"Oh, I wish this was over," Berglijot groaned, expressing the words Lhyrie wanted to say. The battle had yet to begin, but the agony of the wait was getting to the three of them in the seclusion of the watchtower. It had just started to rain.
Ivar was hunched over the balustrade, the look of a plan coming into fruition on his menacing face. "It is the safest spot for you," Ubbe had said to her and Berglijot.
The Saxons were attempting to reclaim York. Their scouts were watching a large band of Saxons heading to another camp setup nearby, most likely the new King rejoining his ranks. Ivar had created an intricate maze, and Lhyrie wasn't quite sure who the trap was set for. He had left the oldest parts of the city unmanned and crumbling, an easy access point for the Saxons to enter, and they would know that. When they entered the city, however, hidden pits and Vikings hiding in the ramparts above the city would surprise them and flank the forces. Ivar would join the party when they reached the main courtyard of the city.
The traps laid out throughout the city had destroyed any normalcy they were trying to cement in their new stronghold. Spikes littered the streets and Lhyrie had to be careful not to fall into them. She had already treated so many people unaware of the new paths who accidentally slipped into one of the pits. One was much too close to her newly claimed apothecary.
It was remarkable, how easily life fell back into its routine after the capture of York. The city needed to be reassessed, the defenses rebuilt from the damage the invasion caused and life to resume its normal course, that is until the spikes and tar were installed. Men filled the roles they needed to do, from keeping goats, to chopping lumber, to weaving new cloth. Everyone had their role and they understood it.
It seemed the only one not aware of his part was Ivar, who acquired bodyguards and spent his day getting tattooed, or so Ubbe told her. He also spent it plotting and scheming, laying his traps and puzzles. Neither Ivar nor Hvitserk would even look at her since the incident with the young boys, which only made her feel more isolated. She spent her time in the apothecary, with Berglijot helping her. It was nice to have the companionship of another woman with her again, even though Lhyrie thought it was just due to obligation. She set her free anyway and was glad for her company in the watchtower.
A smile widened on Ivar's face. The first string of Saxons were climbing the crumbling barricades. "The king." He leered. "And he brought his own sons." His tone sent a shiver down Lhyrie's spine. "Like lambs to a slaughter."
A wave of nausea washed over her. It was much too early in the morning for a battle such as this, she thought. "We are nowhere near water," Ubbe teased her, when she told him how queasy she was after climbing the steep steps to her spot in the tower.
"It must just be the pending chaos," she told him. "When we took York, I felt the same way."
Ubbe gently kissed her forehead and whispered, "The chaos will be over soon." Placing his forehead to hers, he leaned forward and took a heavy sigh. The early morning fog hid the sparkle in his blue eyes. "Stay here until I get you," he said softly but with a firmness most Vikings had.
"Berglijot and I will stay here," she said. "I promise," she added to his raised brow. Her heart ached for him as he descended down the steep stairwell following Hvitserk, down toward the impending clash.
She could hear the heavy footfall of the Saxon soldiers running through the narrow streets now. It would any minute they fall into that first trap. She desperately wanted to plug her ears from the sounds that were about to echo around the city but wouldn't let Ivar get the satisfaction of her discomfort. Berglijot trembled slightly in the corner.
The morning fog was still heavy in the air, as though the gods were lingering closer to Midgard, ready to watch the spectacle from their nearer seats in the dense clouds. Lhyrie thought she could hear Loki's mischievous laugh, but it was probably just Ivar across from her. Turning away from him, she didn't want to see that smile on his lips.
"Who are you more nervous for, Heiriksdóttir, your husband or the Saxons?" Ivar sneered, sensing her discomfort. By the gods, she wanted to plummet him among the stronghold they were held prison to, but in that moment, she paused. That rage as she drew the knife on him in Kattegat dissipated from her mind, as the first shouts and screams could be heard ringing through the city, and she shook off the words she wanted to snipe back.
