Rolfe had not seen Elswyth in three days. She’d been sleeping—very nearly unconscious—when they had finally made Banford around nightfall. He’d meant to take her to one of the huts Cnut had built for his warriors, a small, thatched-roof structure that was little more than a place to sleep overnight. Instead, he’d taken one look at the inviting trail of smoke coming from the opening in the roof of her family’s farmhouse and had taken her home.
An elderly woman—he’d later come to learn she was their housemaid—had been tending the fire when he’d kicked the door open with his booted foot. She jumped up and grabbed a cooking knife, but settled when she recognised him. Her wide eyes had gone to the fur-wrapped bundle in his arms as he’d ordered her to bring a straw mattress to set beside the hearth. That’s where he’d laid Elswyth. The old woman had immediately began to cluck over her like a concerned hen. Rolfe had stayed until he was certain his wife would recover and then he’d left, commanding a Dane warrior to guard the front door. None of the Saxons in Banford could be trusted until he had questioned them all.
Aevir had returned at the end of the first day with Rolfe’s warriors. Only a few of the Scots who had taken Elswyth had managed to escape, but Domnall was regrettably one of them. It was a fight Rolfe was more than prepared to fight another day. With Aevir’s help, they were able to speak with every person in the village over the course of the next two days. All of them claimed innocence when it came to joining with the Scots and to his surprise he was inclined to believe them.
Godric, both of Elswyth’s brothers, ten single men and four men along with their wives hadn’t been seen for days. The popular opinion was that they had gone north to join with the Scots once it had become apparent that taking Banford would come to naught. In fact, many of the villagers seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief when he spoke to them. Most of those left behind were families and the elderly who seemed more than willing to trade their anger for peace with the Danes.
Something told him that his wife not one of them. She had demanded his presence to every Dane he had stationed at her door, arguing when they wouldn’t allow her to leave the home, and was once driven to physical violence so that he’d had to order every blade in the house confiscated. He told Aevir and even himself that he was content to await Vidar’s arrival—after all, it was up to the Jarl to mete out justice for a crime done within his own walls. But even Rolfe couldn’t hide from the truth late at night when he sought the meagre comforts of his bed.
The truth was that he was afraid of what he might do when he saw her again. Anger at her treason and lies had nearly burned him alive from the inside, but he couldn’t deny the swell of tenderness he felt when he thought of her. As much as he tried to turn it to hate, he couldn’t. She had betrayed him just as Hilde had—in some ways even worse—but some part of him would not let him forget how she had relaxed into him every night after giving him her body. How her elegant fingers would curl his hair around them absently as she stroked his shoulders and chest, whispering that she had never been happier. Most of all he couldn’t forget how he’d thought they’d have the rest of their lives together and how happy that had made him.
Her mind was keen and eager to learn so he’d planned to keep teaching her the sword and even how to read and write the runes in which she’d shown interest. They were supposed to have had many long winter nights ahead when he’d tell her about his travels and his family. Perhaps he’d even take her back home to meet them one summer. And their children... His throat inevitably closed when he thought of those imagined, yet already beloved creatures with their loving mother. He’d already had their entire life in his head, but it was gone now.
Their future was gone and he couldn’t decide between anger and heartache, so they both ate at him with vicious teeth until he was snarling at everyone and everything that crossed his path. He didn’t think he would harm her when he saw her—he had sworn to protect her and he would abide by that until she was no longer his—but he couldn’t chance what he might do. So he stayed away from her and he avoided his straw mattress—a sorry excuse for a bed if he’d ever seen one—for as long as he could until he could fall into it each night and have exhaustion overtake him. Unfortunately, he was a man of action and, while they waited for Vidar to reach them and for some sign of the missing Banford citizens, he only had to wait.
The evening of the third night found him sitting at the hearth in Cnut’s longhouse with Aevir at his side. He had long ago finished his mead, but he held the tankard in his hands as he stared at the fire.
‘Go to your wife, Brother,’ Aevir said, giving him an infuriating smile before he threw back the remainder of his own mead.
‘Don’t call her that,’ Rolfe said, his voice husky from disuse.
‘It’s what she is, isn’t she?’
Rolfe shook his head. ‘Not for long.’ He’d already decided that divorce was the best option. Vidar would grant it given the circumstances.
‘You’ll have to talk to her for the divorce.’ Aevir’s easy voice was grating on his nerves.
‘Then I’ll talk to her at that time.’
Aevir sighed and then said the words that could have been his last had Rolfe not known him so well. ‘I’ve never known you to be a coward.’
