by Alexa Aston
She draped the new clothes over one of his shoulders.
Betek glanced at him and sniggered.
Elrik rolled his eyes.
The clothes she took off went over the other shoulder. Thankfully, she made short work of changing. “I am ready.”
She rolled up the habit and old cyrtle and handed them to him to store in the pack.
He wrapped her in a warm cloak, lifted her to the saddle and mounted behind her, then covered them both with the oiled cape. “I wish to travel far from this place by nightfall. For this day, we ride swiftly. To the west!”
Betek took up the reins to the supply mounts. “Lead on, oh wise one. May we have safe journey to wherever under the heavens we go.”
They trotted down a furrow as they passed through a villein’s field, then across open pastureland where grazed sheep. A shepherd and his dog watched them but made no move. Moments later, the forest surrounded them.
Elrik breathed deeply of the cool, moisture-laden air. ’Twas shadowed beneath the canopy and while he kept Derk moving steadily west, he allowed the animal to pick its own way. His heart soared and his spirit lightened. With his woman, his friend and the coin they needed to begin a new life, he moved toward the future.
Chapter Three
Nightfall, two days later, found Yrsa and her companions far from the nunnery and her old life. It also found her physically cold and miserable. ’Twas warm and dry enough so long as she rode huddled beneath the oiled cape with Elrik’s body heat at her back, but she no sooner dismounted than the chill and wet assaulted her. If the muttering of Betek and the silence of Elrik indicated aught, they bore equal discomfort. Still, her heart remained light.
Their little group had stopped along a rain-swollen stream banked on either side by deep shelves of rock and moss-strewn boulders. They made camp for the night beneath the summer-rich foliage of a grove of trees.
She bent to dunk a three-legged cooking pot into the water and groaned beneath her breath as her legs protested the movement. Elrik did not push them hard and this day, they stopped earlier than before. They rode without haste, beginning each day after sunrise and stopping while the sun hovered above the horizon, but the unaccustomed hours of riding left her exhausted. Her thighs and backside threatened revolt. She hoped the soreness did not render her movements as graceless as they felt.
Not that it mattered. Betek unpacked the horses. Elrik attempted to build a fire in a shallow pit. Neither of them paid her mind. He and Betek spoke little as they rode, to her or each other, and demanded less, requiring only that she do her share of the work when they camped. All things considered, ’twas an equitable arrangement.
Apart from the intervention of Freya, she still had no notion of what prompted Elrik to bring her along. The night before, when she gently probed, his responses amounted to little more than mutters or grunts. Whatever his thoughts concerning her presence, he wished not to share them.
His unsuccessful efforts to build a fire filled her with misgiving. Her job was to prepare the meal. In order to render the bread palatable, she needed hot water to boil dried meat to create broth to soak the bread.
He finally gave up. The rain had ceased, but after so many days of it, the wood refused to catch.
Betek cursed the uncooperative faggot of twigs, the rain and the chilly breeze that sprang up with the onset of evening. “Another night of cold fare and colder sleeping,” he grumbled. “The mischief of the witte wieven abounds this night, and I begin to believe the sun has offended the gods and in punishment, is no longer allowed to shine.”
“Your grievance is noted, old man,” Elrik said. He dropped to the foot of one of the trees and leaned against it. “Mayhap do you complain loudly enough someone will hear and remove the curse you seem to think lies upon us.”
“Old man!” Betek muttered something unintelligible under his breath. He sighed, sat beside the fireless pit and pulled his cloak tighter. “You are certain west is the direction you wish to go? Have you forgotten how warm ’tis to the south, and how much easier the land for trekking?”
Elrik’s lips twitched, but he only closed his eyes.
Yrsa shared out bread as hard as the ground they sat upon and chunks of moldy cheese. “I wish not to dismay you further, Betek, but in my village, ’twas told by travelers that the great mountains dividing east from west are haunted.” She glanced at Elrik. He appeared asleep, but the gleam beneath his lashes proved otherwise. “Fell creatures and draugum of the ancient world torment those who dare tread the high paths. Only the bravest and strongest of men survive the passage across the heights.”
