Thyra had swiftly fled the chamber, leaving Beocca shocked and immobilized. The reality of the situation hit him hard, stealing the breath from his lungs. Anger surged within him, freezing his face as he stomped towards the door in pursuit of her. Emerging into the hall, Beocca bounded down the wide passage, desperately searching for Thyra.
Despite being only a few seconds behind her, she had vanished by the time he reached the room where they had spoken privately. His mind raced, grappling with the perplexing question of how Ragnar's half-brother could be alive and how he had managed to enter Dunholm unnoticed, given his distinctive features. Yet, how the boy could still be alive held no bearing for Beocca now.
Now was what troubled him. He knew Thyra was nearby, suffering and in pain, but he couldn't locate her.
Turning down yet another grand hallway, devoid of any sign of her, Beocca quickened his frantic pace. Under his breath, he muttered curses and begged God His forgiveness for daring to utter them in the first place, secretly blaming the boy for choosing the worst moment to reveal himself.
The boy's name had never before sounded like a curse, but what intensified the agony was the way Thyra uttered her half-brother's name. Her anguished whisper seeped into Beocca's veins, igniting a fiery rage that clenched his trembling fists, threatening to strike out at the walls.
Having exhausted all possible places to search, he stood in a state of frenzied agitation, craning his neck in desperation. His eyes darted frantically, desperate for a glimpse of Thyra or any sign that would guide him towards the servants' wings, the rear of the fortress grounds, and the lakeside where the boy awaited. Beocca understood that wherever her half-brother lingered, Thyra would follow. He forced himself to suppress the bile in his throat, determined to press on.
But after nearly ten minutes of relentless searching, Beocca found himself lost and growing increasingly frustrated. Every door he opened seemed to lead to yet another hallway, followed by another room. At the height of his exasperation, he encountered a locked door.
Tugging on the handle with desperation, he hoped it would grant him access to the servants' wing of the castle, suspecting that Thyra might have inadvertently jammed it behind her. However, just as his frustration peaked, a voice from behind caused him to freeze in his tracks.
"That is the door to the dungeons, Father Beocca."
Startled by the sudden sound of a voice behind him and to his right, Beocca felt a rush of alarm surge through his body. His clenched fist loosened, releasing the door that led to Thyra's former cell, as their hand instinctively gripped their chest.
Within his calloused fingers, the soft fabric of his priest's robes became entangled.
Throughout most of his life, Beocca had been prone to easily getting startled, especially after enduring slavery. But recently, with Thyra's presence in his life, Beocca recognized that his jumpiness seemed to have intensified.
As his racing heart gradually calmed down, he took a deep, shaky breath, allowing his heavy hand to rest on his heaving chest.
Slowly turning on his heels, he faced the person who had called out to him. Beocca inhaled deeply, steeling himself for what he had to say.
The storm outside raged on, the wind howling through the cracks in the stone walls of the fortress.
He needed to find Thyra, who he knew, without a shadow of a doubt in his heart, had disappeared in the chaos to find Torsten. But first, he had to locate the entrance to the servants' quarters.
Looking up, Beocca saw Ingrid standing before him, her face etched with concern. She held a torch in her hands, its flickering light casting eerie shadows on the corridor walls.
To his surprise, Haestan had his hand resting possessively on her shoulder. Haestan's eyes widened inquisitively as he observed Beocca attempting to enter the dungeons.
A mischievous smile played on Haestan's lips, carrying a lecherous undertone that made Beocca uneasy.
For a moment, the priest almost mistook the Dane's expression for a friendly gesture, but something was unsettling about the way Haestan's gaze shifted from his wife to Beocca. His teeth, somewhat yellowed but neatly aligned, glimmered in the torchlight.
Beocca felt a pang of guilt as he remembered that he owed the young hearth keeper an answer. He quickly flicked his gaze towards Ingrid, hoping for her assistance. With his head still inclined and fingers clasped together, he spoke quietly, his voice filled with urgency.
