Agravar grabbed the sword in his side and yanked it out with a scream to ward off the pain. He looked down to his ankles and began to wedge the blade into the bindings.
A foot connected with his chin, sending him sprawling onto his back. Davey lunged for the sword, but Agravar’s hand closed over it, angling it at the last moment. Davey jumped back, clutching his shoulder. His eyes were full of accusation, as if he could not believe Agravar had drawn blood.
Agravar began to sit up. There was menace in his eyes. Davey scrabbled backward, frightened now. Agravar could almost read his thoughts. He was alone with the Viking, who was now armed and almost unbound. And he had no weapon.
Davey turned and ran. Agravar sawed frantically at the ropes at his ankles, kicking them free and scrambling to his feet.
The world tilted, first to one side, then to the other. Agravar cursed, placing a hand over his side and pressing down hard. He only managed a few steps before the dizziness came again, this time bringing him to his knees.
Impossible. The blade had passed clean through the meat of his side. How could it be it was hindering him this much?
He turned his attention to the wound, working to tear open his tunic to take a look. His head felt light, as if it were made of nothing more than air.
There was a lot of blood. Something must have been nicked inside. Not fatal, perhaps. At least not right away.
His legs buckled and he collapsed to his knees. Then his strength drained out of him and he fell onto his back, gazing at those macabre broken arches as the twilight shadows began to descend. Where was that blanket? he wondered. He was suddenly cold.
Rosamund had dreamed of being free all of her life, of leaving England, living on the continent. She never thought there would be a sadness with it. Then again, she could never have imagined a man like Agravar.
Best not to think about that, she admonished herself.
“They should be along presently,” Davey said.
He had arrived back from his patrol with the curt message that no one was about and they should most likely remain undetected. That was all he had said, which was unusual. Davey was a talkative fellow, and she had seen before how he rather liked to preen and brag on his great prowess.
“I am hungry,” she said. “Did you bring anything to eat?”
He shook his head. Actually, he looked a bit pale. “I thought we’d be aboard ship by now, so I did not bother.”
“’Tis no matter. I shall wait. It shan’t be long now.”
There was a long silence. Davey rose and walked to the river. Rosamund’s eyes followed him.
The last of the sunlight was stretched out over the water. Before long, it would be dark. “Will they come, do you think, if it grows too late?”
“I sent word to fetch us in the morning if they could not make it this day. It depends whether they can slip safely upriver. Secrecy is crucial.”
“Perhaps we should prepare for the night, then,” she said.
Davey considered this, then nodded. “Fetch your horse blanket. You can use that to lie upon.”
She didn’t tell him that she had given it to Agravar. She merely went to a spruce tree and sat on the thick moss that clustered about its roots.
There was another day, not so long ago, when she had reclined on a soft bed of moss, with Agravar’s laughter floating pleasantly in the air.
She closed her eyes and hoped to sleep.
Darkness fell, and sleep did come, but it was fitful and full of terrifying images. When dawn broke, she was on her feet and at the river’s edge, scanning for the first sign of the ship.
It took nearly an hour, but she spotted it. It was far-off, sailing upriver from the Trent.
“Davey,” she said, coming to his side and shaking him. “Davey, the ship has come. Rise, ’tis here.”
He was sluggish. She gave him a couple of jostles, then rose to watch the boat arrive. Something on her hands felt strange—sticky. She looked, then looked again. Blood?
Blood. She smeared it between her thumb and fingers, frowning. Where had it come from? Turning, she looked at Davey, who was just sitting up. He was scrubbing his eyes groggily. He winced, turning his attention to his shoulder, peeling back a ripped flap of his shirt to reveal a patch of rich, fresh blood.
“Davey, are you hurt?” she said, going to his side. “What happened?”
She froze. It was his look that told her, the guilty glance that touched her, then skittered away as if he had no courage.
“I got it riding.” His voice lacked conviction. It was almost wheedling. “A branch whipped me as I went by. ’Tis nothing.”
He stood, holding a hand over his wound.
