Æva’s heart was in her mouth as she dashed with Lora back underneath the high arch and into the courtyard. They had run all of the way, but it was panic rather than exhaustion that caused her breath to come in ragged gasps. She glanced around, frantic, hunting for the distinctive dirty blond of Bayan’s hair, the startling cobalt eyes. She picked out servants, three soldiers leaning idly against a large chunk of fallen wall, a handmaiden lugging a heavy canvas bag into one of the storerooms, Lora – darting away now that she had delivered her charge back inside the prison - but no sign of Bayan. She sighed with relief, dropping herself down onto a low stone bench.
As the panic ebbed, other emotions began to well. Idin had kissed her. She had rushed away from him, allowing herself only a fleeting glance at his face - it had been filled with frustration, defiance and anger. She hadn’t wanted to go, she wanted to stay with Idin. He was just as handsome as Bayan, and he made her feel safe. He saw her.
She should have stayed, should have ignored Bayan’s call. But she didn’t dare.
“Æva,” Bayan strode through the archway towards her. He seemed to be in a good mood, smiling at her as she stood to welcome him. “How are you?” he asked, reaching for her hand.
“Fine,” she muttered, watching his eyes take in the servants’ dress she wore.
“Why are you dressed this way?” his eyebrows knitted together with suspicion, the affectionate smile sliding from his face. Æva stared at him, trying to hold a look of innocence on her face as her mind raced for a plausible explanation. Blank, like a startled rabbit.
“I...” she began, but faltered. As each second ticked by, she watched Bayan’s expression become more sceptical, angrier.
“My Lady,” a voice squeaked beside her. “I have your dress. The tear has been mended.”
Æva turned her head and gazed vacantly down at Lora, the words making no sense in her paralysed brain. The handmaiden held the dress out to her, and she folded the fabric into her grip.
“Thank you,” she intoned, still puzzled. Lora stared at her, trying desperately to communicate a message. Her lips squeezed into a frustrated line at Æva’s perplexed silence.
“What happened to your dress?” Bayan’s voice was dark, mistrustful. He spoke to Æva, but Lora answered, rescuing her frozen mistress.
“It ripped, My Lord,” she curtseyed deeply, her voice trembling at addressing Bayan.
“How?” he demanded.
“I... I trod on it, My Lord,” Lora improvised, dropping another curtsey, this time bobbing so low she touched the floor.
“An accident,” Æva said quickly, catching on at last. “It was not her fault.”
She squeezed Bayan’s hand, pulling his gaze to hers, imploring him not to punish the girl. She saw him wavering, wanting to believe their half-cobbled story.
“Come Lora,” she commanded, doing her best to sound in control. “Help me dress. Allow me to return to you when I am decent, My Lord.” She did her best to smile at him demurely.
Bayan blinked but then nodded, pleasantly bemused by her respectful behaviour.
“Of course.’”
Æva grasped the dress tight in her hand and turned away, following Lora across the courtyard. Her heart hammered, pounding in her chest. It took all of her concentration to keep a firm control on her muscles and walk at a sedate pace. She wanted to run.
“Thank you,” she whispered to Lora, as soon as they were out of earshot. The servant girl didn’t respond, only nodded. Æva couldn’t tell if she had been really rescuing her, or just trying to protect herself from punishment. Probably a little of both. Either way, she was grateful.
Once dressed, she returned to Bayan to eat. It seemed too early for dinner, but she accepted it unquestioningly. The food finished, Bayan took a deep slug of the ale in his cup and dumped it on the low table. He stared at her.
“I have something I must discuss with you.”
Æva blinked, a blank look the only expression she could muster. Had he been lulling her along, preparing to ambush her? She waited for him to continue, dread curdling the food in her stomach.
“You must have thought it was a little early to dine?” he raised his eyebrows questioningly at her, and Æva forced her muscles into a tight smile in response. She had her jaw clenched together in tension and wasn’t sure that she could speak.
“I am afraid that I must leave you for most of the night. I will have Lora stay with you, and there will be a guard outside of the door. I shall not leave you unprotected,” he assured her, confusing the veiled delight in her face with anxiety.
