‘Grim?’ he prodded.
Her throat had seemed to close, as if the horror of that thought had been too terrible to let anything in or out. Finally, she was able to force out the words. ‘Wilfrid’s only son. My husband.’
Rurik’s gaze had been on the candle, but it darted up to meet hers. Surprise lit his eyes and relief flooded her that he did not seem to know of Grim, but she had to know for certain.
‘Were you there…to the north when Wilfrid and Grim met with Sigurd?’
‘I was at home in Maerr.’ He shook his head, but did not elaborate.
With no choice but to believe him, she continued. ‘They took men north to confront Sigurd. I do not know the details of those talks, but I do know they ended badly.’
‘Badly? How did they end?’
Death.
‘There was a battle. Sigurd provoked it.’ That was Wilfrid’s claim. Unfortunately, unlike Cedric, Wilfrid had always had a temper that burned hot. She could very well see him insulting Sigurd and provoking a fight. Cedric had stayed behind to guard Mulcasterhas, because they had believed there could be Norse watching who would attack when Wilfrid left. That had turned out not to be true. For the thousandth time she wondered how things might have been different had his level head gone along.
‘Wilfrid was injured. It was a head wound and soon after that he had his first attack, though it was not that one that left him as he is now. It was the first of many to come, each of them doing their part to whittle away his senses.
‘Grim was fatally wounded,’ she continued. ‘A head injury… A gash in his side… His legs were…broken.’ Crushed would have been a more accurate way to describe them. Had he lived, he would have never walked again. She forced herself to swallow the lump in her throat and keep going. ‘They brought him home, but he died in the days after.’
Rurik stared at her as if he could see every emotion she felt. Shifting under his gaze, she stared over his shoulder to the shuttered window.
‘What are you not telling me?’ he finally asked.
She meant to tell him more, but some things were too difficult to talk about. As the years passed, she had tried very hard to block out the horrible things that had happened to Grim at Sigurd’s command. Locking the thoughts away in a chest buried deep in her mind had been an excellent way of dealing with them. Now, threatened with their release, she froze as a sort of terror overcame her. The last time she had unleashed them, innocent women had died. What if she unlocked them and could not put them away again? What if she could not hide her pain before this Norseman and he knew her for the weakling that she was?
Understanding that those concerns in themselves were indications of her weakness, she forced in a breath, making her lungs burn with the effort. Even difficult tasks had to be managed, she reminded herself, and clenched her hands so tightly that her nails dug into her thighs. The discomfort gave her an external pain to focus on, which helped to alleviate the swell of pain in her throat so that she could keep talking.
‘I was told that after their initial talk with Sigurd yielded inadequate results, Grim crept past their guard and into their camp. I do not know for what purpose,’ she said, noting the question on Rurik’s face. ‘It hardly matters. He was found out. By the time Wilfrid and the men freed him, he had been tortured for hours. His legs had been crushed. And his insides…’ The lump in her throat made it impossible to talk. She took in a deep breath through her nose and forced herself to plough through. ‘They were in the process of removing his—’
‘I understand. They were trying to get information from him. Why would that be necessary if they had merely talked?’ Rurik asked. He stared at her as if trying his best to cull the information out of her with his eyes.
It was enough to turn her pain to a much-easier-to-manage anger. ‘Because they were barbarians out to cause him as much pain as possible.’
After hearing that story, it had been so easy to imagine Sigurd as a monster, a devil unleashed from the bowels of hell who cared for no one. To have his son sitting before her—a man who was clearly not a monster—was almost more than she could comprehend.
Rurik did not look away. ‘There is more to what happened.’
‘That is what happened. Grim came home and he soon died from the injuries that your father ordered. He was tortured and his death was excruciating.’ She brought her hand up to her mouth to quell the nausea that had churned in her belly as she spoke. In the days that had followed his injuries, she had prayed for Grim’s death as the only way to ease his pain. It had eventually happened, but not before he had experienced a pain so great she could hardly fathom it. ‘Imagine praying for the death of someone beloved to you to spare them from pain. Only when you have done that can you imagine my horror.’
As if God had not thought their family punished enough, he had taken the baby growing in her belly. The only bright spot in that whole time was that Grim would live on in their child, but that had been taken from them, too. She had lost them both and it was Sigurd’s fault.
Annis had hated him ever since. That hatred had given him an almost mythical aura. So much so that when she had finally laid eyes on him in Maerr, she had been surprised to find him a mere man. He had been tall and broad like Rurik, except his hair had been lighter and touched with grey. Though lean, he had gone a bit soft as older men were wont to do. He had not been the wrathful devil of her nightmares. In fact, he had been a proud father that day.
Thankfully, Rurik stayed silent, while his eyes seemed to see all. Finally, when she thought he would move on, question the why or how of Wilfrid’s involvement in the Maerr massacre, he said, ‘There is more.’
