by Lexy Timms
"I’ll tell them.” Halfdan made a dismal effort to get off his chair. He settled back down and grabbed his pewter cup of wine. “Better yet, you tell them. I don't mind lying, but oftentimes the flavor of a wicked one such as this will sit on your tongue and rot for weeks."
Marcus glanced over his shoulder, his jaw locked in place with disdain. He tried to look the part but was more than pleased to be the one to carry the news to the men. The glory would be his, not Halfdan’s. "Fine. I’ll tell them, but you need to be beside me as an eyewitness to the events."
Halfdan stared at Marcus as if he had the ability to read inside the young man’s mind. He finally pushed himself out of his seat and gulped the last of his wine down. As he wiped his bearded chin he said, his voice low and raw, "It was your cousin in my way, Marcus. You’re simply a pawn. Should I begin to feel that you’re a threat, the same thing that happened to Erik can happen to you. Do not test me in this, nor should you go gathering ideas of grandeur and hopes of being King. That position is mine and mine alone." His last words would have sent a chill down the dead corpses’ spines who lay on the battlefield had they heard him.
A nod was all the commander got. Marcus slipped out of the tent and walked toward a large group of men, a slight limp to his gait.
John, one of Erik's most loyal commanders, rose as Marcus approached, the older man's eyes rolling over him as he moved with feigned emphasis. "Where’s Erik? Have you found him?"
Marcus held up his hand, his own leadership style quite different from that of his beloved cousin. Erik being the crowned prince of Denmark most likely made way for the immediate level of loyalty he received amongst the men. Marcus discarded the thoughts and moved into the center of the circle, purposely ignoring John's questions. "Gather the troops. Halfdan and I have an announcement. It’s regarding our future plans. I’ll not speak more than once on it, so leave no one out less they fall behind or meet a bloody end in their undeserved confusion."
The men stood around him, milling about as they walked through the large camp, yelling and calling all to come. The tents spread far and wide, the edge of the forest on their northern front the borderline of Scotland. The sea town behind them still burning bright, the sky littered with the smoke that billowed toward the heavens. They left nothing alive, taking what they wanted and destroying the rest. The English or Scottish that had escaped would not get far. They too would soon be left to lie on the earth forever.
The sound of soft cries caught Marcus' attention. He turned around to see a group of women huddling in front of a large tent, most of them crying. Those that had been crying hysterically had been physically warned to shut their mouth. Now their cries were more the sound of whimpering, like a beaten dog. He scoffed and turned back to the meeting spot, Halfdan walking up to his left.
Marcus puffed his chest out, wincing at the pain it caused. "Women brought from the city? Seems some of them didn't make it all the way here. Shame." His voice held no emotion, his words casual conversation with no invested backing. He said the words to himself, but just loud enough in case someone heard. "They’re of no concern to me, or us. I'm not interested in bedding a woman whose desperation stinks of fear." That had never been a problem for him before, but now he held a different position and the men need not know that, or should one say otherwise, he would soon find his heart outside of his chest.
"Men. My men. I understand you more than Erik did.” His words brought murmurs from the crowd of men near him. Marcus raised his voice. “These women may or may not be virgins.” He chuckled. “But they will all be tarts by morn, and know their way around a man. You'll each take one tonight, or share. Whatever. I don’t care.” He eyed a dark haired maiden with terrified eyes that flew around the men. He would have her. He licked his lips.
Halfdan stood just behind him. “The tension on you is almost tangible. I don't want the men to see. Or question your actions."
"What I do is none—"
Halfdan moved in front of him faster than Marcus suspected the man capable. He wrapped a beefy hand around Marcus’ throat, squeezing tightly. "Don't forget your place, boy. You might be willing to kill a prince, but you haven't the bits to stab a king. Speak to me one more time with familiarity and I shall have no use for you," he growled, releasing Marcus.
