by Lisa Hendrix
“I will be along in a moment,” he said quickly, before she had a chance to say something that might make this situation even more difficult. “I have much to think about before I sleep.”
She pressed her lips together against whatever it was that went through her mind, flopped back down on her pillow, and lay there, silent, watching him. He waited her out, studying the board until the location of each piece was burned into his mind, until he wasn’t hard anymore, until her eyes closed and she finally, blessedly, began to snore.
The sound made him smile, half with relief, half with amusement. His lady wife snored. It wasn’t much of a snore, not to a man who had spent a lifetime sleeping next to men whose snores could frighten horses in the next village, and he suspected she would deny she snored at all, but he rather liked it. He sat there listening as she slipped more deeply into sleep.
When he finally knew he could handle lying next to her, he put out the candles, kicked off his boots, and crawled into bed fully clothed.
“Mmmpf,” she said, and rolled against his side, warm and soft and smelling of Alaida. He took a deep breath, checked his intentions, then slipped his arms around her. Yes, that worked. He could permit himself that much pleasure, at least, from this pretense of marriage, so he took what he could, holding her while her breath slowed and she began to snore once more, and then longer, until she finally rolled away and the warm imprint of her body against his cooled.
When he left the bed sometime later, the mattress and pillow bore the mark of his body for others to find the next morning. If he was very lucky, Alaida might even recall that she’d lain in his arms. He pulled on his boots, collected his cloak and sword, and went down to the hall.
He found Brand outside, hanging over the well, head cocked, listening intently. He glanced up as Ivo walked over. “You all right?”
Ivo nodded. “Hear anything?”
“Listen for yourself.”
Ivo listened for a moment. “I don’t—”
A low boom, barely heard, interrupted him. The hairs on his neck rose. He leaned far over the edge, risking a broken neck to get his head in as far as possible, and waited. Shh-thump, like thunder, or a tree falling far away—except it came from beneath him. He hung there, holding his breath. Shh-thump.
“The dragon’s heart,” whispered Ivo.
“No. Listen.”
Shh-thump. He closed his eyes and listened as the beats echoed in the well shaft, faint and slow, but steady. Shh-thump. Pause. Shh-thump. And then he recognized it, a rhythm that had been his life for so many years. “’Tis the sea. Waves.”
“Aye. That’s what I thought.” Brand pulled himself out of the well with a grunt. “Waves against rock. You can only hear it when it’s dead calm. The breeze was up a little bit ago, and I didn’t hear a sound. When it died …”
“The shore is only a few leagues from here,” said Ivo, also straightening. “Some trick must make the sound carry through the land and come up here. No wonder the villagers fear it. Most of them have never traveled beyond Lesbury to hear the sea.”
“Are you going to tell them?” asked Brand.
Ivo shook his head. “Not unless I must. I want to see what the elders have to say.”
“If there is no beast and no covenant, you can put your castle where you want.”
Ivo whipped his cloak around his shoulders and jammed the pin into place. “Covenant or not, I will put it where it will do Alaida the greatest good when I’m gone.”
“Mmm.” Brand gave him another of those hard, dubious looks, then shrugged and nodded. “Do you really want to head out this early? I doubt Tom has the horses ready yet.”
“Probably not,” said Ivo, but they turned toward the stables anyway.
A FEW MORNINGS later, Alaida hung out the window, watching a gang of men scribe a great circle on the field behind the manor. They used a rope stretched from a post driven into the center to measure, and marked the line with stakes and powdered chalk. Another gang traced a second circle some five yards inside the first, marking, she assumed, the ditch, while Sir Ari and Oswald watched from horseback. Wat was one of the men scribing the line. She couldn’t spy Geoffrey.
“I thought the noise would have you up, my lady,” said Bôte, coming into the room bearing a tray of bread and cold meats. A little boy with a ewer and another with an armload of firewood followed on her heels. “Saint Peter’s knees, ’tis freezing in here.”
“The fire died,” said Alaida. “So, they begin the castle. I did not realize the plans were set already.”
