With determined strides, Thyra navigated the intricate network of passageways that comprised the royal palace. Each delicate footfall resonated against the cobblestones and hewn stones, creating a symphony of echoes. It struck her how infrequently she had set foot in the palace since her brother Uhtred and Beocca had urged her to return to Winchester after they had saved her alongside Ragnar when Uhtred and Ragnar had killed Kjartan, accompanied by Beocca himself, the advisor and priest to Saxon King Alfred.
Though initially reluctant at first, Thyra knew she could not and would not stay in Dunholm, as the fortress where she had spent the last several years of her life a prisoner of Kjartan and Sven would bode no happy memories for her, despite her brother Ragnar and her dearest friend Brida claiming the stronghold of Dunholm for themselves.
Recognizing Uhtred's earnest desire for her to find peace and happiness, she had acquiesced and now resided with Beocca in his modest yet comfortable abode, at the personal request of King Alfred. Thyra marveled at how much faster the time seemed to pass her by now that she was happier. It had been nearly six months since Uhtred and Ragnar had stormed the fortress of Dunholm, putting an end to her captors, Kjartan and Sven, in a brutal massacre. It had been six months since Beocca had intervened resolutely, interposing himself between her tormentors and banishing the demons that haunted her soul, extinguishing the madness within her like quelling a fire.
For the past six months, she had finally experienced peaceful sleep, devoid of haunting visions of Anwen, her former betrothed. She shook her head abruptly, halting her thoughts in their tracks. She refused to dwell on him. She could not.
Those dreams of her past love ought to be consigned to the flames of history; there was no place for whimsical fantasies in her mind now. As much as her heart yearned for Anwen to have survived that fateful night when Kjartan and his son Sven had torn her away, she understood that death held no remedy. Anwen must not occupy her thoughts.
The moment she had witnessed the boy she believed she would marry being dragged into the dense woods behind her family's barn, she had bid him farewell forever. She had never laid eyes on him again, presuming that Anwen had met his end with his throat slit. When Beocca had arrived in Dunholm, extending an opportunity for her to find the peace that had long eluded her, she had resolved to close that chapter of her life.
Yet, even as Thyra pledged to leave Anwen and her family in the past, there were moments when the agony of witnessing their slaughter would seep uninvited to the surface, robbing the young Dane of her breath. The previous night had been one of those occasions when sleep eluded her. The weight of silence and darkness burdened her, as she grappled with memories of Anwen and her family. Restless hours ticked by as she battled to inhale the night air, attempting to suppress the lump in her throat and fill the void in her heart.
Desperately, she clung to furniture, window sills, and even the walls of the room Beocca had designated for her within his home, steadfastly resisting the descent into despair. Tears threatened to spill, but she held them back, knowing she had shed enough already.
Eventually, as the early hours of morning waned, Thyra succumbed to sleep's embrace. However, her precious respite was short-lived. She awoke with the rising sun, gasping for air and yearning for Anwen. Dreams of him plagued her once more, as they had countless times since her capture.
She feared that a life without him and her family at her side would never truly be bearable. Yet, she remained grateful for Beocca's compassion as she acclimated to her new life in Winchester. Dispelling the remnants of her past, Thyra's lips curved into a smile as she reminisced about the early hours of the morning when Beocca had left his home.
At that moment, a profound sense of tranquility enveloped her. Every aspect of the Saxon priest contrasted sharply with the harsh environment she had grown accustomed to during her captivity in Dunholm. Kjartan and Sven had never shown an ounce of tenderness or affection towards her.
Their visits to her cell had invariably culminated in violation, humiliation, and tears. However, Beocca embodied gentleness and compassion, a stark contrast to her tormentors.
Within an hour of Beocca's departure from his home to join King Alfred at the palace, Thyra found herself unable to bear the ache of loneliness.
Yet, she couldn't ignore the persistent tug she felt in her chest. Whenever she was in Beocca's presence, a peculiar sensation seeped into her being—a gentle pressure, a warmth that spread throughout her body, enveloping her in comfort. It had only manifested about a month into her stay under the priest's roof.
Initially, Thyra had been skeptical of these feelings, but soon she recognized their significance, realizing that they were something she yearned to experience again.
Although part of her tried to convince herself that Beocca would find it bothersome if she were to check on him, the desire to talk with the priest again won over Thyra's doubts.
The Abbess Hild, Beocca's friend, likely had already tended to his well-being, as the fair-haired nun often reminded him to take better care of himself, ensuring he didn't neglect eating or to sleep. However, her longing to connect with Beocca overpowered her hesitations.