"Yes, Sire." Marcus stood, his heart pounding in his chest, hate rolling in his stomach. He rubbed his neck, trying to soothe the pain. He was beyond subservience but knew his chances of a future in the palace resided on victory in the battlefield.
“Don’t misstep again.”
Marcus bit his tongue to stop himself from replying. He moved to future thoughts. If he were the only one to return and Nathaniel, their King, lie dead, he would be the next heir. He could not get there without Halfdan. He nodded meekly.
"Good. Remember that."
Marcus looked over his shoulder, a thin brunette standing over to the side, her eyes removing his clothes without shyness. The terrified one no longer held his interest. This one was a whore by nature. She would soothe his disgruntled mood, or at least make the men think so. He pointed at her. "You, go to my tent and wash up.” He pointed to a lad waiting for an order. “Take this one to my tent.”
“Which tent is yours?” the idiot boy asked.
His face burning, Marcus hit him on the back of the head. “It's the one to the right of the commander's tent." He turned back around, the men beginning to line up. Perfect. His interest in sating himself in the back end of a female was null, but to shut the old coot up next to him and make himself appear more in tune with the men before him, he'd take her and be done with it.
Halfdan shot him a disgusted look. "Gather up. I haven't the time nor the desire to stand here and wait. Move quickly and save your exhaustion for your cot." Halfdan progressed to the center of the small grassy pasture, men moving to crowd in around him.
Marcus didn’t have a choice but to follow. He stood behind Halfdan this time and waited until the area was covered with soldiers before stepping to the center. He turned to address the crowd of men that had not taken women. Erik’s men. "Many of you are wondering where my cousin, Erik, is."
"You mean our crowned prince, Erik," John spoke plainly, standing on the first ring of the inner circle.
Marcus shifted to face him, pinning him with an undeviating stare. "Is he not one in the same?"
The question died between them as Halfdan moved beside Marcus, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. "I think I should make this announcement. It hits far too closely to home for Marcus." He looked down at Marcus and nodded. "Remove your shirt and show them what happened."
Marcus exhaled softly, as if put off by the request, before stepping to the side and pulling the shirt from his upper body, grimacing due to the pain that truly lanced his chest. He pulled at the dressing carefully, a soft growl leaving his mouth as he released himself from it. The deep cut seeped with blood, the skin around the opening red and puffy. He would be lucky if he didn't die from an infection. Perhaps that was Halfdan's purpose all along?
"What happened, Marcus?" someone called out.
"Didn't have Erik there to protect you, old boy?” one of Erik’s soldiers laughed. “Finally got a lovely scar to prove your fight for victory with the rest of us?"
"Erik isn't here anymore.” Marcus kept his tone neutral, careful not to cause the wrong excitement in the men. “He went rogue. I kid you not. As he left, I caught up with him, questioning his exit. He grew angry. We fought.” He paused for dramatic effect, touching the skin by his wound. “I can only assume he meant to scar me and not kill me because of us being kin."
"What he means is that Erik is not in his right mind.” Halfdan stepped beside Marcus, his elbow brushing Marcus’ wound. “Marcus rode across the threshold and was attacked by a small band of Scots, Erik’s actions shocking and yet true." Halfdan motioned for one of the men to move toward Marcus. "Help redress the wound."
"Erik would never betray us by leaving.” John step
ped up, anger covering his grungy features. “Did something happen? What’s the rest of the story?"
"There is no rest of the story. He wanted to play the hero. He’s hated our commands since we arrived in this wretched country. He planned to defy his brother! Did you not know he believed himself better than you all?" Marcus turned full circle, staring at all of them, his voice booming across the silence of the evening as it rolled in.
"He was a prince,” John argued, not believing him. “Of course he was elevated above us. We are his subjects."