“Where is your sword?” she asked in a flat voice. He had carried a short sword tucked in his belt since they had left Gastonbury. She saw now that it was gone.
“I…I must have lost it.”
Her voice lowered, and sharpened to a keen edge. “What did you do? Davey. Oh, God, Davey tell me. Tell me what you did.” She sobbed as fear gripped her. “Did you kill him?”
“What about me?” he shot. “Look at what he did to me? Do you not even care?”
“You killed him! Oh, my God.” She ran for the horses.
He raced after her. “I did it for you. He was about to come after us. He had gotten himself free and he would have stopped you, Rosamund.”
“Do not call me that!” she cried, trotting the mare to a high rock so she could mount. “You are not to call me by my name again. I am your mistress, and you have aggrandized yourself, Davey. Move out of my way. Nay! Do not dare to touch me.”
“Where are you going? Are you mad—the ship is here! You cannot leave.”
“I am going to him.”
“Nay! Rosamund! Do not leave.” He grew angry. “If you are taken back to Gastonbury, I shall not help you. I have done everything for you, and this is how you reward me? I swear, if you go, that is the last I shall risk for you. I swear it!”
She leveled a glare at him. “Hold the ship. If he…” She swallowed. “If he is dead, I shall come back, but if he is alive, I shall do what I must to save his life. But hold that ship for as long as you can.”
If he had any more words of protest, she didn’t give him a chance to speak them. She kicked her horse into a run and raced back to the cathedral ruin.
Chapter Nineteen
Agravar’s laughter sounded hollow in the belly of the church, bouncing about in soft echoes before it took flight and died on the breeze. It was not funny, not in the least, and yet the laughter rolled out of him until he was mortified to feel the sting of tears in his eyes.
He felt strange. He was awake, somewhat. He couldn’t feel his body all that well. His head seemed to float. It was fever, he knew. He had lost a fair amount of blood and the wound hadn’t been cleaned. Blood fever. A bad sign.
Rosamund.
They were a pair, the two of them. He had always felt it. Part of each other. How dreadfully unfortunate to have discovered that only to have her clobber him and leave him for dead. It was just too absurd.
The laughter bubbled up again, shaking him. In the thin darkness of earliest morn, the shadows shifted eerily. Or perhaps his mind was fading. He felt he could float, yet he could not move his limbs for their heaviness was beyond his waning strength.
“Mother?” he called as a figure formed before him. She paid no heed. Plain, proud, stiffly erect, she walked by him without looking his way. He was glad. He wouldn’t have liked to have seen the hatred in her eyes. It was always there, ever since he could remember.
This was all too confusing. Closing his eyes, he sought sleep. A dream snatched him up, like an owl taking an unlucky field mouse into its talons. His father’s longhouse—he was in his father’s longhouse. The men were drinking, laughing loudly, singing bawdy songs. Lucien was there. They had just came back from a raid and were celebrating. Lucien was his father’s slave, a warrior slave whose life was lived under the yoke of a master possessed of
unmatched cruelty.
Lucien’s eyes burned straight into Agravar’s over his cup as he took a long, long draft of ale. There was a message in those eyes, and Agravar understood.
Tonight they would kill Hendron.
Lucien gave the signal and rose, walking slowly to the master of the hall. Agravar followed. Hendron was a bleary-eyed man with a red bulbous nose from too many nights like this, his barrel chest spattered with days’ worth of food.
“Father,” Agravar said.
Hendron looked to him, his avaricious eyes gleaming in the firelight. There was a woman with him, leaning in close so that her breasts nearly spilled out of her clothing. She never took her eyes off her thane. Greedy wench, she took her role as his whore very seriously. Agravar immediately saw why. A large ruby lay against the milky-white of her skin, nestled neatly between her generous breasts.
Lucien grabbed her and heaved her to the side. Agravar moved, slipping an arm under his father’s neck and pulling him back. Defenseless, his eyes had bulged as Lucien placed his blade tip to Hendron’s heart.