Betek chuckled as he poured ale over his bread in an effort to soften it. “’Tis more likely we will run into dangerous enough creatures that are all too real. I have heard it said the stags of the mountains are twice the height of men, and the boars of the valleys would dwarf our horses. Now that would be a fine battle for a warrior, would it not, Elrik, to bring down such an animal?”
Elrik opened his eyes. “Aye. Yet I am more concerned about the simple things, the cold, the rain and the lack of villages to replenish our supplies. I had thought to reach Toresbi within three or four days and thus purchased provisions for a week, but ’tis taking longer than I expected to traverse this land. At the rate we travel, they will not last unless we hunt along our way. Howbeit, I see no need as yet to push the horses—or Yrsa.”
Betek passed Yrsa his eating knife to cut the moldy rind off her cheese.
She raised her chin and glared at Elrik. “I am not a weakling. I will manage. As for food, in the valleys we may find nuts, wild vegetables and early berries.”
He grinned, his mirth likely due to her moment of pridefulness. “At least,” he said, looking up into the rapidly darkening sky, “’tis high summer. It grows cooler as we climb higher, but ’tis hopeful we will not have to fight snow, as well.”
“In my lifetime, I remember but one tale of summer snow on the high fells.” She thought of her dream vision, and confidence filled her tone. “I do not believe we will face that difficulty.”
His eyes closed, and for a time silence ruled except for the muted chatter of the stream, the breeze shivering through many leaves and the occasional movements of the horses. She did not believe him asleep, but of what did he think? Did he give forethought, as a warrior, only to the needs and dangers of their journey, or did part of his contemplation include consideration of her and what they must surely come to mean to each other?
She eyed him from beneath her lashes. He had mayhap a score and four or five years. How many of those had he spent fighting? No visible battle scars marred his features. Sun-golden strands of hair in need of trimming flopped across his forehead and covered the tops of his ears. They framed a handsome countenance. Strength of body and character lay in the bulk of his shoulders and the well-defined planes of his face. Beneath a day’s growth of beard, resolve firmed his square chin. It made her mouth dry to look at him.
She had never known desire for a man, but a hot, tingling sensation she could only identify as carnal longing swept over her as her gaze focused on the sensual curve of his full lower lip. Her perusal dropped to outline the contours of his powerful chest and lowered further to follow the lean, muscular outline of hips and thighs beneath the fabric of tunic and braies. Gratitude vied with the heat that rushed through her veins to pool in her lower body. Freya gave her such a good and beautiful man to love, and aye, she did already care much for him.
“How did you know I would come that day?”
Deep in thoughts of him, ’twas a moment before she realized he spoke the words to her. The heat of a blush crept up her face. While she delighted in ogling his manly splendor, he observed her. How much of her private musing showed on her face?
“What say you?”
“How did you know I would not kill you?”
Betek, lounging against his pallet, sat up. “Of what nonsense do you speak, Elrik?”
A spike of joy pulsed in Yrsa’s
heart. She had not expected him to understand even so much. “The knowledge was sent to me in a dream.”
His gray eyes brooded, but his look held no censure. “I oft dream, especially of late, but they are not visions I wish to give much heed. They are dark. Why would you trust such a sending?”
“It happened oft before. The gift of foreseeing through dreams was bestowed upon my mother as a child, but ’twas not given to me until the age of five and ten. I am now eight and ten and have received but four sendings, yet as with all of módir’s dreams, each was true.”
“Dreams? Visions?” Betek frowned as he sputtered the words. “Bah! What foolishness is this?”
Elrik threw him a vexed glance. “I wish to know more of this.”