“Thank you,” Æva ground the words through her teeth, struggling to rein in the disappointment. “Where will you be?” she asked, and glimpsed a hint of doubt in his face at her belligerent tone. “Must you work, I mean?” she amended.
It seemed to work. He nodded, satisfied, and took another gulp of ale.
“Yes, we are leaving tomorrow. I must organise the move. The wives are returning to Babbanburth. You shall accompany them.”
While Idin, Wulfram and Ælric would be going south, heading into battle. Was this another ruse of his to keep them apart?
“Can I not stay with you?” she murmured, beseeching him with her eyes and reaching for his hand. She bit her lip, hoping she was not overdoing it. If he saw through her attempts to supplicate him, she had nothing left to bargain with.
Bayan frowned.
“It is too dangerous,” he said, but Æva saw hesitation in his eyes. She pounced on it, her words rushing out in a gush.
“Of course, I would not come to the battle, but I could stay in the camp. I would be no burden. I would stay in your tent, exactly as you ordered. Perhaps I might even be of some use? I learned a little about healing at the priory.”
She analysed his expression, searching for any hint of indecision. Bayan sighed, his free hand reaching up to rub his jaw, scraping over the thick stubble. He looked tired. Dark circles had formed under his eyes and his forehead seemed permanently creased with concern. For a fleeting moment Æva felt sorry for him. A lot was resting on his shoulders, she realised.
“I shall think on it,” he told her, and Æva nodded in reluctant acceptance. She knew she could push him no more.
He left soon after and Æva kept to her word, staying in his room, watching the comings and goings in the courtyard. She had little other choice: a soldier had stationed himself outside the door, one well-muscled arm just visible, a clear warning for her to behave herself. She could not even be annoyed at Bayan’s mistrust. He was right – if she spotted a way to sneak out to find her friends, to Idin, she would.
When dawn came, she was awake. Bayan had not returned, but that didn’t surprise her. She no longer heard the restless shuffling of the guard posted outside of her door, but she did not need to get up to check that he was still there, eyes half closed in semi-sleep. She sensed his presence, just as she knew the slits of his eyes were misleading – should she move inside the room, make the slightest noise, he would snap awake, instantly alert.
Æva sat up, letting her fur coverings slip down into her lap. As predicted, the rustling sound of the straw shifting beneath her caused an arm to bob through the sharp line of the doorway, accompanied by a low cough: a second reminder, should she have missed the first. Æva smiled ruefully, arranging the furs, warm with her body heat, around her legs and angling her body to catch a glimpse of the sky and watch the birth of a new day. The sky was clear and as the vast dome lightened to the grey-blue of ash, people began to stir, moving like dark shadows that crept along the murky grey walls like wraiths. They spoke in rough whispers, a gravelly hum of activity.
Suddenly the room darkened again for an instant as a figure loomed in the doorway, blocking out the light.
“Good morning,” Bayan caught the gleam of her eyes in the darkness, saw that she was awake. His voice was sluggish, lethargic. Æva wondered if he had been up all night. He crouched down beside her, leaning against the wall. She could make out li
ttle of his face in the gloom but read the fatigue in his slumped body.
“You have not slept?” she asked, reaching out to lay a consoling hand on his arm.
He shook his head, a blurred movement that quickly ground to a halt.
“It doesn’t matter,” he told her. “I brought you something.”
He lifted his hands and placed a bundle in her lap. It was light, shapeless. Her hands traced across a jumble of material, fondling the coarse softness of wool and the thicker firmness of leather.
“New clothes,” he said, sensing her confusion. “We will be moving much faster now. You won’t be able to ride side saddle.”
“I can come?” Æva asked, unconcealed joy rich in her voice. She twisted her body round to face him.
“I suppose so,” he sighed dramatically, enjoying her reaction. “But,” he warned, “you must do exactly as I tell you. I will not tolerate disobedience.”
“Yes,” Æva breathed, desperate to agree, mentally crossing her fingers.
He laughed at her childlike agreement.