“Set enough, it seems.” Bôte took up the poker and jabbed at the coals a little. “Aye, ’tis dead. Get a flame and kindling from the hall, Hugh. And Ralph, you go tell Hadwisa she’s late, that my lady is already awake. Be quick, both of you.”
The boys dashed off, and Bôte pulled a fur off the bed and came over to wrap it around Alaida’s shoulders. “Come away from the window, lamb, before you catch a chill.”
“It is warmer outside than in.” She leaned on the sill and tried to envision a drawbridge connecting the yard—soon to be a castle bailey, it seemed—to the motte and tower that would rise within the ringing ditch. “I expected he would build here, after what Drogo and Céolsige said, but I did not know they planned to start this morning.”
“They decided last night, after you came up to bed. Are you sure you feel well, lamb? You fell asleep so early.”
“I was just a little tired. I feel fine this morning.”
“Still, I will make you a posset, to be sure. As I said, my lord decided last night, and this morning Wat called out everyone in the village who does not have other work. They began as soon as the priest gave the blessing.”
“Father Theobald is here?” She scanned the crowd, and sure enough, there was his black among those watching.
“Aye, Sir Ari brought him along when he came back this morning.”
Young Hugh trotted back in carrying a lit rush in one hand and a basket of dry moss and twigs in the other. Alaida held her tongue while Bôte relieved him of his load and dispatched him to other duties. “So Sir Ari was gone all night again, just as the other two are gone all day. What do you suppose they’re about, that none of them stay within the manor a full day ’round?”
“Has Lord Ivo not told you what he does, my lady?”
“Only that he must be gone on business.”
“Men and their business. Well, ’tis nothing of mystery, I’m sure. They have their habits, is all.”
“I would change his habits,” muttered Alaida to the air.
“You will not make yourself loved trying to do so, my lady.” Bôte finished laying the fire, took up the burning rush from its clamp, and bent to touch it to the moss. “Men do not take kindly to a woman’s meddling with their habits, and men of their sort, even less.”
“And what sort would that be?”
“The sort that hunt all day or whore all night, I venture. Be glad your lord husband is one of the hunters, my lady, for Sir Ari, I fear, is not.”
Alaida’s eyes widened. “You think he spends his nights whoring?”
“What else would a man be about at night? Probably has bastards scattered all over England, fair as he is.”
“Hmm.” Alaida took another look out the window at Ari, sitting there on his horse looking like an angel come to earth as he directed the villagers forward to break ground. Whoring. One never knew. “Is that what occupies my husband as well?”
“Whoring? Lord Ivo?” Bôte sounded shocked at the idea. “Whatever would make you ask that?”
“He and Sir Brand bring home precious little meat for men who hunt every day.”
“Hunting is not always about meat. Grown men like to play in the woods as much as boys do.” Bôte’s searching gaze brought a rush of color to Alaida’s cheeks. “Lord Ivo lies only with you, lamb. ’Tis in the very way he looks at you. Do not trouble your heart with such things.”
“I won’t,” said Alaida as though reassured,
but the thought settled more deeply into the back of her mind. If her husband were taking his pleasure elsewhere, it would explain much. She hadn’t told Bôte about his lack of desire, letting the old woman think, along with the rest of the manor, that the nights he passed in her bed were passionate. It was strange, since she’d told the old woman everything for so many years, but this was too close, too tender. Besides, she hadn’t yet decided what she thought of it, any more than she’d decided what to think of him. Perhaps it would be good to have a husband who made few demands on her. Or perhaps not.
The fire took, and Alaida padded over and held the fur open like butterfly wings to catch the first heat. “How long will it take to raise the motte?”
“Wat claims it will be built before harvest, and the tower will come as soon as it settles.” Bôte selected a gown and hose from the cupboard. “Of course, that’s if more men are hired in, so Geoffrey is off to Durham to see to that.”
“Has he gone already?”
“Aye, left at dawn, with guards and four men in wagons to bring more supplies along with the workers.”
