Chapter Twelve
“This is a horrible mistake, Your Highness.” Ella pleaded with King Aelle. He sat composed on a burgundy velvet, throne-like chair in the largest room of the wooden house in Crayke that he’d commandeered for himself. “I tried to explain to your soldiers when they surrounded us. Bronwolf helped me escape from York.”
“Which is most fortunate for you,” the king replied, “but the Viking has not been helpful in giving me the answers I want.”
Ella stared at him. How fortunate for her? By impersonating Aethelthryth, she had helped the princess reach the safety of Manchester. She had also invoked the wrath of Ivar whose reputation was no less bloodthirsty than Aelle’s. She should have known that, as an orphan and servant, she would be of no importance to him. And now, he evidently expected Bronwolf to tell him everything he wanted to know. Even though he had no intention of returning to York, she knew he would not turn traitor, either. How much torture would Aelle’s men use to get what they wanted? She lifted her chin.
“Perhaps I can tell you what you want to know.”
“You? How would a mere woman be privy to Ivar’s plans?”
Ella grabbed a mental rein on her mounting temper and tried to speak in an even tone. “Prince Ivar wanted to marry me—Aethelthryth—so I had the place of honor next to him on the dais.” She paused. “Sometimes he spoke without remembering that.”
One of the king’s eyebrows went up while the other went down as he studied her. “And what kind of things did he say?”
“He talked of strategies with his captains sometimes.”
“What strategies?”
“I will tell you everything that I know and answer any questions you have.” Ella summoned every bit of courage she had. “But I want your oath you will free Bronwolf.”
Aelle made a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “You dare to barter with me?” Then his eyes narrowed. “Is he your lover?”
“No!” She prayed that her face wouldn’t turn red. They were almost lovers. Would be, soon. If the king thought she cared about Bronwolf, he would use that against her. Against both of them. She couldn’t let that happen. “My virtue is intact, Your Highness. When Moire exposed me for who I was, Ivar was furious. No man wants to be made a fool. Imagine how angry you would be.” She paused for a moment to let that thought sink in, then continued. “Bronwolf saw the danger I was in and helped me escape. That’s all.”
“So he thinks he’s some damn knight from the Round Table?”
Ella bit back a groan. King Arthur, even three hundred years after he’d held the Saxon invasion at bay for two decades, was still a sore spot in their history. The bards sang tales that King Ida, the first Saxon king to rule this part of the country, was nearly killed by the Briton king and his legendary knights. She suspected those knights had been great warriors rather than gallant, courtly, and chivalrous, but the folklore had grown around them, and every Saxon king since still felt challenged since the bards composed no songs about them.
“He said he has a sister. Perhaps that’s why he helped me.” She shrugged, in what she hoped was a nonchalant way. “Is that so strange? You took precautions to ensure your daughter’s safety.”
“Hmph.”
She hoped the sound was positive. “Right now, Ivar thinks he’s searching for me like the others are. If he doesn’t return soon—”
“You expect me to let the man go?” Aelle asked incredulously. “He’s a valuable hostage.”
Ella refused to admit defeat. “If Bronwolf doesn’t return soon, Ivar will either suspect he may have aided me or he may think he’s been captured. Either way, the result will be the same. Ivar will bring his army north.”
“It’s winter.”
“That didn’t stop him from attacking York.” For a moment, she thought she’d gone too far as Aelle’s face blotched an unbecoming purple.
“How many men does he have?”
“I don’t have an exact count, but several hundred invaded York. More have been joining Ivar since.” She paused. “Our weather won’t stop them.”
Aelle’s face turned dark again. “I’m not ready to engage them yet. Osberht is still rounding up more men for our cause.”
So the rumors that Aelle had reunited with the former king that he’d deposed were true. “Your Highness. Would it not be to your benefit, then, to let the Viking return?”
Aelle frowned. “He’s seen our camp.”
Ella drew a deep breath. She couldn’t quit now. “He has only had a glimpse. Surely, you can summon the villagers and even children to make enough noise to sound as though you have hundreds more men camped nearby? If he thinks that, he will relay the information.” She paused again. “Maybe Ivar will even consider a treaty if he thinks the Saxons greatly outnumber him.”
“I’m not interested in a treaty. I will take York back come spring.”
“You are wiser than I am, Your Highness.” Ella lowered her gaze. “But holding the Viking hostage might force Ivar’s hand…and yours.”
He didn’t answer. Ella waited with baited breath, eyes on the floor, as the silence continued.
