Harper St. George - In Bed With The Viking Warrior

Once he was done, he took hold of the man and dragged him back to the stream. Taking a grip on the man’s upper arm, he pulled him floating behind him as he walked downstream. There were bound to be more enemies around from the battle and he needed to at least attempt to hide the body, in case anyone came looking for the man, they wouldn’t be sure of his direction. It would give him a better chance to escape, and if he could stay in the stream as he fled without succumbing to the cold, then they’d never track him.

* * *

He walked for over an hour before his shivering forced him to consider leaving the water. At least the cold had stopped his bleeding. Taking the body to a natural alcove created by two dead trees near shore, he pushed it inside and gave it one last glance. The man’s head was shaved. He touched a hand to his own beard and shoulder-length hair. He should probably cut it. Whoever this man was, whatever his station, he would have to appear to be like him, particularly if he was wearing his clothing. The man’s knife was stashed in his boot. He’d have to take care of that later. Right now he had to get as far away as he could.

He left the stream a little while later when he came to a section of wide, flat rocks that he hoped would hide his footprints from any trackers come morning. Taking one last drink of water, he stepped out on to the shore and made his way into the woods. The night air was freezing now that he was soaked. More reason to keep walking. If he stopped now, as wet as he was, he’d catch his death by morning. The world continued to come in and out of focus for him as he walked, sometimes stumbling into trees and over foliage, sometimes falling to the ground and momentarily losing consciousness only to rouse himself and force his legs to carry him onward.

* * *

Finally, near dawn, his body revolted and he fell to the ground in a heap. When he tried to rise, the ground came crashing up to meet him again and his head cracked against the earth, sending pain splintering through his entire body. He had to rest before he made his injuries worse. Raising his head enough to find a large spruce with limbs low towards the ground, he crawled to it and took cover in the needles. He couldn’t even take the sword from the scabbard across his shoulder as darkness crept over him.

* * *

It seemed he had just closed his eyes when he awoke with a start. His heart threatened to pound out of his chest, but he stayed very still, aware that one wrong move could mean death. Fluttering drew his attention to a bush just past the reaches of the pine’s branches, where two brown finches rolled together briefly in a brawl before one flew off, chased by the other. The sun was high in the sky.

He sighed in relief and lowered his forehead to the ground. He was still in the same position in which he’d collapsed. Dew covered his already soaking wet clothing and his warm breath came out in a puff of vapour as it mixed with the cool air. The first hard freeze was just weeks away, at most. That didn’t leave him very much time to figure out who he was and where he belonged.

Magnus.

The unfamiliar name twisted and turned itself over in his mind, but it wouldn’t stick. If it was his name, wouldn’t he recognise it? Just thinking about it made his head ache even more. Pushing himself to a sitting position, he had to wait for the world to right itself before he could open his eyes. His hand automatically went to the gash on his forehead and he grimaced at how tender and swollen it was. Another knot graced the back of his head, thanks to his fall. There was nothing he could do for the wounds now, though, not when there was every chance he was being chased by his captors.

His fingers moved to the tangled mess of hair. It was caked with blood and fell past his shoulders. If he came upon anyone, he couldn’t risk looking like a wild marauder covered with blood, so he’d have to cut it. All of the men in the death pile had longer hair and beards. Pulling the knife from the strap on his borrowed boots, he set about sawing through the length of his hair. It fell away in dark blond strands turned red with blood. When that was done, he scraped away his beard, though he wasn’t able to make it a close shave with the crude knife.

On shaking legs, he made his way back to the stream and took a long drink before dousing his head with the cold water until much of the remaining blood had been washed away. He couldn’t risk getting himself too clean and reopening the wounds. He needed all of his strength to get away.

Drawing in a shaking breath, he rose to his feet and entered the icy depths of the stream. If they found his tracks leading to the tree, perhaps they’d continue onward in that direction in their search for him.

* * *

He continued in the stream throughout the rest of the day, only getting out when he couldn’t bear its cold any longer. When night fell, he found another tree and collapsed in exhaustion. He needed food, but that would be a task for tomorrow.

Chapter Two

Aisly blinked back the threat of tears and attacked the dirt again with her spade, attempting to uproot the larkspur. The stubborn thing refused to break free of the soil. She’d already been gone for a large portion of the morning, and with the long trek back home, she didn’t have time to waste. The girls should almost be finished with the vestment hems she’d left them. The thick cord-and-line pattern was one they had mastered months ago, but if she didn’t get back soon, her young apprentices would be out playing in the morning sun and she’d never get them back inside to finish their work. A whole day would be lost.

A whole day she couldn’t afford to lose, because she’d be late on the order. The abbess was already fond of implying that Aisly’s charges bordered on sinfulness, even suggesting that a more devout woman might view it as a privilege to do God’s work for the abbey. She’d have no qualms about deducting for tardiness. Aisly didn’t know if her embroidery qualified as God’s work. She simply knew that it was her only means to earn a living. A means that was closer to slipping away from her with every day that passed.

That was the real reason for her tears, the reason she hacked at the root viciously until it finally gave way, causing her to fall backward with a thud. The real reason she’d had to come into the forest today, instead of waiting until the commission was finished. She hadn’t wanted anyone to see her tears. Her menses had begun that morning, a reminder that there would be no child, nothing at all to bind her to the home she had grown to love and to depend on for her livelihood. Nothing at all to keep her father-in-law from evicting her from her late husband’s home. There had been a marriage agreement giving her the right to her home. She had signed it the day she married him with Lord Oswine looking on, but she hadn’t found it in Godric’s things. Without Wulfric’s generosity, or a child to bind her to the property, she’d be homeless and without a means to earn a living.

Gathering her composure, she searched amongst the foliage for her discarded knapsack. Tears were foolishness that accomplished nothing, so she did her best to blink them back. It didn’t bear thinking about Godric’s dreadful father following through on his threat. Not yet anyway. She had months before he could even attempt it and there was no reason to believe that the elders would agree with him.

Even if the elders did agree with him, they would have to sway Lord Oswine. After her parents had died of ague, he had become the guardian of Aisly and her brother. Though the guardianship had meant they’d been more like servants than his children, he’d taken his responsibility for them very seriously. He’d attended her wedding and had overseen the signing of the contract.