Surrender My Love

  Valda’s expression turned vexed. “Nay, how could you? We have not enough food to make camp here. And it would be a waste of time if we did. He is more like to die than not.”

  Staring again at the man, Blythe became stubborn. “If there is a chance to save him, I will take it.”

  “I tell you, we cannot linger here. We needs reach the next village to replenish—”

  “Then we take him with us.”

  Valda threw up her hands in disgust. “Are you daft, girl? Why would we do a stupid thing like that?”

  “To save him,” Blythe said simply.

  “But he is naught to us.”

  At which point Blythe mentioned the one thing guaranteed to make Valda agreeable. “He will reward us for saving him, and not just a few pennies, but a hundred at least. He is a lord. Why else would his every stitch have been taken? Would you not like to arrive at Aldrich’s this time with coin in your pocket so we do not appear so needy?”

  Valda was caught by the notion, but still frowned. “’Tis no easy task to force gruel down the throat of a man who is half dead and cannot swallow. He will weaken by the day and perish in a sennight.”

  “Mayhap two hundred—”

  “So help me get him into the cart. But I warn you, girl, if he has not wakened by the time we reach Bedford, I will dump him in the bushes myself. We cannot come to Aldrich with this man, or he would not let us in the door. My cousin does not like to draw the attention of nobles, even grateful ones. Naught good ever comes of it. So your promise, or he does not budge from this spot. There will be no argument from you when the time comes to be rid of him.”

  Blythe nodded eagerly, her confidence strong that they could heal the man in a fortnight, the time it would likely take to reach Bedford with their old ox. He did not fit in the cart, of course. The back had to be left down so his feet could hang over the end, and even then because his legs were so long, every bump in the road had his feet striking the ground. None of which woke him.

  The days passed, with Valda grumbling continuously, though she did show Blythe how to rub the man’s throat to get liquid to trickle down it. Not much liquid went down in that way, however, though she couldn’t tell if he was weakening, he had been so healthy and muscular to begin with.

  But she gave him the tenderest care, already far gone in love with him. She even sold herself to buy meat for his broth, when she and Valda rarely ever had meat for themselves. She did it gladly, determined that he would live despite the fact that he never made a sound, never moved a limb on his own, never opened his eyes, and was running a fever that came and went.

  In truth, Blythe did the best she could, though neither she nor Valda knew aught of healing. Still, they reached Bedford with the man’s condition unchanged. With the promise she had made hanging over her head, Blythe managed to cajole and coerce her aunt into making camp for two extra days, but she could ask for no more than that. Her own future was at stake, a better life to be gained. Valda made sure she realized that their future couldn’t be risked for a man they did not know.

  But, God help her, it was the hardest thing Blythe had ever done, leaving the man behind. She cried all the while she dressed him from Valda’s store of stolen garments, fighting with her aunt to do so, for Valda could not see the waste, whereas Blythe refused to leave the man as naked as they had found him. That was the least she could do, now that she was deserting him. But her feelings also overwhelmed her at the end, and she slapped him again and again, screaming at him to wake up, raging at the unfairness of it, after all she had done, to have her aunt be right. He was not going to wake up, ever.

  Finally Valda dragged her away, complaining about her puffy eyes, complaining that Aldrich wouldn’t like a weeping woman. Blythe didn’t care at the moment. She would get Aldrich to wed her, puffy eyes or not. And although she would never see the man again, whoever he was, she was going to remember him for the rest of her life.

  Chapter 6

  IT WAS THE rain that woke Selig, steady drops that gathered on the clump of leaves over his head and struck the dead center of his forehead. But the pain at the back of his head that greeted him was so excruciating, it sent him straight into blackness for another day.

  The sun was shining when he woke again, and the very brightness of it hurt him, even though he could see, through the narrow slit of his eyes, that it didn’t touch him directly, that he was shielded by the bushes he lay under. That other pain was there again also, and it wasn’t so merciful this time, did not render him into oblivion again and did not go away either. He was afraid to move because of it, and for long, disoriented minutes he did not, adjusting to the throb of it, gritting his teeth to keep from groaning.

  When he finally lifted a hand to locate the source of the pain, his fingers shook, and his arm wouldn’t remain lifted, but fell back to the ground. Weakness, he realized. His blood loss must have been great to account for it, and he began to worry that he was in serious trouble. He could be close to death, for all he knew, and he still had no idea of what kind of wound he had sustained.

  He waited a while before he tried once more to find the wound, and this time he succeeded. He felt over his face first, for the pain seemed to be everywhere, yet all he found was a slight stubble of beard there. That assured him he hadn’t been unconscious for long, mayhap a day, but then, he had no way of knowing that a tender hand had been shaving him for the past ten. He found the lump on the back of his head at last, bringing a gasp from him as he pressed the tender spot. It was nowhere near as swollen as it had been, of a size now to relieve his mind that it wasn’t so serious as he had feared. But there was no stickiness of blood either, so what, then, accounted for the weakness of his limbs?