"Forgive me, my lady," Beocca began, his tone apologetic. "I-I got lost. Thyra, Ingrid, I believe she came down this corridor. Have you seen her? It is a matter of utmost urgency that I find her." Beocca parted his lips to speak further, though before he could continue, Haesten cut in.
"Is that so, eh, Father? What's so urgent that you need to see the woman? Looking to ride Ragnar's beauty of a sister, hmm? I had heard the rumors that Ragnar and Uhtred's pretty dove of a sister had gone off her wits, but I did not want to believe it, though if she has taken an interest in an old man like you, then the rumors of her losing her mind must be true. I had heard Thyra Ragnarsdottir has a very…strange taste in men, Father, very strange indeed, but to take an interest in you, Beocca…I was not aware Lord Ragnar's sister liked old men." His hips moved upward slightly in suggestion. "The righteous priest with a taste for madwomen! What would your God say about that? You, a saintly priest, a savior of madwomen! How noble of you, Beocca, to risk your life for a woman whose sanity had long abandoned her," Haesten mocked, his face contorting into a vicious sneer.
Beocca felt his face flush red in outrage for the bastard's remarks against Thyra and embarrassment for Ingrid that she had to listen to such nonsense. He colored and flicked his gaze towards Ingrid, whose expression was now blank, but her jaw was steel.
"Haestan, one more word, and I'd cut off your balls. You should not speak to the father in that way, my love, he does not deserve what you say."
The words seemed to let fly from the young hearth keep's mouth before she could stop them. Both Ingrid and Beocca flinched, and Ingrid's hands began to nervously flutter at her sides as they heard Haesten let out a low feral growl.
But her playful turn of a phrase left Haesten nearly unhinged. His eyes were hot and dark now, full of fire that sparked in the dim flickering light of the lit torch she held in her hands.
"Don't play games with me, Ingrid," Haesten warned. "You can't win."
If it was at all possible, Ingrid's face flushed an even deeper shade of red than Beocca's face now was, though he watched in silent astonishment as she drew herself up to her full height, but even, the petite hearth keep's stature was still quite small, the height difference between her and her husband was nearly laughable, as she barely came up Haestan's broad chest.
"Haesten, I don't need anything but what I already have to win you, husband," she retorted hotly. "My body wins you. That is more than enough."
Beocca had reached his limit with the heated exchange between Haestan and his wife.
He knew that the longer they remained in that corridor, Thyra was willingly subjecting herself to danger by venturing outside Dunholm's protective walls and into the harsh blizzard of the North, all for the sake of her brother.
"Lady!" he exclaimed peevishly, taken aback by the uncharacteristic language coming from the kind-hearted and gentle Ingrid. Bitterness welled up inside Beocca as he began to grasp that it was Thyra's quick wit and sharp tongue that had likely attracted Haestan to the vulnerable girl.
However, he pushed aside his resentment and redirected his anger towards Haestan, unwilling to scold Ingrid after her earlier kindness towards Thyra.
"For God's sake, Haestan! Your tongue must be split in the middle so it can wag at both ends!" Beocca snapped, unable to contain his wrath any longer. His voice trembled with a mixture of anger and concern. "How dare you speak to your wife in such a vulgar manner, and how dare you talk about Uhtred's sister with such disgust and disrespect?" He felt a vein twitch in his brow and all the blood rush to his cheeks as his temper swelled. "Most of Ragnar's men, from what I've observed here, are good and honorable men, but you will never be counted among them. Your crude words only reveal the darkness that resides within you!"
A smirk played across Haestan's face, a glimmer of something resembling newfound respect for Beocca flickering in his eyes. It was faint and feeble, like a candle flame, but it was there, giving Beocca a glimmer of hope. Haesten's smirk widened, a glimmer of something akin to a newfound respect for Beocca sparking in his eyes. It was dim and faint, like a candle flame, but there, nonetheless, and Beocca had some hope.
"You may be a foolish man, Father Beocca, but you are a man of conviction. I can respect that, even if I find your devotion to your God and to Alfred misguided. But...I can see it in your eyes, priest. You do not lie to me, or to Ingrid. You do care for Ragnar's sister, truly. I can see it. Go then, Father Beocca. Carry on with your pious pursuits and your noble causes of saving madwomen, as a family man, who I am to stand in the way of love?" Haesten mocked. "But remember, the world can be a cruel place, and your unwavering devotion may be your downfall, and Thyra's, as well."
