Chapter Forty-Two
It was a nasty sting, sharp enough to wake Royce from his slumber. His hand came up to swipe the offending insect away from his neck. Fingers encountered cold metal instead, and the sharp point of the dagger pressed more firmly into the side of his neck, warning his hand away.
He was not dreaming. He could feel Kristen snuggled close to his left side, one hand resting slack against his chest. And on his right the sting of pain was too real.
He could not see his assailant in the dark, but the man had managed to come stealthily into his chamber to threaten his life.
And since no one of Wyndhurst would do so, he came to the most likely conclusion: The Vikings had escaped.
And if they could get to his chamber, were all dead below?
Kristen had sworn there would be no slaughter, that they would simply leave if they could. Had they merely come for her, then? He was not going to let them take her with them. They would have to kill him first. And he realized that would not be so difficult, as the situation stood.
“Can you understand what I say?”
The muscles in his chest tightened. The husky whisper was indeed clear to him. No Viking tongue, but a Celtic one. Gaelan? Nay, the voice was not deep enough. The Vikings had not escaped, then, but just as bad, the Celts were raiding again. And they dared come into his hall this time.
“Answer, Saxon!” Still a whisper, but angry now.
“Aye, I understand you.”
“Good.”
The pressure of the dagger slackened and then the blade was lying across his neck, where it would only take the slightest jerk to sever his jugular. He could not move yet. He had to lie there and accept what came next. Anger rose from such impotence.
“State your demands!” he hissed.
“Easy, Saxon,” the whisper warned. “I come for answers while they still fight amongst themselves. I am not so quick to judge until I know all the facts.”
Royce frowned into the dark. He could make no sense out of what had just been said. He could hear no fighting. In fact, he heard nothing but their own breathing. The hall was as quiet as it should be in the middle of the night. All either still slept, or were dead.
“Who—”
The blade drew blood, silencing him. Kristen stirred at his side. He tried to relax the arm she lay on. He did not want her waking to this.
“I will ask the questions, Saxon. You will answer truthfully if you value your life.”
This made less and less sense. What knowledge could he have that would interest a Celt? And who was fighting amongst themselves?
Royce said quietly, “I will tell you whatever you want, if you let the woman go.”
“Let her go?” It was said in surprise, but he was not prepared for what the Celt said next. “’Tis my daughter you sleep with. Has your Saxon church given you this right?”
Royce closed his eyes. He had not heard right. He couldn’t have. Kristen’s father was no Celt.
Impatiently the voice continued: “’Tis no question that requires thought, Saxon. Either you have the right from your church, or you do not.”
“I do not.”
“Then has my daughter given you the right?”
Royce felt like laughing suddenly, this was so unbelievable. “I think you have made a mistake. ’Tis no Celtic wench I sleep with.”
The blade pressed again against his neck. “I have not much time to learn the truth, so do not waste it with evasions. Kristen is my daughter, and I make no mistake in who you are.”
The whisper was gone. She spoke in a clear, husky voice—a woman.
Royce said incredulously, “You are her mother?”
“God save me, who the devil did you think I was?”
“Not a woman!” he growled.
Kristen could not sleep through that. “Royce, what—”
“Be still, love, or this blade I hold to his neck is going to slip deeper.”
“Mother! Oh, God, it is really you? How—”
“Kristen, be still!” Royce added his warning as she sat up, shaking the bed, and more blood trickled down his neck.
“What blade?” Kristen asked, and then cried in alarm: “Oh, nay, Mother, do not hurt him!”
“Do not?” Brenna removed the dagger, throwing her arms up in exasperation. “Do not hurt him, after all Ohthere has told us he has done to you? He whipped you!”
“That was a mistake,” Kristen said, pushing Royce back down as he started to sit up. “Did Thorolf not tell you so?”
Brenna paused. “Mayhap he would have, but your uncle Hugh gave him one of his fists when he started to speak in the Saxon’s behalf. I think he still sleeps.”
“Uncle Hugh is here too?”
Royce caught Kristen’s arms and sat up despite her effort to keep him down. “You lied to me,” he said coldly. “You said you could not understand Gaelan, and yet you speak to your mother in the same Celtic tongue.”
“Of course I do. We both learned it from her. Gaelan is my brother.”
“Selig?”
“Aye.”
“Then you lied about his death!”
“Nay! I thought he was dead. It took him a long while to recover from his wound and find me. But I could not tell you who he was. You would have put him in chains with the others if you knew he was a Viking.”
