Page 48

Chapter

Forty-Three

Grahame

B lood flecked Adara’s neck, coated her right arm to the elbow. Her skin was ashen, her cheeks tearstained, yet Grahame had never seen anything more beautiful. Only when she looked beyond his shoulder, and he saw her face fall did he turn.

Bodies littered the ground.

A small company of their men pressed toward Clayton House, swords and shields low. Grahame had to catch Adara around the waist when she gasped and tried to break into a run.

“Let go! Grahame, let go!” she howled.

Her nails dug into the forearm wrapped around her waist. When he refused, she loosened her grip, pointing instead to the people strewn among the grass.

“Thor!” The name was a sob.

Grahame bent his nose to her hair for one moment—one last moment before grief and rage and helplessness took hold of them again.

His wife smelled of dust and blood and sunshine.

He knew it made him wretched, but she was alive .

And so, despite the unrelenting ache in his shoulder, he twined their fingers together as he drew a knife with his other hand.

Men stared up at the sky, forever unblinking, wounds decorating their torsos.

Blood had turned into a black river between bodies.

Uhtread, eyes closed, had a hand to his chest over a wound.

Grahame felt bile rise in the back of his throat.

Adara ran past him. She pulled at Grahame, threading them through too many bodies, her hand trembling in his.

At the front, straw-blond hair peeked from beneath a bloodied shield.

How she sighted Thor beneath the wooden slab, Grahame didn’t know.

When no one rose up to harm her, Grahame released Adara so they could overturn the round piece of wood.

Beneath, Thorhild knelt, as if he’d simply fallen to his knees, his chest to his thighs, hands splayed above his head. His sword lay a foot away.

“Thor!” Adara said. “Rise.”

The command in her voice was usurped by the gentle hand she placed on his shoulder. Still. He remained so still. Adara knelt in the dirt beside him.

“Thor, you must rise.”

Her voice broke on the last word. She gripped his shoulder, trying to turn her friend’s face to the sun.

“Thor, please.”

Grahame stepped over one of her father’s men to crouch beside her. Tears ran rivers down her cheeks. He steeled himself, placing a sturdy hand on Thorhild’s shoulder to help push the man to his front.

“Come on, Thor,” he said, more for Adara’s sake. Grahame already knew the man’s fate but would help ferry his wife’s shock to grief.

They managed to roll Thor over, his body butting up against another of the dead.

His eyes were empty, staring ahead. A gash at his neck wept a stream of blood while a knife protruded from his chest. Sorrow hit Grahame harder than he expected.

Yet he remained silent while Adara’s hands floated over her friend’s face, cupping it as if to focus his gaze on her. A wretched wail cut from her.

Grahame wrapped his arm around her shoulders to pull her away.

“Shhh, ’Dara. Shhh. He is at peace,” Grahame whispered into her hair.

A sob clawed its way out of her, then another. Adara would have bent forward in pain if he weren’t holding her back to his front. Still, Grahame whispered soothing nothings into her ear.

Suddenly, she sat straighter, turning to look up at him. Her silver eyes were red-rimmed and wild.

“We must check for others. Yrsa. I heard Yrsa shout in the middle of the fight. Can you see her?”

Grahame ground his teeth and braced himself. He did not think he could find the friend that was a sister to him in the dirt. Knew he could not pull a sword from Ridley’s chest.

Grahame rocked back on his heels and stood, the bridge of his nose stinging.

He looked to Clayton House where a cluster of their forces had halted at the gates.

They were moving back in a somewhat uniform formation.

Grahame’s fear was subdued. Ridley couldn’t be dead.

He was the one who would have been directing men like that.

And if Ridley was with the men, it meant Yrsa would be with him.

There is no way he would have left his wife’s side if she had fallen.

“I believe Yrsa to be alright. Ridley, too. Come, let us check for wounded then we must go to the front. They will need us.”

Adara reached forward, wrapping her hand around the handle that protruded from Thor’s center. She grunted as she tugged it free, fresh tears flowing. Leaning forward, she placed a kiss on his brow then slid his eyes closed.

“We’ll be back for you,” she whispered.

She twined her fingers with his, her gaze scouring the battlefield for those who had fallen.

Uhtread. Paul. More faces from Guston he’d only met a couple of days prior.

At least they were dead. A few of Eadric’s men moaned in pain, but when he and Adara assessed the severity of their injuries, nothing could be done.

One man begged for death, another was so delirious with pain, he offered his sword to them so he wouldn’t suffer.

Adara stood by, her face a stony mask of determination as Grahame wielded the blade, striking true. Grahame retched after it was done.

His arm ached, but he picked up a discarded shield all the same, strapping it to himself. He wanted Adara far from the field but would not deny her victory. Burying their devastation, they ran to the group that rallied against the gate.

“We’ve been locked out!” Sam shouted as they approached. He appeared as if he’d lived an extra ten years, but at least he was standing.

“Let her through!” a female voice shouted from the back. The wooden gate towered over them, casting their army in shadow. Within seconds, Yrsa pushed through the assembled men. Blood decorated her shortened hair, her face, her neck. There was so much of it, Grahame had to look twice.

“Yrsa,” Adara said, eyes wide. Adara reached for Yrsa.

Yrsa simply waved her off, shaking her head. “I am fine. A few scratches. The pigs retreated and barred the entry. None are coming from the back field, as if they’ve been told to stand down. Is there another way in? We could climb over but with their advantage in number, it would mean death.”

“At the rear, too close to the wheat field.”

