Beocca gazed down at the tankard of ale that Uhtred slid across the table, but he made no move to take a sip. Uhtred's piercing frown from across the hall made him second-guess seeking the boy's advice. Beocca couldn't quite grasp what had compelled him to approach Uhtred in the first place. He had already concluded that abandoning Thyra the previous night was a grave sin, deeply wrong and cowardly. Such an act, in his moral code, was utterly unforgivable. So why then did he seek out Uhtred's counsel?
Beocca pondered whether it was because Uhtred had familiarity with asking for forgiveness, given the numerous instances where his stubbornness and arrogance had landed him in trouble with Alfred and others. A sudden bitterness crept into the pit of Beocca's stomach as he entertained this thought.
Beocca winced, his gaze fixated on the depths of his ale-filled tankard as if seeking answers. However, the prolonged silence between him and the boy grew unbearably heavy, urging him to break it. With a voice drained of energy, Beocca finally confessed, his features contorting with the anguish of regret.
"I abandoned her, Uhtred," he admitted, his voice tinged with sorrow. "I... I just... left," he whispered, his face flushed with shame, unable to meet Uhtred's eyes.
"Indeed, Father, you did leave Thyra in the chamber, as you have said," Uhtred affirmed, casting a sorrowful gaze across the table. Beocca detected a hint of regret in Uhtred's piercing, cat-like green eyes, a flicker that unsettled him instantly. "But you have yet to explain why you left my sister alone to her own devices in the room that is yours too," Uhtred muttered softly, his large, bear-like hands curling around his tankard's stein. The crease of confusion between the man's brows deepened as the silence stretched on, intensifying the weight of their unspoken words.
"Why did you leave, Beocca?"
Uhtred's question hung in the air, causing Beocca to hesitate, his mind fraught with worry. He nervously nibbled on the inside of his mouth, contemplating how to respond.
The truth was that he hadn't returned to Thyra for more than just the shame of abandoning her. The sleepless night he had endured, evident from the dark shadows under his eyes and his pale complexion, had made him realize that having Thyra in such proximity was now becoming problematic. Although Beocca previously had harbored no anger towards Uhtred, as it was Uhtred's suggestion for Thyra to travel to Winchester alongside him when she quietly expressed her desire to leave Dunholm permanently, he felt a growing sense of resentment.
Anger mingled with these emotions, something he had never before been burdened with.
Among the numerous problems that had landed in his lap since Alfred's order to exile Uhtred after the king had once again demanded his service at knifepoint, he couldn't fathom why Uhtred's sister had become the most troublesome issue of all.
"I... I haven't returned to her side because, Uhtred, I fear that she won't take the news well. I've decided she should stay here with Ragnar in Dunholm or accompany you," Beocca mumbled, deliberately avoiding Uhtred's gaze as the confession reluctantly escaped his lips.
However, the impact of his words on the boy was far more profound than Beocca had anticipated. Uhtred's reaction to the matter of Thyra's fate unleashed a rage within him that Beocca had never witnessed before.
Just as Beocca finally dared to meet Uhtred's eyes, he watched the color drain from the boy's face, and in a sudden outburst, Uhtred rose to his feet, nearly toppling the bench, and began shouting at him, his face turning crimson.
"Father, this is Alfred's decree to banish Thyra from Winchester, is it not? Surely, it is one of the numerous reasons you have sought me out, Beocca," Uhtred exclaimed, his voice strained, resonating through the hall's rafters.
Beocca winced, fearing that the entire fortress would soon overhear their conversation if Uhtred couldn't regain control of his emotions and compose himself.
"That bastard would stop at nothing to bring ruin upon my family!"
Beocca felt something shift within himself at the slight to Alfred and he knew he could not allow Uhtred to continue on in this way.
"One more word against the king, Uhtred, and I would shove that ale of yours so far down your throat that you'll piss it out seconds later! Be silent and allow me to speak, boy!" Beocca's voice boomed, his lungs filled with an intensity matching his rising anger as his hands slammed down on the table, causing it to tremble. "What on Earth has possessed you, Uhtred? You're behaving like a rabid dog!"
Uhtred's expression revealed a deep sense of hurt, and there was a glimmer of remorse or even embarrassment that seemed to flicker within him.
