Vikings: Revenge (The Great Heathen Army series Book 3)

by Ceri Bladen

Edeva wasn’t the one who was ordered to serve them food, but she could see that they had meager offerings of stale food in front of them — it was the fare they usually threw away to the pigs. She would complain about their harsh treatment if she could, but who could she complain to? So, she stayed quiet and watched from a distance when she had some time between courses. It was a long time since she’d been so close to males of her own kind, she was curious to notice if there were any differences between the Anglo-Saxons and Vikings.

  Today, evidently tired of being starved, most of the soldiers were scoffing their food down like hungry dogs. One didn’t. He had pushed his fare away and sat back, not touching what was in front of him. His attention elsewhere, Edeva took time to study him. He still wore his coat of chainmail, which narrowed at his waist, complete with his elaborate belt. It was more ornate than the other men’s, so she assumed he had a higher rank in the Anglo-Saxon army. Pouches hung off his belt but were void of the weapons he would usually carry. She noticed, his helmet was also missing. Used to the long hair of the Danes, she suddenly had the urge to touch his short blond hair to see if it was as soft as it looked. She was so engrossed at looking at his hair, she failed to notice a smile creep on his lips. When she finally noticed him looking directly at her, she reddened and tore her gaze away. That was silly getting caught staring. Needed to do something, she picked up a jug of ale and walked toward Guthrum’s table. While she concentrated on her feet, hoping that her blush would fade before she reached the table, she failed to notice Bard watching her, too.

  A week later, Edeva stood in the doorway of her home, her one hand resting on the elbow of the other arm. It was still dark outside, but the smell of smoke had awoken her early. After realising they weren’t in any danger, she lingered at the doorway and watched the activity. Things were being packed up onto carts or burned on pyres. They were evidently on the move again. Knowing there was nothing she or anyone could do, she turned back around to close the door, before she walked through the courtyard towards the main hall. She might as well get an early start.

  When she entered the dark, smoky interior of the building, she stopped short. Even here the routine had changed. There was no one around — apart from the servants tending to the fire, the six soldiers of Alfred, and two guards. Normally, there were plenty of warriors sleeping and warming themselves by the fire, but the hearth was empty. She rubbed her hands nervously, not because the scene was unfamiliar, but because she’d been watching the prisoners for a while and the blonde one — the one who’d smiled at her — had succeeded in giving her a fluttering in her chest when she saw him and some vivid dreams during the long nights. She gave a short snort, refusing to look his way. She was a grown woman with children, not a youngster whose head could be turned by a handsome face. Picking the bottom of her tunic up off the floor, she strode over to the servant tending to the fire, and forced a smile on her face. “What would you like me to tend to?”

  Cynebald Benningfield leaned back on the hard, wooden bench and watched the mousy-haired woman pick up a jug and slowly walk over to them. He’d seen her every day since he’d been given to Guthrum, as part of a hostage deal with the king. If his memory served him correctly, she was one of the servants that usually served the Lord and his entourage. He’d caught her looking over a number of times, but she always looked away before he could engage her attention more fully. His brows furrowed before he quickly released them — then again, her attention was not unusual — the six of them held interest to most of the folk who frequented the hall. They were, after all, prisoners — albeit temporary ones.

  Cynebald tried to catch her gaze when she poured the, no doubt, weakened ale. He smiled at her when he did, but she’d never returned the favour, choosing to show her back to him instead. He leaned forward, irritated by her rebuff. There was no need to be rude. “Thank you, mistress.” He was glad to see her have the decency to look over her shoulder and nod. He noticed her flush, but before he could think any more about it, she took a quick side-glance at the top table. He followed her gaze — it was empty. His gut tensed. Something was going on. Mayhap their exchange for the coin was going to be today? He prayed it was. This deal had taken far too long, and he’d had enough of the eating inferior food and drinking weak ale. He slid another glance at the serving wench. Now she was near, he could see she had unusual violet coloured eyes. Although her face wasn’t one that would normally catch his fancy, it was nice to be around females, for a change — instead of unwashed soldiers.

