"Lord Aldric is quite chivalrous, but Lord Newell is far more handsome," Eadgifu giggled as she worked on her needlework.
Lord Newell came from a lesser house, while Lord Aldric was searching for a suitable wife to prevent his house from falling under the weight of his late father's debts. It was unlikely that the proud Lord Godric would allow such people into his household or grant them access to his wealth. Selethryth felt for her sister, who was sweet but naive. To her credit, Eadgifu wasn't accustomed to the schemes of the court. People liked her, and they loved talking to her, but until she reached the proper age to find a husband, her political influence had been limited. Selethryth didn't know how to behave—should she crush all her sister's dreams, or let her indulge in them? Either way, she would be left with guilt.
"Have you spoken with Father? About your preferences?" Selethryth asked instead.
Eadgifu thought about it for a moment before answering. "Father must have noticed my interest at the feast. I'm sure he's debating with Mother over one of the two options." Selethryth watched her sister, once again struck by how differently they viewed their parents. Eadgifu always saw them as strict and dutiful, but also righteous, pious, and generous. Selethryth, however, harbored darker thoughts. Her father was ambitious and cunning, while her mother was cold, distant, and bound by superstition.
"We shall pray for that," Selethryth answered with a small, forced smile. She truly hoped so. She wanted her sister to be happy—and safe—with the man who would one day become her husband.
"What about you?" Eadgifu asked eagerly, leaning toward her sister. "Is there someone who caught your eye?"
Selethryth never felt comfortable at the feasts; the gazes and whispers only grew louder during those occasions. The superstitions and rumors about her spread across the realm, and there was no man or family who didn't know about the Witch of Wessex at the court of King Ecbert—or at least, her likeness. Selethryth's eyes gave her away before someone could even speak a word to her. So, during a feast, she usually stood at the side of the room, trying to be as invisible as possible, observing her sister and the other ladies dance. Her mother seemed to appreciate her behavior, but usually, her father—against Oswyth's will—would bring Selethryth before the King so that he could exchange words with Ecbert.
And the same thing had happened the day before. Selethryth had managed to stay on the side of the ballroom until her father found her and brought her to the King. Selethryth had bowed to the man, giving a small smile in Alfred's direction when she noticed him sitting next to his grandfather. The sweet boy returned the gesture before the King began to speak.
"You look delightful this evening, Selethryth," Ecbert said. She found herself looking up at her father, wondering why he enjoyed being in front of the King so much, knowing that the man was more interested in her than in him.
Ambition is a strange thing, she thought, before smiling at the King.
"Your words are very kind, Your Grace," she answered politely, as she was accustomed to doing.
"I was wondering if I might enjoy Selethryth's company after the feast," the King now spoke to Godric. Her father's eyes briefly moved toward Oswyth, who was not far from them. She was supposed to accompany Eadgifu to speak with the suitors, but she was always too focused on observing whoever and whatever came close to Selethryth. Sometimes it felt as though Oswyth thought that her daughter would cast a spell on any fool who dared to approach her.
But this time, Oswyth's eyes were on the King and her husband. Godric had noticed too.
"Could I ask the reason behind this meeting?" At her father's question, a small smirk appeared on the King's face before he leaned back in his seat, folding the rings that adorned his fingers.
"I was thinking, Godric," Ecbert began, and Selethryth observed him closely. She had spent much time with the man, but he was highly unpredictable. Sometimes he seemed like the kindest of kings; other times, he was ruthless and almost dangerous. Selethryth just hoped that her father hadn't angered him.
"Soon I'll have to leave for Repton," Ecbert continued, "You would be most welcome to join as one of my guards."
Selethryth could see how her father's chest swelled with pride, and a smug grin spread across his face. "The girl hasn't slept much tonight," he said. "The medic advised against her staying up late. But my King can have her as he pleases."
If Selethryth didn't know what Ecbert expected of her, she would have thought her father was offering her up as the King's mistress. Ambition was truly something created by the Devil.
