Surrender My Love (8 page)

Honey-gold hair topped with flame, lush lips that sneered at him, promising sweetness, but
never for him. Just out of reach she stayed, while the tortures were inflicted, the fire and ice, the hammers and whips, the white-hot brand that sealed his wounds before more were opened, the poison they forced down his throat, which made him vomit again and again so that he would never get his strength back.

He knew he screamed repeatedly, he must have, though he heard not the sound of it, just her laughter, louder and louder, until it echoed through his mind and became the worst agony of all, for he felt shamed by it, humiliated beyond reason. Her laughter, her amusement at his expense, her contempt for his weakness. He could not escape them, or the pain. She was always there, watching, laughing, sometimes wielding the whip herself, which was a puny effort, but the worst blow to his lacerated pride.

Such treatment from a woman, a young one, no more than a score of years, too young to be so cruel. He had wanted her comfort so badly, it was yet another ache he had to deal with, but all she wanted was to torment him. And the laughter continued. He was going to die hearing it.

Turgeis stayed with Selig the Blessed until Elfwina arrived to tend him. He left him with the healer while he went to check on Erika. But she was still with Thurston, and was not likely to leave him that night.

Turgeis had already sent a man to Wessex, so he caught a few hours’ sleep while he had the chance. It was near dawn when he returned
to the pit. Hearing the healer’s laughter as he entered led him to believe Selig’s condition must have improved, and he voiced his assumption.

“He is better?”

Elfwina didn’t even try to hide her humor, still chuckling to herself. “Nay, his fever is worse. ’Tis so high he is like to die from it.”

Turgeis stiffened. “Then why do you laugh?”

She was not intimidated by the scowl he was giving her. “Because it pleases me to see a Celt suffering so. ’Twas one like him killed my husband, you know.”

He didn’t know and didn’t care. “If you have not aided him due to malice—”

“Nay, be easy, Viking. I am bound to give him what aid I can, despite my dislike of him. Healing is my life, which gives me no choice. But I am pleased to say that all I have done for him is not like to help, and there is naught else to do.” She dared to laugh again, an unpleasant sound that grated. “Even the purging has not worked. His fever still rises, taking him deep into nightmares. I have been as gentle as I can with him, but he thinks he is being tortured. Through no fault of mine, he suffers dreams of the damned, and you wonder why I laugh? ’Tis out of my hands.”

“Begone, then, if you can do no more,” Turgeis growled. “Your humor is not meet.”

“So
you
say, but I beg to differ. I never thought I would have vengeance for my man, but here I am given it, and without lifting a hand in harm. That is justice, Viking.”

“He is not even a Celt, you fool.”

The old witch made a scoffing sound to that. “I have eyes. He can be no other thing.”

He didn’t tell her again to leave. He yanked her up and shoved her out the door. Behind him, Selig groaned, still deep in the agony of delirium.

It was dawn before Erika left her nephew’s chamber for her own. She hadn’t slept. She had sat by Thurston’s side all night, holding his little hand, aching each time he stirred and whimpered. Turgeis had straightened the bone, Elfwina had bound it tightly and left potions for the pain and swelling, but it would be many weeks before the pain became tolerable, and many months before they knew if his arm would mend properly. And she would worry each hour of that time, and pray she had done the right thing.

She had told Elfwina that she had seen bones straightened before, but in truth she had seen it done only once before, for her brother when he broke his leg. Ragnar had begged her to have Turgeis try to straighten the bone before it was splinted, something she had never heard of and neither had he, yet he was desperate, nigh full grown, with plans made for his life that he was not willing to give up because an accident had crippled him. One of their half brothers had had a like injury and would bear a limp and pain the rest of his life because of it. And he was not kindly treated, by his own father, by his other siblings, and certainly not by strangers.

Ragnar had been willing to try anything to avoid the same fate for himself. And it had worked, was such a logical thing to do really, if you took the time to think about it. Yet who was to say it would work every time, or work on an arm as well as a leg, or on a boy instead of a man? Erika knew something of herbs and she could sew skin together with a neat stitch, but she knew nothing about things that went wrong beneath the skin. So few healers did.