He leaned forward as if to get a better look at her in the meagre light. The result was that she could finally see his eyes. The pure blue stood out in the golden light of the candle. His gaze stripped her bare to her very soul, taking in the whole of her stricken face and demanding she hold nothing back. Anger flared within her again. How dare he make demands of her? Yet, just as quickly she found herself telling him.
‘I was with child when they brought Grim home.’ If he could understand her pain, then perhaps he would understand that both of their families had suffered. Perhaps that suffering could lead to peace. ‘I tended to him day and night, hoping… Still he hung on, clinging to life. Perhaps I sat by his bedside too long… I do not know. I only know that I lost the baby…a boy.’
It was that loss that woke her from her sleep at night. It was that loss she remembered every spring when her boy would have been another year older.
‘I am sorry for your loss.’ Rurik let out a long-held breath as his hand came up to slide over the top of his head and settle on the back of his neck. He sounded as if he meant it, so she gave him a tiny nod of acknowledgement. The fact that he had recognised her loss was more than she had expected from him.
‘I suppose that brings us to why Wilfrid hated my father so much. But how did he know to come for the wedding? How was it all co-ordinated so well?’ His fingers made a steeple under his chin as he stared into the flickering candlelight, as if the answer could be found there.
He asked her these things as if she knew that Sigurd had been killed during a wedding. Perhaps he assumed that Wilfrid had shared the information with her. She let him have his assumption.
‘Some of the men who went with Wilfrid to confront Sigurd the first time were not his warriors. They were mercenaries for hire. After the failure, they fled. Perhaps they were afraid to get caught up in the fight should Sigurd pursue Wilfrid and Grim home. I do not know their intentions or their thoughts. I only know that I thought I would never see them again. That they would never dare to set foot in Glannoventa again. But I was wrong.
‘Two summers back, they came to Wilfrid, claiming to know of a way to get to Sigurd. It seemed that his son was getting married and everyone was invited. The guard in Maerr would be lax. There would
be no better time to gain access to its King.’
She had not been present for that meeting because Wilfrid had wanted to take it privately. Even Cedric had not been allowed to stay in the chamber. Although his illness had taken its toll, Wilfrid had still been fully in charge of himself and his men. Not like now. Instead of leaving, she had hidden herself and listened anyway. The seeds of revenge had already been planted, but that meeting had encouraged them to flourish.
Wilfrid was too ill to go, but she was not. She would go and see Sigurd dead with her own eyes, then she would come back with the joyful news. Naively, she had imagined that Sigurd’s death and the triumph that followed would bring Wilfrid back to himself. That somehow it would cure his grief and the wounds on his mind and make him whole again.
But that had not happened. It was only after Annis returned home, silent with the horror of what had happened tormenting her, that word of Sigurd’s death had found its way back to them. A message sent by one of the assassins had delivered the news. It had been confirmed many times over by whispers of travellers who had heard it in other parts of Northumbria. A king’s death, no matter how minor the king, was always good for a story on a cold night.
Her euphoria had never come. The sense of justice for Grim had never been felt. Grim was still gone. Their babe was gone. Countless men—and women—could die and that would always be true.
How foolish of her not to realise that before leaving home. Not only had she brought back the internal pain of what she had seen, vengeance had physically come to pay them a visit in the form of Sigurd’s son.
‘Lady Annis?’
She jolted at the intrusion of his voice. She had been so consumed by her thoughts that she had not heard whatever he had said to her. He leaned forward now, hands on his knees as if braced for something.
‘Who are these men?’ he asked.
The way his eyes lit up with interest, she knew that he meant to go after them. Annis shook her head. ‘I will not tell you. I will have no more blood on my hands.’
His head tilted, catching the nuance of her words. She said ‘no more blood’ as if she had indeed had plenty of blood on her hands in the past. Silently cursing her own idiocy, she held her back straighter, defaulting to the reserve of poise that had helped her through the last years.
His gaze sharpened, sizing her up as if he would be able to see remnants of that blood. Sometimes she was amazed that everyone could not see the rust-coloured stains. ‘What do you mean? How do you have blood on your hands?’
The door burst open, saving her from answering. They both jumped in surprise, but the Norseman leapt to his feet, turning to face Cedric, who had come armed. His sword gleamed before him as grey light filtered in at his back. It was later than she had thought.
‘The cell was open. I am glad I have not come too late.’ Though Cedric spoke to her, his eyes never left the Norseman who held the dull seax out before him. It was a paltry weapon compared to the sword.
‘This is Rurik of the Kingdom of Maerr,’ she explained. ‘It seems he has come for an explanation of his father’s death.’
That earned her a knowing look and a raised eyebrow from Cedric.
‘I have not come for an explanation,’ Rurik said, biting the words out through his teeth. ‘I have come for vengeance and justice.’
