Chapter Eight
News of Tamar’s goring travelled faster than wildfire in front of a strong wind. The surgeon had hardly gone when soldiers—both Saxon and Viking—began to crowd into the barracks. Bronwolf watched as Aethelthryth established a boundary around the pallet, keeping the men far enough away that Tamar would not be jostled.
“Stand back,” she said to one young soldier who had a strikingly similar appearance to Tamar. “Your brother needs to rest.”
“I’m awake,” he muttered feebly from his bed.
She whirled. “Tamar! I am so sorry!”
He gave her a wan smile. “I am sorry, too.”
Brownwolf frowned. Why was the Saxon apologizing for getting gored? Was he embarrassed that he’d turned and run? Even though doing that had only enticed the boar to charge, Brownwolf had seen soldiers much more battle-worn that Tamar panic when faced with unforeseen danger.
“It’s all right,” the princess said.
“I let you down.”
She shook her head quickly. “Don’t say that.”
He glanced around as if just noticing the people around him. His eyes widened, and a stricken look crossed his face. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right,” Aethelthryth said again, patting his hand. “It will be all right.”
He looked disappointed—a strange expression for someone to have who should be grimacing from the physical pain he must be in. “I don’t know how soon I’ll be able to be up and about.”
“Don’t worry about that. It’s not…important.” She managed a smile. “Let’s just get you well.”
“Maybe my brother can help…me,” Tamar said.
“Let’s not talk anymore,” the princess replied. “Just rest.”
The hair at his nape began to prickle as Bronwolf watched the interchange. Something was off, as though they were really discussing something besides the Saxon’s injury, but he didn’t know what it was. Aethelthryth seemed overly solicitous and Tamar overly upset that he’d been wounded. Bronwolf frowned. Was it possible that Tamar was the princess’s lover? The prince certainly had many, and it wasn’t unheard of that royal women did such. For centuries Briton had been ruled by Celtic tribes, many of which revered a goddess and had female warriors like Boudicca lead them. Descendants were through the matriarchal line, and their women chose their mates. “Thigh freedom” he’d once heard it called.
The idea didn’t set well with him. Not that women shouldn’t have a choice, but that Aethelthryth might be sharing her bed with a man. A man who wasn’t him. By Thor’s hammer! How many restless nights had he spent, thinking of having her naked and writhing beneath him, practically hearing her moans of ecstasy while he pleasured her until those sounds became wild screams, her nails raking his back, as he brought her to the brink… He frowned. He’d restrained himself because Aethelthryth was a princess. Had she actually taken a common soldier—and a fairly clumsy one at that—as her lover?
Bronwolf blinked, forcing himself to re-focus. He was letting his imagination—and perhaps his jealousy—run away with him. It was highly unlikely that the princess had a lover. From everything he’d heard about Aelle, the king kept a tight watch on his daughter. And, since the Vikings had secured York, he’d kept a guard posted by her door. Any trysts with Tamar would have been impossible.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he felt suddenly better…until his hair rose again. A sure sign that something wasn’t right. He’d learned to trust his instincts over the years, having lost count of how many times reacting to those had saved him from serious injury or even death. His nape would not be prickling if everything was all right.
It will be all right. Those were the words Aethelthryth had just used, but in reflection, Bronwolf didn’t think she was just being placating. Her tone had sounded more like resignation.
But of what?
• ♥ •
Having left one of the older women in charge of Tamar’s care, Ella made her way back to the Great Hall. She was glad that Tamar would survive—his blood would have forever been on her hands if he had been killed—but she didn’t know what she would do now. To take another soldier into her confidence was risky. Many of them had truly aligned with the Vikings. If Ivar found out that she was trying to get a message to Aelle, she would not be the only one to suffer. He’d already made that clear.
But time was also running out. The Viking wanted to marry her—not her, but the princess—just past Twelfth Night, which was now but a sennight away.
If only the boar had not charged or, better still, run in a different direction and drawn Bronwolf’s men, Tamar might have gotten away. Ella sighed. That hadn’t happened, and there was no use replaying the “what if’s” in her head. If only she could escape, but a guard was posted outside her door every night and one usually followed her everywhere except the garderobe.
Another idea began to form in her head as she gave orders to the cook and scullery lads to begin the process of skinning, soaking, and salting the boar meat. She didn’t have to tell them to save the head, since tradition dictated it would be brought in on a special platter, leading the procession on Feast Day. At least, Saxon tradition. Ella wasn’t sure if Ivar would make changes.
Ivar. The prince who wanted to marry the princess. Only the princess wasn’t here. The idea that had begun to form earlier niggled at Ella. It had to do with Bronwolf. When she’d seen him carrying Tamar in this afternoon, she’d been surprised he hadn’t had one of the Saxons take the burden…Tamar had to weigh at least thirteen stone. He’d also made sure to stop the bleeding. That showed compassion.