Berglijot groaned in her spot and Lhyrie bent down to her shaking figure in the corner of the watchtower. She had plugged her ears, not afraid of the tormenting Ivar would give her, and Lhyrie gently stroked her back in comfort, again wishing she didn't have to hear the cacophony. The first sounds of metal on metal, swords on swords, began to cut through the shouts as the battle finally started.
Ivar clasped his hands together in glee. "Finally," he breathed, slightly too joyful for Lhyrie's liking. His satisfaction with death seemed almost blasphemous.
"It will be over soon," Lhyrie comforted Berglijot.
A shrill cry reverberated up the walls to them. Goosebumps covered both their arms. She had challenged Ubbe on why they couldn't have joined the other women and non-fighting who were huddled in the church and various other buildings reinforced in the construction. "It would be the last place the Saxons go into," Ubbe had said. "After they secure the church." Now in the open air of the watchtower, she felt over exposed.
"To Valhalla!" Ivar shouted and laughed manically. He swung his legs around and awkwardly stood, his legs supported in his new metal brackets. Almost able to walk normally, he now made a metallic clink with every footfall. Lhyrie hoped he would tumble down the steps.
"To Hel," she whispered as his steps echoed down the stairwell.
"I might hate him," Berglijot said at barely a whisper when they were alone, "But at least he would be protection against the Saxons," she trembled.
"I have my sword, and my bow," Lhyrie said, almost offended. Of course, Berglijot only knew her as a healer, not as an almost shieldmaiden. "If it is to come to that. Which it won't," she added quickly.
A horse whined somewhere in the distance, and the unmistakable sound of a chariot being dragged in the streets joined the dissonance. Ivar had arrived at the battle. Lhyrie could see him from her spot next to Berglijot, the main courtyard of the city and the spot Ivar had chosen for his battleground. Unfortunately, before his final target, his horse was hit and sent his chariot flying. Surprisingly, she thought a smile would creep on her face for his misfortune, but his fate just moved to worry in her eyes; worry for every Viking in their camp.
Ivar began to shout something she couldn't quite hear over the increasing rain pelleting the wooden roof above them. Saxon forces filled one end of the courtyard, the clanking of their metal armor echoing the rain falling around them. Ivar continued to shout, as though he was challenging the Saxons, challenging the gods.
And then the air stopped moving. She could hear every breath of the hundreds of men in the street below. The fog seemed to lift, and she could see clearly to the courtyard below and of Ubbe stepping out to join his brother. Hvitserk, too, joined from the other corner of the yard. For a fleeting moment, Lhyrie thought she saw Sigurd lined up behind Hvitserk, but the moment passed as she blinked away a raindrop. Ubbe called something she wasn't able to hear, and the mass of Vikings piled behind him and Hvitserk, pushing the walls of the courtyard so much she thought they would overflow.
"What's happening?" Berglijot whispered, peeking above the railing to the visible courtyard below.
"It will be over soon," Lhyrie whispered back. Swords began to clash, and she lost sight of Ubbe in the wave of Saxons and Vikings. His sword cutting through the air was the last glimpse she saw before turning her back against the cold stone wall. She couldn't see his potential death; or Hvitserk's; or even Ivar's. Berglijot kept her eyes wide to the action below.
Her mind raced of the possibilities. The grief of losing her mother in Kattegat rushed into her and she couldn't imagine the pain she would feel if Ubbe died in this battle. It would be unbearable and suffocating. She could feel the space between her brows tighten in worry, and the warmth of sorrow creep into her thoughts and leave her eyes. Lhyrie buried her head in the knees and tried to block the noises from below.
"They're retreating!" Berglijot gasped. Lhyrie forced herself to look to her new friend. "The Saxons," she clarified, to the worried look on Lhyrie's face.
Lhyrie breathed a sigh of relief, but her fear only faded slightly. Cheers were erupting around them and she could hear Ivar yelling something again. At least one of Ragnar's sons survived. The thought lingered heavily in her mind.
Heavy breathing and grunting filled the stairwell leading up to their hiding spot, followed by the rushed climb of steep steps. Berglijot gasped and clung to her arm as Ubbe burst onto the landing with a groan and huffing breath. He was dripping in mud and blood, but the white of his smile shone through the mess.
