Ædwen had reasoned with him, pleaded and placated, but none of it had done any good. Stefan had been steadfast and now she was wrung out. Captive in his arms once more, riding away from Eastbury towards the river at a pace, she glanced around, trying to keep track of the route they were taking in case she should need to find her way back. She had walked the path along the coast many times, but she’d never been this far from home before.
She admired the tapestry of fields stretched out before them and felt the rushing of the wind through her hair. She lifted her face to the rain, which was coming down thick and fast now, and welcomed it washing away the salty stains on her cheeks.
She regretted letting Stefan see her cry. It had been a moment of utter hopelessness, thinking her daughter was gone, out of her reach for ever. The absolute frustration at the injustice of it all and the total shock of seeing Stefan again had wrought havoc on her emotions. But she wouldn’t be that weak again. She knew she needed to gather her strength, to stand up to him and be strong, even in the face of her despair.
Ædwen was glad her anger was now taking the place of her tears. It gave her something to focus on, other than her grief. She forced herself to remember how Stefan had let her down. How he’d abandoned her, just as her mother had done before him, reinforcing the fact that she couldn’t depend on anyone, not even those she loved. Everything she had endured had happened because he’d left and she couldn’t forgive him for it. She had hardened her heart against him.
It was a shock to be back in his arms again now. To be held so tightly. It was a cruel taunt—the thing she had once wanted most of all.
The silence between them was becoming more unbearable with every passing moment. The distance between them and Wintancaester stretched out with every thrust of her body against his as the horse galloped on and she searched desperately for something to say.
Everything was heightened. She could feel the graze of his beard against her temple as they sped along. And pressed against his broad, solid chest, his heat warming her back, she became excruciatingly aware of all the places they were touching. She felt the flexing of the muscles in his arms, his thighs, and it reminded her of when he had moved against her body once before, skin on skin, pressed into the furs, his hand wrapped around her mouth to muffle her cries of pleasure so no one could hear...
She squirmed, wanting to get away.
His grip tightened on her.
Perhaps this was a normal reaction to touching the man who had taken your chastity, who had given you a taste of sexual fulfilment and planted a seed in your body.
‘How long will it take to get there?’ she asked finally, raising her voice to be heard above the roaring sea and the wind.
‘Half a day’s ride.’
He must have left early this morning...
She glanced down towards the tempestuous waves crashing on the beach below. If only she could get down and walk along the shore...breathing in the sea air always helped her to think more clearly. But then she noticed that the beach was crowded with seals, clustered together, their grey and brown fur damp from the icy water, and she gasped. It was an extraordinary sight.
‘There are so many of them,’ she whispered.
‘It’s their mating season. They’ve come to these shores to breed.’
Just like him.
‘Oh.’ She cringed, turning away. She wished she hadn’t opened her mouth to speak. She didn’t want to be discussing breeding or mating of any kind with him. It didn’t help with her memories and her terrible, never-abating sense of loss for her child.
She wondered if she should just tell Stefan the worst of it. What she was keeping from him. Perhaps he would stop the horse and turn around. Send her back. But he was a stranger to her now. A dangerous stranger. And she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She was afraid of how he might react. The enormity of what she might confess seemed far too immense.
No, some secrets could never be shared, for no matter how much they hurt to keep inside, they would cause far greater devastation if they were revealed. And deep down, she was ashamed. Not of Ellan, never, but of herself. Because her child had been taken on her watch.
Ædwen chastised herself once more for not being more vigilant, for thinking she and her daughter were safe in the monastery. She should have left with Ellan as soon as she’d been able to after the birth. But then she had never imagined her father would be so cruel as to take her child from her.
Now, she had no idea where her daughter was.
There was no way she could admit that to Stefan. She didn’t want to see the disdain in his eyes, letting her know she was just as bad a mother as she felt she was. He would never forgive her, he would make her suffer further and she knew that for certain, because she wasn’t sure she could ever forgive herself.
Was he right—had she made bad choices? In her desperation to get Ellan back, had she crossed her own moral boundaries? Should she have refused to marry Lord Werian today? Perhaps her turmoil had impaired her decision-making. But wouldn’t any mother do whatever it took to find her child?
No, not all. Her own mother wouldn’t have.
She almost wilted in relief when they heard the shouts of Stefan’s men in the distance and glanced up to see them waiting on horseback on the other side of a bridge. She wouldn’t have to be alone with Stefan any more.