“I will think on it,” he finally said. “Now, leave me.”
She rose, keeping her eyes averted. She’d already pushed as far as she dared. Would she be successful?
• ♥ •
Bronwolf gingerly rubbed his sore jaw, then checked his ribs, grateful nothing seemed broken after the punches he’d received from nearly a score of men before being escorted a good ten miles down the road toward York. Aelle’s commander had left him with one cryptic remark.
“Don’t come back.”
But, of course, he would. Ella was waiting.
He kept his stallion headed south until Aelle’s men had disappeared in the distance, then he turned off the road and began to circle back, contemplating his best move. Unfortunately, there was little tree cover between where he was and Crayke, which meant he couldn’t get near the camp until nightfall. He’d have to approach the village disguised as a peasant, much like Ella had done. He’d also need to leave his horse tethered well out of sight, since Aelle had soldiers posted throughout the streets.
All in all, it was a lousy plan made worse since he didn’t know where Ella was staying. He assumed she wasn’t being held captive, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t being guarded. He wasn’t sure he could hide his presence for very long either, given the small resident population. If he got caught, there would be no quarter given. He wasn’t exactly sure why he’d been let go in the first place, but he couldn’t leave Ella.
• ♥ •
Ella stepped through the doorway of a stone building that originally had been a granary, but Aelle had converted it into a massive kitchen to feed his soldiers. It was nearly dusk, and she side-stepped a maid carrying a large platter of meat and another with pitchers of ale as they hurried toward a large tent in the village square that served as the army’s dining hall. Although Aelle had granted her a private audience yesterday morning, once he’d gleaned as much information as he could, he then assigned her to kitchen duty. No thanks for her ruse at York, nor for her turning informant. She supposed she shouldn’t complain about the kitchens, since the other occupation of single women in the camp was not one she wanted to participate in.
At least, he’d released Bronwolf this morning. She’d not had a chance to see him, and certainly had not wanted to take the risk of speaking to him, lest Aelle suspect anything. She wasn’t sure if the king had actually heeded her words or if he simply wanted to avoid any skirmishes until his own army was stronger, but it didn’t matter. Bronwolf was free.
And they had plans to catch a ship at Whitby.
She knew the king had stationed a number of men along the York road, in case Ivar should march north. She’d also heard Aelle directing men to fan out and create a barrier around Crayke. Bronwolf would find it difficult, if not impossible, to get anywhere close to the village.
Which meant she had to slip away. He would be waiting somewhere.
Over the course of the day, Ella had observed the comings and goings of the soldiers, where the guards were posted, when they were replaced. She’d looked for the least obvious way she could leave unseen.
Approaching the harried cook, she picked up two empty wooden pails. “I’ll go to the well and fill these for you.”
“Aye,” the woman said, hardly giving her a look.
Carrying water was one of the least-liked things to do since the pails were heavy and the serving wenches made themselves scarce when it was time to fill them. It was on one of her earlier trips it occurred to her that the well was on the outskirts of the village.
Most of the soldiers were at supper and the guards posted were hungry and waiting for their turn to eat. No one would question a scullery maid lugging pails to the well in the near dark.
She hoped.
Ella nodded to the sentry on duty by the road leading away from the village and then slipped her hand inside her cloak and retrieved a bannock from the pouch she’d tied to her waist.
“I thought you might like this.”
He grabbed it with a curt nod and waved her on. She forced herself to walk slowly, thankful for the moonless night. Just to be safe, she’d purloined a dark blue cloak to help her fade into the darkness, as well.
Once she reached the well, she turned to look back. As she did, something rustled not far away and then a solid arm went around her throat, a hand over her mouth stifling a cry.
“I’ll not harm you,” the man said. “I need information.”
She’d recognize that voice anywhere. Parting her lips as much as she could, she licked his palm. Bronwolf dropped his hand as if scalded.
“Ella?”
She turned. “I thought I’d have to find you on the road to Whitby.”
“I wasn’t about to leave you here.”
“You came for me.”
“I came,” Bronwolf replied, “and now I suggest we go.”
She set the pails down and smiled. “You won’t have any argument from me. I believe I have a wedding to attend.”
His arms encircled her, and he bent his head for a swift, but thorough kiss. “And so do I.”
• ♥ •
And so it was that on the morning of the Twelfth Night, as the sun once more lightened the northern skies, signaling a new year, that the Viking and his Yuletide woman stepped aboard a ship that would carry them to the Faroe Islands…and a new beginning.