by Susan Amund
“Lady Julia-” Sarah began hesitantly.
“Do you know who I am?” Julia asked quietly. The girl nodded, still sobbing. “I have killed men with my own hands for stepping on my land. What do you think I will do to you if the man I love dies because you would not speak?” Her voice grew quieter, until she was whispering the last word. Her hand clenched into a fist, nails digging into her palm.
“My Lady!” Sarah cried out. Julia turned to find Skald convulsing on the floor.
“Hold him,” she commanded Bjorn. She twisted a dry cloth into a hard rope and pressed it between his teeth. After a few moments, the jerky movements subsided. Swiftly, Julia pulled aside the cloth and forced Skald to drink some of the mandrake water.
“Peel another few slices, Sarah.” She held up her nail and pointed to the white part. “No larger than this. Push one back into his mouth and force him to swallow. If he begins thrashing again, use the cloth to make certain he does not bite his tongue and give him another piece once it stops.” She stood swiftly and wheeled on the maid, who had shrunk back to cower against the wall, watching Skald with terror.
“Tell me who did this, and what they put the poison in. This is the last time I will ask.”
“Dormund Brown, Sir Dunholm’s man! He put a pepper on the stew! It was just pepper - it shouldn’t have been anything but hot!” She slid to the ground, crying, and Julia snatched up the water flask.
“Bjorn, stay here and help Sarah.” She gave him a hard look when he would have objected. “She can’t hold Skald down on her own, and this one,” she gestured towards the sobbing maid, “needs to be watched.” Julia’s eyes slid towards the food tray...and Eric’s empty bowl. Please God, please God, please God...
She was out the door in a moment, all but running towards the Hall.
Eric stripped his tunic and under tunic and handed them to the page that William had provided him. The boy stepped back out of the way with his clothes, and Ulrich brought forth the sword. Eric glanced to the dais again. A chair had been placed next to William’s throne for Julia. It was empty.
“Perhaps she decided she could not watch?” Eric frowned at Ulrich’s suggestion and they both shook their heads. “No, forget I suggested it. Bjorn and Skald are no doubt making her a corridor through the throng of women outside.”
Eric nodded, but something twisted in his gut. It didn’t seem right that she wasn’t there. She had argued against him for the right to attend. It was not like her to be late. William’s guards were gathering in the Hall in small groups, talking in low voices and examining the ring of stones set up in the center of the room. Dunholm stood on the opposite side of the Hall, already stripped and armed. The King entered and the room grew quiet.
“Combatants, to the ring!” de Beaumont stood next to Julia’s empty chair. FitzOsbern frowned from his place on the opposite side of the throne. Eric shook his head. The room was chilly, bare-chested as he was, but his vision was fuzzy at the edges - as if he were too warm. Ulrich noticed his concern, and asked after his health, but Eric waved him off and stepped over the ring of stones.
“A question of honor has been raised, and it shall be answered in combat. Our King has asked me to review the rules.” de Beaumont continued, but Eric only listened with half an ear. He knew the rules of Holmgang well; this was not his first time in such a ring. He glanced over the crowd, looking for Bjorn or Skald to lead Julia in, but did not see her. He blinked and wiped his eyes, but the fuzziness persisted. A slight commotion disturbed the crowd at the back of the Hall, but de Beaumont continued,
“Now that the combatants are inside the ring, they shall not leave, and no other shall enter, until the matter has been decided.” There was a quick intake of breath from behind him, and Eric turned to see Julia next to Ulrich. She looked beautiful - her skin pale and her cheeks pink. She was out of breath, and her generous chest heaved under the pale blue wool of her over tunic. The yellow silk under tunic was exposed by hastily done laces. Eric blinked. The tunic was white, not yellow. He glanced at her face to see Ulrich whisper in her ear; her eyes widened and her face grew paler.
“As the reason for this challenge has arrived, we shall begin as soon as the oaths are taken.” Julia pressed a leather flask into Ulrich’s hands and made her way to the dais. Eric frowned. She looked like she was shaking - there was no reason for her to be afraid. He would not lose. The priest stepped forward and they took turns swearing, before God, that they would employ no witchcraft or other foul tricks to aid them in their endeavor.
