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‘He’ll need constant care and rest. The hall isn’t the appropriate environment for that.’ The warriors distrusted all foreigners and the simple truth was she didn’t trust his care to them. For some reason, she felt a sense of ownership where he was concerned. Perhaps it was because she’d found him, or that he’d saved her. She really didn’t want to examine it too closely.
Cuthbert cut a glance at her before staring back down at the warrior. ‘I’d have to leave a warrior to guard you. I can’t spare the men, not after the massacre.’ It had been mere weeks since the confrontation that had killed Godric and his warriors, but a retaliation was always a possibility.
‘But we need him to recover. That’s a mercenary’s tunic. He could prove useful.’ Aisly was grasping at anything to make him important to them, though she wasn’t sure why that was so important to her. She hadn’t even known this man when she awakened that morning. But he had saved her life.
The warrior who had spoken before leaned down to examine the embroidered figure on the stranger’s tunic. ‘Aye, it’s a mercenary tunic. But it’s possible he’s a Dane. He has their look.’
‘We’ll need to question him,’ Cuthbert said. ‘The fact remains that he killed the rebel Dane, so he very well could be useful to us. Dane or not, if we could buy his loyalty, he’ll prove useful.’
Aisly didn’t bother pointing out again that the man hadn’t any memories. She’d already mentioned it more than once. Perhaps they’d return once he awakened. ‘Whoever he turns out to be, he needs rest and I’m in no danger.’
‘Nay, not yet, but when he awakens, he could have his strength back,’ Cuthbert argued.
She couldn’t argue that. ‘Then leave him with me bound. He’s already injured. If he’s bound as well, what harm could he be?’
Cuthbert gave a deep sigh, but he relented. Aisly imagined that he didn’t want a wounded warrior lurking around his hall anyway.
* * *
He huddled back into the limbs of the fir tree, hiding himself from the buffeting wind coming in across the water and the people stirring in the small village below. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his thin right arm around them and tried not to shiver too hard. His left arm he kept cradled against his ribs. It was the only way he’d found to ease the near constant pain in them.
A jolt of terror bolted through him when the door to the small house opened and a man stepped outside. He despised that cowardly emotion, so he forced himself to watch the man walk down to the dock where his boat was moored, not looking away once. It wasn’t until the man pushed away from the dock that Magnus breathed a sigh of relief. Only when the boat disappeared did he take his first step out of the forest in a sennight and make his way down the slope to the edge of the village. The pain on his left side tried to slow him, but he ignored it. There was no telling how long he had, so he must make the most of it.
Still...he hesitated when he reached the door of the house, afraid of what he might find inside. His small hand was shaking when he reached out to push the door open and his heart was pounding in his ears.
Magnus awoke abruptly to the sound of muffled voices. The strange dream along with his pain had kept him from finding a peaceful sleep. He was certain it must be a memory from his childhood, but on his life he couldn’t figure it out. As soon as he opened his eyes, it began to dissipate.
It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the low light in the room. A fire flickered somewhere near his feet, but pain throbbed through his temple if he attempted to look at it, so he kept his eyes looking forward. A few moments later he realised that he was looking upward, staring at the underside of a thatched roof. A tapestry hung to his left, separating the area where he slept from the rest of the house. Just past his feet, a hearth glowed with a low burning fire and on the other side of that hearth was a crudely built table pushed up against the wall with cooking implements on top of it. The voices from the front of the house had stopped, but he could hear shuffling sounds.
Before he could even begin to fathom where he was or who could be with him, he became aware of an aching pain in his shoulders. It wasn’t the ache of his ribs, which had been hurt in that mysterious battle, but a new ache. A throb that sent pinpricks of pain through his arms when he tried to move them. When they wouldn’t move, he looked over to see that his wrists were tied to an unfinished, rudimentary headboard. A wave of panic chilled him to the bone and he pulled in earnest, only to realise that his ankles were somehow tied to the foot of the bed. Anxiety tightened in his body and made his heart pound.
His body twisted and heaved as he tried to jerk himself free, no doubt drawing the attention of his captor, but he didn’t care. He needed to get free.
‘Foreigner?’