Rolfe threw his tankard to the floor where it landed with a loud thwack and dented the wooden plank. He was on Aevir before the man could defend himself, knocking the bench he sat on backwards, taking Aevir and the two men who sat next to him to the floor with it. ‘Words of a dying man,’ Rolfe growled, drawing back his fist to blight out the infuriating smirk Aevir still wore.
Aevir managed to dodge the blow and struggled upwards, reversing their positions so that he had the upper hand. Grabbing Rolfe’s tunic, he said, ‘I know the look of an infatuated man when I see it. Go talk to her and put us all out of our misery.’
Rolfe managed to knock him in the stomach, taking the air out of him and startling him enough so that Rolfe could flip their positions yet again. This time when he had Aevir beneath him he swung and managed to clip his chin with the edge of his knuckles before Aevir dodged away completely. ‘You know nothing about what I’m feeling.’
Aevir twisted and managed to get a foot under Rolfe’s knee, knocking him off balance. Aevir used the momentum of his fall to get behind him, locking his arms around Rolfe’s torso to confine him while his heavy thighs worked to contain Rolfe’s struggles. The men were evenly matched in strength so it was anyone’s guess who would come out on top, though Rolfe could hear several men calling out wagers.
‘I know what it is to love, you fool, and I know what it is to lose that love,’ Aevir growled in his ear as they struggled. ‘I would give anything to have her back for even one day, to say all the things I didn’t have time for. You have time now, don’t waste any more of it than you already have.’
‘It’s not the same,’ Rolfe hissed, knowing that no one else would hear him over the cacophony of noise the men were making as they cheered them on. ‘She lied to me. She stole from me. I cannot forgive that.’ Everyone knew how Rolfe’s own wife had betrayed him.
‘Then go and tell her you’re divorcing her now. Go talk to her before you get yourself killed.’
Rolfe hated Aevir’s interference, but deep down he knew that his friend was right. He needed this resolved so that he could stop being consumed by Elswyth—if such a thing were even possible. He’d lost his focus and it would go badly for him and his men were they needed for battle while he was like this. Resentment fuelling his struggles, he twisted free enough to drive a powerful elbow into Aevir’s side which made his friend huff out a breath of air and loosened his grip so that Rolfe could escape. Coming to his feet, he shoved Aevir away and strode for the door, but not before Aevir’s mocking voice called out, ‘I hope you know that by “talk” I meant—’ The slamming door muffled the vulgarity and the roar of laughter from the men inside that followed it.
Blinded by his rage, Rolfe kept walking across the moonlit field, not caring that the cold turned his breath to frosty puffs, or that he’d forgotten his cloak inside. The cold couldn’t touch him. Nothing could touch him and that was the problem. Only one name pounded inside him, driving him forward until he approached the farmhouse door. He hadn’t even been aware of his destination until the warrior who was her sentry came to his feet, then stepped aside quickly when Rolfe showed no intention of stopping.
The door opened easily and Rolfe stepped over the threshold, slamming it behind him and setting the latch with a perverse satisfaction. She had come to her feet the moment she’d seen him and there was no mistaking the momentary flare of joy that had crossed her features. It made her cheeks flush with health and her emerald eyes brighten. He’d not seen her since he’d left her here and the rush of relief he felt at seeing her whole and thriving staggered him. It had the effect of cold water thrown on hot metal and cracked through the anger hardening around his heart.
‘You look well,’ he said rather lamely.
‘I am well...thanks to you.’ Her voice was like a balm to his ravaged heart and the way she looked at him...
That balm came with a warmth that threatened to further assuage his anger. Desperate to keep stoking the flames so that he wouldn’t have to face her without them, he said, ‘Why are you mending clothing?’ The pile had dropped to the floor when she’d stood, but she still held the needle with the thread attached, binding it to the clothing at her feet. ‘Where is your servant?’ The woman could have been standing right next to her and Rolfe wouldn’t have seen her. His entire awareness was consumed with Elswyth.
A flicker of unease marred her joyful features. ‘She spends her evenings elsewhere.’
‘What? Why?’ He’d thought Elswyth would have someone with her at night. He hadn’t meant for her to be confined alone.
‘We...argued.’ She dropped her gaze and he finally took in the state of the small house. Several stools had been overturned and their legs broken, a pitcher—nay, several pitchers—had been shattered, their pieces swept neatly into a pile in a corner. It seemed that only a few basic items had been spared her wrath.
‘You did this?’ he asked.
Her eyes met his and her chin raised a notch higher than was necessary. ‘I wanted to leave and your warriors wouldn’t let me. I tried to overpower them and she said I was deranged and she wouldn’t stay here at night alone with me.’ Drawing in a deep breath as he stared at her in shock, she asked, ‘Is there something you want?’
