‘Even though you can’t remember them?’
‘I trust my instinct.’
He felt better for admitting his ignorance to her about the entire situation. He knew deep down that he normally never admitted such things, but right now he needed answers, rather than to prove his strength and independence, or try to bluff his way through. And he marvelled at how the words came out of his mouth in her own language so easily, without him having to think about it.
‘My younger sisters might disagree with you about my kindness. They chafe under my guidance.’
‘Do your sisters travel with you?’
‘Ansithe is with her husband, but the youngest, Elene, remains with my father, and we are many days’ journey from both.’
‘Where am I, then?’
‘A cave. I had you moved here after we discovered you lying on Hangra Hill. You must have fallen, hit your head and then wandered disorientated before collapsing.’
It was on the tip of his tongue to say that someone had struck him on the head. ‘Tyrant. Fall.’ The words reverberated again and again in his mind. How could that be him?
He hated the sluggish way his brain was working—like three-day-old porridge which had been kept in an iron pot and sliced, as his grandmother would have said. He knew he actively disliked porridge. That was a start, at least.
‘I don’t remember why I was in that place.’
His fingers began plucking at the threads of the cloak, as if through simple touch the answer would come to him. The harder he sought the answer, the quicker his fingers moved, until he was trying to pull tufts of wool from it.
Her gentle touch on his shoulder made his hands still. ‘Brother Palni predicted that if you woke you might not remember, or perhaps wouldn’t want to remember. He has seen many injuries like this before.’
‘Palni? That is the name of a man from the North. My father distrusted them, but that is because a man from Viken once cheated his father out of a farm.’ He swallowed a gulp of air and fought to calm his racing heart. ‘Not a battle, my lady, we were at peace. The Northman warrior lies.’
‘Slowly.’
She placed a hand on his chest. He covered it with one of his.
‘A breath in and then out. Like this.’
He tried to match his timing with the rise and fall of her chest. The world righted. She gently withdrew her fingers and his hand curved about the air where they had been, trying to recapture their warmth.
‘Brother Palni travels with me now as a monk—having dedicated his life to God and our saviour Lord Jesus after the Great Army conquered these lands. He provides protection...’ Her full lips quirked upwards. ‘And counsel, even if I rarely take it. He is a good and trustworthy man.’
‘I doubt we conquered you...not really,’ he said, when her smile came and lit up his corner of the cave.
‘My forefathers were on these lands long before you and we will still be here long after you depart. You and the rest of your Heathen Horde. It may not happen in my lifetime but some day it will.’ She nodded. ‘Rest. We’re at peace. You’ve nothing to fear from me or my men.’
His sworn enemy had saved him. She knew what the Great Army had done to her people, and still she’d saved his life. Would his late wife have been that kind?
He redoubled his concentration, trying to reach into the black wall of pain and remember how he came to be in this place. Faint flashes of memory flickered—of crossing a windswept sea, of battles and watching men die, of knowing he’d won a victory and that afterwards men had lauded him as their leader, calling him something...but not his given name. He could remember lifting his sword aloft and kissing the ring of the Danish warlord, Ivar the Boneless, and then the ring of Ivar’s brother Halfdan. He had helped to conquer these lands...
The memories suddenly faded, like the smoke rising from the fire. All that was left was a taste inside his mouth as if he’d swallowed spiders’ webs.
‘Comrades died.’
He concentrated on the embers. Those men might have gone to a better life in Valhalla, but he knew their passing had ripped a hole in his soul.
‘I can’t tell you their names. I should know their names. I’m not a tyrant, I tell you. There is good in me.’
She moved the cloak up to his chin. ‘Did I call you a tyrant?’
‘Someone did. I know it. But I’m not. I want to be good.’
‘I’m sure there is good in you. You miss your fallen comrades and your family. Someone out there cares for you. Don’t worry.’
Her words soothed the swirling blackness. He would give anything not to have to worry about who he was, what he’d become and who he’d caused to die. He very much feared the answers, but this Lady saw some good in him, and he clung to that like a man who had been washed overboard clung to an outstretched oar.
‘Do you believe in me?’
‘Yes. I believe anyone can choose to be good, no matter their past.’
* * *
Cynehild firmed her mouth. It had to be true, or else she had made a terrible mistake in saving his life. Her whole life seemed to be an exercise in making mistakes and desperately trying to recover from them.
She placed a hand on her patient’s forehead. It remained cool to the touch. An excellent sign. He might yet avoid a fever and fully recover.
The jar filled with coins which her husband had hidden three years ago in this cave weighed heavily in the pouch she wore about her waist. She’d finally located it a short while ago, but Kal Randrson’s awakening had prevented her from counting it. Provided the gold Leofwine had hidden in the Ecgmundton church remained undisturbed until she could retrieve it, some of her troubles would be over. Although her father had already indicated his price for any assistance she wanted in raising Wulfgar—she would have to marry a man of his choosing...something she refused to do.
‘My lady, your hand feels good. Keep it there.’
‘No fever,’ she said, pushing away all thoughts of finding the correct warrior to train Wulfgar while avoiding her father’s machinations and focusing instead on the injured man in front of her.
