by Alexa Aston
He slapped at an insect. “Say you women never hit each other or use base or wicked means to achieve their goals?”
“Nay. I say we battle physically so much less oft than men that ’tis conspicuous by its absence among us.”
He went silent for the space of several upward steps. “What is cannot be changed, Yrsa. Men do battle. I believe ’twill always be so. I am a man. I do what I must, as do you as a female. Even did some men wish to set aside warring, there would always be others who would force their hand back to the sword. Would you have us stand as cowards and allow others to kill us or those ’tis our responsibility to protect?”
“Of course not.”
“Then this talk serves no purpose. ’Tis over.”
At least he had not raised one of those big, sword-calloused hands to her for speaking her mind. She decided not to push him.
The trail widened and became less precipitous as they climbed. They soon reached the summit. Before them on the far side, lay yet another wooded valley and another, steeper slope. Their path led them out of the foothills and into the high fells. ’Twas a rugged, rolling vista, though not as barren of vegetation as she thought when first she saw it from afar.
She stepped around a half-buried boulder and stopped beside Betek. “’Tis curious.”
“What is?”
“The land. The tops of the mountains are barren of all but scrub, moorland grass and heather. Yet the valleys are oft rich with trees and ferns.”
“Likely,” Elrik said, “’tis because as now, in summer, the peaks are exposed to the chill winds while the valleys are protected. So, too, there is oft water in the valleys.” Continuing their daily climbing pattern, he said, “Yrsa, hold the horses. Betek, we search for the best way down.”
The ‘best way down’ usually meant an animal trail, though the creatures large enough to forge them chose to remain scarce. Birds abounded, as did small rodents and hares, and red squirrels in the valleys, but they glimpsed deer and fox only in the distance. Sometimes, at night, the howling of wolves flowed down with the breeze, but of boar, they saw naught but the spoor.
At a shout from Elrik, she tugged on the reins and started toward him. The trail he discovered into the valley loomed neither difficult nor dangerous, unlike some they had followed. They could ride again.
He lifted her to Derk’s back and mounted behind her, his arm slipping around her waist. She wiggled her hips to settle them into the wedge formed by his thighs and leaned against his chest. She very much liked this intimacy with his powerful form.
“Elrik, where do we go?”
A smile limned his tone. “You only think to ask that now?
Betek snorted. “Does it matter, girl? You come with us whether you wish it or not.”
“I come with you because ’tis meant.” The retort emerged harsher than she intended, but Betek still made no secret of his disbelief in the validity of her dream. She softened her tone. “I but wonder, will we soon leave Norman rule and cross the border into Cumbra-land, which lies under the dominion of Malcolm of Scotland? But mayhap it matters not to either of you.”
Elrik’s voice rumbled against her back. “We are nigh the border, aye.”
“You care not?”
“I am not Norman. I have no quarrel with Scotland.”
“My mother was born in Penhrudd. She said ’twas nigh the western coast, though I know not where.” She twisted to look at him as Derk negotiated a tricky spot in their downward path. “I am curious what language you speak. ’Tis not like that of the Normans. Yet, do you not give allegiance to the Norman king?”
“I am Brabáncon, as is Betek. Our allegiance is to whichever lord buys our services, and in effect only for so long as he pays us. At the time we attacked your village, we had fulfilled our duty to Bishop Odo and were under oath to a local Norman baron whose liege lord is King William. Howbeit, we do not serve King William. In truth, we no longer serve anyone but ourselves.”
“I understand you are mercenaries, but what is ‘Brabáncon’? I have heard Saxon, Norse and Norman speech, but yours is different. Are you from a far country?”
“’Tis what we are called, Brabánters, our class of warriors. Breda, our town, is in Brabant, across the Sea of Germania.” She felt him sigh. “’Tis a very long way from here.”
“Now you have decided to stop fighting, do you not wish to return home?”