‘Everything all right?’ one of the men asked, cantering forward, looking between them both. He was the one Stefan had called Maccus. He was a good-looking, fair-haired man, with kind eyes, but he was nowhere near Stefan’s equal.
Stefan steadied the horse and she realised he had got better at riding. He had learned the basics at the monastery, but he had always struggled with balance because of his large frame. Not now. He was now in total control of the animal. In total control of her?
‘Yes. Let’s keep going to Herdbridge,’ Stefan said, his breath warm against her cheek. ‘We should make it by nightfall.’
‘Any sign of soldiers from Eastbury?’
‘Not yet,’ Stefan said. ‘But we’ll keep an eye out. Be on your guard.’
Sitting upright, goose pimples erupted across Ædwen’s skin. Did they think her father would come after her? They were probably right. Her father was not a man who gave up easily and she didn’t know how she felt about that. Yet he wouldn’t come out of affection for her, for he had never shown any. No, he would come for his own pride.
But did she really want to be rescued, to return to her father and incur his wrath for her foolishness? Did she really want to see Lord Werian again and deal with the fall-out of their ruined wedding? Or to be taken back to Eastbury to wed someone else of her father’s choosing? No. Besides, would anyone even want her now? Yet if her father came for her, might he be persuaded to reveal the details of where he had sent her child?
They set off again, at a more moderate pace to keep the group together, and she wondered again why Stefan was doing this, especially when he had stated in the church that he didn’t even want her. Ridiculously, she’d felt wounded. Was all this just for revenge on her father? Or on her, for concealing the truth from him back then? Did he not realise she had been punished enough?
Just being with him now was a painful reminder that she couldn’t be with her daughter. Yet she was starting to wonder if going to Wintancaester might be a good thing. She knew Ellan was no longer in Eastbury and, if she was going to look for her child anywhere, it would make sense for her to start her search in the capital. Surely she had a better chance of finding her there than anywhere?
‘Why Wintancaester?’ she asked Stefan now, curious about his life and where they were heading. ‘Is that where you went when you left the monastery? Is that your home?’ Had he been living in Wintancaester all this time, serving the King?
‘As much as it can be without my family here,’ he said.
She noted the pointed comment and ignored it.
‘When I heard Canute had taken Londen and then moved south to Wintancaester, I made my way there, to find people from my country,’ he continued. ‘When I came to the King’s aid and he saw I could fight, he took me under his wing, making me one of his housecarls. Now he pays me for my services.’ He spoke without emotion, his tone cool. Too cool. As if he was trying to mask his anger.
She let the information sink in, trying to picture what he was telling her. So he was a mercenary. A paid warrior. One of the King’s private army of trained fighters. Had he killed many people? Many of her kind? She knew Canute had been ruthless when he’d first set foot on English soil.
She wanted more details, a breakdown of every day, every moment, every breath they had been apart. How that had all transpired. How he had felt. Instead, she had the feeling he was leaving out vital information. But then, she was guilty of the same and shame raced through her again at the truth she was keeping from him.
She couldn’t marry up the man he was with her then, in the monastery—gentle and kind—with the ambitious, ruthless warrior he seemed to be now.
‘I thought you might have returned to Denmark,’ she said.
‘I considered it, but there was nothing left for me back there. Everyone I cared about had crossed the sea with me to come here.’
When he had remembered—when his memories had finally returned—he had told her his people had come here in search of a better life, but instead they’d lost their lives that day in Eastbury, at the hands of her father. And she would never be able to make amends for that. For what he did.
She felt the need to steer the conversation on to less dangerous ground, away from old wounds. ‘So, you live among other Danes in the city?’
‘Saxons mix with Danes in Wintancaester, Ædwen. It is not like the remote Saxon settlements you know of, who are stuck in the old ways, trying to rally support against the King.’
Settlements like her father’s, he meant.
‘What is the King like?’ she asked. She had heard stories of Canute. Everyone had. His reputation for being a formidable fighter and ruthless ruler had reached them on the coast.
‘He is a man to look up to. A man of immeasurable power, but who wants peace, prosperity. He is fair...’
She turned to steal a glance at him. His eyes were full of admiration and she could tell from the way his voice had softened that he looked up to the man.
