Who Watches the Watcher?

A Highlander novel by Sisiutil

This story is fictional and does not contain any references to any actual persons living or dead. All characters contained in this story who appeared in the Highlander franchise are the property of Warner Media/Davis Panzer Productions, Inc.

Chapter 7: Alodia

South-West England, 878 AD

Alodia, daughter of Thane Aldred of the Saxons, looked angrily through a copse of trees at a group of a half-dozen Vikings rummaging through a peasant's home. The bloody bodies of a woman and two children lay unmoving on the ground outside the small hut, which lay at the edge of a hay-filled meadow surrounded by trees. The woman's corpse was naked as well—she had obviously been raped before being killed.

"There's six of them, Alodia," her oldest brother, Algar, said to her quietly. His brown eyes prudently studied the enemy. "And only three of us, including you," the brown-haired young man told her, stroking his beard thoughtfully. He clearly meant to imply that as a woman, she hardly counted. They'd been out foraging for food, not looking for trouble.

"I know, Algar," she growled at him, then cast a glance first at him, then at her other brother, Alden. He shrugged, but Alodia could see the indignant anger in his eyes.

Alden was two years younger than Algar, had lighter, sandy-brown hair, and often resented his older brother's caution. Though two years older than Alodia, Alden usually followed the lead of his younger, adopted sister, the tomboy—it had been so since their childhood.

"It won't be a fair fight," Alodia went on in a disappointed tone.

"Precisely," her cautious older brother said, sighing with relief.

The red-headed young woman turned and looked at him with a confident smile, her green eyes burning with righteous anger. "They should have brought more men!" she said, then sprang from behind the trees where she and her brothers had hidden.

She drew her sword from its scabbard and shouted out her adoptive family's battle cry, drawing the surprised attention of the six Vikings a few yards away. Her long red hair waved behind her, and her blue woolen tunic flapped against her body, as she ran screaming towards them.

"Oh, Jesu!" Algar grumbled as Alden eagerly followed his sister into battle. He reluctantly drew his own sword and followed his overzealous younger siblings.

The Viking closest to Alodia watched her running towards them. He turned to smile at his comrades when he saw that it was a woman who approached them. The other men laughed, anticipating some lewd fun. The first Viking, wearing a light tunic and dark woolen leggings, turned back towards her and raised his sword, leering, preparing to knock the red-headed young woman down, but not kill her. There were better things to do with her than kill her. His companions noticed two young men following her and drew their own weapons.

Alodia drew within two yards of the first Viking. He casually swung his sword's broad side towards her head. She swiftly swung her own lighter sword in a two-handed grip to parry the blow easily. Metal rang against metal; she quickly swung her sword over her head before the surprised Viking could pull back to mete out another blow. Her sword-tip traveled down in front and across the man's body; his eyes went wide as the woman quickly and efficiently eviscerated him. The man fell to his knees, dropping his sword and grabbing at his spilling guts, dying as he collapsed onto the ground.

Another large, hulking Viking, seeing his comrade fall and realizing this girl was not to be taken lightly, stepped forward and swung a battle-axe over his head towards her. Alodia waited until the last possible moment, then side-stepped the blow, allowing the huge axe to become buried in the ground. She then plunged her blade into the Viking's chest from the side as he attempted to pull his stuck weapon from the ground, piercing his chain mail shirt with surprising strength and mortally wounding him. As the man's eyes went wide and blood poured from his mouth, Alodia brought up her left foot to his ribs and kicked him off of her blade.

"Save some for us, sister!" Alden cried as he came up behind her and Algar closed in.

The Vikings, seeing the odds evening so quickly, began to retreat a little. One turned and gave a loud cry in Norse over his shoulder. The three siblings, now united in battle, quickly dispatched two more of the Vikings. While they did so, the remaining two had turned and run to the top of a grassy knoll just behind the hut, where they now stopped and turned to face the three young warriors.

"Why have they stopped?" Alden asked as he and Alodia prepared to give chase. They stopped dead in their tracks when a dozen more Vikings appeared at the top of the knoll.

"Christ's blood!" Algar swore. "We have to retreat!"

"No," Alodia said with resigned calm. "They'll catch us. They have the high ground. We must stand."