They moved to the center of the ring, bringing their swords up to allow the blades to touch. Eric glanced once more towards Julia. “Prêt!” cried de Beaumont. She looked afraid, and Eric’s gut twisted again nauseously. She shouldn’t be worried. He could feel the blood pulsing in his veins, slow and heavy. He turned back to Dunholm, and the knight - fuzzy at the edges and tinted yellow - smiled. “Commencer!”
Metal clanged and Dunholm charged forward, barely avoiding Eric’s sword but unable to avoid the fist as Eric sidestepped, allowing Dunholm to fly past. The English knight skidded, a red mark already forming on his lower back, and changed course to avoid the circle’s edge. Eric stayed where he was, allowing the knight to come to him. Dunholm taunted him, but Eric did not flinch, holding his sword ready. “Is it more difficult, Dane, when you cannot sneak up on your enemy like a thief?” Dunholm charged again, this time feinting to the right and cutting left, bringing his blade within inches of Eric’s ribs.
Eric pulled away, using the flat of his sword to slap against the back of Dunholm’s hand. His heart was pounding thick and painfully, but his reflexes felt slower. As if he were standing knee deep in water, his movements were sluggish. He had come close to taking the blow to his side. His vision was getting worse and his gut churned, spit gathering in his mouth and urging him to vomit. Eric swallowed hard, and ignored the pain spiking through his shoulder and down his arm. Patience, he thought to himself. You cannot lose. Dunholm circled, changing directions often enough that Eric began to feel the man knew his sight was poor, his head dizzy.
“Are you not ready to face me, Dane? Is the darkness on your eyes now?” Dunholm grinned manically, and Eric snarled. The knight did know. What did he do? How could- with the corner of his eye he caught Julia’s face, pinched with worry. She knew. Whatever the Englishman had done to him, Julia knew, and it made her afraid. Dunholm had terrified her before, and Eric had sworn it would not happen again. It was happening now.
“Argh!” With a grunt, Dunholm pushed in towards Eric. Their blades clashed across his chest, but Eric was too slow. His sword caught the other too near the hilt, and the angle was wrong - too low to prevent the cutting edge from biting into his shoulder. Eric was bowed backward, hissing through clenched teeth as he gripped the hilt with both hands to try to force Dunholm off. “How does it feel, Vandalsson? You will feel my weapon before the day is through, and then I will use it on that woman.” His whispered words were too quiet to carry to any outside the circle, and Eric growled in fury. “She will beg for mercy as I rut her, and you will be dead in the ground before-”
He would tear Dunholm’s pretty face from his neck and mount it on the mast of his ship before he let the knight touch Julia again. He snarled and let his left hand fall from the pommel. His arm felt wooden from the shoulder down, where Dunhom’s blade was pressing deeper into the flesh. Eric gripped the metal in his hand, pushing it out of his skin and throwing Dunholm away from him. The force knocked the knight onto his back, and he scrambled to get his feet under him as Eric roared.
The yellow in his vision was gone, replaced with red. Around him was a sea of blood, with his enemy in the center. The man swung at his legs, catching his shins with the tip of his blade. Eric felt the pain distantly, but it meant nothing. His heart clenched, ready to burst in his chest and he roared again, advancing on the fallen. He dropped his own sword, dimly aware that his sword master would have beaten him for such a fault. Closing on the man, he did
not bother trying to dodge, but caught the next blow with his bare hand. The blade sank into the tender meat of his palm, but the knight was on his knees - he did not have enough force to take off the hand.
Eric kicked out, hard, reveling in the sick sound of bone crunching and tendons snapping. The enemy screamed, and it only made the Viking’s blood rise higher. He gripped the bare iron and yanked, pulling the knight to his feet before he had the sense to let go of his weapon. He would have fallen back, unable to put any weight on his useless leg, but Eric seized his forearm, the same arm that he had dislocated weeks ago. With an inhuman sound, he pulled. The joint snapped out of place and the enemy fell to the ground, writhing in agony. Eric knelt beside him - ignoring the sudden, sharp heat of a short blade in his ribs - and put his full weight onto his knee where it landed on the man’s uninjured elbow. There was another crushing sound of bone grinding into bone, and the screams of the enemy blended together - mere background to the wild beat of Eric’s heart.
