ON a crisp autumn night, as the air grew colder and the leaves of the season's red and gold hues danced on the bitter breeze, a serene silence enveloped the king's encampment. A gentle fragrance that carried the faint scent of a coming rainfall hung in the air, and distant thunder rumbled softly, casting a veil of mystery over the otherwise tranquil scene.
The woods whispered secrets to Thyra Ragnarsdottir as she moved silently among the trees, her keen eyes scanning the forest floor for the telltale signs of mushrooms. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, a comforting embrace that enveloped her like an old friend.
With a small basket slung over her arm, Thyra ventured deep into the heart of the woodland near the encampment, her movements fluid and sure. As the daughter of a Danish Earl and warlord, Thyra had learned from a young age to navigate the wilds easily. It was a skill born out of necessity, a means of survival in a world ravaged by war and uncertainty.
Tonight, she succeeded in sneaking away from Sven's tent, her heart pulsing with hope that she might finally break free from the clutches of the bastard who made her life a living hell.
It had been years since Sven and his father had mercilessly slaughtered and burned her family alive, condemning her to life as their whore as they forced themselves on her each night.
Sven, ever watchful, rarely allowed her out of his sight, dragging her along to the camp where Saxons and Danes sought peace, all the while keeping her in the dark about their true intentions.
Lost in her thoughts, Thyra nearly stumbled over a patch of mushrooms hidden beneath a tangle of brambles. With a soft exhalation of breath, she knelt to pluck the fungi from the forest floor, her slender fingers deftly working as she filled her basket with the precious find.
Then, she heard it—a rustling in the underbrush, a sound that set her senses on edge. Instinctively, Thyra froze, her heart pounding in her chest as she scanned her surroundings for any sign of danger.
Father and Grandfather had both always warned her of tales of bandits and marauders lurking in these woods, preying on the unsuspecting and the innocent with ruthless efficiency.
A figure emerged from the darkness, Sven Kjartansson's distinct figure casting a daunting shadow amidst the trees. Thyra's breath hitched as she identified his unmistakable silhouette.
Sven, broad-shouldered and imposing, with his long, unkempt blond hair and coarse beard, bore a patch over his eye, a visible reminder of his past altercation with Thyra's father.
Her father, years ago, had crushed one of Sven's eyes with the hilt of his sword as punishment for stripping Thyra half-naked when they were both children.
As he stepped forward, his presence seemed to consume the space around him, filling it with an air of danger and foreboding. Thyra couldn't help but feel a shiver run down her spine at the sight of him, his gaze intense and unwavering, like that of a predator sizing up its prey.
"Sven," Thyra whispered, her voice barely above a whisper as she braced herself for the confrontation to come. She felt the color drain from her face as Sven eyed her with no small amount of anger in his lone eye. Even amongst Danes, Sven was a known troublemaker, and she could not tether understanding to how he could have found her here in the woods. She had managed to slip away from Sven's tent unseen, she was sure.
"What are you doing out here, Thyra? Who's out here with you?" Sven growled, his one good eye that still possessed the gift of sight gleaming with suspicion as he loomed over Thyra, blocking her path. "Bring him out. I'll make him swallow his balls and gods, I swear if he has humped you, I'd cut off his cock and make you watch," Sven snarled as he ground his teeth together in anger. "You're meant to be mine, Thyra. No one else's. Who led you here, Thyra? What are you doing so far from camp, out for a stroll in the woods, alone and unprotected?"
Thyra swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the mushrooms in her hand, her knuckles white with tension as she braced herself for the confrontation to come.
She knew better than to underestimate a man like Sven and his capacity for cruelty, his volatile temper a force to be reckoned with.
"I-I'm just gathering mushrooms for supper, Sven, there's no one else here with me, Kjartan...he...he said I could..." Thyra stammered, her voice trembling with fear. "Please, let me pass."
Sven's laughter reverberated amidst the trees, causing a chill to cascade down Thyra's spine.
Sven's suspicion grew as Thyra's words faltered. His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her every move. "Collecting mushrooms, you say? At this hour, with no one else around? And my father supposedly gave you permission?" He stepped closer, his tone laced with skepticism. "You're not alone out here, are you, Thyra? Is there someone else with you?"