He turned his head at the sound of her voice and just the sight of her was enough to soothe him. It was her. The side of his body where he’d pressed her against him as he walked warmed at the memory. She wore a different dress, this one a green that made him think of her eyes, with a wide apron tied double around her waist. Standing with her arms slightly raised in front of her as if she was afraid she would scare him, she spoke again, but the words were a rush that he couldn’t distinguish.
He opened his mouth to demand an explanation for the restraints, but the words wouldn’t come right away. Finally, after turning them over a few times, he asked, ‘Why am I bound?’ He had a suspicion that the words didn’t sound as harsh as he intended them, though, because she smiled at him and he couldn’t hold on to even a shred of anger when she did that.
‘They wouldn’t allow you to stay here without restraints. I’m sorry.’ She walked closer and kneeled down beside the low bed. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Let me go.’ He made sure his voice was firm. She flinched back and he regretted it immediately. He tried again, this time keeping his voice even. ‘You know I won’t hurt you, fair one. Untie me so that I can leave.’
‘I know. I don’t think you’ll hurt me. But it was a condition of them allowing you to stay here.’ Her brow furrowed as she leaned forward, her small hands resting on the bed beside him.
‘Them?’ It was a pointless question. Obviously he was in her village and the leaders didn’t trust a stranger, a foreigner as she’d called him. The fact that he was even alive and hadn’t been run through beneath the fir where he’d fallen was a testament to their feelings. Though it was possible they were only waiting to verify his identity before taking that step.
‘The elders. Cuthbert is our chieftain. After you fell asleep, I couldn’t wake you and worried that you wouldn’t wake at all. I had no choice but to tell him that I’d found you. He came and a few others carried you here.’ Magnus couldn’t take his eyes from her face as she spoke. She was so vivid, so vibrant, so alive, that he only wanted to watch her, causing his concentration on her words to falter. It took all the determination he could muster to focus again and make sense of what she said. ‘They wanted to take you to the hall, but I didn’t think that would be the best place for you. I wanted to watch over you myself, so I asked them to bring you here. They did, but only on the condition that I keep you tied down. I only meant to tie your arms, but you were thrashing in your sleep and I was afraid you’d hurt yourself, so I tied your ankles.’
Confusion must have shown on his face, because she gave him a shy smile and blushed. ‘My apologies. I ramble on and on sometimes.’
Blotches of pink swept across her cheeks, drawing his attention to the bit of hair tucked beneath her headrail at her temple. Streaks of russet, or perhaps a darker red, were visible in the low firelight. He wanted to push the atrocity from her head and see it all for himself. An enticing thought that had no right to exist. Pulling himself away from her allure, he shifted and almost grimaced at the pain sparking through his arms from the unnatural position. It had nearly begun to match the throbbing in his skull.
‘How is your head?’ She reached up towards his temple, her fingers pressing lightly against the edges of a poultice and following the line of a strip of linen that held it in place around his head. Satisfied the binding was tight enough, she pressed her palm to his uninjured temple.
‘It aches,’ he admitted.
‘I’ve a draught for you if you’d like to drink it. Edyth, the healer who made your poultice, said it’s to help with the ache.’
He nodded, a brief move because he was loath to do anything that would make her stop touching him. Her soft palm stroked back through his hair and he had to fight the urge to close his eyes in pleasure. ‘You awoke in a sweat last night. I think your fever left. You only feel slightly warm now.’
The words of her unfamiliar language were coming back to him now, but it hardly mattered. He’d listen to her soft voice with its hint of a husky rasp for as long as she wanted to speak to him, whether he understood her words or not. ‘Thank you. You saved my life.’ Though the villagers might yet see to his death.
‘You saved me.’ Their eyes met and the moment stopped. All he could hear was her breath, all he could see was her face and all he could feel were her fingertips as they slid down his face and across his jaw.
‘I put your life in danger and for that I apologise. How can I repay you for your care?’
She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling and her cheeks turning pink again, as she dropped her hand back to the bed. ‘I think you have more recovering to do yet before we should speak of such things.’ She didn’t step back and her close proximity was starting to affect him. The heat from her body warmed his and her scent filled his breath as he drew it in. She smelled fresh and somehow sweet like flowers. It was a vaguely familiar scent, but his memories were too tangled and confused to draw each of them out separately for examination. Just attempting to extract one from the others caused them all to tumble into a tangled ball of impenetrable threads.
