returning patrol found him lying outside the wall, trying to escape their notice in the dark, and ’twas just opposite the wall where the changing of the guard was being discussed.”
The prisoner addressed that before she could. “I was sitting, not lying, and I wanted theirnotice because I doubt I could have moved another step on my own.”
“His sack was full of newly cooked food,” Wulnoth quickly added, “that could have come from our kitchen. Mayhap he hurt himself climbing over the wall to escape, since the gate had been locked.”
Erika’s brow tilted. “So now you would have him as our thief, too?”
“One or the other,” Wulnoth insisted. “Or mayhap even an escaped slave.”
She could see Wulnoth was determined to have a victim, but the last was a moot point. If he was an escaped slave, she doubted he had always been so, and he was welcome to his freedom. Others had sought sanctuary with the Danes and found it more often than not, just as Danish slaves escaped to Wessex and West Mercia. As for him being their thief…
“The food came from a goodwife north of here,” the prisoner said, sounding almost drunk with weariness. “It would be a simple matter to find her and question her.”
Erika was inclined to believe that just because she could not believe this beautiful giant had been able to come into the manor without being noticed. But a spy he could definitely be, and her brother would deal harshly with him. There were too many years of war and surprise campaigns, in which thousands of lives were at risk if plans were not kept secret, for Ragnar not to have him killed outright. That they were supposedly at peace now would make no difference.
But his fate was in her hands, not Ragnar’s.
She couldn’t simply dismiss the charge out of hand. Sneaking and hiding both warranted suspicion, as did a Celt’s fluent grasp of the Danish tongue. But they were at peace, which did make a difference. And the changing of the guard, what he was supposed to have been overhearing, was no great secret, could be figured out by anyone keeping watch on the manor. She could be generous.
“As to thievery, your story will indeed be looked into,” she told him. “But what excuse have you for being found where and how you were found?”
She thought he was refusing to answer when he shook his head, but he replied, slowly, “I was seeking aid. My head…I was injured—clubbed, I believe—when my party was attacked by thieves.”
Immediate concern assailed Erika, so that she snapped at the captain, “Check his head for injury, Wulnoth!” and stood there anxiously waiting while he did so. It would explain much—the man’s weakness, his confusion—but not what he was doing in East Anglia.
“I find no abnormality,” Wulnoth stated.
Anger came again, that she could be so gullible, and so quick to pardon the man. His bright gray eyes had closed, and she heard him sigh.
“Your man lies,” he said to her. “The knot was there this morn. It could not have gone so quickly. Feel for yourself, wench.”
Erika gritted her teeth. If he called her wench one more time, she would leave him to Wulnoth’s tender care. As for touching him herself, it showed churlish arrogance on his part even to suggest it.
“Whether you are injured or not does not say why you are in East Anglia,” she told him, then pointed out the obvious. “Who better to spy for a Saxon than a Celt, who would be less suspect if found.”
“I do not even speak their tongue.”
“So you say.”
“But I do come from Wessex.”
“The truth at last.”
Selig tried to focus on her again, but his vision had gone blurry when that Wulnoth had pressed his fingers against the lump on his head. The pain was nigh unbearable now, but he had to bear it. He sensed it was important that he appease the woman—eyes the color of a midday sky, brows gently arched. He wondered why she sounded so sarcastic. Or was it just disbelief he was hearing?
He
The prisoner addressed that before she could. “I was sitting, not lying, and I wanted theirnotice because I doubt I could have moved another step on my own.”
“His sack was full of newly cooked food,” Wulnoth quickly added, “that could have come from our kitchen. Mayhap he hurt himself climbing over the wall to escape, since the gate had been locked.”
Erika’s brow tilted. “So now you would have him as our thief, too?”
“One or the other,” Wulnoth insisted. “Or mayhap even an escaped slave.”
She could see Wulnoth was determined to have a victim, but the last was a moot point. If he was an escaped slave, she doubted he had always been so, and he was welcome to his freedom. Others had sought sanctuary with the Danes and found it more often than not, just as Danish slaves escaped to Wessex and West Mercia. As for him being their thief…
“The food came from a goodwife north of here,” the prisoner said, sounding almost drunk with weariness. “It would be a simple matter to find her and question her.”
Erika was inclined to believe that just because she could not believe this beautiful giant had been able to come into the manor without being noticed. But a spy he could definitely be, and her brother would deal harshly with him. There were too many years of war and surprise campaigns, in which thousands of lives were at risk if plans were not kept secret, for Ragnar not to have him killed outright. That they were supposedly at peace now would make no difference.
But his fate was in her hands, not Ragnar’s.
She couldn’t simply dismiss the charge out of hand. Sneaking and hiding both warranted suspicion, as did a Celt’s fluent grasp of the Danish tongue. But they were at peace, which did make a difference. And the changing of the guard, what he was supposed to have been overhearing, was no great secret, could be figured out by anyone keeping watch on the manor. She could be generous.
“As to thievery, your story will indeed be looked into,” she told him. “But what excuse have you for being found where and how you were found?”
She thought he was refusing to answer when he shook his head, but he replied, slowly, “I was seeking aid. My head…I was injured—clubbed, I believe—when my party was attacked by thieves.”
Immediate concern assailed Erika, so that she snapped at the captain, “Check his head for injury, Wulnoth!” and stood there anxiously waiting while he did so. It would explain much—the man’s weakness, his confusion—but not what he was doing in East Anglia.
“I find no abnormality,” Wulnoth stated.
Anger came again, that she could be so gullible, and so quick to pardon the man. His bright gray eyes had closed, and she heard him sigh.
“Your man lies,” he said to her. “The knot was there this morn. It could not have gone so quickly. Feel for yourself, wench.”
Erika gritted her teeth. If he called her wench one more time, she would leave him to Wulnoth’s tender care. As for touching him herself, it showed churlish arrogance on his part even to suggest it.
“Whether you are injured or not does not say why you are in East Anglia,” she told him, then pointed out the obvious. “Who better to spy for a Saxon than a Celt, who would be less suspect if found.”
“I do not even speak their tongue.”
“So you say.”
“But I do come from Wessex.”
“The truth at last.”
Selig tried to focus on her again, but his vision had gone blurry when that Wulnoth had pressed his fingers against the lump on his head. The pain was nigh unbearable now, but he had to bear it. He sensed it was important that he appease the woman—eyes the color of a midday sky, brows gently arched. He wondered why she sounded so sarcastic. Or was it just disbelief he was hearing?
He
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