“I am sorry,” he said.
“What have you to be sorry for?”
“You could have been killed,” he murmured, seething rage at himself twisting the words into more of a hiss. “I had no right to take you, and I failed to protect you.”
Æva shook her head violently, tears forming.
“You have been hurt,” he reminded her, reaching up to touch the gash at her temple. She closed her eyes as his fingers gently stroked the throbbing skin, but the effort pained him and he dropped his arm back down quickly.
“It’s nothing,” she told him. She smiled at him, daring to reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder, feeling the heat rolling in waves off his scraped and bruised skin. “If I could go back and choose again, there is nothing I would change.”
He smiled at her, his face full of such sorrow it almost broke her heart.
“I would,” he said, no more than a whisper.
“What do you mean?” Æva asked, her voice as low as his.
He reached for her hand and she grasped it, fingers shaking. There was no power in his grip, but a steely determination in his eyes.
“If I could go back,” he said, “I would leave you in that tent. And I would have died on the battlefield.”
Æva blinked, waiting for his words to make sense, for her mind to find a way to scramble them into something she could understand, something she could accept, but there was only one meaning, and it was crystal clear.
“Please don’t say that,” she begged, but Idin’s expression was firm, adamant.
“I made the wrong choice,” he told her. “I will not do so again.”
“You said that you loved me,” she began, her eyes both accusing and imploring.
“I do,” he said, “But that does not matter.”
“No,” Æva cried, her face screwing up with hurt. “Wulfram has...”
But Idin shook his head, stopping her tongue.
“Wulfram has done nothing,” he said each word slowly, determined she understand. “This is my choice.”
He looked at her, holding her gaze, his eyes full of pity, carefully masking the pain.
“You should go,” he whispered.
Æva stood stock still, paralysed. She was drowning. His rejection sliced through her as the Viking’s spear had been too slow to do. She knew she needed to say something, to find some way to convince him that he was wrong, but she had nothing. Staring at his face she saw only resolute stubbornness.
She jerked her hand from his grasp and closed her eyes against the pity in his face. Unable to speak, to muster arguments against the grim set of his mouth, she turned and fled.
Out of his presence, the tears that had refused to fall gushed forth, blinding her. She barrelled down the aisle of wounded men, her hand up to cover her face. Through the blurry haze she could just make out a thin streak of light, the doorway to the church. Heedless of the watching monks she hurtled towards it, banging off the half-closed door and out into the harsh daylight. The ground was uneven, and she tripped and jolted across it, desperate to just get away.
From out of nowhere arms encircled her from behind. They were strong, like bands of steel. They encompassed her arms, pinning them to her side. Æva struggled against them, her sobs coming harder and mingling with little cries of panic.
“Æva, stop,” the commanding voice halted her at once. It was Wulfram, come for her again.
As soon as she was still, he released her, tugging her round to face him. He had been searching for her, and his face seethed with anger. For a moment his eyes bored into her, glaring ferociously, but then they noted the red rims around her eyes, the tears tracking down her cheeks, the scrunched-up expression of pain on every feature of her face. Understanding dawned, and with it came sympathy, making Æva cry all the harder. He did not have the heart to chastise her now.
“Come,” was all he said. He turned and walked away towards the exit of the palisade, allowing her to stumble along behind and hide the shame of her face.
ᚪ
By the time they reached Bayan’s tent, Æva had stopped her tears. Though it seemed as if there should be no more room within her for emotion, she still felt a flutter of fear as Wulfram held the tent open and pointed her inside, but it was empty. Only Lora stood there, small, pale and frightened looking as usual. She held a dress bundled in her arms. After a moment Æva recognised it as the blue wool dress Bayan had given her.
“You are to wear this for Prince Bayan,” Lora said.
“I will wait outside,” Wulfram said from behind her. “You will go nowhere.”
His voice was harsh, daring her to contradict him, but Æva nodded mutely without turning around. She had no strength to fight anymore.
