“What news?” Wulfram asked.
Ælric lifted his head, staring his leader straight in the eye.
“The king is dead,” he said. “As is Lord Osberht. When the retreat at last was sounded we were being overwhelmed. Less than a thousand have returned.”
Wulfram nodded, his face deep in thought.
“So Bayan is king,” he mused.
“If there is to be one,” Ælric added, his voice hushed.
“True,” muttered Wulfram. “If Gunnlaug presses out from Eboric, attacks now, we would be decimated.”
They both lapsed into silence, caught up in thoughts of political wrangling that Æva did not understand. She had no interest in trying. There was only one piece of news that she wanted. She could not bear to wait any longer.
“Ælric,” her voice was soft, hesitant. She could not bring herself to form the words, just gazed at him pleadingly.
He understood at once.
“He is alive,” he said. “The monks are caring for him.”
Tears smarted in her eyes. She hauled in a deep breath for what felt like the first time in hours.
“Thank you,” she quavered.
Bayan called for her as soon as the dawn broke. She’d been awake for a long time. Now her mind had processed the news that Idin lived, the malaise that had frozen her senses had lifted, and other fears had begun to creep in. She once again had something to lose, and something to live for. That gave her much to be afraid of.
Wulfram delivered her, holding firmly onto her upper arm until he had deposited her inside the King’s tent. Bayan dismissed him with a word and he left at once, affording the new king a respectful bow.
Bayan left Æva to stand just inside the opening of the tent while he finished giving instructions to a captain. The warrior glanced at her once, quizzically, but as Bayan continued to ignore her, so did he. Æva realised she must look appalling. She was covered in blood from head to toe, and she was not sure which of it belonged to her, to men who had died alongside her, or to the Viking hoards they had been attacking.
Though Bayan was deep in conversation with the soldier, she knew he was aware of her every movement. Despite the fact that every inch of her body ached, pride kept her standing. While she waited, she took stock of her many injuries: she had a deep gash along the back of one thigh, a trickle of blood sliding down the back of her knee towards her ankle. A matching cut ran down her left upper arm. Both of these wounds burned and throbbed. She also had stabbing pains around her chest, as if one of her ribs had broken, but strangely the most painful wound was a shallow cut across her right temple. It sliced down to her cheekbone, splitting the skin but - as far as she could tell - bled little. It stung viciously in the cold air, though, making her eyes water. She tried to blink the moisture away; she didn’t want Bayan to think she was crying.
At last Bayan dismissed the soldier, who left with a reverent bow. The man nodded curtly at her as he passed, and she realised he had mistaken her for a young soldier dressed as she was, with her hair chopped to her jaw and her face hidden by dirt and blood. Still Bayan did not address her, and she fought the urge to fidget as she waited for the onslaught. She watched as he tidied away maps, curling each one slowly and carefully into a slender cylinder, drawing out the tension. She knew this was only the beginning of her punishment.
Eventually he finished, dropping the tubes on the table and walking towards her. His face, too, was serene, but Æva knew that was a mask. The storm whirled in his eyes: he was livid. He stopped just a step from her, close enough for her to have to tilt her head to stare into the icy blue of his eyes. The aches of her injuries seemed to fade as anxiety filled her stomach. Her breathing crept faster.
“You deliberately disobeyed me.” The tone was even, each word measured and calm, but with an underlying menace that caused her to flinch. Taking a deep breath of courage, she smoothed her expression, forcing herself to hold his steely gaze.
“Yes,” she said.
Although she feared her response would anger him, it was pointless to deny. She had made her choice, knowing the consequences. Even standing here now, facing his wrath, she did not regret her actions and she knew she would make the same choice again. His nostrils flared in anger, but he held rigidly to his control.
“I specifically told you to stay here, in the tent, where you would be safe. And you choose to ignore me, to take yourself into a battlefield where you could have been killed?”
His perfect articulation shattered as the words tumbled from his mouth, the volume increasing to a shout by the final word. This time Æva did not respond, her trembling lips pinned shut by her teeth so they would not betray her fear. He glared at her for a moment, before turning away and pacing the room.
“I come back here to an empty tent and find nothing but this,” he reached down to the floor and picked something up, flinging it onto the table for Æva to see. She stared down at the object. Her hair, her beautiful hair. Cut from her scalp, it already looked dead, the sheared ends coming undone from the tight braid. Even now her head felt strangely light, missing the weight tumbling down her back.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, apologising to the murdered tresses rather than Bayan. He, too, seemed to sense the reason for her anguish and it only further ignited his rage. He backhanded the braid from the table, sending the hair flying into the leather wall of the tent, where it dropped into a ragged heap.
“I will not have my woman disobey me.” His glare cut into her, his arms folded tight across his chest as if he kept them there to stop the violence of his fists.
At his words Æva huffed a laugh, a derisive snort drawn from her mouth against her will.
“Your woman,” she scorned. “You keep me here in a cage, halfway between your wife and your whore.” She spat the last word at him with venom.
