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.
R
oyce watched his sister run across the hall and peek out the opened door, then turn around with a frown and run back toward the stairs where she had come from. He called her to him before she reached them. She came, not so quickly now, to the long table where he sat alone breaking the fast. She had already eaten with her maid, Udele.
Darrelle was still annoyed with Royce from last eve and would not sit with him this morn, but she watched from where she bent over one of the wounded men. It was not difficult to perceive Meghan’s reluctance to approach her formidable brother.
It was something that tore at Royce’s heart, Meghan’s reticence toward him, and it was his own fault, caused by his deplorable behavior that first year after he lost so many dear to him in the Viking raid. Meghan was too young to understand what he was feeling, why he was surly with everyone, even her. She began to fear him that year and had never lost that fear, even though he had treated her with the tenderest of care once he realized what was happening.
She had developed many fears from that time—of strangers, of loud voices, of tempers—and he blamed himself for it all. He knew that she loved him. He was the first one she would hide behind when she felt she needed protection. But she was so terribly shy of him, so timid and meek in manner, as if she always expected
him to chastise her or worse. She was in fact the same way with all men, but Royce took her behavior to heart.
“Were you afraid to go outside?” Royce asked gently when she finally stood next to him with bowed head.
“Nay, I only wanted to look at the Vikings. Udele said they were all bad men, but they looked like only hurt men to me.” She peeked up at him to measure his reaction to this, then relaxed when she saw him smiling at her.
“You do not think they could be hurt bad men?”
“I suppose, but they still did not seem so bad. One even smiled at me, or I think he did. Can such young men be really so bad, Royce? I thought men had to live a long time in wicked sin to be really bad.”
“These men have not the benefit of God to temper their wickedness, so it matters not how young they are.”
“Udele said that they have many gods and that makes them bad too.”
“Nay, that only makes them heathens who sacrifice to pagan gods. Are you afraid of them?”
“Aye,” she admitted meekly.
Impulsively he asked, “What do you think I should do with them, Meghan?”
“Make them go away.”
“So they can come back and hurt us again at another time? I cannot allow that.”
“Then make them Christians.”
Royce chuckled at her simple solution. “That is for our good abbot to do, not I.”
“Then what will you do with them? Udele thinks you will kill them.” Meghan shivered as she said this.
“Udele thinks too much aloud.” He frowned.
Meghan lowered her eyes again. “I told her you would not, because they are not fighting anymore, and you would not kill a man unless ’twas in battle.”
“Sometimes ’tis necessary—” He stopped himself,
shaking his head. “Never mind, midget. What say you we put them to work building our wall?”
“Would they work for us?”
“Oh, I think they will want to with the right incentive,” he replied.
“You mean they will not have a choice?”
“Prisoners rarely do, midget, and do not forget that is what they are. If they had won the battle and taken you back to their land, they would have made a slave of you. They cannot expect less than the same for themselves.”
He stood up, for the hour was growing late, and if he had not made up his mind before, he had now after talking with Meghan. “A word of caution,” he added, smoothing the hair back from her cheek. “As long as they are here, do not go near them. They are dangerous men, whether they look it or not. I must have your promise, Meghan.”
Meghan nodded uneasily, then watched him leave the hall. No sooner was he gone from sight than she ran upstairs to tell the grouchy old woman who was her maid that the Vikings were not to die after all.
The sun was high when he left the hall and walked purposely toward them. Kristen had been waiting for this moment as they all were, pondering her regrets: that she would never see her parents again, that she would never have a husband now, or children, or even see the morrow. She had determined she would not die cowardly, but she did not want to die at all.
Two of the guards stopped him to speak with them, then they both fell into step beside him as he continued crossing the yard. The little Saxon, Hunfrith, had been relieved in the middle of the night, but he had returned early that morn to continue goading them with descriptions of the tortures they could expect. He walked right
up to Thorolf now and struck the prisoner’s bare foot with the flat side of the sword he had drawn.
“My lord Royce would speak with you, Viking,” Hunfrith announced importantly.
Kristen pinched Thorolf to urge him to stand up, but he struck her hand away, refusing. He was in a crouch, ready to charge the Saxons as the others were, if any move was made to single them out for torture. With only three men standing before them, it was not likely that the time was at hand, but he was taking no chances.
The dark-green eyes of the Saxon lord were casually moving over the group, as if seeing them for the first time. His expression, unlike yesterday, was inscrutable. Of course their deplorable condition was more obvious now in the bright light of midday, and he no doubt felt they offered no threat to him, or he would not have stood so close. His unconcern was almost a challenge.
He was not afraid, this Saxon, Kristen was thinking when his eyes slid over her and then came back abruptly. She quickly lowered her own, feeling an uncomfortable leap of her heart at being singled out by those dark eyes, fearing her disguise might have been revealed to him in some way.
She did not look up again until she heard him speak, but then her unease increased. She had not realized that being chained to Thorolf, who was the only one who could speak for them, would place her too close to the object of their attention. She quickly scooted behind him and hunched down, letting his broad back hide her from view.
The Saxon was looking down at Thorolf. “I was told you speak our tongue.”
“Some,” Thorolf admitted.
“Who is your leader?”
“Dead.”