Within ten minutes of Ingrid's announcement that the castle had been snowed in, Beocca swiftly guided Thyra to the Great Hall. Ragnar and Brida urgently called upon every able-bodied person, to assist in clearing the snow from the doors.
Men were assigned to this task, while women were instructed to stay indoors and conserve any available wood for creating small fires throughout the fortress, providing both light and warmth. When finished with lighting the halls, the women were also tasked with contributing to the kitchen, preparing a light supper to sustain everyone during this challenging time.
As Beocca guided Thyra into Dunholm's Great Hall, a warm feeling embraced her heart and hand. The hall was already filled with others, anxiously awaiting Ragnar's orders. Torsten stood alongside them, visibly more nervous than usual, avoiding eye contact and displaying heightened anxiety as Uhtred entered the hall. Ragnar finally spoke up when Uhtred took his place beside him.
"Now that we are all here, let's quickly go over the plan," he began. "Thyra and Brida, your task is to illuminate our halls to the best of your abilities. The chandeliers have pulleys, and Ingrid can show you where to find them. Once that is done, prepare the rooms. Additional supplies can be found near the kitchens, where you can assist Ingrid if needed. The rest of us will venture outside to clear the snow blocking the doors before it worsens," Ragnar explained with a grave tone.
Thyra and Ingrid and Brida all exchanged a glance, silently expressing their gratitude for being spared from outdoor work. They nodded, quietly murmuring their thanks. Reluctantly, Thyra released her hold on Beocca's hand as she heard Uhtred's man, Osferth, Alfred's bastard, calling out to him. As Haesten's wife turned towards Thyra, Ingrid couldn't help but emit a sardonic chuckle.
However, her expression softened as she noticed the weariness etched on her new friend's face. She seemed on the verge of a smile and a teasing remark but restrained herself, finding contentment in knowing that Ragnar's sister had found happiness with Beocca.
"In all honesty, I thought it was tough when the two of you first arrived. But now? This truly feels like the storm of the century," Ingrid muttered darkly, brushing a loose wisp of hair from her eyes. "Initially, I thought you would only stay for a couple of days, but judging by the storm outside, it might stretch into weeks. I'm just grateful to have someone my age to talk to for as long as you're here."
Thyra returned Ingrid's sentiment with a warm smile.
"Likewise." Thyra glanced at Beocca and almost chuckled at the mixture of exasperation and reluctance on her beloved priest's face.
He seemed unwilling to leave her side for more than a few minutes at a time. However, before Beocca could utter a word, Osferth's voice interrupted them, demanding their attention. They both turned towards the former novice monk.
"Father Beocca, Lords Uhtred and Ragnar, they call for you. They claim you're taking too long," Osferth exclaimed, urging them to act promptly.
Beocca's vexation was evident as he contemplated the idea of leaving Thyra alone in the hall without him. His normally calm and composed demeanor was replaced with a touch of anger, causing both Osferth and Thyra to raise their eyes in alarm.
"Give me a moment with my wife, Osferth, for God's sake!" Beocca snapped, his voice cutting through the air. He let out a sigh of frustration before turning back to Thyra, wearing a weary expression. "Thyra, my dear, it seems I am needed elsewhere. Are you certain you'll be fine on your own while I assist your brothers outside?" he inquired, suddenly appearing doubtful. In his mind, he yearned for more time to linger and be close to her.
Beocca tenderly held Thyra's delicate hands, seeking her gaze. As Thyra looked at him, a faint blush adorned her cheeks.
Her mind wandered back to the previous night, their first as husband and wife, and the intimate experience they had shared within the gentle embrace of the bed. The memories stirred within her, causing her cheeks to flush even deeper, and her stomach fluttered with desire.
She found herself yearning for tonight, hoping that Beocca would take her to bed once more, and elated that thoughts of Sven and Kjartan would haunt her no more, not when she had Beocca and the love they shared to call upon now for strength. She longed to feel his arms around her, to experience the warmth of his lips against hers in a passionate kiss.
