Chapter Seven
Ella dragged herself to dinner in the Great Hall two evenings later, knowing she couldn’t stay hidden in her bedchamber forever. She hoped she could appear as nonchalant as Bronwolf had been on their walk back from the woods. Of course, kissing a girl under mistletoe—once he’d heard of the ritual—was just a lark for someone who’d not only probably kissed dozens of females, but also had two women residing in the room next to his for his personal pleasure.
That fact had become clear to her after Lynet said he treated them very well. How many times did she have to remind herself of it?
And then there was Ivar. The prince had decidedly not been happy that they hadn’t even gotten close to the boar, nor did he like that their party hadn’t waited for his return by the copse of oak trees. She really couldn’t put off evading him any longer either. Aethelthryth—the real one—would take her duty as a princess seriously, even if she was effectively a hostage.
She managed a smile for him as she took her place on the dais, noting immediately that Bronwolf’s chair on her other side was empty.
“Your captain will not be joining us this evening?” Ivar gave her a steady look. Belatedly, she realized she shouldn’t have asked.
“My captain has ridden out to one of the relay posts.” His eyes hooded. “Do you prefer his company to mine?”
Heat swept through her, the sensation reversed quickly to what felt like ice in her veins. She only hoped the telltale blush she hated hadn’t had time to surface. Lord! Did he suspect something? Had one of the maids or soldiers seen Bronwolf kissing her? She thought they’d broken apart quickly enough, but she wasn’t certain. How would the princess—the real one—handle this? Ella lifted her chin.
“I was merely remarking that his seat is empty.”
Ivar arched a brow. “You haven’t answered my question.”
He wasn’t about to be side-tracked, it seemed. She should have expected as much, given that he’d spent months gathering the Great Heathen Army and more months planning—and then lying-in-wait in East Anglia—for the right time to attack York.
“That would be foolish of me, wouldn’t it?” It was an ambiguous answer, although what was foolish was her continuing to think about Bronwolf’s kiss.
Ivar smiled. “It would, indeed.”
The smile didn’t fool her, especially since it didn’t reach his eyes. Instead, it was a barely disguised threat. He would not tolerate competition, even if it existed only in his head. It would be in her best interests—and Bronwolf’s—not to mention his name again. “I’m sure there is a more interesting subject we can discuss.”
His gaze remained intent. “There is. Us.”
“Us?” Ella suppressed a shudder. Maybe she could act deliberately obtuse. She managed to wave a hand. “I agree. The idea of Saxons and Vikings sharing their rituals and celebrating together is an excellent one. You were very clever to suggest it.”
His brow rose again. She suspected he saw through her ruse. As a prince, he was no doubt subjected to flattery on a daily basis as well. She plundered on. “For example, everyone is looking forward to the boar hunt tomorrow. Saxons and Vikings hunting together.”
“I doubt your men are that happy over it,” he said, “since they will be allowed no weapons and will only help track.”
“But the king’s men are excellent spearsmen!” Ella blurted before she could stop herself.
“Precisely.” His mouth quirked in what looked like self-indulgent amusement. “I’d rather not have them aiming at Vikings’ backs.”
“They wouldn’t do that. They pledged fealty.”
“For now.” He gave a deprecating shrug. “The choice was the pledge or the dungeon.”
She was aware of that. She also knew that when Aelle attacked—and he would—many of the Saxons at the fort would join him. Ivar apparently knew it, too. She tried a different approach. “Extra spears would be good since the boar is wily—”
“And so are you, Princess.” Ivar held up a hand before she could protest. “Let’s cut the pretense, shall we? We both know the only thing that might keep Saxons from turning on me if I let my guard down—which I do not intend to do—is if your people and mine are united through marriage.”
Ella struggled to keep her composure. Ivar would not be marrying the real princess, but he would find out too late, and she would be the one to bear the brunt of his anger. Not to mention being bound to the man for life…if he simply didn’t kill her. She swallowed hard. “I told you the king—my father—would never agree to that.”
“So you did.” Ivar’s expression hardened. “Once the deed is done—and consummated with a public bedding in the Great Hall—Aelle will have to accept it.”
