AS Thyra drifted into sleep, Beocca stood by the entrance of the tent, his mind swirling with thoughts. The encounter with Thyra had stirred something within him—compassion, certainly, but also a sense of duty and a fierce wave of protectiveness that was unfamiliar to him. He couldn't shake the feeling that fate had brought them together for a reason, that God had put this woman in his path, that he was meant to help her in some way, though in what way, he did not yet know.

The events of the evening replayed in his mind, each moment vividly etched into his memory—the fear in Thyra's eyes as she recounted her harrowing escape from the Dane warrior Sven who haunted her every waking moment, the determination in her voice as she had all but shouted her staunch refusal to return to the Danes' camp, and the gratitude that shone in her eyes as she thanked him for his kindness.

Beocca couldn't deny the impact Thyra had made on him. He had known the Dane a precious hour at best, and already, she was leaving quite an impression on him. There was something about her—her quiet strength, her resilience, her unwavering spirit—that drew him to her in a way he couldn't fully explain.

Lost in thought, Beocca remained at the entrance of the tent, his gaze fixed on the flickering campfires beyond. The night was quiet now, the only sound the distant murmurs of the camp and the crackling of the fires.

In the stillness of the night, Beocca found himself reflecting on his journey—a journey marked by hardship, loss, and ultimately, redemption. As a young man, since he was sixteen, he had faced his share of trials, enduring the brutality of war, slavery, and the cruelty of fate. But through it all, he had never lost faith in the power of compassion and the resilience of the human spirit.

And now, as he stood on the threshold of a new day, Beocca unexpectedly felt a sense of purpose stirring within him—a sense of responsibility to help Thyra find her path to safety, to redemption.

With a determined nod, Beocca made a silent vow to himself. He would do everything in his power to ensure the young Dane woman's safety and well-being if she did not wish to return to her people, to protect her from the dangers that lurked in the shadows.

As the first light of dawn began to creep across the horizon, Beocca turned away from the entrance of the tent in which Thyra slept and made to turn away, his heart filled with resolve. Yet before he turned away fully, he couldn't help but steal one last glance for the night at the Dane he had helped when she needed it the most.

The soft glow of the campfire cast a warm light across her features, accentuating the delicate curve of her cheekbones and the gentle slope of her nose. But it was her hair that truly captivated him-waves of autumn-colored strands cascading around her shoulders, a striking contrast against her pale skin.

In the flickering light, Thyra seemed to glow with an otherworldly beauty, her features softened by the warmth of the fire. Beocca found himself drawn to her, his gaze lingering on her face as he admired the delicate lines and contours that seemed to speak of quiet strength and resilience.

It was a strange sensation, this sudden forbidden attraction he felt towards Thyra—a feeling he hadn't experienced in years. But as he looked at her now, bathed in the soft light of the campfire, Beocca couldn't deny the stirring of something deep within him.

Lost in thought, Beocca found himself contemplating the mysteries of God, fate, and destiny. How had he, a Saxon priest, come to cross paths with this heathen young Dane, and what role did she play in the grand tapestry of their lives?

As he watched Thyra sleep, her chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm, Beocca felt a surge of protectiveness wash over him. He vowed then and there to do everything in his power to ensure her safety and well-being, to shield her from harm, and to guide her on the path to healing. For Thyra was not just a stranger in need of help—she was a soul in search of sanctuary, a kindred spirit whose journey had intersected with his own in the most unexpected of ways.

As he walked, Beocca couldn't shake the image of Thyra from his mind. Her striking beauty and unwavering determination had left a lasting impression on him, stirring feelings he hadn't experienced in years. With each step, Beocca found himself reflecting on the events of the evening, the unexpected encounter with Thyra, and the newfound sense of purpose that had taken root within him.

As he reached his tent and slipped inside, Beocca couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation for the days to come. He knew that Thyra's presence in their camp would bring both challenges and opportunities, but he was determined to stand by her side and help her navigate the uncertain path ahead.

With a weary sigh, Beocca settled down onto his cot, the events of the evening replaying in his mind as sleep began to claim him. And as he drifted off into dreams, he found himself filled with a quiet sense of hope—for Thyra, for himself, and for the daunting task that lay ahead.

