Shrieks and shouts competed with the clashing of metal on metal within her ears. Each sound seemed to run together until she didn’t know who cried out. Ducking past a galloping horse, she slid on the blood that flowed over the ground.
Swinging blindly at the outcry, Amoda barely felt the easy glide of her blade through the soft tissue of her assailant’s neck. The hot scald of blood as it spurted onto her face and neck only just registered.
“Watch out!”
Whirling at the warning, she felt the tip of a blade scrape down the side of her face. The weapon sliced into her shoulder as she lifted her own weapon.
“You cowards, attack women and children!” she screamed angrily. Jostled and shoved, she struggled to maintain her feet during battle. Spears quivered as they protruded from the ground around her. The blade in her hand trembled as a warrior swooped down with his. Her arms screamed out in agony as the force rocked her entire body, sending shockwaves through her muscles. Fury unlike anything she’d ever felt, filled her as the sword flew from her fingers. She scrambled to her knees, reaching for a fallen weapon. Her numb fingers closed over the broke shaft of an axe and she rolled, swinging with it as she scrambled backward on her buttocks.
The sudden, ear splitting blare of a horn gave Amoda and her forces a pause in the battle. Before they could regroup and press their attack further, the invaders made for the horses left by fallen comrades. Torn between elation and terror, Amoda whipped around, her eyes scanning faces, bodies, searching for those she knew in the bedlam and confusion.
Faces covered in a mixture of blood and sweat milled about in the light. Unable to tell friend from foe, Amoda stood silently, her chest heaving. Her lungs burned with each breath, her heart pounding. Her head ached, and she could taste the acrid, bitter taste of blood. She became too numb to feel anything. Slowly, in a daze, she sank to the ground, her knuckles white upon the worn handle she held.
Amoda wiped a hand over her mouth, smearing the blood on her face as she watched the army slip away. She smiled a cold, cruel expression. A wave of men fell from their horses. Screams of men drifted back to those within the city walls.
“So many have been hurt.”
Turning to Erin, Amoda swallowed and looked around. Women huddled in small groups, their faces filled with shock and horror as well as pride. Many held bandages to the wounds on their sisters and friends. “Get as many as you can inside. We’ll have to treat the wounds.”
“And you, Amoda?” Erin reached up to touch her face. “Your wound will surely leave a scar.”
“It will heal.” Amoda shrugged off the other woman’s concern. “We need to be sure that all the wounded have been treated.”
Amoda watched Erin as she hurried to gather the other women. Walking more slowly behind her friend, she eyed the bodies littering the ground. Spotting a ragged, torn standard, she bent to pick it up.
“Norsemen,” she whispered as she fingered the emblem on the fabric. Strangely familiar, the symbols stood out as though lit by a raging flame. They bore the mark of a Norse house. Bitterness and rage broiled within her, twisting her emotions into a black knot within her chest. Who would attack one of their own? Who would gain the most by destroying Mykyl’s lands?
“My lady, come inside. Let us remove the fallen.” Byrne’s voice drew her attention away from the banner.
“They ride under the banner of a Norsemen.” Amoda held out the dark fabric, ignoring the tears and stains. “They were our lord’s people and they meant to kill us.”
“I know of no lord, no baron who has a slight against my lord,” Byrne replied. “No Norse house would—”
“Then perhaps you should look a little harder,” Amoda whispered sadly. “I have work to do.” Stalking past him, she gathered her skirts as she hurried up the stairs. Numbness returned where shock had been, easing the darkness within her as she stepped into the warmth of the great hall. She paused, her gaze sweeping the sea of wounded men and women.
~ * ~
“You were right.”
Amoda glanced up at Cahal before returning her attention to stitching up a jagged wound on the arm before her. “About what?”
“We cut them down by outflanking them. You have a talent for warfare.”
“I have a talent for survival.” Amoda smiled at the woman, wrapping a thick bandage over the moss and cream she’d applied. “Get some rest.”
“Thank you.”