The rebuke came instantly: like a flash his hand smashed across her face. It was not a hard blow, barely registering amongst the rest of her injuries, but it was a line he had never before crossed. Æva thought she saw a flicker of regret in his eyes before they hardened once again.
“You forget your place,” he growled, his voice hard and rough with emotion. Æva watched his fists clench with the urge to hit her again, to beat her impudence out of her. He was close to exploding, and it frightened her. She dropped her gaze, lowering her head submissively.
“I told you not to associate with those men, but you defied me. You will not do so again.”
Æva’s head whipped up, her eyes sparkling in fear and anger. He could not take them from her; the only people who showed her true respect and kindness, her only friends. She opened her mouth to argue, but the retort died on her lips as his eyes narrowed, his expression furious. He was the new king; if he lost control of his temper, no one would save her from the consequences.
Bayan watched her, finally satisfied as she cowed back from his wrath. He turned from her, dismissing her with his back.
“Clean yourself up before you come to me tonight,” he ordered, his tone disgusted.
Anguish twisted in Æva’s chest. This was his final and most cruel punishment: to treat her like his whore.
“Yes, My Lord,” she managed to whisper before she turned away.
She expected to run straight into Wulfram, her gaoler, but no one loitered outside the tent. Desperate to wash the blood of strangers from her skin, she walked behind it towards the river.
She cleaned the blood from her arms and face, discovering new scratches and tiny wounds that had laid dormant but now stung under the scrutiny of her eyes. The tears were not so easy to quell, but the soothing liquid calmed her. Cupping her hands together, she lifted the water up once more, sloshing it over her face then running her wet fingers through her sweat and blood matted hair, slicking it back. She used the bottom of her tunic to wipe her face dry and sighed, keeping her face hidden by the fabric.
Then she turned and walked off in search of the monk’s hospital without a backwards glance.
The vast swathes of injured soldiers were being treated by the monks in a small meadow beside the monastery. A handful of tents had been erected, from within which unearthly screaming erupted at intervals, but most of the wounded lay on the open ground, the lucky lifted up on tables, others lying on rough rugs of wool. The air was punctuated with the sounds of their pain; groans of misery and whispered prayers hissing at Æva as she stepped amongst them, eyes searching each face.
She already knew she would not find him here. These were peasants; farmers and workers drafted up by nobles desperate to bolster numbers. They had gone into battle ill-prepared, almost defenceless, and they were fortunate to have survived the encounter. Many would be lucky to survive the cold of another night. Though a monk wandered here and there amongst the wounded, stopping to offer a prayer, give a drink or check a wound, these men had been by and large left to die. Idin would not be amongst such laypersons. Still, she had to be sure, she had to check.
Suddenly a hand reached out; bloody, dirty fingers clasping around her ankle. She paused, wide-eyed with fright, and stared down at the figure.
“Kill me,” he whispered, staring up at her with beseeching eyes.
He was young, perhaps no older than she, and his cheeks still held the roundedness of youth. His face was bruised, the jaw swollen, a deep slice across his temple exposing the bone. But as Æva’s eyes travelled down his body she understood the real reason for his pain. His abdomen was bloated, the tunic he wore cut away to reveal the extent of his injury. Just below his navel was a jagged hole, the edges already red and angry, festering. He had been speared, the sharpened point slicing through the skin and shredding his insides. He would not withstand such damage, but death would be slow and painful as the contents of his intestines gradually poisoning his system.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Kill me,” he repeated, pleading with her.
But Æva shook her head, a teardrop slithering down her cheek. Desperate to get away, to escape his agony, she twisted her ankle viciously from his grasp and scurried off, unable to bear looking back at his accusing eyes.
She forced herself to finish checking that Idin was not in the field, giving a quick glance at each face, never stopping long enough for any more of the living dead to reach out to her, or in some cases even open their eyes. She had been right. He was not here.
She tried to quell the panic in her that feared a lie in Ælric’s words, that dared to think he lay not here, but on the battlefield, cold and still. He was a great warrior, one of Wulfram’s best men. He had been dressed in his finery; they would have treated him with respect. There was only one place they would take such men: inside the monastery walls, where the monks could use all of their knowledge and skill to save those that merited it. Such selection may have been an affront in the eyes of God, but it pleased the nobles, and that kept the monks’ walls, their very lives, safe.
Æva turned and faced the monastery, eyeing it warily. The church stood in the centre, surrounded by a hodge-podge of buildings, some stone, others wooden framed with wattle and daub walls. From the field Æva picked out the cluttered angles of the roofs, lazy plumes of smoke winding up at odd intervals. The rest was hidden from view by a wooden palisade, standing above the head of a man. There was only one entrance, and that worried her. If she came face to face with Bayan or Wulfram, there would be nowhere to hide.
Without allowing herself to think, she ordered her feet to move. The entrance way was open, unguarded. She kept her eyes fixed on that, refusing to allow herself to glance at the men who wandered around her. She forced herself to keep the same even pace, matching her steps to her breaths. Three paces and she’d be there, two paces and she’d be inside the monastery and free to search for Idin.