Reluctantly, he fell silent and resumed his seat, though his irritated glance conveyed a rueful annoyance. He reached for his mug, swiftly downing the remaining ale in a single gulp. With a dark undertone in his voice, he questioned Beocca, his face contorted with a mix of disbelief and incredulity.
"I had no idea Thyra had become such a burden to you, Father. Isn't she content in Winchester with you?" Uhtred's lips pressed together tightly as he stared intently, his glare piercing.
Beocca nodded, his eyes briefly closing as he took a moment to gather himself. With a deep breath released, he compelled himself to continue despite the turmoil within.
"Yes, Uhtred, she is... but... I'm at a loss about what to do with her. Please, do not misconstrue my words; she could never be a burden," Beocca pleaded, his voice tinged with desperation. He locked eyes with the boy, feeling the weight of his desperation mirrored in Uhtred's surprised expression. Beocca struggled to form a coherent response in his mind, overwhelmed by the situation. "I... I kissed her, Uhtred," Beocca confessed quietly, finally breaking the stifling silence that had settled between them like a slow-acting poison. He abruptly turned his head away, aware of the boy's gaze filled with shock and disgust fixed upon him. "I kissed her, Uhtred. It was unintentional, I didn't mean for it to happen... I don't even know how it happened, it just... did."
Beocca could only maintain eye contact with the boy for a fleeting moment before he had to look away once more.
Uhtred's piercing glare from across the table bore into him, filled with sharp disapproval and anger. "Father, did she enjoy it?" Uhtred asked cunningly, his voice now warmer and devoid of the previous hardness. However, Beocca could still sense the caution in Uhtred's tone, understanding his unspoken thoughts without the need for words.
"I'm not sure," Beocca murmured, feeling a burning sensation rise in his neck and the constriction of his priestly robes, as memories of Thyra's passionate kisses and her desperate grasp on his robes flooded his mind. "She must make a choice, Uhtred. Either she goes with you or stays here with Ragnar in Dunholm," he uttered slowly, wincing at the memories. From the corner of his downcast eyes, he could tell that Uhtred had caught every word, as his body tensed and his posture straightened. "I can no longer keep her by my side," Beocca grunted, his impatience seeping through as he tried to make the boy understand. "I don't trust myself, and confessing the truth will only bring harm. She cannot stay. Your sister, Uhtred, is beautiful and pure, while I... I am Beocca, a man old enough to be her much older brother," he growled, raising his gaze to meet Uhtred's eyes. To his horror and fury, Uhtred was smiling.
"Do not be ashamed of what transpires between you and Thyra, Beocca. Thyra won't remain here in Dunholm with Ragnar beyond the snowfall, and she cannot accompany me and my men wherever our next destination may be. That kind of life isn't suitable for my sister. She finds happiness in Winchester with you," Uhtred muttered, nodding in affirmation. Beocca scoffed and shook his head, dismissing Uhtred's words.
"Nonsense," he muttered.
"Beocca!" Uhtred snapped, his voice filled with authority, causing Beocca to look up in surprise. It was rare for the boy to be sharp with him. While Uhtred had been cross and frustrated before, witnessing his anger and vexation was entirely new, leaving Beocca speechless and taken aback.
"Even if Thyra were to reciprocate my feelings, Uhtred, I am beginning to fear that the realm will never accept the Danes who simply want to live their lives in peace."
Uhtred nodded, comprehending the gravity of the situation.
Speaking in a hushed tone, he acknowledged, "The world is changing, Father. Although I cannot predict its exact course, our realm, the one we fought for, could be a place where your union with Thyra brings joy. My sister would not be at a disadvantage as the wife of a respected priest in the king's service, favored by the king himself."
Beocca was taken aback, barely managing to keep from choking on his own words at the mention of "marriage." Confusion enveloped him as he cautiously met Uhtred's gaze.
The intensity of his perplexity must have mirrored the dread in his eyes, prompting Uhtred to affirm his statement with a nod.
"Yes, Father, you heard me correctly. You should marry her, Beocca, and bed her, and give her children so that our family will grow. Our family deserves to flourish."