“We have naught to return to. We are bastards with no family and no place. We came here, as did most of those with whom we have fought, in hopes to gain enough coin to find a new place, to purchase land of our own we may call home.”
“Why do you travel west rather than south?”
He started to laugh. “Do your questions never cease, girl? Peace!”
“Módir used to say the same thing. She said I should have been named Forvitni.”
Betek said, “What does that mean?”
“Curiosity.”
As they entered the tree line halfway down the slope overlooking the valley, his chuckles joined Elrik’s. “You now know as much of us as any of our comrades, Yrsa. ’Tis time to tell us somewhat of yourself. Ottham appeared a prosperous enough village. I wish to know why you, a female who should be married, lived alone, in poverty, in a decaying hut far from all the rest. Were the young men in your village blind?”
“Aye,” Elrik said. “I wish also to know the reason for your isolation. Was it your choice to live apart? If so, ’twas foolish, for it left you vulnerable. Your liege lord should have seen to your care, even did the village males fail in their duty.”
Yrsa thought how to answer, for their questions were valid, but the tale’s beginning went back many years. How much would they truly wish to know?
She started to speak but Hugo interrupted. Traveling two lengths ahead, the horse abruptly sidled, nigh throwing his rider. The other three jerked their heads and snorted. Their sensitive ears, or mayhap their noses, had caught wind of something among the trees ahead they did not like.
“’Ware!” Elrik leapt from Derk, dragging her down with him so fast her senses spun.
Betek kicked off Hugo the same instant. He drew his war knife from the belt at his waist. “I will go.”
He threw his reins to Elrik, turned and slipped out of sight among the trees.
Chapter Five
The wind shifted. Elrik caught a whiff of an all-too-familiar smell, the charnel stench that had alerted the horses. Something rotted in the woods ahead.
Yrsa gagged and covered her mouth and nose. He caught her hand to lead her, with the animals, into the meager shelter of a shallow ravine and pushed her behind a large rock. “Remain silent and keep your head below the level of that boulder.”
He sank to one knee, his gaze alert on the shadowed forest into which Betek had disappeared. The breeze changed direction, clearing the air of reek.
Since leaving the nunnery, only once had they encountered others—a troop of Norman soldiers heading for a holding in the south. Throughout the path of devastation left by the marauders of Bishop Odo, half-brother to King William, and into the western foothills of the Liberty of Duresme, they found few villages intact. Only as they climbed into the mountains did the scenes of ruination cease. King William had ordered a thorough harrowing. His brother insured he got it.
Howbeit, war and king’s retribution did not now cause the emptiness of the land along their way, but rather the stark wildness of the passes and the difficulties involved in traversing them. ’Twas a hard and dangerous crossing over the mountains and few attempted it.
Time crawled while he waited for Betek. He started to grow concerned, but then his friend trotted into view, his easy, relaxed lope confirming no danger loomed directly in their path.
He stood and lifted Yrsa to her feet.
“There was battle in a clearing not far ahead,” Betek said. “At least four or five days past. Normans—a border patrol from Northymbre, methinks—and Scots. The latter prevailed. I counted six Norman dea
d, all mutilated, but there was a small grave.”
“The Scots had time to bury their dead.”
“Aye. There is evidence one or more Normans may have been taken alive. The Scots left a clear trail. I followed it for some distance and found a blood-soaked Norman surcoat at the base of a tree. Howbeit, considering the state of the bodies left behind, methinks their chances for survival are poor.”
“The Scots’ direction?”
“Same as ours. Generally northwest.”
“Four or five days. They will be long out of our way.” He glanced at Yrsa, who looked pale but composed. He liked that she did not become hysterical at the smell of death or possibility of danger, but for her sake and that of the skittish horses, he preferred to steer clear of the remains. “Lead us around the spot, Betek.”
The rest of that day passed with no further disturbing revelations. Toward evening, again sooner than their usual time to stop for the night, Betek dropped back so Hugo could plod beside them. “Let us find a campsite early, Elrik. My mouth waters at thought of fresh meat. This land abounds with hare and grouse. I will hunt.”
