THYRA turned away from Beocca and returned her full attention to face the Saxons' king, her heart racing with a blend of anxiety and resolve to avoid returning to Kjartan and Sven at all costs. However, she could still feel the burn of Beocca's gaze, burning a hole in the back of her skull.

It took every ounce of self-control she possessed to not turn around and look at the priest once more. Tension hung thick in the air inside the king's tent, uncertainty palpable as the king pinned her with a stern gaze.

King Alfred's gaze as he regarded Thyra with no small amount of suspicion and trepidation was penetrating, his piercing dark eyes set beneath a furrowed brow. The man before her exuded an aura of authority that commanded respect, yet there was also a hint of weariness etched into the lines of his face, betraying the burdens of leadership he carried. It was a moment before the king spoke.

"My priest Father Beocca tells me that your name is Thyra Ragnarsdottir, is it?" the king said softly, his voice tinged with skepticism as he studied her intently. "Tell me, what brought you into our encampment?"

Thyra swallowed hard, mustering the courage to lock eyes with the Saxon king, her chin held high in defiance despite the fluttering in her stomach.

"I-I was being chased, my Lord," she began, her voice quivering only slightly against the maelstrom of emotions within. "By Sven Kjartansson, one of the men responsible for killing my family, and the bastard and his father have whored me and held me captive for far too long. I was injured trying to escape. I had nowhere else to turn."

King Alfred's brow furrowed in contemplation as he listened to Thyra's words, his expression unreadable. For a moment, there was silence as he weighed her testimony, his gaze searching hers for any sign of deception, at any hint of a lie.

"And why should I believe you?" the king demanded, his voice sharp with suspicion. "You are a Dane—a sworn enemy of our people. How can I trust that you do not seek to deceive us, that you were not sent to our encampment as a spy?"

Thyra's heart clenched in fear at the king's accusation, a surge of desperation mixed with indignation rising within her at the implication of deceit.

"I speak truth, my Lord," she insisted nervously, her fingers fidgeting to ward off the chill. "I have no loyalty to the bastards who whored me. All I want is to be free of them and to live a life in peace."

King Alfred regarded Thyra with a penetrating gaze, his eyes searching hers once more for any hint of falsehood. An uncomfortable silence hung heavy in the air between them, tension crackling between them like a gathering storm. Finally, he spoke, his voice measured yet tinged with skepticism.

"Your words are bold, Thyra," he said, his tone holding a hint of doubt, her name sounding funny on his lips. "But can you offer proof of your innocence? Can you convince me of your sincerity?"

Thyra's heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing for a response that would sway the king's judgment in her favor. She swallowed hard, summoning every ounce of courage within her.

"I may not have tangible proof, my Lord," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, yet somehow still steady despite the tremor in her limbs. "But I stand before you now with nothing to gain from falsehood. My plea for a new life is born of a desire for freedom and to live a life of peace, not deceit."

The king regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, seeming to weigh her words against the accusations swirling around them. Then, with a nod of acknowledgment, he signaled for her to continue.

"Speak your truth, Thyra," he commanded, his voice softening slightly. "For if you are indeed innocent, it shall be known, and perhaps you may find the peace that you seek, lady."

With a deep breath, Thyra began recounting the events that had led her to this moment of accusation. "Sven chased me out of the woods on the Danes' side of the encampment last night. I fell over a tree root and suffered from a turned ankle."

Pausing, Thyra delicately lifted her skirts to reveal her bandaged foot, offering it as tangible proof to the king. As King Alfred remained silent, she interpreted his lack of response as permission to press on.

"I was disoriented, fleeing for my safety," she explained, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. "I had no knowledge that I had stumbled into your Saxon camp. I... I got lost." She paused, collecting her thoughts before continuing. "Beocca offered me his help when I could no longer walk. Without him, I dread to think what might have transpired if Sven had caught up to me last night..." Thyra's words hung in the air, her gaze fixed on the king, awaiting his judgment with a mixture of hope and trepidation.