Determinedly pushing herself forward, Thyra continued her search, and set off to find the king's priest within the vast labyrinth of the royal palace, but she soon found herself lost and quite unfamiliar with the sprawling dim corridors of the palace. Every which way merely seemed to lead to another corridor with a dead end or a door that was locked tightly.
With gratitude, she embraced the freedom bestowed upon her by Beocca's revelation. The king had granted her the liberty to roam the palace at her own will, allowing her access to every room except the dungeons and a secluded chamber at the far end of the east wing.
Beocca had disclosed that these were the king's private quarters, emphasizing Alfred's penchant for solitude.
Despite her anticipation, Thyra's search for Beocca within the palace yielded no results. She tirelessly explored every corner, but the priest remained elusive. Time slipped away unnoticed, and after an hour of fruitless pursuit, Thyra felt the temptation to abandon her quest and retreat to the safety of her house, patiently awaiting Beocca's return.
Frustration quickly took hold as Thyra discovered that each door she ventured through only led to another corridor, perpetuating an endless cycle of rooms. She found herself trapped in a disheartening loop, repeatedly returning to her starting point near the prayer hall. The maze-like nature of the palace left Thyra exasperated, yearning for a breakthrough. After a brief indulgence in mental grumbling, Thyra's shoulders eased as she noticed an unoccupied pew in the hall, left untouched from the evening Mass.
Succumbing to defeat, fearing she'd not find him, she sank onto the edge of the bench, exhaling a frustrated sigh. However, the resonance of bells resonating through the palace brought a semblance of tranquility. The aroma of flickering candles, nestled in their holders along the aisle, filled the air, casting a gentle glow and providing a comforting warmth.
Just seconds after settling onto the pew, Thyra's mind drifted once again to Beocca. At that precise moment, he emerged through a small wooden door on the side of the nave, clutching a scroll of parchment in his hands. His face was pale and filled with vexation, seemingly on the verge of rushing off to address some crisis.
However, as his eyes met Thyra's, time stood still, and his countenance softened instantly. Thyra's heart fluttered as she felt the weight of Beocca's gaze as if she were the sole woman in a barren realm. Father Beocca's appearance exuded wisdom and kindness, with a weathered face and warm, compassionate eyes.
The priest had no hair to speak of, and his ears were quite prominent and stuck out and were often a source of mockery for the man by those who whispered at the holy man and passed the father by in the halls. His face was that of a normal, if not plain man, complemented by a well-kept beard. Despite a slightly hunched posture, he radiates dignity and resilience. Clad in priestly vestments, his presence offers solace and comfort, and his rare smile brings a sense of peace to all who encounter him.
Though now, Beocca was not smiling, and this alarmed Thyra to see him this way. Beocca's mouth curved into a faint frown, his forehead adorned with creases of curiosity at the unexpected sight of Thyra in the prayer hall, of her own volition. It was a peculiar scene that captivated him, drawing him closer to unraveling this mysterious encounter.
"Oh, Thyra, what...what is it?" Beocca's voice trailed off, a delicate flush tinting his cheeks as he approached with caution. He carefully placed the parchment he carried on the bench before taking a seat beside Thyra. "Are you alright? Is something wrong? Why...why have you come to the palace, Thyra?" His voice dripped with concern, evident in his trembling hands and the fretful gaze of his deep brown eyes.
Thyra silently observed Beocca, noting the quivering of his hands and the worry etched in his expression. It was clear to her that something weighed heavily on his mind.
"I-I was coming to look for you, Beocca, i-it is getting late, and I have supper on, b-but...something is wrong with you. What's the matter?" Thyra inquired, unable to disregard the growing concern and sudden pang of bitterness that twisted in her stomach. Beocca's countenance mirrored a desolate graveyard, his weathered features filled with sorrow.
Beocca's voice carried a gentle melancholy as he leaned closer to Thyra.
"Thyra, there's something I've been meaning to share with you, something that cannot wait. Once you've heard me, then I could take you home and we could sit down together to eat, but...I must leave you, Thyra. I must leave Winchester for a few weeks. Alfred has sent me on an important mission, a task that he is entrusting to me and to me alone, or else I would stay. But when my king commands, I must obey, no matter what, Thyra," he confessed, his expression pained as he realized how his words might sound cold and distant.
Thyra's stomach hollowed, and her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. Grateful for the support of the pew, she felt a surge of relief that she wasn't standing, fearing she might sway unsteadily and faint. As the color drained from her face, she swallowed hard, feeling as though sharp knives passed down her throat.