Would the King be fair to her, if he knew of her father’s animosity towards him? she wondered. She had always longed to visit the city, but her father had never allowed it. She had lived a sheltered life so far. How would she be thought of in Wintancaester, if it was known she was her father’s daughter? Yet she didn’t think Stefan would put her in any real danger. She didn’t think he wanted to cause her any real harm.
‘As my wife you’ll respect me. You’ll do your duty. You owe me that.’
The words he’d spoken in the church kept echoing in her mind. And then a thought struck her, right in her chest. Her heart lurched. What would he do with her there? Surely he didn’t expect her to actually live as his wife and all that entailed? Not if he despised her.
‘What is your home like?’ she asked and hated the quiver she could hear in her voice.
‘The King provides all his housecarls with lodgings, in the palace grounds. How about you? When did you decide to leave the monastery?’ he asked.
She hadn’t decided. She hadn’t had a say in the matter.
She had lived in the monastery since her mother had walked out of her life when she was nine, sent there to gain an education—and to be kept out of her father’s way until he had use for her. She had spent her days teaching children, or looking after the sick, keeping busy so her thoughts couldn’t drift to why her mother had forsaken her. That was, until that day the Danes had arrived. When Stefan had come, everything had changed.
That day of the battle, when Ædwen had first come across Stefan, she had found him buried beneath the body of an older man, who she had thought was his father. He had been left for dead on the beach. As she’d hovered over him, peering down into his face, checking for a pulse in his neck, he’d opened his eyes and gripped her arm, making her gasp.
She had been mesmerised by his blue eyes from that initial glance. They were the colour of the ocean on a crisp winter’s day. On the cusp of becoming a woman, it was the first time she’d come into contact with a man she’d found so attractive. She couldn’t bring herself to look away, despite the wound to his forehead and the injury to his shoulder.
Up until that moment, she had known her life was all planned out for her: that she would stay at the monastery, practising with the other novices, until the day her father found her a husband—someone who would advance his power, strengthen his fortress—and she was expected to obey him. But something had risen in her blood that day and, staring down at Stefan, she had made a decision that would change her life for ever.
They had struggled with his weight, carrying him over the rocky shore and up the cliff path to the monastery, but, knowing her father would never condone it, that he would order the man to be killed immediately, she had taken responsibility for him. Hiding him away in a small, unused room, she had felt strongly that they couldn’t let him die. That, somehow, he was important.
Ædwen had known it was dangerous to bring a Northman into the monastery. She was putting everyone at risk, so to begin with, he had been bound, in case he woke and attacked them...and yet she’d had a feeling he wouldn’t. There was something about him.
She had spent weeks at his side, offering him sips of ale and spring water she had collected from the well, feeding him spoonsful of pottage...and he had watched her from underneath those sleep-hooded eyes.
She had checked and cleaned his wounds, changing his bandages, making sure his injuries didn’t get infected, trying not to stare at his fascinating bare chest and the strange ink markings and symbols decorating it. Miraculously, he had slowly improved.
She had found him sitting up in bed one morning and she’d gasped.
‘Hvem er du...?’ he’d said. Who?
‘I’m Ædwen,’ she’d replied shyly, patting her hand to her chest as if to explain.
‘Hamingia.’ He had smiled and her stomach had whooshed. It was the first time she’d seen his lips curl upwards, lighting up his face, and he was breathtaking. She had known then she was in real trouble.
There was a long moment while they stared at one another and the air between them had simmered with awareness—a connection that transcended their countries, language and faith.
She knew she shouldn’t feel attracted to him. She knew her father had plans for her. But she was helpless against her feelings.
And so it had begun.
Back then, Stefan had picked up her native tongue quickly and she had enjoyed teaching him. In return, she had learned some of his words and discovered Hamingia, what he’d called her, was a guardian spirit to the Danes, bringing luck and happiness. Finally, his injuries healed enough for him to walk around. It was his memories that had suffered the most damage, something she had at first been grateful for. After all, why would she want him to remember who had been responsible for the massacre that day?
When he was up and about, living among them, they had to be separated. The monks and nuns lived apart, divided into two communities, which came together only to share the church and the hall where they would eat. She wouldn’t see him all day long and she would be distracted from her duties and prayers, the days stretching out before her. But come their mealtimes, she would race to the hall, eager to talk to him and desperate to see his face. And by the way he looked at her, with a relieved hunger in his eyes, she had known he felt the same.
