“I grew up at the nunnery in Colodesburg under the Abbess Mavina. We were attacked by the Viking raiders, but the Abbess managed to save me.”
“Only you?” his question cut across her story.
“Yes,” Æva replied, surprised.
“She must have understood who you were,” he murmured, more to himself that to Æva. Æva thought on that. She had never considered why the Abbess had saved her, and only her. Æva had been sure at least some of the other girls could have made the journey down the tunnel with her, or perhaps the Abbess herself.
“Continue, please,” he prompted her when she did not restart her story. Æva shrugged, unsure how to put the rest of her bizarre tale into words.
“I wandered for a while, eating berries and stealing scraps. I didn’t know where to go, didn’t know who my family were, if I have any left; I didn’t know who to trust. I was frightened of everything, everyone. One night I came across three men, they were cooking a meal. I was nearly starving, so I sneaked into their camp when they slept to grab some of the food.”
“That was brave of you,” Bayan complimented, but Æva shook her head.
“No, I was desperate. I was too hungry to think about the risks. It was like animal instinct. Anyway, Wulfram caught me. I thought he would kill me. The only warriors I had ever met were the Vikings, and they had destroyed everything in their path. But he didn’t. He gave me the remains of their meal and let me sleep by the fire,” Æva smiled as she remembered how frightened she had been that night, how terrifying the three men had been. Incredible luck had led her into their path. Not luck, she thought, fingering the crucifix at her neck.
“And then?” Bayan encouraged.
“In the morning they left. I followed them, even though they told me not to. I hoped to pursue them unnoticed, just staying near enough to be safe, but Wulfram knew I was there. He let me come with them, he protected me.” She broke off, choking up at the remembered kindness of the men. “They came here with a message for the King. Wulfram said it would be safer for me to pretend to be their servant, so no one would ask any strange questions and I would be able to stay near them, stay safe, most of the time.”
Bayan chuckled, “And I bet he saw other advantages.”
“What do you mean?” Æva asked, puzzled at the salaciousness in his voice.
He raised one eyebrow, incredulous at her innocent expression.
“You must have been lying with him. A fair price to pay for protection,” he added.
Æva gaped at him, aghast.
“I did not such thing,” she stormed, her cheeks flushing flame red in anger and embarrassment. “They are good men; they would never ask that of me.”
“So you belonged to none of them? You are still a maiden?”
Æva did not understand the tone in his voice, and she was too embarrassed to look at his face and read his expression.
“Yes,” she whispered, wishing fervently that she was not riding side-saddle, her horse in the hands of the man beside her. She would have liked nothing more than to kick the mare into a gallop and race on into the wilderness, leaving Bayan and his probing interrogation her.
Bayan seemed to have temporarily run out of questions. He walked his horse beside hers, the rein that kept her tied to him loose in his hands. Although she saw little humour in her situation, she could not help but grimace ruefully at the long strip of leather. Such a perfect metaphor for her current situation: so tentatively connected to the man beside her, but under his total control.
“I am sorry,” he said abruptly. He waited, and with reluctance she turned to face him. “I have offended you,” he acknowledged.
“Yes,” Æva replied, unable to deny the obvious.
“It was wrong to presume. I have seen many women in your situation choose to suffer such acts to survive. Forgive me,” he implored.
“All right,” she said, a little stiffly.
“How can I make it up to you?” he asked.
Æva was silent for a moment. She could not afford to hold a grudge against this man. Forcing the tension out of her shoulders, she turned to him.
“Tell me about you,” she suggested.
Bayan grinned. “What would you like to know?” he teased, emulating Æva’s earlier coyness.
“‘How did the son of the Lord of Deira find himself at Babbanburth and a Prince of Northumbria?” she shot back, drawn into laughing.
“Well,” Bayan began, “as a child I trained as a warrior with the best soldiers under my father’s command. I spent a brief time at the monastery, staying only long enough to learn to read and write, a skill it seems we share,” he winked at her conspiratorially. “My first duty as a man was to travel to the Frankish kingdoms to pay tributes to King Charles. I thought about offering him some of my hair, but decided I preferred my head attached to my body.”
He chuckled at that, and although she did not get the joke Æva found herself smiling with him.
“Since then I have spent my time administering my father’s lands and fighting battles against the damned Mercians who would seek to take any opportunity to invade our kingdom. Tell me,” he paused, changing the subject, “what were you and your friends doing down here at the beach the day I shot the traitorous messenger?”
Æva glanced around, startled by his question, and realised they had wound their way down to the dunes beside the small cove where Ælric had given her lessons. The tides had already washed away their footprints in the sand, as if the time they had spent there had never existed.
She bit her lip, unsure whether to tell Bayan the truth. Would he disapprove of such activity?
“Ælric was teaching me to fight,” she confessed, sneaking a look at him. His face remained impassive.
“To fight?” he asked, and Æva could not tell if he was surprised or annoyed.
“They wanted me to be able to protect myself,” she said, feeling the need to defend her friends.
“Women have men to protect them,” Bayan’s voice was firm, confident.