Ingrid, still standing beside Haesten, remained silent, but her eyes blazed with a fiery determination. Beocca could tell that though Thyra had only been within Dunholm's walls a precious day at best, already, she was leaving an impression on Haestan's wife, and Beocca suspected that when the time came for them to leave Dunholm, the two women would be good friends. He could only hope for that.
Beocca could see her resolve to harden in the face of Haesten's offensive remarks. Beocca took a deep breath, regaining his composure. He turned his attention back to Haesten, his voice firm, and commanding.
"I have no interest in indulging in baseless rumors or engaging in petty insults. My concern lies solely with finding Thyra, as she may be in grave danger." The corridor fell into an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sound of distant footsteps echoing through the stone walls. Beocca's gaze shifted from Haesten to Ingrid, his eyes filled with genuine empathy. "My lady, I, uh, apologize for the disrespectful comments that have been thrown your way. Please know that I hold you in the highest regard for being so kind to Thyra and keeping her company earlier and I am here to ensure Thyra's safety, and yours too, if I can."
Ingrid's expression softened, her previously steely demeanor giving way to a glimmer of gratitude. She spoke with a measured tone, her voice steady despite the turmoil within.
"Thank you, Father Beocca, for your concern, but I will be just fine," she muttered, a hint of steel in her voice. "It is Thyra I worry for. We must find her!"
Beocca nodded in agreement, his determination unwavering. Beocca's heart raced, his worry for Thyra consuming him. He nodded at Ingrid's words, appreciating her understanding and support. The urgency in his voice remained as he addressed Ingrid, his tone pleading.
"Thank you, Ingrid," Beocca said, his voice filled with a mix of desperation and determination. "She's gone outside, determined to prevent someone close to her from making a grave mistake. And I'm not even sure if I'm on the right path. These damned hallways, they're like a maze if you don't know where to go, my lady. I-I need to find her before anything else could happen to her. If something happens to her because I am too late, I-I'd never forgive myself!"
Ingrid's worry deepened as she absorbed Beocca's words. She could see the fear etched on the priest's rugged face, and her heart ached for him and Thyra. Ingrid's voice trembled with concern as she sought more information.
"In this storm?" Ingrid exclaimed, her voice filled with alarm. "Oh, gods, we must find her immediately. Please, Father, tell me what has happened! Who is she trying to save?"
Beocca's gaze flickered between Ingrid and Haestan, sensing the tension in the air. He took a moment to gather himself, knowing that his response carried weight. With a steady voice, he addressed Ingrid's question.
"Thyra's half-brother Torsten is outside, he—he called to her, we—we thought he was dead, lady, I-I don't know how in God's name it's possible but I must find her before either one of them does anything foolish," Beocca explained, his voice tinged with a mix of sorrow and determination.
Ingrid's brows furrowed with worry as she glanced back and forth between her husband and Beocca.
She realized the gravity of the situation and the urgency of finding Thyra. Her concern deepened as she considered the perils that awaited outside the castle walls, unaware of the looming threat of Torsten. While Ingrid's worry grew, Haestan's amusement seemed to persist.
His eyes still sparkled with mischief, seemingly unaffected by the seriousness of the situation. But Ingrid had reached her limit.
She was not one to back down, especially when it came to matters of importance and respect.
"Haestan, please, not now," Ingrid interjected firmly, her voice tinged with both concern and anger. "We must find her, and you are going to help both of us look. We must let Ragnar and the others know what's going on. Haestan, you will come with me to the hall, I saw Ragnar there with Brida and Uhtred's man Clapa, and you, Father, go down the south tower steps, it will take you to the servant's wing, there is a door at the end of the corridor that leads out the back."
The forcefulness of Ingrid's words took Haestan by surprise. He raised an eyebrow, momentarily taken aback by his wife's assertiveness. He had not anticipated such a strong reaction from her in defense of Beocca. Haestan's amusement shifted to annoyance, his irritation evident in his eyes though he grunted, not one to refuse his wife.