She trailed off and let her words hang in the air, her nervous gaze fixed on the king as she awaited his response. The weight of her truth, coupled with the sincerity in her eyes, pleaded her innocence far more than any protests ever that she could make.

Thyra's voice quivered as she pleaded with King Alfred, her desperation evident in her every word.

"Please, my lord," she implored, her eyes pleading for mercy. "I cannot bear the thought of returning to Sven and Kjartan, I would rather take a sword to my own heart than go back. I know what the bastards will do to me if I return. I beg of you, allow me to accompany your Father Beocca to Wessex. He is a kind soul among your Saxons, and I would like to talk with him more if given the chance." She paused and nearly felt Beocca stun at her words as the priest came to stand closer to her, yet she dared not avert her gaze from the king. She drew in a breath and continued. "I am willing to do anything, anything at all, my lord."

King Alfred regarded her with a stern expression, his gaze unwavering. After a moment, he seemed to come to a decision, his expression softening slightly as he addressed her once more.

"Very well, Thyra Ragnarsdottir," the king said, his voice measured. "I will grant you asylum within our lands. But know this: your presence here among our people does not come without its conditions. You will be closely watched, and any sign of treachery will not be tolerated. To join us in Wessex, I would ask that you convert to Christianity and accept and embrace the existence of the one true God. It is a condition of our protection and hospitality. It is the only way."

Thyra's heart sank at the king's blunt words. She had expected challenges, yes, but this demand of the king caught her off guard. Yet, faced with the prospect of safety and refuge, she knew she had no other choice but to comply.

With a heavy heart, she nodded her acceptance, silently resigning herself to the path before her. As the weight of her decision settled upon her, she could only hope that salvation awaited her within the lands of Wessex. Thyra exhaled slowly, her eyes meeting the king's with unwavering determination.

"I understand, my Lord," she replied, her voice resolute. "I will abide by your conditions and prove myself worthy of your trust."

With a nod of dismissal, King Alfred gestured to Thyra to leave his presence, his gaze already turning to other matters of importance. As Thyra exited the tent, a sense of relief washed over her mingled with a newfound sense of resolve. Once outside the king's tent, Beocca turned to face her, his expression mirroring hers, a mixture of concern and relief as he met her gaze.

"Are you alright, Thyra?" he asked softly, his voice filled with genuine concern.

Thyra offered him a grateful smile, her heart swelling with gratitude for the priest's unwavering support.

"I am, thanks to you," she whispered shyly, her voice tinged with emotion. "Thank you, Beocca, for everything, and for standing by my side. You are the first."

Beocca returned her smile, his eyes shining with warmth and understanding.

"Nonsense, Thyra, surely I cannot be the first to have stood by your side," he murmured, trying to sound modest, yet she could see how he beamed, nearly bursting with pride. "It was the least I could do," he said earnestly. "You have shown great courage, Thyra, and I do not doubt that you will overcome whatever challenges lie ahead of you in Wessex and you will not be alone."

As they walked side by side through the camp, Thyra felt a sense of hope stirring within her—a hope born from the knowledge that she was no longer alone in her struggle, that she had found an unexpected ally and even a friend in the gentle priest who walked beside her.

They walked in silence for a time through the camp as the men dismantled the encampment, Beocca couldn't shake the concern that gnawed at his heart as he observed Thyra's gait.

With each step, she favored her injured ankle that had suffered from twisting, her movements stiff and hesitant despite her efforts to conceal her discomfort.

"Thyra," Beocca said gently after a moment of observing her in silence, his voice filled with concern as he reached out to steady her. "You should sit down for a moment. You shouldn't strain yourself further."

Thyra hesitated, her thin brows furrowing in stubborn determination as she glanced down at her injured ankle. "I-I'm fine, Beocca, but you are sweet to worry for me," she insisted, though her voice wavered slightly with pain. "I can manage."