Beocca was overwhelmed, struggling to catch his breath, rendering him unable to respond to Uhtred's words. The young boy stared at him, anticipating a reaction to his counsel. Uhtred had suggested that he should marry Thyra. But did he genuinely mean it? And what about Thyra herself? Would she even entertain the notion? Beocca dared to entertain a glimmer of hope.
Could it be possible that Thyra might reciprocate his feelings?
Uhtred, however, it appeared, was not yet done. He stood up from his seat and strode around the perimeter of the table, reaching out to grip Beocca's shoulders firmly and giving them a reassuring squeeze.
"Father, it seems you've been waiting for love to strike you like one of Thor's lightning bolts," he murmured, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Beocca let out a disapproving sound at the mention of the Norse god of thunder but Uhtred paid it no mind. "You're growing older, already forty-two and not getting any younger, Father. And you made a promise to stand by my sister." Uhtred's gaze met Beocca's, his expression determined and his jaw clenched.
Beocca hesitated, feeling a tremor in his voice as he asked the question that had been haunting him, unsure if he truly wanted an honest answer. But it was too late to retract his words now.
"How... how am I supposed to ask her for forgiveness, Uhtred?" he whispered, a sudden desire for the ground to open up beneath the table and swallow him whole. He felt he deserved to dig his own grave and bury himself alive for his foolishness, for how he had treated Thyra. "Oh, dear Lord, Uhtred, dear God, she must despise me," Beocca moaned remorsefully, his hand running over his head and down his face, his fingers hovering over his beard as he sought Uhtred's guidance. "How on earth will I make her listen?"
Uhtred simply raised an eyebrow, shrugged his shoulders, and began to walk away. Though he didn't utter a word, his message was clear.
Try.
Beocca awoke, his mind still filled with the vivid memories of his conversation with Uhtred earlier that morning. He had sought the boy's advice on the matter of Thyra and the shameful way he had left her the previous night. His feet led him instinctively towards the kitchens, not expecting to find Thyra there alongside the delightful wife of Earl Haesten. But now that he had requested to speak with her, there was no retracting his words.
Beocca's heart thudded loudly in his chest as he led the way to an isolated chamber on the second floor of Dunholm. He had requested a private conversation with Thyra, and she had agreed to join him, albeit without speaking of her anger. But Beocca believed he understood Thyra well enough to sense her emotions. It was evident that Thyra was upset. Though she hadn't voiced her anger, her eyes revealed a tumultuous mix of hurt and betrayal.
Beocca silently prayed for strength to guide him through this difficult conversation. He knew it wouldn't be easy or pleasant.
As Beocca and Thyra stepped into the chamber, a comforting embrace of warmth enveloped them, reminiscent of a cozy blanket on a chilly evening. The air carried the inviting aroma of spiced warmth, akin to the reunion with a dear, long-lost friend. In this chamber, the play of light and shadows danced along the bricked walls, courtesy of torch fires and a roaring hearth. Their radiance and heat spread throughout the room, casting a captivating ambiance. A bear pelt rug adorned the floor before the crackling fire, while a table, haphazardly pushed against the wall, held a five-pronged candle holder already flickering with gentle flames.
Beocca's internal turmoil intensified as he felt compelled to approach the fireplace. He found himself unable to meet Uhtred's sister's gaze, a sudden surge of shame washing over him. He could sense the piercing intensity of the Dane's bright and wintry blue eyes, burning into the back of his skull, urging him to avert his gaze deliberately.
Beocca lowered his eyes to his boots, his thoughts in disarray. The extensive conversation with Uhtred earlier that morning about the events of the previous night left him pondering for hours on what he would say when he inevitably faced his sister again. He had meticulously crafted his words in his mind, ready for the moment to speak with her. However, as soon as Beocca felt Thyra's penetrating gaze, his tongue turned into a useless lump of wet, heavy clay, leaving him unable to utter a single word.
He wished he could fix his gaze on the dancing flames in the hearth indefinitely, avoiding the need to look at Uhtred's sister. However, with a sense of remorse, he turned slowly and faced her. As he uttered her name, Beocca's heart raced, his voice breathless and his chest constricted. Thyra delicately moved away from the door, closing it behind her, and approached him. The edges of her skirt fluttered slightly as she drew nearer. Beocca mustered his courage and began to speak.