It was frowned upon, of course, and there were disapproving looks from the nuns about them engaging in conversation, about their proximity. She was excruciatingly aware of it—she’d been raised to conform—but Stefan hadn’t seemed to care.
She shook her head to shake away her memories.
‘Why did I leave the monastery?’ she said bitterly in response to his question. ‘You know purity was a requirement to stay there,’ she said accusingly. ‘And as I had come of age, my father realised he could benefit from marrying me off, so he requested that I move back to his fortress.’
‘I see,’ Stefan said and she noticed his hands tighten on the reins, his knuckles turning white.
Did he see? That she, too, had suffered at the hands of her father? At Stefan leaving her?
‘But he did not know you were already married to me, did he? Perhaps you should have told him,’ he said darkly.
She knew she was leaving out a huge chunk of information. But how could she tell him that she had plucked up the courage to tell her father. She’d had to, when she’d realised she had become one of those women in distress who were sent to the monastery for help. All because of Stefan and the intimate things they’d done together...
Those days in the monastery with Stefan had been heady, exciting. Slowly, Stefan’s memories of his upbringing had returned to him and she would ask him questions, to learn more about him, wanting to know everything. She loved hearing about his childhood, his likes and dislikes—she could tell he was fiercely proud of his home country.
And then one night, she had awoken with his hand over her mouth, his body leaning over her. He was in her room! She had been startled, yet elated at the same time.
‘Don’t scream,’ he’d whispered.
And she’d nodded.
‘Come with me,’ he’d said, picking up her cloak and backing out of the door. Making her choice, she’d thrown off the animal furs and tiptoed after him.
They’d walked along the cliff in the moonlight and he’d told her he’d remembered something new. That he liked to swim. And he’d tugged her down to the shore, laughing. She’d stood there on the beach, transfixed, gripping his tunic tightly, breathing in the scent of him, as she’d watched him run into the waves and dive beneath the water.
Her heart had been in her throat at seeing his beautiful body again, his taut muscles rippling beneath those strange blue markings. And when he’d come out of the surf, shaking his wet hair, she’d been giddy with excitement. And love?
They began to sneak out after dark every night after that, wanting more time alone together. And he would take her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. The first time he had kissed her, they had been down on the shore, and he had picked up a shell, dusting it off with his fingers, before handing it to her.
‘For you,’ he’d said. ‘It reminds me of your beauty.’
And she had looked up at him. ‘No, it represents you,’ she’d said, smiling. ‘The remains of a life once lived...but still strong. Ready for a new adventure as something else.’
Their eyes stared, drinking each other in. He had leaned in to press his mouth against hers, tenderly stroking her cheeks, encouraging her lips to part with his own. It had been her first kiss and it had been perfect. Gentle, yet potent, making her shiver. And she’d never wanted it to end.
‘No one can ever know...’ she’d whispered.
It had gone on like that for weeks, them both living for the nights when they could be together. She would sleep in his arms, down on the beach, nestled into his shoulder, clinging to him, not wanting the dawn to arrive, when they would have to part. Then one night, at the end of the winter, he’d said he should think about leaving—that he was a Dane, a pagan, and he shouldn’t still be there, living in the Saxon, Christian monastery. He felt he needed to find his way elsewhere. He was ambitious. He wanted to make something of himself.
She had been devastated. She’d known they couldn’t stay like this for ever, yet she had hoped...
‘I want you to come with me,’ he’d announced.
And her heart had lifted. She wanted that, too. She had known her answer, instantly. Yes! She’d thrown her arms around him, frightened, but excited, pressing herself against him. And he’d groaned, holding her tight, then he’d kissed her, passionately, stealing her breath away.
‘Let’s go inside,’ she’d breathed.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ she’d whispered.
She shivered in his arms now, just thinking about it, and noticed the night was drawing in around them. The horse was tiring and so was she. It had been a long day. Where were they? she wondered.
‘Cold?’ Stefan asked.
She shook her head. He’d already given her his cloak to wear and she was definitely not cold being held in his embrace, her heated memories warming her blood, her mind still racing about a wife’s possible duties to her husband.
‘Are you expecting my father to come after me?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I have no doubt that he will.’
‘I think you’re right,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he will let me go without a fight. He stands to lose too much.’ He’d come to see her as an asset. An object to be bargained over, to strengthen the position of his house. It was much better when her father hadn’t cared at all.
