O ne brave man had walked in among the Vikings to plant a torch in a hole in the post they surrounded. Six guards stood near with swords in hand in case the Saxon was set upon. Kristen hid a grin as the man passed near her. She had heard them arguing about who would carry the torch, for none of them wanted to get this close to the prisoners, even chained as they all were and lying and sitting about in relaxed positions. With so many wounded, they offered no threat, at least not at the moment. But the Saxons weren't taking any chances.
The torch was not for the prisoners, but for the three men who remained to guard them, so they could better see the prisoners now that night had fallen. No food had been brought for them, nor bandages to tend the wounded. This boded ill. They needed food for strength if they were to escape. No food could mean many things, including that they were not to live long.
That possibility was confirmed a while later when the guards began talking among themselves. The Saxon who had walked among them, obviously feeling bold now that he had done so and had come to no harm for it, spoke the loudest, his voice carrying to them all.
"Why does he keep looking at you while he brags?" Kristen asked Thorolf.
"I am the only one who was able to speak for us earlier. They thought we were Danes," he said with a measure of contempt. "I disabused them of that fact. The Danes are here to steal their land. We only wanted to steal their wealth."
"And you thought that would make them deal more kindly with us?" she scoffed.
Thorolf chuckled. "It did no harm to point it out."
"Nay?" she asked darkly. "Then you are not listening to what they are saying."
"In truth, the little bastard is talking too fast for me to understand more than a few words. What does he say?"
Kristen listened for several moments, then could not stop the look of disgust that came over her features. "They mention someone called Royce. One says he will makes slaves of us. The braggart swears he hates all Vikings too much to keep us alive and will torture us to death as soon as he returns."
She did not add that the little braggart the others called Hunfrith had gone on to describe the torture, suggesting that the one called Royce would make use of the Vikings' own ingenuity, doing to the prisoners what the Danes had done to the King of East Anglia when he was captured. The King had been set against a tree and used for archery practice until he bristled with arrows like a hedgehog. And when he was torn away from the tree, still alive, his back was ripped open, exposing his rib cage. A gruesome torture indeed, but one of the other guards suggested the prisoners would more likely be hacked into small pieces, kept alive as long as possible, and forced to watch as each severed limb was thrown to the dogs to eat.
There was no point in Kristen telling all that to Thorolf. Torture was torture, no matter what form it took. If they were to die when the man called Royce arrived, then they should be making plans for escape immediately.
She turned around to look at the tall post around which they were circled, judging it to be as tall as three men. The chains running from one man's ankle to the next were longer than she could have hoped for, at least two arms' length, a stupid move by the Saxons, for this gave them ample room to maneuver.
"It should take only three men, mayhap four, to climb that post to set us all free from it," Kristen speculated aloud.
"Which is no doubt why they made sure no three of us in a straight line were without serious wounds."
Ivarr said this, and she looked at him to see the open leg wound he pointed to that would make it nearly impossible for him to scale the post. And the man on the other side of Thorolf still had the head of a spear embedded in his shoulder.
"I could carry one man with me," Thorolf said, "but the going would be too slow. We would have arrows in our backs before we got near the top."
"Could you unroot that post?" she ventured.
"We would have to stand to do that, and that would forewarn them what we were about. We could push it over, but it would fall slowly and they would still be warned and be on us instantly with their swords. Even if we should still succeed after that, too many of us would die and be dead weight to hinder the rest of us, chained as we all are. If they are smart, they would not even come close to us so that we could get at their weapons, but pick us off with arrows from afar."
Kristen groaned inwardly. "So with the chains keeping us together, we have no hope?"
"Not until our wounds are healed and we can get our hands on some weapons," Ivarr replied.
"Take heart, Kristen." Thorolf grinned unconcernedly. "They may decide to use us to train them to fight the Danes."
"And then let us go on our merry way, eh?"
"Of course."
She snorted at that possibility, but Thorolf's jesting did make her feel better. If they were to die, then they would die together, and fighting, not calmly accepting the Saxons' torture. That was the Viking way, and though she was a Christian, she was a Norsewoman too.
She would have said as much if the wooden gate had not opened just then to admit two men on horseback.
Only one was worth watching, and watch him she did as he moved his great black steed slowly toward them. When he dismounted only a few feet away, she was amazed to see that he was nearly as tall as her father, which put him at a height above most of the young men with her. He was young himself and not slim for such a height, but powerful across the shoulders and wide chest. His sleeveless leather vest was almost like a short jacket and revealed a bush of dark hair on his chest running nearly to his neck, and arms that were thick and wrapped with steely muscle, the arms of a warrior. The belt wound tight about his waist showed that there was no fat on him.
The long legs were also thick and powerful, and tight within two different types of leggings, instead of the single garment the Vikings wore. The knee-length trousers that the Europeans called braies were tucked into a hoselike covering they called chausses and cross-gartered, his with leather thongs that were decorated with metal studs.
His face was well defined and impossibly handsome, the nose straight, the lips cleanly drawn and firm with a hint of cruelty above a square-cut jaw that was beardless, though dark with bristles. Hair of a rich, gleaming brown fell in waves to his shoulders and formed unruly curls about his wide brow and temples.
But it was his eyes, once seen, that held the viewer riveted. They were such a dark, crystallike green, and so filled with hate and anger as they passed over the chained men, that Kristen caught her breath when his gaze moved briefly over her, and did not release it until he snapped an order at one of the guards, and then walked away toward the large building and was gone from sight.
"I do not like the looks of that one," Ivarr said beside her. "What did he say?"
