Patricia Bates

by Patricia Bates

  She sawed at her wrists, the rope cutting into her tender flesh. Biting her tongue to keep from crying out, she welcomed the seep of blood as it eased the friction of the rope.

  The sting of the rope barely reached her as the wagon rolled to a stop and Amoda shifted. Unease filled her as she glanced up to stare past the men. Impressive, the view stretched out before them. A large, stone castle sat atop a knoll, and the smell of smoke drifted on the breeze. The earlier agony had faded to numbness, and she shivered in the fading light. Tossing the gnarled, bloody rope aside, Amoda eased toward the rear of the cart.

  A rocky outcropping and thick forest ran along the border of the road. In the distance, she heard the steady rumble of water as it crashed over rocks. A slow, victorious smile crossed her face when she realized her chance had come. Inching her way out of the cart, she slid to the ground in a heap, pausing to look at her captors. They remained focused on the castle, their conversation more important than the wounded woman they believed her to be.

  “How much further, my lord?”

  “Two days if all goes well.”

  “Do you think your brother will follow us?”

  “Why would he?” Olaf ground out. “Over a thrall? Ha, Mykyl is no fool.”

  “What of the babe?”

  “What of it?”

  “Do you—”

  “I am certain my father’s priest knows of some treatment to rid me of it! I will not raise my brother’s bastard!” Olaf roared, slashing his heels back into his mount’s sides.

  Closing her eyes at the words, Amoda shuddered. She placed a hand over her abdomen and shifted, hiding a wince of pain.

  Hunched over, she crept on hands and knees along the shadows, until she’d reached the edge of the road. Crawling past a large, obtrusive boulder, she welcomed the growing darkness. It would keep her safe at least for a few hours.

  With a final glance behind her, Amoda paused to check behind her as she heard Olaf call out, and the cart creaked as it rolled forward. Wrapping her tattered clothes around her, she darted into the denser foliage.

  She welcomed the softness of the forest floor on her bare feet as she ran through the trees. With each gasping breath, she prayed that she would reach safety before Olaf found her trail. A glance upwards through the branches revealed the faint glow of an early summer moon.

  Amoda fell panting to the ground and cursed the root that she’d tripped over. Glaring at it, she shifted, pulling herself into a smaller ball. She would rest a few moments. She listened intently for the sound of footsteps, for life beyond her own harsh breathing. The rough bark of the tree at her back sent shards of agony along the myriad of wounds that criss-crossed her. She dozed, exhaustion battling with the hunger that clawed at her. Rich with edible plants, with water, the land offered much but exhaustion kept her from seeking it. She could surely survive long enough to get home.

  Twenty

  Kneeling by a fast moving brook, Amoda greedily drank the cold, clear water. Her thirst quenched, she sat back on her heels, her gaze scanning the area uneasily. Fear kept her on constant alert.

  The sound of hoof beats during the night had forced her to move deeper into the safety of the forest. Now, caught in the open, she longed for the cover the trees offered. Exhaling, she rose to her feet, her tattered cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

  Absently, one hand caressed the discomfort of the babe’s kick, her mind elsewhere. North held more danger than she wanted to face. Local noblemen would be loyal to their Viking ally, and Olaf surely lay in wait for her. Would he have sent word to his allies to watch for her? Would he risk everything to continue this game of pawns?

  Home lay to the south. The risk of going south meant meeting Chieftains and lesser kings already in allegiance with Mykyl. Surely, they would offer her some safety. “Aye, south is best.”

  Startled out of her reverie by the sound of horses, Amoda whipped around. In the distance, she saw the cloud of dust as a column of riders raced by. Stumbling over her skirt in her haste, Amoda darted for the shelter of the trees.

  The sound of a shout only added to her fear as she raced for safety. The identity of the riders plagued her. Could they be Olaf’s men or a local Ri’s? Determination mixed with fear. When she slipped on a loose stone, a bolt of agony raced up her leg as she hit the ground.

