Impulsively he asked, “What do you think I should do with them, Meghan?”
“Make them go away.”
“So they can come back and hurt us again at another time? I cannot allow that.”
“Then make them Christians.”
Royce chuckled at her simple solution. “That is for our good abbot to do, not I.”
“Then what will you do with them? Udele thinks you will kill them.” Meghan shivered as she said this.
“Udele thinks too much aloud.” He frowned.
Meghan lowered her eyes again. “I told her you would not, because they are not fighting anymore, and you would not kill a man unless ’twas in battle.”
“Sometimes ’tis necessary—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Never mind, midget. What say you we put them to work building our wall?”
“Would they work for us?”
“Oh, I think they will want to with the right incentive,” he replied.
“You mean they will not have a choice?”
“Prisoners rarely do, midget, and do not forget that is what they are. If they had won the battle and taken you back to their land, they would have made a slave of you. They cannot expect less than the same for themselves.”
He stood up, for the hour was growing late, and if he had not made up his mind before, he had now after talking with Meghan. “A word of caution,” he added, smoothing the hair back from her cheek. “As long as they are here, do not go near them. They are dangerous men, whether they look it or not. I must have your promise, Meghan.”
Meghan nodded uneasily, then watched him leave the hall. No sooner was he gone from sight than she ran upstairs to tell the grouchy old woman who was her maid that the Vikings were not to die after all.
The sun was high when he left the hall and walked purposely toward them. Kristen had been waiting for this moment as they all were, pondering her regrets: that she would never see her parents again, that she would never have a husband now, or children, or even see the morrow. She had determined she would not die cowardly, but she did not want to die at all.
Two of the guards stopped him to speak with them, then they both fell into step beside him as he continued crossing the yard. The little Saxon, Hunfrith, had been relieved in the middle of the night, but he had returned early that morn to continue goading them with descriptions of the tortures they could expect. He walked right up to Thorolf now and struck the prisoner’s bare foot with the flat side of the sword he had drawn.
“My lord Royce would speak with you, Viking,” Hunfrith announced importantly.
Kristen pinched Thorolf to urge him to stand up, but he struck her hand away, refusing. He was in a crouch, ready to charge the Saxons as the others were, if any move was made to single them out for torture. With only three men standing before them, it was not likely that the time was at hand, but he was taking no chances.
The dark-green eyes of the Saxon lord were casually moving over the group, as if seeing them for the first time. His expression, unlike yesterday, was inscrutable. Of course their deplorable condition was more obvious now in the bright light of midday, and he no doubt felt they offered no threat to him, or he would not have stood so close. His unconcern was almost a challenge.
He was not afraid, this Saxon, Kristen was thinking when his eyes slid over her and then came back abruptly. She quickly lowered her own, feeling an uncomfortable leap of her heart at being singled out by those dark eyes, fearing her disguise might have been revealed to him in some way.
She did not look up again until she heard him speak, but then her unease increased. She had not realized that being chained to Thorolf, who was the only one who could speak for them, would place her too close to the object of their attention. She quickly scooted behind him and hunched down, letting his broad back hide her from view.
The Saxon was looking down at Thorolf. “I was told you speak our tongue.”
“Some,” Thorolf admitted.
“Who is your leader?”
“Dead.”
“The ship was his?”
“His father’s.”
“Your name?”
“Thorolf Eiriksson.”
