Outside the city gates, in the middle of the blackest night, Stefan heard the enemy approaching before he saw them. The ground rumbled and shook beneath his feet, Lord Manvil’s army roaring and stamping a ferocious battle cry, and his men began to jostle with each other as he told them to stand their ground, nerves getting the better of them. Then, in the distance, he finally caught the alarming sight of soldiers approaching, their fire spears appearing on the horizon.
His men had been right. By the time dawn broke, they would be upon them. Wintancaester would be under siege, unless he and his men took them down first. Unless they intercepted them.
So it was here the battle would take place.
Back in the city, people had taken to their farmsteads, locking themselves inside, and he prayed to his gods that he would be able to keep them safe. That Lord Manvil wouldn’t get through him and breach the walls.
His body was vibrating with shock and anger.
Images of Ædwen came into his head and he tried to push them aside, but it was no good. They were there to stay.
Was she?
Could he rely on her?
He wondered what he had stopped her saying to him.
His thoughts were nothing less than anarchy.
Her father, Lord Manvil, was once again preparing to attack. The man would try to kill him, just as he had his family. And yet...if Stefan’s own father had been successful in his crusade, if he’d razed Eastbury to the ground, it might have been Ædwen lying lifeless on the beach that day instead.
It was an abominable thought.
‘I’m glad I have you at my side now, to finish what he started!’ the King had said.
But could he do it?
He realised now his father was guilty of the crime he’d blamed Ædwen and her father for all this time and it made him sick to his stomach. The Danes might not have got to wreak their savagery upon the Saxons that day, but the intent had been to do so.
He had never thought his people would do the things Ædwen had accused them of. He had known the Danes had come here, devastating Saxon lands, but not his own tribe. Not his family. But he had got it so wrong. His father had come here to attack. To ravage and rampage. And that blood ran through his veins.
He picked up a spear and lit the tip and, with all the strength he could muster, threw it across the battle site, taking his frustration out on the fire and wood.
Why hadn’t his father told him of his plans? If only he could go back and ask him. There was so much left unsaid...there were things he wanted to know. To ask. To say himself and to have explained. Now he realised how much the regret of things left unsaid could hurt...
‘For helvede med dig,’ he cursed. Damn.
There was so much he should have said to Ædwen. But after what Canute had told him about his father, he’d been reeling from the reminder that he couldn’t trust even those he held most dear. He had taken his anger and fear out on her and now he was going into battle, not having reconciled with her. Did he want to?
He might lose. He might die. But if he won, if he killed Lord Manvil, wouldn’t that make him just as bad as his father?
But there was nothing for it now. He would have to fight. Things were too far gone.
Stefan readied his men. He shouted his orders, encouraging them to make a stand, inspiring them to stir up their courage.
Finally, when the first crack of dawn broke and he saw Lord Manvil’s men racing towards them, he commanded his men to charge and threw himself into the fray.
He kept fighting, cutting down the enemy, taking down one man, then the next, dispatching them in fury. It was bloody and brutal. He just knew he had to keep the city safe. His wife. His child. His King. And the people. He could not fail.
Lord Manvil had raised the fyrds, amassing a great army, and the fight raged on and on, both sides relentless. There were fires breaking out all over the place, everything in disarray. Just like Stefan’s thoughts and feelings. He was in turmoil.
Some time later, he saw Lord Manvil fighting a few feet away and Stefan continued to dispose of men as he tried to reach the Saxon brute. But for the first time, Stefan realised Lord Manvil had actually had a right to defend himself and his settlement that day in Eastbury, like he and Canute had a right to defend themselves today. Lord Manvil had known an enemy was coming to their shores, to kill and to destroy, and he had made sure that didn’t happen. And Stefan couldn’t blame him. Wouldn’t anyone have done the same?
Today, had Lord Manvil come here because he felt his enemy, a heathen, had stolen his daughter and his honour? After all, if Ellan had been taken by his foe, Stefan knew he wouldn’t let it be. He would go after her. He would fight. He would do everything in his power to get her back. Even wage a war against the King. Yet...he would never treat Ellan the way Lord Manvil had treated Ædwen.
Suddenly, an arrow struck his faithful steed and the horse tumbled, casting him off his back and on to the ground. His shoulder burned. Crawling over to the animal, he pulled the arrow from its leg and the steed curled itself back upwards. Stefan breathed out a sigh of relief. ‘Go!’ he told his faithful companion and was relieved when the horse cantered off back towards the city gates.
Seeing his chance to attack him while he was down, Lord Manvil approached, looming over him, a ferocious look on his face, but Stefan knew the older man was no match for his skill.
