Chapter 14
The day had started out quite well. Nothing had led Steinar to believe he would end up spending the night bleeding on the cold floor of a gaol.
He’d left Cwenthryth in bed while he’d gone to get his sons from his parents’ house.
Then the four of them had broken their fasts together when she’d woken up, with the leftover mutton stew and a fresh loaf of bread his mother had given him.
There had been joy, there had been laughter, there had been sunlight. It had been perfect.
It was only later that things had gone awry. In much the same way thunderclouds could suddenly obscure the most glorious day and bring about a devastating storm, events had started to follow one another with dizzying speed.
Cwenthryth had offered her help to start work on the vegetable patch he’d been planning to extend for weeks, so they had gone to the back of the hut as soon as the boys had left for Bee and Elwyn’s house.
As he was getting the tools out of the shed, Steinar heard an unusual noise by the well.
Three men, Saxons, judging from their looks and their clothing, were descending from a cart drawn by a strong bay horse.
They walked straight to him, determination etched on their faces.
“They are coming here,” Cwenthryth said in a breath.
Steinar placed his shovel down. It would seem that digging would have to wait for now.
“Do you know them?” Were they members of her family, people who were worried about her whereabouts? It was doubtful but he had to ask.
“No.” She lifted huge eyes to him. “And I think they’re here for you, not for me.”
Indeed they were. Ignoring her completely, they came to a halt straight in front of him, bristling with intent.
“Steinar, son of Wolf the Icelander?” the man in the middle asked, confirming their suspicions.
“Yes.”
“You’re accused of murder.”
Ah. So Godfrid had died, after all.
As Steinar had been expecting such an outcome for two days, he didn’t react as the Saxons no doubt expected him to.
He just stared at them levelly. By his side, Cwenthryth gave a little whimper and dropped the hoe she’d been holding.
Unlike him, she didn’t seem to have anticipated he would end up in trouble.
He threw her a reassuring glance before addressing the men, because there would be no trouble, not if he had his way.
He had only defended her and his son, no one could blame him for that.
He wondered how they could possibly have found out who had killed the vile Saxon, though.
As far as he’d seen, they had been alone in the clearing.
“Yes, well, some things can’t be helped.”
The Saxons looked at one another with a frown.
Clearly they had not expected him to admit to the deed so easily.
But what else was he supposed to do? He had killed the man, but he had not murdered him, and what was more, he would do it again in a heartbeat.
If there were men on this earth able to witness what he had witnessed and not kill the bastard responsible, then he didn’t want to be one of them.
He had done what needed to be done and he refused to feel guilty for it.
“You’re not denying it then?”
“No, I’m not.” He was starting to get annoyed.
“But you need to hear the whole story. Then I don’t think you’ll call it murder.
You’d call it protection.” He’d defended Cwenthryth and saved his son from a mortal beating, which was not the same at all as killing someone in cold blood.
What other choice had he had? Should he have let Godfrid carry on?
Over his dead body.
“Protection!” the smallest of the men scoffed.
He barely reached to his shoulder, something that seemed to only fuel his anger further.
Steinar had noticed how short men often resented his height and strength, taking it as a personal affront, as if he were doing his best to humiliate them.
They always enjoyed it when they were allowed to have the upper hand over him, which admittedly, was not often.
“From what? What danger could she have posed to a man like you?”
She?
Who were they talking about? A shiver of unease went down his spine. He’d been so sure the men were here because of Godfrid. Had he made a wrong assumption? The same confusion was swirling in Cwenthryth’s dark eyes, quickly replaced by what looked like doubt.
His stomach fell. Like him, she was clearly wondering who this mysterious woman was.
But unlike him, she couldn’t be sure Godfrid was the first person he’d ever killed.
What if she’d heard the story of his father’s supposed crime from someone in the village and was now wondering whether he, too, had killed his wife.
She, the Saxon had said… It could all too easily apply to Astrid, who’d recently died at a young age.
What if Cwenthryth started to fear him because of these idiots’ accusations? His whole body roiled in protest.
No, not now, not after all they had gone through together!
“Wait. Who am I supposed to have killed?” he growled to the men, hating them for disturbing the hard-won truce between him and Cwenthryth.
“Who do you think? Or have you killed so many people that you’ve lost count, hey, Norseman?” the small man smirked.
“Who?” Steinar repeated, not in the least impressed by the taunt.
“Your wife, of course.”