  Glancing once over her shoulder, she gasped as she saw two riders galloping toward her. On shaky legs, Amoda glanced around her, searching an escape route. Nearby, the trees offered safety, but could she make it? Her ankle burned with agony. It felt as though her skin sliced open and boiling metal had poured into the wounds. Amoda gasped in anguish with each jarring movement, crawling and scrambling across the lush grass toward safety.

  “Let them flay me alive before I’ll submit to that vile dog.” Amoda collapsed into the space between two trees. Curled into a ball, she fleetingly looked behind her. Two riders dismounted. Neither wore the dress of a Viking. Indeed, both dressed in the common garb of an Irishman. Still, it could simply be a trick, and she could ill afford to fall for it.

  Scrambling back from them, Amoda glanced around, her eyes searching for a weapon that she could use to ward them off. Her hand closed around a knotted branch, the bark rough and worn against her palm. It would prove a sturdy club.

  “Not one step closer.” She climbed to her feet, her eyes swimming with tears at the searing pain climbing her leg. “I’ll not be fooled, if you think—”

  “Calm yourself, good woman. We mean you no harm.” Calmly, one hand outstretched in a show of mercy, the taller of the two men advanced toward her. “You are not safe here. The Norseman has passed through the area, if he were—”

  “I am aware of that. I do not know if you are loyal to him.” Amoda clasped her weapon tightly in one hand, the other bracing herself against the nearest tree. “I will not submit.”

  The two men exchanged glances before the shorter turned and moved back toward the horses. A moment later, he returned with a bundle, the aroma of which made Amoda’s stomach grumble in protest.

  She stared at the offered food hungrily, licking her dry lips at the smell of well-cooked meat. The rich aroma of lamb tickled her senses, teasing her hunger as she debated taking the offering.

  “Put it there.” She gestured to a nearby log without taking her eyes from them. “And back away. I will beg for mercy from my lord for your kindness.” “Please, lady, calm yourself, we mean you no harm. You’re on our Ri’s lands, we simply wish—” The tall man started as he laid the wrapped food upon the log she’d indicated.

  “Still your lies,” Amoda spat. “I am no fool. I passed by Ri Tuath Quinne’s lodgings three days past.”

  “Aye, ‘tis true, we are on Ri Tuath Quinne’s lands. He would offer you a safe place, shelter.”

  Amoda shook her head quickly, her shoulder length hair flying about as she did so. Taking care to keep them in sight, she grabbed at the food. Leaning her weapon against the tree, Amoda dug into the food hungrily. Tearing the flesh from the bones, she hurriedly shoved it into her mouth. Uncertainty clung to her, planting a seed of doubt within her mind. Surely, Olaf would have offered some bit of gold for her return—his pride would demand no less. Aye, he would do what he could to prevent her making her way back to the safety of Mykyl’s throne.

  “You look ill-treated. Perhaps we can offer you a safe guard back to your lord?”

  “Nay,” Amoda choked out past a mouthful. “I will make my own way.” Wrapping half the food back into the satchel, she slid it into her shirt. She secured it away for when she was alone. Grabbing the branch, she limped backwards, the pain of her injury tearing up her leg. With each step, the muscles screamed, throbbing with agony that crept up her leg like a serpent that slithered over stone.

  Amoda stumbled as she backed slowly away from the men. Her fear increased with each glance they shared and the sound of additional men and horses. Their whispered conversation did little to soothe her nerves as she limped backwar
ds. Vastly out-numbered and out-skilled, Amoda prayed she would be able to lose them in the thick trees.

  Mayhap, I should have listened to Cahal and returned to Woodstown. The thought raced through her head when she saw several more men dismount and start for the tree line. The snap of a twig beneath a heavy weight drew her attention a moment before a searing wash of agony heralded her into darkness.

  ~ * ~

  Amoda moaned softly as she became aware of her surroundings. Clean, fresh, the scent of straw and wood smoke filled her nostrils even as she felt the softness of a bed beneath her.

  Groggily, she struggled into a sitting position, her eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of her location. The flickering of the flames dancing along the walls did little to illuminate the small room in which she found herself. They cast it further into shadows.

  Pushing aside the fur that covered her, Amoda rose shakily to her feet. She could not remain here. The threat from Olaf was too great she would not risk anyone to satisfy his rage.

