Just as I latch onto Skarth’s arm to stop him, a sharp sting penetrates my bicep. I pay no attention to it and continue fighting with Skarth, but when he looks at me, turning a ghastly shade of white, I realize something is very wrong.
“Emeline—” he says gently, eyes darting between me and my arm. “I need you to breathe for me.”
“Do not tell me what to do,” I retort, furious that he believes he can pacify this situation after behaving like a barbarian. “I can breathe just fine.”
But I soon realize I cannot.
The wind gets ripped from my lungs when I see that the pain I felt was due to the arrow embedded in my bicep. But the arrow is the least of our concerns. The fact that English soldiers swarm us takes precedence over a bloody arrow.
“It seems our plan has been put into fruition quicker than we thought,” Ulf says, turning in a circle to see that we are, in fact, surrounded.
He’s right. It seems our ruse wasn’t necessary.
This is what we wanted.
But it still feels like defeat.
“Your inability to keep quiet has gotten us into trouble—again,” Skarth says to Ulf, standing in front of me, sword extended outward.
“Perhaps it was your pungent smell that led them to us,” Ulf counters, standing beside him and mimicking him as he protects me.
My two Vikings don’t kill one another for me.
However, gone are the days when I ever retreated behind two men. Touched by their chivalry, I step out from their protection and face the English soldier who aims his sword at my throat.
“I am Queen Emeline. Lower your weapon without delay.”
The soldier, of course, does nothing of the sort. “You are not my queen. You are a traitor to your country. The whole of England is looking for you. It’s time you got what you deserved.”
“I will reward you dearly for your loyalty.” I know it’s a useless tactic, but they would be suspicious if I gave up without a fight.
“You are far more valuable than anything you can offer. Lord Aethelbald is scouring the countryside looking for you. I can’t believe I’ll be the one who will deliver you to him.”
“You can try,” Skarth says, ready for battle.
Memories of us fighting side by side warm my heart because I never doubted his love for me. I knew he would die for me.
And I for him.
But now, I wonder if he merely fights to save our children and then flees.
Yielding suddenly doesn’t feel so awful.
“You are outnumbered.”
“Yes, but I would rather die taking as many of your arseholes with me than surrender,” Skarth stubbornly states.
His reputation is notorious, so this soldier knows he isn’t lying.
The throbbing in my arm continues to grow, as does the burning around the arrow. It needs to be removed. Raising my hand in submission, I gesture that I plan on doing just that.
“Emeline, no,” Skarth says, shaking his head.
I understand it will hurt, but his words have fueled a fire within. The soldier watches with skepticism, incredulous that I have the gall to do such things, which is why I take hold of the arrow, inhale slowly, close my eyes, and yank it out.
Muscle and tissue are severed, but I have sustained far worse.
Without delay, Skarth rips off a piece of his shirt and wraps it around my wound. Such a tender gesture. Perhaps he does care.