‘You asked for me.’
‘Days ago.’ Accusation burned in her eyes.
‘I’m here now.’ He shrugged and her eyes burned bright with fresh anger. Good. He wanted her anger.
‘I want to leave.’
‘You’re a prisoner.’
The words hurt her and though that hurt brought him a small measure of satisfaction, it brought him far more pain. And this was why he had avoided her, he realised. To hurt her was to hurt himself.
‘Then at least let me see Baldric, my brother.’
‘He’s not here. We suspect he’s already with the Scots to the north and awaiting your father.’
She took a moment to digest that and he would have sworn her surprise was genuine. Drawing herself together, she said, ‘The reason I left Alvey was so that I could come here. I wished to see Baldric and visit Osric’s mother. I’d like to see his grave, if that’s possible.’
He clenched his molars so hard he was surprised they didn’t crack under the strain. ‘You’re a prisoner,’ he repeated.
‘Then I would like the chance to answer for my crimes. Surely I deserve that?’
‘Aye, and you will have that. Jarl Vidar will hear your pleas and decide on a punishment.’ Silence descended between them, so Rolfe gave her a brief nod and turned towards the door, quietly cursing Aevir. Nothing had come of this talk with her. He’d been foolish to allow Aevir to goad him into it.
‘Rolfe, wait!’ Leaving her mending behind, she hurried across the distance, stopping just short of reaching him. ‘My crimes were against you, not Lord Vidar. Let me explain to you.’
He was already shaking his head before she’d finished. ‘You were a spy, so your crimes were against Alvey. Vidar will hear you, I don’t care to hear more of your lies.’
She drew back as if he had struck her and the pain reflected on her face hit him twofold, so that it was momentarily difficult to breathe. ‘Damn you and your stubbornness, Dane. I never spied.’ As she started to explain, he stepped towards her, but she only stepped back out of his reach. ‘Aye, my father sent me to spy, but I never gave them information. I told you all of that already. The only contact I had with anyone in my family aside from Ellan was the night after you returned and Galan came to me.’
‘Nay, I don’t want to hear more!’ He raised his voice to drown hers out and leaped for her, but she easily sidestepped him.
‘Why don’t you want to hear?’ she yelled back as she moved to the other side of the open hearth to avoid him. ‘Are you afraid that the truth will make you realise how cruel you’ve been keeping me locked up here?’
‘Because I cannot believe anything you say.’ He stepped around the hearth which was in the centre of the house, leaving her with half as much space to run from him.
‘Can’t you identify the truth when you hear it?’ She steadily backed away from him as she spoke.
‘Not when one is as skilled at lying as you.’ It seemed he was blind when it came to women.
Her mouth dropped open. ‘I stole the bloodstone because Galan told me the Scots had Baldric and were demanding it back in exchange for his life. I barely knew you then. It wasn’t personal when I took it from you.’ She had come to the back wall of the house when she finished. She made to dart around him, but he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back against him. Her familiar scent washed over him, stealing his breath, so that they stayed a moment like that until he could speak.
‘Even if what you say is true, you made it personal when you married me without confessing. You took me as your husband, you drank the mead and took me into your body, all while knowing what you had done. Perhaps I could forgive your reasons had I known them earlier, but I cannot forgive your lying to me.’ Or her betrayal. He’d didn’t know if the pain of that would ever go away.
Her breath hitched, but when he thought she’d lost her fight, she stomped on his booted foot and pulled away. She slipped from his grasp, and he prepared to chase her, except she didn’t run. She stood with her back pressed to the wall and glared at him. ‘You know all about lying by omission, don’t you? You didn’t tell me of Osric, or the destruction you wrought in Banford. You never gave me the chance to choose to forgive you and yet you expect me to do what you couldn’t.’ Her voice might have been bitter, but the tears on her lashes ruined the effect.
‘Damn you, Saxon.’ Her tears were his undoing, just like the night she’d come to him in his chamber. The fight left him, leaving only pain, aching and bleeding, in its wake. He brought his hand to her cheek and his voice was raw when he spoke. ‘I knew you would hate me for what I had done, so I wanted to wait to tell you until after you loved me.’ It was perhaps the most honest thing he’d ever said in his entire life.
A sob stuck in her throat. With a groan he slid his hand around her nape and pulled her close. His mouth covered hers and she opened to him, eagerly, greedy even. The tip of her tongue touched his and he growled at the fierce need for her sweeping through him. It was like adding kindling to low burning fire. He went up in flames.