The tranquility and warmth of the upper level of Dunholm struck them like a sudden jolt after the bustling noise and frigid cold of the woods.
As Thyra allowed Beocca to lead her inside, she spotted several faces, some familiar, such as Ragnar, Brida, and Ragnar's man Jackdaw, made their way through the halls, Ragnar and Brida offering a curt nod towards Thyra as they passed.
While they walked, they spotted a passing servant girl, a lovely hearthkeep, by the looks of her – and she happened to catch Thyra's eye, as she realized the young woman was about her and Brida's ages, respectively.
She was quite pretty, petite, though taller than Thyra, and her short nut brown hair cut to a rough shoulder length. She had skillfully pulled her hair back into a neat single braid, though a few strands had escaped, delicately framing her face with wisps and strands.
Ragnar called out to her as she was passing them by in the hall, and he requested the girl to lead them to a room when she stopped and turned to attend to her lord's demand.
Timidly, she introduced herself as Ingrid to Beocca and Thyra, and with a graceful wave of her arm, she gestured for them to follow her. In the dimly lit corridor, Ingrid halted and pointed towards a door.
"I hope you will find everything to your liking," she shyly smiled, though her confusion was evident when Beocca seemed perplexed by being offered only one chamber. Concerned about Thyra's modesty and wanting to maintain the blossoming bond of friendship between them, Beocca was about to speak up on her behalf.
However, gentle pressure on his arm redirected his attention to Thyra, who gave a subtle shake of her head, silencing him.
"Thank you, um, Ingrid," Thyra stuttered, "I-I'm sure it will be lovely."
Ingrid nodded and swiftly opened the door, ushering them inside. The room was small but cozy, with a welcoming fire already roaring in the hearth. The flickering flames cast jittery shadows along the bricked walls. A small table with two chairs stood in one corner, and a soft, comfortable bed was pushed against the opposite wall. On the table, there was a slice of grain cake accompanied by a tin decanter filled with dark, night-like wine.
"Sleep well, then, and if you should need anything, Father, Lady, do not hesitate to ask. If I happen to be away for any reason, my husband will gladly assist you, as will my children," the young woman cheerfully chirped.
Her face lit up as she noticed Beocca and Thyra exchange a look with each other, and she assumed they were pleased that Ragnar had thoughtfully given them a room together, so they wouldn't have to be separated.
Thyra's curiosity was piqued when she heard about the woman's husband, and she couldn't help but feel that whoever he was, he must be a fortunate man. Despite having only known Ingrid for a few brief moments, Thyra had already formed a positive impression of her.
Ingrid's quiet and soft-spoken nature contrasted with her self-assuredness, and she seemed to possess wisdom beyond her years, even though she appeared to be not much older than Thyra herself. Observing how well-liked Ingrid was among Ragnar's men and how eagerly she tried to make both Thyra and Beocca feel comfortable during their stay, Thyra appreciated the woman's thoughtfulness and hoped to establish a friendship with her.
As Beocca moved towards the table and poured himself a chalice of wine, Thyra couldn't help but notice his trembling hands. Thyra observed Beocca with quiet intensity, and while she was doing so, she couldn't help but sense that the encounter with Prince Aethelwold in the woods had left him troubled.
A feeling of guilt washed over her as she realized that her impromptu escape to catch some fresh air must have caused trouble and worry, especially since she hadn't informed anyone within the walls of Dunholm about her whereabouts.
Still, she wanted to spend more time with Ingrid, as she was eager to learn more about her. Thyra tilted her head and regarded Ingrid with curiosity.
With a kind expression on her face, she asked, "Could you tell me about your husband? I'd love to know more about him. Do we know him?"
Ingrid gave Thyra an amusing smile, but Thyra nodded nonetheless, her hand instinctively reaching to tuck a stray wisp of her chestnut brown hair behind her ear.
"You're already quite familiar to him, or at least you are, Father Beocca, as Haestan has told me. Earl Haestan is my husband, and Njal and Ivar are our two boys, ten and six," Ingrid announced, her voice carrying a hint of pride and growing affection.
Thyra's eyes widened in a mixture of alarm and shock, contemplating how someone like Haestan, whom she secretly admitted she never thought she could truly like or trust, could end up with such a delightful and charming wife and mother to his children.
Beside her, Beocca, who had been on the verge of taking another sip of wine, almost choked as he swallowed, now staring at Ingrid with sheer disbelief.
