“You know my reasons,” she hissed.
“Yes. The dead babe that’s already rotted in the ground. I suppose you’ve told that man about his dead son. He agrees to travel back to a foreign land, risk his own death, for a corpse?”
“That manis my husband, and he had a right to know.”
“Your grief has carried on long enough. You’d return to a place you are now unwanted all for bones buried half a score of years ago.”
“Those bones are my child’s. You and your brother refused to grant him a proper burial. You have deprived him of his rightful resting place. I won’t leave him there.”
“He is in his rightful place. In heaven. You know we baptized him.”
“You had no right,” she spat at Rhys. “My gods will never recognize your white christ.”
“You lived among us Christians. You even attended Mass.”
“That doesn’t mean I believed.”
This made Rhys come to his feet. He stepped around the fire and attempted to use his height to intimidate her. It had never worked in the past, but with Strian as a casualty, it did now. She steeled herself for Rhys’s outburst that she was sure would come. She was not disappointed.
“You pagan whore. You defiled our churches and the sanctity of communion by bringing your false gods and beliefs into the house of our Lord and savior.”
Rhys lashed out, the back of his hand aiming for her cheek, but Gressa was just as quick. She ducked away and stepped back, forcing Rhys to step forward as the momentum pulled his body.
“I never claimed to believe in the white christ. I never said I renounced my gods. How could anyone have doubted that when I demanded a proper burial for my son? Or my anger when Dafydd and your priest insisted on a Christian burial. How about when I refused to leave for Scotland because I did not want to leave him with your heathenish people?”
Rhys’s cheeks filled with color as spittle collected at the corner of his mouth. His other hand was quicker and wrapped around Gressa’s braid. He tugged until she had no choice but to bend backward lest he break her neck. He leaned forward and glared at her.
“You ungrateful wench. My brother and his wife took pity on your worthless soul. They welcomed you into their home, fed you, clothed you. They allowed you near their children despite your heretical pagan gods. This how you repay them? Refusing a marriage to a man far above your station, denigrating our places of worship by pretending to accept the right faith, and parading your heathen lover in front the man you are to marry.”
“Let go.”
The two words were calm and clear above Rhys’s vitriol. Gressa counted to five, giving Rhys the opportunity to release her. They were no longer in Wales. They were in the camp of lawless men where survival of the fittest was the rule of the day. She had seen more than one argument settled by a knife fight where only one combatant walked away. If she had been a man, she would have been expected to fight. She had already defended herself more than once since joining this motley band of miscreants. They stripped both Strian and Gressa of their obvious weapons. They confiscated Strian’s sword and Gressa’s bow, but no one searched them for what they could not see. It had surprised the couple that no one investigated whether they had more weapons, especially the Highlanders, since they carried knives wherever they could fit them. Gressa reached into what looked like a loose pocket of her tunic, but it was the sheath to a very sharp and pointed knife. She pulled it free and spun towards Rhys before the man knew what was happening. The point of the knife entered him just below his sternum. Gressa thrust upward until she buried the knife to its hilt. As Rhys looked at her in shock, she spat in his face.
“You won’t survive this. You should have ended your pursuit years ago when I told you I would not marry you. I don’t have a heathen lover. I have a husband who I have remained faithful to since the day we wed. My time with Grímr was born of my devotion to keep Strian alive. You shouldn’t have insulted him, and you shouldn’t have besmirched the memory of my child. For that, you die.” Gressa twisted the knife then ripped it away from his body. “You should have understood by now that I will always choose my family first. My son and my husband.”
Gressa watched as the pain and sudden loss of blood clouded Rhys’s vision. He was only moments away from death, but she was impatient to see one of her nemeses breathe his last. She drew the blade across his throat. Blood splattered across her face and her chest. She looked around at the crowd that had gathered. No one had attempted to intervene. Rhys was not a well-liked man by those who owed their fealty to his brother nor the ones who had met him through conscription to Grímr. Gressa swept her tongue over her lips as though she savored the taste of Grímr’s blood. It made her want to retch, but it had the desired effect on the Highlanders and Welshmen. They collectively took a large step backwards mortified to see a woman revel in wearing the blood of her enemy. The Norsemen turned their backs unsurprised and unimpressed. Gressa waited for men to rush forward and once again seize her, but no one appeared inclined to come near her. She looked around, trying to determine whether she was free to move about the camp or if someone would spring out to nab her.
When no one attempted to restrain her, she wiped her blade across Rhys’s chest, sheathed the knife, and rushed forward. She wove through the camp looking for the tent where the men dumped Strian. He was not in the one where they had huddled together. She peeked into one tent after another, but to no avail. As she began to grow fearful that they had removed him from the camp, a Highlander she remembered from the battle at the Ross keep stepped from the shadows. She reached for her knife, but he shook his head. He placed his finger to his lips and gestured for her to follow him. He took her to one of the few tents she had not looked into. He pulled back the flap to let her enter but did not follow her in. He stood casually but was on alert as her self-appointed guard.
Strian turned towards the light as he heard someone enter the tent. The eye not swollen shut took in the sight of Gressa running towards him. At first, relief filled him to see her in one piece, but as she approached with blood covering the front of her, he struggled to pull himself onto his feet.
“Strian,” Gressa moaned as she took in the damage done to his handsome face in the short time they had been apart. A part of her took a perverse pleasure in knowing Rhys was dead as she took in Strian’s battered face. He held an arm around his ribs and limped forward. Gressa caught him as he tried to walk on unsteady legs.
“What did they do to you?” Strian pulled away to look at Gressa, his concern clear as he searched for the wound that could cause so much blood but still allow her to move about with apparent ease.
“Rhys is dead. He went too far and now will never make the mistake of insulting our family.”
Strian took in what Gressa said, hearing her say Rhys was dead, but it was one of the few times she mentioned them as a family. The word lingered in his mind as she continued to speak. He was too fixated on her thinking of them as a family to follow along with the conversation.
“Strian?”
“Hmmm? I was just thinking about you calling us a family. You haven’t done that often.”
“Really? We are. We had a child together, and we’ve been married for years. Of course, we’re a family.”
Gressa watched the color drain from Strian’s face as she mentioned the child they lost. She realized he had not even been thinking of their son. He had meant the two of them, perhaps even the family they might one day have. She wrapped both arms around him with care as she held him steady, one of the few times he had needed her strength to be his support. The only other time had been when his mother died. He had depended on her to get through his grief, but only a month later, he lost her and his father.
“We’ll have more children, Strian. If we keep going the way we have been, it’ll be sooner rather than later.”