Beocca's gaze remained fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth as he uttered Thyra's name, but to his surprise, his palms began to tremble and grow damp, a sensation he had not anticipated. He silently pleaded to God, hoping that Thyra would accept what he was about to offer her.
However, as he pondered this, Beocca realized that Thyra hadn't uttered a single word in response to her name being called. The only sounds filling the chamber were the crackling logs in the fire and the thunderous pounding of his own heart against his chest.
"Thyra, did you hear me?" Beocca stammered, his confusion causing him to lift his gaze and finally summon the courage to look at her. Yet, before he could fully comprehend the situation, Thyra interrupted him.
"Why did you do it, Beocca?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, laced with a hushed tone that pierced through Beocca like shards of glass.
The pain inflicted upon him was swift, catching him off guard. Throughout the six months Thyra had lived under his roof in Winchester and the subsequent weeks of their journey to Dunholm, he had never heard Uhtred's sister sound quite like this. It alarmed him deeply.
"What?" Beocca's voice trailed off slowly as realization dawned upon him. With Thyra offering no response, he compelled himself to raise his gaze and meet her eyes. Any traces of his previous nervousness vanished, replaced instead by astonishment.
To his surprise, Thyra wasn't upset.
"Does it really need saying, Beocca, truly?" Thyra demanded, her voice clipped and perhaps unintentionally harsh. He observed her flinch the moment the words escaped her lips, a sign that she was uncomfortable with her tone. However, she continued to glare at him, her intense blue eyes fixed upon him, unwavering.
Her eyes glistened with redness and were filled with a mix of fury, confusion, and hurt, creating a tumultuous battle of emotions on her face.
Witnessing this, Beocca's breath caught in his throat, and he quickly averted his gaze, struggling to hold back his tears. He fought against the salty liquid, forcefully blinking them away, determined not to let Thyra see the extent of her impact on him, even in this agonizing moment.
Beocca's expression fell as he witnessed Thyra's scowl and the nervous wringing of her hands.
Normally, her endearing yet peculiar behavior would have elicited a smile from him, but in her current state of distress, he couldn't even muster a feigned one. The way Thyra stared at him was unfamiliar, filled with anger. Beocca took a step forward, intending to soothe her, but it took him a moment or two to find his voice.
"Thyra, I... we... we were confused," he blurted out, his words stumbling. He wiped his sweaty palms on the front of his priest's robes, battling the dryness in his throat. Panic surged within him as Beocca realized he should have rehearsed what to say, a token of peace, convincing words that would bring her comfort—anything but this.
The moment the words escaped his lips, Beocca grimaced, fully aware of the damage they caused. Thyra retreated, taking two steps back, vigorously shaking her head as if trying to rid herself of his words. He knew he had only worsened the situation, and though he desperately wished to retract his statement, it was too late.
"Please, Beocca, have the decency to be honest with me," she pleaded, her voice growing dangerously low and quiet.
Thyra took a few steps forward, regaining her composure. As she looked up at him, he could discern the pain in her shimmering blue eyes and the pressure building behind them, hinting at the imminent arrival of tears. A bitter pang penetrated his stomach—a pain he had inflicted upon her.
"Thyra," Beocca whispered, wincing at the sound of his defeated tone, though, at that moment, he couldn't muster the energy to care. "I do care for you, truly. God, Thyra, if only you could comprehend the torment you've caused me these past weeks. I kissed you because... because I couldn't hold back any longer," Beocca confessed, his voice hollow and devoid of emotion. Unable to meet Thyra's gaze, he slowly lifted his head, tearing his eyes away from the flickering fire in the hearth. "From the very beginning, I desired you," he admitted, turning away. Stepping in front of Thyra, he forced her to face him, her face partially obscured by darkness near the chamber's window. "Since then, I've been able to think of little else but you, Thyra, I cannot work, I cannot sleep or even eat, it hurts to breathe when I am near you. I can no longer pray, and even when I do pray, it is only for myself which is wrong. Sinful, even," Beocca continued, surprised by the bitterness in his voice. "You haunt my dreams, invading my mind and soul." Thyra remained silent, though he could see the effort in her parted lips as if she wanted to speak but no words escaped. He had stunned her into silence. "Is that what you want to hear, Thyra?" Beocca demanded hoarsely, his voice rough and ragged as he dared to draw closer. "That you are now both my torment and my salvation, though you have no reason to be?"