‘I shouldn’t linger.’ No matter how he might want to spend more time with her. He didn’t once consider that he might not convince her to untie him. Then he realised what she’d said and the implications of the fact that she’d changed her clothes. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘Just a night. You arrived yesterday and it’s late morning now.’
Almost an entire day and night. Too long. He’d been too weak to hide their tracks. The Danes could follow him straight to her house if they wanted. ‘Then I’ve stayed too long.’
‘Nay, you must not leave yet. You’re still not well. Your fever may well return and you shouldn’t be out there alone.’
Despite his intention to leave her at the first opportunity that presented itself, tenderness for her tugged deep within him. Who was this stranger to stir him the way she did? ‘Don’t fear for me, fair one. I’m stronger, thanks to you.’ He’d touched her the day before. He vividly remembered touching her cheek, the softness of her skin almost like silk beneath his fingertips. A light smattering of freckles swept across her nose and cheekbones and he found himself wanting to trace over them.
Her lips parted, drawing his gaze to them as she took a deep breath. ‘You need food and more rest.’
‘I’ll gladly have more food. Thank you. But I want you to release me.’ He gave a tug on his bonds for emphasis.
Her green eyes widened. ‘I cannot. If it were up to me, I would. I know you’re not a danger, but I can’t betray Cuthbert’s order.’
Something about that statement resonated with him. Perhaps it was the unwillingness to betray trust, or the structure inherent in an order. Whatever it was, it was familiar in a way that left him little doubt that he’d known them both in his past. He was a warrior, of that he was certain.
‘I’ll get your food.’
He had little choice but to watch as she moved back and walked past the hearth. As she retrieved a bowl from the table and filled it from the pot bubbling over the fire, he allowed his gaze to wander around her home. The tapestry next to him cut off most of the view, but his eyes had adjusted enough now that some of the front part of the room was visible to him. The side he could see was lined with baskets of various sizes filled with cloth and thread. A table and stools were there, too, currently littered with needles and frames for holding cloth.
‘You are a weaver?’
‘An embroideress, but I do some weaving as well.’ She smiled back at him and pride shone in her eyes. ‘I have three apprentices now. Well, two. One is still very young and she only comes in the mornings to help tend my garden.’
‘Do you have no servants?’
She shook her head. ‘I had one once. She helped with the garden and household chores so that I had more time for work. But after my husband’s death, I couldn’t afford to keep her.’
Her husband was dead. It was an awful thing, but he couldn’t find the grief that revelation should have caused. Quite the opposite, actually. Exhilaration cut through his physical pain and he knew a moment of complete desire for possession. He wanted her for his own.
The feeling was so great that he forced himself to look away and for the first time he was glad that his wrists were bound so that he couldn’t act on his nearly uncontrollable urge to touch her. His gaze landed on the blanket folded across his legs. It was faded, its colour negligible and dull, but it was hers. This was her bed. The breadth of his body in the centre of the thin mattress left very little room for her on either side, but it didn’t stop his mind from imagining her there, or the way he’d curl around her. The vision was so vivid, the phantom warmth of flesh pressed against his so real, that he knew it was a memory, but the woman’s face and body had changed into Aisly’s. If he wasn’t so certain that she saw him as a stranger, he would’ve sworn they’d been lovers.
It was a preposterous thought. Of course they’d never been lovers and they’d never be lovers. He should say that he was sorry for the loss of her husband, but it was a bloody lie and he wouldn’t lie to her any more than was necessary. So far he’d only lied about his name and he wanted to keep it that way. Instead, he asked, ‘Is the tapestry your creation, then?’ He tilted his head towards the large tapestry hanging from the ceiling next to him. The embroidery was an intricate floral design of faded pinks, yellows and mossy greens arranged in roundels and arches.
‘Aye,’ she began without looking up from stirring the pottage, ‘my mother started it. You can see how the thread is faded more near the top, but the bottom is mine. It’s not as precise as hers. I was learning.’
‘It’s lovely. You’re very skilled.’
