“That is what my army is for. Their job is to protect those within the walls.”
“But how?” Amoda insisted. “There are many men here. Do they all know your great plan? Do your peasants know or have the skill to defend against invaders? Hmm, what shall we do if you and your warriors are off rescuing some petty chieftain? Throw open the gates and lay…”
“I have no intention of abandoning my people to the wolves. I trust my men.”
“That will not save lives, my lord. There was an army before! Warriors trained and experienced and still, my family perished. I’ve spent years in bondage because my father ‘trusted´ his men.” Amoda’s eyes widened in shock as she realized what she’d said. A wave of heat climbed her face at the incredulous look on Mykyl’s face. She swallowed around the lump in her throat and pushed aside the furs.
“Nay, lady, stay.” Mykyl tightened his hold. He pressed another round of kisses to her head. “Men can be foolish at times, Amoda. Put your mind at ease. I will never put my people after the walls of this city. Before they got that close, my archers would cut them down. Those in the watch towers would alert us before it came to that.” Amoda frowned, her mind spinning. What if the archers were out there under cover? Would they be better as the last wave of defense? Could the city survive with half of them out beyond the walls and half hidden within the city?
“Enough of your worries, try and get some rest,” Mykyl instructed, his fingers combing through her hair. “I assure you, here in my arms, is where you’ll remain; safe beyond the reach of any other.”
“Goodnight then, master,” Amoda whispered tiredly. She closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into his embrace, her face seeking the curve of his shoulder. Surrounded by the familiar smell of leather and sweat, she let herself relax, let the tension and fear ease from her muscles.
“Mykyl,” Mykyl corrected gently.
Amoda closed her eyes at his whisper. Silent, hot tears tracked down her face as she listened to his breathing so close to her ear. Mayhap tomorrow would grant her some reprieve from this nightmare. She prayed as she felt the bed dip beneath his weight, and his arm slide around her waist. Pulled flush against his body, she relaxed slowly, as she sought his warmth, even as she hated him for what his people had done.
~ * ~
Dawn’s pale fingers had already turned the horizon pink when Amoda woke from her sleep. Rolling over, she realized that Mykyl had already risen for the day. Thankful for the small blessing, she slid out of bed and looked for her skirt and chemise.
“You slept well then?”
Whirling around, Amoda found Mykyl rising from the morning shadows that cloaked the seat by the window. Bare-chested, with his pants pulled on but not tied, Amoda realized quickly that he’d probably just raised from their bed.
“Yes, sir.” She flushed, unwilling in the light of day to allow herself to feel any weakness.
“I’m sure you are aware that we have been threatened by Danish forces.”
“It should be of no concern to me. I am a slave here and I would be a slave there. What matters the name of my master?” Amoda shrugged as she dressed quickly.
“Tell me what it is you desire. Money, power? Freedom? A family to call your own, mayhap?” Mykyl narrowed his eyes at the flash of a smile upon her face.
“Aye, I desire freedom. Who does not?”
“And a family? A babe to suckle at your breast, to love?” Mykyl taunted, watching the play of emotions on her face. “Indeed.”
“What matters of my desires for a family and freedom?”
“Greatly.” Mykyl shifted his gaze steady. “I am not a cruel man, Amoda. I can see how a woman would want a family of her own.”
“Aye.” Her voice hesitant, she stared back at him.
“I am feeling generous. I will make you a bargain.”
”Of what kind?”
Mykyl ignored the uncertainty in her voice. Rather he reached for his shirt and pulled it on. “I want an heir.”
“What does that have to do with me?” Amoda demanded. “Any child I bear will be a bastard.”
“You bear me a healthy son, and I will grant you your freedom.”
Amoda stared at him in shock. “Do you take me for a fool?”
“I want a healthy son. You want your freedom. You will be free. You, of course, would have to remain here, in this city to raise my son, but you would be free.”
“And if it’s a daughter that I bear? What then, my lord? How many bastards will I have to bear before you’re satisfied?”
“You want your freedom, Amoda, and I want an heir,” Mykyl said from the other side of the bed. “You will bear only as many children as it takes to grant me an heir. Be it one or ten. You will bear no bastards. You will bear my children.”
Amoda stared after him in amazement. He offered her two of the most desired things she wanted, a child to love, and her freedom. A chill raced through her as she contemplated his offer. Little chance lay in him loving her, but did it matter? Aye, it did. She wanted a child to know the love shared by both parents. If she gave him what he desired, and earned her freedom, could she walk away with so little? To leave her child would destroy her, but if she accepted what he offered her, she would accept another form of bondage—one that had a much stronger hold over her than her current one. Nay, she could not contemplate such a thing right now.
The sound of the door closing drew her from her thoughts and Amoda swallowed harshly. What trickery was this? She reached for her tunic.
~ * ~
Mykyl glanced among his assembled captains as they stood around talking of the latest missive from the north, about invaders landing upon the rich soil of the Isle. Loud, boisterous shouts of anger filled the room. The desire to fight surrounded him. Each man he looked to gripped his sword tightly and nods of agreement greeted his questions.
