by Bobbi Smith
“Make yourself comfortable, Norseman,” Sir Thomas said to Brage as he finished chaining him. “Your meal is whatever the dogs will share with you.”
As Sir Thomas straightened, he happened to glance at Brage, and for the first time their eyes met. In that moment, he saw the deadly strength of the Viking’s anger mirrored in his gaze, and it sent a chill down his spine. In all his years of service to Lord Alfrick, he had fought many enemies, but none had seemed as fierce as this man. He was glad he wasn’t facing him on the battlefield.
As Sir Thomas thought of the battle that day, he reluctantly admired the Vikings. Even as outnumbered as they had been, they had continued to fight with unbelievable fury. He could well imagine how the raid would have turned out had the Saxons not been forewarned about the attack, for the Vikings had certainly been the superior fighting force.
Sir Edmund stopped Sir Thomas as the older man passed him. “What shall we do with the prisoner?” he asked.
“Your father has already decided his fate. Perhaps the Viking will prove helpful with information about raids, or perhaps your father will just display him as a trophy. Certainly, he is a prize. Is he not one of the Black Hawk’s warriors?”
“Indeed.” Sir Edmund agreed. He was seething because Sir Thomas had credited his father with the victory. It was he, himself, who had fought and defeated the Vikings! It had been his plan that had trapped them. Yet as the tale was repeated, the glory would belong to his father.
“My only regret is that we could not identify the body of the Viking leader,” Sir Thomas said.
“We have his shield and sword,” Sir Edmund pointed out. “And since the Vikings did not take their dead, we can assume the Black Hawk’s body will rot on Saxon soil.”
“Let us drink to Lord Alfrick’s victory!” Sir Thomas called out as he grabbed up a mug of ale and lifted it high.
“Rather let us drink to the death of the Black Hawk!” Sir Edmund amended, joining Sir Thomas in his salute. The others in the hall followed and Lord Alfrick stood drawing Dynna to her feet as the battle-weary soldiers cheered their victory.
“We have slain the most powerful Viking leader! We have triumphed!”
Dynna managed a covert glance at Brage, who was sitting on the floor, his uninjured shoulder braced against the wall. His expression was inscrutable as he watched the Saxons pass his shield and sword around the hall in celebration of his “death.” Suddenly, his gaze found hers. It unnerved her that he was staring at her, yet she managed to maintain her outward composure.
Dynna was relieved when one of the women servants approached her to explain that she was needed in the village.
“My lord, I must return to the people. Will you give me leave?” she implored.
“Of course. If they need you, you must go to them. It is our duty to see to the well-being of our people.”
She tried not to reveal her eagerness to be gone from them. Though the duty that awaited her was bloody, she would find the villagers’ company infinitely preferable to the domineering presence of Lord Alfrick and Sir Edmund.
Dynna had to pass Brage on her way out. This near to him, she could see the tightness around his mouth and the grayness of his skin. The bloody condition of his clothing was not lost on her, either. Sympathy welled up within her. She paused hoping to ease his suffering, no matter that Lord Alfrick had said otherwise, but Sir Edmund blocked her way.
“Do not bother with this one. Your talents are better served in the village.”
“But he is in pain.”
“I care not. He deserves no better, and if he dies in agony, so be it. No one here will mourn his passing.”
“You treat him worse than you would any animal. Even the lowest servant is cared for when he is ill.”
“Our servants are worthy. They tend to my needs. This one is just a Viking.”
“I cannot bear to see anyone suffer so.”
“Then do not look,” he told her sharply.
Dynna’s hatred for Sir Edmund grew even stronger. She had the ability to ease Brage’s pain, yet he had forbidden her to help. Thwarted for the moment, yet not giving up, she turned and left without another word.
Brage had watched and listened to the exchange between them. He ached to meet Sir Edmund on a battlefield free of his chains, sword in hand. He tried to shift positions, and pain shrieked through his body. The only solace he could cling to was that one day he would find the traitor who had delivered him into the hands of his enemies.