Behind them, the raucous melee of the crowd sputtered to a halt.
Thus it was silent when Lucien said, “Give me my freedom.”
Hendron looked at the blade, then to Lucien, and last to his son. “I’ll have the both of you flayed alive. And for your insolence this day I’ll feast on your entrails while you yet live. You will beg for death.”
No one moved. Hendron’s men watched with interest, but no one interfered. No one would interfere with Lucien.
Agravar let go of his father. He had the urge to wipe off his hands. He felt defiled, but it went deeper than the greasy feeling on his palms.
Lucien said again, “Release me and you will live.”
“You best kill me, useless dog, but you won’t. You haven’t the stomach for it. All the English are spineless, just like you. Like little piglets ripe for the wolf to devour. And I am the wolf.”
Lucien buried his blade in Hendron’s throat. Agravar had watched it dispassionately before turning to put his sword up beside his friend as they faced the other men of the hall.
Some fought, though more out of a desire to take a hold of Hendron’s leadership for themselves, or thoughts of the bulging coffers abounding in the storerooms, than love for their felled thane. Agravar slipped and slid in the pooling blood of his father as he fought. He and Lucien made short work of those that rose up until no one was left to oppose them.
Lucien was free. But Agravar was not. He could never be free of the crime his father had committed. He was the crime.
Hendron was dead, and it didn’t matter.
Agravar was confused. Was it happening again? He saw it, smelled it. But it had taken place a long time ago, hadn’t it? How could it seem so real?
He opened his eyes, fighting the pull of the dream. Or the memory, whatever it was. He saw her again, his mother, a stark study in living pain. But it couldn’t be his mother, for she was bending over him. His mother had never even looked at him. Not like this. He closed his eyes and turned away.
Other spirits visited him. Alayna, Veronica, Will, Lucien, Robert, even Davey. He asked them to help him. He pleaded with them.
He dreamed again, this time that it was Rosamund beside him, touching his brow, murmuring soft words close to his ear, so close he could feel her breath fan across his skin. His eyelids fluttered open, almost afraid to look, for he knew she was merely a figment of wayward memory.
But she was there. There was light all around her and it fell on her golden hair. He thought fleetingly that she looked ethereal in that light, like an angel, and that maybe he had died. It would be a shame if he had, he considered. He didn’t wish to die.
Then she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his brow. “I am here. Fret no more. I shall tend you. Rest and be at ease, Agravar, for I am with you.”
He laughed again, this time without irony or regret. Her arms felt wonderful wrapped around him, the slight pressure of her head laid on his chest filled him with happiness.
If he was dreaming again, it was wondrous, and he didn’t care to wake.
Her first worry was the fever. Her perfunctory knowledge of healing had taught her how to tend them, and she began by stripping off everything, from his boots to his shirt, all the way down to his linen undergarments. Putting out of her mind the masculine form she was unveiling, she ran to the river and stripped off her surcoat and soaked it in the water. Back at his side, she bathed him with it, wringing the heavy cloth out, over and over, until every last drop was gotten. Then back to the river again.
This she did until noon. He began to shiver. She let him clutch the foul-smelling blanket around his shoulders. His eyes gazed at her, dazed.
“I am sorry,” he said, and there were tears brimming there.
“Agravar, hush.”
“Mother, please…”
She eased him back, and when he had subsided again into a fitful sleep, she examined the damage to his wrists. Then she probed the wound in his side.
It was festering. It needed to be opened and bled, then cauterized.
If she could have calculated a way to get him onto his horse and back to Gastonbury, she would have done it, even if it meant giving herself up. But there was not going to be any help. She was going to have to do it herself. The blood fever was not lessening. He would die unless she did what had to be done.
Pulling the dagger from the front of his belt, she saw it would do well for her task. She’d need a fire, to heat the steel. She set to work gathering a pile of kindling, then scouting out rocks suitable to use for flint.
Her hands shook, but she got the fire going well enough. Tending it carefully, she worked it to a goodly blaze.