"This is what I meant when I said right after the battle," he said between breaths, referring to the first battle of York.
Lhyrie's heart lightening from her worry and she was able to draw a deep breath for the first time since the clash of swords began. "Are you injured?" She asked, raising to her feet, and wiping the water from her cheeks. She resisted the urge to run and hug him, seeing the pool of water already forming under his boots.
"A few cuts and scrapes." He looked down at his arms and padded his torso. "But otherwise intact," he said with a smile.
Lhyrie sighed another breath of relief and let a smile echo Ubbe's. "You're a mess," she smirked.
Ubbe took the few steps to her and scooped her face into his dirty palms. It pressed the mud onto her, but she was just grateful for his touch. "Berglijot, you can go," he said, looking over at her still in the corner of the watchtower. "The Saxons have retreated back to their camp. The city is secure."
"Yes, sir," she squeaked out, excited to leave the confines they were held to.
Lhyrie pulled Ubbe back to her and ran her thumbs over his lips to wipe water from them. He bit one gently and moved his hands down her back. "You're such a mess!" She smiled, after he kissed her heavily. "I'll be soaking wet."
"No one will care," he said, breathless.
Once they were dry enough, the celebrations began. Fires were lit in the church, warming it to a sauna. Lhyrie had never felt such warmth since they came to England and she reveled in it. With all the candles burning, it was the nicest she saw the church since the takeover of York. She hoped that made some peace with the Christian god after occupying the space. Ale was being past and the makeshift Great Hall felt like home for her. She slouched into her chair and finally felt comfortable in England.
To her surprise, Hvitserk chose a seat next to her as he gulped the rest of his ale down in a single slurp. Ubbe sat on her other side and placed an arm around her shoulders. He looked exhausted from the day and sipped his ale slowly.
"We did well today, brothers," Ubbe sighed as Ivar came into the main room. Cheers erupted around the church.
"We?" Ivar sneered, fixing himself upon a table.
"Yes," Ubbe stated simply. He clearly didn't want to fight with his brothers after the fight with the Saxons. "I did save your life," he pointed idly toward Ivar and leaned back further in his chair. Lhyrie placed a hand on his thigh to ground him. She also didn't want a fight among brothers today.
"It was all my strategy," Ivar defended. "And you know that," he directed coolly to Ubbe.
"Why – why do you argue?" Hvitserk sputtered, willing some peace between his brothers.
Ubbe shrugged his shoulders in defiance and sighed heavily. "The most important thing, is what we do next," he said, changing the subject. Lhyrie nodded and took a sip of her ale. "We defeated the Saxons. Let's make good our claim to the land. Let's make peace."
A few murmurings past through the hall. Some men and women looked energetic to the idea of the land and farming. Lhyrie could tell the ones who sided with Ivar, however. They looked angry and uncouth.
"I have no interest in peace," Ivar gleaned. Scattered claps of agreement echoed dully around them. Ubbe rolled his eyes and Lhyrie tried to keep her face neutral. "Peace is a dirty word."
She could feel Ubbe tense under her palm and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He paused for a moment and she could feel her blood rising with his. "More of our people can cross the water," she added to the silence, trying to keep her voice level and calm, but strong enough for Ivar not to ignore. He just scoffed at her.
"We can all farm," Ubbe joined her. "Now is time to negotiate."
Ivar's face changed into something she didn't quite recognize. It shifted into a look trying to assert some form of dominance over his eldest brother. She could see Hvitserk nodding in agreement with his oldest brother, though Ivar was only settled for Ubbe.
"See, that is where you are wrong again, as always, Ubbe," Ivar cocked his head in a very Ragnarsson way. Ubbe's mouth twitched but he remained silent.
Hvitserk stood and stared hard at his youngest brother. "So… Ivar," he said slowly, pouring himself more ale. "What do you suggest, hm?"