Edmund watched Dynna leave, then glanced down at the captive. Brage returned his regard.
“Had I my way, you would be dead, cur.” He smiled thinly. “I will find pleasure in extracting information from you.” His statement was accompanied by a sharp kick to Brage’s side.
Brage could not suppress the groan of pain that escaped him. He railed silently against the fate that had brought him here and left him trapped and at this man’s mercy. He tried to move again, but the chains cut into his legs.
Brage thought of his men. He wondered how they had fared in their escape, if they thought him dead or if they would regroup and come back for him. He wondered, too, if he would be alive if they did return.
Brage let his gaze follow Sir Edmund around the room, and swore to himself that he would not die this way—helpless before his enemies. He would not give his tormentor the satisfaction. He would die a warrior’s death.
Brage clung to the thought as he tried to ignore the agony that ate at him like a living thing. Seeking what little comfort he could find against the cold wall, he closed his eyes against the torment of his situation.
As darkness fell, Ulf directed the longship back to the Saxon soil. The two half brothers had argued heatedly over what was to be done. Kristoffer had finally agreed to the landing, when Ulf had conceded that only the two of them would return to the site of the battle. No other Viking life would be risked on this mission; only their own.
It was late when they left the ship and made their way inland. They took extreme care, for they knew there would be no escape were they discovered.
“I am still uncertain how I allowed you to convince me to do this,” Kristoffer said under his breath as they followed the road toward the tower, staying hidden in the brush alongside.
“I will not believe Brage is dead without seeing his body, and if he was killed, he deserves a Viking burial,” Ulf insisted.
The two men crept through the darkness until they neared the scene of the fighting. It was then that they saw the eerie light of the burning pyres and watched as the Saxons threw the bodies of their dead comrades on the blaze.
“There will be no finding him now,” Kristoffer said.
“I should never have left him when we retreated.” Guilt sounded in Ulf’s voice.
“It could not be helped. There was nothing else you or any of us could have done. Brage would have done the same had he been in our situation.”
“Perhaps . . .” he said slowly.
In silence, the two withdrew. Brage was dead, forever lost to his family, killed in this hated land. They slipped away into the night, heading back to the ship.
Once Ulf had boarded, he immediately ordered the men to set sail for home. Complete quiet reigned as they rowed away from shore. Their losses had been great, and the men were still shocked. No one had expected the resistance to be that heavy. No one had expected the Saxons to be armed and waiting for them.
Ulf assumed the leader’s position, standing at the front of the vessel. He stared off into the blackness of the night, going over in his thoughts all that had transpired.
“We must go together to tell our father of Brage’s death,” Kristoffer said as he came to stand with Ulf.
“Yes. It will not be easy, but it must be done.”
Silence lay upon them like a heavy mantle. Hours before, they had been confident and cheering, ready for battle. The horror of their crushing defeat had stripped them of their belief in themselves and their pride. Hatred grew within
them, as did the need for revenge. Each surviving Viking swore that the day would come when they would return to Lord Alfrick’s land and claim vengeance for their losses.
The Black Hawk’s longships sailed north away from the Saxon coast and toward home, bearing the news of defeat and death.
Lady Dynna applied the poultice to the gaping wound on the man’s side and managed a smile. “That will draw some of the pain away,” she explained in a soft, soothing voice.
“Thank you, my lady” came the hoarse reply. The injured man was very pale and had a glazed, distant look in his eyes.
Dynna doubted he would live the night, and her heart was heavy, for she knew him. He was married and the father of two young sons. She stayed longer, watching until some of the pain had eased from his face. Only Matilda’s touch on her arm drew her from his side.
“Come, Lady Dynna,” Matilda coaxed gently. “There is little more you can do for him.” She had joined Dynna earlier in the evening to help her with her healing.