Thyra's heart pounded in her chest as she met Sven's penetrating gaze. "N-no, Sven, I swear, it's just me. Kjartan did say I could gather mushrooms. Please, you have to believe me."
But Sven remained unconvinced, his suspicion solidifying into certainty. "Lies come easily to you, Thyra," he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "I know you're hiding something. And I'll find out what it is."
Trembling with fear, Thyra pleaded desperately, her voice quivering. "Sven, please, I beg you. There's no one else here, I swear it. I wouldn't lie to you, not about this. I just want to gather the mushrooms and return to camp. Please, let me pass."
But Sven remained unmoved, his distrust evident in his cold stare. "I don't believe you, Thyra," he stated firmly. "You've always done nothing but lie to me. I won't let you go until you tell me the truth."
No sooner had he spoken than Sven lunged forward, catching Thyra off guard with no time to react. His presence felt suffocating, like a shadow descending upon Thyra. She stumbled backward, her heart pounding in her chest, as he seized her wrist in a vice-like grip. The basket of mushrooms slipped from her fingers, teetering dangerously on the edge of falling to the forest floor.
"Let me go!" Thyra pleaded, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and desperation. She could feel the pressure of Sven's calloused fingers digging into her skin, threatening to leave bruises in their wake.
Panic welled up inside her, a wild, primal urge to break free from his grasp and flee into the safety of the trees. But Sven only sneered, his grip tightening even further as he dragged her closer to him.
"You're coming back with me, Thyra, enough of these games," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
Thyra's heart sank at his words, a cold knot of dread forming in the pit of her stomach. She knew all too well what awaited her at the bastard's hands—pain, suffering, and the ever-present threat of carrying his bastard child to term if she let Sven touch her.
"No, Sven, please," Thyra pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please…just let me go. If you have any decent feelings for me at all, please don't do this!"
But Sven only laughed, a harsh, mocking sound that sent a shiver down her spine.
"You think you can bargain with me, girl?" he sneered, his rancid breath hot against her face and reeked of ale and venison. "You're nothing but a little mouse caught in my trap, Thyra."
With a cruel twist of his wrist, Sven yanked Thyra forward, sending her stumbling into his arms. She struggled against him, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she fought to break free. But it was no use—Sven's grip was like iron, unyielding and merciless.
Desperation clawed at Thyra's chest as she frantically searched the woods for a way out, a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness that threatened to consume her. But as she looked into Sven's eyes, all she saw was the cold, empty stare of a predator, hungry for its next kill.
And in that moment, Thyra knew that she was truly alone, trapped in a nightmare from which there was no escape. Her foster brother Uhtred was not here to save her from Sven this time as Uhtred had been years ago, and neither was her dear friend Brida.
With a silent prayer on her lips to the Norse gods, she braced herself for whatever horrors awaited as she was fully at Sven's mercy. Her fate was no longer her own to control.
As Sven began to drag Thyra out of the forest and back towards the encampment, her heart pounded with fear, her mind racing for any chance of escape.
Suddenly, her foot caught on a hidden gnarled tree root, sending her tumbling to the forest floor with a sharp cry. The impact jarred her and she could not stop the sigh of pain that left her lips as she felt her ankle twist in a way that she knew it shouldn't, but in that moment of chaos, it also provided an opportunity.
As she lay there, grappling with the sharp sting of pain radiating from her twisted ankle, her mind raced. In the stillness that followed the fall, she realized that this unexpected mishap might just be the diversion she needed.
Feeling an unexpected surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins, Thyra scrambled clumsily to her feet, ignoring the stinging pain in her knees and the throbbing pain of her now twisted ankle.
Sven lunged forward to grab her again, a cry of rage upon his lips, but she managed to slip from his grasp, her movements fueled by sheer desperation.
With one last glance over her shoulder, she saw Sven's enraged expression contorted with fury. Ignoring the pain and the thorns that scratched at her skin, Thyra bolted through the dense underbrush, her heart pounding in her chest as she raced toward the safety of the camp.
Every step was a battle against pain, exhaustion, and fear, but she refused to give up, her desperation and survival instincts kicking into overdrive. Behind her, she could hear the sound of Sven giving chase—the heavy footfalls of the bastard's steps as he gave chase through the darkened forest.
But Thyra did not dare to let herself look back, her eyes fixed on the faint glow of what seemed to be a campfire outside one of the tents in the distance, a beacon of hope in the sea of darkness.