“Change,” he told her. “Lora will look after you.”
He kissed her lightly on the forehead then hoisted himself from the floor and out of the door. Æva sat still for a moment, delighted by his decision, but the smile dimmed as she realised that he was trusting her, showing her kindness. And she planned to betray him at the first opportunity.
ᛗ
They rode for three days, picking up soldiers at Hagustaldes and then Catraeth. In truth, it seemed a stretch to call these new men soldiers. Most appeared to be farmers, dressed in simple tunics. Their bodies, either old and soft, or young and wiry, did not have the physique of the experienced, professional military Æva had become used to. They were poorly armed, only a handful with shields. Others clutched firmly to spears topped with rusting iron, a far cry from the razor-sharp gleam of Ælric’s well cared for weapon. A further few were completely unprotected and unarmed. They made a motley crew, untrained and untried.
Even if she had not noticed these differences, Æva could tell them apart. It was in their eyes: these men were afraid.
It was a difficult three days for Æva. The army marched from sunrise to sunset, barely pausing during the day. A soldier rode between herself and Lora – who’d been given a sturdy pony to accompany her mistress - tethering them on long reins and making impossible to talk. Æva didn’t know if she would dare to confide in the girl at any rate. Lora had said nothing of the clandestine kiss she had witnessed, and Æva did not know how to – or if she should – broach the subject. That left nothing to do but think, and under the constant assault of the cold wind, the short sharp showers which chilled her bones long after the drops had stopped falling, and the fatigue that came with fighting the elements, her thoughts became morose.
She wanted desperately to speak to Idin. The longer time ticked by the more awkwardness and uncertainty set in. She convinced herself Idin couldn’t possibly care for her that way, and that she deluded herself into a happiness that didn’t exist by pretending otherwise. As she rode, her eyes on the jogging backs in front of her, she knew he was there, one of countless heads bobbing in unison. Sometimes she tried to pick him out, scanning the swollen groups. Some ran in rigid rows, kept together as a regiment, others laboured on in loose-knit clusters, their edges ragged and untidy. She knew that Idin, along with Wulfram and Ælric, would not be part of these ragtag bands, but from her position at the back of the line, almost a mile from the front of the column, she could make no further guess than that.
Bayan added confusion to her already muddled thoughts. Although she saw him only at night - when he arrived exhausted at the tent, pausing only to eat before falling asleep - he was warm, courteous, caring. Only Lora’s bruised face, dulling from purple to a sickly shade of yellow as the days passed, reminded her of the violent anger which sometimes possessed him. And she could not forget his order - the command that had been the final nail in the coffin for Æva – never to see Idin, Wulfram and Ælric again.
Their numbers now swelling above ten thousand, the army continued south, mustering on the banks of the river Ure at Rypum. This time the camp had a much more temporary feel as Æva and Lora rode into it. Few tents were erected; instead men squatted wherever they found a space, grouping around fires. It was evening, and although the sky hung leaden with clouds, no rain fell.
They picked their way through the hordes of exhausted men, heading for the riverbank where the king’s tents had been erected. To the left and right of them, monks from the monastery wandered, giving out food and drink to the soldiers, and performing blessings. An air of tension hung over the camp, a sense of apprehension of the forthcoming battle. Bayan had told Æva they would rest here only one night before making the final, short charge down to Eboric. In just twenty-four hours, many of these men would be dead, hacked to pieces by the savagery of the Vikings. And they would have ended lives. Their hands, their clothes, their faces awash with blood before the day was out. It was a sobering thought, and it did not surprise Æva that the monks were doing such a heavy trade.
When she entered Bayan’s tent, the final guy ropes still being hammered in by a harassed looking servant, he was pouring over maps, deep in conversation with another soldier. Shorter than Bayan and stockier, his hair was greying at the temples, his face lined with creases. He wore a bright green tunic emblazoned with a fox turning to gnaw on its own tail. Æva recognised the creature at once; she had seen it on a drizzly afternoon in the square before the Great Hall in Babbanburth, adorning the chest of the King. It was Ælle.
“Forgive me,” she gasped, backing out, her face flushed and wide-eyed with shock.