Her eyes met Alfred's. The young prince seemed confused and pensive. Selethryth knew what he was wondering—the same thing that the court wondered. He was young, but soon he would start to hear the rumors, and Selethryth wondered if Judith would ever have any doubts about what her lover wanted from the girl. She was no longer a babe.
But the King didn't seem to mind any of those worried thoughts, as he smiled at Godric. "So kind of you, Godric." Then the King turned to her, "I'll send someone to call for you after the feast, my dear."
Selethryth forced her lips to turn up before bowing to the King. Then, with a glare, she followed her father away from the throne. He seemed so proud of himself. That was the kind of look that hurt her the most. She was used to being looked at with fear, but seeing her own father so satisfied after having handed her over to the King hurt more than she liked to admit.
"Smile for real, Selethryth," her father said proudly as they walked through the corridor.
"Should I do it for your ambition?" she asked from behind him. He turned to her with a glare.
"You should do it for yourself," he hissed, eyeing the corridor to make sure no one was too close to hear. "Your dreams make him interested, and I'll be an escort to the King," he whispered, "You were born to be used. Better by the King than by the Devil."
Those words had hurt her deeply, and Selethryth had to do everything she could not to let a tear fall from her eyes. She spent the entire night fighting against her own sorrow; every sweet laugh from the lips of a lady, every dance asked with courtesy by a man—all of it reminded her how distant she was from that life.
She should have been among them, enjoying the evening and finding a suitor. But she wasn't. It was like being forever a flower on the wall, never able to be with its kind on the ground. And that hurt deeply.
Selethryth could breathe again when one of Ecbert's guards told her the King was waiting for her in his quarters. She had never been more grateful to leave that chamber without sharing a word with anybody.
"Your beauty is wasted, if accompanied by such a sorrowful expression, my dear," the King said as they were left alone in the corridor. "What causes such dim feelings?"
"My mind is often busy with worry, Your Grace," she answered vaguely. The King observed her for a moment before gesturing for her to follow.
"The physician told me you had quite a busy night," he said, his robe making a swift sound as they walked. "Screaming and crying. What was the reason behind such desperation?"
Selethryth took a deep breath. "My dreams," she whispered. "They... do not leave me be... not even for a night." The King turned to her, a pensive frown on his face.
"The raven..." he said. "Is it he who causes your desperation?"
"The raven and what follows," she said, looking up at the King. "My lord, you know I do not believe in the powers you all think I have." He looked at her knowingly—they had had this conversation more than once over the years. "But these nights... they are terrifying."
"Why, my child?" he asked again, his tone flat but ever weary.
"The tempest," Ecbert frowned at her words. "The tempest that follows the coming of the raven. It feels... as if it brings an end. Unstoppable and ever close."
"Have you seen our land?" he asked attentively. He wanted to know if his crown would remain secure.
"No, my King," she said. "Just the tempest and the raven." And the blue-eyed figure, who seemed to carry so much pain and anger. She had grown fascinated and terrified by him, and she decided that he was probably death itself—the death that followed the destruction brought by the tempest.
"Thank you, Selethryth, for your words," the King said, visibly concerned as he walked towards the window, looking out. "Tell the physician to give you a tonic to calm your mind. You have been more than faithful."
"I appreciate your words, my King."
Selethryth remembered that she had never been so happy to finally be allowed to take a tonic that would bring her a dreamless slumber. But she soon learned that no tonic worked anymore.
It had been a week since the feast, and she had dreamt every single night. She awoke each time screaming and crying. The raven was closer each day, and so were the two men and the tempest. She had grown to fear bedtime. The physician was growing anxious; nothing he gave her worked. And he seemed to be starting to believe that these were not simple dreams.
He now looked at her with fear and disdain. And Selethryth was growing restless—and scared. If even a man of science thought of her as a witch, what did that make her?
"Lady Selethryth," one of the guards' voices made her look away from the window. Her head was pounding from lack of sleep, but she could see the urgency in his expression.