"God bless you, Lady, for your kindness," Beocca whispered, bowing his head with deep respect towards the young guardian of the hearth, who flushed but silently nodded.
Beocca tore his gaze away from Haesten's wife to look towards the man himself to gauge his reaction. His face flushed with irritation as he glanced at her husband, only to find the Dane sneering at him.
Haesten responded with a piercing glare but wisely chose to remain silent. He swiftly pivoted on his heels, keeping a firm grip on Ingrid's shoulder, and guided his wife down the corridor without another word, leaving Beocca alone in the corridor, watching them go.
Beocca maintained his gaze on Haesten and Ingrid until the pair disappeared around the bend, no longer within his line of sight.
Only then did he continue his search for Thyra, a sneer of disdain forming on his face. With determination, he made his way towards the winding stone steps that Ingrid had previously mentioned, fervently praying that Thyra had not ventured out into the raging storm just yet. Every step sent waves of pain through his body, his heart pounding relentlessly in his chest as he descended the stairs. His mouth felt parched, and he desperately licked his lips in an attempt to moisten them, to no avail.
The urgency to find Thyra consumed him, every second feeling like an eternity.
Rounding the corner, his face froze in shock as his gaze fell upon Thyra, standing before the door. She stared at it, knowing she wanted to open it, yet she appeared paralyzed by a profound sense of shock. Her trembling shoulders betrayed her anguish, and he didn't even need to meet her eyes to understand that Thyra was engulfed in tears.
God, but would there ever be a moment in her life when Uhtred's sister wouldn't weep? Her fiery red hair cascaded over her shoulders, but it couldn't conceal the heart-wrenching sound of her sobs. Beocca's deepest desire was to embrace Thyra tightly, refusing to ever let go.
With each passing moment, he became painfully aware that the instant they stepped foot into Thyra's former sanctuary, and his castle of torment, she seemed to possess an uncanny ability to attract trouble. It loomed in the shadows, relentlessly pursuing her at every turn. However, he mustered the strength to approach her with composure.
The last thing he wanted was to startle her further, considering she was already distressed and in immense agony. Yet, despite witnessing Thyra's tears on numerous occasions, he had never seen her so utterly consumed by despair.
"Thyra," he whispered, barely audible, as he gently called out her name.
Thyra lifted her head upon hearing his gentle voice, and as she turned towards him, the devastation reflected in her tear-filled eyes pained him to the core. It was as if her anguish had seeped into his own heart, urging him to bear the burden if it meant she could be liberated from her pain. Her eyes appeared red and glossy, fresh tears tracing paths down her blotchy cheeks.
She had been crying since she hastily left the room, unable to find solace. Beocca approached cautiously, tenderly grasping her hands. He was relieved to see his touch had a soothing effect on Thyra, yet a glimmer of hopelessness still lingered in her gaze.
"What should I do?" she pleaded, her voice filled with desperation. "How do I face Torsten? What can I say to him?"
Beocca's heart ached with an overwhelming urge to protect Thyra, fueled by the profound vulnerability reflected in her tear-filled blue eyes. Her constant stream of tears only intensified his desire to provide her with something, anything, that would signify his understanding of her pain. He empathized with her more than she could fathom.
After a brief moment, he spoke softly, his voice laced with empathy, "Tell your brother the truth, Thyra, but..." He paused, giving her hand a gentle squeeze, hoping to offer a small measure of comfort, even though he feared it might not be enough for Thyra.
Nonetheless, his grip tightened slightly, as if to offer a silent warning.
"You are no longer alone, Thyra. I'm right here with you and I'm not going anywhere. I am not going to leave you and I am not going to give up on you. You always put others before yourself, you, like your brother, are guided by your heart, Thyra, and it is a good heart, a pure heart, one of kindness. Uhtred often shares this sentiment with Hild, and now I say it to you, hoping my words reach you. You are too good a woman for God alone. It is an admirable quality to selflessly place others before oneself, as the Lord commands. But just this once, Thyra, let me help you. You don't have to face your brother alone. You should not have to. Let me come with you, Thyra, please." He did not even realize it, but he had started to shake with the solemnity of his plea.