Many others were asking the same thing, but Kristen shook her head dismally. "You tell them, Thorolf."
"I do not think I have it right," he replied evasively.
Kristen glared at him. The men had a right to know, but either Thorolf didn't have the heart to tell them, or he didn't believe what he had heard.
Kristen glanced at Ivarr, but could not meet his eyes. "His words were 'In the morn, kill them.' "
Royce entered the hall to find the floor littered with his wounded men. He would speak to each one of them later, but right now he mounted the stairs at the end of the hall and went directly to his cousin's chamber.
Alden was stretched out on his bed, covered to his neck with a thick quilt, and so pale that Royce groaned, thinking he was already dead. The crying women in the room confirmed it. Two maids Alden sometimes took to his bed were standing in the corner weeping. Meghan, Royce's only sister, a child of merely eight winters, was sitting at a little table with her face bent over her arms, weeping into them. Darrelle, Alden's sister, was kneeling at the bed, her face buried in the covers, great sobs racking her slim body.
Royce looked to the only woman in the room who wasn't crying, Eartha the Healer. "Did he just die? Am I only a few moments too late?"
The old hag tossed back her stringy brown hair and grinned at him. "Dead? He may yet live. Do not kill him off before his time."
Royce met this news with a mixture of relief and anger. It was the anger to which he reacted. "Out!" he bellowed at the noisy women. "Save your weeping until 'tis needed!"
Darrelle swung around on him, her face as blotchy red as her eyes, her small breasts heaving indignantly at what she considered an outrage. "He is my brother!"
"Yea, but what good do you do him with your screaming? How can he sleep to conserve his strength with such noise as you make? He does not need your tears to know you care, Darrelle."
Darrelle scrambled to her feet to face him, the top of her head coming no higher than his chest. She would have pounded on that chest if she had the nerve. Instead she craned her neck to glare up at him.
"You are heartless, Royce! I have always said 'twas so!"
"Have you, lady? Then 'twill come as no surprise to you if your words do not wound me. Go and repair the ravages to your face. You can return and sit with Alden as is your wont—if you can do so quietly."
The two maids had already flown the room. Darrelle stalked out now. Eartha knew she wasn't included in the order to leave, but took herself below with her basket of herbs anyway. Royce was left staring at his sister's frightened little face, and his expression softened.
"I am not angry with you, midget, so do not look at me so," Royce said gently, holding his arm out to her. "Why were you crying? Because you think Alden will die?"
Meghan ran toward him and threw her arms around his hips, for she was no taller than his waist. "Eartha said he might not, so I was only praying, but then Darrelle was crying and—"
"And our cousin is teaching you bad habits at an early age, midget. You were right to pray, for Alden needs your prayers so he will recover quickly. But do you think he would want you to cry, when you should be happy that he is still alive after facing our worst enemies?" He was loath to talk more of the overuse of tears to her, for she was a timid child who burst into them for the smallest reason. Instead he picked her up and dried the tears from her red cheeks. " 'Tis bed for you, Meghan, and your prayers for Alden until you fall asleep. Go on, now." He kissed her brow before he set her down.
"My thanks, Royce." Alden spoke weakly from the bed as soon as Meghan closed the door behind her. "I do not know how much longer I could have pretended to be asleep. But every time I opened my eyes, Darrelle screamed at me to get well."
Royce burst into laughter, pulling a chair up beside the bed. "Seldon, that foul excuse for a man, told me you had a gut wound. God's breath, I did not expect to find you still alive, let alone able to talk!"
Alden tried to grin, but gritted his teeth instead. "A little to the side of my victuals sack, but close enough that the blade might as well have spilled my guts. God, it hurts! And to think that a lad with the prettiest eyes I have ever seen did this to me."
"Describe him, and if he is one of those below, I will see he suffers the most before he dies."
"He was just a smooth-faced boy, Royce, who should not even have been with those others."
"If their children can raid, then they can die," Royce said angrily.
"Then you mean to kill them all?"
"Aye."
"But why?"
Royce glowered. "You know why."
"Aye, I know why you would like to, but why will you, when you can make use of them instead? They are defeated. We have their ship, and Waite tells me it carries a rich cargo, which is yours now. Lyman has been complaining repeatedly that the serfs he has to use are not strong enough to carry the Roman stones to build your wall. Look how many months it has taken just to bring those few piles here. He is already drooling over the strong backs of the prisoners. Admit it, Royce: The Vikings could build your wall in half the time, and think of the irony, that they should be used to keep out their brothers the Danes."
Royce's expression did not change. "I see you and Lyman have already been speaking about this."
"He would not shut up about it all the way he carted me back here. But he has a point, Royce. Why kill them, when keeping them alive would serve you better?"
"You know you are closer to me than my own brother ever was, Alden. How can you ask me to live with the possibility that they could escape and slaughter us all while we sleep?"
"I would not ask that. Precautions can be taken to ensure they cannot escape. Just think about it, before you condemn them."
The door opened then and Darrelle stood there, her eyes dry now but still shooting daggers at Royce. They had grown up together, the three of them, with Alden a year younger than Royce, and Darrelle two years younger than her brother. They were the only family Royce had left, besides Meghan, and he loved them both. But sometimes Darrelle could be wished out of sight when he was so obviously out of patience with her sulks and silly tantrums.
"So, you accuse me of keeping him from sleeping, but what are you doing, making him talk and answer questions about those loathsome heathens?"
Royce rolled his eyes and grinned at Alden. "I will leave you in your sister's capable care."
Alden shot him a chagrined look as Royce left the room.