Unseen by the combatants of either side, a man on horseback watched the battle from the other side of the meadow. He'd first thought the young, red-headed Saxon woman foolish when she rushed the Vikings, but her bravery and skill had impressed him. Now he grew even more impressed as he saw her urging her male companions to hold their ground against a force obviously superior in number. As the Vikings shouted and charged down the small hill, the man made his decision. He urged his beast to a gallop.

Across the meadow, the three siblings watched helplessly as the much larger group of Vikings charged angrily towards them.

"You stupid bitch, you've killed us!" Algar snarled at his sister.

"Save your breath and hold your ground!" she shouted back. The Vikings were almost upon them.

When the Norsemen had charged to within five yards of the trio, every head on the small battlefield turned as a huge black horse suddenly appeared and ran between the two sides. The Vikings stopped their charge short, some of them sliding on the dew-soaked grass, while the trio of Saxons took a surprised step back. The dark horse suddenly turned, its head towards the Saxons as it bucked its powerful back legs into the group of surprised Vikings. One hoof struck a man square in the face, bashing in the front of his skull; he died instantly. The other hoof caught a Viking in the chest, breaking several of his ribs and driving him back so he knocked down two of his comrades.

The horse turned to its right, whirling, and as it did so, its rider swung his sword backwards at the group of shocked Norsemen. A severed head spun in the air, spraying blood, and fell to the ground. Another man screamed as the rider's next swift blow left his arm hanging from his shoulder by a bloody thread of muscle tissue. The horse continued its turn and reared up on its back legs, lashing out its front hooves at the Vikings, who stumbled backwards in a panic. One Viking ran forward and attempted to grab the rider from his left side; he earned a sharp, fatal blow to the top of his head from the man's sword for his audacity.

The Vikings fell back from the deadly horseman, and the horse leapt away to stand alongside the trio of Saxons. Alodia looked up at the rider, their savior. His black hair was strikingly short, his face clean-shaven. Thick, arched black brows were furrowed on his forehead as he stared down the Vikings; his gray eyes regarded them coolly. He wore a scarlet tunic beneath a shining metal breastplate; similar armor covered his black woolen leggings.

The rider surprised them by climbing down from his horse; the Saxons and Vikings both had expected him to remain in the saddle. One of the Vikings shouted at his comrades in Norse, obviously urging them to take the small group opposite, whom they still outnumbered. The rider calmly pulled a bow from a hook and an arrow from a quiver on his saddle. He deftly threaded the arrow, drew the string and took aim. Just as the lead Viking took a step forward, the rider's arrow pierced his neck. The man dropped his sword and fell to his knees, hands gripping his throat as blood ran from between his fingers. The rider drew his bow again and shot another Viking in the chest; the man collapsed, screaming and trying to pull the arrow from his body. The remaining seven Norsemen looked at each other, turned, and ran back up the hill they had so confidently charged down not a few minutes before.

The rider returned his bow to his saddle and patted his horse, cooing to it in Latin. Alodia stepped towards him, intending to thank him and ask his name. When she approached to within a yard of him, he spun around and his gray eyes regarded her intently. Surprised by his sudden movement and intense gaze, Alodia took a step back and her words froze in her throat. Her green eyes opened wide, and for the first time in many years, the bold young Saxon woman felt blood rise to her cheeks in a blush.

As the eldest, Algar felt it was his duty to take the lead. "We are much obliged to you, stranger. I am Algar, eldest son of Thane Aldred. This is my younger brother Alden, and my sister Alodia. I can understand by your look that you are surprised to see a woman in arms; so are we all, but these are desperate times."

The rider, still staring at Alodia, nodded. He pulled his eyes away from the young woman and looked at her eldest brother. "So I understand. I would be honored to join your cause, if you will have me."

Alden smiled broadly and nodded his head. "Of course, sir! You fight like the devil, if I may say so. We owe you our very lives!"

The stranger's lips stretched into a closed-mouth smile as he turned to Alden. He waved his hand dismissively. "I'm sure you could have handled them on your own," he said, returning his gaze to Alodia and earning a smile for his compliment, "but why should I let you have all the sport? There seem to be enough Vikings to go around."

The trio of Saxons laughed softly at the well-spoken stranger's jests. "Pray, sir," Alodia said, finally finding her voice, "to whom do we have the honor of speaking?"

The stranger's gray eyes narrowed and studied her, prompting the young woman to blush once again, much to her surprise. "I am Lucius Gaius Marcellus," he said. "And the honor is entirely mine, dear lady."

