobrand.
She jumped up. Beobrand felt a stab of loss as her hand left his. “I have to get back home,” she said. “I’ve been gone far too long. My father will be furious.”
Beobrand didn’t protest. He knew she was right. “When can I see you again?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. I don’t think my father will allow me to come down to the river for water again tomorrow. Not now that I’ve been late back twice.” She stooped to the river and filled the two buckets she had brought with her. “Don’t walk back with me today. If he sees you, he’ll only be angrier.”
“Can you get away tonight?” Beobrand asked.
Sunniva bit her lip, calculating. “Maybe. He often falls asleep soon after sundown. I could sneak out then.”
“Very well then. I’ll wait here for you after dusk. Try and get away. If you can’t, I’ll visit you tomorrow at the forge.”
“Oh no, father would be so angry.”
“Well, you’d better make sure you get out tonight then,” Beobrand grinned.
Despite her nervousness at the prospect of her father’s anger when she was late back and the possibility of being caught in the evening, Sunniva found herself smiling too. She leant in quickly to Beobrand and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll bring a blanket. It will be cold down here at night,” she whispered huskily, her breath warm against his ear.
Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away as quickly as she could while balancing the weight of the two buckets.
Beobrand watched her leave. The sway of her hips and the ghost of her kiss on his cheek made him ache for her.