He moved so quickly that, had she had even a little less training, he might have caught her. Instead, she moved backwards out of the reach of the swinging arm that would have grabbed her, toppling over the stool and stumbling to her feet. Apparently, their truce was over. Taking hold of the dagger with both hands, she gained her feet. Their eyes met and held. She did not think he wanted to harm her, but a cornered man was a dangerous man. Before he could decide if he would trade his honour for a chance at that justice, three more men rushed into the chamber.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rurik fought them like a beast being forced back to his cage. For that was exactly what he was and he had decided to embrace the comparison. He could have easily taken two of them on, perhaps even all four of them with a proper weapon. The seax was all but useless and he finally tossed it at one of them in favour of his fists. He landed several good blows, taking the first two down, but the older one hung back, wiser than the others with his years of experience.
Lady Annis hung back as well, her eyes wide and alert, but she had already come to the inevitable conclusion. He could fight, but in the end he would be dragged back to his cell like an errant mongrel. The assured resignation on her face fanned another blaze of fury to life within him and he fought with renewed vigour.
More men came in until the chamber seemed to overflow with them. Rurik felt as though he was drowning. One man was downed, but his place was taken by another, like treading water in the increasing fury of a storm. The heel of a boot kicked Rurik’s leg out from under him, sending him down on one knee. That was enough to give them the upper hand. Faces closed in above him. Raising his arm to keep the fists away from his already sore nose, it was quickly jerked away and twisted behind his back. Another man grabbed the other. Rurik fought, but he was tired and outnumbered.
‘That is quite enough.’ Lady Annis’s voice filled the room with authority. It worked to halt the blows, but his arms felt near to breaking. ‘Take him below.’
‘So much for our truce.’ It was not wise, but he could not help the sneer that twisted his features.
‘The truce? You tried to grab me!’
‘Get him below.’ Cedric interrupted their argument with the order. ‘He broke the lock on the chain and the door. The one on the cell seems to be working.’
‘Not for long,’ Rurik promised as they dragged him out. He did not make it easy for them, but there was no escaping. They pulled him down the stairs and all but tossed him into the cell. At least there was no chain to bind his wrist this time. He ran at the cell door, but was not able to stop them from locking it.
‘I will not be kept down here as a prisoner!’ he yelled, knowing that his voice would reach the main floor before they closed that door. ‘Lady Annis! Come and face me! We have more to discuss!’
The door closed with a bang on its old hinges, but he was not going to give up easily. He kept up the yelling all day, hoping that he was being heard.
* * *
The light that seeped through the crack in the stone had started to wane when Rurik heard the door over the stairs open. The familiar tread of her boots on the steps told him that Lady Annis had finally deigned to pay him a visit. She was dressed in the finery befitting her station when she presented herself to him before the bars. Her gown was a finely woven wool in a suitable but sumptuous golden colour. She wore no cloak tonight. Her fiery hair was tamed in a series of braids that wrapped around her head with a shiny fall of sunset-coloured hair over her shoulder.
Had he not despised her so much he might have found her attractive. That was not true. He still found her attractive despite the fact that she had broken their truce and imprisoned him again and he was all the angrier for it. Also, he did not really despise her. He hated that she had imprisoned him, hated that she was part of the family who had plotted to murder his father, but he could not find it in him to hate her. He wanted to, and in his darkest moments a tiny part of him did, but it never took. The grudging respect took over. In an attempt to disguise that, as well as because his throat was raw from all the yelling he had done that day, his voice came out more harshly than he had intended.
‘Who were the men Wilfrid hired to kill my father?’ he asked, picking up where they had left off.
She winced at the callousness of his tone and a thread of satisfaction wove its way around his spine, straightening it. As the day had worn on, Rurik found himself latching on to the idea of the assassins as a drowning man might grasp at a piece of driftwood. He had been denied the release of satisfaction he would find in killing a healthy Wilfrid, but had been gifte
d with the knowledge that there were others involved in the vicious plot. Just as the search for justice had led him from King Feann of Killcobar to Glannoventa, it appeared to be leading him to other men. Other warriors who had sought to end his father’s life. Would the search never reach its own end? Would everyone involved ever be punished?
She shook her head and he grasped the bars in his fists, unwilling to be denied his justifiable revenge. This time she took a step back from him. He was reminded of where they had left off in the conversation before her men had intervened. ‘What did you mean earlier? How do you have blood on your hands?’
This time she shook her head harder. ‘There has been too much death in regards to Wilfrid and Sigurd and their dispute. I will not be the cause of more. There was enough with Sigurd. Let it end there and forget the men who came to Wilfrid.’
Before he could think better of it, he sneered at her. ‘Forget. That is an easy word for you when your family wielded the last blow.’
She straightened her shoulders and became very still. ‘They are not easy words, Norseman. I have lost as you have. I know what it is to have death change your entire life.’
Remorse hit him immediately. Of course she had lost. This was not a battle of losses; if it were she might have won, having lost a husband, a babe and very nearly her father-in-law. Rurik had lost his father, but no one belonging to him. Gilla and Ingrid had been kind women, but he had not known them well. Their losses had been keenly felt by their families. Rurik’s pain had come from how Ingrid’s death had nearly destroyed his eldest brother Brandt. How his brother Alarr had almost lost his legs. How his family had been nearly destroyed.
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