"Leaving?" she whispered hoarsely, her voice barely audible, doubting if she had heard correctly. "Where is Alfred sending you, Beocca?" Her attempt to maintain a composed tone masked the underlying fear and urgency that gripped her. At this moment, she realized how deeply she had grown accustomed to Beocca's comforting presence at her side during the evenings when he would return home. The thought of being alone in the priest's house, waiting anxiously for news of his return, became unbearable to contemplate.
Beocca's lips parted as if he intended to respond, but there was a momentary pause. Thyra watched in astonishment as the priest averted his gaze and shifted his attention towards the front of the aisle, seeking solace in the surroundings. His eyes grew distant, fixating on a statue of a woman—an eternal mother named Mary, if she remembered correctly—surrounded by marble angels, sheltering her and her child from any harm. His focus became lost in the intricacies of the sculpture, seemingly finding comfort in its presence. Her hesitation grew as Thyra swallowed, uncertain if she truly wanted to hear Beocca's response, sensing it would not bring the news she desired.
The reluctance in his demeanor only heightened her apprehension. After what felt like an agonizingly long silence, stretching uncomfortably between them, Beocca mustered the strength to reluctantly reply. His voice, strained with the weight of the words he carried, finally broke the uneasy stillness.
"Dunholm, Thyra," Beocca's voice carried a burden of solemnity. "The king's health is deteriorating, and after your brother's banishment from Winchester and Wessex, Lady Aelswith has requested my presence in Dunholm. I am tasked with delivering the official decree of his exile, under the penalty of execution if he dares to set foot on Wessex soil again." Beocca's words weighed heavily in the air, yet there was something more he needed to convey. His voice grew passionate, laced with a hint of anger, as he continued. "The king wished for you to accompany me, hoping that your presence would soften the blow when I deliver the news. But I refuse to subject you to such a wretched place, Thyra. Dunholm holds no joyful memories for you, you are a gentle soul, Thyra, and have suffered enough," he protested, his pained expression reflecting his inner turmoil.
Thyra remained seated on the pew, her body seemingly rooted in place, as her mind spun in a whirlwind of emotions. It had been months since she last laid eyes on her beloved brother. The demands placed upon Uhtred by the king had been excessive, pushing him to his limits.
The tension had escalated to the point where Uhtred had taken drastic action, holding a knife to Alfred's throat. After a supposed exchange of harsh words in private, Uhtred fled the realm, leaving the king with no choice but to issue an order for his execution should he ever return to Wessex.
As Thyra gazed at Beocca, an overwhelming wave of fear mingled with frustration washed over her. The idea of revisiting her past haunt filled her with dread, but the prospect of being left alone for endless months, waiting anxiously for Beocca's return, evoked an even greater terror.
The mere thought of such isolation felt like a slow, agonizing death to her.
As she parted her lips to speak, Thyra took a moment to search for the right words.
"I want to come with you," Thyra announced, her voice resonating with newfound determination. She spoke to Beocca with a boldness that surprised even herself. "If this could be one of my last chances to see Uhtred, please, Beocca, do not leave me behind. Let me be by your side. My memories of Dunholm are nothing more than echoes of a different life. I have changed, Beocca. I am a different woman now." She paused, searching for the right words to convey her emotions. "I am... happy here, with you, Beocca," she declared, a flicker of a smile dancing upon her lips as she met his gaze.
A surge of hope swelled within her as she smoothed her skirts, silently praying that Beocca would understand and grant her wish. But perhaps it was too much to hope for, as Thyra's hopes were shattered like ice in the first rays of the summer sun when she witnessed Beocca's mocking gaze, filled with incredulous disbelief.
It was as if she had suddenly sprouted antlers on her head or grown an appalling tail.
"You tease me, Thyra, surely. You honestly believe I would allow you to do that?" he exclaimed, his tone reflecting his disbelief.
Panic welled up within Thyra, causing her to vigorously shake her head in an attempt to dispel her frantic thoughts. With a mixture of anger and annoyance, she fixed Beocca with a piercing gaze that nearly made him recoil in surprise. She didn't want their conversation to escalate into a quarrel, recognizing that he did care for her as a friend.
Their bond had deepened over the past six months, spending countless evenings by the fireside, sharing intimate conversations. However, the decision of whether to accompany him or not was not Beocca's to make. Thyra suppressed her rising frustration, determined to maintain her composure.