"You...you are Haestan's..." Beocca gasped, turning red in the face and he immediately set his chalice of wine down.
Noticing their reactions, Ingrid let out a light laugh.
"Well, it seems that both of you were caught off guard. Haestan can be difficult sometimes, but he always provides for us," she murmured, casually twirling the end of her braid.
It was then that Thyra noticed the collection of silver rings adorning Ingrid's fingers. Ingrid, Haestan's wife, exuded the confidence of a young woman who knew her worth and was determined to claim what life owed her, all the while effortlessly avoiding any hint of ostentation.
"Life has a way of surprising us with its mysteries, doesn't it?" Ingrid remarked, her tone filled with a touch of amusement.
Thyra managed a smile, still trying to come to terms with the news. "It's just unexpected, but I'm happy for both of you," she said sincerely.
Beocca, finding his voice, chimed in, "Indeed, unexpected but joyful news. Congratulations to you and your, uh, 'charming' husband, Earl Haestan."
Thyra furrowed her brows into a frown and flicked her gaze back towards Haestan's wife.
Ingrid's smile widened, sensing the effect of her revelation on Thyra and Beocca, keeping her fingers clasped and head bowed. She seemed to enjoy the surprise she had caused. The shy hearth keep couldn't help but revel in the shock that her news had caused Ragnar's sister and this Saxon priest, a faint pink blush spreading across her cheeks. Ingrid had an inkling of where Beocca's thoughts were heading as the priest's eyes roamed over her form and settled on her face.
It was as if Beocca's thoughts were laid bare, and she could easily discern what he saw and understood what was going through his mind.
Ingrid's smile broadened as she nodded in agreement, anticipating Father Beocca's direction.
"My husband has quite the charm," she remarked, pausing for a moment before adding, "Well, on the right occasions," Ingrid confessed with a casual shrug of her shoulders.
Thyra managed to compose herself, attempting to hide her inner turmoil. She offered a polite smile, though her mind was still racing with conflicting emotions.
Thyra couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions at this revelation. Haestan had always been an enigmatic figure to her, and she had never imagined him as someone's husband, let alone a father. Her perception of him was now challenged, and a part of her wanted to understand him better.
"I'm glad to hear that he has found happiness with you and your family," she replied, mustering the best diplomacy she could.
Beocca, regaining his composure, finally spoke up with a mix of curiosity and disbelief.
"This is quite the unexpected turn of events. I must admit, I never saw this coming." He exchanged glances with Thyra, both of them sharing a sense of bewilderment over the situation.
Ingrid chuckled, seemingly enjoying the attention she had garnered.
"Most who know my husband but have not met me don't see it coming. But let's not dwell on my marriage any longer." In defeat, she let out an exasperated sigh. "I apologize for babbling on, but it's a relief to have someone my age to talk to, someone who will listen," Ingrid confessed softly, her expression filled with kindness.
Thyra returned the smile. "I feel the same way. I initially thought Beocca and I would only stay in Dunholm for a few days, but with the storm outside, it looks like we might be here for weeks if the snow doesn't subside. I'm grateful that we have someone to converse with, someone we can consider a friend."
Ingrid's smile grew warmer. "I feel the same. But regardless of how glad I am you're here, I do not want to linger too long. I am sure you are tired after your long journey here and are anxious to rest. Is there anything else I can assist you with, Father?" Ingrid inquired, bowing her head while keeping her hands clasped in front of her abdomen.
Beocca shook his head briskly, his thoughts still grappling with the perplexity of how a cunning and roguish character like Earl Haestan could have been blessed with such a delightful and enchanting bride like Ingrid.
"N-no, nothing," he stammered, stumbling over his words, his mind still consumed by the mystery of Haestan's fortune in marrying such a captivating woman. And he was not about to forget Aethelwold's proximity to Thyra so easily either.
With a warm nod, Ingrid addressed them both. "If there's nothing else you need, Father, or Lady, goodnight. You'll find everything you require in your room. Lady Thyra, if you're agreeable, I'll come by your chambers first thing in the morning. I could use an extra pair of hands in the kitchens. Although I suspect you might wake up even before then. Your room is so close to the kitchens that the noise of the cooks will probably wake you before I do," she teased, a wry smile forming on Ingrid's lips.
Thyra smiled and nodded appreciatively. She was determined to assist Haestan's wife in any way she could.
It was the least she could do, considering the kindness Ingrid had shown her and Beocca, ensuring their comfort in this unfamiliar place.
