‘With dignity, not as a broken husk begging for death.’
‘Get some cool cloths and more of the paste from Father Oswald,’ Ansithe told Elene who stood wringing her hands and doing less than nothing. ‘I will stay with him until you return. I am in no danger even with their hands unbound. Owain the Plough is looking for an excuse to practise with his bow. At this range, even he would be hard-pressed to miss.’
Elene nodded and scurried out of the room. Ansithe concentrated on examining the youth, rather than considering that she was alone with these fearsome Northmen, particularly Moir who watched her with an intent expression.
She left the youth as she could do no more until Elene returned. The grizzled warrior with the mangled leg appeared in the greatest need. She went over and knelt by his side. The leg was badly torn, but appeared unbroken.
‘Will he live?’ Moir asked, coming to stand close to her and making her aware of the strength he possessed in his bulging arm muscles.
‘The bone remains whole and that is a start.’ She rapidly rinsed the wound to keep the infection out and then packed it with honey-soaked bandages. It would have to do until she could convince Father Oswald to investigate the wound further. He was not an unkind man, just understandably wary. And he did have the reputation of saving many souls in his infirmary.
‘Let me know the worst. Please. He is my friend. We have campaigned together for many years.’
Ansithe rocked back on her heels and looked up at Moir. His face was shadowed with concern. A seriousness had settled about him that had not been there when she first entered the byre.
‘He’ll live as long as the wound stays clean and uninfected.’
‘You mouth fables to please children. Does he stand a chance? Will he keep his leg?’
‘It is beyond my skill to decide who lives or dies. If he worsens or if you spot red streaks above the bandages, call for me. Someone will fetch me.’ She dug half-moon shapes into her palms. If that happened, she’d force Father Oswald to assist. He’d cured Owain’s father of infection after the plough broke his leg three years ago. ‘Hopefully the next time, he will learn that barging into someone’s house uninvited is not a good thing to do.’
‘We are grateful that you are willing to bind wounds.’ He nodded towards where the remains of the bread lay. ‘And for the food. I don’t know the last time we had our bellies full—before we left camp, probably.’
She assessed the warrior from under her lashes. The warrior was taller than her, but not overbearingly tall, and without an inch of spare flesh on his lean frame. A true warrior, rather than just playing at it like her stepson had been. Or a man more comfortable with his music than his sword as Leofwine was. Luck and the angels had truly been with her to be able to defeat him so easily.
‘Someone has to.’ She rose up from her crouched position.
‘Still I am grateful.’ He went over to the remaining loaf, broke it and took some to the youth and the injured warrior.
‘Why break with Mercian custom instead of asking for bread and drink like any traveller?’ she asked and instantly regretted it. She didn’t want to know if they bore a grudge against her father or what their motive was. It should be enough that they’d attacked her and endangered her family, but she couldn’t help wondering why. Curiosity—her biggest failing according to her late husband.
‘Me personally? Or the group of us?’
‘The group. You must have had a guide who knew Mercian customs.’
‘The guide left us a week or so ago, after a disagreement with...with my bee-stung friend.’ Moir rubbed the back of his neck. He winced. ‘I cannot defend that choice. You will have to ask another, but I will say this—the one who pressed for the raid died today.’
Ansithe pressed her hands together to keep them from trembling. She’d killed the man who had brought this misfortune to her family, her true enemy.
Before she could reply, Elene bustled in, carrying a small jar.
‘Cynehild says that you are to use as little as possible,’ Elene proclaimed, holding the foul-smelling ointment out. ‘We do not have many jars left. And Father Oswald refuses to speak to anyone. He is at prayer.’
‘Since when have I ever taken any notice of Cynehild and her warnings? I will use what is required.’
Ansithe set to work, pointedly ignoring Moir and his penetrating gaze. Rudimentary healing like bandaging wounds or putting healing ointments on was well within her capabilities, but she had no real feel for it, not the way Father Oswald or Elene did. Most of the time it bored her. She lost count of the times she had wanted to shake Eadweard and tell him to stop despairing at each setback. She never had, but each time she had thought it, guilt rose in her because she believed she should be better than to resent people who were ill. So she renewed her promises and tried harder, but it never made it any easier. The resentment still clawed at her throat.
In the end, she’d sobbed when he died, not from grief, but from the relief of knowing that she’d never have to go back into that room and face his complaints again. She’d hated herself then and knew the insults her stepson had spouted about her were well-deserved.
Ansithe noticed Moir waited until everyone else was attended to, refusing Elene’s offer of help.
‘Are you suffering from the stings or are you miraculously immune to pain?’ she asked. The welts on his face were large. ‘My sister could have examined you.’
‘No disrespect to your sister, but I prefer the Lady Valkyrie herself to give me her attention. However, it will take more than a few bee stings to harm my toughened hide.’ He coughed. ‘My pride is the most injured thing I have.’
‘Losing to a woman.’ She blew a breath out. ‘I see where that might be tricky.’
‘You were a worthy opponent. Never allow any to say differently.’ He flexed his bee-stung fingers. ‘My failure to convince the others it was a trap will haunt me for a long time. I’m no barely blooded warrior, but one who has campaigned for more than ten seasons. Your yard was far too quiet.’
She froze at the candid answer. Even though she’d sensed it, it gave her a shiver down her spine to realise exactly how experienced and dangerous a warrior he really was. But it didn’t matter—he was the one she had to ensure understood that there would be no escaping, no easy way out. These men were going to provide the means to free her family.
‘Keep an eye on your charges. Should they worsen, let the guard know and I will return to do what I can.’
Moir caught her hand in his as she was about to sweep past. His grip was firm, but warm. It was the sort of hand which made women feel safe. Ansithe stared at it for a heartbeat too long. ‘Change your mind, Lady Ansithe. Change your course before you doom us all. Send word to my jaarl. Make the journey with me. What good is healing my friends if you only send us to die?’
She rapidly withdrew her hand. There was nothing safe about a Northman. He was her enemy. He had wanted her dead or, worse, a captive. He could never be her friend, let alone her ally. ‘It is not pity, but practical necessity which drives me. You will be someone else’s problem soon. I can give no guarantees for their behaviour.’
His soft mocking laughter followed her out of the byre. ‘I look forward to our next encounter, Lady Ansithe the Valkyrie.’
Moir flexed his stiff fingers and tried to get the blood back into them now that the ropes which had bound him were gone—a