his thoughts have been muddied.”
“She is not a whore!” Bjorn shouted. “I love her, and I will let no one take her from me. Not you, Father”—he set a hand on his sword, with the other pointed at the prince—“and not you who stole her from me once. Never again, even if—”
“Bjorn!” the earl cried then yelped.
Though Nicola was too distant to see blood, she suspected his nephew’s blade had nicked his flesh.
“You are right, Uncle,” Canute said. “Your son is not sharp of wit and confused. Worse, he is bewitched. As there can be no hope for my beloved cousin whilst the lady lives, and she is not here…” He drew back his dagger-wielding hand.
“Nay!” Belatedly, the earl flung himself in front of the son of whom he was so proud.
“Do not look, Nicola!”
Hot breath in her ear, a hand fumbling over her chin, she strained away and saw all.
Canute’s blade landed just above where Bjorn’s sire had set his own, crimson splashed and sprayed the air, and those near the wide-eyed, open-mouthed young man leapt aside.
The hand with which Bjorn had pointed at the prince reached to the dagger as if pulling it free could undo what was done, then he landed on his back. Convulsing, he withdrew the blade. Fingers glistening with blood streaming down the keen edges and over the cross guard, he reached the dagger toward the earl who fell on his knees beside his son.
Strange that Nicola heard the earl’s shout of grief above her scream. Because the hand clapped over her mouth caught it in its palm before it could hurtle down the alley into the street?
It had to be, and yet why did those before the chapel turn and peer down the shadowed stretch? Why was the hand that had covered her mouth dragging her opposite without attempting to remain out of sight of the Dane at the rear? Why was Canute and others of his party drawing swords and entering the alley?
Because Zedekiah was not quick enough to stop me from revealing us, she accepted the painful truth. Now he shall pay for my weakness. The same as Bjorn, he will die for me.
Had he any chance of escaping those closing in from both ends, the burden of protecting her would render it void. And Vitalis…
As Zedekiah was his man, the murderous Canute would hunt him down for attempting to deprive him of her ransom—that is, if the earl did not deprive his nephew of the ransom by first slaying the one accused of bewitching Bjorn.
Struggling to keep her feet beneath her, it took no effort to drop to her knees. The force of Zedekiah’s forward motion causing him to lose hold of her, she cried, “Run!” as he sprang around with sword in hand. “They will not harm me, and neither of us will escape if—”
He reached for her, and when she flung herself to the side, cursed and reached again. This time he caught her around the waist, but as he hauled her up beneath an arm, the single Dane drew nearer than those coming from behind.
“Lady,” Zedekiah rasped, “half a league east of the docks, near an ancient ash tree split in two, you will find a boat in the marsh. There, Vitalis. Now go, else my death will be for naught.” He released her, she rolled away, and sword struck sword.
More of the enemy came, and there was nothing she could do to stop them from adding streams of Zedekiah’s blood to those of Bjorn. If she did as commanded, she would witness more slaughter and go meekly wherever next her captors led her.
“Go!” Zedekiah shouted as something sprinkled her face like summer rain. If not his blood, then his opponent’s.
Determined to find Vitalis and warn him she had lost him his man and he would be deprived of his own life if he did not depart Ely immediately, Nicola lurched upright and ran.
Upon exiting the alley, she glanced behind.
Unlike his opponent, Zedekiah remained on his feet and was bracing to wield his sword against the many who would slay him for preventing them from following her.
“Lord!” Nicola cried. “Make his a mercifully swift end. And pray, forgive me.” Then she was in the wood, pausing only to remove the mantle whose weighty material made it difficult to reach her legs beneath her skirts. With the garment bunched beneath an arm, she set off.
Though she feared the bogs would suck her under, they seemed her greatest chance