“Not always.”
Bayan grunted, the sound conveying either agreement or disapproval, Æva couldn’t tell.
“Well,” he said, what sounded like forced joviality in his voice, “without your good friend Ælric to continue these lessons, perhaps I might take his place? I trust you will find I am not too poor a substitute?”
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“Now,” he murmured, his mouth just behind her left ear, “Look at the target. The dot in the centre? That’s where you’re aiming. Imagine it as the heart of a man.”
They were back at the cove, this time with two servant boys who had carried the heavy wooden target butt as Æva and Bayan had ridden; Æva still sitting side-saddle much to her dismay and discomfort.
When she had described the practise fights she had had with Ælric, Bayan’s mouth had constricted into a thin line of disapproval, his eyes narrowing to downright anger when she had explained the bruises she suffered at the hands of Ælric’s well-aimed stick and the way he had wrestled her to the ground when she had left him an opening. He refused to engage in violent combat with her, telling her such actions were inappropriate for a lady of her status. At first Æva had been mortified at the admonishment. She had stared at the ground, pouting as he had reprimanded her, but then his finger tucked under her chin and pulled her head up until she had no option but to look at him.
“You are too fair, too fragile for such rough treatment,” he told her. “I would not wish to hurt you.”
Rather than instruct her to physically fight, he conceded to teach her archery.
“This can be used as both a weapon and as a survival tool,” he told her, handing her the smooth wooden bow. “An arrow can kill a man, but also a deer or a rabbit.”
The bow was made of elm, but stained a lustrous dark red. It was almost as tall as she was, and each end elegantly tapered to a point, before curving outward into a small spade. The ends had a slight notch and iron peg, around which the string had alrea
dy been tensed and knotted. Absentmindedly, Æva twanged the string with her finger, surprised when she felt almost no give on the tough cord.
“All right,” he said, shifting to the side so that he stood next to her. They were about thirty paces from the target, which had been propped up on an easel. “The traditional way to draw a bow is straight on, like this.”
He took the bow and, standing face on to the target, held it out at arm’s length. He drew back the string until it almost touched his lips.
“But,” he said, adjusting his position to stand behind her shoulder once more, “I think you will find your arm is not long enough. Are you right- or left-handed?” His breath in her ear sending a cool shiver down her spine.
“Left,” she whispered.
He took her right hand and wound it around the centre of the bow before nudging her arm until it was shoulder height in front of her. Then he took her left hand and curled two fingers around the string, adding two of his own around the outside. His whole body coiled around hers, shielding her from the cool wind blowing off the sea. Æva held as still as a frightened mouse, paralysed by the nervous excitement that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
“See?” he murmured into her hair as he drew the string back. Her arm followed his, but the string pulled back only a few inches before his palm tickled her sternum. “You wouldn’t get enough tension in the bow to send an arrow out with any kind of power,” he told her, unwinding himself from her body. He walked around to face her and put both hands on her shoulders.
“So I want you to stand side on to the target,” he pushed her left leg back so she turned to the side, her right shoulder pointing towards the butt. “Hold the bow out like this,” his fingers grasped her wrist and lifted her arm back to shoulder height, “and draw the string back across your chest like this.”
He moved around so he was standing behind her again, close enough for the heat of his body to tickle her back, and curled one arm around her to grip the string, his two fingers either side of hers. He pulled the string back, and this time the bow was forced to curl back in on itself as he stretched the cord across her body. Æva followed his progress with her eyes, watching as he drew past her chin.
“Face the target,” he told her, voice firm.
She whipped her head round, all of the muscles in her body tensing as she found herself almost cheek to cheek with him. She kept her eyes fixed on the target, not wanting to give him an excuse for another rebuke.
“Now loose,” he told her. Æva’s fingers let go at once, but Bayan held on to the string a fraction of a second longer, knowing the rough cord would sting the soft skin of her fingers. The string pinged back into position with a twang, trembled for a moment and then was still. Bayan held his position next to her for just a little longer, then he stood back.
“You try,” he said, watching her with critical eyes.
Self-conscious, Æva turned her body to the right, then quickly shuffled across to the left as she realised her mistake. She heard Bayan snort in amusement but tried to ignore him as she lifted the bow. Her two fingers gripped the string and pulled slowly towards her chest. She didn’t manage to draw back as far as Bayan had done, but when she released the string it still recoiled back with a satisfying plonk. For a moment she grinned, triumphant, but the smile twisted into a look of horror as her fingers began to throb.
“Ow!” she yelped, holding up her hand to examine the skin. There was no sign of blood, but the pads of both fingers were red raw. She stuck them in her mouth, forgetting her attempts to be ladylike, and sucked on them for a moment. Bayan was visibly trembling with the effort of holding in his laughter. Cross and mortified, she yanked the fingers out of her mouth and shook her hand frantically. The cold air on her wet skin only seemed to inflame the pain.
“You could have warned me,” she accused, eyes narrowing, but he only laughed harder at her angry expression.
“I am sorry,” he said, “I couldn’t help myself.”