As Ingrid bid her shy goodbye and turned to leave, Thyra assured her that she would gladly help.
She only turned her attention to Beocca once Ingrid had left the room and closed the door behind her. Suppressing a chuckle at his bewildered expression, she observed him staring at the spot where Ingrid had stood just moments ago. Eventually, he seemed to snap out of his daze and shook his head to regain his focus.
Thyra mustered up the courage to break the silence that had enveloped them, the weight of Beocca discovering her alongside Aethelwold in the woods still lingering heavily in the air. She spoke with a hint of hesitancy, her voice soft yet determined.
"Ingrid seems like a nice person, doesn't she?" she asked shyly.
Unsure of where to start after their prolonged silence, her shoulders slumped, awaiting his response.
Beocca nodded, his expression beginning to adopt a stern demeanor. He cleared his throat, momentarily averting his gaze from Thyra as he reached for the wine and poured himself another chalice. His words came out somewhat stumbled and uncertain. "Yes, she... she is... indeed, yes."
A furrow formed between Thyra's brows, sensing that something weighed heavily on Beocca's mind. The downturned corners of his mouth confirmed her suspicions, and she knew she had hit the mark when he turned to face her, his immediate question hanging in the air.
"Do you not want a separate room?" His tone carried a tinge of worry, his words coming out in a fretful manner. "Wouldn't that be... more appropriate for you?" he pressed, his concern evident.
Thyra's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, understanding the implications behind his inquiry and realizing that he had misunderstood Ingrid's intentions. Timidly, she replied, eager to spare Haestan's wife from any embarrassment. "I didn't want to correct Ingrid and cause any discomfort for her," she murmured.
"Oh, I... I see," Beocca stammered, his confusion palpable. Pensively, he contemplated the situation, and it was as he observed the pink hue spreading across Thyra's cheeks that the pieces started to fall into place in his mind. The color drained from his face, replaced by a worried expression.
"Lady Ingrid... she believes..." His words trailed off, his gaze fixed with concern upon Thyra's deep blue eyes.
Thyra nodded, interjecting quickly to complete his unfinished sentence.
"Ingrid believes that we're... married, Beocca." As she confessed, her cheeks grew even warmer, and she sharply turned away from Beocca, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. Her heart raced, and a rush of blood surged to her head at the mere thought of sharing a bed with Beocca.
Beocca's cheeks blazed with a vibrant red hue as he intentionally averted his gaze, allowing Thyra's freshly painted image to seep into his mind.
A fleeting smile adorned his face, revealing a momentary respite as he delved deep into the vivid tapestry Thyra's words had woven.
This inner yearning, tightly held and concealed, remained unshared even with Uhtred, for fear of ridicule and scorn.
Since his tender sixteen years, he had longed for love, silently craving the solace and happiness of companionship. To know true love and to know the bliss of being loved back and cared for. During the harshest lashings endured in his youth under the cruel hand of his slave master, it was the dreams of a life intertwined with a radiant, fair-skinned beautiful woman as his cherished wife that had offered him peace, transporting his mind away from the tormenting agony. Though he held a revered position as Alfred's priest in Winchester, no woman had ever come to him. Despite the undeniable truth that many women were willing to marry him, Beocca, perhaps foolishly, yearned for love to strike him like a lightning bolt, refusing to settle for a mere convenient match.
As Beocca pondered, his thoughts drifted back to Thyra and the unsettling way she had looked at him in the bailey. Her boldness had surprised him when she kissed his hand, and she hadn't shown any fear. Her curious and probing blue eyes held a gaze he couldn't dismiss.
Thyra's gaze made him want to shrink away and hide, yet he also never wanted her to stop looking, no matter what she saw in him.
It was a gaze that saw him fully, without flinching or judgment, a gaze that held no hatred.
Amidst these reflections, a troubling thought crept into Beocca's mind, spreading like wildfire. It was a thought he desperately tried to push away—an idea that over the past six months, their bond had grown into something more, unbeknownst to him. It wasn't merely friendship he felt for Uhtred of Bebbanburg's sister, but... love. He recoiled from the notion as soon as he turned his gaze towards Thyra and found her staring at the double bed.
His heart sank as he witnessed Thyra's stricken expression. It was undoubtedly dread that filled her heart, understandable considering the horrifying ordeal she had endured at the hands of those vicious men, Kjartan and Sven. Beocca realized she was lost in a painful memory, one unrelated to him.