Later that night, Marcellus was seated at a makeshift banquet table in a tent near the Marsh of Athelney in the West of England. Alodia's father, Thane Aldred, a Saxon nobleman and knight, was host. Several other guests were there as well; the nobleman's tent overflowed with refugees from his estate a few miles to the East, all displaced by the Viking's surprise invasion of Wessex during the preceding winter. Supper was now finished, and many of the guests had wandered off to their billets or smaller tents, but most remained, listening avidly to the conversation conducted by those seated at the main table.

"These Vikings are little better than thieves," Thane Aldred was explaining to Marcellus. He was in his early forties and was considered quite old, though he had retained his health, and was widely respected. His long, dark brown hair was streaked with gray, as was his beard. "They kill indiscriminately, slaughtering men, women, even children alike. They plunder our land, leaving our people to starve. And they are heathens as well! But in seven days, we will make our stand and turn the tide. Forces from across the West are massing under King Alfred's banner. There will be a great battle, and once victory is ours, we will drive these invaders from our shores."

Several of the guests applauded when the Thane finished speaking.

"I have no doubt you are correct, and I have witnessed the Norsemen's brutality first-hand," Marcellus said. Having saved the knight's three grown children from almost certain death, he sat in the place of honor tonight at Aldred's right hand. Surrounded by men with long hair and beards or moustaches, the foreigner's short hair and clean-shaven face made him stand out on the dais. The three siblings had told everyone they could find of his prowess in battle; already the story was reaching mythic proportions in the retelling, the size of the Viking force growing from a dozen and a half to a hundred or more.

"But surely you must realize this is merely the repetition of a pattern, my Lord," Marcellus continued.

"How do you mean, Lucius?" Alden, seated to the left of his father and elder brother, asked. Beside him in turn sat his sister Alodia, who said very little that evening, but whose eyes never strayed far from the foreign warrior. She had donned a long blue woolen gown with silk sleeves and fine embroidery decorating it, and her long red hair was worn loose and tumbled down her back. Despite her tomboyish reputation, every male eye in the tent regarded her with admiration.

"Please do not be offended, but I am sure it is well known within your lore that your own people were, not so long ago, invaders of this land." The people seated nearby shifted a little uncomfortably, but did not contradict him, for they knew he spoke the truth. "And you were not the first. My ancestors, the Romans, invaded Britannia, as it was then known, centuries ago. And they found evidence of previous invaders. As I said, there is a pattern being repeated here; you would think the water surrounding this land would act as a barrier to invasion, but in fact it provides the same ease of access that roads do on land."

"Do you mean to say we have no more legitimate claim to this land than these barbaric invaders?" The speaker, his tone ripe with offense, was Deogol, another Thane, younger than Aldred by some twenty years. He had a square face, long black hair, and a drooping moustache. His eyes were narrow and blue and appeared, to Marcellus, to possess a low cunning. He sat beside Alodia, as was his place; he had been her betrothed since childhood. If not for the chaos created by the Vikings, they would have been married years ago.

All eyes in the room turned eagerly to Marcellus. He had been deftly fending off pointed verbal barbs from Deogol all night. Everyone had seen the way Alodia regarded the handsome newcomer who had saved her life, including Deogol, and everyone could see that the young Thane was deeply jealous. Their verbal jousting had provided much of the evening's entertainment, with Marcellus constantly emerging as the clear winner—which only seemed to egg on his rival.

"Not at all, Thane Deogol," Marcellus said with a slight smile. "It has been my experience that legitimacy belongs, quite simply, to the victor. The Saxons were victorious four centuries ago. You are in a fight right now to retain your legitimate claim to these lands. Otherwise you face the prospect of a having a group of Norsemen sit at this table four hundred years from now, discussing how to fend off the latest invader of their land." A murmur in the room indicated the displeasure with which that possible future was regarded.

"You speak of your experience, Lucius Gaius Marcellus," Deogol said, "but I am curious. Where did you gain this experience? Are you truly a knight as you claim, or are you merely a peasant with a sword?"

There were several gasps in the room at the clear insult. Duels had been fought over less. Marcellus, however, simply cocked an eyebrow and looked amused.