A public bedding? In the Great Hall? Her blood froze. It was customary to hang bloodied sheets outside a bedchamber’s window as proof of virginity and she’d heard rumors that in some places, regarding an extremely important wedding, a witness might stay in the room until the couple was actively engaged, but public consummation in the Great Hall for everyone to see? For Bronwolf to watch?
“That is truly barbaric.” Ella took a deep breath. “I am a princess, after all.”
“And I’m a prince.” Ivar shrugged again. “You have nearly a fortnight to get used to the idea. I vowed to Bronwolf I would do nothing until Twelfth Night.”
Ella stared at him. He’d discussed this with Bronwolf? Bronwolf knew? And obviously didn’t object. Was that why he had kissed her? Because it wouldn’t matter if he took liberties since she was going to be publicly humiliated anyway?
She felt tears sting her eyes and she blinked them away. There was still one ray of hope. Maybe it was an advantage that the Saxons were not going to be armed tomorrow. They wouldn’t be as closely watched. If Tamar could break away from the party and get to Aelle, help might still come.
• ♥ •
Bronwolf returned from the relay post too late to join the crowd in the Great Hall for the evening meal. If he had ridden a little harder—or left the post a little earlier—he could easily have been in time. Not that missing the meal meant anything. He’d deliberately chosen to ride out today to be away from the fort and he’d deliberately delayed returning to avoid Aethelthryth.
He’d never acted so cowardly before, he thought as he led his stallion to his stall.
If he hadn’t realized the colossal mistake he’d made in giving in to his desires by the copse, Aethelthryth had clarified it by absenting herself from him entirely. She hadn’t come down the next morning to break her fast, nor had she appeared for dinner that evening. When she still stayed away this morning, he’d decided he was the one who needed to put some distance between them.
He’d thought to clear his head, set his priorities, and determine a different course. None of it had worked. With each mile closer to York, anticipation of seeing the princess rose.
“What did the watch have to say?” Ivar asked from behind him. “Has there been any sign of Aelle’s men?”
Bronwolf assumed an impassive expression before he turned around. He was not feeling especially comradely to his prince and commander at the moment. Ivar had no affection for Aethelthryth—he’d made clear she needed to be brought to heel like a well-trained dog—but that wouldn’t stop him from marrying her. Especially if he thought he might have competition from one of his captains. Bronwolf had been on too many raids—and witnessed firsthand—that Ivar felt entitled to use any of the women his men might form an attachment to.
“No sign of soldiers,” Bronwolf answered, “only unarmed peasants on the road.”
“And the woods?”
“There’s been no activity.”
“No activity?” Ivar asked, “or none that has been seen?”
Bronwolf hid the sudden wariness he felt. Was Ivar referring to the relay post or was he talking about what had transpired at the oak copse? Was it possible that they’d been seen kissing? He shook his head. “The guard said he’s seen nothing.”
“Hmm. It seems strange to me that Aelle wouldn’t have someone lurking nearby since we have his daughter.”
“Mayhap he did, but realized we have guards posted in the woods beyond York’s walls and they returned to Crayke.” Bronwolf gave Ivar a steady look. “Aelle would expect that the princess not be harmed.”
“Perhaps.” Ivar returned his look. “She asked about you at dinner.”
A feeling of elation swept through him, which he quickly stifled before it could show. “What did she want?”
“She wanted to know why you weren’t at the table.”
Had she missed him? Jubilation rose inside Bronwolf, but he strove to sound nonchalant. “I assume you told her I’d ridden out?”
“I did.” Ivar eyed him. “I also told her she’d be foolish to prefer your company to mine.”
The warning was barely veiled. He was not to dally with the princess. “And I’d be foolish to expect it.” He hoped he sounded nonchalant.
Ivar studied him a moment longer, then nodded. “You would, indeed. See that you don’t forget.” He turned and walked away.
Bronwolf stared after him, fists clenched, and cursed beneath his breath. As much as he hated ignoring a challenge, he knew he must in this case, for Aethelthryth’s sake.