But sleep remained elusive for Beocca that night, his thoughts consumed by images of Thyra. Despite his weariness, her presence lingered in his mind, a constant reminder of the bond of friendship that he sensed was already beginning to form between them in such a short span of time.

As he lay in the darkness of his tent, Beocca found himself replaying their encounter over and over again, each detail etched into his memory with startling clarity. He thought of the gratitude and warmth in Thyra's sky-blue eyes that reminded him of the sky after a fresh rainfall, the quiet strength in her voice, and the courage she had shown in the face of adversity.

But it was not just Thyra's bravery that captivated him—it was her spirit, her resilience, and the spark of hope that seemed to shine from within her even in the darkest of times.

Lost in his thoughts, Beocca found himself grappling with emotions he had long since buried—feelings of longing, of connection, of a desire to protect and nurture the fragile flame of hope that burned within Thyra's heart.

With a heavy sigh, Beocca turned restlessly in his cot, the weight of his thoughts pressing down upon him like a leaden blanket. He knew that the road ahead would not be easy, that there would be challenges and hardships to face. But he also knew that he could not turn away from the opportunity to help Thyra find the peace and security she so desperately sought.

As the hours passed and the night wore on, Beocca remained awake, his mind consumed by thoughts of Thyra and the uncertain future that lay ahead. As the first light of dawn began to filter through the canvas walls of his tent, Beocca knew that he could no longer deny the stirring of his heart.

When dawn finally broke and the first rays of sunlight pierced fully through the darkness, Beocca emerged from his tent, his exhaustion evident in the weary lines etched upon his face. Despite his efforts to find respite in sleep, the night had offered him little peace, leaving him feeling drained and frustrated.

Rubbing his tired eyes, Beocca cast a weary gaze around the camp, taking in the bustling activity of the early morning as the men prepared to depart. Despite the weariness that weighed heavily upon him, he knew that there was much to be done—tasks to attend to, duties to fulfill, and above all, Thyra to protect.

As he made his way through the camp, Beocca's mind continued to churn with thoughts of Thyra. He couldn't shake the sense of urgency that gripped him, the need to ensure her safety and well-being foremost in his thoughts.

But even as he tried to focus on the tasks at hand, Beocca found his mind drifting back to the young Dane—the memory of her determined gaze, her unwavering strength, and the fragile hope that seemed to radiate from her with each passing moment.

Frustration bubbled up within Beocca, a simmering undercurrent of emotion that he struggled to contain. He felt powerless in the face of the challenges that lay ahead, uncertain of how best to navigate the uncertain path that stretched out before them.

With a heavy heart, Beocca forced himself to push aside his feelings of frustration and doubt, knowing that he could not afford to dwell on them now. Thyra needed him—she needed his guidance, his support, and, above all, his unwavering commitment to stand by her side no matter what trials they may face together.

With renewed determination, Beocca vowed to do everything in his power to ensure Thyra found the peace and security she desperately deserved, while also assisting with preparations to leave.

Amidst his tasks, a familiar voice called out his name—a guard who had aided him the night before when he brought Thyra to the physician's tent. The young boy's face bore a sense of exasperation, his features etched with frustration, though he couldn't have been more than seventeen.

"Father Beocca," the guard called out, his voice carrying across the bustling camp. "The king, he calls for you. He says you're taking too long to show."

Beocca's heart sank at the news. He knew that he could not afford to keep the king waiting, especially not now when tensions between the Saxons and Danes were already running high. With a frustrated exhale, Beocca nodded curtly to the guard, acknowledging the summons.

"Thank you, I was just about to," Beocca replied, his voice tinged with weariness. "I will go to him at once."

Turning away from his duties, Beocca made his way towards the king's tent, his thoughts still lingering on Thyra and the promise he had made to help her, to protect her in whatever way he could. But duty called, and Beocca knew that he could not afford to let his personal concerns overshadow his responsibilities as a trusted advisor to the king.

As he entered the king's tent, Beocca braced himself for whatever task awaited him, knowing that the challenges of the day were far from over. But even as he faced the uncertainty of the future, Beocca found solace in the knowledge that he had vowed to help Thyra in whatever way he could. With that thought in mind, Beocca parted the tent's flap and entered the king's tent. The scene that greeted him was too familiar.