  “Ale?” Edeva asked the guards when she changed the jug to the full-strength ale. She had been instructed not to give the guards the inferior quality ale — they were already grumpy enough having to watch Alfred’s men. They nodded. After she poured, she glided a quick glance towards the woman who had given her orders. She was busy. Edeva peered into the jug, which was still full. It wouldn’t harm to give the prisoners some real ale for a change. She made her way back over, praying she wouldn’t get caught. “More ale?”

  Cynebald’s gaze narrowed on her when he nodded. Her short, jerky movements unsettled him, as she was normally composed when he’d watched her serve Guthrum. Today, she seemed uncomfortable — it was either the upcoming events or him. He thought he would find out. “Thank you, mistress.” He boldly looked at her. “I must say, how radiant you look this morning. You are a sight to behold on such a dull day.” He noticed her flush. It was him — he disturbed her. He hid his smile. With his blond hair and good looks, and title of Ealdorman, he was used to women falling at his feet — and into his bed — regardless of their marital status. He rubbed his stubble, silently cursing the lack of washing facilities in the jail. There was something about the plain looking woman with lovely eyes that peeped his interest. It was just a shame their situation was not different, and he could find out what that something was.

  “I’ll come back with some fare for you to break your fast,” she said.

  He watched as she scuttled towards the firepit and returned with bowls of porridge expertly balancing on her arms.

  “Here you are, Sire.” She placed the bowls of porridge in front of them.

  Cynebald eyed it and tilted his head with a nod. It was the first time he’d been given food without mould or dirt coating it. “Thank you, mistress. You are very kind.”

  “’Tis nothing. Everyone receives the same.”

  He refrained from saying that they usually didn’t. The guards looked uninterested in their conversation, so he took the opportunity to find out some information. He leaned towards her. “My name is Cynebald. What is yours?”

  He noticed her flick a glance at the guards, who were busy downing their food. She shook her head. She was anxious with his attention — it was obvious in her body language — but he had to try and get some information about what was happening. “Do you know where your Sire is today?”

  Edeva shook her head, again. A guarded look appeared on her face as her eyebrows puckered.

  Suddenly, a wooden rod landed on the table with a thud, barely the width of a finger away from Cynebald’s fingertips. He whipped his hands back.

  “No talking to the wenches. Move away, Edeva.”

  Cynebald didn’t fail to noticed her stiffened and whiten. He looked at the guard, who he knew was named Bard. An unjust man from what he’d gleaned. He cursed under his breath at his failure to notice him enter the hall. He’d been too engrossed with talking to the woman, who he now knew was named Edeva — thanks to Bard. She had an Anglo-Saxon name and he wondered which of the four kingdoms – East Angles, Mercia, Northumbria or Wessex – she had been taken from. He didn’t have much time to think before he heard Bard’s voice.

  “Guards, stop lingering and get these prisoners back in the cells.” Bard motioned them forward. When one of the prisoners protested that they hadn’t broken their fast, he received a lash from the rod.

  From the other side of the hall, Edeva watched Bard and the guards manhandle the prisoners out of their seats, presumably bac
k to their cells. She turned away, she could not bear to see the mistreatment of any human — especially one as mild-mannered as the blond man.

  The ale jug in Edeva’s hand shook when she overheard Guthrum’s conversation with the men seated next to him during the evening meal. She couldn’t believe what she just heard, but when she saw Guthrum’s gaze narrow on her, it took all her might to act normally. “Ale, Sire?”

  “Ay,” Guthrum said. “Fill them all up. In fact, go and retrieve some wine for us. I have a thirst tonight.” He turned to his bedmate and squeezed her hand. “Tonight is for fun.” She smiled back at him, her hand moving up his thigh.

  Edeva ignored their public show of affection. Her Sire seemed in a heightened state and amorous tonight, and she was glad she wasn’t on the receiving end of it. “I will get some now, Sire.” She bowed and retreated, her calm exterior not reflecting the torment inside. When she found Edith, she nudged her into a dark corner on the pretense of getting wine.

