[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
why. Maybe she felt bad about her failure. Her awkward repairs would not make him new, and the
gouge that ran from hip to groin might have taken something else he treasured. Pray to the gods that she
would never know for sure.
When she was done, she presented the crutch he had spurned last night and dared him to refuse it. He
grasped it with the only hand that was free and looked at her expectantly.
Gods! She had not thought this through. He would not be able to use his crutch with several limbs still
tied to her posts. She would have to untie him. He knew it, too. He spoke, something unintelligible, and
nodded reassuringly. She took a deep breath, casting about for alternatives. There were none. She didn't
have it in her to abandon him before he could walk. She sighed and hung her knife on a peg above the
firebox, then returned to untie his knots. "Don't think you've won," she warned. "You still need my help."
He dragged his bad leg to hang over the edge of the shelf as she steadied his bare shoulders. Her heart
beat loudly as she sat beside him and put her shoulder under his bad one. It was taking a terrible chance
to be so near when he was free.
She glanced fearfully into his face. A fierce and eager little smile shone there. His eyes were bright as he
nodded encouragement. He wanted this. Did that mean she was safe for now? She pulled his bad arm
around her neck. The closeness of his body got in the way of the fear she should be feeling. She took a
breath and counted to three. On three, he heaved himself up as she lifted.
Their effort was almost over before it began. His knees buckled and she staggered with his weight. But
she righted herself and he managed to get his legs under him. He pulled the crutch in under his good
shoulder and leaned into it. Britta unwound his arm from her neck. He balanced there, his face gone gray.
She did not need to urge him, though. He took a step forward with his good side and then convulsively
moved his crutch, dragging one foot after him. After three or four laborious, tottering steps, even his good
leg buckled. He cursed and would have gone down if Britta had not darted in to support him.
His face registered disgust and intense disappointment. "But you did well," she encouraged as she
half-dragged him back to his shelf. "There will be other times."
He sank onto his pallet with a small groan of protest.
Fists on her hips, she stared at him as the muttered curses flowed between his gritted teeth. "Enough," she
commanded. Then, as an afterthought, "Bolla?" He nodded wearily, and she handed it to him. It must
seem a long way toward independence now.
The messenger who came into Offa's hall had ridden hard. His boots were mud-splashed and his horse
sweaty and blowing. Offa could see that he wanted to deliver his message immediately, so he refused to
allow it. First the man must have rest and brush the dirt from his leathers, then drink the ceremonial horn
of mead. The scald from the north sang a song of welcome as the men stamped their feet.
Offa himself was distracted. The wicce from the island, that traitorous wench, had still not come to shore
where he could get at her. It was hard to concentrate on guests. And this was one, Offa knew, whose
message would not be welcome just now. At last Offa nodded toward the messenger. The man leapt to
his feet and came forward eagerly. "You have news?" Offa asked.
"I have a command," the messenger announced, "from Edmund, King of all Anglia."
Offa smiled. He knew very well whom the man represented. But Edmund had not been quite grateful
enough to Offa for his help in taming the wild Suthfolc thegns when they had been scheming with Mercia
against the Anglian throne. "What is Edmund's request!" he asked slowly and deliberately.
The messenger's face darkened, but he bowed his head. "Cent has fallen to the Viking horde of those
two hell-begotten brothers, Halfdan and Ivar the Boneless, sons of Ragnar Lothbrok. King Boroghed
has surrendered."
Offa's thegns were thunderstruck. Their murmuring protest swelled around the hall. "He paid the
Danegeld, didn't he? That's not surrender," Badenoth protested.
Offa and Raedwald exchanged glances. They knew better.
"He surrendered," the messenger repeated. "Cent is theirs."
Offa made a motion for silence around the hall and drew himself forward on his bench to stare at the
messenger. It should have been his lot to tell Edmund what the plans of the Viking raiding fleet were to
be. That victory had been denied him.
"Edmund gathers his forces at Thetford for a war council in a fortnight. He prepares to defend Anglia,
come spring," the messenger reported. "He orders you to meet him there."
Heads nodded around the hall. This was probably the one thing to which all thegns in Anglia could bind
their will in unison at this moment.
"What about Danegeld?" Raedwald asked. "Will Edmund try to buy peace?"
"That you must ask Edmund." The messenger shrugged.
Offa slapped the trestle table with the flat of his hand. "Bide here tonight," he commanded the messenger.
"Tell Edmund it pleases us to be in Thetford a fortnight hence." That meant that he had very little time to
finish his business with the red-haired witch.
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]