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“Athelstan!” The voice from his doorway interrupted his fervent prayer.
“Lord Aethelwulf,” he said, rising. “How may I help you?”
A half-smile played at the corners of the man’s mouth. “It appears our information was correct: The company of Northmen you were with have indeed landed here and set up camp. They sent a messenger to inform us of their arrival, and to request a meeting for negotiation.”
Athelstan frowned. “A messenger? One speaking our tongue?”
“With some difficulty, but yes. A tall fellow, very blond of hair and beard. He carried a bow and—“
“Torstein!” Athelstan interrupted. He couldn’t help the grin that erupted on his face, as he remembered teaching his friend some of the language. He had been an eager student, but always kept getting his pronouns confused.
Aethelwulf nodded. “Yes, I think that’s what he said his name was. He said that there were three companies here: your friend Ragnar, plus the king and another earl.”
A prickly sweat broke out all over his body, and his knees weakened. He sat down hard on the bed, realizing that Ragnar was not only alive, but had returned, just as his visions had promised.
Aethelwulf came over in front of him and smiled down. “It might interest you to know that Torstein asked after you.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him that you were alive, and were being well treated here by my father. He said Ragnar would be glad to hear that.”
Athelstan fidgeted. “What happens now?”
“He has asked that a small company return to the camp with him, to discuss the next steps in more detail than his command of the language would allow.”
Athelstan sprang to his feet. “I should go with you. I can help.”
Aethelwulf gently pushed down on his shoulder. “No. My father said you are to remain here. He doesn’t trust that the Northmen won’t harm you.”
“They won’t.” Athelstan shook his head. “Not if Ragnar and Torstein are there. They are—were—my closest friends among the Northmen. They will make sure I am kept safe.”
“I am sorry. My father has ordered you to stay. But if you like, I can bring a message from you to the camp. It may help assure them that our intentions are honorable.”
“Yes, of course. I . . .” His mind raced. After so long, there were a thousand things he wanted to say to Ragnar, but none of them were appropriate for the king’s son to pass on. Reflexively, his hand went to his wrist. The ring had been there only a matter of days before his capture, yet he could still feel its weight. Turning to the table at his bedside, he opened the box there and took out the prize. “I have no specific message,” he finally said, “but please give this to Ragnar. He will know it is mine, and will understand.”
***
Ragnar huddled close to the fire, a blanket draped around his shoulders to conceal the action of his hands. Since Aethelwulf had delivered the arm ring to him, he had not let it leave his grasp, and now, after the recklessness of Horik’s attack on the envoy, it was very nearly his only comfort.
It was clear that Aethelwulf had understood Athelstan’s importance. The exact nature of that importance was likely still unknown, but undoubtedly, if the king’s son knew that Athelstan mattered, the king did as well. Now, after the unprovoked strike, he was desperately afraid that his beloved might be a target of Ecbert’s ire. However well-kept Athelstan had been in the king’s care—and Ragnar believed he was—there was no telling now what danger he could face as an effective hostage.
To come so close to finally being reunited and then have it all go sideways filled him with gnawing frustration. He even briefly entertained the idea of leaving the camp under cover of night, and going to retrieve Athelstan all on his own. However, his sense of responsibility won out over the impulse—though only barely—and he remained in place. The best he could do under the circumstances was pray, and so he did.
“Allfather, I beg you, do not let him come to harm,” he murmured, tightly clutching the ring. As he did so, the action brought to mind something else: Athelstan clutching his silver cross as he prayed to his god many years ago. It occurred to Ragnar that being back among his people might well have pushed Athelstan back to his old faith. At minimum, he would likely have been required to seem like a Christian in order to survive. Perhaps then it was the Christian god to whom he should direct the prayer, he considered.
This prayer he left silent out of necessity—too many ears, belonging to too many people who would not understand—but in his mind, he begged: I am not a man of your faith, but as you have before spared the one who was devoted to you, please spare him again.
He slept fitfully that night, but one dream stood out: His black wings cut the air as he soared over hills and treetops. He cried out repeatedly in his search until eventually, a return call reached his ears: a coo, weak and pained, but distinct. On the ground below him, white feathers were stained with red.
***
Sleep did not come easily to Athelstan, and he found himself welcoming the gray haze of dawn, because at least he didn’t need to try anymore. He took just enough food to settle his nervous stomach, and then began to pace the halls while the battle raged in the fields beyond.
The villa was strangely quiet with most of the men gone. Only the women, children, elderly and infirm were left behind to wonder and wait for news. And, of course, he and the rest of the men of faith. Finally, the call came: the healers were needed. Ignoring the admonishment of the bishop to remain behind as he had been ordered, he joined the small cadre of monks with their bags full of bandages and opium and made for the battlefield.