Her beloved Beocca, so gentle, loving, patient, and kind to her, filled her heart with joy. His sweet smile and radiant eyes ignited a fiery passion within her. What they had was profoundly different from anything she had experienced with Sven and his father, Kjartan.
Those men had sought power over her, using her for their own desires. She had allowed herself to be treated as a mere object, simply to survive another day. Every waking moment in the castle's dark dungeons, she had wished for death, yearning for Sven to display even a trace of mercy and end her suffering with a sword through her heart.
But now, she was grateful that Sven had been a coward. Otherwise, she would never have encountered her true love and married him.
Beocca saw her as something precious, someone to be cherished and respected. His love for her bestowed upon Thyra a new sensation, a sense of completeness she had never felt before in her life. Her mind was abruptly pulled from its joyful reverie by the sound of her husband's voice. Beocca cleared his throat and spoke softly, his tone laced with concern.
"Thyra?" he murmured, his worry evident.
Thyra's eyes fluttered for a moment as she refocused her attention.
"Oh! I-I'm sorry, Beocca, my love," she nervously chuckled. "I... I was just lost in thought. Yes, I assure you, I'll be perfectly fine. Ingrid, Brida, and Torsten will be here with me," she chirped, her gaze catching Torsten's nervous hand-wringing out of the corner of her eye. Though she found his behavior peculiar, she had no time to dwell on it. She continued, hoping to ease Beocca's concerns and put his mind at ease. "You should go and help my brothers, my love. By the time you're finished, Ingrid and I should have supper prepared, and I'll save you a plate," she murmured shyly.
Beocca nodded, although a hint of reluctance still lingered on his face at the thought of being separated from Thyra for the entire day. He leaned forward and pressed a tender, chaste kiss to her temple, followed by a gentle brush of his lips against hers.
Reluctantly, they pulled apart as the sound of Osferth calling Beocca's name for the third time, now tinged with annoyance, filled the air.
Beocca released Thyra's hand and reluctantly left her side. A contented smile graced Thyra's lips as she observed her beloved's slightly muddied bootprints, marking a trail on the stone floor. Beocca ventured into the dimly lit corridor, but just before he vanished through the doors, she could have sworn he stole a glance back at her. With a tinge of longing, Thyra watched him fade into the distance.
A subtle, fleeting smile adorned Thyra's lips as she swiftly turned on her heels upon hearing Ingrid and Brida's calls. Her heart brimmed with joy, knowing that even in her previous haunt, she was not alone, and now, she would never be alone again.
Thyra dedicated the following hours to assisting Brida, Ingrid, and a few other women in the task of lighting the scattered chandeliers within the vast fortress. Once that task was completed, she joined Ingrid in repairing quilts, furs, and heavy outerwear while Brida ventured outside to check on the men's progress. No sooner had Thyra completed one task than she found herself engaged in another. Her restless mind told her that her fervent activity and willingness to help were driven by the needs of her brother's men and their families.
However, her heart knew the truth. She needed to keep herself occupied to ward off thoughts of Beocca, praying fervently that he remained warm and safe while assisting the men in clearing the snow outside.
As the morning hours dragged on, Thyra's heart raced with increasing speed. Despite the women's efforts to ration wood for small fires throughout the castle, both for light and warmth, the temperatures continued to plummet. The visible anxiety on Thyra's face did not go unnoticed, prompting Ingrid to speak up during their preparations for dinner, attempting to alleviate her concerns and offer some solace.
"Thyra, you have already done so much for us today, my dear friend," Ingrid warmly acknowledged, offering a shy smile. "Please allow me to draw a hot bath for you in your room. Perhaps by the time you finish, your husband will be done helping the others?"
Thyra was deeply touched by Haesten's wife's kindness and considered her offer thoughtfully. "Thank you, Ingrid, but..." Thyra had been about to decline, not wanting to impose on Ingrid's tasks, when the distinct sound of footsteps reached her ears, interrupting her response.