His hold on her relaxed as he remembered her strange behavior the day Gaelan—or, rather, Selig—showed up. He brought one hand to her cheek, the fingers gentle there as he leaned close to brush his lips against hers.
“I am sorry,” he said simply.
“How sweet,” Brenna sneered. “If you two are done fighting and making up, there is still a serious matter to be faced. Your father wants your Saxon’s blood, Kristen.”
“Nay!”
“’Tis not as simple as that,” Brenna said sternly. “I was only able to slip away and come in here because they argue among themselves—Garrick, Hugh, and your brother—not about whether to kill him but about who will have the pleasure of it.”
“Not Selig,” Kristen insisted. “He knows how I feel.”
“Mayhap. But once he heard of the whipping—”
“That again!” Kristen cried impatiently. “’Twas naught—two minor lashes. ’Twas ordered done when he thought I was a lad and he was after the truth. He stopped it as soon as he saw I was a woman.”
“Then you should have explained that to Selig, instead of letting him hear about it from Ohthere—who, I am sure, understood naught of it but what he saw.”
“I never blamed Royce for it. How can they? Thorolf knows. Oh, curse Uncle Hugh for being so quick-tempered and striking him down.”
“They are all angry, love. Did you think it would be otherwise when we come here and find you enslaved and forced to share the bed of your captor?”
“I will kill Selig!” Kristen stormed. “He knows I am not forced. Why did he not tell you so?”
Brenna laughed at her daughter’s vehemence. “Mayhap he lost sight of that in his anger. But I am glad to hear it. Now calm down, love. Getting angry yourself is not going to solve aught.”
Royce asked with forced evenness, “Am I to assume you have freed my prisoners?”
“Aye,” Brenna replied. “That was the easy part. Your yard is not well guarded, Saxon.”
“The patrol in the woods?”
“Taken.”
“You mean killed!”
“A few were. It could not be helped. Your guard on the gate also. The only reason we withdrew outside your walls without taking your hall is that you have Kristen inside it. You have the upper hand as long as you hold her. But they will not go away, Saxon.”
“My name is Royce,” he said curtly.
“And mine is Brenna. And if we have come to first names, then let me tell you: I could have killed you while you still slept and taken my daughter out of here to safety.”
“Your men apparently want my blood,” he returned angrily. “Why not you as well?”
“I did think of it.”
“Mother!” Kristen protested.
“’Tis true, love. As God is my witness, I wanted to see him and all his people dead.
I finally understood, after all these years, how your grandfather felt, and why he sought revenge against my people for what had been done to your father when he was captured in a raid.
I came here for revenge myself, just as Anselm did when he captured me. ”
“But how did you know where to find us?”
“Ivarr’s wife. You know what a worrier she is.
Ivarr had told her what they planned, and long before the ship could be expected back, she came to Garrick and confessed all.
But we thought we came for naught when we found Jurro monastery only a ruin.
We thought the men had succeeded in the raid and we had left home too soon, that you were probably there now.
We were making our way back to the ships—”
“More than one ship?” Royce interrupted.
“Three,” Brenna replied. “So if you were thinking about fighting us, do not. We came prepared to fight, with over a hundred men.”
Kristen found his hand. “You would not fight my father, would you?”
He only grunted in answer. Brenna made a sound very like it. “He may not have a choice, Kristen.”
“Nay, there will be no fighting,” Kristen insisted stubbornly. She scrambled out of bed, pulling the sheet with her. “Mother, I—Oh, God’s teeth! I want to see you, Mother. Stay where you are.” She swiped up a candle and left the chamber to find a torch to light it.
Royce reached for his clothes, then proceeded to calmly put them on. “You said why you wanted to kill me, Brenna. Now tell me why you did not.”
“Because I was captured and enslaved once myself, yet I came to love the man I was given to. Garrick is my husband. He has come here not as a Viking, but as a father. And ’tis the father you will have to deal with.”
“I could take you now,” he speculated, strapping on his sword. “I would then have two hostages to bargain with.”
There was soft laughter from across the room. “I would not try it.”
He said nothing as light moved toward the door. A moment later, Kristen appeared, shielding the candle with her hand, with the sheet drawn over her shoulders and around her.
“Oh, Mother, put that down,” Kristen chided. “He is not going to attack you.”
With light now, Royce was staring at an evil-looking crossbow trained on his chest, and it was not even one of his own. Brenna had brought it with her.