"Thank you, Hvitserk," Ivar smiled, a condescending smile toward his brother. "The Saxons are defeated, but have not yet lost the war," he paused, making the drama in the air tense with him. "I would beware of trying to negotiate with them," he glared only at Ubbe, a challenge in superiority to him.
Ubbe scoffed and stood quickly, pushing the table away from him and sent Lhyrie's ale sloshing onto it. He downed the rest of his ale and stormed off, leaving the main hall of the church through one of the side coves and she was left awkwardly between the remaining brothers. Ivar went back to his drink, as did Hvitserk. So, the silence between the three of them remained.
Lhyrie sighed and rolled her eyes. She too, finished her glass and followed Ubbe through the alcove he wandered through. She could hear him pacing and huffing before she saw him in the low light of the nook. Wringing his hands, he was clearly trying not to physically fight his youngest brother and Lhyrie made sure not to sneak up on him in the dimness.
"How can he talk to me in such a way?" He whispered forcefully, careful not to echo in the small space. He was still pacing along the brick walls.
Lhyrie stopped at his side and began rubbing his shoulders. He planted his feet and relaxed under her touch. "Why don't we go back to the apothecary and celebrate? Go steal some ale and meat."
"That will not solve our situation."
"It might not," she agreed, "But would it be better to let the blood settle some?"
"I don't need to steal ale and food," he whispered, wrapping her in a hug and whispering into her hair. Lhyrie smiled into his chest. "I am a Ragnarsson."
"Then grab some and some men," Lhyrie looked up at him, but only saw a mass of beard. "And we can have our own celebration in our own place."
Kissing the top of her head, Ubbe gave one final squeeze of a hug and turned back to the main hall of the church. "Erik, Leif!" He called over to the men and whispered to them. Lhyrie turned out a side door and dodged the celebrations happening in the streets. It was hardly after mid-day, it seemed, as she couldn't tell with the heavy layer of clouds still littering the sky, but it seemed late in the day with the aura of drunkenness running rampant in the defended city.
She was careful not to run into any of the pits that thankfully men had cleaned after the battle, but blood still pooled in them. She hoped they would dismantle them soon. Turning the corner of her street, she noticed a fire already burning in the apothecary. Berglijot must have come back to the shop after the battle. To Lhyrie's surprise, she wasn't alone.
"Hello!" She called, opening the door of the shop. Berglijot and the man she was with pulled apart in embarrassment.
"I'm sorry, Lhyrie," Berglijot jolted up right and began apologizing. "I thought you would be at the church with the rest of Ragnar's sons."
"It is no problem, Berglijot," Lhyrie comforted her. "Ubbe and I were but decided to come back here." Berglijot and her friend started to make for the door. "No, please, stay," she told them. "Ubbe is grabbing ale, food and more people. It will be nice to have more company."
"It feels as though I've already intruded," Berglijot said.
Lhyrie moved to place a fresh log on the fire. "Not at all. I am Lhyrie," she told the stranger, extending her hand.
"Hallr," he replied, shaking her hand. Lhyrie didn't recognize him, but then again, of the thousands of Vikings that came on their journey, she didn't recognize a lot of them, even the ones from Kattegat.
"It is nice to meet you Hallr," she said, as Ubbe and another man stumbled laughing through the door. He was carrying a large crate of ale and the man behind him a whole roast. Others followed closely behind. "There are more chairs in the loft," she told one of the men whose hands were empty.
Soon the small shop was filled with overflowing warmth and stories. It was a stark contrast from the tense church they had left. Ubbe was more relaxed, more open. It was a shame he couldn't be so with his brothers now. So much had changed since coming to England. Lhyrie and Ubbe curled together on a bench next to the fire, she snuggled into his warmth and she took in the ale and food that were passed around the group.
"I think you are right, Ubbe," Leif said, the foam of the ale getting stuck in his mustache. "I think we need to go to the Saxons." Cheers of agreements roared around the small room. Lhyrie snuggled in more to Ubbe's chest. "The sooner, the better."
