Rurik noticed. He seemed to notice everything, but his lips pulled tight as he stepped back towards the table. ‘Until later,’ he said to Wilfrid.
This had turned out to be one of the most peculiar nights of her life. Walking in to find her enemy talking to her beloved father-in-law had been bad enough, but then to have to tend to him while Rurik waited to discuss the murder of his father was something she had never imagined would happen. And she had imagined plenty the many forms in which Sigurd’s sons might deliver their retribution to her.
‘Come.’ She mouthed the word more than said it and was relieved when Rurik nodded and made to follow her. The blast of cold air when she opened the door was welcomed. It revived her senses, which she would desperately need as she faced off with the Norseman. Her next task would not be easy.
She stood there, momentarily uncertain where she should take him. When she had been certain just an hour ago that she would be forced to kill him, now she was prepared to explain Wilfrid’s hatred of Sigurd. To hope that there could be a peace between their families. She wanted to lead him back to his cell, but that was obviously out of the question. Not only would he refuse to go there, if Cedric saw him walking free, he would almost certainly attack him on sight. The only answer was that they would have to talk somewhere more private where they would not be disturbed. There was only one place where that was possible.
‘Will you agree to a short truce? We need to talk,’ she said.
He stood beside her, tall and broad, but restrained. Perhaps it was the lingering effect of his earlier noble intentions when he would have saved her from her own men, or the way he had helped with Wilfrid. Or perhaps it was simply that she felt that she deserved at least some of his anger for his family’s fate and she trusted in her abilities to put up a good fight. Whatever it was, she decided to trust him in this.
His suspicious glance took in the rectangular garden, looking for dangers hidden in the shadows. When none revealed themselves, he met her gaze. ‘You have my word. For now.’
It was all that she could ask. Taking a deep breath of the cold, she said, ‘Follow me’, and led him to her chamber. Another chill came over her as she opened the door to let him inside. He followed her cautiously, the seax gripped in his fist as if he expected a guard to be within waiting for him. No one was there, of course, so he stepped into her chamber.
Closing the door behind her and moving by the dim orange glow of the fire in the brazier, she lit the small tray of beeswax candles on her chest and waved him over. Her chamber was smaller than Wilfrid’s and she rarely took her meals here, so she did not have a table and chairs. Instead, she had stools and the chest, which was where she intended for them to sit.
Rurik took in his surroundings as he went, as if he were appraising the space for hidden threats. As a child, she had been relegated to one of the antechambers off the room belonging to Wilfrid’s wife. The woman had died in her childbed the year Annis turned twelve. When Annis had wed Grim many years later, she might have chosen his mother’s chamber for her own, but she chose this one simply because she liked the mosaic tile floor. Left over from the Romans, it was badly crumbled in spots and refurbished in others, but enough of the tiles were left to show olive trees surrounding what would have been a woman. Annis suspected the woman was a goddess, but she could not say which one. She’d had her choice of tapestries, so she had chosen forest scenes which meant the walls were decorated in faded shades of green and gold. It was quite nice in summer when the shutters could be opened to allow in the sunlight. In winter it reminded her that there was more to the world than their grey existence.
Gathering her cloak about her, she took a seat and faced him. He sat on the stool opposite the chest, though he did not relinquish the seax. Not that it mattered. He could take any of the weapons in the room if he wanted. She was taking a huge risk in trusting him, but it was necessary. Short of killing him, which she was glad she had not done, she had to convince him that they could find peace. To do that she needed to convince him that her revenge on Sigurd had been justified.
She nearly laughed aloud in self-mockery. She could not convince the son that the father had earned his death. To even think so was madness. Perhaps she could at least help him understand the why of it.
‘I was not completely aware of it at the time, but it seems that your father, Sigurd, visited our area several summers past.’
‘How many summers?’ His strong tone brooked no omission of the truth.
‘Four.’ Had Grim been gone that long? Sometimes it seemed as if it was only months ago; sometimes it seemed as if it had been for ever.
The Norseman gave her a nod. To call it encouragement would have laughed in the face of his stern expression. It was more of an urging to continue. She could not help but notice how the flickering candlelight painted his features in a soft light, making his eyes mere slits of shadow that held his thoughts secret, while illuminating the pleasing turn of his jawline and high cheekbones. His hair seemed darker where he had pulled it back and secured it with a cord of some sort. The