"No reason to be...?" Thyra's voice was hushed, barely a whisper, devoid of anger. Her blue eyes lost their fury, and had now taken on a glossy, distant look.
Beocca blinked, realizing quickly how he must have sounded. Beocca hesitated, his hand reaching out towards Thyra's shoulder in an attempt to console her. But as he did, Thyra swiftly stepped away, her face drained of color, and a spark ignited in her blue eyes.
Beocca glimpsed a flicker of comprehension on her features, yet Thyra refused to let herself believe it, left with no choice but to confront the truth.
"You no longer want me by your side," Thyra whispered, her voice laced with shame, as she nodded with a conviction that belied her uncertainty. She avoided looking at Beocca. "Because you believe I had no right to become so close to you. Because I am a Dane. I have crossed boundaries, overstepped my place, even after adopting your faith, Beocca," she spoke, her words tinged with sorrow.
Beocca's eyes widened in utter shock and disbelief, sensing the resignation in Uhtred's sister's voice. She turned her gaze towards the window, and at that moment, Beocca realized the gravity of his mistake, but it was too late to retract his words.
"No, Thyra," Beocca blurted out, his words bursting forth without forethought. "No, Thyra, you misunderstand me. There are those in Winchester who would never accept you—or us—and I cannot bear to see you live such a life. Some would never see you as anything but a heathen pagan, an evil soulless creature deserving of nothing but death." He saw her flinch at his words. He breathed out a steadying breath and continued, trying to make Thyra's sister understand why it had to be this way. "It would be better for you to go with Uhtred and his men when they depart from this place, or even to stay here in Dunholm with your brother Ragnar, Thyra."
"No, Beocca, I think I understand. There is no need for explanations. I see and understand enough," Thyra replied curtly, her voice tense. She raised her gaze, staring at him as if awakened from a prolonged slumber as if she had been living in a fantasy. The profound intensity and desolation etched onto Thyra's face tore through Beocca's heart. "I am a burden to you, Beocca, aren't I?" she whispered, tears welling up in her blue eyes and cascading down her cheeks.
Acting on impulse, Beocca lunged forward and grasped Thyra's shoulders, disregarding any concern for appearances. He didn't want to resort to such force with Uhtred's delicate sister, but Thyra left him with little choice as she twisted his words.
As he gently swiveled her to face him, he could discern the shimmering tears in her eyes, tracing delicate paths down her cheeks.
"No, Thyra, you are not a burden and could never be, but Thyra, you misunderstand me," he began hesitantly, his voice a blend of softness and desperation.
Startled by his own emotions, his eyes widened in response. Desperation. Never in his life, not even during his vulnerable days as a boy at the mercy of a slave master, had he sounded so desperate.
"I-I care deeply for you, more than you could fathom," he continued, his words quivering. "You—you deserve more than an old man, Thyra. You deserve someone younger, someone whole," he attempted to explain, but Thyra interjected.
"You would say anything to keep me away from you, Beocca," Thyra retorted, her breath coming in short gasps as Beocca maintained his grip on her shoulders, preventing her from escaping. Her voice had turned frigid and empty, leaving Beocca puzzled by the depth of her distress.
He questioned whether Thyra had truly grown accustomed to her quiet life in Winchester, within the confines of his home.
But then a curious thought struck him: Why? Why would she want to stay?
"Why would you even want to remain in Winchester with me, Thyra?" he inquired, a trace of a smile playing on his lips as she averted her gaze, her tears trickling onto his hand as he shifted his grip, gently cupping her chin. He left her with no choice but to meet his eyes. What secret lay behind Thyra's tears?
Beocca shook his head, contemplating these thoughts, and voiced his musings as they surfaced.
"What possible reason could you have for wanting to return to Winchester with me once our task here is completed, Thyra?" he repeated his question when she did not reply. "There are those who would never accept you as a devout Christian, and I must believe that there is a better life awaiting you, one that I could never provide for you, Thyra..."