He leapt to his feet and the Saxon lord began to circle him, swinging his blade. Stefan’s father’s sword clashed against it. It was all a blur of raining blows, blades swinging, both of them grunting as they heaved their heavy weapons, all while arrows were pelting down around them, then the heavens opened and real rain began to descend.
He had wondered how he’d feel coming face to face with the man who had killed his family, but seeing him now, he realised they were both to blame. If Lord Manvil hadn’t struck first, his father would surely have taken the advantage. And he couldn’t bear to think of what that might have meant for the people in Eastbury. For Ædwen.
Had his father had to die to keep her safe?
Lord Manvil was a skilled fighter and his blows were persistent, but Stefan was stronger and, as both men began to tire, Stefan began to overpower him, knocking him backwards. The man lost his footing and fell. He scrambled backwards on the ground, trying to get away, to reach his lost weapon, looking aghast, but Stefan bore down on him, kicking his sword away, pointing his own blade at his chest.
The man’s eyes narrowed on him, realising all was lost. As Stefan peered down at him, he saw he had blue eyes, like Ædwen’s eyes.
‘Go on. Take your vengeance,’ Lord Manvil said. ‘You’ve waited a long time for this. We both have. But my God has decided that I deserve death. Perhaps if I’d listened to my daughter that day you came to our shores...’
Stefan stalled his sword. ‘What?’
‘Ædwen. When we saw your ships coming. She was desperate for me to show mercy to you that day. She could never stomach any bloodshed. But I was angry, hated your kind, for my own personal reasons. I will never see what my wife, or my daughter, see in your type.’
Stefan’s heart lurched. Had Ædwen really tried to stop it? Had she been looking out for him, even before he’d reached this isle? His Hamingia.
His thoughts returned to how she had wanted to talk about the past and he’d refused. He hadn’t wanted to hear it. Her betrayal still hurt too much.
He had been so angry, so shocked to see her standing there with her father that day, so overwhelmed by all the memories that had come flooding back all at once, that he had never given her chance to explain. Not then, or now. He’d been so blinded by rage, wanting vengeance, he’d never stopped to see the impact him leaving had had on her. Her own pain.
She had shocked him when she’d accused him of abandoning her, like her mother.
Like he’d abandoned Dania?
But deep down, he’d known she was right.
He had known it must have been hard for her, him leaving her, her having a child on her own, and she had suffered greatly when her father had taken Ellan away. Now he realised she was right to blame him for that. Because if he’d been there, none of it would have happened. He rubbed his chest with his hand.
Could they forgive each other for all that had passed?
She had known what her father had done, but she hadn’t wielded the blade. She’d tried to stop it, in fact. She’d rescued him. Saved him. Yes, she had withheld information, but was it possible she had only acted out of care for him? He’d allowed Dania’s past betrayal, and his grief, to make him assume the worst and he’d pushed Ædwen away to protect himself.
But he didn’t want to push her away any longer. He had let his fear of getting hurt rule him for too long. It was time to let it go. Because he loved her...
He loved Ædwen.
Helvete! He loved her. He wanted to shout it across the battlefield. From the tops of the ramparts. He wanted to whisper the words into her ear as he was showing her just how deeply he felt about her...
‘Let us put an end to this, once and for all,’ he said, making his decision, turning his focus back on the man beneath his boot, and Lord Manvil braced himself for death. He stared down at Ædwen’s father, knowing vengeance was his, but he didn’t want it. Not any more.
Stefan threw his sword down and stretched out his hand.
Ædwen had been right. He knew now, if they were to have any kind of future together, they had to deal with the past. Starting right now.
Stefan no longer wanted revenge and it felt strange to release his anger. His pain. He’d wanted to take his rage out on the man he felt had ruined his life for so long, but now, he just felt a deep sense of regret, for all the wasted months.
He knew he had to stop this war, between Saxons and Danes, for the sake of his child. For the sake of his future with the woman he loved.
‘I do not wish for your death, Lord Manvil. There has been enough bloodshed between our people already. And we are both to blame.’
The man looked stunned, shocked. It was as if he was unable to reconcile the man standing before him with his idea of who he thought the men from the North were, as if Stefan’s actions completely toppled his own prejudices of what he’d always thought of the so-called heathens. He’d thought that they were all barbarians, come to destroy their homes and their lives, taking their women. But this man...this man was merciful.
