“It’s these Saxons,” Leif boomed out. “More concerned with building their walls than taking care of their own families.”
“You mistake the matter.” Aelfwynn felt her chin rise, and though she knew she risked herself—and Thorbrand’s grip on her neck let her know how much—she could not stop herself. “My uncle and his sister were close, but the same cannot be said for him and me. They knew each other well and had done so since they were young. In comparison, my motivations can only be guessed at.”
The Northman king sat forward, his gaze so hard it made her want to shrivel. Yet she did not. And deep inside, she accepted that it was because Thorbrand was there, holding her up.
“What, then, are your motivations?” Ragnall demanded, no laughter anywhere about him. “And do not dissemble. I cannot abide a lie in the mouth of a woman.”
“No man who lies to his king is a man at all,” Ulfric intoned darkly.
“My motivation at present,” Aelfwynn said crisply, “is to escape my captor and flee. I think you’ll find it is the primary motivation of any captive.”
Yet because she smiled when she said it, Ragnall laughed again.
“Ragnall is not her king,” Thorbrand added then, his voice dark. Darker than usual, commanding the instant attention of all in the hall, including Ragnall. And reminding Aelfwynn that he, too, had weapons greater than steel. “Edward is her king as well as her uncle. We forget it at our peril, surely.”
“It would be treasonous to say otherwise,” Aelfwynn agreed, still smiling. “No matter how many men lay in wait for me on that road.”
Ragnall considered her. “But it is not up to a woman loyal to the Wessex king to decide where her loyalty lies. A Christian woman must have a master, is that not so?”
“I am blessed with many,” Aelfwynn replied, though she shook, deep inside. “Beginning with my God, master of all masters.”
“They say you are a pious thing above all else,” the Northman king continued, thoughtfully. He stroked his beard as he gazed down at Aelfwynn. “It is said that no matter who was chosen for you by your mother, you would have given your agreement, and so she could use you in any manner she saw fit.”
“I was never given the opportunity to prove my obedience,” Aelfwynn replied, carefully, and was glad of it that she could not see Thorbrand, then. For she had obeyed him, had she not? Over and over and over again.
“You must know that I could have you killed at any time,” Ragnall said, almost softly. Almost. “It is a tidy solution, as your uncle knew well. For as long as you draw breath, you remind too many that your mother held Mercia and a man who marries you could do the same. With or without your uncle’s approval. I considered having my men cut your throat and deliver you thus to your uncle. A message I know well he would understand. For however he might choose to treat his own blood, he would not take kindly to my doing the same.”
Aelfwynn inclined her head, and tried to look suitably grateful for his counsel. Even if what he had to say was this. And even when her throat began to ache in protest of his talk of cutting it.
“But I would have died long since were I blind to the tools presented to me,” Ragnall growled at her. “No matter their form. And as long as you are useful, girl, I will keep you alive.”
He stared at her, and Aelfwynn had to fight off the icy cold trickle that wound its way down the length of her back. He stared at her from his high seat and she knew that once again, she was helpless. Was that not always her plight?
Her mother would have fought—
Your mother is dead, a voice in her said sharply. You can choose to follow her, or you can choose to live. But you must choose. Now.
And so Aelfwynn discovered that she was not, in fact, a martyr. Because she wished to live. There was Thorbrand at her back, no matter what these men had in store for her, and she wished to live.
“Then I vow it is my great delight to prove myself useful to you,” she told the Northman king. And bowed her head.
Her mother would have been appalled. But Aethelflaed was not here. And Aelfwynn was in no rush to follow her into the hereafter.
There was a small, tense silence, and she was certain that meant they were all speaking to each other with their eyes over her head. Let them, she thought. The outcome would be the same—as they wished it—whether she joined in or did not.
“Until tomorrow, then,” Ragnall said, after the silence had gone on some little while.
Though her lashes were low, she was aware of it when he swaggered from the hall, his men with him. Even Leif and Ulfric left, and slowly, almost as if he didn’t want to do it, Thorbrand turned her around so she was looking straight at him.
She reacquainted herself with his face. It had been a long while since she had gone so long without seeing it. Midnight eyes and a dark beard of the same rich, deep brown as his hair, the sides braided back. He was a fearsome sight, this man. He was beautiful.
But he had never been hers.
Aelfwynn needed to take that to heart and quick.
Thorbrand ran his hand over her long plait. “Not many dare to taunt my king.”
“The best kings like to be taunted,” Aelfwynn replied. “In moderation. For them, it is a moment’s amusement to be treated as if they are ordinary.”
“Is that what you are, Aelfwynn? A moment’s amusement?”
“Is that up to me?” She searched his face but saw only stone. “I thought it was required of me that I make myself a useful tool.”
Thorbrand’s gaze was a torment, then. He had dropped the hand that had tugged on her braid, but his other hand still caught her nape. And as he gazed down at her, his thumb moved. Up, then down, spreading heat deep into her.
Reminding her that where he was concerned, all she ever did was burn.
His thumb stopped moving. “Then I will tell you what it is Ragnall requires of you.”