King Alfred, the current ruler of Wessex after his brother had perished from wounds sustained in battle, lay sprawled upon a makeshift cot, his brow furrowed in pain and frustration. The king's face was pale, his features contorted with discomfort as he clutched at his stomach.

"Father Beocca, my friend," the king groaned, his voice strained with agony. "You've finally decided to grace us with your presence. Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for you? What kept you?"

Beocca offered the king a sympathetic smile, though he couldn't help but feel a pang of frustration at the king's constant complaints. The king's ailment was a persistent thorn in Beocca's side, a problem that seemed to have no easy solution.

"I apologize for the delay, Lord King," Beocca replied, his tone respectful but tinged with weariness. "I am here now. How may I be of service?"

Alfred let out a frustrated exhale, his discomfort evident as he shifted on the cot. "It's this damn stomach of mine, Beocca," he muttered darkly, his voice tinged with irritation and exasperation. "The pain is unbearable. I can hardly eat a morsel without feeling like my insides are on fire."

Beocca nodded sympathetically, his mind already racing through the various remedies and treatments he could recommend to ease the king's suffering. He had dealt with the king's ailment countless times before, and yet, each time it seemed to grow more stubborn and resistant to treatment.

"I understand, my Lord," Beocca replied, his voice calm and reassuring. "I will do everything in my power to alleviate your discomfort. Perhaps we could suggest to Ceowulf to try a different herbal infusion this time or—"

Before Beocca could finish his sentence, however, the king interrupted him with a scoff and a dismissive wave of his hand.

"No, Father. No more herbal concoctions, Beocca," the king snapped, his frustration mounting. "I've tried them all, and none of them seem to make a damn bit of difference. I need a solution, and I need it now."

Beocca sighed inwardly, feeling the weight of the king's expectations bearing down upon him. He knew that finding a solution to the king's ailment would not be easy, especially given the limited resources available to them in the camp.

"I will consult with the physician and see if there are any other treatments we can try," Beocca offered, his tone diplomatic but firm. "In the meantime, perhaps you could try to rest and conserve your strength. It may help to ease your symptoms."

The king grunted in response, though Beocca could see the skepticism in his eyes. It was clear that the king was growing impatient with his condition, and Beocca knew that he would have to act quickly to find a solution before the king's frustration boiled over.

"Beocca," the king spoke after a moment, his voice authoritative and stern, "I did not summon you here to me this morning merely to discuss my ailment. I'm told that you allowed a Dane into our camp last night. Is this true, Father?"

Beocca felt the color drain from his face as the weight of the king's accusation settled upon him.

He had hoped to keep Thyra's presence in the camp a secret, fearing the repercussions of allowing a Dane, their enemy, into their midst. But now, as King Alfred's stern gaze bore down upon him, Beocca realized that his actions had not gone unnoticed.

Someone had betrayed his trust, someone had seen fit to inform the king of Thyra's presence within their midst.

Beocca swallowed hard, his throat dry with apprehension as he struggled to find the words to respond.

"Lord King, forgive me, I…I can explain," Beocca began tentatively, his voice faltering slightly under the weight of the king's intense scrutiny. "The Dane in question, Thyra Ragnarsdottir, sought refuge in our camp after fleeing from a man who has been holding her captive. She was injured and in need of assistance. I could not merely turn her away, so I—"

But before Beocca could finish his explanation, King Alfred cut him off with a sharp gesture, his expression darkening with anger.

"You dared to bring a Dane into our camp without my permission, Beocca?" the king thundered, his voice echoing through the tent and by now, Beocca was certain half the realm knew of Alfred's fury. "Do you not realize the danger you have put us all in? This could be a trap, a ploy to infiltrate our defenses and gather information for the enemy."

Beocca felt a surge of guilt and remorse wash over him as he realized the gravity of his mistake. He had acted out of compassion for Thyra's plight, but in doing so, he had endangered the safety of everyone within the camp.

"I-I did not mean to cause harm, Lord King," Beocca stammered, his voice tinged with regret. "I only sought to help someone in need. Thyra is not a threat to us, I assure you. She—"

But once again, King Alfred cut him off, his expression fierce and unyielding as he fixed Beocca with a steely gaze.