  He suspected first that he must be wounded elsewhere as well, just had yet to feel it. So he took stock of the rest of his body, shaking each limb slightly to see if pain would accompany the movement. None did, other than a general discomfort and stiffness all over, a hollow ache in his belly, which didn’t surprise him if he had gone a day without food, and a strange soreness on the soles of his feet, as if someone had taken a stick to them. And since that made no sense to him, any more than his weakness did, he didn’t dwell on it, for thinking only increased the pain in his head.

  He did wonder, however, how he was going to return to Wyndhurst, which was no more than a day away, possibly two on foot, when just the thought of sitting up filled him with dread. He lay there for another hour, loath to try it, but finally he did, lifting himself to his elbows first, then pushing upward until he was sitting straight. He had been right to dread it, for immediately he was assailed by dizziness, but worse was the nausea that quickly followed. He bent to the side, ready to spill his guts, but nothing came out. That didn’t stop the gagging, however, which he did again and again, each time jerking his whole body and sending extra knives into his skull, until the pain was once more too much for him to bear.

  It was still daylight the next time he awoke, but he couldn’t say if it was the same day. The pain was still there, too, still just as bad, and memory of his attempt to rise kept him from trying again for a long while. It was the ache in his belly, and the strange weakness that would not go away, that finally prompted him to move. He needed food—Odin help him, he felt as if he were starving—and a soft bed, and his sister to fuss over him, none of which he would get remaining where he was. So he finally gritted his teeth, determined to make it to his feet this time and be on his way, but he did so in very slow degrees.

  The dizziness came again when he was sitting upright, but he fought it with what strength he had, and managed to keep the accompanying nausea at bay. Only now he noticed a blurriness of vision, which, fortunately, was not constant, but came and went.

  However, sitting there, in no hurry to make the final plunge to his feet, he had time to note his surroundings as well as the clothes he was wearing, which were not his own. The mud-colored braies fit him so tightly they didn’t need to be cross-gartered, and they stop
ped just short of his knees. The gray tunic was wide but short, no doubt made for a man who liked his food overmuch. It was so loose he didn’t note his weight loss, which would have explained the weakness, but not the why of it. The cloth shoes had holes on their soles, which might account for his sore feet if he had done some walking—which was possible, he supposed.

  He was reminded of the time he had wandered the south coast of Wessex when he searched for his sister in the guise of a fisherman from Devon of Celtic origin, and a poor one at that, dressed in threadbare clothes. But before that, there had been the feverish delirium he had suffered before he found help for his wound. He had had powerful dreams then, whilst he recovered, and he felt a moment’s fear that this was still that time, that all that had happened since was no more than dreams. He shook the notion off quickly, though, for he couldn’t have dreamed someone like his brother-in-law before he had even met the man. Royce was too unique—and the pain in his head was too real and unrelated to that other time.

  The clothes were not, however. They were just as ragged as those others had been, and it made no sense that he should be wearing them. For that matter, his party had been on the road when they were attacked, so why had he been moved to the side of it? Actually, he could see the road through the foliage, and there were no corpses lying about on it. Had they been discovered already and he himself overlooked because he had crawled into these bushes? And if he had got there on his own, how had he come by the clothes?

  To concentrate on those questions still hurt his head, so he didn’t dwell on them long. And the time of day became urgent now. With the sun dipped low, he knew not if it was morn or late in the day, but he needed to find aid before nightfall, and he couldn’t do that unless he got to his feet.

  It was not easy. The first few tries landed him back on his hands and knees until the dizziness passed, and the first few steps he finally managed were laughable, his legs giving out beneath him, they were so weak. But it became a matter of determination and stubbornness now, not just survival, and at last he was plodding his way through the woods, pushing himself from tree to tree, which he used for support, stumbling when there were none, falling another half-dozen times before he finally got somewhere.

  He stayed to the woods because the road wasn’t safe to travel alone, especially without weapons, and none had been left to him. His long ax was gone, his Frisian sword, the jeweled dagger he wore in his belt, and his belt for that matter, with the silver-buckle talisman engraved with Thor’s hammer. If he ever found those thieves again…

  He smelled the food before he saw the hut, and the luck that was associated with his name returned, for only the goodwife was there, and she took one look at him and set him down at her table. Loaves of freshly baked bread she put before him, along with creamy butter and whatever had been left from her morning meal, while she cooked him more, including the grouse she had set out for her husband’s supper.

  A round cherub of a woman, in her middle years, she pampered him as he was used to being pampered by women, though he couldn’t understand a word she said. Saxon, he supposed she was speaking, but with an accent unfamiliar to him. And although he tried a number of languages on her, she could understand him no better than he did her. But he ate everything she set before him until he couldn’t stuff another bite down his throat—and yet he felt as if he could eat more.

  He was tempted to pass the night there. Some of his strength had returned, but nowise all of it, and the constant ache in his head hadn’t lessened with the nourishment he had taken. However, what he needed now was a healer, not just rest, and he doubted the goodwife could help him in that, even if he could manage to make her understand what was wrong.

  He was afraid, too, that he was getting feverish, for his thinking wouldn’t stay clear, was off and on becoming muddled, so that in one moment he knew where he was, but in the next he wasn’t sure. All he was sure of was that he had to get to someone who could understand him and have word sent to his sister. She would then come and fetch him home, because he was no longer certain that he could make it there on his own.