  Amoda frowned at the scuffling of steps upon the floor and leaned heavily upon the wall. Between her ankle and her head, she did not know which offered more pain. Still she didn’t believe either wound would prove to be fatal.

  A sudden wash of pale gold light across the floor had her turning her head slightly as a hunched figure entered the room, a small torch in one hand.

  “You are awake.” The woman laid a pile of fabric upon the bed and smiled at Amoda.

  “Aye. Where am I?” Amoda reached for the clothes quickly, glad for any chance to rid herself of the bloodstained rags she wore.

  “My sons brought you to me.” The old woman smiled. Crooked teeth gaped at her. “You are quite safe here, my dear.”

  “Where is here? Who are you? I do not belong here. I wish to go.” Amoda roughly tied the tunic laces, her glance darting past the woman to the open door.

  “I am Maeve, and you would not get far.” The old woman waved at her to sit on the bed. “Your injured ankle will hamper your attempts, but I do not think it broken. Perhaps, you would like some tea. It will help the pain.”

  Amoda stared doubtfully at the offered cup before taking it slowly. Inhaling the rich smell, she recognized most of the herbs that had gone into it. With a pained sigh, she raised it to her parched lips.

  “Your babe is strong. I was stunned the first time I felt him kick. A strapping child, healthy as all sons should be.” Maeve bustled around the room, adjusting blankets, and setting a pitcher of water on the small, rickety table near the hearth.

  Startled, Amoda cupped her abdomen and stared at her. Despite the woman’s obvious age and infirmity, she moved quickly, competently. “You are a healer? Is this your room?”

  “Nay, ‘tis my daughter’s bed. I have sent her to my Ri’s to ask about you.”

  “Who is your Ri? I cannot remain here! I must continue on my path home. Olaf will be most displeased if he discovers you’ve aided me!” Amoda rose to her feet, fear tearing at her throat. Her gaze darted around the room quickly, searching for her cloak and the food she’d taken from the soldiers.

  “Calm yourself, Ri Tuath Quinne will not allow anyone to take you.” Maeve nodded firmly. “He is an honorable man. You are not from here, are you?”

  “Woodstown is my home,” Amoda admitted quickly, a note of sadness within her voice. “Before that pig stole me away! My lord must be taxed at me for being gone so long.”

  The old woman tilted her head and stared at her, making Amoda uneasy.

  She shifted uncomfortably and plucked at her borrowed clothing. “What? What causes you to stare at me so?”

  “I noticed the scar upon your face.”

  Amoda’s hand immediately went to hide the scar that still marred her face. The flesh had puckered and left a rather ugly looking mark. She hadn’t paid much attention to it before, content to forget where it had come from. Ducking her head, Amoda shrugged. “It is not important.”

  “Tell me, do you believe all of us are fools?” The old woman chuckled softly. “We know who you are even here, so far from Woodstown. You see the woman whose people you defended so passionately is my daughter. She married well, and her husband is an honorable man. She has spoken of you many times.”

  “I did what I must.”

  “Nay, you did what your heart told you. You are going back?”

  “Aye, it is my place,” Amoda whispered dejectedly. For the sake of her child, she would swallow her pride, she would beg for his mercy until the babe came—even if it meant ripping out her own heart. Then she would decide what to do.

  “Well, you won’t be getting far this night. Rest, and in the morning, I’ll have my son hitch up the wagon and take you as far as possible. It is the least an old woman can do for a queen.”

  Amoda frowned at her words. “Wait. I don’t know what—”

  “Rest now, I will wake you at the break of day.”

  Amoda glared at the door as it closed with a soft sound. Sinking onto the bed, she stared into the cup of tea. “Ah bloody Frejya; I have no time for this. I should have stayed closer to home.”

  Easing painfully onto the padding, she closed her eyes; she would rest a few moments before she snuck away. No good would come of asking for help from strangers, nay, she would be better off alone.

  ~ * ~

  Maeve hobbled into the yard where her sons bustled about with daily chores. She clutched at her youngest son’s arm and reached into her apron pouch. She pulled out a small package and pressed the worn piece of leather into his hand.

