I often ponder the way God’s favor passes from one king to another, as capricious as fortune’s wheel. Our family’s misfortune brought back the princes my uncle drove out of Northumbria when he returned from King Redwald’s court. King Edwin said he ruled by Woden’s luck. Later, he gave credit to God. But he was only a small piece in a cosmic struggle. When gods dispute, kings die. Edwin’s princes are dead; his queen in a monastery; his daughter, Enfleda, neither nun nor princess; and I am less than that.
The kings of East Anglia have no use for a dispossessed princess, so King Eadbald marries me to an old man who served him well in battle. I bind my husband’s weeping wounds, keep his hall supplied, and warm his bed. In his battle-hardened way, he is kind, and I am grateful.
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