“You took a wound yourself.” Cahal grabbed her chin and tilted it upwards.
Amoda met his appraising stare. Her beauty had been marred, her looks shattered by the blade of another, but she could not bring herself to care. Instead, she felt a sense of pride that she’d been able to help the other women. While a woman of no means, a concubine, pride filled her at the steady realization that she would not allow anyone to take that away from her.
“It is nothing.”
“You truly think that?” Cahal frowned at her, confusion in his eyes.
“Aye, what does it matter what scars I wear?”
Cahal abruptly changed the subject. “The ones that escaped burned three houses and stole a few head of livestock but it is better than the outcome could have been. We have built funeral pyres for our dead.”
“There are many to help. Some will be carried to Tara, to their final peace before dawn.” Amoda straightened, her eyes scanning the room. “You will need to slaughter more animals. We need fresh meat if these people are to get well.”
“I’ll see to it,” Cahal promised.
“How long until Mykyl’s return?” Amoda wiped her hands on a bloodstained cloth and pushed her hair out of her eyes.
“He was summoned to Dublin, Amoda. He’ll be gone weeks, mayhap months. I pray he returns before the new year begins.” Cahal explained before turning away.
Amoda watched him walk away. A shadow of fear hung over her. Someone wanted Mykyl’s house to fall. A maggot of hate festered deep within an unseen enemy, and those that remained loyal to his house would pay for it.
Fourteen
The snow crunched and crackled in the silence with each step Amoda took along the now familiar path. She heard the sounds of the city coming back to life, and it lifted her heart. The women around her showed great strength. Eager to defend many, they took a watch to aide the wounded men.
She reached up with a covered finger to the wound, still tender, which ran down her hairline, to cut a jagged, ugly line to her chin. The tremble in her fingers seemed to echo through her body. Fear still haunted her as she listened for the sound of hooves on frozen ground.
“You seem pensive, Amoda.”
Amoda twisted around to stare at Cahal, who sat a horse a few feet away. “I needed a bit of air.”
The jingle of metal told her he had dismounted. A moment later, he stood alongside her, staring out over the rolling blue-white hills. “Tell me, why is it that you are so different?”
“My lord?”
“I’ve seen slaves that Rognvaldr has trained before. They are docile, obedient women, fearful of their own shadows, and yet you are different. You’ve never allowed Mykyl to bend your will. You made a bargain for something that would never be an offer. You’ve risked his wrath by lifting a weapon, not to defend yourself, but to defend those within his city. You’ve proven yourself to us, proven how you feel, without saying a word.”
Amoda chuckled softly. “He wants an heir, a son to carry on his line.” “He could get a legal heir off any woman of means. To go against every law of his people, to get one off a slave? Something does not seem right.”
“I know nothing of his motives.”
“Aye, you do.”
“Perhaps it is just another move in the game he plays with his brother. What better way to humiliate and degrade Olaf than to claim a bastard gotten off me?” Amoda whispered. She turned from Cahal’s assessment.
The sound of a muffled shout had her whipping around to see a young lad galloping toward them. As the rider drew near, she
heard what words he screamed out, heard the joy in his voice and shivered.
“He is early.”
“Early?” Amoda glared at Cahal.
“I did not believe he would return before the spring thaw. He’s been gone so long. I wonder what his father wanted.”
“King Tyr has never wanted anything good,” Amoda retorted, fury in her voice. “I pray for the day he passes!”
“Careful, my lady, those are words of treason.”
“Then slice my head from my shoulders and be done with it!” Amoda replied stiffly and turned to the road leading from the north. She swallowed; her stomach alight with unease, fear, and longing. She wanted to rush to greet him, and yet, she knew she could not. She would not reveal a weakness to him, to any man who could exploit it.
“My lord, Cahal, the prince has returned. He comes even now!”
Amoda turned to the now familiar standards that fluttered in the wind of the racing horses. Ice and snow flew beneath the horses’ hooves. Mist rose from the warmth of their breath. A slow, steady smile crossed her face as she recognized the man in the lead. Dressed in full battle regalia, Mykyl rode with determination, with skill.