“’Tis a bestowing of Freya,” Yrsa said, “but ’tis a gift that brims with peril. Módir taught that true wisdom is to know when to keep silent. If the fate is not dire, ’tis best to allow what is seen to come to pass. With my first three sendings, I said naught, but if one chooses to speak, brevity is best.”
“Why?”
“Action can change the outcome of that which is seen, but not always to the good. Those told may respond wrongly, and thus the consequence remains evil, for them or others. Sometimes, a sense of knowing what is right to do accompanies the dreams, or a sense one must intervene. If not, much care must be taken.” She shook her head. “Also, telling what is known will not change what is to come if those involved choose to ignore it.”
“What else did you see?”
“Do you truly wish to know, or will you but mock me?”
“I wish to know.”
“We were meant to meet. We are meant to live together in love, for our lifetimes. ’Tis intended we create a home, beget children.”
“You mean marriage.”
She nodded.
He held her gaze, his expression tightly controlled.
From him, she sensed no rejection of her statement, rather an impression of hope and longing and need. That he wished not to speak further of so personal a matter in front of Betek was also obvious when he continued. “You follow the faith of your ancestors then, rather than the Church?”
“I do, as did módir. She taught me the ancient ways and beliefs of her people.”
“But, that is blasphemy.” Astonishment rather than offense colored Betek’s tone. He frowned and scratched his beard. “Few there are of our people or yours who still cling to the old ways. Those beliefs are known, but not well received by the Church and thus, not practiced. I would not have thought a woman such as yourself would do so.”
She grinned. “Such as myself? And what sort of woman think you I am, Betek?”
He flushed. “What I think is of no consequence.”
Elrik stood. “Nay, ’tis not. I am pleased with her as she is, and that is all that matters. Darkness is nigh. ’Tis time to rest. The morrow will be long, mayhap more so than this day.” He bent to pull blankets from the packs lying beside the pit with the missing fire. Throwing one to her and another to Betek, he wrapped the third around himself. “Remember, Yrsa,” he said, his gaze holding hers, “do you get cold this night, come lie with me. We will share our warmth.” He grinned at Betek. “Do you get cold, my friend, you may cuddle with Hugo.”
Betek guffawed. “Hugo wishes for a warm stable. I cannot say I disagree.”
He stretched out and tucked the blanket around himself. Not long after, he snored.
Yrsa could not sleep. Her thoughts nigh made her dizzy as they circled round in her brain. Elrik was meant for her. She never doubted it, but neither had she expected to find the knowledge confirmed so clearly, more and more each day. The life she wanted with him, the children they would have, the love they would share—all these and more played out before the eyes of her mind until she thought she would burst with desire for him.
The clouds that plagued the land the past many days sped away. Stars popped into the clear sky, filling the dark expanse with the magic of light. As the night deepened, the temperature dropped. She shivered.
From across the fireless pit, he spoke, his voice quiet. “Come stretch out beside me, Yrsa. I hear your teeth chattering.”
She smiled.
Elrik awoke nigh the dawning, Yrsa warm and relaxed in his hold, her feminine shape plastered close. Gently, so as not to disturb her, he tightened his hold, admiring her fragile beauty. How easily she beguiled him. The press of soft hips and the tempting fullness of breasts urged he take her, now, in the most elemental of ways, but Betek slept nigh.
Now was not the right time. He could wait. Awe at his fortune along with the simple comfort of her presence held greater sway. He wished first to know the woman behind the sweet curves.
He carefully set her from him. Mind and body refreshed, he yawned and stretched. The increasingly frequent—and increasingly violent—dreams of his own death had not bothered him these past nights with Yrsa in his arms. He was convinced her presence held them at bay. He had slept better than in many a month, for ’twas right he cradled her in his hold.
That much of her dreams he accepted, that they should share a life together. She believed it would come to pass, and mayhap she was right. Certainly, he already thought of her as the missing element of his life, the one person he needed to complete his future even if previously unaware of the lack.