Expecting an immediate response from Thyra, Beocca was surprised to witness her flinch, as if she had only just come to terms with something herself.
She cast him a guilt-ridden, furtive glance, although only God Himself knew the reason behind it. As Thyra finally locked eyes with him, a mixture of clarity and profound confusion flickered in her gaze. Her piercing stare traversed his face, much like he had scrutinized her on numerous occasions throughout the past six months.
It seemed that she no longer cared about his awareness of those wintry blue eyes fixed upon him, silently passing judgment and branding him.
And why shouldn't she? Beocca bitterly ruminated, feeling a surge of bitterness rise in his throat, which he compelled himself to swallow.
He had contemplated it, that much was true. In moments of self-deprecating humor, he had entertained the thought that perhaps there was a chance she could harbor feelings for him. Oh, how selfishly he had prayed for a woman to regard him with the same intensity Thyra displayed now.
But... if the extent of her feelings was truly as evident as he perceived in her eyes, it signified a revelation that had just dawned upon her, akin to the lifting of a witch's curse.
Thyra began timidly, her voice trailing off as Beocca released his grip on her chin, his hand falling limply to his side.
"Last night, when we... when you kissed me, I..." She hesitated, letting out a shuddering breath, and lifted her gaze to meet his.
Beocca could only stare at Thyra, incredulous, as he took a few steps back, creating distance between them. Thyra appeared terrified, fearful of his reaction to her confession, but despite that, she stepped forward, determined not to allow any semblance of separation between them.
"I... I don't want to deny my feelings any longer, Beocca," she whispered, her voice resolute yet teetering on the edge.
Beocca could hardly believe that he had been the catalyst for Thyra's current state. He had placed her in this vulnerable position due to his foolishness. Why hadn't he admired Uhtred and Ragnar's sister from a distance? When she returned to Winchester with him, he should have insisted on placing her under Hild's care in the nunnery.
Beocca shook his head, turning away from Thyra, dismissing her words, though he was both elated and terrified. Elated because the woman of his dreams professed her love for him, uttering the words he had always longed to hear from a beautiful woman. Terrified of what their union could mean for her once they returned.
He had witnessed the distrustful glances some of the people in Winchester cast her way when she wasn't looking.
"Thyra, you are mistaken," he muttered, a fleeting shadow crossing his weary and weathered face as he stared intently into the crackling logs of the fireplace, yearning to rewind time and insist that Thyra remain in the safety of the nunnery.
"I may be confused, but you are not, Beocca?" she retorted, frustration bubbling to the surface once more. "I am not a child, Beocca, who doesn't understand her own emotions. Please, do not belittle me in this manner! It is clear to me that you simply refuse to confront the fact that something is happening between us, something you cannot even begin to contemplate due to my history and where I come from! You are ashamed," she exhaled, her voice now as hardened as her words. "You are ashamed of me, Beocca. That is the crux of this matter, even if you refuse to acknowledge it," Thyra mumbled.
Beocca's eyes widened, and he took a step towards Thyra. His body moved instinctively as he raised his hands and gently cupped her face, despite the anger now evident in Thyra's wintry blue eyes. Surprisingly, she didn't pull away.
"Why would you say that?" he growled, his tone almost angry with Thyra. However, he paused, closed his eyes wearily, and tried to calm his temper before speaking to her. He didn't want to yell at her if he could avoid it. "I am not ashamed of you, Thyra. But if I were to... if I were to marry you, to make you mine, then I fear that my protection alone wouldn't be enough for you. I've seen the way some of the villagers look at you, both in Winchester and throughout Wessex. Some will never see you as anything other than a Dane."
Thyra's eyes widened in surprise at his words, shimmering with shock at the mention of marriage. She hadn't expected him to think that far ahead, but he had, dear Lord, he had. Many times. Beocca let his gaze linger on the details of Thyra's face—the curve of her lips and that single strand of autumn hair that always fell delicately on her forehead.