• ♥ •
As Bronwolf entered the yard the next morning, he noticed that Ivar had divided the men up into groups of eight for the boar hunt. Five Vikings armed with long spears as well as their throwing axes and saexes, and three Saxons with no weapons. He frowned. No man should be in a hunting party without a means to defend himself. Boar were aggressive creatures by nature and, if wounded, were vicious, their sharp tusks as deadly as any sword or knife.
He’d argued the point with Ivar several days ago, saying if the Saxons weren’t to be trusted with spears then they should be left at the fort, but the prince was determined that the villagers should see their men hunting alongside the Vikings. Bronwolf was in no position after yesterday’s warning to further annoy Ivar. At least, he wouldn’t be hunting with the prince’s group since he was a captain and had five of his own men. They could shield the unarmed Saxons, especially the youngest one who, if he wasn’t mistaken, was the same one who’d tripped over his own feet in another outing.
“I expect no party to return empty-handed.” Ivar looked around at the groups. “I want this to be a feast to rival Valhalla.”
“Ja! Ja!” A huge cheer went up from the Viking men as they raised their spears into the air.
“To Odin!”
“To Tyr!”
As they prepared to leave, the doors to the Great Hall opened and Aethelthryth stepped out. Bronwolf inhaled sharply at the sight of her, standing so regally, her chin lifted as she surveyed them. She hadn’t put in an appearance while they broke their fast and he knew Ivar was irritated. Perhaps someone had told her, and she’d come to see them off.
The prince looked in her direction and lifted an eyebrow in question. She smiled briefly and gave a short nod. “May you have a bountiful hunt.” She turned slightly and Bronwolf noticed she glanced toward his group. “God speed.”
He wanted to acknowledge her, but Ivar had taken note of her attention, so he merely gestured to his men to fall in behind him.
The groups veered off in different directions once through the city gates, Ivar’s party taking the area where they’d spotted a boar while gathering mistletoe. Trust the prince to make sure he covered ground where one had already been seen. More than likely, he’d be the first to return with his kill so he could claim the honor of the most competent hunter. Bronwolf shook his head as he led his men in a different direction.
Several hours later, though, he was beginning to think that was the only boar that inhabited these woods. They had not been able to root a single boar anywhere. Worse, the clumsy young Saxon soldier had tripped not once, but twice and was now limping slowly behind the rest of them.
“Do you think the prince will be satisfied with the two bucks we brought down?” one of his men asked.
Bronwolf glanced at the carcasses being dragged along on a leather travois by the other two Saxons. “He may have to be. It seems there are no…” His words broke off as he heard a familiar snuffling, followed by a loud snort.
“Boar!”
The animal burst out from thick underbrush, its hooves thudding heavily on the packed ground.
“Get away from the deer!” Bronwolf yelled at the two unarmed men and gestured to one of his own. “Get them behind you.”
They scrambled as the other four soldiers began to circle the boar with spears raised. Bronwolf glanced to where the limping young Saxon had been just in time to see him turn and flee.
“Don’t run!” he shouted. “Stand still!”
But the boar had already noticed the movement. With a shrill squeal, it lowered its white snout and charged the boy.
Bronwolf leapt after them, the trees not letting him get a clear shot as the boar wove in and out with surprising agility, his snorts louder and more intent.
Just ahead was a small glade. The Saxon lad was running for his life, the boar closing in. Bronwolf readied his spear, throwing it the second he cleared the trees.
But he was too late. With a horrendous scream, the Saxon fell as the boar’s tusk gored his leg.
Four other spears quickly found their mark and the boar stilled, one last heavy snort leaving his snout before he rolled over and went still. His men dragged the animal away as Bronwolf knelt beside the young man. Blood flowed down his calf, but it wasn’t gushing, so perhaps no vein had been struck. He undid the belt that held his sheathed saex and tied it tightly above the knee to stem the flow and then grimaced. The leg was bent at an odd angle, clearly broken. Thankfully, the soldier had passed out.
With a grunt, Bronwolf hoisted him over his shoulder and stood. “Bring the meat,” he said. “I’ve got to get this one back.”
“Will he live?” one of the Saxons asked, as both ran over.
“I hope so.”
