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Could she ever leave him?

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Let them in! It is Ealdorman Aethelwulf!” someone cried up to the watchtower over the entrance gate of the stronghold.

Cathy had followed the Saxons for a couple of hours. Hidden in the woods, she watched the wooden palisade walls illuminated by the torches in the darkness. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood in the drizzling rain. Andor’s captors stood before the gates waiting while the sounds of more cries and fuss came from inside the fortress.

They were saying something, but she could barely hear from here. Crawling a bit closer, she heard, “Execute him in the morning and take his head to Guthrum, that will show him.”

Her heart stopped, her hands shaking.

The gates opened and the procession walked through the gates. Andor still looked proud, though he stumbled a little as the horse he was tied to moved forward and the rope around his wrists grew taut. With increasing worry in her gut, Cathy watched as the gates closed behind them with a thump. Should she have tried to blend in with the men to sneak in? No, likely they’d recognize her as an outsider right away and imprison her with Andor.

The fortress was the size of a small stadium. Many soldiers guarded it, so she needed to be smart. If she had anything to trade for Andor’s freedom, she would. But all she had besides her clothes was the sword, and she needed it to save him.

After what must have been an hour of watching the fortress, wracking her brain for ideas and discarding them, she heard hooves thumping somewhere behind her and looked down the road. A horse pulled a cart full of brushwood, an old man in a brown monk’s robe steering it.

He might be the last person to get inside the fortress tonight, her last chance to save Andor. How ironic that she needed the help of yet another monk when she’d never gone to church a day in her life. She did believe there was a higher power watching over her, though, and she sent out a silent thank-you to the universe.

Quietly, she ran between the trees until she reached the slow-moving cart, staying low as she walked behind it. Glancing inside, she saw there was some space for her and enough twigs and brushwood to cover herself.

She grabbed hold of the back wall and used her increased arm strength to haul herself over as soundlessly as possible, thankful it wasn’t too high. The old man turned his head to the side, and Cathy lay flat on the bottom of the cart. When he turned back, she crawled to the heap of brushwood and buried herself in it, pulling the twigs and branches over herself as quietly as she could. She twitched every time a twig snapped, but the hooves of the donkey seemed to muffle the noise she was making. The sharp ends of broken branches dug into the unprotected skin of her face and hands, and one poked the wound on her side, but she gritted her teeth and kept silent.

Soon, she heard a distant “Who is there?”

“’Tis me, ol’ Brother Baldwin. The villagers sent you brushwood.”

“Let him in.”

The gates screeched as they opened, and the cart moved forward again.

“Hope you are comfortable there, lad,” the old man said quietly, and Cathy’s blood chilled. “Now tell me why you are here. Cause if ’tis ill will, I shall alert the guards so loud, they shall capture you before your heart’s next beat. Though, since you have not yet killed me, I do not believe you mean me harm.”

Cathy swallowed. “I’m here to free a prisoner.”

“What prisoner?”

“A Norseman. They just brought him in. I do not want to kill anyone, but the man is important— He saved me, and I owe him my life. All I want is to free him before they execute him.”

The man stopped the cart, and Cathy heard him climb down. Through the branches, she saw his wrinkled face. He began unloading the brushwood.

“Norsemen are the enemies. Why should I help you? They’ve killed enough God-fearing Christians.”

Cathy cursed inwardly. “If they kill him, there will be even more deaths. They intend to take his head to the Viking leader, Guthrum, and threaten him. But it will only make the Vikings more violent.”

“How do I know he is Viking and not an outlaw?”

“Here.” She removed Andor’s silver Thor’s hammer from around her neck, wondering why he’d never asked for it back. “This is Viking.”

She gave the necklace to him and watched through the gap in the planks of the cart as his eyes widened and he nodded solemnly.

“Wait here,” he said.

“Please, promise me you won’t report me to the guards.”

He kept silent for a moment, and she was afraid that was exactly what he was going to do.

“I promise, lad. I just want to make sure you are telling the truth. If so, I will help you. God knows, I do not want any more bloodshed among good people.”