Free Nightfall till Daybreak (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 2) by Jayne Castel Page A

here.
     
    ***
     
    A cool sea breeze feathered across Aidan’s face. He inhaled
the salty tang and was reminded, for the first time in years, of the air in the
tiny village where he had lived as a boy on the west coast of Ireland.  He had
only vague memories of his homeland, but the smell of the air had always stayed
with him. Despite that he had not wanted to accompany the king on this visit,
Aidan felt himself looking forward to seeing the coast again.
    The monastery sat on the southern banks of the River Alde, at
the edge of marshland. At this point the river snaked its way through mud
flats, reed beds and islands. It was late afternoon when the party made their
way, single file, along a narrow path. The trees drew back and the travelers
rode out onto a mound that jutted out into the wide estuary.
    There, ahead of them, sat a sturdy wooden hall with a thatch
roof. A sparse vegetable garden surrounded the hall. It was a lonely spot.  The
sun glittered off the water of the incoming tide and birds dived low over the
mud flats. On to the northwest, Aidan could see a wall of reeds waving in the
breeze against the low horizon.
    “M’lord,” one of Sigeberht’s thegns , a local man who
had served both King Raedwald and his son, Eorpwald, called out.  “We are but a
short ride from Snape. On the other side of the marsh lies Annan’s hall, where
your mother lives. Perhaps you would like to pay your kin a visit when we finish
our business here?”
    Sigeberht cast a dark glance in the warrior’s direction before
turning his attention to the monastery before them.
    “I did not come here to pay them a visit,” he replied, his
face twisting. “We have nothing to say to each other.”
    Aidan rode in silence behind his king. In his mind,
Sigeberht’s foul mood was due to more than a burning conscience. Although the
king would not admit it, his mother had sorely disappointed him. It was more
than her stubborn refusal of his god. Perhaps during all those years in exile,
Sigeberht had formed an image of his mother that could never stand up to the
reality. Even though she had appeared pleased to see him, it had been clear to
all that she had more affection for her nephews than her lost son. The harsh
words they had exchanged could never be taken back.
    As the riders approached the monastery, a man emerged from a
doorway. He was lean and dressed in an ankle-length, un-dyed, woolen tunic that
was belted at the waist with a girdle. A small, drawstring pouch hung from the
girdle and swung against his hip as the man approached the newcomers. When the
man neared them, Aidan could see he was at least five and forty winters. He was
balding, and had a weathered, gentle face.
    “ Wes hāl! ” he greeted them, his face splitting
into a smile when his gaze rested upon Sigeberht. “We are indeed blessed if
this is King Sigeberht, the Righteous, before me?”
    “It is,” Sigeberht replied gruffly, his face softening for the
first time in days. “I thank thee for your welcome.”
    “I am Botulf,” the man smiled. From behind him, Aidan saw
another two monks, younger than their leader and dressed in the same woolen
tunics, emerge from the hall. They lacked their leader’s charisma and both
looked a bit worried. Aidan realized that living in such an isolated spot made
the monks vulnerable to raids. Sigeberht had not advised the monks of his
coming.
    The king swung down from his horse and extended a hand to
Botulf.
    “I have sorely missed the company of men such as yourself,”
Sigeberht bent and kissed the monk’s hand. “I have much to discuss with you. I
hope your hall can accommodate us for a day or two.”
    “Of course sire.” Botulf bowed his head. “You are our honored
guests.”
     
    They sat on mats around the fire pit and ate pottage and
freshly baked griddle bread. Botulf’s hall was simply furnished, with little in
the way of furniture. A heavy curtain made of rabbit fur divided the long
space, creating a separate