One task at a time rather than be scattered, like she’d been as a young bride, driving her husband to distraction.
The man raised himself up on his elbow. His face was etched with pain. ‘Are these my men? Or yours?’
‘Mine.’
She eased him down again. Leofwine had been like this in his last hours, not knowing where he was or who she was, and always questioning. When she had kept him quiet there had been moments of lucidness, such as when he had given her this quest for the buried treasure.
‘You were alone and without weapons of any sort when we found you—not even an eating knife.’
‘Not even my eating knife?’ His hands started flailing. ‘I can’t have lost that. I wear it always. It is all I have left of my father.’
‘I presume you were attacked and your weapons were taken.’
His hands curled about the golden torc he wore about his neck. ‘If they took my weapons, why did they leave my torc? Why am I even wearing one? I know all I have to my name is my sword and shield, yet I wear a king’s ransom in gold beyond my wildest imaginings. What sort of witchcraft is this?’ His brows drew together and he banged his fists on the pallet. ‘Why must I endure this? Why is my head full of shadows and no answers?’
She retreated several steps from where Kal lay, curled on his side, with gold about his neck and arms. He definitely had more than a sword and shield. His clothes were finer than she had ever seen.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked, forcing a note of calmness into her voice.
A solitary tear escaped Kal Randrson’s eye.
Practical. She had to be practical and control the anxiety which clawed at her. She could fix things like hunger, even sometimes a broken head. She had no idea how to fix a broken
mind.
‘Is that why you require an eating knife?’
‘No—which is odd. My belly ached with hunger when I lived in Ribe. Always.’
She forced a light laugh. ‘You ached with hunger but you wear gold like a great jaarl? We have had too many mysteries for one night; concentrate instead on something else.’
There was a long pause, and she’d just begun to hope that he’d fallen asleep when he spoke.
‘My wife gave birth and then she died. My son swiftly followed her into the grave. He never felt the sun on his face or had a gentle breeze ruffle his hair. My world became black and I vowed that I would make their shades proud of me. Have I done that?’ he asked.
‘You are wearing gold and I presume it is yours.’ A cold shiver went down her back. ‘Perhaps my crashing through the undergrowth disturbed your attackers and they ran off before they were able to rob you? I don’t know. All I know for certain is that I found you like this.’
‘My wife would have found a use for this gold.’ His lips turned up. ‘Do you have any children?’
She released a breath. A question she could answer—even if a sudden longing to hold her son tight swamped her. ‘A boy of nearly four. He grows very sturdy. Wulfgar used to cling to my skirts and cry whenever I went out of the room, but now he tells me as often as he can that he is a big boy and is able to do things on his own. He doesn’t require his mother. He wants to be a warrior.’
Kal Randrson sat bolt upright and looked about wildly, before sinking back to the pallet, causing the cloak to slither to the floor. ‘Is he here? Or is he with your husband elsewhere, my lady?’
She leant over and gave the fire a stir rather than answering straight away. Sparks flew into the air with a crackle. One of the men snored loudly. Simple noises. Night-time noises which reminded her of her duty to others. As intimate as this night seemed, Kal Randrson remained a Deniscan without a recent past, and he was clearly a warrior who had greatly prospered from the invasion which had ruined her late husband.
‘Why do you think my husband is elsewhere?’
‘You wouldn’t be awake and watching over me if he were here. A beauty such as you would be kept far away from one like me.’
A beauty? Kal’s tongue had obviously been dipped in honey. From her increasingly ample curves to the ever-deepening shadows under her eyes, her looks had never recovered in her grief over Leofwine’s death. She didn’t need to look in a still millpond to know that simple truth.
‘My husband died. Wulfgar remains with my father and my youngest sister in West Mercia.’
She concentrated on the fire and thought of Wulfgar’s angelic smile, and the way he held his wooden sword in his chubby fist. How tall would he be when she returned? Would he still hold his tongue between his teeth when he concentrated?
‘I look forward to seeing how much he has grown when I return home.’
She replaced the cloak about Kal’s body and wrenched her mind away from the solid mass of longing to see her son.
Kal’s fingers captured her hand. ‘Does it get any easier? My being still aches for my lost wife and newborn son.’
Cynehild watched the embers flicker and allowed her hand to remain in his tight grip. She knew that she wanted to answer his question truthfully, rather than give the polite lie about feeling fine and coping admirably—the answer that she normally gave when anyone asked.
‘After my husband died my world turned grey. For many months I went through the motions of living. I got up, washed myself, did my appointed tasks...but the world held no joy. Then one day I heard my son laugh at something silly my youngest sister had done, and suddenly my heart was easier. I knew there were places I could still find light and happiness.’
‘A place of light and happiness? I’ve been searching for that for a long time but haven’t found it yet.’
His hand relaxed its grip on hers. She gave it an awkward pat before letting go.
One of her men stirred. The strange intimacy between her and this Deniscan vanished.