There was a heaviness in his tone and she could have sworn she saw some kind of bleakness in his gaze. But his eyes stayed steady on hers, even so.
She remembered their first time in the hot spring and the taut, intense look on his face as he’d held her splayed open. You are the daughter of kings and queens, he had told her. And you will suffer beautifully. And quietly.
Aelfwynn gathered those words to her breast. She stood straight. Then held his gaze, as if she had no fear.
“Ragnall wishes for your loyalty,” Thorbrand told her. “To him alone.”
Aelfwynn was sure she did not react, but when Thorbrand smiled, she knew she had failed.
“As he was at pains to discover himself, I already have a king,” she said slowly. Carefully. Very carefully. “For all his faults, Edward must claim my loyalty. Even if for blood alone.”
“That is why he spoke to you of masters.” Thorbrand’s gaze was hot, then. Another weapon, she thought distantly. “For the day will come when Ragnall takes Mercia, Aelfwynn. And it will be easier to settle, will it not, if your people see that they are not being conquered by savages, but rather reintroduced to one they already know well and love.”
Aelfwynn swallowed hard and willed her hands not to curl into fists.
“I think you underestimate the Mercian spirit, Thorbrand.” She forced herself to breathe. To broach the topic she had avoided all this time, because, she understood, she had been too afraid to face it. But face it she must. “For they will not celebrate the daughter of their much-beloved Lady when she arrives before them in chains. As a thrall to a conqueror.”
He laughed. He laughed, and she hated him with a wild passion in that moment, but it did naught to stop him. “You think I will make you my thrall? In chains?”
And she had known, always, that this day would come, had she not? It had been particularly clear on the cold ride here what was likely to happen to her. What would become of her. All she had left was her dignity.
If all else failed, she would rely on it. It would not save her. She knew that.
But it was far better than shame.
“I have accepted my fate,” she told him, proud of how clear her voice was. “I would have thought that you would cheer on my acquiescence. Is that not how you Northmen embrace your destiny?”
Thorbrand studied her, his laughter fading. There, alone in the hall, he moved to slide his hands to her face. Then he held her there, a palm on either side and a look she was sure she had never seen before making him look...new.
She would have said tender had his eyes not blazed.
“I am sorry indeed to disappoint you,” he said in that dark, stirring way that she feared would always make her bones go soft. And the rest of her burn. “But I have not taken you to become my thrall. I have no need of you as a slave.”
She did not understand. What was worse than a thrall? Her mouth was far too dry of a sudden. “Then...?”
“Aelfwynn, I thought you knew.” Thorbrand did not smile. His mouth was stern, his gaze intense. And she could feel that crackling fire that was always between them leap high. “I will have you for my wife. On the morrow.”
Chapter Eleven
Man må hyle med de ulve man er i blandt.
One must howl with the wolves one is among.
—Old Norse Proverb
The next morning, Thorbrand left Aelfwynn sleeping soundly in his furs, tucked up in the tent he’d pitched behind the long hall before the main meal the night before. Where, later that same eve, he had indulged every impulse he’d put on hold during their first nights in that same tent. And had acquainted her with almost every one of the images he’d kept to himself back in those early days—saving only those that required...more space. And fewer nearby ears.
He stretched as he stood outside the tent, pleased to see another bright winter’s day with no hint of any more snow in the air. The villagers were tending to the cattle and the sheep this side of the morning meal, though he could see the smoke rise above the hall and the rich scent of last night’s stew that would feed the adults a bit later. His belly let him know it was empty, but he liked to have little food in him when he trained.
Instead of making his way into the hall, he skirted the building to meet up with Ulfric, Leif, and the rest of the men who had come with Ragnall. They gathered out in the fields to swing steel and make certain that whatever came next, they were ready.
As he had always been ready, Thorbrand thought as he and Leif battled, warming quickly enough in the cold that soon, they steamed. Their swords clashed and neither one of them was afraid to fight dirty. Leif laughed loud and long as he fought, a tactic Thorbrand had seen unnerve a great many opponents in their time, but he knew his cousin well. He ignored the bluster and aimed for the other man’s weaknesses.
And smiled when his cousin stopped laughing and cursed him instead.
“You rely too much on the noise you make,” Thorbrand told him.
“Meyla krafla mikli thur syr,” Leif growled back.
Thorbrand only grinned at the colorful insult. “That is no way to speak of your aunt, cousin.”
Leif lifted his sword and charged.
And all around them, men grunted and fought, holding themselves in check only enough to keep from skewering their brothers. Steel clashed and sang. Men cursed and boasted. These were the sounds that brought the world awake each morn and lulled it to sleep each night, and well did Thorbrand know it.
The gods forged the earth, but men bled upon it. Son after father, season after season. His own sons would chase their honor and glory on these cold islands, until all that was left of his blood was a whisper on the wind and, if he was lucky, a story told well over a warm fire on a cold night.
It was the gift his own deeds gave his father before him.
There was a time such thoughts had brought him comfort.
But as the morning passed in the clang of steel and the roar of battle, even though it were practice, he found the notion less pleasant than before.