But Beocca could see through her façade, recognizing the stubborn resilience that he knew now had carried her through countless trials and tribulations that no woman should ever have to endure. He suspected that Thyra was not one to admit weakness easily, especially in the face of adversity.

"Please, Thyra," Beocca urged softly, his tone pleading. "It would do you no good to exacerbate your injury further."

Reluctantly, Thyra acquiesced, allowing Beocca to guide her to a nearby log where she could rest. As she settled down onto the makeshift seat, she couldn't help but feel a pang of frustration at her vulnerability.

"I'm sorry, Beocca," she murmured, her voice tinged with embarrassment, a flush coming over her cheeks. "I didn't mean to cause you worry."

Beocca offered her a reassuring smile, his hand resting gently on her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "There's no need for apologies, Thyra, you do not apologize for anything," he said kindly. "You've been through a great deal, and it's only natural that you need time to heal."

Thyra nodded gratefully, her heart warmed by Beocca's compassionate understanding. In his presence, she felt a sense of solace and acceptance that she had not experienced in a long time—a feeling that she cherished more than she could express in words. As they sat together in companionable silence, Thyra found herself opening up to Beocca in a way she hadn't expected.

She spoke of her life before captivity, of her family, and her dreams for the future. As she shared her story with him, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders, replaced by a sense of liberation and catharsis.

Beocca listened attentively, his gaze filled with empathy and understanding as he absorbed every word she spoke. He offered words of encouragement and support, his presence a steady anchor amidst the storm of emotions that raged within her.

At that moment, Thyra realized that she had found more than just a friend in Beocca—she had found a kindred spirit, someone who saw past the scars of her past to the strength and resilience that lay within her heart. As the camp emptied and the men began to disperse, Beocca approached Thyra, offering her a supportive arm. Together, they made their way towards where a horse awaited, a majestic white mare that seemed to have been chosen for Thyra's journey to Wessex.

"Thank you, Beocca," Thyra murmured, her voice laced with gratitude. "For everything."

Beocca returned her gratitude with a warm smile, his eyes reflecting genuine affection as they met hers.

"You're welcome, Thyra," he replied, his voice tinged with sincerity. "Remember, you're not alone in this, in what comes next. I will stand by your side, and so will the Abbess Hild, a dear friend of mine and a nun within the church."

Thyra's cheeks flushed with a shy yet intrigued curiosity at the mention of Abbess Hild. The prospect of meeting another woman, perhaps one close to her age, sparked a flicker of hope within her—a hope that she might find a kindred spirit, someone she could relate to and form a bond with in the unfamiliar land of Wessex that was to be her new home.

"I look forward to meeting her," Thyra murmured, her voice tinged with nervous anticipation. "Thank you for arranging this, Beocca."

Beocca offered her an encouraging smile, his gaze filled with warmth and reassurance. "It's the least I can do, Thyra," he said kindly. "Now, let's get you onto your horse. We have a journey ahead of us."

With gentle hands, Beocca helped Thyra onto the back of the white mare, ensuring that she was settled comfortably in the saddle before stepping back to give her space. As he watched her adjust her grip on the reins, a sense of pride swelled within him at the sight of her resilience and determination.

"You're a natural rider, Thyra," Beocca remarked, his voice filled with admiration. "I do not doubt that you'll handle this journey with grace and strength."

Thyra offered him a grateful smile, her heart swelling with gratitude for Beocca's unwavering support. As she gazed out across the open expanse of the camp, a sense of excitement and trepidation washed over her.

With Beocca by her side and the promise of a new friendship awaiting her in Wessex, Thyra felt a glimmer of hope ignite within her—a hope that whispered of new beginnings and the possibility of finding a place to call home at last.