"Thank you, my brother," Ubbe clinked their glasses together, shaking Lhyrie slightly from her spot. "I agree."
"Then let us do it!" Another man called from somewhere Lhyrie couldn't see.
Ubbe gave a wholehearted laugh, which sent Lhyrie bobbing. "Unfortunately, the sons of Ragnar must decide things together."
"Ivar did not consult you on his plan for battle, did he?" Someone retorted back.
"No, Erik," Ubbe sighed. "My brother did not." Lhyrie sipped her ale silently.
"We can go to these Saxons tonight. Ivar and his band wouldn't even know. They are passed out by now," another voice boomed.
Ubbe's laughed stay on his lips. He shifted more upright in his spot, sending Lhyrie to sit up as well. "Sorry," he muttered to her, but his mind was elsewhere. "We can go tonight," he echoed.
"Ubbe -," Lhyrie began.
"What harm can come?" He looked over at her.
"For one, you're all drunk," she laughed.
"Spirited, I'd say," someone, perhaps, Leif countered.
"For two," she rose from her spot and turned to look at her husband, "It's dark already. How would you react with a band of Saxons came to the gates now?"
"You would be our translator," Ubbe mumbled, pulling her back onto his lap. "Wear something pretty and it won't matter if we are a group of Vikings."
Lhyrie poked him hard in the chest. "I will not be used as bait again, Ragnarsson."
"I will be right there with you this time," he said, kissing her cheek lightly. "Agree?" He called to the group. A roar emulated amongst the men and women in the shop and the sounds of clinking glasses followed shortly after.
"Erik, you sure this is the right way?" Ubbe whispered to an unseen figure ahead of them. Lhyrie shifted on her horse and adjusted the straps on her dress. She was grateful Ubbe suggested she wear her fur-lined cloak, not only for it being the most luxurious thing she owned, but also due to the coolness of the night. Despite being close to summer, she could see her and her horse's breath.
"I have walked this path every day for the last month, my friend," Erik called out in front of them. "I am sure."
And before long, the dim lights of the Saxon camp came into view ahead. Ubbe whistled for Erik to fall back, as he, Lhyrie and Hvitserk pushed ahead to slowly come into the lights. The two guards at the entry of the camp had noticed something awry and shifted uncomfortably in their spots as others ran to alert the camp of their arrival.
She glanced over at Hvitserk, who looked visibly uncomfortable. Ubbe had shaken him out of sleep, and she could still see some in his eyes. Looking back to the group that joined them, they also shifted restlessly, uncertain of what was to come. How the times change, Lhyrie thought. A year ago she was just arriving back from Frankia to Kattegat, now she was going to negotiate territory in England with Kings. She gave herself a steadying breath as the three of them dismounted their horses.
It was eerily quiet in the camp as soldiers stood motionless in their spots as they were guided through after some time. A wolf howled somewhere nearby, and it cut strangely through the silence. Ragnar's sons and Lhyrie, as well as Erik and Leif were brought to a large tent, illuminated against the dark night. Two Saxon soldiers lifted the flap and motioned them in. Erik and Leif remained outside.
"Leave your weapons here," a Saxon guard told them in stuttering English before entering the camp. Lhyrie had brought her sword with her and reluctantly handed it to Berglijot, who handled it like a boiling hot object, carefully and cautiously. She moved to adjust her boots and remove the small push dagger her mother gave her one birthday, but the slightest shake of Ubbe's head told her not to. She nodded and tied her laces tighter, noticing the Saxon guard take no interest in her doing so.
"Ubbe and Hvitserk, sons of Ragnar Lothbrok," a guard announced as they were led inside.
Despite the large fur around her shoulders, Lhyrie felt naked standing in front of the King and others. It was a beautifully decorated tent, and she had to stop herself from looking about as they settled before the long row table and the nobility stationed behind it. The King stood in the center, with who Lhyrie could image was one of his sons next to him, his sword laid open on the table in front of him. Another man next to the King wore a large cross around his neck and his full armor, ready to fight. He was hugging his sword tight to himself. They stood in silence for a moment. Lhyrie had been learning English since the takeover of York, but she couldn't remember a word of it now.