She was exhausted both physically and mentally from the strain of worrying. And for several hours she had sat there brooding not about Thurston, but about that prisoner in the pit, and his unreasonable attitude—and her unreasonable reaction to him.

She didn’t care what his excuse might be.
She
had none.

She was accustomed to arrogant men. Danish men—Vikings, as the rest of the world called them—were as arrogant as they come. She was accustomed to handsome men. Ragnar was one himself, and he had several others who followed him who could make a girl sigh sweetly. She was
not
used to being insulted, but was that enough reason to make a fool of herself? To cause another harm?

She wasn’t surprised to find Turgeis awaiting her outside Thurston’s chamber. She didn’t want to speak of the Celt, didn’t want to know if Wulnoth had done him much damage. Her guilt wouldn’t be able to bear it.

Yet she had to ask, “Will the man be all right?”

Turgeis had slept little himself. And he couldn’t give her the answer she wanted without lying. But he knew very well what the truth would do to her. The man had asked her to feel his head for herself. She couldn’t be expected to, but she would castigate herself because she had not. The whipping he could easily survive, but that other injury and the resulting fever? Elfwina, their only healer, hadn’t offered much hope, and he could not enlist her aid further, vindictive witch that she was.

So he lied. “He will be fine.”

Her tired smile justified his falsehood. If the Norwegian died, he would simply get rid of the body and tell her he had escaped, killing Wulnoth in the process. It would be a pleasure to make that a truth.

Chapter 9

K
RISTEN WAS IN
the stable, readying her white destrier, when the messenger was brought to her. The two men didn’t come near, with the huge animal unrestrained.

Hers was a horse Royce had found for her when she had laughed so hard at the palfrey he had first given her. But he had to agree she was too big for the small lady’s mount when he saw her on it, so he had brought home the white war-horse, still a young colt and not trained yet for war. Kristen had been able to train him herself, and he made a fine, if overly large, riding horse for her.

She didn’t want to be bothered with the messenger right now, not recognizing him, so knowing him not to be from Royce, and thereby of no interest to her. It was Royce she was bent on following, and having made up her mind to do so, against his express wishes, she didn’t want to be delayed by something that might demand her time.

Ivarr and Thorolf were both waiting for her at the gate, already mounted. They had returned just that morning, and having been
told of the rumor that had reached Wyndhurst only yesterday, they were of the same mind as she. She simply could not sit at home and wait while her husband verified if her brother was dead or not.

That was the rumor that had come to them, and so damned long in the coming that the bishop and his party might have been set upon by thieves no more than a day’s ride northeast of Wyndhurst, and it was possible they were all dead.

Kristen would not believe it. It was merely a rumor, and not even a sure rumor.
Might
have been attacked didn’t mean they had been. And although there was usually some small truth to be ferreted out of every rumor, the worst of the rumor was rarely that truth. Selig’s party could have been attacked, aye, but they also could have beat off their attackers and gone on to East Anglia.

Royce had left immediately at her insistence, to discover what truth there was to find. But in return he demanded she remain behind.

It had been unreasonable of him to insist on that, just because of that mention of thieves in the area of the “alleged” attack. He knew how she felt about her brother. Once before she had thought him dead, had seen him fall in battle, yet he had survived. She would not think so again without seeing his body. Nor could she just sit here and wait for Royce to return and tell her, especially with the women of her hall all weeping, all mourning Selig already, and infuriating her with their lack of faith.

Less than a day’s ride on a swift horse, Royce had said. He would be back by this morn, he had said, if he had to ride through the night. But he wasn’t back yet, the morn was long gone, the sun was high overhead, and she was waiting no longer.

But one of the men had brought this messenger to her. She tried to ignore them. She even began walking her mount out of the stable, putting the large animal between her and them. Her man was persistent.

“He asks to speak to either you or Lord Royce, milady.”

She sighed, but didn’t stop when she said, “You told him Royce is not here?”

“Aye.”

“Well, neither am I.”