  Maeve met his eyes squarely. “Take this to the Lord of Woodstown, speak to no one else. We do not know who is friend and who is foe. Tell him that his queen waits his arrival within the sanctuary of our home. Mind me, son, tell no one else.”

  “Aye, Mother.” The boy nodded and clambered onto the swaybacked old grey they used in the fields. “I will bring him back here.”

  Maeve watched her youngest vanish into the late day’s sun and sighed. The time had come for the true line to return, time for old injuries and treachery exposed. Aye, it was time to heal the wounds upon the land of Ui Droria.

  ~ * ~

  As delicate as lace, the slow curl of mist covered the dip in the land as Mykyl pulled his mount to a halt. The smell of rain hung heavy within the air as the men made a cold camp. From the distance, Mykyl could hear the sound of life, the song of a bird, and the nicker of a horse but it did little to soothe his frayed nerves.

  Both the men and horses suffered with exhaustion after four days of steady riding, and yet Mykyl loathed to rest too long. Each delay created another moment before he could get to Amoda. Mykyl knew that Olaf cared little for anyone or anything other than himself, and it showed in his treatment of those around him.

  It would not matter to Olaf that Amoda had been an unwilling party to her kidnapping from Bratthl’id. It would only matter that her worth as a virgin had been lost.

  Mykyl prayed the child Amoda carried was a beautiful girl child with the strength and fire of her mother. Another to challenge him, to show him the heat of life rather than the cold, sedate existence he’d known before her. Nothing could please him more than looking into the emerald gaze of his own daughter.

  He still wanted a son, still prayed for a healthy heir, but truthfully, he’d rather a daughter first. It would give him more time to shower Amoda with his love, to prove that he wanted her, the woman. First, he had to catch up to Olaf.

  When he caught up with him, Olaf would taste the bite of his blade. He would feel the agony of a slow wound. For every drop of blood Amoda had shed, Olaf would pay for it with a river of his own. He had betrayed him in such a manner that made his earlier deceits seem paltry.

  “My lord?” Cahal’s voice drew him from his thoughts.

  With a harsh glance over his shoulder, Mykyl returned to his assessment of the mist covered hills. “What is it?”

  “We will find her. She is not as weak as you might think.” Cahal sat his mount be
side him. “Had I told you, mayhap she would be safe at home right now.”

  “You’ll find Amoda is a woman with a mind of her own.” Mykyl chuckled, able to forgive his friend easily. “She’s stood up to me time and again. Defied me, argued with me, refused me, yet she’s never betrayed me. For a woman condemned to slavery, she’s proven impossible to tame. She made the choice to be mine, to surrender to me. I could have never forced her. Her surrender came on her terms, in her own time.” Cahal nodded. “Aye, you could have taken her whenever you wanted. You wanted to break her, to weaken her in the eyes of your brother. What a fitting revenge, destroy the very thing he so covets.”

  “Nay, I believed that to be true at first. I was wrong, the more I was near her; the closer we became and it faded into nothingness. Revenge is something that I thought she would give me—but she gave me much more. It mattered little to my dealings with Amoda. Once we had settled back home.”

  “Now, perhaps, but it didn’t then.”

  Mykyl shot Cahal a dark look. “You would not understand the complexities. Amoda is mine, she’ll remain as such.”

  “Of course.” Cahal shifted uneasily, his eyes glued upon the horizon. “I expected you to punish her for her actions upon the battlefield.”

  “Amoda had help. Who trained her? Who gave her the weapons? She did not learn all that from watching men and boys training in the field. Do you have some dram of knowledge where she learned these things? No, she did what she could, what she must to protect the ones who could not protect themselves. I expected nothing less of her.” Mykyl sighed. “It made sense, even bound to her station. She still looked to save what has claimed her. I tell you, I shall flay her hide if she does this to me again, right after I beg for forgiveness. Damn fool woman, running off and hiding from me to avoid shaming me.”

  “You want the babe she carries?” Cahal fingered the leather of his reins, his gaze on the distant horizon.

  “Aye, I will have her and my child, or I will have Olaf’s blood upon my sword.”