Just as Beocca prepared to mount his horse, a voice called Thyra's name, the voice sharp and commanding. Startled, he turned on his heels in a twist of the skirts of his priest's robes to see a fierce and imposing blond Dane warrior striding towards them. His single eye, an unnerving colorless grey, pinned him with an intensity that sent a shiver down Beocca's spine.

He cast a sideways glance at Thyra and one glance was more than enough. The color had gone from her face, rendering her as pale as a ghost, and her expression had transformed from one of warmth to fear, and she leaned over her horse slightly to whisper to Beocca.

"That's Sven, Beocca," she confessed.

Beocca's heart sank at the sight of Sven as the Dane warrior's expression was contorted with rage as the one-eyed man stalking towards where he stood glared at Thyra with undisguised hatred, murder in his good eye. Sven's voice dripped with scorn as he greeted Thyra, the Dane warrior's cutting words laced with disdain.

"Look at you, Thyra, already wrapped around this priest like a common wench. You always did have a knack for finding trouble, didn't you? Who's this weakling turd of a priest you've taken a fancy to?" he scoffed, his disdain evident as his one good eye that still possessed the gift of sight raked over Beocca's form beneath his robes. "Not much to look at are you, priest? You're an ugly thing."

His mind raced with possibilities as with a steely determination, Beocca stepped forward to confront Sven, his voice ringing out with authority.

"Sven Kjartansson, I presume," he barked, his tone firm but measured. "You have no business here and no right to have set foot near this woman when she has been granted asylum by our king, and I will not tolerate your presence near her any longer. Listen well, boy, because I am only going to say this once," he warned, an edge to his voice that had not been present before. "I may be a priest and may not look it, I know you think me to be weak, I see it in your eye, but I've been in my fair share of battles and faced fiercer men than you. You will not lay a hand on this woman. Let this be your only warning."

Sven sneered at Beocca's words, his eye burning with hatred. "You think you can order me around, priest?" he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "You and your pathetic band of turds you Saxons call warriors are no match for me and my ilk. I'll have what's mine, and there's nothing you can do to stop me, priest."

Beocca's jaw tightened with resolve as he squared his shoulders, refusing to back down in the face of Sven's threats. He knew he was facing an uphill battle, but he was determined to protect Thyra at all costs.

"Thyra is under our protection now, Sven," Beocca said firmly, his voice unwavering. "You will not lay a hand on her, not while I draw breath."

Sven's mounting anger and humiliation surged like an approaching storm, and for a brief moment, it appeared that a clash between the two men was inevitable.

Thyra, fully aware of the perilous situation she and Beocca now found themselves in, with apparently no help coming to them, urgently sought a way to defuse the tension before it could escalate further. However, the atmosphere remained charged with lingering animosity, leaving the outcome hanging in the balance.

Sven's eye narrowed with fury as Beocca took another step closer toward Sven, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. Sven's lip curled into a snarl as he met Beocca's steely gaze, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. With a swift movement, he drew his sword, the blade gleaming dangerously in the dim light of the now-dismantled camp.

"You dare to threaten me, old man?" Sven growled, his voice low and menacing. "You think you can stand against me and my boys? You're nothing but a coward hiding behind your robes."

Beocca held his ground, his expression unwavering despite the mounting tension between them.

"I am no coward, Sven, and I do not hide beneath these robes, bastard," he retorted through gritted teeth, his voice steady with resolve. "But I will not stand idly by while you terrorize this woman. She has suffered enough at your hands. Leave, now, and do not make me say it to you again a second time. I really hate saying things a second time."

Thyra watched with a mixture of fear and admiration as Beocca stood his ground against Sven, his defiance a stark contrast to the Dane warrior's simmering rage. She knew that the situation could escalate into violence at any moment, and she dreaded the consequences of such a confrontation.

"Sven, please," Thyra pleaded, her voice trembling with fear. "This doesn't have to end in bloodshed. Let us go in peace, and I promise you'll never have to see me again."

But Sven's fury was unrelenting, his pride wounded by Beocca's defiance. With a roar of rage, he lunged forward, his sword raised high as he sought to strike a blow against the priest.