"This wasn't about his royal bloodline, John. He believed that we were vulgar and demons from hell itself. He hated every one of you. I thought—I hoped—I might talk him out of walking away from us, I couldn't. I tried to stop him, to reason with him, and he cut me from shoulder to stomach. He didn't even look himself when he left, almost as if he knew death awaited him beyond the trees." Marcus touched his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
"Why didn't you go after him? Call on some of us?" another voice yelled from the middle of the crowd.
Halfdan stepped up, his expression one to remind the men he wasn't to be challenged by their common questions and simple minds. "Erik was told to ride out and scout with Marcus. They were at the northern tip and alone. It would be difficult to force Erik to do anything if one were healthy and fully strengthened, no?"
They all mumbled and grumbled their responses, agreeing with the large commander before them.
"It is what it is. Marcus tried to stop him, and for that will suffer greatly for the next few weeks. He will be moved up to take Erik's spot and will ride beside me. Not one word from any of you or I will ensure your death is slow and painful. I will not risk this campaign.” Halfdan cleared his throat. “Your prince has abandoned you, but your King still sits in Denmark and as his right hand, I will continue to bring victory upon your heads. May Valhalla accept Erik in its bosom and may you fight our next battle in remembrance for who he was before the craze of battle took hold."
The men chanted loudly, Marcus pulling on his shirt and turning to walk toward his tent. There would be many questions over the next few weeks, but he would divert to Halfdan and keep his opinion regarding Erik to himself. He was the hero, the beloved one among the men. The men would love him as they once loved Erik, or still loved the bastard.
"Well, now he’s rotting in a field somewhere," Marcus mumbled, walking into the darkness of his tent. He moved to light a candle, turning and looking at the life-worn woman who sat on the edge of his cot, a naughty smile on her thin lips.
"Where do you want me?" she asked, standing and pulling at her already loose dress.
"Leave it on." He motioned for her to stop. He moved to a small chair and worked to undo his breeches, dropping them to his knees. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath, weariness wrapping around him like a second skin. He sat down and leaned back, his mind taking him far from the scene before him. He didn't want a thin brunette, but a buxom redhead, her skin white as alabaster, her curves thick like a woman's should be. The ones he’d seen in the country, forbidden to them.
He motioned for the girl to come to him, his body aroused at the vision behind his eyelids. He spoke plainly, his voice without emotion, as nothing moved him toward wanting to express his heart.
"Turn around. Don't speak, don't moan, do not touch me other than to use my legs to balance yourself."
He shifted his hips up as she sat down on his lap, her warmth barely something to covet. He turned and moved his arms behind to hold the back of his head. Marcus let the moment physically be present, but emotionally somewhere a long ways away.
He could hear her taking pleasure from him, his body made for sex, his stamina exhausting at times. He reached up and wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, shifting himself to sit up straight. The other hand on her hip, he drove himself into her, the beautiful Scottish girl in his mind's eye moaning and taking him with vigor. The girl of his dreams looked over her shoulder, her eyes blue as the sea, her fiery mane wrapped around his fingers and whispered the words he needed most, "I want only you."
His head dropped back, his body convulsing over and over. When his heart stilled, he pushed the tart from his lap and stood, pulling his pants up over his hips.
She cried out in surprise as she fell to the floor.
He stepped over her. "Get out. Don't come back." He walked from the tent, his body cooling quickly, the girl in his dreams only a dying hope.
Chapter 3
Linzi
Another long afternoon of working the field alone left her bone tired, her mind having shifted from Kenton back to the Saxon lain up in her bed. Always back to the stranger in her house. With her luck, she would return home only to find him dead. A smile touched her lips at the thought of having to explain that one to her father.
"Most girls are caught kissing a boy behind the church at the edge of town, or stealing a piece of Mister McAllister's pewter jewelry, but no... you have to kill a Viking and leave him rotting in your bed. What's the matter with you girl?"
She laughed, dusting her hands on her skirt, her nightgown long gone, having been cut to shreds by her new knife. It wasn't much worth wearing anymore anyways, so using it for small towels made more sense. She wiped her brow, her long copper hair a loose bun atop her head.