“The sword!” One voice shouted above the others and Eric became aware of the calls and cries of the crowd around him. Battle, he thought to himself and grinned. He would kill them all. “Use the sword!” That one voice called out again in the language of his mother’s people. The tones were familiar, and the pounding in Eric’s ears quieted. “Kill him with the blade or you do not win her!” Her. He snarled again and grabbed the nearest sword, the one that had fallen from his enemy’s hand. He pressed it to the man’s neck, and leaned over him.
“Die!” He roared again and threw all the strength of his arms into the down and out thrust of the weapon. He stood, ignoring the outrage and clamor of the crowd, and focused on his goal. She sat before him, in a beautiful fog of blood. Her skin was bathed in it, her clothing soaked in the color. He stepped over the ring of stone, the explosive beat of his heart driving him forward, the taste of battle still in his mouth. He would take her, and kill any that stood in his way. Then he would kill the rest “Vandalsson!” That voice called to him again and Eric’s hand shot out, covered in blood. He gripped the man’s neck and squeezed. The man did not fight back, but held out water to him. Something deep in his mind spoke to him, Comrade. Eric dropped the man and seized the water, the battle-lust retreating slightly. He drank deeply; he did not want to stop to quench his thirst once he had his woman. He drained the flask and tossed it to the ground. A man stood next to her, frowning and shouting at him. Eric ignored him, focused on her. Then the man put his hand on her shoulder. The heat, the anger, returned and he snarled, reaching for her. She was speaking frantically, trying to stand, but the man seized her arm, pulling her away from Eric. None touched what was his. He roared, and suddenly she was before him, pressed against the length of him, brushing small, soft hands across his skin and whispering to him in the language of battle.
“Eric, it is alright. I am here, my love. Please, Eric. Please look at me, Eric, I am alright. I am with you, please Eric...you have been poisoned, please...Eric..” Her words were dim, but her touch reached through the haze and soothed him. The red began to fade, replaced with a fuzzy yellow that dimmed his vision. He looked down, but found it difficult to see her face. He preferred her bathed in blood to the indistinct image before him.
“Eric, ...it is alright. You must rest, please. Miláčik, we must get the poison from your body. Please, moja láska, you cannot die.” He blinked, and her words finally sank through his head. Moja láska, she called him. Her love. “I accept, I am convinced, I will say the vows.” There were tears in her whispers, and Eric would have reassured her if he could get the words past the squeezing pain in his chest. “If you leave me I’ll..Er-ic...I’ll never forgive you.”
He stumbled. It was only her body that kept him from falling to the ground. Suddenly Ulrich was at his side, propping him up, and Bjorn was in front of him, protecting Julia’s back and shouting at the man - FitzOsbern he recognized now - who tried to hold her back. “Miláčik.” Her voice was pleading, broken, and Eric looked down at her again.
“Julia,” he mumbled. Then everything was black.
Sovereignty
Julia lay her hand once more against Eric’s head to reassure herself that his fever had broken. She felt for his pulse, soothing herself with the steady, regular beat of his heart. Sarah stood at the door, waiting, but Julia ignored her. Instead she smoothed her hands lightly over his bandages. The wound in his shoulder was long, but not deep. The stitches had been easy for her and the bandages remained clean. The difficulty with that wound had been keeping it closed when the seizures came. Eric was strong, even in sickness, and it took Bjorn, Ulrich, and two Norman guards to hold him down. His hands lay on top of the bedclothes. One had only a shallow cut, but it ran diagonally across his palm - difficult to sew. The other was deep, Julia nearly wept when she saw how far the blade had gone. The gash exposed the bones in his hand, a few even had small nicks. She shivered when she thought how very close he had come to losing that hand.