Beocca observed Thyra's stunned silence in response to his heartfelt plea. Her mouth slightly ajar, she gazed at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. As Thyra grappled with a whirlwind of emotions, her eyes flickered upwards to meet his. At that moment, he sensed her gasp, understanding the significance of what she saw. His eyes, once sharp and guarded, were now shimmering with vulnerability. They were no longer concealed in the darkness of the chamber.
Despite the straightforwardness of Beocca's words, she could sense, just as he did, that he was far from composed. Releasing a breath he had unknowingly held, Beocca felt Thyra's delicate fingers tighten around his hands. Then, a shy smile graced her lips, instantly warming him on a profound level. It was a smile he knew he would forever cherish.
The air grew thick with anticipation as Beocca mustered the courage to bridge the distance between them. His gaze remained fixed on Thyra, his eyes filled with solemnity and unwavering earnestness.
With a tender voice, Thyra whispered, her words laced with vulnerability, "You won't... you won't try to keep me apart from you, Beocca?" Her question hung in the air, weighted with uncertainty.
Beocca's heart swelled with a mixture of emotions, and he spoke without hesitation, his voice raw and unrefined.
"Thyra, I don't care what you are, I don't care that you were born a Dane, you are Christian now, your soul has been saved, anyone who would say otherwise to your face is talking through their arse, and they would have me to deal with," he declared, his words flowing in a rush. He paid no mind to the roughness in his voice or how she flinched slightly at its coarseness. "I no longer care if it is deemed selfish to love you. I have prayed to God every single day for the love of a beautiful and virtuous woman, and that woman is you, Thyra. I promise you, I will never hurt you in such a way again."
With those words hanging in the air, a fleeting pause enveloped them.
Beocca's resolve strengthened, and he reached out, gently cupping Thyra's face with trembling hands. He leaned in, his lips softly brushing against hers in a tender, lingering kiss. Their connection deepened, transcending words as their hearts beat in unison. Breaking the kiss, Beocca looked into Thyra's eyes, his voice steady but laced with emotion.
"You have become someone that I cannot live without, Thyra," he whispered hoarsely, his expression pained as he dared not look away.
Beocca's hands tenderly cradled Thyra's face as their lips met again before she could open her mouth to reply, a sense of urgency barely contained within his movements.
In that kiss, Thyra could sense both fragility and unwavering certainty, as if Beocca had finally dismantled the barriers between them. He was offering himself to her within the walls of her former refuge, even as her brother Torsten awaited them. Thoughts of her brother faded into the background as shock consumed Thyra.
Beocca's touch was gentle and tender, his lips delicately caressing hers, though a hint of clumsiness revealed his unfamiliarity with such intimacy.
Sven and Kjartan had never shown her such affection. The moment, though fleeting, left an indelible impression. Despite Beocca's initial urgency, she felt his jagged breath against her cheek as he slowly released her, restraining himself from going further. His eyes blazed with a profound intensity that surpassed ordinary passion and care.
The torment that had often plagued Beocca, his constant lamentations about living in a purgatory of his own making, had been replaced by a newfound certainty.
Thyra realized that she was witnessing Beocca in a way that she had never seen before, both powerful and vulnerable, emerging within the confines of Dunholm's servants' wing.
It was as if he was revealing his true self, the self he had always longed to be, with a blinding and haunting certainty.
"It is not enough, Thyra, it is not enough to merely have you in my life anymore as a friend, to live under my roof in Winchester as you are now," Beocca muttered hoarsely, his thumb trailing down her cheek until his hand rested at the base of her throat.
A shiver ran through Thyra's body, not from the chill in the air, but from the heightened sensitivity and vulnerability of the moment.
Beocca sensed her reaction and shook his head, as if a silent thought had passed through his mind, compelling him to voice it to her.