Dynna slowly rose to follow her maid from the small hut. The night sky was cloudless and the stars sparkled in the black heavens. As she gazed upward, she marveled at the sky’s eternal beauty. “How can the world sometimes seem such a beautiful place, and yet at the same time be so ugly?” she mused.
“It is not the world that is ugly,” Matilda offered. “It is the people in it.”
“That is true. There is so much hatred and fighting. I often wish that there was more I could do to change things.”
Matilda looked at her in surprise. “More, my lady? You have given of yourself to the people. You tend their ills and watch over them. How much more could you do? You cannot change men’s hearts, and until their hearts are changed there will be killing and war.”
Dynna’s mood was solemn. She felt as if the weight of the world was upon her shoulders. She could heal, but she could not raise the dead. Her gift was good only if there was hope.
All evening her thoughts kept returning to the injured Viking leader, and again she wondered how he was faring.
“You are tired and need to rest,” Matilda advised her. “You fought a battle of your own this day.”
“And I lost,” she added wearily, not allowing herself to think about what might have happened if the Vikings had not landed.
They started back to the tower, dreading the prospect of returning, but knowing they had nowhere else to go. There had been no time for Dynna and Matilda to speak openly all evening, for Edmund’s man had always been hovering close. For the first time tonight, he lagged a short distance behind, and they felt free to take advantage of the moment.
“Why did you keep the full truth from Lord Alfrick about the Viking’s identity?” Matilda asked.
“Had I named him, they would have murdered him on the spot.”
“But he is the Black Hawk. His reputation alone . . .” She shuddered.
“He brought no harm to us when we were in his power. I could do no less for him.”
“His wounds looked serious.”
“I would have gone to him, but Edmund refused to let me near him.”
“Perhaps he was right to do so. He is our enemy.”
The guard closed on them, then, and they could say no more. They entered the Great Hall to find that drunken men were sleeping on the benches, others were passed out under the tables, and others were still drinking and eating. The victory celebration would go on for days.
Dynna led the way through the room, treading quietly. Sir Edmund’s guard had left them after seeing them safely inside. There was no avoiding the area where the dogs lay, and Dynna stopped before Brage.
“Lady Dynna . . . it is not the time . . .” Matilda started to protest.
Dynna shot her a silencing look as she studied him. Brage was slumped against the wall and appeared to be sleeping.
“You must not do this . . .” Matilda whispered. “Sir Edmund—”
“Should I not help him because Sir Edmund has deemed it so? He is injured,” she retorted in a hushed voice. “Help me or go. It matters not to me. You have the choice.”
“Don’t you know how dangerous he is?”
“Chained?”
“Even chained!”
“He will not harm me,” she said with certainty. She did not know how she knew that it was true.
Dynna knelt before him, intending to examine his injuries. The moment she reached out to touch his shoulder, though, his eyes flew open, and she found herself impaled by his icy, blue-eyed gaze. Though he was bloodied and restrained, there was a fierce resolve in his eyes, and Dynna knew he had not been defeated. He snared her wrists in an iron grip as he glared at her.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“I am a healer.”
“Leave me.” He growled the words.
“I can help you.”
“I want no Saxon hands upon me!” Brage thrust her from him as if touching her was vile to him. He was a strong man. He had healed on his own before, he would heal on his own now.
“Lady Dynna!” Matilda could not prevent her cry of alarm when the Viking pushed Dynna from him, and her cry brought some of the men running to their aid.
“What has happened?” Sir Thomas was the first one there, his expression dark with concern for his lady. He had drawn his weapon and was ready to run the captive through if he had harmed Dynna in any way.
“He . . .” The maid started to explain, but Dynna silenced her with a look.
“He is a Viking, and my maid thinks he is not worthy of my help.”
Sir Thomas visibly relaxed as he slid his weapon back into its scabbard. “That is true enough. I would caution you to stay away from him, my lady. I fear he would not hesitate to take your life should he get the chance.”