“The threat from the Danes has grown,” Cahal said from his position in front of a map. “There’s been word they’ve already attacked three villages to the north of us. As well, it’s rumored that to the east of us, Norse warriors ride against your allies.”
“What do you suggest?” Mykyl braced his hands on the table, his brow knitted with concern. “Olaf has not sent word to me asking for assistance. Until he does, I can no more ride into war than—”
“And he is not likely to,” Cahal interrupted amid muttered agreement from the others. “What we must do is decide how we’re going to handle this possible threat. The lands that are threatened may belong to your brother—but he is still in Brattilhid. It would take him days of sailing to reach the shores and several more on horseback to reach his territories. That is, if he even notices or takes interest in the carnage to his people.”
“Aye, Olaf will spare no attention to these minor transgressions.” Mykyl stared at the map before him. He traced the lines of state with the tip of his dagger. Tiny, widely spread marks represented villages, towns, and people under his protection. To ignore the lesser Irish kings and priests under his protection would alienate his allies. He’d made gaining the local people’s trust and loyalty a priority, and he refused to back away from his promises.
To send a guard to each place would severely wound his army. An invading force would have little resistance when they attacked the city. They would simply have to find location of the stealthy Danes and march on them with due haste.
One of his captains, a tall, robust Norse man by the name of Vidor approached the map. “What if we sent scouts? Each would be responsible for discovering the main force and reporting back here. With that information, my lord, we could muster the army and attack them.”
“I think it would work. The scouts would have to be with little weaponry. Time is the essence.” His attention focused upon the lines of his territory.
“There are six light riders we could send right away,” Cahal suggested.
Mykyl raised a hand, his eyes falling upon two soldiers standing a few feet away. “It would be a rather dangerous pursuit but wel
l worth the cost. Have Anrai and Garth assigned to the detail. Single men only, Cahal.”
“Of course.” Cahal glanced at the men who shifted uncomfortably, unable to meet his gaze. With curt nods, the two strode purposefully from the room. “They’ll leave at first light.”
“Make all necessary preparations. I want the town defended should they fail. Increase patrols.”
“Of course, my lord.” Cahal waved the other men from the room.
Mykyl watched the men leave and settled on his chair. He sighed, Cahal’s movements about the room unsettling. “You seem vexed.”
“I feel strongly that this is not just the work of the Danes. You have something that belongs to your brother. He will want her back. What is to say that he has not gathered a force of allies from their ranks?”
“Aye, but I shall not part with Amoda. Olaf would not risk the wrath of Father over a slave until he is certain of his place upon the throne.”
“My lord, take the utmost care. Treachery may lie within the folds of this front.”
“Indeed.” Mykyl watched Cahal stride from the room. His mind spinning, he stared at the closed door. Was Cahal correct? Had Olaf stepped outside the boundaries of his allegiances? What riches promised? He saw nothing that they would want. Farmers and peasants had no treasure or gold to have. The Celtic monasteries had long since been plundered, their wealth taken by previous men, including his father. The land and its people offered the only wealth that he saw, a kingdom bought with blood when he’d been a boy.
He had more than a few Irish Chieftains who had pledged their allegiance to him. With his forces and those of the local men, it would be foolhardy to attack. Even the Danes had to realize that this part of the island lay under the control of a Viking lord.
Hearing a soft sound, he glanced up to see Amoda carrying a tray into the room. Byrne closed the door after her. Mykyl watched her set the tray laden with meat, cheese,
and ale upon it before him. She kept her head bowed,
steadfastly refusing to look at him.
“Amoda, you have been silent all day.”
“I prefer to allow my wounds to heal, my lord,” she whispered and backed away from him.
“I did not give you much opportunity to explain your actions the other day,” Mykyl stated calmly.
Amoda waved aside his words. “It is not important.”
“I think it is.”
Soft, cynical laughter drifted to him. “Then let your mind be at ease, my lord. I received worse beatings from Rognvaldr. I’ll survive.”
“But you resent me.”
“Nay, my lord.” Amoda paused by the door. “I…I don’t understand you.”
He noted the tension in her shoulders; saw the stiffness within her movements. “Have Byrne’s women draw you a hot bath.”
“I have work to do. I don’t need your pity.”
Mykyl listened to her retreating footsteps and glanced at the tray. What sort of woman was she? He’d expected her anger, tears even—but the confused air about her? Bracing his hands on the table, he stared at the scarred wood. There had to be a way to reach her.
Some way he could undo the damage he’d done. Something that would keep her bound to him while giving her what she truly wanted, because even if he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to release her.
Nine
Amoda’s mind tangled as she sat mending by a window. For days, men had come and gone as rumors of a war circulated within the city. Each morning Mykyl’s calm inquiry into her decision plagued her. His offer haunted her with its enticements. The thought of having a child tempted her. That she had a choice at all was surprising. She realized that if it had been another she would not have had a choice.
Mykyl had given her more ground then any other master before. Fear, though, held her back. She did not doubt that he would take her child and her freedom. She longed to believe him, to trust him, but a hint of doubt clawed at her heart.
