Fear was insignificant at this point. She hadn’t come this far to be turned away. “God led me here.”
“Aye,” he nodded. “And the devil sent the bloody savages.”
She understood his duty. But nothing would deter her. “Please…”
“Most of the villagers went to York,” he said. “I advise you stay away. The celebration started as soon as King Harold departed. Drunkards—all of them.”
Admittedly, Uncle Henry drank liberally. She could picture him raising his glass in triumph. Over and over again. “Where can I wait?”
“Over there.” He pointed to one of the tents.
“Thank you.”
Walking to the canvas, she opened the flap. Inside, she found a field chirurgeon stitching a leg wound.
“Grab the linens. Take care of the man in the corner.” He didn’t look up.
Too tired to protest, Rachelle did as he directed.
After tending injured men for hours, her hands froze. Horrible thoughts plagued her mind, erasing the image of her uncle enthralled with celebration. She couldn’t keep a steady hand. Setting aside a pile of bandages, she knew the only solution was to find her uncle. Going to a makeshift table with a pitcher of water, she washed her hands. If injuries didn’t kill these poor soldiers, infection would. Drying her hands on the front of her gown, she left.
Heat drained her energy the moment she stepped outside. Tears blurred her eyes. Glancing around, she hoped someone would send word. But no one who’d passed through the camp knew her uncle’s whereabouts. Every inch of her body hurt. Having suppressed her feelings for so long, she couldn’t eat or drink. The longer she waited, the more reluctant she became.
Young women didn’t roam battlefields?Damn propriety. In her opinion, war removed all rules. It transformed civilized people into animals. Besides, how could anyone fault her dedication and love? Relying on what mental fortitude she had left, Rachelle trudged away from the safety of the tents.
After two hours of picking through bodies like a carrion buzzard, deep desperation set in.
How far could a portly gentleman of advanced age get? She stumbled. Regaining her footing, she jumped back. That wasn’t a Saxon on the ground. Long braids and a scrubby copper beard covered the man’s rugged face. She cringed at the sound of his guttural groans and considered grabbing a weapon off the ground to finish him off. Hatred fueled her dark thoughts.
Kill him. Now!
She looked away. This heathen had robbed her countrymen of peace and prosperity. Again. Uncle Henry would undoubtedly tell her to lop off his godless head.
Yet her resolve softened. She couldn’t do it. Enemy or not, he looked so vulnerable and helpless. She prayed.Grant me the courage to be merciful.The greatest value her parents had impressed upon her was a charitable spirit. Murdering a dying man would do nothing to quell her pain. It would only deepen her own suffering.
Not knowing if he spoke English, she squatted next to him. “Where does it hurt?”
A large hand slid over hers, but he didn’t speak. Words weren’t necessary.
“I’ll stay with you.”
With an appreciative nod, he squeezed her hand.
Shocked by the amount of blood seeping from his chest, she assessed his condition. Hopeless. Without immediate treatment, he’d surely bleed to death and she didn’t possess the necessary skills to do more than offer comfort. The English chirurgeonwouldn’t help him. The only reason there was one on hand was because he traveled with the king. Men usually died where they fell. Tight lipped, she hid her growing despair, bracing for the inevitable. The last thing she wanted to see was another death. Not now. Not ever, if it could be avoided.
After what seemed a long time, his eyes fluttered open and he stared up at her. She returned a weak smile. What else could she do? Pray him into heaven?Please…
Checking his pulse, she felt his spirit depart as he took one last gasping breath. She let go of his calloused hand. His death triggered bitter visions of her uncle’s own battle-worn body laying somewhere amongst this sea of corpses. It nearly claimed what little sanity she had left.
Cursing fate for leading these fiends across the North Sea, she didn’t know what to do next. A distressing voice inside her head kept telling her to give up and go home. But she couldn’t sit and wait for someone to bring word Henry had died honorably in action, making her an orphan for the second time in her life. She longed for darkness to conceal the death fields. Yet she realized with every passing moment the sun sank lower, she’d get trapped in the dark.
As if she didn’t have enough troubles to contend with, she couldn’t remember which direction to go. Kicking at the ground as she walked, she struck something solid. Surprised, she looked about. A cache of weapons and dozens of half-clad fallen bodies surrounded her on three sides.
By the saints, how many miles had she gone? No Englishmen were lying on the ground here. Her emotions reeled. She swallowed her dread, knowing the departed couldn’t harm her. Yet, even in death, these savages were posed to strike. Eyeing them reverently at first, she realized these massive and bloodied beasts were just as threatening as she’d ever imagined. But why were they half naked? Only one reasonable explanation existed.However, enough time hadn’t passed for grave pickers to strip them.
An unlikely explanation came to mind.
After the king’s messengers arrived in her village to recruit for reinforcements yesterday, they’d described in great detail how countless longships had landed along the east coast and invaded York without resistance. What they reported next was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. According to the crown’s agents, the Vikings were so elated from their victory, they declared a holiday. In the heat, they’d stripped to go swimming, then lounged on the west bank of River Derwent. The king’s army had caught these reckless bastards unprepared.