Anger ignited within him as he pictured the faces of the father and son, their images searing into his mind. He wished he could exact vengeance upon them himself for turning what should have been a beautiful experience for Thyra into a nightmarish agony of humiliation.
If he were ever fortunate enough to have the heart of a remarkable woman like Thyra, he would have cherished it, treating her as an equal.
All thoughts of questioning her about her presence in the woods with the king's nephew vanished from Beocca's mind.
His sole objective now was to provide any comfort he could and alleviate her distress. He couldn't bear to witness Thyra's pain, and his anger transformed into a determination to ease her mind, offering solace in whatever way possible.
Determined to ease Thyra's discomfort, Beocca crossed the cramped room to stand directly in front of Uhtred's sister. Despite the lingering grief etched on her face and her glassy, distant blue eyes locked onto some invisible memory, he offered her a comforting smile. With a gentle voice, Beocca brought Thyra back to the present.
"You will take the bed, Thyra. I will sleep on the floor," he suggested softly.
To his surprise, Thyra shook her head, her shyness evident in her response. "Oh no, I don't mind taking the floor," she murmured.
"Nonsense, Thyra," Beocca countered, a warm smile gracing his lips. He couldn't fathom the idea of Uhtred's sister lying on the cold, hard stone floor when a soft, inviting bed awaited her. "I won't hear of it," he insisted firmly, his determination clear.
Overwhelmed by Beocca's thoughtfulness and genuine care, Thyra found it hard to catch her breath. She was deeply touched by his consideration of her well-being. However, a rush of guilt washed over her as she contemplated the idea of him sleeping on the unforgiving, cold floor.
She knew all too well that it would result in back pains and discomfort when he woke, yet he willingly sacrificed his comfort for hers. His empathy and selfless compassion restored her faith in the goodness of men. Not all were like Kjartan and Sven.
Men like Beocca, Ragnar, and Uhtred had the capacity for kindness. At that moment, a spark of hope flickered within Thyra.
Could it be possible that Beocca harbored deeper feelings for her? Might he love her as she believed she could love him?
The thought was both overwhelming and filled with uncertainty, but it ignited a glimmer of longing in her heart.
Could she dare to hope for such a connection with him? In an impulsive act, Thyra disregarded any concerns about appearances or judgment and closed the physical and emotional distance between them. She gently grasped Beocca's hands, bringing them closer together, and in that fleeting moment, she felt an indescribable sense of safety, peace, and tranquility. It was as if time stood still, and everything else faded into insignificance.
Locked in a profound gaze, Thyra's voice escaped her lips in a soft, hushed tone.
"You're not... not like the others, Beocca," she whispered, her shyness palpable, accompanied by a nervous yet endearing sound in the back of her throat. Her eyes brimmed with adoration, a deep affection that Beocca had yearned to witness in a woman's eyes throughout his solitary existence, week after week, year after lonely year. His breath caught in his throat, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. "You're not like the others," Thyra repeated, her voice trembling slightly, her teeth biting down on her lip, betraying her internal turmoil and vulnerability.
The small gesture of holding hands with Uhtred's sister, previously unnoticed by Beocca, overwhelmed him with a sense of wonder. He etched it deeply into his memory, knowing that in the future, during those dark and lonely nights when sleep eluded him, he would draw solace from these precious moments.
Beocca was certain that these memories with Thyra would be a source of strength in the days to come.
A wave of longing washed over him, intensifying his desire to kiss her, to truly experience that connection. The urge was almost overpowering, and he inched closer, his breath caught in his throat, afraid that any disruption might shatter the enchantment that seemed to envelop Thyra.
"You are too kind to me, Thyra, but you flatter me," he murmured, his words accompanied by a soft, nervous chuckle that resembled more of a tremulous sigh. His nerves were evident, betraying his vulnerability in this delicate moment.
Beocca struggled to suppress the emotions that welled up inside him, swallowing hard to quell the lump in his throat. Nervous and self-conscious, he attempted to step back, unable to meet Thyra's gaze. The sudden shift in atmosphere left him unsettled.
To steer the conversation away from their previous intensity, Beocca murmured, his words tinged with a blush, "You're... you're looking tired, Thyra. We should turn in."
His casual statement seemed out of place compared to the weight of their earlier exchange. However, as he began to retreat, Thyra caught his arm and gently turned him around to face her. Her shy smile remained, now deepening with a sense of thoughtfulness that hung in the air. Drawing closer, she closed the physical distance between them.
