A Night of Angels

by Andersen, Maggi

  However, she was determined to be a dutiful daughter to a man she barely knew and didn’t like. He’d suffered terribly from the tax collectors’ beating and would likely never walk without crutches again. “All shall be well,” she said, wishing she was as confident as she tried to sound. “There is no choice but to take your fine cloth to the Yuletide fair in Worcester.”

  “Cursed taxes,” he replied. “Aye, Worcester is the only market where ye’ll make enough to pay the Danish king. No wonder folk hereabouts have slain two of his henchmen, hopefully the same bastards who maimed me.”

  Roswitha glanced around. Her family, descended from the ancient Hwicce tribe, had lived in Pershore for generations, but a person never knew who might be listening. Theirs wasn’t the only retting pond fed by the Avon. “Don’t fret,” she reassured him, “Delwyn the Shepherd is coming with me to pull the cart.”

  Her stepfather scowled and hobbled away. “Aye. The simpleton.”

  She winced. Delwyn had already arrived and settled his beefy arms over the handles of the cart. She hoped he hadn’t heard the cruel words. While it was true that the shepherd rarely spoke, except to his sheep, she sensed he wasn’t the imbecile folk judged him to be. He’d been the only neighbor to come to their aid after the beating. The important journey to Worcester would be impossible without his offer of assistance.

  She furled the meager warmth of her mother’s shawl around her shoulders and waved. “Delwyn. Good morrow!”

  He beamed his usual grin in reply and pointed to the pile of cloth in the cart.

  She shook her head, thinking he might be the last person left in Harthacanute’s kingdom who remembered how to smile. “No. I’ll walk beside you, at least for the first while.”

  “Take care,” her stepfather shouted from the doorway of their hovel. “The Dane will want revenge. His wrath will fall on Worcester.”

  It was hardly an encouraging fare-thee-well, but she understood his rancor. However, she didn’t want Delwyn changing his mind. “The Danish king might be angry, but Earl Leofric is powerful and will protect us,” she reassured him. “He’s Hwiccan by blood and will never allow Harthacanute to harm his people, especially in this holy season of Advent.”

  Delwyn eyed her thoughtfully, then shrugged before setting the cart in motion. She begged God’s forgiveness for thinking that an ox couldn’t have made pulling the heavily-laden cart over the frost-rutted track look any easier.

  All went well for a mile or two, but Roswitha’s toes soon froze in the thin leather sandals that were too small anyway. She’d worn them for years and there’d never been enough coin to buy new ones.

  Delwyn helped her climb atop the fabric and set off again.

  “I am queen of the nettle weavers,” she cried to the four winds as they neared the top of a hill a short time later.

  Delwyn looked over his shoulder to grin at her, and lost his footing on the icy ground. He made a valiant effort to keep the cart upright, but Roswitha had to leap for safety as it toppled. She peered up from where she’d landed on her bottom in the cold, hard ground. Most of the nettle-cloth was still in the cart, but she feared it would all have to be unloaded in order to right the conveyance.

  Delwyn babbled his upset as he hurried to scoop her up.

  “Put me down,” she protested, feeling like a rag doll in his massive embrace. “I am not injured.”

  He came to an abrupt halt and set her on her feet. Her heart skittered when he took up a stance between her and two broad-shouldered men in leather armor who’d approached with great stealth.

  One was older, but not as old as her stepfather; the other young, his long, fair hair betraying his origins. “Danes,” she whispered to her champion, fearing it might be the last word she ever uttered.

  Wulfram drew his sword, ready to lop off the head of the lout who’d attacked the redheaded girl. He couldn’t abide men who preyed on women.

  Sandor stayed his hand. “The ox is actually trying to protect her from you.”

  “He’s an idiot then,” Wulfram replied, sheathing his sword, though he had to grudgingly admire an unarmed peasant who stood with meaty fists raised to challenge two heavily-armed Viking warriors. He showed the fellow his empty palms and pointed to the toppled cart.

