Reckless (Age of Conquest #5) - Tamara Leigh Page 0,33

had crossed to Ely with the earl but those who this day forded the waterway with Canute.

“’Tis him,” Nicola gasped as the prince, flanked by his uncle and Hereward, ceased their advance to consider the chapel where Peterborough’s wealth was stored. “Where is Vitalis, Zedekiah?”

“Hush, Lady. The shadows have ears.”

And those ears were nearer than feared.

Since it was impossible to cross to the next building without being seen by the patrol approaching their rear, Zedekiah urged Nicola into the alley and, halfway down its length, pulled her behind bushes growing near the wall.

Hunkering low, they ceased breathing until the Danes were past and nearly upon those gathered in the street.

“Now we cross to the other side?” Nicola whispered.

“Nay, we go back the way we came, staying close to the wall, and—”

“We could go through the wood,” she suggested what seemed safer.

“We would had we daylight to guide us, but bogs are there and some of a depth more capable of choking you down their gullets than sucking at your shoes.”

Nicola had not heard of such, but now what had seemed a wasteful, circuitous route to reach Ely made sense. The Danes could not be as familiar with the Fenlands as its natives, but they had known to avoid the bogs.

“We go now,” Zedekiah said, only to snatch her back when a shout sounded above the voices of those before the chapel.

“What have you done with her, Father?”

Nicola caught her breath. Doubtless having learned of his cousin’s arrival and finding her gone from the inn, Bjorn believed the earl responsible despite the fallen Dane and Saxon outside her room. He could not be thinking right, as further evidenced by him revealing his presence to Canute.

Fearing for him, silently she appealed, Please, Lord, protect him. Then lest she witness what could prove a beating, she turned her face to Zedekiah. And saw what he saw as he looked back the way they had come.

The shadowed figure at the chapel’s back corner had to be another of the patrol, and he appeared transfixed by what was about to happen in the street.

Nicola returned her regard to Bjorn. “Run,” she breathed.

Instead, the young man halted before his sire. As if he did not see Canute, he demanded, “Where is my lady?”

“Bjorn,” the earl said with warning. “You—”

“Aye, Uncle,” the prince said. “Where is she who is missing though this spoiled son of yours is found?”

The earl’s hesitation reeking of the lie he stitched behind his eyes, he turned his shoulder to his son. “Merciful God is at work here, Nephew.” His slur evidencing he had consumed a good quantity of drink before learning of Canute’s arrival, he looked to Hereward as if expecting him to play the ally. However, the rebel leader crossed his tattooed arms over his chest as if settling in to observe how those of royalty conducted family squabbles.

“En route to Ely, my men and I happened upon my son,” the earl continued. “Long he has pursued the Norman witch who escaped, but with our aid she was retrieved. When we arrived upon Ely, I placed her under guard until you, beloved nephew—”

“Lies!” Bjorn snarled. “Where have you hidden her?”

For one of good age who ate and drank much, the swift drawing of the earl’s dagger and placement at the base of his son’s throat should not have been possible. “Keep your tongue about you,” he commanded amid shocked silence.

“Sire!”

“Keep it, else no war cry shall herald the death of the next enemy you slay.”

“Such threats are unbecoming a loving father,” Canute drawled. “Certes, Bjorn must be punished for gainsaying you, but to deprive him of a tongue which has much to tell your brother, the king…” He shrugged. “That would be as unreasonable as were I to put you through for lies told a prince of Denmark.”

As swiftly as the earl had brought his blade to hand, Canute’s appeared in his, then its edge was against the flaccid skin of his uncle’s neck.

Zedekiah’s hand tightened on Nicola’s. “Look away, Lady.”

Heart pounding, lips pressed, she continued to stare at father, son, and nephew, and knew if only one could survive it would be the latter.

“Would you have me be unreasonable, Uncle?” the prince taunted.

The flush of drink having drained from the earl’s visage, he withdrew the blade from Bjorn’s throat and turned back to Canute. “You know your cousin, my prince. Though I raised up a great warrior, he is not sharp of wit, and since the Norman whore bewitched him,