Warriors dragged Strian and Gressa to a tent further away from Grímr’s. This time they had Norse guards who could understand anything they plotted. It was hours before anyone brought them a meager meal of Scottish bannocks, which were dry oatcakes, and two mugs of ale. Their jailors left with one water skein to share between the two of them. They appreciated small mercies: Grímr had allowed them to stay together. The couple huddled together, both for the security they felt in each other’s arms and the opportunity to whisper.
“How much of our stories do you think Grímr believed?” Strian murmured near Gressa’s ear.
“Most of it. His greed and ambition override most people’s rational thoughts. He isn’t stupid enough to rush forward with an attack because we told him how. He will send more spies. That’s why he said we would wait two days. He will check to make sure we didn’t lie.” Gressa spoke in equally low tones. “I pray that our lies about relations deteriorating is enough to overlook the truth about ways to enter the homestead.”
“They should be. How can he know that we’ve been doubling the guards at both gates? He won’t be able to see the extra guards on the ground inside the wall. He’ll only see the defenses Ivar wants him to see. We’ve expected spies the entire time.”
“I suppose. I imagine the others noticed our absence by now, so they must have figured out someone took us. Do you think they’ve sent anyone to search for us?”
“Probably, but without a full army, they won’t come close enough to risk being captured, too. I don’t think this is where Ivar or Rangvald want to hold a battle. Grímr’s too entrenched here. The tents offer too many places for hiding or ambushing our people. If anything, Ivar and Rangvald will lure Grímr away from the camp. He will take us with him as hostages. I don’t think even he’s arrogant enough to believe we will fight on his side.”
“I wouldn’t put anything past him, but I think you’re right. As long as he doesn’t separate us, we should make it through what he plans. I just hope we can get back to our people before they think we have switched allegiances.”
“They won’t.” Strian reassured.
“I’m not so sure. They already believe I’m a spy. It won’t take much for people to argue I bewitched you and forced you to turn against them.” Gressa bit her bottom lip.
“The people who matter won’t think that, and that’s all that matters.”
“Strian, you know that’s about as true as the sky being green. Ivar and Rangvald can control people attacking us, but they can’t control their thoughts or the small things they can do to lash out at us, at me.”
“Then maybe when this is all over, you were right to say we want to travel back with the Welshmen.”
“To be unwanted there, too? The only way that can happen is if Rhys is killed here, and that can’t happen at either of our hands unless we can hide it from Dafydd. If Rhys lives, he will kill you to marry me, and if Dafydd discovers one of us has killed his brother, then we will both be dead.”
“Then we send Tyra and Freya his direction. Neither of them will stand for any woman being forced to marry a man under such conditions.”
Gressa could not repress her smile despite the dire circumstances.
“You are right,” she chuckled.
Five men entering the tent cut their conversation short. None of them said a word, but three of them seized Strian before he could get to his feet. They pinned him down as the other two captured Gressa’s arms and legs. She twisted and squirmed, making it difficult for them to hold on to her. The man attempting to hold her legs released them and stepped forward, driving his fist into her stomach, knocking the wind from her.
“Gressa!” Strian bellowed like an enraged bull. He fought loose of the three men, rampaging towards the men who struggled to carry Gressa through the tent flap. He dove at the man who had punched her, tackling him to the ground. Once more his need to protect Gressa consumed him, and before any of the other men could pull him off, he had choked the life from the man. Strian struck out the moment a guard pulled him to his feet. He kicked one man in the groin as he threw his head forward to headbutt another. He was prepared to move on to the next man when he heard Gressa’s strangled voice call to him. Gressa stood with a man behind her, a beefy arm synching her arms to her side, and the other around her throat. Strian froze. The fight drained from him, and he put up little resistance when three more men rushed forward and forced him to the ground. He watched as a man dragged Gressa away at knife point; he saw the fear in her eyes as she cast one last look over her shoulder. He was not sure if the fear was for him or for herself. He knew his fear was for both.
Gressa was towed behind an enormous Highlander who blocked out any view of where they were going, though she suspected there were only three choices: Grímr’s tent, Rhys’s tent, or the center of the camp where all the men could watch whatever humiliation was planned for her.
She did not have long to wait until she learned it was the last option.
The man dragging her along thrust her forward, and she scrambled to keep her footing to prevent falling into a cook fire.
“You have been causing more trouble, I hear.” Rhys looked up as though her arrival was of little consequence.
“No more than you should expect when you hold two people who offered help as captives.”
“Help,” Rhys’s mirthless chuckle grated on Gressa’s frayed nerves. He continued to look at the sword he sharpened. “And what help is that? And what do you demand in return?”
“You know the answer to both questions. We can provide the information and means needed to enter the settlement and overrun Ivar’s forces.” She remembered that Rhys had only spoken of Ivar while Grímr mentioned both Ivar and Rangvald. If Rhys and Grímr were not aligned in their ideas, mainly because they could barely communicate, she was not the one to correct them. “In return, we want safe passage back to Wales.”
“So, you agree to marry me.”
“I can’t be married to two men at once. Your church doesn’t allow it, and I refuse anyway.”
“My church does not forbid me from marrying a widow,” Rhys looked up, leering at her as his gaze settled on her breasts rather than her face.
“Then I would soon be a widow twice over.” Gressa’s voice had a steel edge no one missed even if they did not understand the Welsh conversation. “Don’t doubt I’ll kill you if you harm Strian.”
“Why do you even want to return to Wales? You continue to refuse my offer of marriage, and you must have realized by now that Dafydd and Enfys sold you to Grímr.”