  The girl peeked from behind the giant and something peculiar happened inside Wulfram. His heart suddenly understood the beefy imbecile’s desire to protect her, and his pik was impressed too. She was tall and slender, stunningly beautiful, despite the red nose. Surely she wasn’t wed to the oaf.

  But he frowned when she stepped forward and insisted, “Delwyn isn’t an idiot.”

  Evidently, he’d spoken their foreign tongue without thinking. It was definitely time to be gone from this alien land.

  Sandor nudged him and pointed to the cart. “Apparently, Delwyn has decided we’re not a threat.”

  The giant was straining to right the wagon. The shabbily dressed girl skipped over and began picking up pieces of cloth that had fallen on the path. Her hands were mottled with red welts, leading him to suspect she’d been the one to gather the nettles from which the cloth had been made.

  He went to help her, satisfied Sandor’s aid would be sufficient to right the cart.

  “Follow your pik,” his brother called in the Norse dialect only Jomsvikings understood.

  He ignored the taunt and hunkered down next to the girl. “What is your name?” he asked, impressed by the quality of the bundle he took from her.

  “Roswitha,” she murmured.

  She looked up at him, fear evident in her green eyes.

  He wanted it gone. “Don’t worry. We won’t hurt you.”

  She shook her head. “You are Danes. King’s men.”

  It bothered him that English folk still feared Norsemen after more than twenty years of Danish rule, but having borne witness to Harthacanute’s thirst for vengeance, he partly understood it. “I am not a Dane. I’m from Jomsborg. It’s a stronghold on the Baltic.”

  It was clear from her frown she had no notion of what he meant. He took hold of her cold hands. “They pain you,” he said, filled with an urge to kiss away her hurts.

  She jerked out of his grip and struggled to her feet. “The cart is righted. We can be on our way.”

  Despite her bravado, he got the feeling her fear of Danes was deeply rooted, and she hadn’t understood his attempt to distance himself from the brutality of the current regime. Yet, he was heartsore that he couldn’t deny he was the harbinger of destruction for Worcester and its people. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Worcester,” she replied, trailing after the giant as he set the cart in motion once again.

  His heart lurched. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

  Horses and Sheep

  “I cannot allow you to proceed to Worcester,” Wulfram declared, irritated when the giant and the girl ignored him and kept walking. “Stop,” he bellowed.

  Sandor pulled him away. “I say we retrieve the horses and be on our way. It’s not our fault if they’re heading for danger.”

  It was true, but he had to stop them. “If I only save one person from Harthacanute’s folly, it will be something.”

  Sandor winked. “Especially if that one person is a redheaded wench who’s attracted the attention of your pik.”

  “That has naught to do with it,” he lied. “You get the horses and catch up to us.”

  Sandor went off, shaking his head.

  Wulfram hastened to Roswitha’s side. “You cannot go to Worcester.”

  She thrust her chin in the air and kept walking.

  Delwyn glanced at him nervously. Maybe the peasant would listen. Wulfram stood in front of him, blocking his way. The cart halted.

  Roswitha stormed up to him, hands on hips. “Listen, Viking bully, we are going to the market in Worcester.”

  Her defiance was almost amusing, but the desperation in her green eyes gave him pause. “Why is it so important? Can you not sell your cloth at other l
ocal fairs?”

  Tears welled. “Not enough money.”

  “For what?”

  She pouted mightily and studied her feet. “Taxes for your cursed Danish king.”

  Exasperated at once again being accused of kinship with Harthacanute, he gestured to the cloth stacked in the wagon. “From all this you will make only enough to pay your taxes?”

  She glared at him in response, her chin quivering. “Even this will not be sufficient. We are already in arrears.”

  His heart lurched. She and the oaf were husband and wife. “We?”

  To his consternation, she burst into tears. “My stepfather and me. They broke his legs because he couldn’t pay, and they will come back.”

  Wulfram’s gut clenched. He had a suspicion what punishment the tax collectors might impose next if they didn’t receive payment. Or had they already violated her?