Gold could not absolve a man’s bloodstained soul, but possibly some other coin, less obvious and more precious, might purchase redemption. He had lived long enough to know sometimes the gods or fate decreed two should find each other. These would then become forever one, not only in body and in the eyes of the church and the world, but also in heart, mind and soul. If this woman learned to love him there remained a chance, aye, a slim hope he might find the peace he had not acknowledged he craved until he walked away from war.
She stirred and rolled over to face him. “Good morn.”
He smiled, slowly. Mayhap he might satisfy some need of hers, as well. Aye, he had found his mate, and he would not now part from her.
Chapter Four
Yrsa trod in single file with her companions along a narrow animal track halfway up the side of a steep cliff. To their right, a sheer wall of rough, tree-topped granite rose some twenty feet above their heads. To their left, a rocky embankment layered in green moss, boulders and dead leaves dropped to meet a rushing stream. Elrik deemed it safest to walk the path and lead the horses rather than ride.
Betek led the way with Hugo, his tail swishing, and the packhorse with its oddly shaped burdens, leaving her to tramp in front of Elrik, with Derk and the other packhorse bringing up the rear.
“Betek, what lies beneath the coverings on the packhorse you lead?”
He glanced back. “Our shields, mail, helms and crossbows.”
He said it as if the answer should be obvious.
“Crossbows? But you are already armed with more than one knife, swords hang at your waists, and the other horse carries your lances slung along its sides. Why then do you also need bows? Do you truly need so many weapons?”
She waited until they crossed the cliff face to a safer riding path on the other side, but neither man answered. ’Twould seem, like many other questions she asked, they deemed her query not worth a response.
She tried again. “Why do men fight?”
“What say you?” This time, Elrik answered, his tone suggesting a brisk mental scratching of his head.
She sighed. ’Twas what she expected whenever she put forth the query about which she had wondered since her childhood, when for the first time she watched village boys roll in the dirt, pounding each other until blood flew.
At the time, she ran home to ask módir, but Valgertha of Ottham’s answer did not satisfy. “They are boys, dóttir,” her mother said, as if that explained all.
Over time, she found courage to ask the question of the boys themselves, but most frowned and ignored her or declared ’twas what ‘men’ did, though one cuffed her for presumption. She believed t
hey knew not the answer, their reaction thus based on embarrassment at their ignorance. To her mind, their various responses indicated clues leading to resolution of the puzzle, but she still had not enough of the pieces to work out a conclusion.
Lately, the question persisted in her mind, and not only because of the destruction of Ottham. At the base of the slope they now climbed they had found the remains of three Saxon men who died by violence.
“Why do men fight?”
At the abrupt cessation of movement behind her, she threw a glance over her shoulder. Elrik had paused. He stared at her as if she asked him why he breathed.
He snapped his lips shut and caught up. “There are many reasons, Yrsa. You know this.”
“You misunderstand. Why do men battle? Women protect those we love, as men do. For the same reasons as men, we grow angry, even enraged. We insult each other, disagree strongly, covet that which belongs to another and sometimes hate each other. Yet most of the time, we resolve our disputes with words or come to some acceptable compromise. Why do men not do the same?”
From ahead, Betek said, “I do not believe that thought has ever come to me.”
“Nor to me,” Elrik admitted, “but I would say, ’tis the way of things. It has always been so.”
“Why?”
Betek, brows drawn down, threw a sidelong glance back at her, as if becoming aware the conversational ground he walked might suddenly open beneath his feet and drop him into a pit. “As Elrik said, it simply is.”
She shook her head, willing them to understand. “It does not have to be. Men choose to fight. You do it when there is no reason and engage in mock battle for enjoyment. You are no less quick-witted than women and no more prideful or temper prone. Yet women usually choose to settle quarrels without violence while a man is more likely to react to disagreement by grabbing the nearest weapon.”
“Words may also do damage,” Elrik said.
“That is true, but when ’tis done, the one injured still lives to recover.”