She shrugged, but the endearing spots of pink were back to colour her pale cheeks as she stepped away from the hearth. She was very pretty. Just looking at her was mesmerising, but his stomach growled and interrupted the moment. She laughed and he couldn’t help but smile and watch her as she moved. Her small frame might have seemed delicate and fragile on some other woman, but not on her. She handled herself confidently, as if she knew just what she was capable of. He wanted to see more of her hair, but he was limited to the little bit around her face that her headscarf revealed to him. It shimmered with copper undertones at her temples.
‘Your mother must be proud.’
She frowned, a look of sadness darkening her features. ‘I hope she would be.’
He recognised that sadness. Something bitter and hollow swelled within him, some deep longing fated to go unmet. He searched for memories of his own mother, but the effort only caused his head to throb. ‘I’m sorry you lost her.’
Giving him a quick but sad smile, she said, ‘Both my parents died when I was a child. Eight winters. An ague took them within weeks of the other. I have good memories of her teaching me the skill, but I miss her dreadfully. I miss them both, but mothers are special, aren’t they?’
He met her gaze, wanting to comfort her in some way, but unsure how. ‘I’m glad you have the tapestry.’
She frowned again and looked over at the bare walls. ‘I had more, but they were taken from me. Payment.’
‘Payment? For what?’
Shaking her head, she shrugged. ‘Payment for something Godric did. It doesn’t matter.’
He frowned and opened his mouth to ask more when she continued. ‘You should know that a few men went to the stream and found the Dane. They identified him as one in a group of rebels that has been plaguing us since summer.’
‘What have the rebels done to plague you?’
‘It started small—burned crops, stolen sheep. But at the end of summer two of our young women went missing and the rebel Danes burned our wall. Some say the women were lured away by them, others believe they were murdered, sacrificed in a barbarian ritual. They simply vanished.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘I don’t know. For their sake I hope they found men to care for them. But it seems unlikely. The Danes are brutes. All of them. The rebels and those from the settlement.’
‘Do you have no one to appeal to for help? No lord?’ It seemed only right that the villagers wouldn’t exist on their own in the middle of the wilderness—that they’d have someone to appeal to for help.
‘Aye, we have a lord and we did appeal to him. But Lord Oswine wasn’t very interested in dealing with any Danes. The Danes at the settlement run the region now. Though the rebels are a separate group and are even supposed enemies of those Danes, I fear there is no safety from any of them. Whatever they want is theirs for the taking. And to complain to them is to invite more trouble.’ Her voice and jaw had hardened as she spoke while settling herself on a stool she’d placed next to the bed. She brought a small vial to his lips and he drank the draught down, though his stomach tried to rebel against the bitter liquid.
Once the nausea passed, he tried to place the name, but Oswine was not familiar to him. Not that he’d expected it to be, not when his own name was still an enigma. ‘Your lord has not challenged the Danes?’ The frustration clouded his mind, but he pushed back the darkness and focused on the bowl before him as she raised a spoonful of stew to his mouth. He felt like a child, but the fact that it was she who wielded the spoon somehow eased the shame of being spoon-fed.
‘The Danes at the settlement control him now. He won’t do anything to disrupt their hold.’
Finishing that bite, he asked, ‘But these Danes that plague you, are they the same ones controlling Oswine?’
‘Nay, not precisely. The man at the stream was one of the rebels. The rebels broke off from the Danes at some point and answer to no one. The man you killed bore the rebels’ markings. But it hardly matters. The Danes at the settlement care little for our problems. One is hardly better than the other,’ she said, her voice tight with bitterness.
She wasn’t his problem, yet he couldn’t help thinking that she shouldn’t have been out alone when he’d come across her. Not in peaceful times, but especially not with the threat of the rebel Danes. She was a prize any man would find alluring and, with no man to protect her, they could have easily taken her. The thought of her at the hands of that brute he’d killed made his gut clench.
What could he do about it, though? He had to keep moving, to figure out where he belonged and who he was. He undoubtedly had other responsibilities waiting for him somewhere in the world. The thoughts made his head ache, so he forced himself not to think as she brought another spoonful to his lips. Just as he was taking the bite, there was a brisk knock at the door.
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