powerlessness. “From Causantín, from the Northumbrians, and from other Northlanders, when they come—and they will come.”
Maelcon descended the stairs and made his way toward the great hall. He would wait to send word to Causantín mac Fergusa, King of the Picts. News of these Northmen’s arrival, their desire to settle, and Elisead’s role as their hostage would only threaten the betrothal between Elisead and the King’s son, Domnall. Everything hung in a delicate balance, and one wrong move, one rash decision or early jump would destroy it all.
Even still, he wasn’t going to sit on his hands until the Northmen contacted him again. He would need their camp watched. And mayhap the Northwoman, Alaric’s sister, could provide information.
He approached the strangely-clad woman, eyeing her where she stood in the yard as if poised for battle.
“I’ll show you to my daughter’s chambers. You may be here a while, so you’d best make yourself comfortable.”
The woman—Madrena if he remembered Alaric’s introduction—tilted her head in such a way that she acknowledged Maelcon while still looking down her nose slightly at him. She was unusually tall, but it was more than that. She carried herself with a regal, arrogant air. Maelcon gritted his teeth against the foul taste in his mouth at the predicament he found himself in.
“Very well,” Madrena said, with that same thickly accented Northumbrian tongue as her brother.
As Maelcon guided Madrena toward the great hall, his eye snagged on a flash of white in one of the shadows.
Feitr.
Perhaps the Northland slave would finally prove more valuable than the labor to be wrung from his body.
Maelcon’s mind swirled even as he plastered a kindly smile on his face for Madrena’s benefit.
Chapter Nine
As the Northmen emerged from the woods to meet the cart, Elisead had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming.
It was already terrifying enough to be mere feet behind Alaric as he walked with a hand on the donkey’s harness, guiding it away from the safety of the fortress and everyone in the world she knew.
She watched, nigh spellbound, as he strode with an easy gait that belied his swiftness. Even now, her body hummed at the memory of the hard expanse of him wrapping around her, protecting her from the floor. Her shoulders tingled where his hands had lingered for a breath longer than necessary when they’d steadied her.
The one called Rúnin walked behind, setting the hairs on the back of her neck to stirring. And as the cart was surrounded by the warriors nigh two score in number, her skin crawled with unease.
But these were her keepers now. She tried to remind herself that her wellbeing was in their best interest as well—if what Alaric had said in the great hall was true.
Many sets of eyes, mostly shades of blue and green, darted to her as Alaric spoke in that lilting tongue. A moment later, he was guiding the donkey into the trees.
Elisead jerked her head around and caught one last glimpse of the fortress before pine boughs obscured it. Her heart hammered in her chest, her stomach sinking like a rock in a pond.
She was alone with these Northmen now, with no stone walls or chieftain father to protect her. Her father had seemed all too quick to agree to Alaric’s terms. As usual, he put his people’s safety above his daughter’s happiness and wellbeing. If it had been anyone else in this situation, she would have seen the wisdom in it. But as it was, she wanted to scream at him for her freedom from these Northmen.
“What is your name?”
Elisead’s head snapped back around at the rich, silky voice right next to her. Alaric had let one of the other Northmen take the donkey’s harness and he now strode slowly by her side.
She swallowed. “Elisead.”
“Elisead.” He tested the name. It sounded different, foreign on his tongue. For some reason, goose bumps rose on her arms despite her heavy cloak.
Maelcon descended the stairs and made his way toward the great hall. He would wait to send word to Causantín mac Fergusa, King of the Picts. News of these Northmen’s arrival, their desire to settle, and Elisead’s role as their hostage would only threaten the betrothal between Elisead and the King’s son, Domnall. Everything hung in a delicate balance, and one wrong move, one rash decision or early jump would destroy it all.
Even still, he wasn’t going to sit on his hands until the Northmen contacted him again. He would need their camp watched. And mayhap the Northwoman, Alaric’s sister, could provide information.
He approached the strangely-clad woman, eyeing her where she stood in the yard as if poised for battle.
“I’ll show you to my daughter’s chambers. You may be here a while, so you’d best make yourself comfortable.”
The woman—Madrena if he remembered Alaric’s introduction—tilted her head in such a way that she acknowledged Maelcon while still looking down her nose slightly at him. She was unusually tall, but it was more than that. She carried herself with a regal, arrogant air. Maelcon gritted his teeth against the foul taste in his mouth at the predicament he found himself in.
“Very well,” Madrena said, with that same thickly accented Northumbrian tongue as her brother.
As Maelcon guided Madrena toward the great hall, his eye snagged on a flash of white in one of the shadows.
Feitr.
Perhaps the Northland slave would finally prove more valuable than the labor to be wrung from his body.
Maelcon’s mind swirled even as he plastered a kindly smile on his face for Madrena’s benefit.
Chapter Nine
As the Northmen emerged from the woods to meet the cart, Elisead had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming.
It was already terrifying enough to be mere feet behind Alaric as he walked with a hand on the donkey’s harness, guiding it away from the safety of the fortress and everyone in the world she knew.
She watched, nigh spellbound, as he strode with an easy gait that belied his swiftness. Even now, her body hummed at the memory of the hard expanse of him wrapping around her, protecting her from the floor. Her shoulders tingled where his hands had lingered for a breath longer than necessary when they’d steadied her.
The one called Rúnin walked behind, setting the hairs on the back of her neck to stirring. And as the cart was surrounded by the warriors nigh two score in number, her skin crawled with unease.
But these were her keepers now. She tried to remind herself that her wellbeing was in their best interest as well—if what Alaric had said in the great hall was true.
Many sets of eyes, mostly shades of blue and green, darted to her as Alaric spoke in that lilting tongue. A moment later, he was guiding the donkey into the trees.
Elisead jerked her head around and caught one last glimpse of the fortress before pine boughs obscured it. Her heart hammered in her chest, her stomach sinking like a rock in a pond.
She was alone with these Northmen now, with no stone walls or chieftain father to protect her. Her father had seemed all too quick to agree to Alaric’s terms. As usual, he put his people’s safety above his daughter’s happiness and wellbeing. If it had been anyone else in this situation, she would have seen the wisdom in it. But as it was, she wanted to scream at him for her freedom from these Northmen.
“What is your name?”
Elisead’s head snapped back around at the rich, silky voice right next to her. Alaric had let one of the other Northmen take the donkey’s harness and he now strode slowly by her side.
She swallowed. “Elisead.”
“Elisead.” He tested the name. It sounded different, foreign on his tongue. For some reason, goose bumps rose on her arms despite her heavy cloak.
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