Knife in hand, she turned to Agravar. Taking several deep breaths, she laid the edge against the mottled surface of the entrance wound. “Forgive me,” she whispered, closed her eyes, and cut.
He roared, coming out of his stupor to rear up to a sitting position and glare at his tormentor. Rosamund considered that perhaps she should have retied his arms at least. In his deranged state, he could kill her without even knowing what he was doing.
His action helped tear open the crusted wound. Fresh blood flowed, which was good. Murmuring comforting words in his ear, she settled him back again, wringing out the sopping cloth she had soaked in the river. He fell back asleep, his body agleam with sweat.
When the water was gone, she ran to wet it again. Over and over again, she made the short trip, cursing her lack of even a drinking skin to aid her. Finally she was satisfied that the wound was clean, and she took the glowing steel blade out of the flames.
Her vision wavered threateningly. This was going to be no good unless she could focus. Deep breaths, she told herself. Deep breaths.
In the end, she let out a wailing little cry and cringed as she pressed the white-hot implement into the spoiling flesh. His scream rose up and mingled with hers, but he didn’t fight, as if he somehow knew in his befogged brain that it was for his good. She sobbed as she counted to five, not knowing at all if that were enough time, or maybe too much.
The smell was putrid. Leaping to her feet, she fled, stumbling a short ways away to retch and retch until her body lay weak and quivering on the ground. Dragging herself back to his side, she gently covered the wound. She leaned over his naked chest and kissed his still-hot flesh, then lay her head down upon it and wept.
Later she thought the fever was less.
Famished, she foraged for what she could find in the woods. She knew how to locate and identify tubers and herbs. She found a few things that were edible and shoved them into her mouth, grimacing against the taste, until the edge was off her hunger. Gazing at Agravar, she wondered what she should do for him. He would weaken if not fed. She had nothing with which to brew a broth, which she could dribble into his mouth and he would take strength from the meat.
His need for food gave her tremendous vexation. She thought of the animals in the fore
st, wondered if she could hunt them.
The idea was ridiculous. She did not know the first thing about trapping and killing an animal. The only solution to the problem of finding Agravar some nutrition was to get help.
Going to his side, she smoothed her palm on his forehead. Yes, he was definitely cooler. His wound looked well, no streaks reaching like fingers of poison to his heart. “Do not dare awaken while I am gone,” she scolded softly.
He slumbered on, his mighty chest rising and falling evenly, unlabored. It gave her ease as she went forth into the woods.
She returned a few hours later with a cook pot and kettle, some flint, dried apples and salted meat, all wrapped in a sturdy blanket. Checking on Agravar, she saw he still slept. She filled the kettle with water and fished out an armful of good-sized rocks from the riverbed.
Back at their makeshift camp, she hummed happily as she set the rocks up over the fire and set the filled cook pot on it, sticking in some of the beef to boil. She had no idea if this was an effective method of making broth, but it seemed plausible. It was, in fact, all she had, so she gave up the worry and set about other chores to make them comfortable.
After assessing Agravar’s wounds, she coaxed some water between his lips. He coughed and sputtered and after he had gotten the idea to swallow, she tried some of the weak broth, which hadn’t, after all, been so successful in becoming anything like she had hoped. It had, however, softened up the dried meat enough for her to break off tiny pieces and feed it to him slowly, washing it down with the broth water. Feeling better for her efforts, she reflected that action was always preferable to inaction, even when said action advanced their comforts so meagerly. Somehow, it felt like all the difference in the world.
As dusk set, she settled in next to Agravar, stroking his face and murmuring soft words of reassurance. She doubted he could hear her, but she kept at it. The encouragement was for her own benefit.
Tiring, she lay her head down beside his. She wondered about the occupants of the cottage she had plundered, and what they would think when they found their home had been raided. No doubt they would be more puzzled than angry. Rosamund hadn’t taken much—only what she and Agravar would need to make it through the next few days. There were many more valuable items she had left behind. They would think her an odd thief, indeed.
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