Elrik looked around. They had stopped at the summit of the highest of a series of rolling hills. The land fell in a sharp drop-off to an empty valley in the north but folded in gentle, grassy waves east, south and west. His vantage point atop Derk allowed him to spy, some little distance across the moor, a grass-filled, circular depression mayhap thirty feet across and nigh as deep as his height. He looked at the sky. “We will make camp here. Methinks the weather will hold.” He pointed with his chin. “Yonder hollow will give some shelter from the wind.”
“’Tis good.” Betek ambled in that direction.
“I am glad,” Yrsa said. She had slept part of the day in his arms, but though she complained not, she wearied of the constant travel. Shadows ringed her eyes and she asked few questions.
Without thinking of what he did, or reasons why he should not, he closed his arms around her to gently squeeze. She let out a laughing squeal and caught her breath when he nuzzled her with his nose, tracing the line of her profile from her temple to the sweet hollow where her neck met her shoulder. As he wanted to do from the moment he met her, he tasted the tiny freckles there.
A little “oh!” escaped her and her fingers tightened on his arms. “Elrik!”
She gave a sensual, breathless laugh as she turned her face into the caress. She leaned her head against his shoulder and tucked her face into his neck.
He yielded to the invitation. He sought her lips with his and covered them. Rivers of heat cascaded through his body, scalding his veins. He accepted what she so willingly offered and took some more. A roaring filled his mind as he cupped and kneaded soft flesh. Ah, so sweet.
She gave a little sound, part groan, part whimper. “Elrik, what do you do?”
He snapped open his eyes as he came back to where he was and what he did—nigh ravishing his innocent rose on the back of his horse, for saint’s sake.
“I am thinking of how much I would like to make love to you, Yrsa of Ottham,” he said, trying to catch his breath. He dropped his hand and shuddered. “Mayhap, ’tis best if I walk the rest of the way.”
He vaulted from Derk’s back and looked up at her. “Shall you walk, as well?”
She stared at him, her expression soft. Desire had darkened her gaze. “I will.”
He helped her down and took her hand. She curled her small fingers around his. The contact felt more satisfying than any other feminine touch he could remember. He did not release her until they stood above the hollow.
Accustomed to the routine of setting up camp for the night, they made quick work of it. This evening, he took charge of the horses and unloaded the supplies, leaving Yrsa to get a fire going. He led the animals to a thigh-high, uneven ridge of rough, vertical granite thrusting up from the earth as if nature created a fence and stretched it as far as the eye could see in either direction. A great pile of huge boulders, jumbled together and taller than the height of two men, straddled the ridge. Tall upland grass grew lushly around its base. Nearby he found a rocky basin filled with rainwater. He tethered the horses and then bent to the basin to fill a pot with water for bathing and a smaller one for cooking.
He returned to the hollow as Betek picked up his bow.
His friend gave him a mock bow and turned to offer Yrsa the same. “Will you have hare or bird, my lord, my lady?”
“Hare,” he said at the same time Yrsa giggled and said, “Grouse.”
Betek chuckled. “Both ’tis.”
“Do not get lost.”
“In all the years we have been together, have you ever known me to lose my way?”
“There is always a first time.”
His friend walked away without a word.
“That exchange had the sound of a long-standing jest,” Yrsa said as she unpacked the satchel holding their cooking utensils. As much to ward off the coming cold of night as to cook their meal, she already had a good fire burning with the fuel they harvested from the last wooded valley they crossed.
He looked at her and grinned. “Long ago, on our first contract as mercenaries, we were sent to a city called Uut Trecht. There was a festival and we gained permission to attend. That eve, we celebrated. Betek drank too much wine. I tried to persuade him to leave with me, but he refused, saying he would find his own way back to our lodgings.” The breeze loosened a lock of his hair and dropped it in his eyes. He scowled and shoved it back. “I also consumed more wine than was wise and slept till late the next morn, unaware he did not come in. Once I woke up enough to realize he had not returned to our lodgings, I searched for him. I found him in an alley with a lump on his head and missing his coin, his clothing and his dignity. Never again did he become sotted.”