Thyra's head snapped up in alarm, and she exchanged a worried glance with Ingrid and Brida, whose faces had turned as grave as a tombstone.
Startled by the loud commotion, she hurriedly left the kitchens and rushed towards the main hall. To her astonishment, the massive oak doors of the hall had been forcefully flung open. Thyra felt a wave of relief wash over her as she saw that the men had successfully cleared the doors.
However, her small hopeful smile vanished as soon as she caught sight of Torsten's pallid complexion, signaling that something was wrong with her brother. The poor boy trembled uncontrollably, and with urgency, Beocca and Uhtred swiftly guided him to the nearest available chair.
Thyra's gaze fixated on her brother, who stood shirtless before her. This unexpected sight allowed her to observe every subtle movement of his convulsing body, revealing a surprising display of taut, muscular contours that were usually concealed beneath layers of boiled leather and thick furs. A sense of alarm surged within Thyra as she noticed Beocca's sharp glance.
Her beloved priest's face appeared flushed and windburnt, causing her growing worry. To her dismay, he collapsed into the chair beside her, his weakened state evident as he struggled to walk as if his feet had succumbed to numbness within his boots.
"Take care of the boy, Thyra, my dear. I'll be alright," Beocca murmured, attempting to speak coherently despite the chill that gripped him from the outside. "Fetch Ingrid and anyone else you can find. Gather as many blankets and warm water as possible. His life depends on it. Hurry!"
Thyra's stomach churned with sickness as she locked eyes with Beocca. Hastily nodding, she swiftly spun on her heels, her skirts twirling around her, and dashed through the echoing halls, retracing her steps back towards the bustling kitchens she had recently left behind.
The situation appeared dire, and Thyra's heart pounded with urgency as she raced down the stark and dimly lit corridor of Dunholm that led her to the kitchens. Bursting through the doorway, she startled Ingrid, who was preparing dinner—a dish of rabbit and potatoes bathed in a thick, gravy sauce.
Ingrid's grip faltered on the knife she wielded, nearly causing a mishap that could have cost her a finger, as Thyra's sudden arrival left her breathless and panting.
Struggling to speak amidst her labored breaths, Thyra managed to rasp out, "Torsten... very sick, Ingrid! Fetch a bucket of hot water and blankets, quickly! The men have returned, but something is wrong... they... they've forced open the doors, but Torsten is hurt!"
Ingrid swiftly covered her mouth in shock before springing into action, gathering the items that Beocca had urgently requested for Thyra's brother. Haesten's wife deftly scooped a bucketful of hot water from the large cauldron that simmered over the fire for a stew Ingrid had been making for a midday meal for the men, as she knew they would likely be hungry from their efforts when they returned inside.
Joined by Thyra and Brida, the women hurried towards the hall, where a small crowd of Ragnar's men had congregated around the convulsing figure of Torsten, their lord's afflicted half-brother. Each of them was eager for a glimpse of the boy's condition.
Thyra's cheeks burned with humiliation, her embarrassment palpable as she nearly collided with Ingrid, causing hot water to spill onto the cobblestones beneath their feet.
"Thyra, move aside, please!" Ingrid commanded sharply, though not unkindly.
Startled, Thyra jumped back, her cheeks now adorned with a light pink blush, as she directed her gaze towards poor Torsten, her brother's lips displaying an unnatural blue hue.
Beocca's words resonated through the crowd, capturing Thyra's attention and diverting it from the distressing sight of the young boy. Despite the chilling cold, his gentle priestly voice now carried a slight tremor as his teeth chattered uncontrollably.
"I... I told him to stop his madness, but he turned a deaf ear. He discarded his furs to mitigate his s-sweating, Uhtred had noticed he had started perspiring. We told him to stop, b-but he was determined to help clear the passage before the snow got worse. Foolish boy, risking his life for this!"