‘But it will take him a while to gather his forces,’ Stefan said. ‘He’s already lost the army he was set to receive through your marriage alliance, has he not? One he would use against the King.’
So he knew about that.
‘I’m guessing that was all part of your plan when you stormed into the church this morning,’ she bit out.
‘Of course.’
He hadn’t just come for her, then. She’d thought as much. After all, he had left because he believed she’d betrayed him.
That night he had made love to her, they had managed to get back to her room without being seen. He’d tugged her down the warren-like corridors, laughing and gasping between kisses. But once they were through the door, he had pulled her to him in serious, savage urgency. Their mouths had clung, and their touch had become more frantic, almost desperate, their hands suddenly all over each other.
She had writhed against him, unsure what she was doing, but wanting to feel the hard ridges of him, the reaction she was causing giving her confidence. Her hands had roamed up over his chest, his shoulders, delving into his hair. And his large hand had come down to cover her breast, the other cupping her bottom, tugging her towards him as if he, too, wanted them to be touching everywhere.
It was all a hazy blur...the removal of their clothes...their mouths clinging, hands exploring naked skin... And then he was above her, his knees parting her legs and suddenly she had felt him right there.
‘Is this what you want? To be joined like this?’ he’d whispered.
‘Yes, I want to be one. I want you inside me,’ she’d said.
And with a gentle thrust, he was.
‘Jeg elsker dig, min skat,’ he’d whispered. I love you.
It had been incredible. Everything she could have hoped for. But she could recall the exact moment the next day when those feelings of love had shattered and turned to hate.
She had been standing in the gardens of the monastery, talking to her father. He had made a rare stop off at the monastery on his way home and she’d known it couldn’t mean anything good. He’d told her she should prepare herself to marry. That he had found her a match. And she couldn’t believe it. She’d floundered. Because that morning, she had said her vows to another.
Standing alone, just the two of them, she had been wondering how she was going to break it to her father, when the monks had started to walk through the grounds on their way to the church, and she’d turned around to see Stefan among them, staring at her. He’d stopped dead on the path, his body stock-still, his face ashen and his eyes the colour of thunder clouds.
It was a look that made her wither inside and the trembling had started in her legs.
For in that moment, she could tell he knew. He had remembered it all. All she’d tried to keep from him, to protect him from his hurt and grief. To safeguard what they had together.
That night she’d waited, wondering if he would come to her. Finally, he had. She’d had his father’s sword ready to give him. To help her explain what had happened.
‘Stefan—’ she’d started to say, rising off the bed, going to explain.
But he had held up a hand to halt her. ‘Don’t say anything. I don’t want to hear it,’ he’d said coldly. ‘You lied to me. Kept the truth from me. Tell me, did you know what kind of man he was? What he was capable of? Did you see him plunge his sword through my father’s heart, before you tried to wreak havoc on mine?’
She shook her head. ‘Stefan—’
‘You knew your father had killed my family, tried to kill me, and yet you never said anything. Not one thing.’
‘You said there was nothing I could tell you that would make you love me any less...’ she whispered, trying to reach him, but he baulked, stepping away, not wanting her to touch him.
‘Then I guess we both lied. Because this changes everything.’
And then she’d noticed his satchel on his shoulder. He removed his father’s sword from her grasp. He was leaving the monastery. He was leaving her. And she felt the pain of rejection tear through her, her heart crumbling.
Ædwen rubbed her chest where it was aching at the memory.
‘My father will see what happened today, you taking me and ruining the wedding, as a slight on his reputation. He will want revenge,’ she added now, weary from the day’s ride.
‘Don’t we all?’ Stefan said darkly.
‘But what if he comes to Wintancaester?’ She shook her head sadly. She didn’t want there to be any more death. She’d seen enough to last a lifetime. And especially not over her. ‘Are you prepared to bring a fight there? To put innocent people at risk?’
‘Wintancaester is a fortress. It will take a lot for him to get through the city walls. But, yes, I am prepared to fight.’
Then perhaps they all were. Her father would regroup, she felt sure of it. And it seemed Stefan would prepare himself for an attack. For what? His own retribution? Surely not for her... But she realised now she would fight, too. When they arrived in Wintancaester, she would start asking questions. She would begin her search. She would use this as an opportunity. She would fight for her daughter. She would never stop looking for her.