With brutal truth came a cold reality that what he asked would cost her a great deal. It would take her a very long time to earn her freedom, and if she bore him a son, it would only add to the price. Amoda glanced up sharply at the hurried footsteps intruding into the silence. A sweaty young man hurried through the door with Byrne.
“Where is the lord of the house?” the young man demanded impatiently.
Amoda shrugged. She refused to be Mykyl’s keeper. “He is in council with the Captains.”
“There has been an attack upon our village. We suffered heavy casualties and I have been—”
“I’ll bring him.” Amoda rose to her feet, her work forgotten. The soft scuff of her shoes on the floor seemed loud in the silence as she hurried along the corridor to the door Mykyl and his captains had retreated behind. She paused, uncertain if she should disturb them. Amoda knocked quickly before entering the room, coming to a halt a few steps beyond the threshold. Irritation at the intrusion showed in the men’s expressions when they turned toward her. She ignored their looks and focused upon Mykyl, who stood stoically next to the table, one hand resting upon the map they’d been discussing.
“My lord, a messenger has come asking for your aide. His village has been attacked.” Her tone oozed with concern and fear.
“Where is this messenger?”
“He awaits you in the hall. Shall I escort him within?” She turned back toward the door, her hand already reaching for the handle.
“Nay, I’ll go to him,” Mykyl said.
Amoda stood silently as he walked around the table and started for her. The worry etched onto his face revealed the news troubled him. “Will you be going then?”
“Anxious to see my head severed from my body?” Sarcasm dripped from his tone as he stared, unearthing the unease within her. Her lord going off to fight meant she would have little chance of delaying her decision. It would be likely he would wish to know before he left.
“Nay, my lord. I loathe the very idea.”
Hurrying one step behind Mykyl, Amoda followed him into the great hall where the messenger awaited his audience. Her fear grew to form a hard knot within her belly as Mykyl greeted the young man. “I am Lord Woodstown. What missive do you bring?”
Amoda hovered next to the window at the young man’s greeting. She certainly did not belong next to her lord whilst he discussed war. Amoda saw no dishonesty within the messenger’s eyes so why did she not trust his words?
“My lord, Fagen, sent me. He pleads for your aide from the Gaill raiders that flowed over our lands.”
“What Vikings are coming so far inland?” Mykyl frowned. “I know of none who would attack upon my lands.”
“My lord, they…” The messenger paused as Mykyl raised a hand.
“I do not doubt that Vikings attacked you,” he stated. “Tell me more about this attack.”
“A large force has attacked our village. They’ve burnt the crops, stolen our livestock. Our women suffered greatly, they mistreated them so viciously, those they didn’t steal as slaves they violated and left in the dirt. They plundered our reserves, some of which my Ri, my king, was to pay you for taxes. My king asks that you come to our aide.”
“Byrne, inform Cahal to summon the riders. We’ll make all haste with preparations and be ready to ride no later than midday.”
Amoda stared at him in shock. She swallowed against the rising tide of emotions that choked her. Fear began to take a hold of her. Surely, he wouldn’t leave them to the mercy of the invaders. “My lord—”
“Patience, Amoda.” Mykyl held up a hand.
Amoda gaped at him for a moment before bowing slightly and gathering her things. “As you wish, my lord, I shall leave you to your talk of war.”
She turned on her boot heel and stalked out of the room. Cursing him, she clenched her hands furiously and hurried up the stairs. He would take his men and leave. Unprotected, the women, children, and elderly would be easy targets. It would be up to those left behind, she realized, to protect themselves from attack.
>
Still, she would not beg him to leave a small guard. If he wished to lose his people and his possessions, who was she to disagree? Throwing her sewing aside, she paced across the floor, following a path she had long since started. If he planned to go fight, she would have to come up with some way of protecting those who could not protect themselves.
How? How could she protect those around her without any training? Mayhap one of the older soldiers would give her some tips. Images that filled her nights haunted her. She could almost taste the smoke, feel the oozing of the blood upon stone beneath her feet. Nay, she would allow none to fall.
~ * ~
“My lord, you will come?”
“Aye,” Mykyl said. Thor only knew what threatened, but his honor bound him to respond. Regardless of his standing, the young man’s Ri had long been an ally and thus, influenced the stability of his rule. He neither needed nor wanted another enemy, especially so close to his holdings.
Amoda’s obvious displeasure stirred the frustration within him. She seemed to be concerned about the people within the city but how much of that was real?
“And what of Amoda?” Byrne’s question drew his attention.
“What of her?” Mykyl stood before the eastern window, his hands clasped behind his back as he contemplated the coming conflict.
“Will you be taking her with you?”
“Nay. She remains here. I trust you to watch over her Byrne. She must stay safe and unharmed.” Mykyl caught the flash of displeasure in the other man’s eyes and smiled slightly. “She’ll be no trouble, my friend. Just make sure she does not wander too far from the manor.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“What needs doing?” Mykyl turned his attention to Cahal and preparations of war.
“We’ll need to gather some food stocks. We can hunt for meat but there are things we should take. I’ll have the women gather all that we will need. Limit it to three horses?”
Mykyl nodded thoughtfully at Cahal’s query. “Carry on. We’ll be leaving as soon as all preparations are complete.”
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