Thyra watched in horror as the confrontation unfolded before her, her heart pounding in her chest as she feared for Beocca's safety. She knew that she had to do something to stop the violence before it escalated further.

"Sven, please!" she cried out, her voice filled with desperation. "Stop this madness before it's too late!"

Reacting instinctively, Beocca sidestepped the attack, his heart pounding in his chest as he narrowly avoided Sven's blade. In one fluid motion and with a sickening crunch, Beocca's fist swung wildly and connected with Sven's face, the sound of breaking bone echoing through the air.

Sven staggered backward, blood streaming from his shattered nose as he cried out in pain. For a moment, there was stunned silence as the gravity of what had just transpired sank in. Then, with a primal roar of rage, Sven lunged forward once more, his fury undiminished by the injury he had sustained.

But Beocca was ready.

With a swift and decisive motion, he drew his dagger from his belt down, the blade slicing through the air with deadly precision. And then, with a sickening thud, Beocca drove the blade through Sven's left kneecap, piercing through flesh and bone with a force that sent shockwaves reverberating through the air, causing Sven to cry out in agony as he collapsed to the ground, crippled and defeated.

As Sven writhed in agony on the ground, blood pooling around him as the grass turned crimson, his screams filling the air, Beocca's anger boiled over. His voice thundered above the din, commanding Sven's attention.

"Enough!" Beocca's voice rang out, cutting through the turmoil like a blade. "You dare to pursue Thyra again, you foul excuse for a man, and I promise you, the consequences will be far worse than a mere knee wound! Speak to or go near this woman again, and I will beat the shit from you, Dane!"

Beocca's eyes blazed with righteous fury as he glared down at Sven, his grip tightening on the hilt of his dagger now stained with the man's blood. "If you ever so much as lay eyes on her again, bastard, I will not hesitate to kill you, Sven Kjartansson. Consider this your final warning."

With that, Beocca turned on his heel and mounted his horse, spurring the beast into motion, and leaving Sven writhing in pain on the ground behind him.

The weight of Beocca's words hung heavy in the air, as men who had heard Sven's shouts looked on in awe at the display of strength and resolve that had come from the normally quiet and mild-mannered priest. Thyra watched from her mount, her heart pounding in her chest as she realized the depth of Beocca's apparent commitment to protecting her.

Despite the chaos and danger that surrounded them, she felt a sense of gratitude and reassurance knowing that she had such a steadfast ally by her side now.

As she turned her horse gently to follow Beocca's, Sven's screams still ringing in her ears as she raced to leave her raper behind her, forever, her mind raced with thoughts of the uncertain future that lay ahead. But amidst the uncertainty, one thing was clear: she would not allow herself to be cowed by fear or intimidation with whatever came next now that she was about to embark on a new chapter of life.

With Beocca by her side, she thought she could face whatever challenges came her way with courage and determination, knowing that she was not alone in her struggle.

With each step her horse took, Thyra's heart swelled with gratitude for Beocca's unwavering protection and support. As she steered her horse closer to Beocca's to ride alongside him, she cast a grateful glance his way, her eyes shimmering with tears and relief and admiration.

"Thank you, Beocca," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper but filled with heartfelt sincerity. "I don't know what I would do without you."

Beocca turned to her, his expression softening with a gentle smile.

"You don't have to face this alone, Thyra," he said, his voice gentle yet firm. "I will stand by your side, no matter what challenges lie ahead."

Thyra nodded, a sense of warmth and reassurance washing over her at his words. "I know," she replied, her voice tinged with emotion. "And I am grateful for that."

With a final glance back at the chaos of the camp behind them, Thyra turned and followed Beocca into the night, feeling a sense of hope and determination stirring within her.

Whatever trials awaited her on the road ahead that would lead her to Wessex, she knew that she would face them with Beocca by her side, her steadfast companion and protector.