"Deogol, watch your tongue!" Alden admonished his sister's betrothed; he did not care for the man much more than she did, however beneficial the alliance might be to their families. He eagerly jumped to the defense of his new friend. "Of course he's a knight! His bearing, his speech, not to mention his skill in battle all speak to his nobility!"

Deogol held up one hand and smiled. "I meant no offense, Alden," he said, though he obviously had intended to insult the foreigner. "I am merely curious...how were these exceptional qualities obtained? Who did you serve? Had you a master?"

"I had a mistress," Marcellus answered, a fond smile of remembrance on his lips. "A beautiful, noble mistress, such as the world has never seen before or since. I served her for many years." His smile suddenly faded, remembering the fate of his mistress, his beloved Rome. "But she...fell ill, and went into decline. Eventually, she passed from this world. Her lands fell into the hands of pretenders, and barbarians not unlike the ones you face. Which is why I will gladly fight at your side to repel them."

"Well spoken," Thane Aldred complimented his guest of honor as the remaining guests applauded. Marcellus bowed his head. He glanced down the table and saw Alodia, her green eyes shining, leaning forward slightly and bestowing an admiring smile upon him. Behind her, Deogol regarded him with cold contempt.

In truth, Marcellus' being there was nothing short of a complete accident. After growing disenchanted with the machinations of the Byzantine Empire, the Roman Immortal had taken to wandering. He'd first followed the trade caravans to the East, venturing to exotic lands the Romans had heard of but never seen, including some that Alexander had conquered. He'd gone even further, spending time in the Far East, including the grand empire of Chung Kuo, or China as it was also known. He'd studied martial arts and mysticism in the monasteries and had served as a military advisor to emperors and warlords. But he had once again grown disenchanted and taken to wandering.

He had grown curious about places he'd seen hundreds of years before. So he had traveled back to the West and had begun to visit the various former provinces of the Roman Empire, places he had marched through with legions in time past, just to see how much they'd changed. Britain was one of those places. It was not the most pleasant land for a Roman; it was too cold, too damp, and lacked many of the hallmarks of civilization a Roman would value. But Marcellus had helped the emperor Claudius conquer the place, and he had decided to include it in his travels. He'd found a land torn apart by conflict between the Vikings who had conquered much of the North and East, and the Saxons who made their home in the West. Marcellus had done his best to avoid getting involved in the fighting until the bravery and skill of the young Saxon woman sitting near him captured his attention—and his admiration.

Shortly after his host finished discussing the current political situation with him, the servants cleared away the last of the plates and the remaining guests went off to their various tents or other quarters. Marcellus had been granted a tent himself, and he went back towards it, walking around the dark side of the larger tent used for the meal. As he turned around the corner of the tent, Alodia stepped out of the darkness to stop him; she had obviously been waiting for him to pass by. Marcellus stopped in his tracks. The beautiful young woman looked around in the night to ensure no one else was nearby.

"You must allow me to apologize on behalf of my betrothed for his rudeness," she said.

"I took no offense, milady," Marcellus responded. His gray eyes wandered over Alodia's body, which was subtly illuminated by a nearly-full moon and nearby campfires. Her long, dark blue woolen dress was tied around her waist with a silk cord. The dress covered her body modestly from her neck to her feet, but emphasized the exquisite curves of her athletic body, and the material appeared almost black in the dim light, contrasting with her alabaster skin and red hair. Marcellus marveled at her beauty; he had seen her in sunlight, candlelight, and moonlight, and she had appeared exceptionally beautiful in all three.

"In fact, I found conversation with Deogol most stimulating," Marcellus said generously.

Alodia noticed his eyes appreciating her body and smiled, clearly enjoying the attentions of this mysterious foreigner. "You are too kind, Marcellus of Rome."

"I must insist that you call me Lucius," he said.

"I should not be so familiar," Alodia said, gently shaking her head of long red hair.

"If only when we are alone?" Marcellus suggested.

"We should not be alone," she said with a soft laugh and a coy smile.

"And yet here we are," Marcellus said in a low murmur, a soft smile on his lips. Alodia said nothing, but smiled and boldly returned his gaze. "I am curious," Marcellus said a moment later.

"About what...Lucius?" Just saying his first name gave her a clandestine thrill; she felt her heart beating faster in her chest as she did so.