"Father, you have never struck me as a stupid man, you are quite intelligent enough to know how careless this was. Do not insult your own intelligence like this again. You must understand how this looks. I cannot and will not tolerate such recklessness, Beocca," the king declared, his voice firm and unwavering. "You have jeopardized the safety of our camp, and for that, there will be consequences."

Beocca bowed his head in shame, his heart heavy with guilt. He had acted impulsively, driven by compassion for Thyra's plight, but now he realized the full extent of his mistake.

"I accept whatever punishment you deem fit, Lord King," Beocca replied, his voice resigned. "I only ask for the chance to make amends and prove my loyalty to you and our cause."

King Alfred's expression softened slightly at Beocca's words, though his eyes remained stern. Alfred remained silent for a moment, lost in contemplation as he weighed Beocca's words. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice firm and deliberate.

"Very well, Beocca," Alfred declared. "Bring this Dane to me. I wish to meet her and assess the situation for myself."

Beocca's heart sank at the king's command, knowing that Thyra's fate now lay in Alfred's hands. With a respectful nod, he acknowledged the order and prepared to fulfill his monarch's wishes.

Leaving the king's tent, Beocca felt a heavy weight settle in the pit of his stomach and bile rising in his throat. Each step he took towards Thyra's tent seemed to be laden with the burden of impending consequences. His nerves were taut, his mind a whirlwind of worry and apprehension.

Approaching Thyra's tent, Beocca hesitated for a moment before drawing a deep breath and steeling himself for what was to come. He knew that facing Thyra now given the king's demand to speak with her would be fraught with difficulty, but it was a task that he could not refuse.

Standing outside Thyra's tent, Beocca softly called her name, his voice a gentle whisper meant to rouse her from her sleep. He waited anxiously, hoping she would awaken without too much alarm, aware of the delicate situation they were now in.

After a moment of tense anticipation, Thyra stirred inside the tent, her voice groggy with sleep as she responded to Beocca's call. "Who's there?" she murmured, her tone laced with confusion and perhaps even fear.

"It's me, Beocca, Thyra," he replied softly, his voice barely above the whisper. "Forgive the intrusion, but the king asks to speak with you. It's urgent."

Thyra's initial confusion gave way to a sense of alarm as she realized the gravity of the situation. Hastily, she began to gather herself, her movements hurried as she straightened her dress and fur cape, uncertainty gnawing at her heart.

Beocca could sense the Dane's apprehension even from outside the tent, and he felt a pang of sympathy for the young woman whose life had been marred by such hardship. As she emerged from the tent, he offered her a reassuring smile, hoping to provide some measure of comfort in the face of uncertainty.

Beocca watched as Thyra's face drained of color as she met his gaze. Her autumn hair, tousled and uncombed, framed her pale face, giving her the appearance of a ghost emerging from the shadows. He could see the fear flickering in her blue eyes, like a flame threatened by the wind.

Thyra's hands trembled slightly as she ran her fingers through her hair in a desperate attempt to appear more presentable, her gaze darting nervously around the camp. The weight of King Alfred's summons seemed to hang heavy upon her slender shoulders, filling her with a deep sense of dread.

"I... I understand, Beocca," Thyra replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "I will go... I will face the king. He sees me as nothing more than a threat to your people, doesn't he?" Thyra whispered, feeling tears gathering and stinging the edges of her vision as they threatened to fall.

Beocca's brows furrowed in concern as Thyra whispered her fear. The realization that the king perceived this gentle woman before him as a threat ignited a spark of anger within him. How could Alfred, a man of wisdom and justice, view Thyra with such suspicion and did not trust his judgment, as a friend?

"That cannot be," Beocca said firmly, his voice tinged with frustration. "You are no threat, Thyra. You are a victim seeking refuge and safety from your own people."

Thyra met Beocca's gaze, her eyes shimmering with tears. "I fear your king will not see it that way," she murmured, her voice trembling with uncertainty.

Beocca placed a reassuring hand on Thyra's shoulder, offering her what little comfort he could muster, hoping it would be enough to calm her. "Whatever happens, Thyra, know that you are not alone," he said, his tone filled with conviction. "I will stand by your side, and I will not let Alfred intimidate you."

