Read Online Surrender My Love by Johanna Lindsey - Free Book Online
Authors: Johanna Lindsey
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and I have seen it done. Do it.”
The healer shook her head fearfully. “But I have never. I have not the strength—”
“Turgeis!”
Erika didn’t look to see if he was there. He was always there. And he came to the opposite side of the bed and, without being told, took hold of Thurston’s wrist.
“Hold him,” was all he said to her.
She did, gathering the boy up gently into her arms and whispering against his cheek, “This may hurt a bit more, dear heart, before it gets better. ’Tis all right for you to scream once more.”
He did, right in her ear, before he slumped in her arms, unconscious. She carefully laid him back down, wiping the tears from his cheeks, ignoring her own, glad he had fainted for the while. She caught Turgeis’s eye, was about to thank him, but remembered instead. The prisoner. And again the color drained from her face.
“Go!” she gasped out, praying she wasn’t too late. “Stop Wulnoth from hurting the Celt, and mayhap you can get a name out of him so we can be rid of him.”
Turgeis had only waited for her permission. He ran now, and the rafters shook down dust motes in his wake, the servants amazed to see a man his size moving so fast. But Turgeis was also afraid too much time had passed, and when he arrived at the pit, he wasn’t pleased to be proved right.
Wulnoth didn’t hear him enter, too intent on what he was doing. Turgeis caught his upraised arm before it could descend again, and used it to hurl the man across the room, where he slammed into the wall.
“She did not tell you to kill him,” Turgeis growled.
There wasn’t a man alive, Wulnoth was sure, who wouldn’t be terrified of this Viking if that man earned his fury. “I had barely begun,” he protested, though he said no more. Turgeis imagined that was so, that Wulnoth would have continued for several hours if he had had his way. Turgeis ignored him for the moment to see what damage had been done, and was relieved to see it was not serious.
The prisoner had been twisted around so he faced the wall, his tunic cut from his body and now lying at his feet. More than two dozen vivid welts were raised across the man’s back and tender sides, where the lash had curled around him. A goodly number dripped blood. But at least Wulnoth had not deviated from what he had been told. Erika had said a lashing, and he had used the short, multi-stripped lash rather than his skin-mutilating whip. The cuts didn’tlook deep enough to scar, as long as they didn’t fester, but the whole would cause considerable pain for a while.
Yet it was plain to see the man was unconscious. That, of course, wouldn’t have stopped Wulnoth. But it shouldn’t be so, not after so few strokes, and Turgeis could not credit that a man this size had so little tolerance for pain, when he knew what he himself was capable of withstanding.
Something was not right. He had thought so earlier, watching the prisoner wax repeatedly between seeming drunkenness that slowed his words and sharp clarity, between bemused confusion and perfect understanding wherein he had ready answers for each charge. And he had to be crazy to insult Erika as he had done, when his fate rested in her hands. That, or he had a death wish.
If Turgeis had thought those insults had been intentional, he would have challenged the man himself. But he didn’t think so. They seemed more a slip of the tongue, or a natural response to a woman. Either way, the prisoner hadn’t seemed surprised by the slips, hadn’t asked pardon for them, and hadn’t even realized he was giving offense.
Turgeis had also wondered why, with the kind of muscle that was capable of it, the man hadn’t yanked the hooked spike that his chains were attached to right out of the wall. Even if he had been biding his time for the best advantage, surely he would have prevented the lashing ifhe were able. Only Wulnoth had remained to administer it. The man calling himself Selig the Blessed could have easily
The healer shook her head fearfully. “But I have never. I have not the strength—”
“Turgeis!”
Erika didn’t look to see if he was there. He was always there. And he came to the opposite side of the bed and, without being told, took hold of Thurston’s wrist.
“Hold him,” was all he said to her.
She did, gathering the boy up gently into her arms and whispering against his cheek, “This may hurt a bit more, dear heart, before it gets better. ’Tis all right for you to scream once more.”
He did, right in her ear, before he slumped in her arms, unconscious. She carefully laid him back down, wiping the tears from his cheeks, ignoring her own, glad he had fainted for the while. She caught Turgeis’s eye, was about to thank him, but remembered instead. The prisoner. And again the color drained from her face.
“Go!” she gasped out, praying she wasn’t too late. “Stop Wulnoth from hurting the Celt, and mayhap you can get a name out of him so we can be rid of him.”
Turgeis had only waited for her permission. He ran now, and the rafters shook down dust motes in his wake, the servants amazed to see a man his size moving so fast. But Turgeis was also afraid too much time had passed, and when he arrived at the pit, he wasn’t pleased to be proved right.
Wulnoth didn’t hear him enter, too intent on what he was doing. Turgeis caught his upraised arm before it could descend again, and used it to hurl the man across the room, where he slammed into the wall.
“She did not tell you to kill him,” Turgeis growled.
There wasn’t a man alive, Wulnoth was sure, who wouldn’t be terrified of this Viking if that man earned his fury. “I had barely begun,” he protested, though he said no more. Turgeis imagined that was so, that Wulnoth would have continued for several hours if he had had his way. Turgeis ignored him for the moment to see what damage had been done, and was relieved to see it was not serious.
The prisoner had been twisted around so he faced the wall, his tunic cut from his body and now lying at his feet. More than two dozen vivid welts were raised across the man’s back and tender sides, where the lash had curled around him. A goodly number dripped blood. But at least Wulnoth had not deviated from what he had been told. Erika had said a lashing, and he had used the short, multi-stripped lash rather than his skin-mutilating whip. The cuts didn’tlook deep enough to scar, as long as they didn’t fester, but the whole would cause considerable pain for a while.
Yet it was plain to see the man was unconscious. That, of course, wouldn’t have stopped Wulnoth. But it shouldn’t be so, not after so few strokes, and Turgeis could not credit that a man this size had so little tolerance for pain, when he knew what he himself was capable of withstanding.
Something was not right. He had thought so earlier, watching the prisoner wax repeatedly between seeming drunkenness that slowed his words and sharp clarity, between bemused confusion and perfect understanding wherein he had ready answers for each charge. And he had to be crazy to insult Erika as he had done, when his fate rested in her hands. That, or he had a death wish.
If Turgeis had thought those insults had been intentional, he would have challenged the man himself. But he didn’t think so. They seemed more a slip of the tongue, or a natural response to a woman. Either way, the prisoner hadn’t seemed surprised by the slips, hadn’t asked pardon for them, and hadn’t even realized he was giving offense.
Turgeis had also wondered why, with the kind of muscle that was capable of it, the man hadn’t yanked the hooked spike that his chains were attached to right out of the wall. Even if he had been biding his time for the best advantage, surely he would have prevented the lashing ifhe were able. Only Wulnoth had remained to administer it. The man calling himself Selig the Blessed could have easily
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