Thyra's brows knitted together, forming a faint crease of concern as she observed Beocca's struggle. It was evident that speaking was a challenge for her husband, and even maintaining his balance seemed an arduous task.
He wavered unsteadily, on the verge of collapse. However, an unexpected act of compassion came from Brida, of all people, who extended her aid to the weary priest. Ingrid joined her, and the two women encircled Beocca, supporting him by linking their arms around his waist.
Gratitude surged within Thyra as she exchanged a thankful glance with them and quietly murmured her appreciation.
"Please, take him to our chamber, quickly!" she implored, directing her plea to the women. Turning her attention to Torsten, Thyra witnessed Uhtred, Ragnar, and Osferth exerting their utmost efforts to lift and carry Torsten to the nearest unoccupied chamber at their disposal.
Thyra's flustered and startled state nearly pushed her to the brink of hyperventilation upon seeing both her husband and brother in such a condition. With a sense of urgency, she guided and helped Brida and Ingrid lead Beocca away from Torsten, while Uhtred and Ragnar escorted her brother to a spare room. Thyra led her husband along the paths that would take them up the steps to their chamber, her heart pounding in her throat.
As they moved, Thyra's gaze fell upon Aethelwold's man, leaning against one of the bricked walls with his companion, a man she had seen a few times since their arrival in Dunholm but whose name eluded her. Locking eyes, blue against colorless grey, a chilling sensation ran through her, compelling her to quickly avert her gaze. Before she could utter a word, she witnessed the man's dark figure, filled with despair and disgust, stalk away without acknowledging them. Her relief washed over her as the Prince soon followed suit, though she couldn't shake the feeling that he glanced back at them before disappearing down the long corridor.
Thyra maintained her gaze on Aethelwold, watching his silhouette vanish, and then shifted her attention back to the path ahead. However, she couldn't ignore Beocca's groaning, as if he struggled to speak. Considering his weakened state, it was nothing short of a miracle that he could remain standing.
Thyra clutched the rough brick walls as she hurried away from the scene, feeling a wave of dizziness wash over her due to the overwhelming anxiety. She shook her head, trying to dispel the sensation, and took slow, deep breaths in an attempt to steady her racing heart.
Joining Ingrid and Brida, who were already pulling Beocca away from the hall and up the winding stone staircase towards their chamber, Thyra hastened to catch up. As they moved forward, Thyra noticed a look of repulsion on Brida's face as she lightly held onto Beocca.
It was as if there were few things in the world Brida would dislike touching more than Thyra's husband.
A frown etched itself on Thyra's face when she overheard Brida whispering something under her breath while they ascended the steps.
Although the exact words eluded her, a small pang of discomfort lodged in Thyra's heart. She knew there were unspoken matters between the two of them, and she still hoped to bridge the divide and heal the rift that had formed.
However, with a heavy heart, Thyra suspected that Brida would never forgive her for falling in love with a Saxon, particularly one who served Alfred as his priest—a man whom Brida despised.
"Thank you, Brida, Ingrid. Let me take over now," Thyra called out, but she could only watch as Brida turned her head, her expression twisting with unresolved emotions.
"Brida," Thyra called out to her friend once again, just as Brida was about to leave. They had already released their hold on Beocca, and Ingrid had taken over the task of escorting him the rest of the way up the steps to their room. Before Brida could disappear with Ingrid, she paused and turned her neck, allowing half of her face to see Thyra. Thyra seized the opportunity to speak further.
"Thank you, my friend," Thyra began, her words spilling out. "I-I was hoping that the two of us could talk later. I...we need to talk, Brida." She heard Brida take a sharp breath, and Thyra interpreted it as a positive response to her request. Relief washed over her when Brida nodded, even though Brida never met her gaze directly.
"Tend to your loud priest, Thyra," Brida replied with a frustrated sigh. "I'll bring you some food later. We can talk then when you're in a better state of mind and better rested."
