rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_615f3ecf-9f48-5c7b-a71c-c83aaf9bd333">Chapter Three
Cwenneth avoided looking at the pile of bodies and instead concentrated on the smouldering remains of the cart. Smoke hung in the air, getting in her eyes and lungs. Her entire life, including the future she hadn’t truly wanted but had been willing to experience for the sake of her people, was gone.
‘Is there anything left? Anything salvageable?’ she asked.
‘Either burnt or taken,’ came Thrand’s reply. ‘Did your lady only travel with one cart?’
‘There was a baggage cart as well.’ She frowned. ‘I should have said earlier.’
‘It is all gone then. Your lady’s dowry. They took anything that wasn’t nailed down and burnt the rest’
The words knifed through her.
‘But my things? My mother’s...comb.’ Cwenneth clamped her mouth shut before she mentioned the mirror and her jewellery. Since when would a maid have her own mirror, let alone rings and pendants?
It wasn’t the gold she missed, although she was furious about it. What she missed most was the lock of Richard’s hair, his soft baby hair. She used to wrap her fingers around it when she needed comfort and normally wore a pendant with it in to keep him close to her heart. Stupidly, she had taken off the pendant this morning and put it in the iron-bound trunk to keep it safe because the clasp was almost broken, and now it was gone for ever.
‘Time to go. There is no point in sifting through ash.’ Thrand put a heavy hand on her shoulder.
Cwenneth resisted the temptation to lean into him and draw strength from him. She stood on her own two feet now, rather than leaning on anyone, let alone a Norse warrior. ‘The sooner I am away from this place of death, the better.’
‘Take some boots. You will need them.’ The glacial blue in his eyes increased.
‘Why?’
It was clear from his expression what he thought of her. A barely tolerated encumbrance. Cwenneth didn’t mind. It was not as if she wanted to be friends. Somehow, some way she’d find an opportunity to escape.
Escape? Back to what? A brother who saw her as a counter to be used? And a sister-in-law who hated her? Cwenneth banished the disloyal thoughts. They were family. Lingwold was home and she loved its people. Whatever the future held, it wasn’t being a slave to this Norseman.
‘Why do I need boots?’
‘Unless you wish to walk in bare feet, you need boots. Your slippers will be torn to ribbons within a mile,’ he said with an exaggerated politeness.
‘From where?’ Cwenneth gestured about her. ‘Where are the boots stored? Where am I going to find a pair of boots?’
He gestured towards the bodies. His men immediately paused and backed away from them. ‘You are going to allow a good pair of boots to go to waste while your feet bleed?’
Her stomach knotted. He wanted her to rob the dead. ‘It feels wrong. They died wearing those boots.’
He made a cutting motion with his hand. ‘Do the dead care? Will they rise up and challenge you?’
A faint burn coursed up through her cheeks. She winced. He probably robbed the dead without a pang of guilt. Norsemen were like that. They took rather than respected the property of the living or the dead.
Cwenneth glared at him, hating his long blond hair, his huge shoulders and the fact that he was alive and her men were dead. ‘I have never robbed the dead before.’
‘Do you want to choose or shall I?’
‘I’ll choose.’ Cwenneth walked over to where the youngest of her men lay. Dain’s mother had been her nurse when she was little. She had asked for him because she thought he’d have a good future in her new household. Martha had readily agreed. ‘Dain’s boots. They are solid and new. His mother gave them to him before we departed. They are good leather to walk a thousand miles in, or so Martha proclaimed. She’d have liked me to have them.’
‘And you think they will fit?’ he asked in a casual tone. His eyes watched her as a cat might watch a mouse hole. ‘Shouldn’t you try them on first?’
She pressed her lips together. Perhaps she’d been too hasty at dismissing him as all brawn and very little brain. She needed to be very careful from here on out and weigh her words, rather than rushing to fill the silence.
‘I have large feet for a woman.’ She bent down and tore several strips of cloth from Dain’s cloak. Luckily the material ripped easily. ‘This should be enough to fill the toes.’
She knelt down and started to stuff the boots before she said anything more.
‘You have done this before,’ he remarked, hunkering down next to her.
Up close, she could see that his hair was a hundred different shades of yellow and that his features were finely made despite his overbearing size and manner. Their breath laced. Her hands trembled, and she redoubled her efforts. All she had to do was ignore her unwanted reaction to him. He wanted to unsettle her for his own perverse pleasure. Well, she’d disappoint him. She lifted her chin.
‘Once at Christmas, I dressed up as a bard.’ She gulped, rapidly shoving her feet into the boots before walking a few steps. ‘I mean, my lady did and I helped her. She wore her husband’s boots... When I get back to Lingwold, Martha will appreciate the gesture.’
‘And you believe the boots will last that long?’
‘I have to.’ She rubbed her hands together, pushing the thought away that she might never get back. Lingwold for all its faults was her home. ‘What shall I be riding in? Where is your cart?’
He appeared to grow several inches and his shoulders broadened. Barely tamed. Every inch the warrior. ‘Playtime is over. You won’t be riding, Lady Cwenneth.’ Thrand made a low bow. ‘Your ladyship will be walking. I am fresh out of carts and my horse is not overly fond of Northumbrians or women. And I’m not minded to inconvenience him for a proud Northumbrian lady like you. The only question is whether or not I have to tether you to my horse.’
She put her hand to her throat and her heartbeat resounded in her ears. He had called her Lady Cwenneth. Lady! ‘You know. How?’
His lips turned up into a humourless smile. ‘Did you think me an idiot? I’ve known since the first time you opened your mouth. It amused me to see how far you would push it and how many mistakes you’d make. You’re a very poor liar, my lady, even if your voice is sweet enough to charm birds from the trees.’
Cwenneth stared at her hands. Each word knifed her heart. She had been certain that she had fooled him. Naivety in the extreme. It would have been better if she’d died in the woods. She was Thrand Ammundson’s prisoner—worse than that, his slave. He knew her brother wanted his head and had been prepared to pay a high price to get it.
How could he be so cruel as to play this sadistic game? Giving her hope and then turning her over to the one man who would kill her? Her knees threatened to buckle. Summoning all her strength, she locked her knees and balled her fists.
‘Will