Would he be compassionate enough to help her get away? She almost laughed at the absurdity of the idea. A Viking captain would not betray his leader. It was Bronwolf, after all, who posted the guards. She’d considered—briefly—trying to seduce one of them. She had no idea of how to actually do that, except to smile in what she’d hoped was an inviting way. The first guard didn’t return her smile nor did the second one. They didn’t even speak to her except to say “ja” or “nei”. Maybe Lynet or Deira would have been successful, considering Bronwolf was keeping them next to him. Moire would have been a natural, but she had not yet returned nor did Ella consider her to be a particular friend.
Seduction clearly wasn’t going to work. For her, anyway. But. Bronwolf had kissed her by the copse of oaks. A delightful tingle shivered down her spine at the memory. If he liked her—even a little—maybe he would be compassionate enough to help her get away. Especially if she confessed that she was not Princess Aethelthryth. But did she dare trust that secret to him?
• ♥ •
The commotion in the yard told Bronwolf the other hunters were returning. He left the barracks to go out to greet them. He hadn’t gone far before he heard Ivar shouting angrily at his hunting party. A few more steps told him why.
The litter that was supposed to hold a boar held nothing.
Bronwolf remembered Ivar’s order this morning that no one return empty-handed. It seemed impossible that his party had not even brought down a deer. For any commander, it would be shameful, but for Ivar this failure—and no one better say that aloud—would be considered as disastrous as being defeated in a raid. Odin help anyone who got in the prince’s path for the rest of the day.
“We can continue the hunt tomorrow,” Bronwolf said as he approached Ivar. “There’s still two days until the feast.”
The prince glowered at him. “I’m not waiting until tomorrow. We only returned because these idioters broke their spears. We spotted a huge boar with a white snout and gave chase, but he got away.”
Perhaps this was not the best time to tell Ivar that was the boar that Bronwolf’s men had brought to ground. However, one of men who’d been in his group had no such constraint—or perhaps had not noticed the ire on the prince’s face—when he ran up to join them.
“We killed a boar just as it was goring one of the Saxons!” he said.
For a moment, Bronwolf wasn’t sure if Thor had taken the prince’s place, so thunderous was Ivar’s expression. The man didn’t like being bested, and especially not when he had come back with nothing. If only the soldier didn’t—
“And it had a white snout!” the man went on. “I’ve not seen that before.”
Bronwolf groaned inwardly.
“What?”
Ivar’s voice cracked like thunder and Bronwolf glanced skyward in spite of himself. “You must have driven him in our direction.”
The prince didn’t look placated. “The kill should have been mine.”
Bronwolf tried another distraction. “Someone had to bring it down before it killed one of the men.”
Ivar lifted a brow. “A Saxon, you said?”
Bronwolf nodded, hoping the prince was not so irritated that he would make a derogatory remark about which soldier got wounded. There were at least as many Saxon men in the yard as Vikings, at the moment, and mayhem would break out over such an insult. He held the prince’s gaze with a hard look. Evidently, Ivar understood the silent message. “He will live?”
“Ja. He is in the barracks. The Princess Aethelthryth attended him herself.”
As soon as the words were out, Bronwolf regretted them. Ivar narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Who was the soldier?”
Bronwolf shrugged. “Just a young man. A clumsy one who’d tripped and turned an ankle earlier. When the boar charged, it broke his leg. I’m sure the princess just felt sorry for him.”
At least, he hoped that was her motivation. Something about that conversation still niggled at him. But, with Ivar’s current black mood, it would be better not to mention it.
“Well,” the prince said as one of his men returned with several new spears, “perhaps she will attend me when I return from hunting. Privately.” A disconcerting gleam shone in his eyes before he turned away. “I can think of a number of things I’d like her to do to provide for my comfort.”
The men around him laughed and Bronwolf watched him leave with a strange sense of unease. Ivar had said he’d wait until after Twelfth Night to make any decision about marrying Aethelthryth, but that didn’t guarantee he wouldn’t take his pleasure from her before then.
Bronwolf ran a hand through his hair. He couldn’t guarantee her safety, either. Ivar would never allow him to serve as her protector. He’d been lucky he’d been able to place his own men as her guards. The prince would see any more involvement on his part as competition and, given today’s failure with the boar, the prince would not be prone to be benevolent.
But the hair at Bronwolf’s nape was prickling again. Something was about to blow up. He just didn’t know what it was.