“It is all happening so quickly.”
“’Tis that. You will surely celebrate Christmas as lady of Alnwick Castle.”
“That will be merry, indeed,” said Alaida. She sighed. “A castle proper. I wish Grandfather were here for it.”
“If Lord Gilbert were here, you would not be lady of a castle,” said Bôte in her practical way. “Here is Hadwisa at last. Let us get you dressed. Father Theobald must return to Lesbury today without doing Lord Ivo’s Mass, but he would see you in chapel before he goes.”
Alaida rolled her eyes heavenward, but she laid aside the fur and raised her arms for the gown. Here, at least, was one good thing about a husband who did not desire her: she would have nothing new to blush about with Father Theobald.
CHAPTER 11
IT WAS ALWAYS this way, this agony that ripped through him each dawn and dusk, but even after so many long years, Brand fought it. It did no good—it never did—and he finally submitted, as he did every night, waiting for the twisting pain to finish with him. Long, wrenching moments later, it subsided enough to let him catch his breath, then further, so he could begin to think again.
It took him a time to decipher where he was, to remember what he was doing, to recall what the noises around him meant. This den he lay in was strange, not the usual hollow under a fallen tree. He fingered soft grass beneath him, looked up to find a sort of roof, made of more grass tangled in the brush overhead. The bear had clearly taken some other creature’s burrow. Something large, that smelled bad … like a pig.
Pig. No, wild boar. His heart began to thud wildly.
Still half in the bear’s thrall, Brand scrambled out and staggered to his feet. The wind whipped over his bare skin, chilling him as he tried to make out which way to go in the twilight. Something rustled in the brush and he whirled, snarling.
The boar hit him like a boulder, knocking him sideways. Brand rolled, trying to escape, but the boar had ten stone on him plus the rage of an animal defending its home. Spear-sharp tusks tore into Brand’s hip. He screamed.
The sound only excited the boar. Shrilling, it swung its head back and forth, savaging Brand and ripping a long gash down his thigh. Desperate, Brand grappled blindly for some weapon. His hand landed on a branch and he swung hard. The wood was old and brittle, and it broke across the beast’s skull. The boar backed away, stood there a moment, panting and squealing, then charged forward again, aiming at Brand’s head. With a shouted plea to Skadi, Brand thrust the splintered end of the branch toward the creature’s open mouth. The boar’s weight carried it forward. Brand shoved with all his strength, pushing the point home as the tusks tore into his arm.
The boar’s battle squeal turned into a death scream that drowned in the arc of hot blood that spattered over Brand. The boar collapsed, Brand’s hand still within its jaws, still trying to gore him even as it died. Brand yanked free and scrabbled away, finding shelter in the roots of a tree while the boar lay twitching, pouring out the last of its lifeblood into the forest litter.
He was pouring out blood of his own, Brand realized. Battle-heat was keeping him warm and pain-free for now, but that would fade quickly. The injuries wouldn’t kill him—the witch had seen to that—but he needed help nonetheless.
“Ari?” Some small animal skittered away at the sound of his voice. He heard wings, but too small for the raven’s. “Balls, Ari, where are you?”
With Ivo and the horses, no doubt, wherever they were. Brand lifted his head and peered around. He recognized nothing, had no idea which way to go in the fading light. He was likely bleeding like the great pig that lay a few yards away, though he couldn’t tell with so much of the beast’s gore on him. Without even his clothes to shred for bandages, he scraped a handful of moss from between the roots of the tree and jammed it into what felt like the worst of the wounds. This was going to be grim.
Jaw clenched, he used the tree to haul himself upright. As he put his foot down, warm, fresh blood poured down his leg and the first inklings of the pain he would suffer seared through his body. Even with the magic, if he didn’t find help soon, he would pass out and spend the next several nights lying in the forest naked and freezing while his body fought to heal.
“I can do this,” he muttered aloud. “Walk.”
He walked. It was slow going and got slower with each step. He found a clearing, spotted stars enough to orient himself, and turned east, toward Alnwick. “Walk.”