Entering the clearing of the camp, Thyra came to an abrupt stop, stumbling awkwardly as she clutched a stitch in her side. Her chest heaved with exertion. Near the campfire, a man sat, stoking the flames.
He looked up, startled, his hand hovering over the hilt of a small dagger tucked into his belt. Assessing her for any potential threat, he watched her closely, his expression guarded yet tinged with concern.
"I-I need help, please," Thyra gasped, her voice hoarse from exhaustion and barely above a whisper. "Please, you have to help me. I-I'm being chased."
The man's brow furrowed with concern as he rose to his feet, his expression filled with concern. "What happened?" the man asked, his voice firm but gentle. "Who were you running from?"
Thyra's throat tightened, grappling to articulate the horror she had just endured. Yet, meeting the gaze of the man—a Saxon priest, evident from his simple brown woolen robes and strange pendant about his neck—she discovered a flicker of comprehension and kindness that emboldened her to voice her ordeal.
"Sven Kjartansson, Father," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "He's on his way. He... he's after me. Please..." As Thyra spoke, her words tumbled with urgency, but before she could say more, a sharp pain shot through her ankle, causing her to cry out in agony. She stumbled forward, her strength waning as the pain intensified with each step.
With a gasp, she collapsed to the ground, her vision swimming with dizziness. The Saxon priest let out a startled cry, his eyes widening in alarm as he rushed forward to catch Thyra before she hit the ground. He knelt beside her, his hands gentle as he tried to assess the extent of her injuries.
"Easy now," he said softly, his voice a soothing presence amidst the chaos that raged around them. "You're safe now. Just try to relax."
Thyra nodded weakly, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she fought to keep consciousness from slipping away. The pain in her ankle throbbed relentlessly, a constant reminder of the danger that still lurked nearby.
"Please," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rush of blood in her ears. "Sven is nothing but a bastard and he will whore me for the rest of my life if he has his way. I—I cannot let that be my fate…"
The priest's expression darkened with grim determination as he listened to Thyra's words. Without hesitation, he rose to his feet, his gaze scanning the horizon for any sign of the approaching danger she spoke of.
"This man, Sven, he will not trouble you anymore, lady," he vowed, his voice filled with steely resolve. "But first, let's get you patched up. Are you able to stand? That is, I mean to say, are you able to come away with me and walk? I can take you to our physician's tent, it's three tents down. Our physician tends to the royal family, and Ceowulf is quite skilled. Let me take you back from here." Without waiting for Thyra to respond, with gentle hands, the priest lifted Thyra into his arms, cradling her against his chest as he carried her towards the physician's tent, deeper into the heart of the Saxon encampment.
Despite the pain that radiated through her body, Thyra felt a surge of gratitude towards the stranger who had come to her aid in her hour of need. Nestled comfortably and securely in the man's arms, Thyra allowed herself to relax, knowing that she was no longer alone.
As the Saxon priest carried Thyra into the heart of the camp, they quickly approached the area where the makeshift physician's tent stood. The priest's urgent strides caught the attention of a nearby guard, who hurried over to assist them.
"Father Beocca," the warrior exclaimed, his eyes widening in concern as he took in Thyra's pale, pain-stricken face. "What happened?"
"She came to me," the priest explained breathlessly. "She's injured and needs help."
The guard nodded briskly, without a moment's hesitation, and moved aside, granting them passage into the makeshift tent of the prince's physician.
Thyra was pleased to know the name of the unexpected savior who had helped her, this Beocca, who tenderly carried her into the tent filled with the lingering aroma of herbs and poultices.
Inside, the king's physician—a grizzled man with a stern expression—was attending to another patient, his brow furrowed in concentration. Beocca wasted no time in demanding his attention.
"Ceowulf, forgive me, I know the hour is late, but we need your help. We do not intend to take up too much of your time tonight," Beocca insisted, his voice ringing with authority as he approached the physician. "This young woman is injured and in need of immediate care. It cannot wait."
The physician glanced up from his work, his expression one of irritation at the interruption.
"I am busy, Father, can you not see?" he snapped, his tone brusque and dismissive. "You will have to wait your turn."
Beocca's jaw tightened with frustration, but he refused to back down. "This is urgent," he insisted, his voice growing sharper with each passing moment. "If you value your position here, you will attend to her now."