She allowed Lora to dress her, saying nothing and staring into space. Once the beautiful gown was on, the maid turned her attention to her hair. The lopsided, short bob was beyond repair, but she combed it through, removing the blood and muck. When she was done, Æva allowed her to lead her outside, back to Wulfram, who escorted her the short distance to the tent that had belonged to King Ælle.
It was furnished more opulently than Bayan’s tent had been, the bed adorned with many plush cushions all in the King’s colour of green and some bearing his symbol of the red fox. There was more furniture, too: a large table surrounded by several winged chairs; long silk banners that hung in vibrant colours down the leather walls. Candles were lit all around the room, burning brightly on ornate iron candlesticks.
Bayan was there alone, seated at the table on the grandest of the winged chairs. He clutched a large tankard, dark wood inlaid with slivers of horn. Leftover food lay on a tray, crumbs and spilt pieces of the meal dribbled across the smooth oak surface. Bayan’s tunic, too, was spattered with food, and above this his face was red, his eyes unfocused. He gazed blearily at her now, his expression unfathomable.
“Æva,” he said, almost spitting the word out. He grinned at her, a leer, licking his lips. They shone glistening pink in the flickering light. She stared back at him, faintly nauseated.
“You’re drunk,” she accused, her eyes narrowing scornfully before caution wiped the expression clean. Though the ache of her cheek had long since soothed, she still vividly remembered the violence behind it.
But Bayan only laughed, a huff of black amusement.
“Am I?” he asked, straightening up to view her more clearly. He took a deep swig from the tankard, spilling drink over his cheeks and down onto his tunic, before slamming it back down on to the tabletop. The sound rang out, a hammering crash that spilt yet more liquid from the cup down over Bayan’s fingers. He didn’t seem to notice, keeping his eyes fixed on her.
Æva glanced behind her nervously, wondering if Wulfram still loitered outside the tent. If he would come to her aid if she screamed.
“I think today I have reason,” he said.
“My Lord?” she replied, a half-whisper, high pitched with apprehension.
“It has not been a good day,” he told her, fury and frustration and despair warring to become the dominant emotion in his eyes. “My father is dead, hacked to pieces on the battlefield. Our army is in tatters, most of my soldiers are dead and those that aren’t are barely standing. We’ve had our arse handed to us by that Viking scum. And then there’s you,” his eyes narrowed as they took her in, and Æva unconsciously shuffled a step backwards, “You, little girl, who are causing me far more trouble than perhaps you are worth.”
He took another drink as he said this, assessing her. Æva could only stare back, a frightened little rabbit. Her heart sped as he rose from the table, lurching out of the chair and crossing the tent. She followed his every movement, watching his hands ball into fists as he approached. Somehow she found the strength to hold her ground and he stopped a step from her, his teeth clenched, his body tense. Up close, she could see the sorrow as well as rage. He was hurting.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, half to his pain, half cover her actions.
“
You are sorry,” he repeated, derision twisting the words.
One hand reached up to her shoulder, fingers skimming along her collarbone. Then they circled around her neck. They slid up and down the soft skin from the hollow of her throat to the line of her jaw, tickling her skin with the lightest touch. At any second, he could tighten his grip and snap her neck or choke the life from her, no ramifications. He knew it, and she knew it.
Æva stood motionless, willing her body to still every trembling muscle. The violent thumping of her heart would not be controlled, however. Her pulse thudded in her throat, giving away her fear.
Bayan leaned into her, so close their eye lashes tangled together. She felt the scratchiness of his jaw where countless days of stubble was growing into a dirty blond beard, taste the acrid tang of alcohol on his breath. Then he kissed her, his mouth urgent on hers, his hands reaching up to tangle themselves in the remains of her hair. His whole body shook, her cheeks wet with tears that were not her own.
And though she hated herself for it, she kissed him back.
They awoke at dawn, groggy and unsteady, their limbs entangled on the bed but their bodies fully clothed. It was Wulfram, again. Æva stared at him, her brain slow and dull-witted. She was surprised at the level of importance he had so quickly established with Bayan. He ignored her, his eyes on his master.
