by Bobbi Smith
“More than fifty,” Kristoffer told him.
The villagers realized then that their loved ones were not among the surviving warriors, and they wept in sorrow.
“You are certain Brage is dead?” Anslak repeated.
“I saw him fall,” Ulf stared at the ground, unable to meet his father’s searching gaze.
“Ulf and I went back after dark to try to find him, but the Saxons had burned the bodies. There was nothing left . . .” Kristoffer explained in a voice heavy with sorrow.
The death of his son left Anslak numb. Brage. His beloved child dead.
Images of Brage swam before him. He saw Brage returning triumphantly from his first raid; Brage gaining stature among his peers until he was their unchallenged leader; Brage confident and ready as he prepared to sail for the Saxon coast.
Anslak’s thoughts drifted back even further in time then, and he remembered Brage’s birth and how Mira, his beloved first wife, had died presenting him with a son. Mira . . . At the thought of her, pain knifed through the protective armor of his stunned grief. Brage had been his only connection to his adored Mira, and now he was gone . . . dead, too, just as she was. The twisting agony in his chest was almost too much for him to bear.
Tove was staring up at her husband, her eyes wide and filled with disbelief. “Brage cannot be dead. He was the finest of warriors. How could this have happened?”
“We were outnumbered and almost surrounded. There was no chance to take the tower,” Ulf continued. “When Brage was killed, the men knew the battle was lost. We withdrew to the ships and, after trying to find Brage that night, we headed here.”
“Oh, Anslak . . .” Tove clung to her husband, trying to comfort him. “I am so sorry.”
Pain seared every fiber of Anslak’s being as he spoke to Ulf and Kristoffer. “We will talk of this more later.”
He kept an arm around Tove as he turned away from the sight of Brage’s longships and the bloodred sail that bore the mark of the Black Hawk.
That night the men gathered in the main room of Anslak’s house to speak of the voyage. Their mood was solemn. Death had touched them, and those who had survived knew they were lucky to be alive.
Each man mourned the Black Hawk in his own way. As the wine and beer were served, many a mug and drinking horn were raised in his honor. All knew the Black Hawk had gone to Valhalla. He was a brave and fearless leader who had died in battle. There were no others who could match him and he would be sorely missed by his followers.
Anslak was devastated. His faith in his son’s abilities had never allowed him to consider that Brage might not return from a raid. He sat in mourning that evening, drinking wine and regretting the fact that he never had the chance to tell Brage good-bye.
“To my son,” Anslak said, his voice choked with emotion, his eyes filled with tears. He stood and lifted his drinking horn high. “To the Black Hawk!” He took a deep drink.
Cheers went up from his men as they, too, drank to Brage.
Ulf was standing nearby, and at the gesture, he drank deeply, too, then set his mug aside and strode from the room. His expression was taut.
Anslak sat back down at the table. Across from him, Kristoffer watched him in his sorrow and wished there was something he could do to ease his torment.
“How could this have happened, Kristoffer? Brage planned the raid with care. And the runes . . . they promised him a great treasure, one greater than any he had ever won before.” Anslak made a scoffing sound as he remembered the prophecy. “What great treasure has he claimed? Valhalla? I would have preferred he gain gold and remain here.” His words were bitter.
“I do not know how this happened to us,” he answered. “I only know that it seemed they knew our plan as well as we did.”
“But how?”
“A traitor, perhaps? How else could Lord Alfrick have been so well armed?”
Anslak’s gaze was sharp as it rested upon him. “Who would betray their leader? Only family and his best warriors knew of the plan. Who would turn traitor?”
“Who, indeed?” Kristoffer returned. “I have been thinking on this since the battle. Who had the most to gain if Brage was dead? Who wanted everything he had and more? Who would seek his honor and place as leader of the men?”
Anslak glanced around the room at the warriors who sat there with him. Of all those who had returned, only Ulf was not present. He wondered where he had gone. “I do not know, but I will find out, even if it’s the last thing I do.”
Anslak fell silent, thinking of Brage. His son had been a careful warrior. He had been as smart as he was powerful. For this terrible thing to have happened, the traitor had to have been someone Brage trusted. Infuriated by the possibility that someone in that very room had set Brage up to be killed, Anslak rose and slammed a mug down on the table to get their attention.
“Heed my words! It is rumored that a betrayal is suspected in the raid that has cost my son and his men their lives.” He paused while the undercurrent traversed the room. “If one of you did betray Brage, know this! I will hunt you down to the ends of the earth to make you pay for his death!”
Another roar went up, for the men who had lost friends in the battle were more than anxious to find the one responsible.
Anslak wished with all his might that he could identify the man who had caused Brage’s death. He tried to guess who it could have been. He doubted that it was any of those who had sailed with him. Only a fool would have betrayed his leader and then joined him in the attack. It had to have been someone who had overheard their plans being made and had alerted the Saxons. But who? It frustrated him to think that he might never learn the traitor’s identity. The man was as much a coward as a murderer, and Anslak firmly believed he deserved to be cast into eternal agony.
It was almost dark as Ulf strode away from the house. He could hear the sound of his father’s voice as he vowed to find the traitor, and his mood turned even more grim. He was heading toward the water, hoping to seek some peace there, when he heard a woman, call out to him.