“No.” The word fell from Grahame’s mouth before he could halt it.

“They retreated. We do not have enough men for a full assault. If we go around the rear, the force in the field will pick us apart. We stay with our original plan. Siege. We starve them out. At least we’ll have a chance to run if they mount another attack. ”

Yrsa’s brow quirked, the side of her mouth tipping up. Ridley materialized at her side, somewhat less worse for wear. He nodded, relief entering his gaze as he beheld Grahame and Adara.

“It sounds as if there is chaos inside. The death of Eadric was the key.” He inclined his head to Adara. She stood stoic against the praise.

“We should wait, Ridley. Their forces could advance and we do not have enough men,” Grahame urged.

Ridley issued a curt nod. He scanned the men around him, lips working silently as he counted their number. He called off those pounding at the gate, ordering them back to the area before the battleground. Eadric’s men did not reconfigure.

Crossing back over the battlefield was another torture.

Those from Hyrstow and Guston found friends and family members among the dead.

Adara remained at the fire to help the injured.

She saw to everyone herself, either wrapping wounds or offering soft words before she, Ridley, and Yrsa settled around one of the fires to strategize.

By nightfall, when Grahame returned from sorting the dead, his ribs and arm throbbed.

He only had enough in him to pull Adara from her seat and take her to a tent to sleep.

Beneath the threads of dawn, Eadric’s dead were carted off four by four in a wagon originally used for supplies.

They were dumped at the front gate. Whether the corpses would be collected by those inside remained to be seen.

The only body they kept was Eadric’s. Though they didn’t want him rotting in the sun near camp, proof of his death was needed.

Yrsa wrapped the man in an old blanket someone scrounged from a saddle bag, though Grahame saw her spit in his face before she covered it.

Adara avoided her father’s corpse all together.

At the end of the day, they buried their losses.

Ridley had asked if Adara wanted them to wait; to bury the dead in Clayton House’s small churchyard so that she wouldn’t have graves in the field leading to her estate.

She shook her head, telling him she wanted the graves in full view of the house so the sacrifices would always be remembered.

Later, she shared with Grahame they would build a stone wall around the spot and have a priest bless the area in order to give proper rites to the dead.

Adara’s eyes shone with tears as Thor’s face was covered by dirt. Hagan, thankfully unscathed, placed a heavy hand on Adara’s shoulder. She patted it, offering a baleful smile.

“Muretta will be heartbroken,” she whispered.

Hagan nodded, his throat bobbing.

Ridley shovelled dirt with grim determination while Yrsa wiped away a tear.

“They lay in peace, now,” Grahame murmured into Adara’s ear as rocks were placed over the dirt.

“I know,” Adara said, her hands going to his forearms looped about her front.

She sighed, and Grahame swore he could feel the strength leaving her. He turned her into him, settling his hands on the dip in her waist. Adara nuzzled her face into his neck.

“There is more to come,” she said, the words muffled by his skin. “I fear…”

Grahame remained silent. Adara hugged him as if determined to never be parted.

“I fear violence will come down on me and everyone here. I killed an earl. I cast an entire earldom into peril.”

Grahame tightened his grip on her. She smelled of firesmoke and sweat. He loved it because it meant she was alive.

“You don’t know that.”

“The Britons can still regroup. My father promised them a union. Stability.”

“Then they will continue to be disappointed. We will never give them that.”

Adara nodded into the crease of his neck. Her hands tucked themselves up against his chest.

Without a word, Grahame released her, sliding a hand down her arm to twine their fingers together. He led her to the newly erected tent where sleep found them immediately.

The next morning, they awoke to shouts and movement outside of Clayton House. Frantic, they strapped on armor as quickly as they could.

“I’m not staying behind,” Adara said.

Grahame crossed the small space, cupped the back of her head, and stamped a kiss on her lips.

“I don’t want you to. Yet I will remind you of your promise to stay by my side. We are better as one.”

They watched the retreat of the troops from the field behind the house. Tents were lowered, men on horseback moved north. Grahame’s mouth fell open as they watched.

“There are still forces in the house,” Ridley said.

As the sun rounded the sky, they watched the Briton army fully retreat from Clayton House.

Adara proclaimed she’d had enough waiting. The bodies had been collected from the front gate. It hung open at an odd angle as they approached. Hair on the back of Grahame’s neck stood on end as they passed through.

The yard was abandoned. No stable hands nor horses scurried about. No sound emanated from the house. The garden had been picked clean. The party moved to the front door, slow at first, as if the sensation of desertion was a toll on them all. When Ridley pushed the door, it swung open easily.

“Show yourselves!” Ridley shouted into the dark entrance. Grahame swallowed down his rising fear. In such a tight space? They’d be slaughtered.

No answer came from the depths of the house. Ridley’s sword remained high as he moved inside, silent as death. Slowly, they followed, Yrsa flanking Ridley’s right and Grahame filling the space to his left. Sounds of shuffling came from the kitchens, while low murmurs were heard in the great room.

“Put down your weapons,” Ridley said into the house.

They paused, listening for the sound of metal dropping, but none came.

Every muscle in Grahame coiled tight. He angled his body so he could cover Adara’s with his if there was an attack. If she noted his movement, she let it slide. Ridley paused, then nodded, advancing into the great room.

Three men sat at the long table, mugs and a loaf of bread before them. They looked up from their meager meal, no shock on their faces.

One with silver hair and a pointed countenance spoke. “Finally, you’ve come.”