The coverlet was folded back to his waist, exposing the bare skin of his chest and the clean bandages that encircled him. The wound to his ribs had been terrible. Dunholm had cheated, which would have lost him the Holmgang even if it hadn’t ended as it did, and hidden a short dirk in his trousers. The blade had sunk to the hilt, only the thickness of Eric’s muscle kept it from piercing a lung. She had been careful not to remove the blade until he was brought to her room, and even then she had prayed - harder than ever before - as she pulled it out. She was still worried about that wound, it could easily turn to rot and she did not have the island’s resources at her disposal. Her own small supply of herbs and bandages were nearly depleted between Skald and Eric.
Under the blanket, she knew there were other wounds- shallow cuts surrounded by vicious bruises where Dunholm had struck out with his sword. Sarah coughed quietly and Julia sighed. She would examine him again when she returned. “Stay with him,” she commanded on her way out of the room.
“Of course, my Lady.”
The antechamber had been scrubbed clean. A new rug and table had replaced the ones where Skald was sick. The Norseman who had accidentally taken the poison intended for Eric had been moved into a nearby chamber. Bjorn stayed with him, guarding his friend and watching the repentant maid who had confessed to allowing Dunholm’s man to poison the stew. William had offered to put the girl to death, as he did with the poisoner, but Julia, even after nearly dying herself as she watched Eric fight off the effects of the Foxglove - could not find it in her heart. She asked that the girl be given over to Skald as a servant. She could nurse him back to health, and return to the island if that was what Skald wished. The maid might spend the rest of her days working off her sins, and she seemed grateful for the show of mercy.
Ulrich and de Beaumont stood at the door, and seated at the table was King William. He had a cup of wine in his hand and another waiting on the table for her.
“Your Majesty,” she nodded, but did not sit.
“Lady Cruithne, Lord de Beaumont tells me that you have some skill as a healer. Both men are recovering from the effects of the poison, and he compliments your deft hand with a needle.”
“He is too kind. My embroidery looks like a rat’s nest,” she said flatly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of the visit?”
“I will be very busy soon, I have much to oversee and men still out hunting for traitors who would stir the people against me. I have fortifications to build and holdings to inspect.”
“Godspeed in your endeavors, your Majesty.” Julia gave him a brittle smile; it was the best she could manage. Eric had almost died, he could still become gravely ill, just so that she could enter a political dance with this Norman invader. It was not worth it. Nothing was. She should have listened to Jens’ advice and let the Norman army try to take the island. With the defenses built by the Romans and time to prepare, they would have made such a battle too costly for William to fight for very long. If she had, Eric would be whole and awake now
“I am not qu
ite ready to leave you yet, dear Lady,” King William chuckled and gestured to the empty chair beside him. Julia sat. She couldn’t manage a pleasant expression, but she did keep from frowning at him. “There is still the matter of your husband.” He held up his hand when Julia would have interrupted. “I have selected several of my men whom I believe would be excellent matches for you. I would be most pleased,” he smiled a firm smile that booked no argument, “if you would meet with them over the next two days and consider their merits. Three days from now I will call together the court. I will have the Bishop ready to preside over your betrothal vows, and your intended may journey back with you to Aurelius, as soon as the Norsemen are well enough to travel.”
“I have had a considerable shock, your Majesty,” she bit off tightly. “I do not think I could possibly make such a decision so soon.” She hoped to play for more time. Eric had more than one plan to get them out of London in one piece, of that Bjorn had assured her. If she could wait long enough, they could sail back to Aurelius. Then she could try to make up for her foolish pride.
“I insist.” He laughed this time, seemingly unconcerned that she did not return his good humor. “Lord de Beaumont has suggested that you might not be able to make your choice so quickly, as you don’t know these men or their families well. In order to breech that divide, I have assigned two of my court to assist you. Lady Margaret has been with us since we took Sollwold. She can assist you with understanding the intricacies of my court. Lord de Beaumont,” William paused to consider the man and he stopped his conversation with Ulrich to look their way. “Lord de Beaumont has requested to withdraw from the quest for your hand, so he shall be at your call to inform you of the status and family history of your suitors.” William finished his drink and set down the cup with a thump, waving her off when she would have stood up with him. “Please, no. I have much to do. As do you, Lady Cruithne.” His eyes twinkled and a smile quirked the corners of his mouth. Julia wanted to slap his face. “I will see you in three days’ time.”