“Ulf! Wait! I must talk to you!”
Looking around, Ulf found Inger running toward him. As she drew near, he could see the look of stricken desperation on her face and knew that she had heard the news of Brage’s death.
Ulf knew that she had always held high hopes that she would one day marry his half-brother, but he was not so sure that Brage had shared her feelings. Pretty though she was with her silver-blond hair, pale-blue eyes, and slender form, he had not sensed that Brage loved her. His brother had never spoken of her except in passing, and when he did, there had been no great passion voiced on his part.
“Ulf . . . tell me it is not true!” Inger cried as she stopped before him. Her face was tear-ravaged and her hands were trembling as she reached out frantically to him. “Brage cannot be dead! He just cannot!”
Ulf’s expression softened as he stared down at her and saw her heartbreak. Her emotions were very real. He felt awkward being the one to confirm the bad news, yet there was no way to soften the pain. “I am sorry, Inger.”
Her hands on his arm gripped him tightly as she asked in a tormented, “Sorry? Sorry, for what?”
“What you have heard is true. Brage was killed in the raid as were many of his men.”
“But they said you did not bring his body back. He could still be alive. You could go back for him . . .” she pleaded, not wanting to accept the truth and the pain that came with it.
“Inger,” he went on gently, “Kristoffer and I both saw him fall. He did not get up. We even went back later that night after the fighting was done to search for him. But all we found were the funeral pyres. My brother did not survive.”
“But he could just have been . . .”
“Enough.” Ulf’s tone was commanding. “Do you not think that Kristoffer and I would go anywhere and do anything in our power if it would mean bringing Brage back to us? But it was too late, Inger. He was slain, struck down from behind. There will be no r
escue. His body was burned by our enemies. We will not see him again.”
A sob tore from her as the terrible truth settled in. She swayed weakly, and thinking she was about to faint, Ulf moved quickly to lift her into his arms.
“Inger . . .” He said her name a little fearfully, not quite sure what to do with her.
“I am sorry, Ulf,” she managed weakly as she cried, “but I cannot believe he is dead . . .” Inger had always realized raiding was dangerous, but Brage had seemed invincible.
“You must try to accept that he will never return. We must all try.”
Brage came awake slowly. He ached all over. Not an inch of his body was safe from the nagging discomfort. But somehow, this pain was different from the agony he had been suffering. He lifted his head a little to look around and was amazed to find Lady Dynna sitting in a chair next to the bed.
Brage had faint, fever-clouded memories of her trying to help him when he was in chains and a distant recollection of her nursing him once he had been brought up to this room.
He braced himself up on one elbow, expecting her to notice him moving. It was then, when she remained quiet and unmoving, that he realized she was asleep. He took the time to study her and saw that she looked exhausted. There were dark circles under her eyes and a weary slump to her shoulders as she dozed, and he wondered why she was so tired.
Lying flat on the bed suddenly seemed torturous to him. Brage pushed himself up and struggled to sit. He felt the stabbing reminder of his shoulder wound and gave a small grunt in pained acknowledgment that he would have to move more slowly.
Dynna had not meant to nap, but the long endless hours of keeping vigil at Brage’s bedside had taken their toll on her. Matilda had gone off to tend to other duties, and Dynna had remained alone with the Viking, save for the guard outside the door. She had bathed him yet another time, wanting to wash the hated fever from his body, yet all her efforts seemed for naught. Nothing she had tried in the past few days had had any real effect on the fever that was burning the very life from him. Weary beyond measure, she had all but collapsed into the chair after trying to get him to drink another dose of her healing potion.
His groan woke her instantly. She expected him to be worse and was prepared to do whatever was necessary for him. At the sight of Brage sitting up, she almost panicked.
“Stay where you are. Be careful. Do not move . . .” she cautioned, thinking he was delirious and might harm himself. “Please, just stay still. I will bathe you again and then . . .”
“Bathe me?” he asked.
The sanity of his words brought her up short.
“You are better?” she gasped, really looking into his eyes for the first time. She hurried to touch first his shoulder and then his brow. Dynna expected him to still be feverish, and she was thrilled to find he felt cool. Her relief was tremendous.
“It would seem so.”
“You are improved . . .” She smiled, her first in days. “You had better lie back down.”
“I cannot. I have to sit up. I have been still too long.” As he said it, he knew it was true, for he felt lethargic and weak, and the room seemed to spin dizzily around him.
“You have been very ill. Your fever was high, and I have been afraid for the last two days that you would not survive,” she explained.
“Why would you care whether I lived or died, my lady? Why did you work so hard to save me?” His eyes bored into hers, demanding the truth.
Dynna had known the power of Brage’s blue-eyed gaze from the first time she met him. And in that moment, as their gazes locked, she felt as if he could see into her very soul. She turned half away from him, blushing. “I would do the same for any wounded animal.”
Her words stung him, and he reached out to snare her arm. He turned her to face him.
Dynna stared down at his hand on her arm, amazed by the unsettling sensations that were sweeping through her at his touch.
“Somehow, I do not believe that.”