“A hard lesson.”
“Aye,” he said. He knelt to rummage in one of the packs. “It could have been his last. He was fortunate the thieves left him his life.”
An uneasy neigh from Hugo brought his head up, his senses alerted. Predators roamed the moors. Mayhap he should take a look around.
“Amusing story, Saxon.”
He surged to his feet at sound of the strange voice. A lone, dark haired man observed him from the lip of the hollow. Quickly joined by nine others, one of whom held a knife to Betek’s throat, the man held that air of unconscious authority Elrik had long since learned to associate with strong, capable leaders. Of average height and build, he appeared the eldest of the group, mayhap in his early fourth decade.
“Aye,” said a fellow who stood beside him. “Mayhap if they amuse us enough we will let them live a while.”
Betek’s teeth were gritted and fire nigh roiled in his eyes, but that he remained among the living indicated these strangers saw no reason to kill before learning the situation. But from whence did they come? How did they manage to sneak up on him, and take Betek? He had not been caught off his guard like this since he first set out to learn the skill of combat.
He glanced at Yrsa. She gaped at them. Plainly, she had no dream warning of this event, more to the pity.
“Well now,” said the leader. “I must ask you to explain who you are and why English trespass on lands belonging to Scotland.”
They were Scots, armed with blades and bows but not obviously soldiers. Raiders then? The same who attacked and destroyed the Norman patrol?
He liked not the leader, though apart from his man threatening Betek’s lifeblood, he could not immediately say why. “We owe you no explanation. We travel this land on our own business and offer threat to none save to those who thrust it first upon us.”
“There are those among my people who believe English are a threat whether or not they ‘offer’ one.”
“We are not English.”
“Hmmm. By your accent I might agree, though mayhap your woman is,” he said, his gaze raking Yrsa’s form. “Since you will not say who you are, why should we think you different?”
“Because I say ’tis so
.”
The man cocked his head and held Elrik’s gaze. He appeared to reach a decision, for he gestured to the one who held Betek. The man released him but pushed him so hard he stumbled into the hollow and rolled to the bottom, cursing the entire distance.
“I am Dugald.” The leader watched Betek regain his feet and then faced Elrik. “There, I have given the courtesy of my name. Your turn.”
“I am Elrik of Breda. This is Betek of same.”
“I have not heard of this Breda. Where is it?”
“’Tis in Brabant, across the Germania Sea.”
Dugald stilled. A ripple of tension slewed through his men.
“You are Brabáncon.” Not a question. “What of the woman?”
“She is no concern of yours, but she is not Saxon.”
Yrsa chose that moment to enter the verbal fray. “I am Yrsa of Ottham. My fadir was Támhas of Carleol, my módir Valgertha, formerly of Penrhudd.”
He hid his dismay at her revelation and hoped giving the Scots some small bits of information about her half-Scottish origin would not end up a mistake. Still, he liked not the looks her fragile beauty received from some of the men, especially Dugald. The man could not, or would not keep his hot, avid stare from returning again and again to rest on her slender curves.
That was reason enough to hate him.
“Ah, not Saxon but Norse, and born also of one of our kin.” Dugald nodded as if satisfied. The false mien of jovial banter between friends dropped from him like a cloak to reveal the commander. His gaze settled on the various supplies piled nigh the fire. “Brábanter warriors,” he said, smiling as if a pleasant thought occurred to him. “What have you in those satchels yonder besides food and warm clothing?”
The question elicited an excited stirring among the rest of the Scots.
Elrik made no answer, but by the wolf’s head, ’twas an error to have admitted the location of their homeland. The recognition of their mercenary status meant the Scots now suspected they carried their pay among their supplies.