Dynna started to argue with him. She had been in Brage’s power and he had chosen to save her life, not end it. He could easily have harmed her right then, too, but he had only chosen to push her from him. She knew it was pointless to argue with Sir Thomas. He was a good man, and she knew he was only protecting her. It was better that he did not know that the man had laid hands on her. Even injured as he was, there had been no mistaking the power in the Black Hawk’s touch.
“Come, Lady Dynna. You should retire for the night,” Matilda encouraged. “It has been a long day. There is nothing more for us to do here.”
Lady Dynna followed Matilda up the stairs to her bedchamber, pausing once to glance back toward the Black Hawk. When she did, she found his gaze still upon her. He seemed to look into the very heart of her, and she turned away from the power of his gaze and hurried into her room.
Brage watched Dynna climb the stairs, and he wondered why he could not seem to look away from her. Something about her had haunted him ever since the first time he had seen her with Ulf. He remembered Ulf boasting of her bravery in attacking him when he’d tried to capture her. Beauty and courage were not what Brage expected to find in a Saxon woman.
When Dynna had disappeared from sight, he settled back against the cold wall. The pain in his back was unrelenting, yet he tried to ignore it. He sought what comfort he could among the hounds and kept a wary eye on the Saxons who still were drinking and celebrating in the Great Hall.
Five
When Dynna reached her room, Matilda prepared a bath for her. It was heavenly to shed her bloodstained clothes and step into the tub of hot water. Though the tub was not large and its hard surface did not encourage lounging, she sank down into the heat of the water and closed her eyes. For a moment, embraced by the soothing warmth, she was almost able to forget the horrors of the day, but as always there could be no avoiding reality for long. The sorrow and pain returned.
Dynna sighed heavily. She had seen much death in her lifetime—a beloved younger brother when she’d been but a child, her grandparents, then Warren . . . With time, she had found ways to deal with the fact of death, but she had never become used to it.
Dynna understood that in old age, death was sometimes a joy
ous release from the bondage of living in a frail, failing body. Thus, she had been able to accept her grandparents’ passing. But the wantonness of death wreaked through war battered her soul and left her reeling. She wondered why man in all his years of existence had not found ways to pursue peace rather than wage war.
An image of Edmund suddenly formed in her mind, and she had her answer: As long as men like Edmund walked in this world, there would be fighting and savagery.
The thought of Edmund and the remembrance of his hands upon her that day set her to scrubbing herself. It was easy to wash her body and her hair physically clean. She only wished there was some way to cleanse the sorrows from her heart and erase the scenes of death from her memories.
When she finished, Dynna rose from the tub in dripping splendor. Matilda brought her a linen towel. She dried herself, donned a nightdress and climbed into bed. Matilda extinguished the candle and left her to her rest.
Dynna lay on the softness of her clean bed, exhausted. As weary as she was, though, sleep would not come. Every time she started to drift off, a haunting vision of the wounded Brage invaded her consciousness. She tossed and turned for hours, seeking rest but finding it elusive. Finally, unable to ignore her worry that the Viking would die without help, Dynna left her bed, dressed in a simple tunic, and gathered up her basket of healing herbs and ointments.
Creeping from her chamber, Dynna let caution dictate her every move as she made her way silently down the steps.
There was little sound coming from below. The only noises were of the men snoring as they slept off the effects of their drunken celebrating. A few torches were still burning, so there was just enough light to see by. With a measured tread, she descended to the gloomy Great Hall, her gaze fixed on the dank, shadowed corner where the captive was chained.
Brage had needed to sleep, but the pain of his wounds, coupled with the knowledge that he was a prisoner of Lord Alfrick, had left him restless and angry. All night, he had suffered the taunts and jibes of the Saxons. Once they grew tired of him and fell into drunken stupors, Brage took the time to try to find some way to escape. He worked the chains at his legs, but they were fastened securely and would remain so until unlocked. He studied the links where they were attached to the wall and knew they could not be worked loose.