Marcellus smiled to hear her speak his name as he'd requested. Then his eyes narrowed. "I'm curious about whether or not you love him," he said, looking at her through his lashes.

The smile disappeared from Alodia's face. Her green eyes fell to gaze at the grassy ground before lifting to stare back into his. "I am a nobleman's daughter, sir," she said flatly. "Love is not something I concern myself with. Deogol and I have been betrothed since we were both children. It is...a good match, a good alliance for our families. I will be one-and-twenty this autumn, and it is well past time I was married. I will do my father's bidding, as a dutiful daughter should," she said, as if reciting the speech from rote. Her hands remained clasped in front of her as she spoke.

"But you're not Thane Aldred's daughter, are you?" Marcellus asked, his tone rhetorical. Alodia's green eyes widened as she stared at Marcellus in surprise. "Do not misunderstand me," he said, raising one hand apologetically. "I am not questioning the legitimacy of your birth. I merely noticed that you bear little physical resemblance to your immediate family."

Alodia took a deep breath; she straightened her back, drew herself to her full height, and regarded him impassively. Marcellus smiled in admiration at this display of her noble bearing.

"I was a foundling," Alodia explained calmly and with great dignity. "I was a mere babe, found one morning in the great hall of my father's estate. Lady Audrey took pity on me, God bless her. She could no longer bear children after the birth of my brother Alden, and had always wanted a daughter. They have never treated me any differently from one of their own, and have been tolerant of my desire to learn warcraft in spite of my sex. I have, in turn, endeavored to fulfill my role as a loyal and loving daughter to them."

Marcellus nodded; it was as he expected. He'd sensed the latent Immortality in her when she'd first drawn near to him after the skirmish earlier that day. Her mysterious origins were also typical of one of his kind. He was sorely tempted to bestow eternal life on her himself. He had never encountered such a beautiful and fascinating woman—and given his age, that was remarkable. She possessed such forthrightness and bravery as he had rarely seen in her sex; she stared boldly at him, daring him to insult her for her mysterious and probably illegitimate birth. What an Immortal, what a companion she'd make, he thought, her exceptional beauty preserved forever! But he rejected the notion immediately; he knew she would hate him for inflicting such a life on her. No, it must be left to the vagaries of the Fates.

"You'll hear no rancor or enmity from me on the topic, milady," he assured her, and she smiled slightly. "It is my opinion that action and behavior are more indicative of one's true nature than the mere accident of birth. And your bearing indicates that you are a most noble woman, indeed." Her smile broadened at his compliment. "I cannot help but wonder, however," he went on, "how the bold warrior woman I saw earlier today could so meekly enter into what appears to be a very loveless match."

Her smile vanished at his words, and she made a quarter turn away from him. She drew a deep breath and sighed. "Things seem so simple in battle," she said. "The choices are so clear: fight and live, or yield and die. The world of the castle, the manor, the great hall, is not nearly so elementary, the choices not nearly so clear—quite the opposite." She paused and turned to look at him. "I envy men sometimes. I often think your world is so much simpler than that of women."

"Sometimes it is," Marcellus agreed. "Sometimes not, I suspect."

They heard a voice from around the corner of the tent as someone drew near; they both looked towards it. "I should go," Alodia said.

"Very well. Good night, sweet lady," Marcellus said, and turned to go.

Alodia placed her hand on his arm, stopping him. She turned towards the voices, gauging the distance, ensuring whoever approached was still far around the corner. She turned towards Marcellus, leaned forward, and kissed him lightly on the lips. She leaned back, smiled, then ran off into the night. Marcellus turned and walked towards his tent. He was still smiling several minutes later when he finally fell asleep.

Two days later, Marcellus was walking around the military camp with roughly three dozen of the highest-ranking Saxon noblemen, mostly Thanes and some higher-ranking Earldormans. Hundreds of men comprising King Alfred's army, or fyrd, surrounded the high-ranking group. Some tents and latrines had been set up at the edge of the field, along with makeshift blacksmith shops to sharpen swords and battle-axes or repair coats of chain mail and helmets. Several men were exercising, lifting heavy stones, practicing their sword strokes. Thane Aldred's children, Algar, Alden, and Alodia, stood at the back of the small crowd, listening intently; but knowing their place, they kept their peace.