Inhaling, she straightened her shoulders. Her chin rose as she waited for him to close the distance between them. She knew what the army had ridden through—the burned out houses, the empty corrals, and the fields that still bore the odd stubborn stains of blood, every indication of a battle with none of victory.
Cahal had ordered all livestock and every resident behind the walls at night, making for a crowded city, but Mykyl had returned to his people, safely encased under the able bodied guard.
She caught Cahal’s grin but ignored his knowing look. She had other things to concern her. Amoda clenched her hands by her sides, her teeth worrying her lip as she waited impatiently for Mykyl to draw near.
“What has happened?” Mykyl demanded, jumping from the still dancing bay.
Amoda glanced uneasily at Cahal as Mykyl stalked toward them. Anger and dismay filled Mykyl’s features, turning his cobalt eyes icy.
“We came under attack,” Cahal explained quickly.
“I can see that. I passed by four burned out farms. I rode through a field that still bore the marks of flames, of blood. Do you have a reason for this? The land is as still as death, not a sign of life to be had. ”
“We had to do something. The women and children had to be protected.” Amoda drew Mykyl’s attention. She stood her ground, unwilling to back down from what she believed to be right.
“I left strictest of instructions to send the women and children to the glen. Walls made of brick and wood can be easily rebuilt,” Mykyl ground out.
Amoda jumped at Mykyl’s sudden glare. “They would have followed us.”
“I bid you stay put, to stay safe! I did not bid you stand by while my men fought…” Mykyl ran a hand over her face, his eyes trailing the fresh scar with icy rage.
“I had no choice! There were too many to protect, every able bodied person had to do what they could!” Amoda shouted angrily, ignoring Cahal’s look of warning, the look of rage in Mykyl’s face. “I would rather die than sentence another of your people to the horror of capture!”
“My people would have been taken care of. I would not allow anyone to enslave…”
“Really? You would stop another from stealing a citizen from you as a slave, yet you take a slave for your own?” Sarcasm and anger dripped live venom from each word snarled in anger.
“Be careful what words pass through your lips, Amoda. I will not be as forgiving as I have been in the past.”
“Then have done with it! Beat me, kill me, or send me back to your brother now that you’ve made your point! I will not apologize to you or to anyone else for defending those who could not do it for themselves!”
Slipping on the ice, she turned and ran for the gates. Uncaring of those who watched, of the murmurs of the men or the angry stare on her back, Amoda hurried to the manor house. She raced up the stairs. Her lungs burned with emotion, and the scald of tears tracked down her face.
“Such a fool!” she cried as she wrestled the door open to her chamber. The walls trembled in protest when she slammed it behind her. Slowly, her legs gave way, and she sank to the floor, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs.
She did not understand Mykyl’s anger, did not understand why he would be so opposed to defending his city. Indeed, a heavy ache settled on her heart as she realized that she had once again angered him.
Low and heavy, the echo of footsteps in the hall offered the only warning a moment before the door opened. Scrambling to her feet, she darted across the room to stand before the window. Her back to him, Amoda resolved she would not give him tears.
“I do not believe I said anything about you joining the fighting forces.” Cold, impersonal, the tone did little to soothe Amoda’s emotions. Rather, it reached into her soul and chilled her from the inside out.
She offered a slight shrug as the only response. There was no answer for him, least none he would accept. To him, she remained a piece of property, a means to get a healthy heir, a tool with which to embarrass his brother. If only she could have kept her distance, mayhap she would not need him so.
“Help me out of my armor, woman. We have guests this night.”
Subtly, she swiped at her tears before turning from the window. Ignoring the look on his face, Amoda made short work of untying the leather straps that held his heavy armor in place. She let it fall to the floor before she worked the heavy, winter tunic up over his body. Dropping it beside her, she stepped back.
“I shall see to your bath, my lord.”