The physician's eyes narrowed with annoyance at the priest's boldness, but he begrudgingly set aside his current patient and turned his attention to Thyra.
With practiced efficiency, he examined her twisted ankle and set to work on administering treatment, his movements swift and sure.
As Thyra lay on the makeshift cot, her pain slowly ebbing away under the physician's care, she couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude towards the Saxon priest for his unwavering support.
With the physician's work complete, Thyra's ankle was securely bandaged, and the pain dulled to a manageable ache with the herbal remedies applied. As she slowly regained her strength, Beocca gently guided her outside the physician's tent, supporting her weight with a steadying hand.
"Thank you, Father," Thyra murmured, her voice filled with gratitude as she leaned against him for support. "I-I don't know what I would have done without your help."
Beocca offered her a reassuring smile, his eyes warm with kindness.
"You're welcome. I could not let you suffer if it was within my power to help you," he replied, his voice gentle and reassuring. "You are safe now and will be well again, thanks to the skill of our physician."
As they emerged into the cool night air, Thyra couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over her. The chaos and danger of the woods felt like a distant memory, replaced by the comforting presence of the Saxon camp and the camaraderie of its inhabitants. But their respite was short-lived as the physician emerged from the tent behind them, his stern expression betraying his concern for Thyra's well-being.
"Remember," he cautioned, his voice gruff but earnest. "Do not put too much weight on that ankle for the next few days. We wouldn't want to undo all of my hard work, now would we?"
Thyra nodded solemnly, her gaze fixed on the ground as she absorbed the physician's words.
With a curt nod of thanks to the physician, Beocca led Thyra away from the tent, careful to move slowly at her pace to avoid exacerbating her ankle, their footsteps echoing in the quiet of the night.
As they walked, Thyra couldn't shake the eerie feeling that she was exactly where she was meant to be. Beocca swiftly guided Thyra towards a seat in front of the campfire she had found him sitting beside, she couldn't help but steal a glance at Beocca walking beside her. Despite the darkness, the flickering campfires illuminated his features enough for her to see.
Beocca was broad-shouldered and somewhat stocky, the Saxon priest's stature exuding a quiet strength that belied his gentle demeanor. Even beneath the loose woolen robes he wore, Thyra could make out the hint of muscle beneath, evidence of a life lived with purpose and conviction.
His face, framed by a closely cropped beard, bore the weathered lines of someone who had seen their fair share of hardship. Yet, there was a kindness to his eyes that spoke of compassion and understanding. His ears, though somewhat prominent, seemed to add character to his rugged but handsome enough face, Thyra supposed.
Beocca guided Thyra to a nearby log, quietly urging her to sit and rest for a few moments. She gratefully sank onto the rough wood, her injured ankle throbbing with each heartbeat.
As she took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves, Beocca settled beside her, his expression filled with concern.
"Thyra, is there anyone waiting for you back in the Danes' camp?" Beocca asked gently, his voice tinged with curiosity. "Will they be missing you?"
Fear gripped Thyra's heart as the camp she had strayed from, in pursuit of mushrooms for Kjartan and Sven, was mentioned. She realized she was in no state to return to them, memories of Sven's cruel sneer and the suffocating atmosphere flooding back with agonizing clarity.
She looked up at Beocca, her blue eyes blazing with a sudden fierce determination that nearly made her begin to feel afraid of herself.
"I am NOT going back there," she declared, her voice ringing out with fierce conviction. For a moment, Thyra thought she nearly sounded like Brida. "I know what Sven and Kjartan will do to me if I return."
Beocca's brows furrowed in surprise at Thyra's unexpected outburst, his eyes widening with understanding as he realized the gravity of her situation. He reached out a comforting hand, resting it gently on her shoulder.
"You don't have to go back," he assured her, his voice soft but resolute. "You're safe here with us. We'll protect you."
Thyra felt a rush of gratitude flood through her at Beocca's words, a sense of relief washing over her like a warm embrace.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she allowed herself to hope—to believe that maybe, just maybe, she had found a friend.
Beocca nodded solemnly, the priest's eyes filled with compassion as he spoke.
"You're welcome to stay here in our camp tonight," he offered, his voice warm and reassuring. "You can rest and make a fresh start in the morning. I would be more than happy to ensure you're escorted somewhere where you'll be safe."