“’Tis about your brother.”

It was the messenger who had spoken this time. Kristen came immediately around the horse to confront him. “From where do you come?”

“Gronwood, south of Bedford.”

She slashed a hand dismissively at names she didn’t recognize. “Where is that?”

“In East Anglia.”

She laughed then, as the meaning of that sank in and relief washed over her. She had told herself that Selig was not dead, but still she had feared. “So he has reached King Guthrum?”

“I know naught of that. Lady Erika of Gronwood holds him prisoner—”

Kristen grabbed hold of the front of his tunic, jerking his face close to hers. She was several
inches taller than he was, and likely as strong. He certainly didn’t try to find out by resisting her.

“Prisoner for what reason?” she demanded.

“He was caught spying.”

She let him go, confusion pushing aside her anger for the moment. “Spying? That is absurd. He went there as interpreter for a Saxon bishop. Spying?”

“I know not the why of it,” the messenger admitted. “’Twas Turgeis Ten Feet, my lady’s man, who sent me, telling me only to make haste, which I have done.”

“Is it ransom they want?”

“Turgeis did not say. But I am to lead you there, if ’tis your wish.”

“
If?
” Kristen snorted, then asked, “How long will it take to reach this Gronwood if we ride hard?”

“I came here in two days.”

“We will make it sooner than that. Be ready to ride again within the hour.”

“But my horse will not—”

“Choose another,” was all she said as she left the stable to shout for Ivarr and Thorolf to join her in the hall. She was already telling Eda what extra clothes to pack for her when they came up behind her.

“’Tis just like a woman to create delays—” Ivarr began to complain.

Kristen whirled on him with a warning. “Do not missay me, Ivarr, if you have a care for your ears.” That she was known to box them had him stepping back with a grin to placate
her, but she had no time to waste on teasing. “Selig is found and we must ride to fetch him, but not where we thought. He is in East Anglia.”

“But that is where he is supposed to be,” Thorolf pointed out.

“As their guest, aye. But one of their women, a Lady Erika, has imprisoned him instead.”

Ivarr exploded. “Thor’s teeth, he smiled at the wrong damn wench, and now she will not let him go!”

Kristen smiled tightly. “My own first thought, but not so. He is accused of spying, and do not ask why, for the messenger did not say, merely that I should come for him.”

“With a hefty sack of Danegeld, no doubt,” Ivarr said, truly angry himself now.

“That was not mentioned either, though I will raid Royce’s coffer just in case. But it can no longer be just we three who go. Royce will be furious enough that I will go among his hated enemy, but he would have the skin from my back if I am not prepared for any eventuality, including a fight. So go quickly and see how many of Selig’s men wish to join us.”

“They will all come.”

She hadn’t doubted that. “Then tell them we travel light to travel fast, so bring only enough food to last for a day or two, for we will stop only to rest the horses until I have my brother free. I will gather a like number of Royce’s men to leave within the hour.”

“The Danes’ own tactics, for their many surprise attacks.” Thorolf grinned approvingly.

She shook her head at them, knowing them so well. “We are not
looking
for a fight.”

It was Ivarr who shrugged. “Then we will merely hope one finds us.”

Chapter 10

T
HE GATES WERE
slammed shut against them as they approached Gronwood, but that was to be expected with a party as large as theirs, unidentified yet as friend or foe. The same would have been done at Wyndhurst. The same had been done at holdings they had merely come near on the way here. But then, they had twenty-five Vikings in their party, all large, impressive men, and another twenty well-armed Saxon warriors.

It was an odd sight to see the two riding together after so many years of war. But having an equal number of Saxons along had kept people on the Wessex lands Kristen’s party passed through from thinking they were being invaded again, and likewise, so many Vikings kept the Danes from taking up arms to ride out to meet them.

They halted a far distance from the walls, the men spreading out along the tree line fronting Gronwood. There was a short argument when Thorolf tried to hold Kristen back with the men, which he lost. She rode forward, with only Thorolf and Ivarr on either side of her,
and the Gronwood messenger in the lead to explain their business.