All he heard was Cwenthryth’s sharp inhale of breath. Bloody, bloody bleeding hell, now she would think him a wife killer, just like Astrid’s parents.
“I didn’t kill her, I swear,” he said through gritted teeth, addressing himself to her rather that the Saxons.
“Well, where is she then?” the man in the middle asked, before nodding toward Cwenthryth with a smirk. “That’s not her, at least we can agree on that.”
What he meant by that was unclear but Steinar didn’t waste time wondering about it.
Because the situation was suddenly very different—and ten times more dangerous than before.
He was no longer justifying his actions when faced with an assault, but being accused of murdering an innocent woman. Two very different things.
Still, he would not cower. He didn’t mind facing justice for having killed a bastard attacking his son after raping a woman, but he wasn’t going to let them take him for a crime he was innocent of.
Why were they even here? Why did they think Astrid had been murdered in the first place?
Who had accused him? Astrid’s father, thinking to get his revenge on him at last?
Her mother, intent on avenging the humiliation of his rejection?
Did it matter who had sent the Saxons? Not really, not when he was innocent and more than capable of defending himself.
“My wife died last month of a bloody flux. I didn’t kill her. 6Ask anyone around. They will tell you the same thing.”
“Yes, they would, as they are all Norse people.”
“They would because it’s the truth.”
Steinar had never been a patient man and if there was one thing guaranteed to make him snap it was people’s stubbornness and bad faith.
If the men weren’t going to listen to reason, then he would have to fight.
He would not spend the best part of the day trying to convince them he had done nothing wrong.
There were only three men, none half as strong as he was.
He would easily dispose of them, starting with the one who’d called him “Norseman” with such contempt in his voice.
Then he would go into town and tell the reeve what he thought of his men’s method.
He threw a glance at the axe he’d brought out to cut out new wooden posts.
It was the one he had used to put an end to Godfrid’s miserable life, light and deadly sharp, but it was lying against the fence, too far for him to reach.
It mattered not, he still had his hands.
Besides, he didn’t want to kill the men, just stop them from taking him away and give himself a chance to sort this mess out.
His hand shot out, hitting the man square on the jaw. He dropped to his knees, blood pouring from his mouth. Steinar turned to the second man, who was drawing a blade out of his boot, and scoffed. He would not be stopped by something as puny as a—
“Stop now or I’ll slice her throat. It’s your decision.”
The declaration rang in the air, stilling his movement.
Steinar turned to see the third man holding Cwenthryth by the waist, his blade at her throat.
A drop of blood, the color shocking against her pale skin, was sliding down her neck.
The look of terror in her eyes froze the marrow in his bones.
No, by the gods! They could not hurt her to get to him.
His hands were up in the air before he could blink.
Nothing was worth risking the bastard nicking at Cwenthryth’s skin a second time, just to prove he was serious.
His attackers instantly took advantage of his surrender.
A blow to the temple sent his head spinning.
It was quickly followed by another one to the jaw that sent him to his knees.
“Tie him up nice and tight. Make sure he cannot move a finger, then throw him in the back of the cart.” Still holding Cwenthryth, the man gave his instructions to his friends, one of whom was still bleeding profusely.
A moment later, Steinar was trussed up with his arms around his back, his legs bound together, his mouth stuffed with a gag.
Indeed, the only part of him he could move was his eyelids.
It had all happened too quickly, and as his hut was the one farthest out to the back of the village, no one had heard the commotion and come to his aid.
“No, Steinar, you can’t…” Cwenthryth whimpered, running to him. Mercifully, the man had let her go as soon as he’d been tied up. “You cannot let them take you. You’re innocent!”
Well, he was, but he could not let the man slice her throat while he argued his case, could he? Surely justice would prevail, because this had to be a misunderstanding. Astrid had not been murdered, so he could not be punished for killing her.
But it meant the world to him to hear that she didn’t even think to doubt his innocence. He’d just been accused of killing his wife, and they didn’t really know one another. She would have had every reason to wonder if there was any truth in the claim.
He chewed at his gag in desperation. How he wished he could talk to her, thank her for gifting him with the trust he had denied her when she had arrived at the village.
“Let’s go, before someone comes to investigate,” one of the Saxons said. “I don’t rate my chances against these Norsemen.”
“Aye.”
The last thing he saw before being carried to the cart was Cwenthryth’s beautiful face distorted by fear.