Thyra felt a surge of gratitude wash over her at Beocca's kind offer. The thought of spending the night under the protection of the Saxons brought her a sense of peace she hadn't felt in years.
She knew that with a man like Beocca at her side, perhaps there was a chance she would finally be free from the constant threat of danger that had haunted her every step since her family had all been killed, save for her brothers.
"Oh, thank you, Father," Thyra murmured, her voice filled with emotion as tears of relief welled in her eyes. "I-I don't know how to repay you for your kindness."
Beocca smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners with seemingly genuine affection. "You owe me nothing, my lady," he said gently. "Helping those in need is its own reward."
With that, Beocca rose to his feet, offering Thyra a hand to help her up. As they made their way towards the heart of the Saxon camp, Thyra felt a sense of hope blossoming within her—a glimmer of light amidst the darkness that had threatened to consume her.
As Thyra came to a stop outside an unoccupied tent she presumed was to be hers for the night, Beocca lingered by her side, a hesitant expression crossing his rugged features. For all his confidence in offering her shelter, he seemed suddenly uncertain, as if a question weighed heavily on his mind.
"Lady, forgive me," he began tentatively, his voice softer than before, an odd flush coming over his cheeks as he spoke, "I realize perhaps too late I never asked your name. What do they call you?"
Thyra couldn't help but smile at Beocca's sudden shyness, finding it endearing after the strength and reassurance he had shown her throughout the evening. She met his gaze, her eyes warm with gratitude.
"I'm Thyra, Father," she replied, her voice gentle. "Thyra Ragnarsdottir."
Beocca's eyes widened in surprise at her response, a hint of recognition flickering in their depths.
"Thyra Ragnarsdottir," he repeated as if savoring the sound of her name. It set him faintly smiling. "Your name suits you. It's a pleasure to meet you. Please...call me Beocca."
Thyra felt a sudden shyness envelop her as she gathered her thoughts, grateful for Beocca's kindness.
"Thank you, Beocca," she murmured, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush. "For everything you've done... for your care. You could have left me alone to fend for myself when I asked you for help, but you did not, and I am grateful..." She lowered her gaze, unable to meet his eyes, but her gratitude resonated in her words.
Beocca's expression softened at Thyra's words, touched by her sincerity. He reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "It's been my honor, Thyra," he replied warmly.
The warmth of Beocca's smile filled Thyra with a sense of belonging she hadn't felt in a long time. In that moment, surrounded by the flickering light of the campfire and the comforting presence of her newfound allies, she knew that she had found a friend in the most unexpected of places.
Thyra blushed at the compliment and replied with a warm smile, "Thank you, Beocca. I'm grateful for your presence today and the opportunity to get to know you better. You've been so kind. Will I...will I see you in the morning, perhaps?" She whispered shyly, her eyes searching his for an answer.
Beocca's heart swelled at the prospect. "I hope so, Thyra. I'd like that." He gazed into her eyes, his voice filled with warmth.
Thyra's lips parted as if she intended to speak, but instead, a determined look crossed her features, as if she had reached a decision.
Much to Beocca's surprise, Thyra leaned in and held his hand, giving it a light squeeze. The gesture was tender and filled with gratitude, lingering for a brief, heartwarming moment.
She then offered a shy smile before turning to re-enter the tent, leaving Beocca with her parting words and the memory of her smile.
Beocca stood there for a moment, feeling his palm tingle with the lingering sensation of the coolness of Thyra's hand against his. The night seemed to grow even colder, contrasting the warmth he felt inside.
He watched as Thyra made her way back into the tent, her silhouette blending with the flickering light of the torches. As she disappeared from view, Beocca was left with a smile on his lips, his heart filled with a mixture of gratitude and admiration for the young woman.
Settling in for the night, Thyra felt a sense of peace wash over her, knowing that she was no longer alone in her struggles.
With a man like Beocca by her side, she dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, she had finally found a place where she belonged—a place where she could carve out a new life for herself, free from the shadows of her past.
As Thyra drifted off to sleep, her dreams were filled with visions of hope and possibility, guided by the gentle presence of a man whose kindness knew no bounds. For the first time in ages, she did not dream of her family's death or Sven.
Instead, she dreamt of Beocca.