"We... we should, Beocca, b-but...I...I never...never truly thanked you, for all that you have given me." Thyra hesitated, her voice trailing off. Her gaze lifted tentatively, searching his face with a purpose that Beocca couldn't fathom or even begin to guess. He struggled to find the right words, but Thyra wasn't finished yet. "When I had no place to sleep upon arriving in Winchester, it was you who offered me a spare room in your home, after suggesting it to the king. And tonight, when I went missing and no one in Dunholm noticed or cared, it was you who came to find me. You showed kindness, Beocca, even when it wasn't expected or required, especially to my people. I know that you've never thought of yourself as handsome, but to me, that is what makes you so." She shook her head, a sob threatening to escape her. "But you don't see what I see, Beocca."
The chamber fell into a heavy silence, and for a brief moment, the crackling and popping of the logs in the hearth were the only audible sounds.
Beocca, utterly astonished, gazed at Thyra with his mouth slightly open, rendered speechless and unable to find the right words. Never before in his life had a woman spoken to him in the manner Thyra just had. Not even Hild, may God bless her, who Uhtred often praised as a woman too virtuous for God alone, had uttered such words. Beocca's initial inclination was to dismiss Thyra's words and deny everything, but the look in her eyes cautioned him against it.
Indeed, he couldn't recall ever witnessing such a gaze on Uhtred's sister's countenance. It was a potent blend of sadness, sincerity, and... something else he couldn't quite define. Something that both frightened and captivated him. The intensity of Thyra's stare made him acutely self-aware.
He glanced down at the ground beneath his boots but didn't dare move away from Thyra. He remained rooted in place, too stunned to even consider shifting his position. Whispering his name so gently and with tender affection, Thyra uttered, "Beocca," her voice barely audible, almost lost in a fragile breath.
The mere sound of his name on her lips caused his heart to race, throughout his chest. Afraid that she might hear the thunderous rhythm, he swallowed hard, glancing downward, only to accidentally graze her nose with his own. In that fleeting moment, he caught a glimpse of his disbelief mirrored in Thyra's pale blue eyes.
An inexplicable shift occurred within him, an instinctual impulse that urged him onward. He closed his eyes, yielding to the urge, and pressed his lips against hers. Their mouths melded together perfectly as if they were made to fit.
A sigh escaped him involuntarily, overwhelmed by the harmony they found in each other. Thyra momentarily stiffened, her fingers clutching his priestly robes tightly, then tremblingly splaying across his chest. The sensation that washed over Beocca was unlike anything he had ever felt, so sensuous and profound.
It was as if the world around them had faded away, and they were transported to a place where their trials and tribulations could never reach them.
He could sense Thyra's depth of feeling, but their inexperience left them unsure of what should follow.
Yet, this uncertainty only fueled his desire to prolong the kiss. Every aspect felt real—the delicate sigh escaping Thyra's lips, the warmth of her breath mingling with his own—and it wasn't enough.
Breaking the kiss, he gazed into Thyra's wintry blue eyes, and there, for the first time in the six months he had known her, he witnessed a fervent ember ignite.
Both of them now panting, her skin radiated an intoxicating heat that enticed him to surrender to his deepest urges, to her.
Thyra's hands began to explore the contours of his back, and as she pressed her body against his, he realized that if they didn't stop now, it would inevitably lead to something far more perilous.
Opening his eyes, a fleeting moment of clarity pierced his mind. Thyra's leg, concealed beneath her dress, unknowingly brushed against his awakened desire.
Recognizing the dangerous path they were treading, Beocca took several steps back, holding Thyra at arm's length, forcing her to release her grip. They stood there, lips parted in shock, locked in a silent exchange.
Amidst the tumult of emotions, one resounding thought echoed in the priest's mind—for the first time, he felt truly alive.
It was an indescribable sensation, as sweet as honey, as warm as the sun, and as electrifying as a lightning bolt. The radiance in Beocca's eyes intensified as comprehension slowly dawned upon him. At that very moment, he realized the depth of his love for Thyra.
"Praise Him," he whispered in astonishment, drawing Thyra closer so that his words reached her ears, his fingers gently tucking a stray lock of her autumn-colored hair behind her ear.
Thyra's eyes widened as if she was just starting to comprehend the gravity of what had just occurred.
Sensing her realization, Beocca swiftly released his hold on her, pivoting on his heels, and hastily exited the room before anything more could transpire between them and before Thyra could utter a single word.