"You are the victors," the King said, almost congratulatory. "Why do you come to see us?"
Lhyrie looked over to Ubbe. He too had been learning English, and he had understood the guard at the gate. He nodded slightly and shifted his weight in his spot. She could tell he wanted to place a hand on his axe, the normal resting spot for it on his hip, and he looked awkward without it now.
"We want to make peace," he said slowly, lowering his head to an almost bow. "We don't want to fight anymore." The King gave a slight smile to his words but did not answer. "We want to claim our land."
The King smirked softly and nodded. Lhyrie was standing in front of the man in full armor, and he mimicked his King's motion. He hadn't taken his eyes off her since they entered the camp. She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.
"Let us think on this decision," the King answered cautiously, looking toward his son and the other men at the table. "You will have it by morning."
Ubbe nodded in acknowledgement and turned toward Lhyrie and motioned her to exit the tent before him. She didn't move however and put on the most charming smile she could muster at the odd hour. Bowing her head slightly, she said, "Thank you for your consideration," to the King in her clearest English. The King nodded his head a touch and placed his hands on the table to think. Lhyrie let Ubbe guide her out of the tent to Leif and Erik waiting outside.
"What did they say," Erik asked, trotting behind Ubbe.
"We will know soon," Ubbe told him. "By morning." Hvitserk grunted lowly and Ubbe grabbed his shoulder to stop him. "This is the right thing, Hvitserk." His brother nodded and they continued to follow the Saxon guard to another, but smaller tent. It looked to be a cot of one of the soldiers, as there was a bed and wash basin. Ubbe and Hvitserk sat on the cot, as Lhyrie stood and paced slightly in the small area.
"Minn iss, you can stop patrolling," Ubbe told her. She stopped walking but continued to wring her hands.
"Something feels wrong to me," she admitted.
"How so?" Hvitserk asked, "Little was spoken."
"Exactly," she told them. "Those were not negotiations." Ubbe grunted and dismissed her thought. She went back to flattening the grass in the tent.
"Do you think you should have spoken?" Ubbe asked her after some time had passed.
"Your English was clear," Lhyrie said.
"I meant to the King," he said curtly.
Lhyrie stopped in her spot and rolled her eyes. "I do not think that hurt us," she sighed. "I think they have no intention of granting us that land. And it was decided long before us."
"We will know soon," he repeated.
It was hard to know how much time had passed since their meeting with the King, but the night was still dark and the wolves howling in the nearby wood. Hvitserk yawned and stretched his arms overhead. He was almost drifting back to sleep.
Then outside the tent, the rush of swords being drawn stirred the silence and then the exacerbated grunts of Erik and Leif against a metal sword sent a shiver down her spine. Now she truly felt naked, with men storming the small tent and blood on their blades. Hvitserk and Ubbe moved unnervingly in their seats but swords were drawn to their throats quickly. She was helpless. She could tell Ubbe was trying to wager their odds, stacking up the seven Saxon soldiers who invaded their space, between the three of them. It did not look like good odds.
The man who had been across from Lhyrie in the King's tent entered with an air of regality reserved for Kings. She wondered who he was. His eyes were focused on Ubbe and walked to stand before him. Ubbe stared coolly at him and formed a growl on his lips. His friends were just murdered and Lhyrie dreaded what he might do.
The armored man noticed a Viking blade on the ground before his feet. It was Ubbe's Lhyrie could tell. Where had he been hiding that? He slowly crouched to pick it up and examine it, muttering something under his breath she couldn't understand. Then, moving to turn away, he backhanded Ubbe with the heel of the sword. He collapsed on the cot with a groan and Lhyrie stepped closer to him, but a Saxon held her back with an armored arm. Ubbe sprang up, ready to charge as Hvitserk stood frozen under the weight of the sword at his chin.
