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"Whether Guthrum brings his army to our aid or no, this will be a place of blood and death. You do not
belong here." He jutted his chin. His eyes were churning something, she could not tell what. "Give horses
to Alfred as you choose if he wins out."
She studied his face. Did he send her away as punishment for keeping her secret? Anger shushed out
with her breath and was gone. No. If he wanted to punish her, he would keep her here with him as
Alfred and Osrick descended, screaming for his head. There was something else at work, but she did not
know what. She nodded.
Grabbing a cloak, he thrust it into her arms. "Get food from the women."
His gray eyes locked with hers. There she saw echoed her own realization that this might be the last time
she would see him. They stood, her clutching the cloak to her breast, his breathing hard. Behind the
realization in his eyes something floated. Regret? She closed her eyes against it and pushed past into the
hall, through chaos. A woman pressed a bundle into her arms. Then she was into the night, down to the
gates and out to freedom. She sucked in evening air and began to run. Herd called.
Chapter Nine
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Pony's turmoil pushed her to her feet. Yfel Denesc hornungsunu! Why could she not stop thinking of
him? She let out a growl and strode to the door of her hut, unable to share the peace that settled over the
downs as twilight stole the color from hills and sky. She ran her hands through her hair and shook her
head as if that would clear it. It was his fault.
It was more than a week since she had returned to the Vale of the White Horse. Now, when everything
should be perfect, when she had fulfilled her maternal destiny, when she had escaped the clutches of the
Dene, when a life where her Gift could flourish in peace was hers; now nothing made sense. She didn't
feel fulfilled. The turmoil inside her had been growing ever since she left Chippenham. The images of what
would happen when Osrick and Alfred caught the small band of Vikings in the faesten would not be
banished. Visions of barbarians spitted on stakes, drawn and quartered, whipped to death, tormented
her. Would Alfred stop Osrick's brutality? She didn't know the king well enough to know. And if
Valgar's leader had sent a great army to meet Alfred, it only meant more carnage, more suffering. If the
Danes won, the Vikings would surely possess the entire island.
A little voice inside her said such would be no tragedy. Was not Valgar a fair and just eorl? More fair,
more just than Osrick, certainly. Predator he might be but who was worse? And Alfred was untried,
unknown. Who was to say that Saxon lords were better than Viking ones? She cursed her traitorous
soul. What should she care who won? She only cared who lived. And what she wanted was for the
Viking to live.
No, she did not, she told herself firmly. She only wanted peace enough to hear her horses, peace enough
to raise her girl-child. Nothing else mattered. Of course, she wanted her Gift. That was hard. Only
yesterday she had tried to summon First Mare for a ride, hoping to clear her head of all this worry over
the battle taking place some seven leagues across the downs. But First Mare had not heard her at all; she
just continued to graze in the meadow down by Waylan's Barrow with the others, as though Pony didn't
exist.
It was that yfel Viking's fault. He would not stay out of her head and give her peace. She had thought
that getting herself with child would stop the deterioration of her Gift. But her breeding state apparently
could not overcome the thoughts of Vikings and battles that kept her from communicating with First
Mare.
Pony ran her hands yet again through her hair, clutching it in handfuls as her thoughts ran round and
round. She couldn't stand this! "I want calm!" she shrieked into the dusk.
Across the pasture, First Mare raised her head and pricked her ears in surprise. White Stallion neighed a
warning. The mares with foals wheeled to the rear.
Great Mother! They thought she was an enemy carnivore.
Pony covered her mouth with her hands. What was she becoming?
Enough! Pony whirled into her hut, lit only by the dim coals of its firebox. She grabbed her cloak and
stuffed some carrots and parsnips into her pack, along with some fennel-seed cakes. She kicked the
coals apart and strode out into the deepening dusk. She should be heading up the Vale toward Wantage
to put as much distance as she could between herself and the battle that consumed her thoughts but it
was too late for that.
There was but one way to stop this chaos in her mind. She would to Chippenham, to see what had
happened there and who remained. Then she would live with what she found. She must banish this Viking
from her head, one way or another; and to do that, she would chance the world again.
Val surveyed the burning fortress, leaning on his sword. His limbs would barely hold him upright.
Silhouettes of men heaving buckets of water onto the burning walls hardly seemed connected to the
shouts and exhortations drifting through the smoke. Their efforts were not enough. The fire would have its
way with the palisades.
"Leave off!" he shouted. He pointed to the walls of the hall standing nearest the ravenous flames. "Put
your water there!" It at least might be saved.
He turned his back. The fortress was lost. Smoke filled his lungs and fogged the detritus of battle,
half-concealing the rent bodies, the overturned carts, the groaning survivors. One could hardly tell the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]