ground.
Leaving him there, I rushed to Wilbert. “Are you hurt? Let me get you to safety!”
His skin was as grey as his hair. “Save yourself, my lady!”
“No, Wilbert! Come on!”
Wincing as the movement tore the wound on my arm wider, I hauled him up. I had to get him out of the fray. A man his age should have stayed at home, not fought in open battle.
“Come with me, Wilbert! Think of Walburgha! She’ll refuse to forgive me if anything happens to you!”
“She—won’t—forgive—me—my lady, if you come to harm.” His lips were white-edged, speech an effort. “Leave me here, I beg you.”
“Come!”
I’d yanked him to his feet and laid his arm across my shoulders when I heard Lord Leofric shout my name.
“Godiva! Behind you!”
“Godiva!” Leofric’s bellow of warning came again. Letting go of Wilbert I spun on my heel and gasped with fear, the sour milk of it filling my mouth, coating my tongue. Bearing down on me with a vengeance, his brutal axe held aloft, was the Danish warrior I thought I’d felled.
I tried to move but my feet refused to respond. Nor would my arms. As my brain sent desperate messages to raise my sword, it slipped between my fingers.
With a cry that sounded like outrage, Leofric vaulted between us and brought down the man’s shield with a crunching blow. His sword clashed with fire as if striking an anvil, as it met the Dane’s axe.
My shaking hands flew to my mouth to catch my escaping breath. The courage inside me collapsed as—transfixed with dread—I watched the warrior who had tried to kill me try to kill Leofric, Lord of Mercia.
But he’d met his death-match. Leofric’s sword arced through the air and split open the Dane’s head.
Stumbling away I clutched my belly, retching. Nothing came.
Leofric’s gloved thrust wrenched me out of the mass of heaving bodies and hauled me down behind the safety of a catapult frame. “Godiva.”
He crouched beside me. His breath battle-heavy, his face streaked with dirt and blood.
The sounds of the swords and shields stilled to a hum.
“You’re wounded,” he said.
The fight had made me shake. Nothing compared to what his nearness now made. He lifted my arm, peeling the sleeve to where the Dane had slashed his axe. I bit my tongue as the leather pulled on my torn flesh. He tore off his glove. His bare hand. Gentler than I ever imagined, he traced the lip-shaped wound.
“It’s not too deep.”
He kept hold of my arm. Impossible to pull away as he gripped me with an expression I couldn’t fathom.
“Godiva!” Edmund raced over, ducked behind the frame. Panting, he pushed his helmet from his sweating brow. “What happened? Are you all right?”
Leofric dropped my arm and turned on him with a face so furious I quailed.
“No thanks to you!” He shouted before I could speak. “You’re her bodyguard! A cniht ! What were you thinking to leave her like that?”
Edmund’s jaw clenched.
“It wasn’t Edmund’s fault!” I cried. “It was mine. He tried to keep in front of me but I ran to help Wilbert.”
“Your bodyguard should defend you no matter what happens. It’s his Saxon charge.”
“Godiva, forgive me.” Edmund’s voice was hoarse against the clashing blades. “I looked and you were gone.”
“You ought never to have let her out of your sight,” Leofric said, taut-lipped.
He seemed to speak to himself as much as to Edmund.
“Take her to safety,” he ordered next. “She must fight no more.”
“No! I…”
“Lord Leofric!” A Mercian warrior rushed up. “Thurkill has fled!”
Leofric seized the man by his tunic. “What?”
“He’s vanished, my lord! He’s fled to the woods and his men are following him!”
He spoke the truth. Amazed, we watched as the Danes remaining in the field surged like a swarm of bees into the thick woods on the opposite side of the plain.
Bewilderment broke out amid our men in a babble of calls and jeers. “They’re running away!”
Acwell,
Leaving him there, I rushed to Wilbert. “Are you hurt? Let me get you to safety!”
His skin was as grey as his hair. “Save yourself, my lady!”
“No, Wilbert! Come on!”
Wincing as the movement tore the wound on my arm wider, I hauled him up. I had to get him out of the fray. A man his age should have stayed at home, not fought in open battle.
“Come with me, Wilbert! Think of Walburgha! She’ll refuse to forgive me if anything happens to you!”
“She—won’t—forgive—me—my lady, if you come to harm.” His lips were white-edged, speech an effort. “Leave me here, I beg you.”
“Come!”
I’d yanked him to his feet and laid his arm across my shoulders when I heard Lord Leofric shout my name.
“Godiva! Behind you!”
“Godiva!” Leofric’s bellow of warning came again. Letting go of Wilbert I spun on my heel and gasped with fear, the sour milk of it filling my mouth, coating my tongue. Bearing down on me with a vengeance, his brutal axe held aloft, was the Danish warrior I thought I’d felled.
I tried to move but my feet refused to respond. Nor would my arms. As my brain sent desperate messages to raise my sword, it slipped between my fingers.
With a cry that sounded like outrage, Leofric vaulted between us and brought down the man’s shield with a crunching blow. His sword clashed with fire as if striking an anvil, as it met the Dane’s axe.
My shaking hands flew to my mouth to catch my escaping breath. The courage inside me collapsed as—transfixed with dread—I watched the warrior who had tried to kill me try to kill Leofric, Lord of Mercia.
But he’d met his death-match. Leofric’s sword arced through the air and split open the Dane’s head.
Stumbling away I clutched my belly, retching. Nothing came.
Leofric’s gloved thrust wrenched me out of the mass of heaving bodies and hauled me down behind the safety of a catapult frame. “Godiva.”
He crouched beside me. His breath battle-heavy, his face streaked with dirt and blood.
The sounds of the swords and shields stilled to a hum.
“You’re wounded,” he said.
The fight had made me shake. Nothing compared to what his nearness now made. He lifted my arm, peeling the sleeve to where the Dane had slashed his axe. I bit my tongue as the leather pulled on my torn flesh. He tore off his glove. His bare hand. Gentler than I ever imagined, he traced the lip-shaped wound.
“It’s not too deep.”
He kept hold of my arm. Impossible to pull away as he gripped me with an expression I couldn’t fathom.
“Godiva!” Edmund raced over, ducked behind the frame. Panting, he pushed his helmet from his sweating brow. “What happened? Are you all right?”
Leofric dropped my arm and turned on him with a face so furious I quailed.
“No thanks to you!” He shouted before I could speak. “You’re her bodyguard! A cniht ! What were you thinking to leave her like that?”
Edmund’s jaw clenched.
“It wasn’t Edmund’s fault!” I cried. “It was mine. He tried to keep in front of me but I ran to help Wilbert.”
“Your bodyguard should defend you no matter what happens. It’s his Saxon charge.”
“Godiva, forgive me.” Edmund’s voice was hoarse against the clashing blades. “I looked and you were gone.”
“You ought never to have let her out of your sight,” Leofric said, taut-lipped.
He seemed to speak to himself as much as to Edmund.
“Take her to safety,” he ordered next. “She must fight no more.”
“No! I…”
“Lord Leofric!” A Mercian warrior rushed up. “Thurkill has fled!”
Leofric seized the man by his tunic. “What?”
“He’s vanished, my lord! He’s fled to the woods and his men are following him!”
He spoke the truth. Amazed, we watched as the Danes remaining in the field surged like a swarm of bees into the thick woods on the opposite side of the plain.
Bewilderment broke out amid our men in a babble of calls and jeers. “They’re running away!”
Acwell,
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