She couldn't afford to reveal to Beocca just how deeply his rejection was affecting her. With narrowed eyes, she directed a piercing gaze at the priest, momentarily feeling a flicker of fear within herself. She knew her expression mirrored that of a fierce Danish warrior woman, much like her beloved friend Brida, a shieldmaiden.
"Beocca, Uhtred is my brother," she uttered, despising the quivering crack in her voice as it threatened to give way. "You would truly try to keep me from seeing my brother one last time?" Beocca flinched, recoiling from her as if she had just cast a spell or cursed him with runes. Thyra observed, her breath held in anticipation, as she witnessed the wheels turning in Beocca's mind. He silently contemplated her heartfelt plea, his expression a canvas of contemplation as a dozen emotions flashed through his dark eyes all at once.
Thyra fiercely blinked, determined to suppress the tears welling up in her eyes, refusing to let them spill over.
However, she could sense that Beocca's once stern countenance softened, signaling that he had indeed perceived her anguish firsthand.
"Thyra, it has only been six months since your freedom from Dunholm. If I were to allow this and something were to happen to you, the burden of guilt that I would feel would be unbearable," Beocca pleaded, his voice filled with desperation and gentleness. "Please. Stay here, where I know you will be safe. Abbess Hild has agreed to look in on you, Thyra."
Thyra, however, shook her head, unwavering in her resolve.
"I understand the risks, Beocca. But I cannot stay here... not without you," she confessed, the truth slipping from her lips before she could fully comprehend her own words.
The impact of Thyra's words reverberated through the air, and she could sense the shock radiating from Beocca without even looking at him.
She anxiously bit down on her bottom lip, her heart pounding in her chest as she waited for his response. Closing her eyes, she offered a prayer to Beocca's God, a plea she hadn't made since her arrival in Winchester, if indeed He existed. She prayed that her wish to accompany Beocca would be granted.
The thought of being left behind haunted Thyra, the prospect of dark and lonely nights plagued by nightmares of Kjartan and Sven.
The overwhelming ache of loneliness threatened to consume her if Beocca were to depart without her. Despite her slight trepidation, Thyra longed for Beocca's presence by her side. He was all she had left, and the idea of placing her trust in a man once more both terrified and compelled her.
Beocca's hesitant words trailed off as he stared into Thyra's reddened and fragile eyes, cracked with emotion at the edges.
"If anything were to happen to you, Thyra," he began, his voice filled with concern. However, he faltered, taken aback by the sight before him.
"I'm as good as dead if I stay, Beocca," Thyra whispered hoarsely, surprised by her own audacity in speaking so boldly to the priest. Yet, in the passing months and the increasing time spent in his presence, she found herself growing more comfortable and at ease expressing her thoughts to Beocca.
The shock on Beocca's face was evident, although less pronounced than Thyra had anticipated. She felt the tension in her shoulders ease as he stood up, giving her a curt nod.
"I...I don't...Oh, very well, Thyra. Something tells me that even if I were to forbid you, you would still find a way to steal a horse from the palace stables and follow me, and no matter how much I plead with you to turn around and go back, you would not do it, you are as stubborn as Uhtred sometimes, Thyra, I am learning that it is a fact of you," he grumbled, a flicker of momentary anger crossing his weary features.
Thyra couldn't help but almost smile, her lips twitching, as her veins pulsed with a sense of triumph. She was grateful for the fierce stubbornness inherited from her mother, as it had carried her through these challenges.
However, Beocca's words brought her back to reality.
"We will leave at dawn, Thyra. I will need your help in gathering supplies and anything else we might need for the journey. If you are late, you will not come with me. You will do as I instruct when I instruct," he stated solemnly.
Thyra's head jerked in a short, affirmative nod, and a surge of elation filled her heart. If she had possessed an ounce more courage, she might have leaped to her feet and kissed him right then and there. Beocca, in turn, inclined his head in acknowledgment, although it was evident that the idea of Thyra accompanying him to Dunholm did not bring him joy.
With a visible exertion of willpower, he took a step back, turned, and vanished from the prayer hall in the blink of an eye.
Left alone to reflect on the outcome of her conversation with Beocca, Thyra couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. She watched as Beocca's footprints muddied the cobblestones, and a sense of anticipation filled her, bringing a spark of hope to her soul that with him by her side, all would be well. Hope clung to her heels as she rose to her feet and followed Beocca's muddied footprints, the path he had left behind leading her out of the prayer hall of the palace and towards their home.
Towards Dunholm.