"So, Marcellus," King Alfred said, "what do you make of our army?" The other nobles stopped and turned to listen. As the Saxon forces had continued to gather over the last couple of days, Marcellus had displayed an impressive knowledge of military strategy and tactics, analyzing and dissecting well-known battles stretching back into antiquity, earning him ever-increasing respect from the Saxon nobles, and bringing him to the attention of the King himself. They eagerly awaited his assessment; even Deogol cocked his head to listen to him.

Marcellus paused and looked at the King. He was a thin man who had suffered from ill health all his life; but his reedy body belied a tremendous strength of spirit that Marcellus had quickly recognized and come to admire. King Alfred, who had hoped to make his Saxon kingdom a cultural center, had also quickly come to respect the foreign warrior, who was so well-read and wise in not just warcraft, but in philosophy and other topics as well. And Marcellus hailed from Rome itself, still regarded as the center of civilization.

"Do you want my honest opinion, Sire?" he asked the monarch.

The King nodded eagerly. "Of course!" he insisted. "We all do!"

Marcellus looked at the other nobles who awaited his assessment. He turned and cast his calculating gaze over the vast array of assembled men. He clasped his hands behind his back and exhaled audibly.

"What do I think of your army? Not much, I'm afraid," he said, to suddenly shocked stares. "The overall fighting ability of your soldiers isn't much better than one would see in a drunken tavern brawl. They lack discipline, skill, and even the most basic understanding of tactics, let alone strategy. They appear incapable of functioning in units of any size. I could take a hundred men, train them for two months, and they'd run through this assembled horde like a hot knife through butter."

He turned around to face the shocked, wide-eyed faces of the assembled Saxon nobility. "However, you are fortunate in one respect: your enemy, of whom I would make very much the same assessment. In other words, you are evenly matched. On the day of battle, it will likely come down to simple numbers: who has more men, and who inflicts more casualties."

Deogol, standing at the back of the crowd, snorted. "What would this...outsider know about our fighting prowess?" he asked rhetorically. "He's never even seen our army in battle!" He glanced at Alodia when he finished, expecting support; instead, she turned her head from him, disgusted by his rudeness.

There was no love lost between the two men; Alodia continued to favor Marcellus with approving glances, and Deogol's resentment continued to grow. Marcellus was thoroughly aware of the man's feelings—they were plain as day on his face, and in the increasingly resentful remarks he directed at the Roman warrior. While he watched Deogol with caution, Marcellus had to admit that he enjoyed seeing the young Saxon's growing jealousy. The other nobles, including Thane Aldred, were growing more and more uncomfortable with Deogol's petulant displays.

While Marcellus and Alodia had not had another opportunity for a clandestine conversation, her admiring looks were not lost on him, and he remembered fondly that quick, illicit kiss. Marcellus had watched Alodia practicing her sword strokes with her brothers a few minutes before and realized he may have found something precious enough to replace his lost, beloved Rome. Certain things he would still leave to the fates, but he began to consider how he could win Alodia away from Deogol. He knew he'd already, in a brief time, won her heart, but also knew the true battle would be for the consent of her father. His ascending regard by the other nobles fit right into his nascent plan.

"I don't need to see the army in battle to assess it," Marcellus replied evenly. "Wars and battles are won or lost before the first soldier even sets foot on a battlefield." Deogol snorted again and waved his arm dismissively, but the other nobles had learned to give much weight to the opinion of this 'outsider'.

"Is there anything we could do in the remaining time?" Thane Aldred asked. "Anything that could tip the balance in our favor?"

Marcellus smiled at Aldred; he genuinely liked the man. He wasn't afraid of the truth, of hearing an opinion he might not like; and rather than dwelling on problems, he always looked for solutions. He wished he could offer better hope to his new friend.

"I'm sorry, my Lord," Marcellus said. "We have less than a week. That's not much time to transform an unruly mob into a disciplined fighting force."

"We don't need your advice, Roman," Deogol sneered. "We have God on our side!"

The other nobles said nothing; it would seem like blasphemy to contradict that statement. Aldred smiled slightly, however, knowing Marcellus would have an apt response.

"I am sure we do, Deogol," Marcellus said, "but the Lord works in strange and mysterious ways, and we must be vigilant not to earn His mighty wrath. It would be most presumptuous of us to assume we could know His mind or fathom His divine plan." The other nobles, who considered themselves devout adherents to the relatively new faith of Christianity, nodded sagely. Marcellus, of course, put little stock in the new religion, but he had become well-acquainted with its scriptures and beliefs. If this devil they believe in can quote scripture to suit his purpose, why can't I? he reasoned, calculating as always.