Imagine, a voice inside him whispered, to his shame, if you honored your parents not by dying as they did...but by living?
He could not imagine such a shameful life, he told himself as he fought.
Yet he knew that the real trouble was that he could.
Thanks to Aelfwynn and their time in that cottage, he could indeed.
When they had finished, the men made their way into the hall, where the village women had warmed last night’s stew and ladled it out to all as they took seats where they could. This was a farming village, not a warrior’s mead hall, and there were no storied long tables here. It was how his people lived through the winters and the wars, Thorbrand thought as he took his meal and sat. The raiders sailed with provisions enough to live through a long siege in a hostile place. They dried out fish so it could be easily carried and stored, then left in water so it could be eaten as new wherever they found themselves should the journey be overlong or hunting prospects meager where they landed. And they could sleep in their sturdy tents no matter the weather, as Thorbrand had done all over these islands, more often than not. But what a man could do was not necessarily what he liked to do. He far preferred a welcome like this instead, with a rich stew to warm his belly and the heat of a well-tended fire when the weather turned. Though this village was more in the Saxon style than that of Thorbrand’s people, the villagers here no doubt a mix of Northumbrian and the many invaders who had claimed these lands, they had greeted Ragnall as their king.
Because survival often depended on recognizing a king when one appeared, Thorbrand thought then, with some amusement. He suspected that were Edward to appear before this same hearth tomorrow, the villagers would treat him just the same.
Kings came and went. Land could always be disputed. What mattered was the will to fight on, come what may.
Then again, he thought as he filled his belly, perhaps there were other ways to fight.
“How fares our Mercian princess with her upcoming nuptials?” Ulfric asked from beside him. “She will make a merry bride, I hope?”
Thorbrand shrugged. “I feel certain she will come around to it.”
Leif snorted. “However will you tempt her?”
“I do not find it necessary to tempt women, cousin,” Thorbrand said. He grinned. “They find merely to gaze upon me temptation enough.”
“Temptation enough to slip a dagger in your ribs,” his brother retorted.
“And yet I do not bleed,” Thorbrand replied. He eyed Ulfric and his usual dark scowl. ”A pity you cannot say the same, brother.”
Ulfric glared, the scar on his face telling its own tale. And then Leif was starting in on him as Thorbrand had known he would, once again bringing up the fact that Ulfric, a mighty warrior, had let his own concubine cut him.
Thorbrand sat back, let them bicker, and thought over Aelfwynn’s reaction to the news he meant to wed her.
It had been much like that first night in their tent, after he’d taken her from the road. That night she had laid herself out before him, a brave sacrifice to a ravening beast.
And had seemed, if he wasn’t mistaken, somewhat disappointed that her martyrdom was not required.
So too had she seemed...almost outraged that he planned to marry her.
You do not mean marry me, she’d said, her voice loud and shocked in the empty hall.
And yet I will, all the same.
She had frowned at him, that perfect, placid sweetness of hers gone as if it had never been. That mask she wore to handle kings and strangers alike had disappeared like smoke through the opening in the roof above them.
He found he liked it best when she wore no mask at all. And no garments otherwise, were he to have his way.
I’m not the loose end your king believes me to be, she had told him. My uncle wanted me dead. Or at the very l
east, tucked away in a nunnery with unbreakable vows made to God. I am no threat to anyone.
Thorbrand had considered her for some time. And wondered what had befallen him, that while he yearned to ease his need in her, as ever, he found a different solace simply in touching her. In holding her face in his hands. In running hands over the silk of her flaxen tresses, braided or not.
It is not that you are a threat, sweeting, he told her, and had found a hand over his chest as if he was bruised. It is that you could be used as leverage. Surely you know this.
Her frown had deepened. I do not recall agreeing to marry anyone, much less the man who abducted me from a dark road.
You cannot have imagined the choice would ever have been yours to make, Aelfwynn. Whether on a dark road or in a bright-lit castle.
She had actually curled her hands into fists. He would have laughed, if only to see if she would swing them, but this was a serious matter. This was their marriage—and he found that what he’d seen as a duty to be exercised in service to his king before he’d met her was now...
A different kind of song in him altogether.
I do not know how you Northmen conduct your affairs, she had seethed at him, but brides are rarely forced where I come from. We are not so uncivilized as some.
He had wanted to stop her there. To revel in her like this, eyes of molten gold no longer demurely downcast. Temper coloring her cheeks. Those fists. Like his very own, tiny Saxon Valkyrie. His cock took notice. His heart had pounded at him, hard, like a blow.
But Ragnall expected a wedding to lock Aelfwynn down and keep her within his control, to be used against her uncle in the future. And it turned out... Thorbrand wanted a wedding himself, for reasons he had not cared to dig into just then.
This is no question of civility, he had told her. It is about kingdoms, not manners. You are the granddaughter of Alfred. It is known what blood runs in your veins.
Remember who my mother was, please.
I remember, he had said. Though I wonder if you do. She loved you well, I have no doubt, but surely you know that when it came to a choice between her love and her rule, she would always have chosen what was best for Mercia. Or perhaps for her brother.
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