“Æva,” Bayan called, not taking his eyes from the map in front of him. “Come in.”
Timidly, she obeyed, slipping inside and standing awkwardly just inside the door flaps. She clasped her hands in front of her and bowed her head, eyeballing the floor of the tent, damp earth covered with thickly woven dark rugs. As she stood, she listened to the low murmur of their conversation, Bayan pointing out names of places she had never heard of. She bit her lip, ill at ease. Somehow she had become comfortable with Bayan, had almost forgotten he was the son of the king. Now, in Ælle’s presence, she was reminded of the position of power he held.
Bayan looked up and she saw him take in her self-conscious stance from the corner of her eye.
“Sit down, Æva,” he murmured.
Æva glanced around the tent. There was a table with two stools directly behind Bayan and Ælle, littered with rolls of velum. She caught glimpses of writing and diagrams that might be sections of maps in the half-unravelled scrolls. To the right of that, the bed had been arranged, just thick bundles of fur stretched out over a hardwearing rug. Uncomfortable, but quick to assemble. But she did not want to be sprawled on the floor at the feet of the King. Her eyes raked left, and fell with gratitude on a wooden chair, a wide dipped seat with two arms curving upwards. A fur had been draped gracefully over it.
Taking short, clumsy steps, she hurried to take her seat, almost tripping over it in her haste to be out of sight and inconspicuous. She wrapped the fur around her shoulders, trying to disappear inside it. Risking a quick glimpse towards the two men, she saw King Ælle looking at her curiously as he listened to Bayan discuss strategies. Embarrassed, she dragged her gaze back to the floor. Had Bayan told him about her? If not, what must he think of her: dressed as a servant but nestled in Bayan’s chair, wrapped in furs?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a figure pulling back one of the flaps of the tent. A soldier rushed inside.
“The runner has returned, Highness,” he said.
“Send him in,” commanded the king. Æva watched a man slide into the tent. He was dressed in dark clothes, his frame light. His cheeks were flushed red and glistened with sweat in the candlelight of the tent.
“What have you to tell us?” Bayan commanded, the map hanging forgotten at his side. The runner took a deep breath, seeming ov
erawed to find himself reporting to such important men.
“They have taken the city,” he gasped. “Just two days ago. They broke through the gate and overran the defences. Every man inside the city has been killed. Gunnlaug Snake-tongue has positioned himself inside Eboric’s protection.”
“Damn him to hell!” Bayan exclaimed. The king, too, looked dismayed.
“What about those in the surrounding area?” he asked.
“Many are dead,” the runner said. “Others have scattered. They were no match for the Viking numbers.”
“How many?” Bayan asked.
“At least eight thousand,” the runner replied. “But their savagery makes it seem like double.”
“We will match their savagery,” the king responded, shaking his head. He spoke to Bayan, “At eight thousand we can meet them spear to spear.”
“Aye, but with the protection of the city walls they will have the advantage,” Bayan disagreed, his face deep in thought.
“We must discuss this with the other nobles. Gather them, we shall deliberate in my tent.”
Both men swept out, leaving Æva and the runner in shocked silence, staring at each other. After a long pause, the runner nodded at her and ducked out of sight, leaving her alone.
For a moment Æva sat, her head bowed in borrowed grief at the news of so many deaths. Though she had known none of them, she had seen the way the Vikings fought, knew their end would have been cruel and painful. Her hate for these barbarians seethed and she felt a surge of desire for King Ælle’s army to crush them, to annihilate every man who stood proud to call himself a Viking. She was shocked at the strength of her hate, but these were the minions of the Devil. God’s judgement would rain down upon them.
The empty tent seemed to sing with silence. She stared around, still stunned to find herself alone. It was as if she expected ghosts to replay the exchange over and over again. Standing she moved over to the opening and lifted a hand to the leather flaps. Using her body to shield the light, she peeled the leather back and glanced outside the tent. It was completely empty. Soldiers and servants moved about, but no one stood guard. Heart hammering, she dropped the curtain.
Aeva The Wild Page 17