He dug into a small pouch tied at his waist, still chortling at her furious glare.
“Try this,” he said, handing her a small leather guard. Two circular holes slotted over her fingers and leather thongs rested against the length of each digit. The cool material was soothing against her smarting skin. “Let me see you try again,” he prompted.
With an exaggerated sigh, Æva turned, drew the bow as far as the straining muscles of her arm would allow, and then released the string. Bayan had her do it again, and again, and again. With the guard protecting her fingers it was much easier, but now the cord slipped under her grasp, sliding from her grip before she had pulled it back far enough.
“You need to pull back farther,” he kept telling her. “The force of the arrow depends on how much tension you get on the bow. If you loosed an arrow the way you are drawing, you would be lucky to make the target, never mind impale anything!”
Time and time again he made her draw, until her arms ached and her fingers refused to bend. Her chest and her forearm also stung from where the string had zipped past repeatedly, fraying and bobbling at the fine wool. She drew back until the bow curved inwards and her hand hauled the string beyond the point of her chin, but still he wasn’t satisfied, keeping her practising until she pulled back far enough so her fingers tickled her earlobe. The evening sky was beginning to darken when he at last conceded she had mastered the action.
“Should there not be an arrow?” she asked, tired and grouchy, when he rewarded what she thought was a good effort with nothing more than a curt, “Again.”
He grinned at her.
“Do you think you are ready for an arrow?” he asked, his expression cocky and arrogant.
Knowing she was probably setting herself up for a fall, Æva nodded, her misgiving deepening when he clicked his fingers at a servant boy, a wicked grin on his face. The boy handed him an arrow before scurrying away, far from where the target had been set up. Bayan walked forward and handed it to her, before very obviously taking two steps back so he was behind her, out of harm’s way.
“Are you not going to show me how?” Æva asked, half wishing he would come and curl himself around her, half irritated at his obnoxious attitude.
“See if you can figure it out,” he called, sounding amused.
Screwing her face up in annoyance, Æva turned her back on him. She slipped the notch of the arrow into the midway point of the string. Then she rested the shaft against where her thumb gripped the bow. Taking a deep breath, she hauled back on the bow and loosed at once, her exhausted muscles unable to hold the tension. To her delight the arrow flew from the bow, but her aim was off. Instead of embedding in the target, her arrow streaked towards the ground, burying into the sand at the feet of the butt.
She turned to Bayan, both eager and nervous of his verdict.
“Well, at least your enemy wouldn’t have been able to run away,” he commented wryly, a smirk on his lips. “No, really,” he continued, seeing her face crumple a little with disappointment, “That was a good first effort. Tomorrow, I’ll help you with your aim.”
He smiled at her and Æva managed to smile back, pleased at the compliment. However, the first stirrings of unease twisted in her stomach as she glanced up at the darkening sky. It was almost night.
They rode at a trot back up to Babbanburth, the two servant boys having to do an awkward jog with the butt hoisted between then. When they reached the small square Bayan helped her to dismount before leading her through the Great Hall to the room she had woken in that morning: his room.
“I need to dine with my father,” he told her. “I will have someone bring you a tray of food.”
He turned immediately to leave her, in a hurry to join the feasting that had already begun in the Great Hall.
“Bayan,” she called, before he could leave. His hand on the door, he paused, eyebrow raised in question. “I had a small dagger, a knife really.”
He didn’t answer at first, and Æva almost let it drop, but the
encroaching dark frightened her. She did not want to be alone and helpless.
“It was a gift,” she prodded. “Do you know where it is?”
She watched his eyes mulling it over, considering. Suddenly his hand slipped behind his back, returning with her knife. She stared. Why had he taken it? He must have many weapons.
“I would not want to deprive you of a gift,” he said, placing it down on the table. “Now I really must go.”
Æva listened to his footsteps disappear. She stood still for only the length of a heartbeat, before rushing to the table and picking up the knife. It was crude and worth little, but it reminded her of Idin and that made her feel protected. Hugging the tiny dagger to her chest she smiled, before slipping it back against her calf.
Only moments later a knock rapped at the door. This was nothing like the crude banging of the soldier; it was gentle and hesitant. Æva waited, but no one entered. She frowned, before realising the person was waiting for permission.
“Come in,” she called in a soft voice. She sat at the stool by the table, her skirts carefully arranged to cover the secret weapon that gave her comfort. A small, mousy creature entered; head down, curtseying with difficulty under the large tray of food that she held.
“Lora!” Æva exclaimed with delight, thankful to have someone she might talk to, and excited at the thought of drawing more information from the girl.
The girl, astonished at such a warm greeting, looked up and smiled timidly, the tray of food sliding precariously in her grasp.
“Ooh!” she gasped, wobbling dangerously before she reached the safety of the table and dumped the tray down with a loud clattering sound. The mead in the jug sloshed, spilling over the sides. Æva darted out a hand and rescued the bread lying in its path.
“I’m so sorry, My Lady,” Lora stuttered, fear in her eyes as she gazed at Æva, awaiting a sharp reprimand.
Aeva The Wild Page 11