She forced a brisk smile and stood up, twitching the pleats of her gown into place. The warm imprint of his fingers lingered on her palm—a far from unpleasant sensation. She pretended an interest in the cave’s roof. She was a widow, immune from such considerations as a man’s sensual touch. Her heart remained encased in ice and devoted to her late husband.
‘You must have lived through it. Your heart did heal, even if it remains scarred. You prospered. Cling to that thought.’
He frowned. ‘I will remember what I did last time to live through it—won’t I, Lady of the Light?’
Her teeth worried her bottom lip. What sort of answer did he require to keep him calm? In the morning she’d work out what to say to Brother Palni in order to find a way through this self-inflicted tangle.
‘You know your name, and you know you once had a family you loved.’
‘Did they love me?’ he asked forlornly.
‘Your grief wouldn’t be as great if they hadn’t.’
She put her hand around the pouch which contained Leofwine’s jar—his gift to the son he’d never properly know. Some good had come from this journey. The tightness in her neck eased.
‘You speak wisely, Lady Cynehild. I could listen to your voice for a lifetime.’ His eyelids fluttered and his yawn bounced off the walls of the cave. ‘My wife’s sister cursed me. Said I was always to be a wanderer and would die without anyone caring about me.’
‘Then she lied.’
He rubbed a hand against his temple. ‘How can you say that for a certainty?’
‘I found you, and now you’re safe. You are not out on a hillside with your life ebbing away from you. You know your name. We’ll find who you belong to. I promise.’
‘Let me chase away your shadows...’ His words were slurred with sleep. ‘Sweet. Kind. Lady. With the beautiful smile...’
That is something no one can do. She held the words back with difficulty.
‘Sleep. The watch changes now.’
* * *
Cynehild woke with an aching back and neck as the first rose tints of dawn entered the cave. Her sleep had come in snatches after one of her men had relieved her watch. Every time she had dozed, her old dream—the one about being chased, seeking a safe haven and being unable to find it—had returned to haunt her. And her dilemma about how she was going to locate the second store of gold remained unresolved.
It was far worse than a game of tafl, and that particular game of strategy had always managed to confuse her whenever she’d attempted to play it as a young woman.
When Leofwine had suggested a few months into their marriage that she stop trying to learn a man’s game and leave such things to him, concentrate instead on a woman’s sphere of making cloth, she’d readily agreed. Only now she wished she’d persisted in learning. A widow with a young child had to use her wits to survive, and more importantly to carry out her husband’s final wishes in enemy territory.
She needed to concentrate on remembering the precise instructions regarding the gold in the church that Leofwine had whispered on his deathbed—not worry about one of the enemy who had lost his memory. Kal was a Deniscan—one of the people responsible for turning her secure world upside down when they’d invaded, regardless of how safe her hand had felt in his.
And she wasn’t soft-hearted. A hard shell of ice had encased her when Leofwine died. Her father often found reason to remark on the change—normally when she refused to allow him to have his own way in some domestic matter.
She needed to acquire the pragmatic logic of a war leader. If she had to use this man as a counter, in order to secure Leofwine’s gold, she would do so and have no regrets. Ensuring Wulfgar’s future was paramount.
She rose from where she’d lain and checked the sleeping Kal Randrson again. The Deniscan warrior appeared to be resting comfortably, oblivi
ous to the turmoil he’d caused her. His face held a certain fragile peace. She wondered if he truly had forgotten the last few years, or if he simply wanted to forget them and the horrible things he had done. When he woke, would he even remember their intimate conversation and the way they’d held hands?
The sudden awareness of him as a man jolted her. She had assumed that everything inside her of that nature had been buried with Leofwine.
‘Your Deniscan survived the night. The man’s head is harder than I considered,’ Brother Palni said, coming to stand beside her. His simple robe sparkled with raindrops. He’d obviously been outside to say his morning prayers. ‘You were right—he has been spared. But for the life of me, I’ve no idea why.’
Cynehild pulled him away from where Kal lay. Her Deniscan. ‘He’s not mine, even in jest, Brother Palni,’ she said in a low voice, so as not to wake the others.
‘You were the one to find him and insist on saving his life. Whose is he supposed to be, if not yours?’ the monk asked. ‘Are you having regrets? Perhaps we should have spoken earlier... But I like to greet my God first thing in the morning. I speak with him about my failings, including being less than charitable towards my fellow man.’
‘Regrets about what, Brother Palni? I’ve no regrets about saving a life.’
Merely about what I might have to do afterwards, she added silently. Whom I might betray.
‘The pinched look about your mouth tells another story, my lady. However, there is no need for you to become crone-like through lack of sleep. You have a good few years left in you before the inevitable withering happens.’
How to condemn her looks in very few words... A withered crone, indeed. Had he not noticed her hips? Nothing withered there. In fact, she was far too plump, in her own estimation.
She pressed her lips tight. What was wrong with her? Her looks had ceased to matter when Leofwine died. Widowhood brought other responsibilities. Fussing about her figure or her face was for women like her sister Elene, who had yet to marry. There again, men buzzed about Elene like flies around a honeypot—something which had never happened to her. Leofwine had been one of few men to compliment her figure.
Betrothed to the Enemy Viking Page 3