“My Lord,” he said reverently, standing to attention and waiting for Bayan to rub his forehead and shake the tiredness from his brain.
“What is it, Thane?” Bayan asked, his voice stretching into a wide yawn on the final word.
“There is a Viking messenger for you.”
Bayan started, the tiredness of only a moment ago forgotten. He slithered from the bed, leaving Æva discarded amongst the pile of cushions.
“Send a servant in to me. I will see him as soon as I am decent.”
Wulfram bowed then turned to leave. Æva gazed at him, wanting him to recognise her, wanting a chance to plead with her eyes, to explain, but he swept by her without a glance.
“Should I leave?” she asked Bayan quietly as a servant boy rushed in armed with a large bowl of water, a tunic slung over his arm.
Bayan ignored her question, plunging his head into the cold water, scrubbing at his face and running his hands through his hair, slicking down the snarled locks. He dried his face with a rag, appraising her as he tossed it back to the boy.
“You do not leave my sight,” he said.
Æva looked down at the pillow clutched in her hand, her cheeks burning at the rebuke. She heard the rustle of material as he yanked off the stained clothes and pulled on a fresh tunic.
“Bring us some food,” he said to the servant. The boy bobbed in acquiescence before rushing out. Bayan’s eyes now focused on the opening of the tent, preparing for the messenger. Æva struggled out of the furs, trying to stand. She did not want to be lying on the bed like a whore when the Viking entered.
“Stay there,” Bayan’s voice whipped out, freezing her muscles. Curtailing her look of resentment, she flopped back down. She pushed the cushions into a pile, leaning against them so she was at least sitting.
Moments later Wulfram entered the tent, a stranger close on his heels. The man was thick set, with curly black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore the armour of a great warrior, the glint of chain mail peeking out beneath a tunic of leather trimmed with furs. A sword hung at his belt. He walked with a confident swagger, a barely concealed smirk hanging on his lips. Ignoring Wulfram, who stood quietly to the side, his arms folded benignly but his eyes vigilant, the messenger strutted to the centre of the tent. Bayan stayed behind the table, his face impassive, emotionless. Æva’s eyes swivelled between the three men, feeling the tension in the room. Only Wulfram paid her any heed, his eyes registering her frightened face for a heartbeat before returning his attention to the messenger.
“You have a message for me?” Bayan asked, tired of waiting and irked by the smug expression of the Viking.
“My name is Thakkrad, My Lord. King Gunnlaug Snake-tongue bids you greeting.” The messenger bowed, his voice oily even through the strange accent.
Bayan acknowledged the respectful opening with a terse nod, his eyes intent, his face impatient.
“He bids you meet with him at Eboric. There are many matters he wishes to discuss with you.”
The messenger continued to smile, though his eyes were sly, arrogant. Bayan’s eyes narrowed in dislike.
“And if I refuse?” he asked, raising one eyebrow in challenge. Wulfram’s face twitched with unease as he stood all but invisible against the tent wall, a gesture noticed only by Æva. She glanced back to the messenger, who looked incredulous.
“I think that would be unwise,” he sneered. “You have lost many men, and those who have survived are grievously wounded. King Gunnlaug’s army is still fresh and strong.” The remains of the threat hung in the air, but his meaning was clear even to Æva: meet with the Viking king or be obliterated.
Bayan held the messenger’s stare, but recognised defeat.
“When would your master like to meet with me?” he asked, refusing to call the invader by his title of king.
“He awaits your convenience,” Thakkrad said, giving another bow that ran the edge of mockery. He watched as Bayan looked to Wulfram, a silent exchange passing between them. “Perhaps I should wait outside, My Lord, and allow you to discuss King Gunnlaug’s offer?”
Without waiting for an answer, he backed front the tent, nodding at Bayan before sweeping through the folds.
As soon as he disappeared from sight, Wulfram was in motion, walking swiftly to Bayan’s side. He spoke in low mutters, too quiet for Æva to hear. She watched Bayan nodding, his eyes aggrieved but agreeing with Wulfram’s words.