“I have a more pressing matter for you to deal with.”
Amoda stared at him. Surely, he could not mean to bed her now! If they were to have guests then she would have to make arrangements, there would be meals to prepare. She had all the duties and responsibilities of any other woman in the city.
“I have much to do to prepare for guests. I cannot leave the others to deal with the preparations by themselves.”
“They will handle them.” Mykyl’s eyes stared straight through her, down into her very essence.
“What would you have me do then, my lord?” Amoda turned to the small table and chair sitting before the fire. “There is bread and some meat here, I could…”
“Tell me about the battle.”
“What is there to say? We had no choice but to enter into a battle. Men fell, blood was spilled.”
“Why did you stay? Why did—”
“You bid me stay here, my lord. Remember, you told me to behave myself, to remain here until your return. I merely followed your orders.”
“That is not what I meant,” Mykyl retorted, a dark look crossing his face as he stared at the disfiguring scar that marred her flesh.
“I have no time for this. I will not tell you anything.”
“You will follow my orders, Amoda, or I shall enforce my will.”
“Then do it!” Amoda screamed at him. She swiped a hand across the table, sending the platter clattering to the floor. The bread and meat flew across the room, narrowly missing Mykyl’s stunned face, to thud harmlessly against the wall. “I know what I am, my lord. I am your harlot. I do as bid! Bare my flesh when and where you command me! Why this anger at an attack? Did you believe that we would just surrender to the will of anyone? Perhaps it is that you have grown tired of me. Mayhap I should have fallen in battle. Tell
me, Master, what am I to do for you now?”
Amoda gasped at the pity in his gaze as he stared at her in stony silence. Stumbling back, she raised a hand to clutch at her chest even as she glared at him. Anger, hot and potent, swelled within her chest until it overflowed. Her chest heaved with each breath. Her hands trembled. Icily, her emotions wrapped at her, pummeling her hard won control.
“I hate you! I hate you!” Sobbing, she threw herself at him, her fingers clawing at his face. Tears streaming down her face, s
he railed against him. “You worthless, rotten, lying bastard! You ungrateful, dishonest son of a Danish whore, I despise you! I wish you would just die and leave me in peace!”
Amoda struggled, jerked away from him even as he held her wrists in an iron grip. As suddenly as the fight had risen within her, it vanished. An empty void settled within her chest, and her struggles weakened into small, insignificant attempts to escape his grip. Sinking to her knees, she sobbed, hardly aware of Mykyl releasing her wrists. Wrapping her arms around herself, Amoda huddled on the floor, adrift in a sea of misery.
She wanted him, his touch, sought his possession of her body, and yet, she feared her desire. Every moment that he touched her, every time he kissed her, he stole another piece of her heart. Soon, he would have all of her. He could break her into a thousand shards, and she would have nothing for the babe that grew beneath her heart.
A solid, warm weight settled around her shoulders, easing her to her feet. Guided to the bed, she was hardly aware of the tenderness with which he stripped her of her damp cloak, shift, and boots. Curling into herself, she felt the heavy weight of the fur draped over her but didn’t open her eyes.
“Stubborn, willful woman. Rest now, my love, rest.”
Clinging to the barest hint of tenderness from Mykyl, Amoda curled into her pillows, her fingers clutching the blankets tightly. She had no wish to face him, to deal with the pain and agony of his fury. She barely heard the door close. Instead, she listened to the sound of her own sobs.
~ * ~
Mykyl closed the door to their chamber and paused. The very thought that death could have taken her awoke a fear within him worse than anything he’d ever felt. That he could have lost her, lost the fire, the passion that kept him returning to her every day, chilled him.
He’d missed her terribly while he’d been in Dublin; missed her disobedience, her willfulness, and her pride. The darkness of night had been cold, uncomfortable, filled with too much thought and no sleep as he lay in a cold, empty bed, longing for the touch of a woman he’d left at home. He’d ignored the many temptations of his father’s court, unwilling to soil himself with any who were not her.
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