Thyra's eyes softened with gratitude at Beocca's words, a faint smile playing on her lips. She was touched by his genuine concern for her well-being, a kindness she had not expected to encounter among the Saxons.

"You…you are not like most Saxons, Beocca," Thyra admitted shyly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your compassion…it is a rare gift."

Beocca offered her a warm smile, his eyes reflecting a genuine warmth and understanding. "We are all bound by the same struggle in this world, Thyra," he replied gently. "In times of adversity, compassion and empathy can bridge the divide between us, regardless of our backgrounds and our differences."

Thyra hesitated for a moment as Beocca silently offered her his arm. For a moment, she could only stare at it, her mind swirling with conflicting emotions. The offer of Beocca's arm felt foreign yet strangely comforting, a stark contrast to the cruelty she knew night after night at the hands of Kjartan and Sven.

Surprising herself, Thyra found herself yearning for the reassurance of the priest's quiet presence, a longing that she had not dared to acknowledge until this very moment.

Despite the scars of her past that Kjartan and Sven had left her with, scars that would always linger, she realized that not all men of the world were like Kjartan and Sven—that there were those men like Beocca, whose kindness and compassion offered a glimmer of hope in the darkness.

With a hesitant smile, Thyra reached out and accepted Beocca's arm, her fingers intertwining with his in a silent gesture of trust. As they walked together towards the king's tent, Thyra couldn't shake the feeling of warmth that spread through her at Beocca's touch—a warmth that banished the chill of fear that had gripped her heart.

At that moment, Thyra knew that she was not alone—that she had found an unexpected ally in the gentle priest who walked beside her. As they approached the king's tent, she felt a flicker of hope stir within her—a hope that maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance for redemption and a new beginning.

As Thyra prepared to enter the tent, her heart pounding with a mixture of apprehension and determination, Beocca's firm grip on her wrist halted her in her tracks. She turned to him, surprised by the sudden touch, her eyes widening in shock.

For a moment, their gazes locked, and Thyra felt a strange fluttering in her chest—a sensation she hadn't experienced in what felt like an eternity. It was as if a spark had ignited between them, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken bond that had formed between them in the brief time they had known each other.

Quickly, Thyra withdrew her hand, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment at the unexpected intimacy. But to her surprise, she found that the sensation was not entirely unwelcome—a realization that both unsettled and intrigued her.

Beocca too seemed taken aback by the brief moment of connection, his expression momentarily softening before he composed himself, his features assuming their usual mask of calm authority.

Leaning in close, Beocca spoke to her urgently in low tones, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with a sense of urgency.

"Thyra, listen to me," he murmured, his eyes searching hers with a depth of sincerity that took her breath away. "The king's temper is... unpredictable. He may say things that offend you, but you must not react. There can be no negative talk of his methods, do you understand? It is imperative that you remain composed and respectful, no matter what."

Thyra nodded, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and determination. She knew all too well the consequences of speaking out against those in power—the repercussions could be dire, and she could not afford to jeopardize her newfound sanctuary in the Saxon camp.

"I understand, Beocca," she replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil of emotions swirling inside her. "I will do as you say."

With a reassuring nod, Beocca released her wrist, his gaze lingering on hers for a moment longer before he straightened, his demeanor once again that of the composed and authoritative priest.

"Good," he said softly, his voice filled with quiet resolve. "Now, let us face whatever lies ahead together."

With that, Beocca gestured for Thyra to enter the tent, his presence a steadying anchor amidst the uncertainty that awaited them within. As Thyra stepped forward, she drew strength from Beocca's unwavering support, knowing that she was not alone in the challenges that lay ahead.

As Thyra stepped into the king's tent, she couldn't shake the feeling of Beocca's presence lingering behind her, a reassuring presence that gave her strength in the face of uncertainty. With each step closer to King Alfred, her resolve hardened, her determination bolstered by the silent support she felt from the priest.

As she approached the king, his gaze locked onto her with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Thyra squared her shoulders, meeting his scrutinizing gaze with unwavering composure, her resolve unshaken by the weight of his scrutiny. But just as she was about to address the king, Thyra glanced over her shoulder, her eyes searching for Beocca's reassuring presence.

And there, standing just beyond the threshold of the tent, she swore she saw a flicker of a smile grace the priest's lips.