Forever passed, one step at a time, his strength fading as he bled his way through the forest. His leg blazed with pain that threatened to curl him into a ball on the forest floor. Sheer will kept him moving.
When he caught the first flicker of light between the trunks of the trees, he thought it was his mind playing tricks. He shouldn’t be able to see the village yet; he was still too deep in the forest. But there it was again, barely a glimpse of soft yellow. If it was a mind-trick, it was a good one, one he wanted. He angled toward the light, pushing himself toward whatever it was. The effort and pain raised sweat on his skin that froze in the cold night air.
Not a trick. A hut. A hut with light escaping around the edge of a shuttered window. People. He forced himself across the tiny clearing, found the door, raised his hand to knock.
His arm wouldn’t come up. He tried to call out, but he had no voice left to call with. He began to fall. He hit the door and it burst open, and he kept falling, falling, into light and warmth. Into nothing.
IVO HEARD THE screams just as he finished changing, the faintest of sounds mingled with the other forest noises, carried by a fitful wind and heard through ears no longer eagle nor yet human. They could have been anything—a wolf, a dying rabbit, even a pig squealing on a distant croft—but he’d waited here with the horses far too long now, and the sick feeling in his gut told him what had screamed: a man. Brand.
He looped Kraken’s reins in his fist and mounted Fax. Above him, the raven chattered noisily, and Ivo stuck his arm out. “Get down here. I’ll need you to find him.”
The raven settled on his wrist like a falcon. Beady black eyes met Ivo’s as the bird spread his wings and lowered his head in a strange bow of apology.
“I know,” said Ivo. “You can’t help what the gods tell you. Come, let’s find him. I think he’s hurt.”
Chittering softly, the raven sidestepped up to his shoulder, and Ivo turned the horses in the direction from which he thought the screams had come.
MEREWYN HAD BEEN waiting for him all day.
For weeks now, since just after the winter solstice, her dreams had been of a swimming gander—that meant a male visitor—and only this morning when she’d dropped her knife, it had stuck straight up in the dirt floor, a sure sign he would arrive within the day. Sadly, a wren had fluttered in the open door a few moments later and landed on the exact spot where the knife had pierced the ground. That’s when she knew her visitor would be accompanied by
death.
Still, when a giant of a man crashed through her door, naked and bloody, Merewyn shrieked and snatched up the same knife to defend herself.
No danger followed him, however, and after she got her racing heart back under control, she realized this poor, wounded soul could harm no one. Feeling foolish, she laid the blade aside and stepped around the bloody hulk of his body to push the door shut against the cold, slipping the iron fire poker into the cleats to replace the bar he’d broken in his falling. Her home secure once more, she turned to examine this strange visitor the night winds had brought her, kneeling to lay her hand over his heart. It was, to her surprise, steady.
“By the Mother, you are still alive,” she whispered. “Let us see if I can help you stay that way.”
She set to work.
A HAND. COOL and calm, it reached through the blaze of pain to draw Brand toward consciousness, giving him that one thing he could hold on to, put a name to, beyond the hurting.
Slowly, he found others. Bed. Blanket. Fire. A voice, talking nonsense. Help. He’d found help. Why had he needed it?
The hand went away. He wanted it back and tried to say so, but his throat was full of sand. “Ho …”
There was a squeak, like a puppy’s yelp, and then the voice again, female and gentle, saying something he couldn’t quite understand.
“Endr,” he managed. Again.
The female repeated herself, not in Norse but in Saxon English. His ear made the shift as she finished. “ … still, my lord.”
Someone seemed to have tied anchors to his eyelids. He prized them open a crack and caught a glimpse of blue sleeve before they slammed shut again.
He wanted something. It took him a moment to think of the word. “Drink.”
“Of course.”
He listened to her move around, then the hand came back, this time to lift his head. A cup touched his lips, and he let her pour whatever it was down his throat, barely tasting it as he swallowed greedily. Warmth eddied through him, and the sand began to dissolve.