Brida's words reassured Thyra, and she let out a grateful breath, feeling a weight lift off her shoulders. Thyra only turned around when Brida had taken her leave and disappeared down the winding stone staircase. She took a hesitant step forward towards her slightly open chamber door.
Taking a deep breath to gather her strength, she cautiously nudged the door open, revealing Beocca sitting on the edge of their bed, trembling and quivering. The crackling of flames in the hearth echoed throughout the room. Beocca's shivers persisted, but as Thyra hurriedly draped numerous blankets around him and guided him nearer to the warmth of the fire, his trembling gradually subsided.
Thyra cautiously took a seat next to her husband, her stomach churning at the sight of his lips, tinged with a faint bluish hue similar to Torsten's. Although some color was gradually returning to his face as he sat by the fever, his body's trembling was slowly subsiding.
Drawing nearer to Beocca, she rested her head against his shoulder, feeling his coldness seep into her own body, and let out a long, slow breath she had been holding. As Beocca turned gently to face Thyra, he discovered her eyes brimming with tears.
He attempted to embrace her, but she pulled away, shaking her head softly and urging him to remain wrapped up in the blankets.
"You should have come inside as soon as the snow was cleared off the doors, both you and my brother, Beocca," Thyra whispered, her voice trembling and hoarse. "What if you... what if you had endured the black frost, my love? There's still a chance Torsten might!" Her tears welled up uncontrollably, cascading down her cheeks without restraint.
Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Beocca scoffed inwardly as he grasped Thyra's hands, bringing them close to his heart. The priest still trembled from the cold, but his touch no longer felt like ice, offering Thyra a glimmer of hope.
"Thyra, my love, it would take more than a blizzard to bring me down, although Aethelwold seems to wish otherwise," he muttered, a fleeting sneer appearing on his lips. His expression softened as he noticed a shadow crossing Thyra's face at the mention of the king's nephew, understanding her unspoken thoughts. He recalled the way Aethelwold had looked at her after their wedding ceremony as if he harbored intentions of possessing her for himself.
Under Beocca's scrutinizing gaze, Thyra winced, feeling the words slipping from her lips before she could even consciously decide to speak.
"I... I wasn't thinking, Beocca, my love, when I... when I struck him. I'm sorry. I just hope he won't... cause trouble for us," she whispered with remorse, her face flushed with embarrassment. "He had no right to speak ill of my brother."
The memory of the fear in Torsten's eyes flashed in her mind, and she frowned, recalling how his anxiety escalated whenever Aethelwold entered the room. She couldn't blame him, though she harbored similar feelings.
Now that Beocca was her husband, she felt a sense of protection, knowing that Aethelwold was too cowardly to defy Beocca for fear of the consequences from his uncle, King Alfred, should the complete truth come to light.
As for Torsten, Thyra was unsure of the extent of Aethelwold's torment.
She couldn't shake the possibility that the wretched Prince had subjected her vulnerable brother to verbal abuse, cornering him when no one else was around. The thought of what terrible things Aethelwold might have said haunted her.
Torsten had already endured so much, his spirit shaken to the point where he couldn't bear to be in the same room as the Prince, let alone maintain eye contact for more than a fleeting moment.
Before Thyra could delve deeper into her thoughts, Beocca's gentle voice broke through, grounding her wandering mind and bringing her back to the present moment.
"Thyra, my love, you should go and check on your brother. Leave me. I... I will be fine. It'll take more than a little cold weather and snow to do me in, I'm afraid, my dear, when you married me, you're stuck with me," Beocca joked, though Thyra could sense the strain behind his smile.
Her beloved priest still appeared pale and easily fatigued, despite being unharmed.
Nevertheless, Thyra was grateful to her new God that Beocca was safe, and she knew he would recover once he warmed up and rested properly.