"What is it?" she asked, standing up.
"The King has requested your presence," he said. "Urgently."
Selethryth followed the man through the corridors of the castle, always busy with the people of the court. But as she always did, she passed through them like a shadow, faithfully doing what the King had asked of her. But silence never spared her from the gazes—gazes she was still learning how to ignore.
The King's chambers appeared peaceful, but as she opened the door, the terror she felt in her dreams returned, now fully awake.
Ecbert was sitting at his desk, his son standing a few feet from him, and on the wooden surface lay a red cloth. And on it, the image of a black raven was clear, even from where she stood.
Aethelwulf seemed surprised to see her, but he did not question his father, as Ecbert gestured for her to come closer.
Selethryth obeyed, feeling the cold creep through her body—the same cold that seemed to have affected the King, judging by the paleness of his cheeks.
"A raven..." she whispered under her breath as she looked closer at the cloth. The King nodded.
"Ragnar has returned." Selethryth's heterochromatic eyes moved to him. That cloth was not just a raven—it was the symbol of someone coming. A warrior. A legendary warrior.
This cannot be, Selethryth thought, dread filling her. How had she managed to dream this? How had she known? But they were only dreams. They had to be.
Her breath grew labored, but she did her best to keep it to herself.
"He came with a fleet," Aethelwulf's voice broke the silence. "But his ships broke apart in a storm."
The storm as well...
"It seems unlikely many of them survived," Aethelwulf continued. That made her heartbeat ease slightly. She hadn't seen that. In her dream, the raven had died, swallowed by a snake. The storm followed. This was not the same. It couldn't be.
The raven must just be a coincidence, she told herself. She had seen no ships.
"But some survivors were found slaughtered near the village of Wareham," Aethelwulf finished.
"Who killed them?" Ecbert asked, a small frown forming on his forehead.
"Well, I don't know," his son replied, "But it wasn't us."
"And there's... no sign of Ragnar?" the King asked, his tone unreadable. When Aethelwulf confirmed they had found no trace of him, Ecbert continued, "You'll keep searching. In the meantime, I must leave for the council in Repton." He leaned back in his chair. "I cannot ignore my duties just because one man has illegally entered my kingdom." His gaze briefly met Selethryth's. He didn't seem worried, and that relieved her.
"He is not just one man!" the prince argued. "The history of his race, Father. He is the face of the enemy we must always fight, always overcome."
Selethryth took in his words. If superstitions were true—God forbid—what if her dream meant another heathen invasion?
It is just a dream, Selethryth told herself. Do not find meaning where there is none.
"And if we are the lambs of God, then he..." Aethelwulf said, growing angry, "He is the eternal wolf."
"Sorry," the sudden, delicate voice of Judith made them all turn toward the door. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You didn't," the King reassured her gently, gesturing for her to approach the table. He truly seemed to seek the woman's counsel.
"What's this?" she asked, looking at the red cloth.
"It's the raven banner of Ragnar Lothbrok," Aethelwulf answered flatly. "We believe he has returned to haunt us."
Judith turned to the King. "Will he come here?"
"Who knows," he said with a shrug, then looked up at Selethryth. "But as long as he does not arrive at the head of three thousand warriors..."
The young lady shook her head slightly, understanding that the King wanted to know if she had dreamt of any such thing.
"Then I refuse to be alarmed, no matter what my son says," the King declared. Aethelwulf seemed ready to argue, but his father kept speaking. "He is, after all, just a man."
Selethryth felt somewhat relieved by what she had just witnessed. If her dream had meant anything, it was just a raven dying and a storm. Nothing to do with them. And yet, she still couldn't understand how she had dreamt exactly of a raven—and a storm.
But nobody mentioned the last figure she had seen. The angry, grieving blue eyes. The Death, as she had come to call him.
That must have been just a coincidence. There was no storm coming their way. And the King, seemingly relieved, must have seen that—this time—her dream, however terrifying, was just a dream.