• ♥ •
As Ella lit a candle at the altar, she didn’t think she’d ever been so glad to be inside the small, wooden structure that served as the kirk. It was near midnight and the Christ’s Mass was about to begin. That was, if the priest, who was also known to enjoy the pagan Mödraniht or “mother’s night” which involved drinking lots of ale, made it back to the Christian service on time.
No matter. She was safe. At least, for now.
Ivar had returned from the hunt just hours ago. A winter storm had moved in during the afternoon, covering the ground in white and bringing cold temperatures. Ella had made sure all the fires were lit in the Great Hall, making it warm and receptive. Bronwolf had warned her that the prince had been in a foul mood when he left earlier and the storm had probably put an end to the hunt, but the prince had returned, triumphant that he’d brought in not one, but two, boars. His mood had been celebratory, and he’d insisted she sit beside him for the victory toasts. But it was what he whispered in her ear as he ran a hand along her arm that made her blood chill. I want you to give me a bath. Then he’d run a finger over her collarbone. Just you and me. Alone.
Ella wasn’t sure if panic had shown on her face or if one of the archangels was hovering near and decided another miracle might be appropriate on this night, but Bronwolf had suddenly appeared—certainly not looking angelic—and started a round of toasts. The men who’d been in his hunting group joined in, each proposing another toast to Ivar. And then the other hunters, not wanting to slight their leader, added to the rounds. Ivar was now sleeping off the effects.
Ella lifted her eyes heavenward, giving thanks for peace this night as the snow fell silently outside the windows of the kirk.
• ♥ •
Bronwolf watched the flurry of activities taking place in the Great Hall as maids scurried back and forth with more pewter and silver for table settings than he’d seen on any raid.
Because Ivar had brought down two boars—in contrast to Bronwolf’s one—and because every single soldier had toasted him for his success, the prince had felt magnanimous this morning. The Boar’s Head Feast had been expanded to include the entire village of York, and not just the soldiers at the fort. The menu had also been expanded. In addition to the traditional pork, venison, hare, and capon, the winter larders had been raided for root vegetables harvested earlier and a variety of puddings were in the process of being made. The scent of baked apples laced with cinnamon and the aroma of fresh bread to be used for the commoners’ trenchers filled the air.
Bronwolf watched as Aethelthryth brought order to what looked like chaos to him. She directed one set of maids to set the dais and tables near it with a dizzying array of tableware and another set to hang colorful banners on the mantels while young lads stacked logs beside the hearths. Still another group of boys brought in fresh boughs to place on the lower tables, adding the smell of pine to the room. At the moment, she was trying to hoist the giant sun wheel to its place in front of the high table. He moved to help.
“I see you’ve agreed to a Viking tradition,” Bronwolf said as he took the wreath-like object from her and placed it on the raised wood. “We’ll burn this later?”
She nodded. “Your prince wanted it.”
Hopefully, Ivar no longer wanted anything else from her. He made no more mention of having her attend him privately, perhaps because Bronwolf had paid two camp followers with a gold coin each to make sure the prince had his needs taken care of when he woke.
“The more Viking traditions you include, the happier he will be.” From the slanted look she gave him, she seemed to agree that keeping Ivar happy was beneficial to all. “He will be pleased if your servants carry in the head of one of the boars he brought in rather than mine.”
Again, she nodded. “To us, because the boar is such a vicious and nasty animal, presenting the head symbolizes Christ’s victory over sin.” She considered. “I don’t suppose it matters which head it is.”
Bronwolf smiled. “Vikings respect the boar’s ferocity as well. In our land, Frey, god of the sun, rides a wild boar across the dark heavens. By conquering the animal, he can bring the light back. Its image is often tooled into our leather helmets. And, remember that I told you that in Valhalla, year-round, our warriors feast on a freshly killed boar every night, only to find it is once again alive in the morning.”
She gave him a quizzical look. “You didn’t mention it was a resurrection story.”
“Mayhap it is, in part.” He mulled the matter. “When the Romans spread Christianity northward, they found it easier to align their sacred days with what was already practiced.”
“The same thing happened in Briton. The Celts accepted many of our practices. At least, outwardly. Much of the pagan still exists.” The princess looked around. “But what’s really important is that for once a year—even if it’s just twelve short days—we have a halt to war and fighting.”
Bronwolf gave her a curious glance. “Is it possible that your father will agree to peace?”
For a moment, she looked confused, then her expression smoothed. “I cannot speak for King Aelle.” She frowned. “Besides, a woman’s words are worth nothing to a king, are they ?”
He frowned, too. Why did she so often refer to her father so formally? And use the term “woman” instead of “daughter”?
The hair at his nape began to prickle again.