  “What’s wrong?” Edith asked.

  “They are going to go back on their oath to King Alfred. We are leaving, and they are going to kill the hostages, tomorrow,” she murmured through her teeth, her face turning pallid.

  “Poor souls.” She turned back to Edeva. “But, there is nothing you can do, my girl.”

  “I have to help them escape.”

  “You can’t,” Edith hissed, trying to temper her voice. “If you are caught, you will be killed, too.”

  “I know, but for my own conscience, I must do what is right.” Edeva glanced around the hall, looking for some inspiration, but all she saw was the smiling faces of the Vikings. War disgusted her.

  “I have an idea, Edith, about what to do.” Edeva carefully indicated towards the prisoners so she was only seen by her friend. “It will not be easy and will disgust me because it involves Bard, but it must be done.”

  Edith raised her grey eyebrows and pressed her lips together. She let out a short, frustrated breath. “I told you that it was too dangerous to get involved. Especially with that man. We have lived through many Danes and Saxons being killed, why is this so different?”

  She sneaked another glance over to the prisoners, unconsciously biting the inside of her cheek. How could she explain to her friend that the blond man made her fingers ache to touch him? Made her heart flutter whenever she saw him? How she spent hours daydreaming about him and nights fantasizing about him? It was too ridiculous to mention, for she’d only just seen him and had spoken but a few words to him.

  “I couldn’t deal with you being hurt, or even killed, especially for folk you have no connection to. Think of your children,” Edith said, looking at Edeva’s stomach. “Think of the one growing in there.”

  Edeva frowned at Edith, contemplating her words before she pushed her shoulders back. “Nay. I have lived my adult life as a servant, doing everyone else’s bidding and turning a blind eye to wrongs. I want to do something for myself,” — she looked towards the men — “for them. Walking the right path is never easy, and if I do get caught, my soul will always have the benefit of being in the right.” She watched Edith tug at her tunic sleeves.

  “All right. You do what you need to do. But, whatever happens, remember I will always be there for your children”

  She reached for Edith’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I know, my true friend. You have always been there for me.”

  “And always will be.”

  Edeva continued to serve food, ale, and wine. There was much merriment from the folk around her, but her mind was occupied with her plan. It had seemed so easy when she had thought of it — getting the keys from Bard to the prisoners, so they could escape — but now she had to physically complete her plan, it wasn’t so trouble-free. Her stomach clenched. She hated that man, and the thought of having to intentionally get near him caused her mouth to dry.

  “More food,” Guthrum shouted. “More wine.”

  Edeva watched him lift his cup. She turned to pick up the jug of wine and made her way over.

  “We will leave tomorrow night, and go deeper into Alfred’s land – into Ēast Seaxe.” Guthrum laughed. “He will never be rid of us.” He turned to Bard. “Is everything in place for the prisoners?”

  Bard nodded and tapped his axe. “Ay, Sire. Alfred will be receiving them soon.” He scanned around at the men. “In bits.”

  They erupted in laughter, while Bard continued in great detail what was to happen to the prisoners.

  Edeva refused to look at any of them while she served the wine. A sour taste was burning in her throat, and it took everything not to retch.

  “More for me,” one of the men shouted at her.

  She turned to him, keeping a frozen smile on her face. When a wine cup slammed on the table, she jumped, and looked straight at Guthrum, he was studying her.

  “You will join us, tonight.” Guthrum linked hands with his bedmate and lifted them for Edeva to see.

  She glanced at his bedmate, who, as usual, was scowling at her. “But…”

  Annoyance rippled over Guthrum’s face. “But what? Are you about to say nay to me?”

  She stayed silent.

  “Mayhap I might give you to someone else?” He flicked a glance at his men, all looking eagerly at her. “Perhaps, Bard?” He noticed her pale.

  “Sire, I never meant to offend you, it’s just… it’s just… I might be with child.”

  Guthrum’s gaze landed on her belly, before returning to her face. He shrugged. “It cannot be seen. Meet us, later. No excuses. Or I will send Bard looking for you.”