“There is no choice, then,” he sighed.
“It would be the most prudent course, My Lord,” Wulfram offered, his face sympathetic. “Shall I gather the nobles to accompany you?” he suggested.
“No,” Bayan shook his head. “I shall take only you. If this Snake-tongue is anything like his name, he cannot be trusted. I would not put all of us in his grasp when we are so weak.”
Wulfram nodded approvingly, then darted a glance at Æva. She did not bother to look away in pretence; both men knew she was listening.
“She comes,” Bayan ordered, his eyes on her, watching her expression drop from nervous to horrified. “Bring someone to watch her.”
“I would prefer to bring my own man, My Lord,” Wulfram suggested. “He can be trusted,” he continued at Bayan’s sharp glance. “And he may be useful.”
Bayan thought for a moment, but then sighed in assent.
“Have a servant ready the horses,” he said.
Less than an hour later Æva found herself riding back towards Eboric. She sat astride a great bay stallion, Ælric holding the reins behind her.
“I knew I’d get my turn eventually,” Ælric whispered in her ear, his words carrying no further as they cantered across the rugged terrain. Æva knew he was alluding to that night, just outside Maelton, where she had ridden with Idin. It seemed a long time ago now. She had been so embarrassed, cringing every time she brushed against Idin’s body; now, Ælric arms around her were a comfort.
The messenger, Thakkrad, pressed his horse into a fast-paced gallop and they covered the ground quickly. What had seemed unending to Æva as she had jogged to her doom now passed in a flash. She wondered fleetingly what fate might greet her this time. It was difficult to imagine; she had no idea what was about to take place, or what she was doing there.
Before them the battlefield stretched out at the feet of Eboric, a gruesome and sickening scene. Æva moaned, her hand reaching up to cover her mouth in shock, then her mouth and nose in revulsion as the smell hit her.
Although two days had passed since the battle, bodies lay everywhere. They were slumped in piles, limbs lying at odd angles, faces hacked into blurred obliteration. Their skins stood out pale white against the dark of their
clothing and the blood red of the ground. Men wandered to and fro, carrying the corpses to the outskirts of the field where large mass graves had been dug. Priests stood over these, supervising the process and offering prayers and blessings for the dead.
Æva watched, grateful that the men were being given as much of a proper Christian burial as could be afforded under such circumstances, but she saw with despair that such dignity was too late for some. The screeching caw of ravens rent the air, and the shining back feathers of the scavengers could be seen across the battlefield as they hopped from body to body, viciously pecking at their victims. Æva shuddered, repulsed, and closed her eyes as they made their steady descent, the Viking messenger leading the way towards the broken gates of the city of Eboric.
Gunnlaug Snake-tongue had set himself up in the old Roman Forum, the Hall to the Anglo-Saxons of Eboric. It sat in the centre of the city, a large stone building with high arched windows. The small group dismounted, a young servant coming forward to take the reins of their horses. Around the building Viking soldiers loitered, eyeing them disdainfully. Nervous of their leering stares, Æva huddled closer to Ælric, her ‘guard’, as they moved out of the watery sunshine and into the Hall.
Inside was stiflingly warm, a roaring fire crackling menacingly in the grate. The building was just one large room, a row of columns marching proudly up the centre. The walls were painted vibrant colours, carved wooden statues dotted around the room. Æva noticed none of these details, her attention, as with the others, was focused on the man sat waiting in the throne-like chair at the far end of the hall.
He was massive, in height as well as girth. His hair was dark and thick with streaks of grey. He was clean shaven to his chin, a thick beard warming his neck, hiding his many rolls of jowl and chin fat. When he smiled in welcome, laughing obscenely, his eyes crinkled into the deep-set wrinkles of age and Æva noticed large gaps in his teeth, the remainder black and rotting. He sat relaxed, grinning, but Æva noticed that he was flanked by several warriors, all much younger, their bulging muscles and gleaming weapons clearly in evidence. Their faces were tense, watchful.
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