Suddenly, an overwhelming desire to kiss her consumed him. How he longed for the touch of her lips once more. But now was not the time, if there ever would be one. He almost laughed at the irony. As if he hadn't desired it all along, throughout their entire acquaintance, now that he understood the depths of his feelings for Uhtred and Ragnar's enchanting sister.
"I cannot do that to you, Thyra," he continued, his voice filled with anguish. "You deserve someone better than me. I can't... even if you despise me for it."
Thyra appeared on the verge of protesting, but then she closed her mouth, reconsidering her words. She must have realized, perhaps reluctantly, that Beocca had good reasons for his actions, even if he didn't want to be right.
Beocca struggled internally to release his grip on her, this ethereal being who had captured his heart without him even realizing it. Eventually, he let go, his hands dropping to his sides. A sense of foreboding and inevitability hung in the air between them as Beocca prepared himself to turn away, but Thyra spoke, freezing him in his tracks.
"Beocca, you don't understand," Thyra's voice seemed to emerge from nowhere. When Beocca looked back at her, he saw that her tears had finally ceased, and she appeared almost as she had when they entered the room.
She had fully embraced her Danish identity now, all traces of softness gone, replaced by hardened eyes and a piercing glare.
"You don't understand at all, Beocca. Do you want us to remain strangers once more? Will our time together be reduced to a mere memory?" Thyra began to say, but Beocca's frustration boiled within him, and he abruptly interrupted her, his demeanor filled with anger.
"Thyra, can't you understand that I'm doing this to protect you? I'm in love with you!" Beocca's words drowned out Thyra's, his hoarse voice reverberating against the chamber's stone walls. He moved to hold her by the shoulders, his face aflame.
Initially mistaken for rage, it became clear to Thyra that Beocca's expression was one of pain and fury, deeply rooted within him. Her eyes widened as she gazed at Beocca with an unfamiliar look.
It wasn't the lustful expression he had seen on many women's faces when they looked at Uhtred. Thyra's gaze held a serious intensity as if they shared the same mind and world.
Whether Beocca liked it or not, he had become a part of her, just as Thyra had become a part of him since their first kiss the previous night.
It was unsettling, but Beocca couldn't bring himself to look away. Instinctively, he reached for Thyra's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, relieved when she made no move to pull away.
"Some believe I would crush your dreams, Thyra. They think I've forced you to become a Christian woman," Beocca muttered darkly, a shadow crossing his face as he recalled his conversation with Ragnar. "Ragnar seems to think so."
"Ragnar is foolish and doesn't know what he's saying, Beocca. I will speak with him. You could never crush my dreams. Any dreams I have, I've made them in your home in Winchester, with you. They are dreams I want to fulfill together with you," Thyra whispered shyly, a timid smile gracing her face and a faint blush appearing on her cheeks. She raised her gaze to meet his, and for the first time, Beocca detected warmth in her wintry blue eyes as they locked onto his foreboding expression. "Especially when I know the depth of kindness and understanding that resides within you."
To emphasize her point, Thyra let her other hand, the one not held by Beocca, rest against his heart. She could feel the powerful and erratic beating of the Saxon priest's heart beneath his thick woolen robes. Despite the barrier, she sensed the heat radiating from Beocca, and without overthinking, driven by her genuine feelings, she hastily rose on her tiptoes and kissed the corner of his mouth. She aimed to be more direct, but she landed slightly to the left.
Thyra's body trembled, but she fought to remain calm, standing her ground. She lingered there, planting another soft kiss in the same spot before pulling back, her face flushed as she shyly stared down at her boots.
"Forgive me, Beocca. I-I don't know what I was thinking," she stammered, her tongue now rendered useless in her mouth as her mouth, already dry, went dryer still, but before she could say more before she could turn and flee the room in embarrassment, her voice was silenced, and something warm and rough pressed against her lips.
Thyra resisted the urge to respond with equal intensity, understanding that such a thing might be overwhelming at the moment. For now, it was enough to relax and stay still. Breathing slowly through her nose, she took a deep breath and gently reciprocated the pressure, realizing that Beocca was kissing her and she was kissing him back.
He was surrendering himself to her, and she felt a jolt of joy. Beocca seemed slightly startled by the kiss, and for a moment, Thyra feared he had changed his mind. However, when she carefully attempted to pull away, his other hand came up, gently cupping the back of her head and slowing her movement.