“Believe what you will.” She tried to sound indifferent.
“I believe what I know, and I know the Saxons never do anything without a reason. So tell me, my lady, what is your plan? What do you want from me?”
“I want nothing from you,” Dynna insisted.
“Then why did you save me?” His gaze held hers in challenge. “Why did you not let me die?”
“When your men found Matilda and me and brought us before you that morning of the battle, you could have had us killed, but you did not. I could not let any more harm befall you.”
Brage regarded her without speaking for a long moment, not sure whether to believe her or not. He sensed there was far more to it than she was revealing, but he decided not to force the issue right then. He would go along with her for now, and just give thanks that he was still alive. He released her.
“Then I thank you for your help. You obviously are a very skilled healer. I do feel better,” he finally said giving a hesitant lift of his shoulder to test it. He only grimaced slightly.
Dynna was glad when he let her go. There was something about the touch of his hands upon her, restraining yet not painful, that disturbed her. She busied herself with bringing him a cup of her healing potion, so she would not have to think about the confusing feelings he aroused within her. “Drink this.”
“What is it?”
“A tonic that will help rebuild your strength. I will send for some food for you, too. You have not eaten for days, and you will not really begin to feel better until you have had something solid.”
Brage was in agreement. He wanted his strength back—and fast. He did not know what these Saxons wanted from him, but he wanted to be strong enough to deal with it when the time came. “There is one other thing.” At her questioning look, he went on. “A pair of pants would be good.”
Dynna could not prevent the high color that stained her cheeks. “Of course.”
For now, Brage decided he would play the invalid a while longer and let Dynna think that he was weaker than he was. He did not want to be put back into the chains. Here in this room he could move around a little bit and possibly find a way to escape. Chained to the wall in the Great Hall again, he would be totally without hope.
Brage watched as Dynna opened the door and spoke to the guard outside. It would not be easy to get out of there, but when the first opportunity to escape came, he would take it.
Eight
Knowing that Brage was finally out of danger, Dynna was able to relax her vigil. For several days, she remained abed much later than usual in the morning. When she finally did awaken, she enjoyed a bath and then a leisurely breakfast in her room. She visited Brage regularly and she was pleased with the progress he seemed to be making. On this particular morning, three days later, she was feeling quite refreshed as she made her way up to the tower room and greeted Perkin, the guard at the door.
“Good morning, Lady Dynna. The servant you sent to tend to the prisoner is with him now,” Perkin said, smiling at her in welcome.
“Good.” She returned his smile, pleased to learn that the morning was going so smoothly.
She was just about to enter the room when the portal flew open and the maid came running out.
“Anny . . .? Is something wrong?” Dynna was startled by the look of fright on the girl’s face. She wondered what Brage could have done to send the poor young woman fleeing in such terror.
“Lady Dynna . . .” the maid gasped. “That . . . that Viking . . . He is a demon!”
“A demon? What are you talking about? Did you shave him and cut his hair as I ordered?” Dynna glanced past the servant into the room, but she could not see Brage from where she stood.
Anny gulped nervously, her eyes wide with fright as she kept moving forward, out of the room, away from the prisoner. “I tried, my lady, honest I did, but he would not let me near him. He threatened me, he did! Said he would toss me out the window if I even came near him with the knife . . . and he meant it, too! I could see the meanness
in his eyes! Oh, that Black Hawk is a dangerous one! It will be a fine day for us all when he is either dead or gone!”
“You had a guard right outside. All you had to do was call for help,” she reminded her.
“Please, Lady Dynna, do not make me go back in there with him again! He scares me with those cold blue eyes of his! I know he is a monster!”
“He is no monster, Anny.” She tried to calm her.
“He is a Viking!” The loathing in the word described her feelings perfectly.
“All right.” Dynna sighed in frustration. “Go back to your chores in the kitchen.”
“Yes, my lady. Here!” Anny held out the knife to her, ready to get away from there as quickly as she could.
Dynna struggled to keep from smiling as she took the blade from her. She remembered her first encounter with Brage and could understand how Anny could be so intimidated. With the longer hair and full beard, not to mention just the size of him, he was an impressive specimen of a man, even weak as he was.
“Do you want me to go in with you, my lady? If you are afraid, I can stay with you,” Perkin offered after Anny had fled down the stairs to the safety of the kitchen. He had seen the other woman’s fear and was not about to let anything happen to Lady Dynna.
“No, there is no need. I will be fine.”
He looked skeptical as he stood back to allow her entry to the room. Despite her assurances otherwise, he was determined he would keep careful watch to make sure she was not harmed.
Dynna was ready for whatever battle of wills Brage wanted to wage. He had to be in a fine mood if he could frighten Anny so badly. When she had checked on his shoulder wound late the day before it had appeared to be coming along nicely. Still, his injuries had been serious and the fever fierce. It would take him some time to fully recover, and it was important to that recovery to clean him up. That was why she had sent Anny to him, and now, that was why she was going to do the job herself, no matter what his protest.
Dynna knew she was in for an argument when she found Brage sitting up on the side of the bed, scowling blackly, stroking his beard. She went to stand before him, her expression as serious as she could make it.