The Christian man formed a smile Lhyrie had only seen on Ivar and it unsettled her. The Christians were just as cold blooded as they were. He gave a weak laugh and hit Ubbe again, sending him back to the cot with blood spraying around them.
"Stop! Please!" She called out to the man, desperate for anything to help them. Ubbe was slower to rise this time but grimaced back to sitting on the cot. His eye was cut from the butt of blade and blood was gushing out from a deep cut on his cheek. It looked like his nose was broken too, but with the mass of blood splattered on his face, Lhyrie couldn't quite tell. A sword went back to his throat, but he was clearly in no shape to fight anymore.
The man turned to look at her and laughed. For a moment she thought he was going to hit her with the blade as well, but he tossed it in his hands, making her flinch with the anticipation. His laugh grew. "Whose whore are you?" He asked coldly, circling behind her. Ubbe grunted and almost rose from his spot, but the sword under his chin settled him back down. "Ah," the man whispered. "I see." As he crossed behind her, he dragged the dagger across the back of her cloak, again making her jump. He gave another cold laugh and crossed in front of her, massaging his left shoulder. He must have injured it in the battle, Lhyrie thought.
Lhyrie then remembered the push dagger in her boot. Could she possibly grab it without the soldiers descending on her? She tried to steady her breath, which was coming ragged in shallow waves. She looked towards Ubbe's bruised face and twitched her fingers at her side. Ubbe shook his head slightly at her, cautious of what she was planning. She wouldn't let her husband suffer.
In quick motion, she reached down and pulled the small one-inch blade from her boot. None of the Saxons rushed her, the look of confusion at what she could possibly be doing was cemented on their faces. The Christian man did turn from his spot to look at her and Lhyrie took the opportunity to plunge the small blade into his left shoulder, to the spot that was he was healing. The swords on Ubbe and Hvitserk tightened, and as she let go of the dagger, a Saxon guard wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She released the breath she was holding.
The man merely looked down at the blade imbedded in his shoulder and gave another laugh. "Oh darling," he snickered, pulling the blade out with a groan and tossing it on the ground. "At least aim for my neck," he snarled, taking the few rushed steps to her and punched her hard in the stomach, knocking the breath from her and making her cough. Again, Ubbe and Hvitserk groaned under the blades being held to them.
She keeled over in pain, trying to catch her breath as she felt a rush of blood flow between her legs. Then, a blast of nausea hit her, and she tried to recall the last blood she had. It had been a long time, she realized. At least a month, perhaps longer, before they were at York. Standing shakily, she tried to draw a few more breaths as she noticed the man gleaning to strike her again.
"Please," she begged. "I could be with child." She tried to move slightly to show him the blood she almost slipped on, but the solider holding her wouldn't allow it. "Please, I felt blood."
The Christian man scoffed at her, but a voice at the entrance of the tent stopped the cold look on his face. "Bishop Heahmund," the voice called, and the king's son entered the tent. "Are we not to care for this woman's unborn child?" The prince spoke above his years and made the bishop cower slightly in shame. He did move to fling Lhyrie's dress, revealing a pool of blood at her feet. Ubbe shifted uncomfortably in his spot. "I think she should see our physician," the prince told the bishop.
"Of course, my Prince," the bishop said slowly and jerked his head to the flap of the tent. The guard behind her forced her forward, following the prince and the bishop away from Ubbe and Hvitserk.
"Ubbe!" She called back to him, trying to escape the grip of the guard leading her. She started punching anything she could of the soldier, but he was unfazed. The young prince in front of her stopped and turned to her.
"Ma'am," he said. "I am trying to help you. I can not have Bishop Heahmund's actions on my conscious if you lose your child." He was younger than he had seemed in the tent, perhaps only 15 or 16.
"I would rather die with my husband," she spit back at him quickly, still fighting under the grasp of the guard.
"I understand your loyalty," he said slowly and began walking again. The guard behind her pushed her forward to follow. "After my physician evaluates you, you may be reunited."
She realized they were walking back to the royal tent. When she was forced inside, she found it empty. "Where is your physician?"
"He is in Winchester."