“We would like to go with you for protection,” the other said, “even though we’re not armed.”
He gave them a look, then gestured with his head to where his spear and saex lay on the ground. “You are, now.”
They looked surprised, but hurried to get the weapons. They aligned themselves on either side of him. “We’re ready, Captain.”
He ignored the startled expressions on his own men’s faces as he strode away. If there was ever going to be peace between Vikings and Saxons, it might as well start now.
• ♥ •
Tamar! Ella halted mid-step in the bailey as Bronwolf strode toward the barracks, Tamar slung over his shoulder, and blood covering his tunic. She called for a maid to fetch water and bandages, then hurried after them.
“What happened?” she asked as he laid the man down on the nearest pallet inside the long room.
“He got gored by the boar we were hunting.” Bronwolf grimaced. “He was a fool to try and run away, especially with a lame foot.”
Ella kept her eyes averted as she knelt down. She had been the one to tell Tamar to fall behind so he could disappear into the woods and go to Aelle’s camp. He must have not had a chance to get away before. She put her hand on his chest to check his heartbeat. “Will he live?”
Bronwolf knelt too and checked his makeshift tourniquet. “He didn’t lose too much blood, but it depends if infection sets in.”
Lynet and Deira appeared, carrying a basin of water and bandages. The fort’s barber, who functioned as their surgeon, followed them.
“What have we here?” the man asked.
“Leg needs setting,” Bronwolf answered. “Best do it while the boy is still out.”
The surgeon nodded, then barked orders to a soldier to get a wood plank for a splint. The man sprinted off as Ella dipped a cloth in the water to wash the wound. She could feel Bronwolf’s eyes on her, but she dared not look at him.
“The gash doesn’t look too deep,” she said, squeezing more water out of the rag to dribble on it and clear the dirt away.
“Thank God for that,” the surgeon said as the soldier returned with the plank. He looked up at Bronwolf as he placed one hand above Tamar’s knee and the other on his ankle. “You’d best get a grip on him. The pain will likely wake him.”
“Ja.” Bronwolf positioned himself behind Tamar’s head, slipping his hands under the man’s shoulders and interlocking his arms with the man’s. “Step back,” he said to Lynet and Deira.
He didn’t say those words to her, but then Ella chided herself. The soldier holding Tamar’s good leg down had already made her move back. She winced as the surgeon gave a hard jerk, and Tamar screamed. Bronwolf’s biceps bulged as Tamar flailed his fists, but he held him fast. A blessed moment later, the man stilled, his head lolling as he passed out again.
The surgeon made quick work of securing the splint and putting a clean bandage on the wound. “He must not move that leg once he comes to.”
Guilt flooded her as she looked down at Tamar. “I’ll stay with him until he is awake and understands.”
Bronwolf gave her a curious glance. “A princess concerning herself with a soldier? I find that commendable.”
She couldn’t very well tell him it was her fault Tamar had been hurt in the first place. She kept her eyes down, lest Bronwolf see the truth. “I feel it is my duty.”
Lynet and Deira gave her curious looks too before they turned their attention on Bronwolf. Lynet dipped a clean cloth into the water and wiped the grime from his face while Deira tugged on his shirt sleeve.
“If you’ll take this off, I can wash it in cold water before the stain sets.”
Bronwolf grunted as he removed his leather hauberk, then pulled the tunic over his head. Ella stifled a gasp as she caught a peripheral glance at his bare torso. A light dusting of golden hair spread across the molded muscles of his chest, tapering to a thin line down the hard ridges of his belly before disappearing into his trews. Thank goodness she wasn’t looking at him fully, or her mouth would be hanging open.
He handed the tunic to Deira. “Thank you.”
As she left, Lynet dabbed at his face again. “Let me get some fresh water to clean the blood off your arms.”
He nodded. “I’ll appreciate that.”
Ella tried not to feel jealous as her two friends left. Lynet had washed his face without even asking. Deira had matter-of-factly asked him to take off his shirt. Like they’d done both things many times before. Ella felt like she’d swallowed a large rock. They probably had. And probably much, much more.
She would do well to remember it.