  Her blighted hands bore testimony to a life of harsh toil. Her stepfather had evidently woven the cloth despite terrible injuries. She had undertaken a difficult journey in winter with only a simpleton as a companion. If he refused to allow her to enter a doomed city, her life might be in jeopardy when she returned home without coin.

  Sandor appeared with the horses.

  Wulfram mounted his steed. “We will accompany you,” he told her, holding out his hand. “You ride with me.”

  She backed away from Banki as if the gelding were a dragon snorting smoke on the cold air.

  Sandor chuckled.

  Impatient, Wulfram dismounted, lifted her over his shoulder, got back on the horse and sat her on his lap. Her squirming and squealing produced an arousal the likes of which he’d not experienced for—well, he couldn’t recall. Mayhap, she’d be riding a dragon to Worcester after all.

  Roswitha was afraid of horses. Indeed, she’d never been near one. Thanks to her mother’s constant dire warnings, she feared men more. Where she’d dredged up the courage to confront two huge warriors, she’d never know. But there’d been no choice and her insistence had saved the day. Riding on the lap of a burly Viking was preferable to walking, and they were on the way to Worcester’s busy Yuletide market.

  The horse had a smell to it, as did the man on whose thighs she perched, hesitant to look at the frozen ground far below.

  She wrinkled her nose at the beast’s odor, but leaned back a little to savor the man’s pleasant, reassuring aroma. Leather and something else. She mused that mayhap all men smelled that way—although the ones she knew stank like her stepfather and poor Delwyn. But then he lived with sheep.

  “Your horse doesn’t smell like sheep,” she said, instantly regretting she’d uttered her thoughts out loud. He probably deemed her an ignorant peasant.

  He chuckled and shifted her to a different position. The warmth of his big hands penetrated her thin frock. “No. Banki’s not a sheep.”

  “But he does what you tell him, like sheep do what Delwyn tells them.”

  “True. Not like a certain Roswitha I know.”

  It was pleasing that he remembered her name. “I cannot call you by name for you haven’t confided it to me.”

  The other Norseman who rode beside them kept chuckling, but her Viking didn’t seem amused.

  “I am Wulfram Sigmarsen, from Jomsborg.”

  Reassured by the kindness in his deep voice, she plucked up her courage. “Why did you not want us to go to Worcester, Wulfram?”

  He had no choice but to tell her. “Because the king has ordered the city be razed and all living things therein slaughtered.”

  Worcester

  An hour later, Wulfram emerged from the earl’s apartments in Worcester Priory feeling more optimistic than when he went in seeking an audience with Leofric.

  Sandor hailed him in the courtyard. “Well?”

  “We have some time. He and his Lady Godiva are on a Yuletide pilgrimage to Coventry, where they’ll endow Saint Mary’s Priory with a necklace. The chamberlain mentioned at least fifty times it was worth more than 100 marks of silver.”

  Sandor scratched his head. “A necklace?”

  “Apparently to be hung on the figure of the Virgin that Godiva gave them on a previous occasion.”

  “I’ve heard the earl and his lady are generous benefactors of the Church,” Sandor replied as he strode off towards the stables.

  Wulfram followed. “It would seem so, which augurs well for his response to the king’s order. He will have no choice but to destroy the city, but I wager he won’t have any objection if we do what we can to save his people.”

  Sandor glanced around. “You’re talking treason, Brother.”

  Wulfram shook his head. “Harthacanute wants anyone found in the city to be killed. What if the city is empty? How to prove there is no one dead in the ruins?”

  Sandor shrugged. “I’m tired of this country anyway. If we have to flee home to Jomsborg, so be it. What’s the plan?”

  “I believe it was God’s will we met Roswitha.”

  Sandor laughed out loud as he led his gelding out of the stable. “God’s will, eh?”

  Wulfram ignored the taunt. “When I told her of the king’s plan, she spoke of an abbey close to where she lives that could provide sanctuary for hundreds. It’s a scant five miles from Worcester, but far enough for as many as we can persuade to go there.”