The house stood quiet when she walked in, the ambiance leaving her longing for companionship. Less than a fortnight ago she, her father and Kenton had been laughing at the table, sharing something good to eat and enjoying the simplicity life had afforded them. They worked hard but were gifted with the fruits of that labor – a peaceful life in the country, away from the busyness of the small city. People being too close made her father nervous. They always wanted in your business or your pockets, or so he would remind her and Kenton all the time.
Now she had two men in the house, and neither were in any condition to speak. It was almost funny.
She stuck her head in her father’s room, reaching up and pulling her hair down, letting it splay across her shoulders. Her father lay resting on his side, the water mug beside the bed on its side and empty. That was a good sign.
A muffled cough caught her attention. Linzi hurried down the hall to find the half-dead male sitting on the side of her bed, her pillow over his lap. She’d dressed his wounds, but it still left a lot of skin bare. Her cheeks warmed at the thought of him being nude under the small cotton square.
She shook her head and walked into the room. "Remind me not to lay my head on that tonight." Open mouthed, she watched the pillow as he stood, his legs wobbling underneath him.
He pulled the pillow tighter to the front of him, his eyes filled with fog and curiosity. She reached for him, catching him just before he fell and sat him back on the bed. "Where am I, woman?"
She motioned with her hand for him to lower his voice. "You’re in Scotland. My name is Linzi. You'll do well to remember that. I won't go by woman. It’s insulting."
He tilted his head to the side slightly, the dirt ring around his neck telling her that she'd not done as good of a job cleaning him earlier as she had thought. He stared at her, blinking continuously, as if solely focusing on her took more effort than he had. "Are all women in Scotland so crude?"
"Worse. Most of them would have slit your throat out in the field where you lay half dead. Be grateful." She moved back from him and ran her fingers through her hair, the bluest eyes she had ever seen moving up and then down as if studying her. Checking me out, more likely. Oddly, she didn’t seem to mind.
"I guess I should feel lucky and yet, I don't." He closed his eyes, rolling his shoulders as his face grimaced with pain.
She wasn't sure what to say, as biting back at him just didn't seem fitting. She had to help him for a day or two – unless he proved to be the arse she expected he was. Then she might regret not sinking that knife into his beautiful, muscular neck. Stop that! she scolded herself.
"You’re lucky I didn’t decide to kill ya." She reached
down and pulled her skirt up to mid-thigh, propping her foot on a nearby stool to untie her dusty brown boots.
He yawned and then opened his eyes. “What kind of…” He stared at her until she looked up at him and met his gaze. "Are you one of the servants here?"
She laughed, pulling the boot off her aching foot and moving to work on the other one. "You could say I’m the hired hand. I sure feel like it most days.” She sat on the small stool to pull the other boot off. “Tell me your name." She’d told him hers, it only seemed fair.
"I'm hungry." He tried to sit again, his words lacking emotion altogether. She expected him to be more violent. Perhaps after a meal and regaining a bit of his strength he would prove her right.
"Tis a pleasure to meet you, hungry.” She stood, hands on her hips. “I'm going to bathe and then I'll fix you something to eat."
"Where’s your master? I need to explain my situation." He made no effort to rise, already weak from what he had tried to do. He had no strength inside him. A man as large and muscular as him, now a helpless babe.
She reached down and pulled her dress over her head, her slip small and probably inappropriate in front of the stranger, but she was hot and dirty. He would be gone soon and she could at least tell Martha she undressed in front of a sexy Viking. It wouldn't be a lie – not entirely. She’d just leave out the part that he lay half dead on her bed. Maybe she’d add that he was near naked instead. That would throw Martha off from asking any questions.
He grunted softly, his eyes moving down the front of her body. She stopped and stared at him, his fingers tightening on the pillow he held to hide his nakedness. She turned and walked to the door, reaching to open it.