She was determined not to take any chances with losing him and resolved to have a conversation with Ragnar at the earliest opportunity. For now, though, she had to admit that Beocca was right. Feeling immense guilt for not checking on him immediately after Torsten had been taken away, Thyra nodded in agreement.
But before she did, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against Beocca's, kissing her new husband with a depth and passion she hadn't shown before. Even the previous night's kisses had not been as intense, but she hoped that this gesture conveyed what her words could not.
Thyra would have deepened their kiss had he not swayed backward, causing her hand to instinctively reach out and wrap around his waist to prevent him from falling. Concerned, Thyra immediately paused to assess the situation.
Once he regained his balance, he leaned in for another kiss, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he had nearly fainted.
"No, Beocca, wait," Thyra pleaded, placing her hands on his chest to hold him back. "You... you need to rest," she murmured, flinching as he scowled and appeared somewhat offended.
"You kiss a man like that, Thyra, my dear, and then you expect him to be able to sleep?" Beocca grumbled, raising an eyebrow at her. However, when Thyra remained firm in her decision, he sighed. "Fine," he muttered, looking away momentarily to hide his reddening cheeks and disappointment. "You should go check on your brother, my dear."
Thyra blushed lightly as she reluctantly rose from the bed, relieved when Beocca moved to lay flat on the cot, pulling the blankets tightly over himself. He didn't allow Thyra to fuss and fret over him, looking somewhat put off by her insistence that he rest.
Feeling his smile rather than seeing it, Thyra stood beside him and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead.
"Sleep, Beocca, my love. For now, rest. A small nap, get warm, and by the time I come back, supper should be ready. You'll be better in no time," she whispered hopefully. She let out a sigh, running her fingers down his face, longing for his embrace once more, wanting to relive the experience of last night, though she recognized now was not the time.
Thyra did her best to contain her worry and disappointment and then took her leave, recognizing what was best for her husband now was to rest. With one hand on the doorknob, ready to twist it open, Thyra paused and looked over her shoulder once more.
This time, a smile graced her lips as she gazed at the sweet and gentle priest she had married. His eyes were closed, already seemingly fast asleep in a deep and peaceful slumber as fatigue took hold of him and refused to let go.
With utmost care, Thyra quietly slipped out of the room and headed down the hall to check on Torsten.
After enduring a miserable night before, the last thing he needed was to face the chills alone. As Thyra hastened her steps to check on her brother, the elongated and somber shadows that engulfed the halls trailed closely behind her, mirroring her every movement.
While Thyra made her way down the dimly lit hallway, a sense of unease washed over her. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. Glancing nervously over her shoulder, she saw nothing but the flickering torches casting eerie shadows on the stone walls.
Unbeknownst to Thyra, lurking in the shadows was an unknown figure, his presence concealed by the cloak of darkness. His gaze burned with intent as he silently trailed behind her, his footsteps barely audible on the cold, hard floor.
Thyra's heart raced, her instincts screaming at her to run. Every corridor seemed like a labyrinth, trapping her within its menacing embrace. Fear clutched at her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Despite glancing over her shoulder and scanning the darkened corridor, Thyra found no one in sight.
Not a single soul could be seen, yet an unsettling sensation persisted as if she were being watched by unseen eyes.
Her cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and unease, Thyra swiftly turned on her heels and hastened down the hall. She sought solace in the spare room where Ragnar and Uhtred had brought Torsten to rest and recover from his chills.
As she quietly slipped into the room, Thyra attempted to shake off the lingering sense of being observed, unaware of just how accurate her instincts were. Little did she know that a lurking figure, hidden in the shadows, had revealed itself, ready to make its presence known.
In her urgency, she firmly shut the door behind her, resisting the temptation to glance back.
Had she succumbed to the urge, she would have witnessed Tidman, Aethelwold's man, emerging from the shadows with a visage consumed by murderous fury and raging anger, his colorless eyes devoid of emotion, a haunting shade of grey, flickering with ill intentions.