  As they mounted, Sandor expressed his reservations. “You’re putting a lot of faith in a mere girl.”

  Wulfram pondered his brother’s words. “It’s true, but I trust her. She’s brave.”

  Sandor winked. “And beautiful.”

  Wulfram saw an opportunity to get his own back. “You’re a married man who isn’t supposed to notice other women.”

  Sandor made a big show of cupping his privates. “My pik is content to wait until I reunite with Inga again. You’re in need of a wife, and you’re right that Roswitha is determined, and hardworking, as you’ve mentioned countless times. Besides, what future does she have with a crippled stepfather and tax collectors pursuing her? She’d be better off with you in Jomsborg.”

  As they made their way through the festive streets of Worcester to the crowded market, Wulfram wondered if he was pinning too much hope on Roswitha. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken of her so often, though she had been in his thoughts. Or mayhap Sandor was simply teasing him.

  They rode past many families on their way to market, men and women laden with everything from bundles of firewood to pots and pans to candles. Excited children dashed out of the way of their horses; indulgent mothers scolded them for it, blithely unaware of impending doom.

  Wulfram knew in his heart he had to try to save them, but they wouldn’t listen to him. Roswitha was the key.

  Sales of Kennald’s cloth were brisk and Roswitha was glad of Delwyn’s solid presence beside her. One glimpse of his beefy frame would discourage any ne’er-do-well who might think to rob her of the purse slung across her body. She was confident she already had enough coin to ransom her stepfather.

  But an adder writhed in her belly. She itched to blurt out to anyone who came to her stall that they shouldn’t linger to buy goods that would be of no use to the dead.

  Run, hide your children, save yourselves, she wanted to shout.

  But she was afraid. The earl’s men patrolled the busy market. They might haul her off to the dungeon for causing a disturbance. She’d be accused of lunacy, or worse.

  She feared too for Wulfram, the kindly Dane who wasn’t like other Danes. He’d tried to explain he was different and she hadn’t understood. It astonished her when he confided his wish to spare the people of Worcester.

  One thing she knew, however, was that the warrior had stirred the interest of her female parts and roused feelings of longing she’d never known before. She wished she was sitting in his lap atop his enormous horse riding off to a better life.

  Would Leofric condemn him for the message he brought?

  Relief surged when she caught sight of him making his way on foot towards her through the c
rowd. He’d left Banki somewhere, probably with the other man.

  Her heart filled with admiration. He didn’t push or shove, but folk stepped aside anyway, evidently impressed by his size and kindly demeanor, though the clench of his jaw betrayed his inner turmoil to anyone who knew he brought death and destruction.

  She’d never had the urge to touch a man before, but she reached for his hand, wanting him to know she understood his dilemma and thought highly of his compassion. Her heart nigh on stopped beating when he lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a warm kiss on her knuckles, as if she were a noble lady. “How goes it?” he asked. “Are sales good?”

  It occurred to her that most men would flee back to Winchester after delivering such a dire message, yet Wulfram was inquiring about the progress of her enterprise. She assumed it meant the earl’s soldiers wouldn’t be rushing into the market with swords drawn anytime soon. “It goes well, but what of the fate of Worcester?”

  Still holding her hand in his gentle grip, he bent to whisper in her ear. “The earl and his lady are away in Coventry. It gives us a few days’ grace. We must warn people. Tell them to walk to your abbey without making a fuss of it. Can you do that?”

  The warmth and determination in his blue eyes gave her courage. “Yes, but who will take care of my stall?”

  “I will,” he said with a wink. “With Delwyn’s help.”

  Godric

  The first person Roswitha sought out was Godric the Cooper. He was well respected, not to mention feared. If she could convince him, others would follow. At first, he refused her request to accompany him to her stall to meet with Wulfram, but agreed when she pointed out the burly Viking tending her wares at the far end of the market. She had a feeling his curiosity had gotten the better of him.