‘I do not want to live with hatred in my heart any more. And neither should you,’ Stefan said. ‘I believe the love I have for your daughter, and your granddaughter, is enough to overcome any animosity we have for each other. Now stand your men down. Let us put this behind us and forgive each other. Let us be friends and live out our days in peace.’
Lord Manvil hesitated for a moment, before reaching out, and meeting Stefan’s hand. He gave a sharp nod of his head and Stefan tugged him upwards, bringing the man to his feet.
‘You have been given a second chance, Lord Manvil, and I will make sure the King is lenient with you. But perhaps you could be lenient with him also and listen to what he has to say?’
And with a grim twist to his mouth, the man nodded and ordered his men to put down their weapons. All around them, the fighting slowed, then stopped, and Stefan released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. It was over.
His wife and his daughter were safe.
‘You really love my daughter?’
‘Yes. And your country. Is that so hard to believe? All this fighting is unnecessary, when deep down, we all want the same things.’
But all of a sudden, he heard screams coming from behind him. He turned and looked up at the skyline of the city. The roof of the monastery was engulfed in violent flames, with beams from the roof beginning to come crashing down on to the ground below. And then he saw Sister Margret shouting for him, calling his name, from the top of the ramparts. His gaze shot to her arms and he was relieved to see she was holding Ellan.
But what about Ædwen? Where was she?
And then he realised. He already knew where she was. She was helping the people. He had seen her in the courtyard earlier, encouraging people to take shelter inside.
Please...no.
‘Ædwen’s in there,’ he whispered. Ædwen was in the burning building.
The Saxon lord looked horrified. ‘Go!’ he said.
In his own way, the man loved her, Stefan realised, his thoughts a blur as he raced towards the monastery. Perhaps some people just had a greater capacity to love than others.
He loved his wife with all his heart and every breath he took. That was why his hurt had been so great, because his love had been so immense.
Stefan was running, sprinting through the gates, along the narrow lanes where devastated market stalls now lay scattered in his wake, people tending to the wounded in the passageway where he’d rescued Ædwen from that brute just the other day. Where Ædwen had taught him to show compassion. He raced through the courtyard, his heart pounding in his chest. It was carnage and this was all his fault.
He had told her to stay inside...and now was she trapped? In trouble?
‘Lady Ædwen? Have you seen her?’ he asked a group of people coming out of the monastery. He was frantic, his breath coming in short bursts.
‘In there,’ one woman said, choking on smoke. ‘She was trying to get the people out.’
Of course she was. She was so selfless. He couldn’t believe he had once thought she was dishonourable. She was the kindest, noblest person he knew.
If anything happened to her, he would never be able to forgive himself. He wouldn’t be able to bear it, yet now he questioned if he even deserved her.
Had he ever?
She had saved his life that day on the beach, when his family would have taken hers.
He’d asked her to put her trust in him, promising to keep her and Ellan safe. And now look what had happened.
Would she still want him now?
And he realised that he wanted to be the man who was worthy of her. He would spend the rest of his life trying to be, if she would just make it through today...
He ran up the steps and through the door, letting out a cloud of smoke, the heat hitting him with force, and he coughed and spluttered. Great rafters were falling from above and he raised his hand against the heat to see if he could see any sign of her. Fighting off the raging flames, he went further into the building, as people were crawling on their hands and knees towards him, trying to get out.
Fear and flames choked him as he fought his way further into the inferno. He wanted her out of here. Now.
The building was being overtaken. But there was no way he was leaving until he’d found her. He would die trying.
His arms smarted under the flickering flames, his chest burned with the heat. Then he saw a crumpled body under a fallen beam. Ædwen. His heart was in his mouth. He rushed over to her, scrambling over debris and tried to heave the beam off her battered legs.
‘Ædwen,’ he roared, bending over her, checking her pulse, stroking her hair out of her face. ‘Ædwen, can you hear me?’
But she didn’t respond.
He couldn’t lose her.
Not now he’d got her back. Not without having the chance to tell her how he really felt. That he loved her. That he’d been a fool to let his hurt hold him back for so long.
He heaved again at the beam, using all his strength, and finally, it gave way. He gathered her into his arms and lifted her, carrying her through the blaze, sheltering her body from the flames using his own.
He made it back to the door just as there was an almighty rumble and avalanche of wood as the building began to give way. He stumbled out into the daylight and sank down on to his knees amid the chaos in the courtyard, cradling Ædwen, rocking her in his arms, praying for her to survive this.
‘Help,’ he cried, hoping someone would hear him. That the gods would answer his prayers.
‘Save her,’ he cried.
He couldn’t live without her.
He loved her.
He wanted to spend the rest of his days with her.