"You have no idea how difficult it has been for me, Thyra," Beocca whispered, his eyes fixed on Thyra's fluttering gaze. He refused to let Uhtred's sister pull away from him again, determined to lay bare the beautiful thoughts that had tormented him night after night in her presence. "To be so close to you and yet find strength within me to stop myself from overwhelming you with these feelings that have consumed me for weeks."
Thyra, her hand trembling with uncertainty, reached out to caress Beocca's skin. Her touch was gentle, her eyes widening in surprise as she realized the absence of anxiety and butterflies in her stomach. The pads of her fingers trailed down his beard with a tenderness that was foreign to them both.
"This, whatever is happening between us, is real, Beocca," Thyra whispered earnestly, her voice filled with conviction.
Beocca's voice grew firmer as he captured Thyra's hand and pressed it against his heart.
"And it is still not enough for me, Thyra. It could never be enough," he declared, his words carrying a weight of longing. "I cannot bear to let you go any longer, not in any way... not as you are now, Thyra."
Swallowing hard, Beocca fought against the lump in his throat, feeling as if he were swallowing knives.
Though his countenance appeared austere on the surface, Thyra could see the nervousness flickering in his eyes as they met her bewildered stare. She parted her lips to speak, but it took her a moment to gather herself in the face of Beocca's vulnerable expression.
"What... what are you saying, Beocca?" Thyra asked, her voice quiet and filled with confusion, hardly daring to believe her ears.
"I-I... there's something I need to say, Thyra, something I need to ask, something that cannot wait, Thyra," Beocca clarified, his voice hushed and barely audible. His hands trembled, yet he maintained a firm grip on Thyra's hands. "Once we return to Winchester, if... if you still want me, then... we will marry. Let us promise each other that we will marry and be together, Thyra. You have become someone I cannot imagine my life without, and the alternative is unthinkable. I beg you, please do not ask me to entertain such thoughts."
Thyra stood in silence, unable to fully grasp the weight of the priest's words. She stood beside him, dumbfounded, her immediate reaction eluding her.
Had Beocca just proposed to her?
"It was selfish of me to ask this of you, to even mention the word, Thyra, but my feelings are sincere. You have become indispensable in my life, and my love for you is unwavering. I cannot pinpoint when it started, but I know that my heart belongs to you."
"And you have mine, Beocca, my love," Thyra whispered, her words flowing effortlessly from her heart, surprising even herself. Her gaze locked with Beocca's, reflecting the same depth of emotion. Happiness surged within her as she realized her desire to be united with Beocca as his wife, to call him her loving and kind husband. She yearned for their shared peace and happiness, earnestly wishing that their brothers could witness their union in Dunholm.
Tears strained her voice as she spoke, "I hope we can build a life together, Beocca. But I do not want to wait to marry you. I want Uhtred and Ragnar beside us when we...when we marry." She cast a nervous glance toward the door, aware that Torsten awaited her on the other side, embraced by the chilly air. "But for now, Torsten is all I can think about."
A nervous smile played on her lips, hoping Beocca would understand.
To her relief, he did. She let out a breath as she felt the set of her shoulders relax the moment a gentle smile adorned Beocca's face and he nodded.
"It's a start, Thyra, my dear," he agreed, realizing it was more than he could have ever imagined.
Reaching for her hand, he leaned forward as he slotted their fingers together, placing a tender and chaste kiss on her temple.
As he pulled back, he chuckled softly, tucking a stray wisp of red hair behind her shoulder, delighted to see Thyra's blushing cheeks. His lips parted, and his heart pounded with elation and relief, grateful for Uhtred's gift of courage that allowed him to approach Thyra.
And now, Thyra, Uhtred's beloved sister, had given him the second greatest gift—her heart.
He silently vowed that as her husband, both now and in the future, Thyra would never endure the icy touch of loneliness again. Nor would her brother, who awaited her outside in the cold, longing to see his sister. With a soft smile, Beocca took Thyra's hand.
Filled with boundless love for the woman whose hand he held, his heart beating painfully, he led her out of Dunholm's servants' wing into the frigid morning.
Together, they ventured towards Thyra's waiting brother, Beocca guiding her gently by the hand.