• ♥ •
From her seat on the dais beside Ivar, Ella surveyed the Great Hall. It was filled to capacity with soldiers and villagers, all savoring the great Boar Feast. Kitchen lads brought in more platters, heaped with meat or vegetables while serving wenches tried to avoid the lusty grabs of the men as they refilled tankards of ale. Thankfully, the revelry created a noise level that made it difficult to carry on a conversation. She had no desire to hear Ivar brag once more about the two boars he brought down—seemingly, he had been the only one to throw a spear at each of them—nor did she want to give encouragement regarding any private ministrations later. She’d escaped that plight last night.
Her eyes searched the room for Bronwolf. He had not put in an appearance yet, and she wondered if Ivar had something to do with that.
“Looking for someone?” the prince asked, a little too casually.
Keeping her expression neutral, she replied. “I’m simply making sure everyone is well tended. Much effort was put into the making of this feast.”
“You are to be commended for your effort.” Ivar eyed her. “I hardly expected a princess would take part in actual physical preparations.”
She felt a quick second of panic. Did he suspect she was not the princess? So far, the servants who knew her as Ella had gone along with the deception, but she hadn’t quite dared to stand apart and instruct them without helping. She forced a smile. “Saxons believe in doing their fair share, regardless of who we are.”
“Admirable,” he said. “Perhaps you can share something with me later.”
Her face felt like it might crack as she kept her smile in place. “I have to take trenchers to the ill and infirm later.”
“Someone else can do it.”
Her face would crack any minute. “It is tradition that the princess—that I do it.”
“Very well.” He reached for his ale. “But Twelfth Night isn’t that far away now.”
As if she could forget. She had to find Bronwolf and confess…and then beg him to help her get away. Her gaze scanned the room once more looking for him and then movement near the door caught her attention. A woman was arriving late.
As she stepped into the main hall, the woman threw the hood of her cloak back and Ella recognized Moire. There’d been no missive that the maid was planning to return, but she should have expected it, since the Boar feast was not one to be missed.
The pretty girl was already attracting the interest of the Viking soldiers seated near the entrance. She smiled at all of them and two jumped up to take her cloak. With her usual flirtatiousness, she somehow managed to make it seem she was bestowing a great favor on each of them before she turned her attention on the dais. She gave the prince a long, appreciative look, and then her eyes widened as she saw Ella sitting beside him.
Ella’s stomach tightened. She needed to get to Moire and explain what was going on before the girl made a blunder. She could hardly jump up from her chair. At any rate, another Viking soldier was making room for her on the bench next to him and Ella knew, from past experience, that Moire would flirt with her newfound swains for as long as possible. The only bright spot, at the moment, was that Ivar also seemed to have noticed her. Ella would be more than glad if his interest was diverted. But she had to get to Moire first.
Unfortunately, it was nearly an hour later that the feast finally came to an end and everyone prepared to go outside for the lighting of the fire wheel. Ivar excused himself to get the ceremonial torch that would be used. Bronwolf suddenly appeared—where had he been?—to carry it to the yard. She watched as his back and shoulders flexed beneath the leather jerkin that fit like a second skin. Strong arms lifted the giant wreath as though it weighed nothing more than a sack of feathers. As soon as the fire wheel was lit, she’d go to him and tell him she needed to talk. First, though, there was Moire.
She frowned as she scanned the room. With the milling of the crowd trying to get through the doors, she’d lost sight of Moire. Stepping down from the dais, she hurried to the entrance as well, only to find herself blocked by bodies. Even if she could be heard above the din of voices and declare they make way for her—for the princess—she doubted anyone would. The mass of people was too dense and besides, most of them knew her as Ella, not Aethelthryth.
After some minutes being pushed and shoved, the throng spilled out into the yard, scattering enough that she could finally take a complete breath. She squinted in the near total darkness, barely able to make out Bronwolf’s form as the torch bearer approached him and waited for Ivar to come forward.
Skirting along the back edges of the large gathering, she tried to find Moire, but people were still jostling for better positions and she couldn’t distinguish one woman from another. She was about to pass the corner of the building when she heard Ivar’s voice.
And Moire’s.
Ella froze.
“I had thought to have Princess Aethelthryth attend me tonight,” the prince said, his voice sultry, “but I think I prefer you.”
“As you wish.” Moire giggled. “You’d have a long ride if you wanted the princess.”
There was a pause before Ivar spoke again. “What do you mean?”
“Aethelthryth is more than likely safe at Manchester Abbey.”
“Manchester?” he repeated. “Are you daft? The princess was seated next to me mere minutes ago.”
Another giggle. “That was not the princess. It was her maid, Ella.”
“What?”
The fury in Ivar’s voice unfroze her and she didn’t wait to hear anything else. She turned and fled into the night.