At the last moment a body stepped to the right, deliberately blocking her path.
“Excuse me,” she muttered, trying to step around, but the man moved in tandem. She had no option but to look up, her heart in her mouth.
It was Ælric. He did not smile at her, or glare, but his eyes were narrowed, shrewd.
“You should not be here,” he told her.
She stared at him, thinking carefully. He could easily stop her; take her back to Bayan, who would punish her severely this time. A quick flash of Lora’s battered face swam before her eyes. She blinked it away, concentrating on Ælric, on the emotions he guarded in his eyes.
“I have to see him,” she said quietly.
His eyes tightened, angry.
“Have you not done enough?” he hissed, and she flinched at the venom in his voice.
She hung her head, unable to deny the damage she had caused, the havoc she had wreaked.
Her humility softened him. He reached out a hand, dropping it lightly on her arm.
“He is in the church,” he said. “If Wulfram catches you he will be furious, and he will take you back. I did not see you,” he warned.
Æva nodded quickly, gratefully. Ælric could only shake his head, incredulous at himself.
“Go,” he told her, inclining with his head.
She reached out and squeezed his arm, grateful, and dashed past. Now she knew where to find Idin, she was in a hurry.
The church was the largest building in the monastery. Made of stone with a thatched roof, it had long, slatted windows inlaid with coloured glass. The doorway was an arch, thick timbered double doors barring the way in times of uncertainty. Now only one was closed over, and Æva slithered through the narrow gap. Inside was cool; long, tapered candles flickered from brackets high up on the wall, casting ghoulish shadows across the room. The space had been cleared and filled with tables. Monks rushed up and down the aisles, their faces intent, brows creased with worry.
Æva wrinkled her nose at the putrid smell. The metallic tang of blood hung in the air, undercut by a stench of infection and the cloying aroma of the herbs the monks used in their healing. She lurked in the door, eyes trying to locate Idin without leaving the safety of the tiny darkened hallway. The monks ignored her, assuming her to be a servant boy. They sang softly, offering prayers for the lives of the soldiers. There was no other noise: these men, the most elite of warriors, suffered their agonies in silence.
“Dammit,” she muttered, unable to identify him amongst the rows of injured men. There was nothing to do but walk the rows, checking each face as she had done in the field. Here she was not nervous of a desperate hand reaching for her; she was afraid of being challenged by the monks, of seeing a face that might recognise her. Still, she had come this far.
Taking a deep breath, Æva walked forward, turning left and strolling down the first aisle. She tried to look both unimportant and innocent, avoiding the stare of the monks as she passed by, trying to seem as though she had a legitimate reason to be there.
At the bottom of the row, she flicked one glance at the final, wretched figure then turned to traverse the next line of tables. She took one step, then stopped. Turned back.
Idin.
He lay on a table in the very back corner of the church, the darkened gloom hiding most of his face in shadow. His tunic had been removed and the dirt and blood of battle cleaned from his chest and abdomen. His arms rested by his side, his head raised on a small pillow, facing up into the rafters of the thatch. He seemed to be sleeping.
Æva approached softly, frightened of disturbing him. Her eyes fell at once on his ribs, straining to see the extent of his injuries in the dimness. The wound had been dressed, a linen bandage wrapping round the expanse of his chest. A small stain of blood had seeped through, but the gushing flow she had tried desperately to staunch with her fingers on the battlefield had stopped.
She let her eyes travel the length of his naked torso. One arm had a deep gash; though the blood had been washed clean, the edges lay open, ragged and raw. His chest was coated in the purple-black of bruises, another one darkening his jaw. Her eyes prickled as she took in his battered state, her only comfort the slow, rhythmic rise a
nd fall of his chest. He was breathing.
She stood for a long moment, just watching him, drinking in the fact that he was here, alive. His face looked peaceful in sleep, the slanting dark eyebrows unfurrowed, his lips parted as air hissed gently in and out. One lock of his hair fell across his face, the spiky ends digging into his eyelid. She could see the muscle twitch, trying to dislodge it.
Somewhat nervously, Æva took a step forward, reached over and lifted the curling lock, brushing it back towards his hairline. At the slight touch, his eyes opened. They stared at the ceiling for a heartbeat, then flicked towards her, searching. Æva froze, her hand still hovering over his shoulder.
They stared at each other cautiously, seconds ticking by. Then Idin’s mouth bent into the briefest of smiles, his eyes wincing in pain at the movement.
“Hi,” he breathed.
Æva exhaled a small sob of relief.
“You’re alive,” she said, her voice saturated with emotion.
“So they tell me,” Idin said. His mouth twitched into another half-smile, but his eyes were full of sadness.
After that silence fell between then, deep and poignant. There was much to say, but Æva knew from the sombreness of Idin’s expression that there would be little cheer in the words.
“Are you in much pain?” she asked, searching for anything to fill the empty air, to stop his mouth from forming the words that darkened his smile.
He ignored the question, whether to spare her pain of the truth, or because he refused to be distracted, she could not be sure.
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