"A hundred men," Alden suddenly said from the back of the crowd.

"What was that, Alden?" his father asked, turning to look at his younger son, surprised the young man had spoken at all.

Alden looked about nervously as every pair of eyes, including his King's, fastened on him. He looked for a friendly face and found that of Marcellus. "Yes, Alden," Marcellus said with a smile. "If you have an idea, by all means, share it, because I'm fresh out of them."

Alden stepped forward to stand directly in front of Marcellus, and spoke directly to his new friend—it was the only way he felt comfortable enough to speak in front of so many high-ranking nobles. "You said...you could train a hundred men to go through this vast army easily," he said.

Marcellus shook his head. "I said I'd need at least two months to train them, my young friend," he said. "We do not have nearly that much time."

"But...what if they don't need to go through the army of Vikings like...a hot knife through butter?" Alden insisted, quoting Marcellus' metaphor. "What if they just need to tip the balance, like father said? Would five days of training be enough to do that?"

Marcellus put his chin in his hand and lowered his gaze to the ground in front of him. For several seconds he rocked back and forth on his heels. The assembled nobles held their collective breath. Finally he nodded slowly.

"Possibly," he said, then glanced at Alden. "It certainly couldn't hurt," he said with a smile. The other nobles looked at one another, hope glimmering in their eyes again. "Do I have your consent to do this?" Marcellus asked the King.

King Alfred glanced around at the nodding heads of his nobles; only Deogol refused his consent, but the young Saxon held his tongue. "I would say you do," the King told him.

"Good," Marcellus said, nodding, his gaze drifting to the distance as his calculating mind went to work. "I'll need a century—one hundred of your best warriors. No...not your best," he corrected himself, holding up his hand. "One hundred of your most disciplined and obedient warriors. Pay no heed to their rank or station, as I will not, and warn them of that. I'll need a separate area to train them, and I'll need complete independence, no interference from the rest of you."

"There's a smaller, fallow field on the other side of that row of poplars," Algar offered, pointing across the camp.

Marcellus looked in that direction and nodded. "That should do fine," he said. "I'll have to trust you gentlemen to pick out the hundred men. No, wait, make it ninety-eight. I'll start with Algar and Alden...and Alodia as well," he said, pointing to each of Aldred's children in turn. "I've seen them fight already."

"Alodia?!" Deogol objected. "But she's a woman!"

Deogol had never approved of Alodia's involvement in military matters. It seemed most unseemly for a nobleman's daughter, and his future wife, to be engaged in battles and bloodshed. The other nobles often made sport of Aldred's tomboyish daughter, though never to his face; Thane Aldred had earned too much respect among the other nobles. Deogol, less sure of his good standing in his peers' opinion, had no intention of being a figure of fun. He intended to put a stop to Alodia's unladylike habits as soon as they were wed.

"I saw her fell two burly Vikings in the time it takes to blink," Marcellus told him. "If you had a hundred women who could fight like her, I'd take on the damn Vikings with them alone and send the rest of you home," he said, smiling at Alodia as the assembled nobles erupted into laughter. Their spirits were rising; if their women could take down the Vikings so effectively, what hope did the barbarians have?

"On the day of battle, gentlemen," Marcellus continued when the laughter died down, "this elite force will be at the front and center of our army. They will be the tip of the sword which we will plunge into the very heart of our enemy!"

The assembled nobles erupted into blood-thirsty cheers. Marcellus glanced at Alodia; her green eyes were wide and shining with admiration. He shifted his gaze to her father and saw a similar look. It was all coming together, as his plans always did. He would win this battle for them; his force, under his leadership, would indeed tip the balance, he felt confident of that. The Gauls and the Goths had been a greater challenge than these unruly Vikings. And when it was done, they would give him whatever he desired, and he desired but one thing: the beautiful young Saxon woman who stood before him. He'd keep her close by him in the battle to ensure her safety, the Fates be damned.

As Marcellus' carefully conceived plan began to come together, one other man in the crowd came to the same conclusion, foresaw the same outcome. Deogol turned from the cheering nobles in disgust, formulating his own dark plan as he stormed away.