  So he trudged on, moving south. The sun was definitely on its descent, giving him the right direction to take. And he now had a sack of victuals in his possession that would last him a day or two, thanks to the goodwife. It was, in fact, almost too heavy for him to carry, since he needed all his strength just to put one foot in front of the other. His unexplained weakness was still perplexing him, and his head still hurt too much for him to concentrate on that or the other puzzles plaguing him.

  Hours passed, the sun set, the sky slowly darkened, and Selig’s strength was nearly gone—but his luck was holding. There was just enough light left to make out the manor he had come to at last, a large hall well fortified by thick wooden walls surrounding it. He wasn’t sure if they had passed it on the way to East Anglia, but a place this large had to have at least one person who could speak Celtic.

  He followed the high wall around to the gate, anticipating a soft bed, anticipating women fussing over him and seeing to his comfort. But he didn’t quite make it to the gate. Dizziness assailed him again, and he slumped down against the wall, unable to go on until it passed.

  He thought he heard voices on the other side of the wall, but they were too low for him to distinguish any of the words, and he wasn’t sure he had enough strength left to call out loudly enough to be heard. It wasn’t necessary. Four riders approached the gate, likely a returning patrol, and two veered off in his direction. Selig sighed in relief, which was unfortunately a bit premature, for it was not help he found in this place, but the agonies of hell.

  Chapter 7

  ERIKA HAD VAGUELY noticed the returning patrol on her way to the hall. She was late for the evening meal again, a recurring habit of late, thanks to their wily thief. The culprit had struck once more that afternoon, this time stealing a piece of jewelry, hers. So her mind was preoccupied with that and her frustration at being unable to catch the thief after so many weeks of trying.

  But she had no sooner reached the high table and greeted her nephew with a great hug than one of the guards appeared at her side to tell her that Wulnoth had captured a spy and requested permission to hang him. Typical of Wulnoth, to ask for judgment before she had time to even think about it—or hear all the facts.

  “Bring the prisoner here anon, when the hall is less crowded,” she told the guard.

  He hesitated uneasily before replying. “’Twould be a kindness, milady, did you come to him instead. It took six men to drag him to the pit. He refuses to walk.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He would not say—actually, he speaks a tongue we know not.”

  She scoffed at that. “Come, now, if the man is a spy, he must be able to understand us, or he could learn naught except what he or anyone else can plainly see. Why does Wulnoth accuse him?”

  “He did not say.”

  Erika sighed. “Very well, I will come after I have eaten. Surely this matter will wait until then?”

  He blushed at her dry tone, nodded, and hurried away. But as she partook of the fare set before her, she did so absently, puzzling over the guard’s words. Six men to get one into the pit? That made no sense whatsoever, unless this supposed spy was someone like Turgeis; and to her knowledge, Turgeis was one of a kind.

  But her curiosity had been aroused, which had her leaving the hall before her hunger had been completely appeased. Her shadow, of course, followed, looking back longingly at his own unfinished meal, for his appetite was perforce much greater than hers.

  The pit was no longer the deep hole in the earth that it had once been, that prisoners had been tossed into. It was now a sturdy shed of modest size, without windows, and with chains attached to each wall. The name it was called was the only thing that was the same about it.

  Erika had been there only once before, not because there had been so few prisoners, but because she preferred to deal with them in the hall, and before they were incarcerated,
in case they need not be incarcerated at all. She hated the pit herself, with the brutality of it, the chains, the whips hanging on the walls, and the stink of the place, not just of foul odors, but of fear.

  Fortunately, prisoners were judged quickly, so they didn’t have to spend much time in the pit. And if men or women could not meet the fines of their crimes, then Erika preferred the local custom of enslaving them for a period of time, usually no more than a year, rather than Wulnoth’s custom of whipping them half to death.

  But spying was a different matter altogether, without a fine attached to it, since it dealt with war and defenses, and strategies gleaned that could wipe out whole armies. Hanging would be a merciful death for a spy caught in the midst of war, and since Erika had to deal with this one, she could be glad the wars were over and the charge not so serious in her mind. Ragnar, who had fought in those wars, would be of a different opinion. But he wasn’t here.

  Wulnoth was still there when the guard let her into the shed. One torch was burning, not enough to light the whole area, but enough to put a blanket of smoke over their heads and burn the eyes. She indicated that the door should be left open, making it easier to breathe. The pit was Wulnoth’s domain, but did he never have it cleaned?

  Turgeis settled inconspicuously against the wall that the door was set in, where the light barely reached. The prisoner was chained to the far wall, his arms stretched high above his head. But that was all that was seen of him, since the stocky Wulnoth stood directly in front of him, blocking him from her view. Wulnoth had, in fact, been gripping the man’s hair to hold his head up when she came in, but he let go now and stepped aside. The man’s head had already slumped to his chest, as if he were unconscious.

  Erika stiffened, her temper rising, but all she did was lift a questioning brow at Wulnoth, whose expression mirrored not guilt, but a definite degree of frustration.