  She looked at Bard. He was staring at her, laughing to himself. Like it or not, her plan had started to move into action on its own accord. Her heart started to beat faster. She would defy Guthrum and wait for Bard to be sent to find her. She needed those keys and was prepared to do anything to get them. She fought the feeling of disgust. Her body had never been her own since she’d become a slave, so one more sullied use of it wouldn’t matter.

  “Ay, Sire.” Edeva retreated before nausea took over her body.

  “Sir, sir,” Edeva whispered, as she tried her hand at speaking Anglo-Saxon.

  Cynebald didn’t have to look around his cell for long to decipher where the woman’s voice was coming from — the other side of the wall. His brows gathered as he stood up from his narrow bench to make his way over. He ignored the rat which ran in front of him.

  “I cannot linger, sir. They are meaning to kill you all tomorrow and then send you back to Alfred,” Edeva whispered, hoping no one, especially the Danes, would overhear her rusty Saxon.

  After deciphering her broken English, his nostrils flared. That is what they were sniggering about - the cheats. His lips flattened against his lips as his brain kicked into gear on what he was going to do. He was one of Alfred’s most trusted ealdormen and the king would never have sent him if they’d had any idea they were going to be double-crossed — that was the reason they had Guthrum swear on Thór’s holy ring. He had to get out. Maybe he could persuade this woman to get him a weapon, so he could fight his way out, tomorrow?

  “Sir?”

  “Ay?” He watched with fascination as, after listening to digging, a stone moved and a hand appeared. It was holding keys.

  “Pray, take these and find a way to get out. May the Lord’s strength and guidance be with you.”

  His eyebrows knitted together. A heathen giving him the Lord’s blessing? He bent down to take the keys, but before she could remove her hand, he grabbed it to stop her. “Before you go, can I ask the name of the angel who has been sent to release me?”

  “Edeva,” she replied

  He smiled. If he was correct, and she was the only servant with that Anglo-Saxon name in the camp, she was the woman whom he talked to the other day. “Thank you, Edeva. I will not forget your kindness. If I can, one day, I will repay you.”

  Chapter 4

  Summer 877 - Ranaricii

  While Ubba mentally berated the woman who stood facing
him, he rubbed his beard and tried to look interested in her ramblings. Suddenly, he sat back heavily and scanned the villagers who had squashed into the main longhouse for the thing. They didn’t need to know his feelings towards her, so he kept an impassive face, and hid the fact all she was succeeding in doing was making him feel restless and short-tempered. It was the end of a long day, sitting in counsel, listening to and sorting out disputes and he wasn’t in the mood.

  “Sire, every week another sheep goes missing. Soon I’ll have none left. And…”

  He put his large hand up to cut her off. He’d had enough of listening to Brynhild’s complaints. It wasn’t long ago that he gave her those extra sheep and goats for her holding, to help her, but had he seen her relaying her gratitude, then? Nay. He felt the tension creeping over his shoulders and neck. She had betrayed him — he owed her nothing. His gaze narrowed on her and turned icy. “Mayhap you should ask your husband, Bard Klaussen, to return home?” Ubba heard the snorts and laughter around him as most folk knew Bard wouldn’t return to his wife’s aid. Bard hadn’t even liked her when he lived in Ranaricii. He watched the flush creep across her cheeks, but he could see it was anger, not embarrassment which had her hold her elbows wide from her body and thrust her chest out.

  “But, Sire. If I have no wool or sheep for meat, how can I pay my way?”

  Ubba leaned forward, his blue gaze hostile. “You, Brynhild, stopped paying your way years ago.”

  She opened her mouth to say something but thought better of it.

  Ubba didn’t fail to notice her scowl. He lifted his eyebrows and was glad to see her back down, lowering her chin and looking at the floor. Her mouth indicated she was still muttering under her breath. He sat back and tapped his fingers together, saying nothing. Once, he would have made sure she didn’t go hungry — he was a fair Chieftain — but he had no care for Brynhild and her schemes. Not since she and her husband had betrayed him.