"It's alright," Beocca murmured, breaking the kiss and pulling back slightly so she could see his face. She was relieved to see that he appeared as flushed and red-cheeked as she felt. He seemed nervous too, which brought her comfort, knowing she wasn't alone in these new and breathtaking emotions. Beocca awkwardly folded his hands in front of himself, looking rather sheepish. "I... I..." He trailed off, his gaze suddenly fixated on the window, his words failing him.
It was then that Beocca's gaze lingered upon an odd sight as he found his sight drawn towards the outside world through the window. Snow was coming down, though that was not what had his attention transfixed. An eerie screech worse than a banshee's scream hooked his attention outside and he rushed to the window, Thyra at his heels. A figure shrouded in black furs and rags was standing on the frozen-over lake behind Dunholm, shouting something, though what it was, Beocca could not decipher.
His hands were shaking as he unlatched the sill and a gust of cold wind and weeny snowflakes began to trickle into the room. He felt Thyra nudge beside him, her cheeks still pink from their kiss and emotions still hung between them and were left unspoken, but for the moment, their attention was drawn to the figure standing on top of the frozen lake's surface. It was then that the figure called Thyra's name, Thyra's name ringing with crystal clear clarity that made the blood drain from Beocca's face.
Turning questioning eyes towards Thyra, his heart was suddenly in his throat to find that Thyra had gone as pale as a ghost and she took a staggering step back away from the window, shaking her head to herself in disbelief, a hand clamped over her mouth in shock and fresh tears of disbelief were now trailing down her ashen cheeks.
"Thyra?" Beocca's voice trembled with the hope of providing some comfort to the woman he had come to love desperately and helplessly. But, for the first time in six months, he found himself at a loss for words, unable to ease her distress. "Who is it? You know that person?" he whispered hoarsely, his heart constricting to an almost unbearable degree. The fact that the figure standing on the frozen lake, risking his safety, evoked such a reaction from Thyra that unsettled him.
He couldn't bear to witness Thyra's distress and worry. Beocca began to speak again, but his words were cut off when Thyra responded, her shy voice was now filled with shock, barely audible above a whisper.
"Yes, I do. The person on the ice is... Torsten, Beocca," Thyra's voice quivered so softly that Beocca strained to hear her words. "He's my... half-brother, born of my father and a woman from a raid. Mother couldn't bear to look at him, so she sent him away to live with another family in a neighboring village. They raised him as their own." Her disbelief permeated the air as she shook her head, refusing to accept it. "It shouldn't be possible. I... I thought he had perished when Kjartan and Sven's men razed everything to the ground..."
Thyra attempted to continue speaking, but her throat constricted, rendering her speechless. She desperately moved her lips, seeking words of denial, hoping to find any evidence that the person standing in the middle of Dunholm's frozen lake was merely a ghost, a figment of her imagination, a haunting apparition from her troubled past in this nightmarish place. However, as she opened her eyes and cast her gaze upon the figure on the ice once more, her heart sank.
The shock of red hair, inherited from their father, confirmed the undeniable truth.
Torsten was alive. All of this was painfully real.
Beocca stood there, his gaze fixed on Thyra, as a surge of emotions coursed through him. The apprehension and slight anger he felt towards the boy on the ice melted away, replaced by a pang of profound sadness. His heart lurched painfully, realizing the depth of Thyra's reaction to seeing her half-brother. Beocca felt his heart lodge in his throat as he witnessed Thyra's vision blur and a tight grip constricting her chest, robbing her of breath. In a matter of seconds, tears streamed down her face, and she began to breathe in shallow, distressed gasps. Without hesitation, Thyra turned on her heels and fled from the room, vanishing so swiftly that she appeared as a blur.
Beocca stood there, defeated, unable to call out to her. But unbeknownst to him, even as he began to follow her, Thyra dared not look back. She ran with the desperation of instinct, her feet moving by sheer muscle memory through the dimly lit corridors and down winding staircases.
Her destination was the servants' hall doors at the back, leading her towards the lake where Torsten stood.
As she ran, the only thought now running through her mind was that her world had ceased to make sense less than ten minutes ago.