Once he arrived, it took all of his powers of persuasion to convince the king to let him walk among the dead and dying. Even though the bodies of the slain posed him no threat, Ecbert apparently still believed that somehow, one might rise again and slay the priest he had taken for his pet.
An hour into his wanderings, he had not yet seen Ragnar among the casualties. There were some he recognized, however: a few passing acquaintances from Kattegat and, to his dismay, both of the shieldmaidens from Horik's camp who had protected him. They had died as they lived: side by side. Still, as each body he passed did not bear a face of those he loved the most, his heart became hopeful.
But then, he saw a face he did know.
Betrayed them? Athelstan stalked down the hall in confusion, Rollo’s words echoing in his mind. How could Horik claim such a thing? Much of his memory of the attack on his hunting party and his subsequent capture had succumbed to pain and opium, but his memory of the days before that was still clear. Aside from his refusal to join with Horik’s men in tormenting their captives, he had done nothing whatsoever that could have been read as betrayal. After he had recovered, his subsequent conversations with Ecbert had revealed something he found slightly strange: whilst Athelstan was nearly dying upon the cross, the remainder of the Northmen had broken camp and sailed away. Ecbert said he assumed they had gone back to join the others, and Athelstan agreed that that was most likely. He figured, therefore, that the attack they had encountered was simply a few scouts looking to pick off stragglers, rather than a concerted effort on the entire camp.
Now, however, he wondered whether that was the case, or whether some of Horik’s men—perhaps at the direction of the man himself—had staged the assault themselves, perhaps to eliminate anyone whom Horik had deemed a dissenter. Whether they were targeting him specifically he did not know, though given Horik’s feelings about Christians, it didn’t seem unlikely. Horik being the true traitor also explained why Aethelwulf’s party had been hit. Such a thing was most definitely not Ragnar’s style, but Horik’s? That was another story.
“You wished to see me, Sire?” Athelstan stepped hesitantly into the king’s chamber.
Ecbert lounged upon a couch, his hair damp and a thick robe draped loosely around him. He had invited Athelstan to his bath house once; he declined. “I did. Please, come have a seat.” He gestured tiredly to a chair nearby.
Athelstan sat gingerly upon the edge of the chair.
“Now that the Northmen have been defeated, I have decided I wish to negotiate with them. Having Ragnar’s brother in our care gives us a very good position. They are unlikely to attempt another surprise raid.”
“Sire, I don’t think the attack on your son’s party was—“
The king waved a hand. “I know. It’s not Ragnar’s nature. That’s beside the point now, however. I asked you here because I have decided to grant your request. My son tells me that Ragnar was overjoyed to receive that bauble you sent along with him; he believes you will be safe if we send you as an envoy. I still have my doubts, but no-one else is willing to volunteer anyway. Go to the stables; a mount will be provided for you.”
Athelstan tried very hard not to let the glee show on his face.
***
A mule, of all things. The sheer absurdity of it almost made Ragnar laugh. When he saw how Athelstan was attired, however, the laugh died in his throat. For a fleeting second, he wondered if Horik had been right—if the man he so loved really had betrayed them.
The doubt was quickly extinguished, thanks in great part to his son. If only, he lamented, it were so easy for him to speak openly of his own love for the man who had minded his children as if they were his own.
Now, as he stood in the glade, watching Athelstan lead his gentle mount away, every feeling he had been swallowing down for the past several months bubbled to the surface. His heart begged him to follow—to tumble Athelstan to the ground and make furious love to him right there among the trees, while the mule surely wondered why humans were such strange creatures. His desire to have more lovemaking sessions in the future than only one which would likely be their last kept his feet where they were. Still, he took a few moments to himself, letting a few tears fall and silently thanking whatever gods might be listening for at least letting him see and touch Athelstan again.
Worry still gnawed at him: However gently Ecbert had treated Athelstan, the scars on his hand and his talk of having despaired spoke of some other trauma. Aslaug’s mention of a vision of pain and his own dreams of such began to make more sense, now. He wanted to know more—he wanted to be told who had done this, so that he might return the pain to them ninefold—but it was not the time to ask, not when so much now rested on the weary, black-clad shoulders that had just disappeared around the bend. Heaving a great sigh, he turned and made his way back to the camp.
In the past two days, wearing the arm ring had been a comfort: a physical reminder that Athelstan was still alive and obviously still cared for him. Now, he sort of missed the weight of it, but knowing that it was back with its rightful owner definitely made up for the loss. For now, the metal would be his proxy, and embrace Athelstan’s arm until he himself could once again embrace the man entire.