“If ’tis any consolation, he was no more happy about it than you are.”
“’Tis not.”
Eda glowered at her apathy. “You made one bargain with him. Make another. You have sense, wench. Use what you have to get what you want.”
The old woman finally managed to spark her ire, which came out in sarcastic scorn. “You go against your lord to suggest it. You forget how little I can be trusted. I am likely to escape in the bright light of day.”
“Aye, do not listen to me. You never listen to me. What do I know? I have only known the man since he was a babe. I have—”
“God help me!” Kristen’s annoyance snapped. “If you do not cease to nag me, old woman, I will—”
“God help you?” Royce queried from behind her. “Which god is that?”
She swung around, too heated to notice his surprise. “What do you want, Saxon? Have you not hunting or training or some such to do? I hate it when you sneak up behind me!”
He knew what had set her off. He had anticipated it would not be easy to get the chains back on her. It was why he was here, to see that nothing untoward happened. But she had thrown him off guard by using an imprecation that only a Christian would use.
“Which god do you entreat?” he repeated.
Her mouth set mulishly. She was not going to answer. He gripped her arms and shook her until, in a burst of fury, she shoved him away from her.
“Rattle my teeth again, Saxon, and I swear I will lay your cheek open with my fist!”
He should have exploded into fury himself. Instead he laughed. “’Twas only a simple question, Kristen. Why are you so defensive?”
His laughter worked on her like magic, soothing the edges of her pique. Whywasshe still keeping this secret? There had been reason to in the beginning, but not anymore.
Kristen smiled at her own foul temper. Eda turned away, shaking her head at such quick changes of mood. Royce was just as confounded. The way she could master turbulent emotions so easily was uncanny.
“Forgive me, milord,” Kristen said, though she did not look at all contrite. “I did not mean to push you…well, I did, but I am sorry for it.”
“Which does not mean ’twill not happen again.”
“True.” Her eyes laughed at him.
Royce grinned, shaking his head. “Do you answer my question now?”
She shrugged. “I pray to my mother’s God.”
“Then why not call him by name?”
“I did.” At his raised brow, she explained, “My mother’s God is your God.”
He stiffened, humor flown. “How is that possible?”
“Very easily, milord. Vikings have raided other lands for many, many years. Raids bring home Christian captives. My mother was one. My father’s mother was also Christian. My father and brothers”—she smiled here—“they do not take chances and worship all gods.”
“And you?”
“I believe in the one true God.”
He frowned, reminding her sharply, “You defended your friends’ intent to sack a monastery!”
She frowned back at him. “I did not defend. I understood, which is more than you are willing to do. I told you my brother would not tell me their intent. I did not tell you why, but the why is that he knew I would fight with all my heart to change his course. So he did not tell me. So he came here and he died! I know in my mind ’twas God’s will, but half my blood is Viking blood and my heart cries for revenge. Do you tell me Saxon Christians do not avenge a loved one’s death?”
He could not tell her that. The church abhorred blood feuds, but could not prevent them.
“Why did you never tell me you are Christian?” he demanded.
