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“Why can’t I go?”
“Because you’re not, Sihtric.”
“That’s not a reason, Uhtred.”
“It is all the reason you need.”
The early spring wind whipped against Uhtred’s cheek as he emerged from his longhouse, hoping beyond hope the sixteen year old would take the not so subtle suggestion to make himself scarce. And while he saw the stretching shadows from his other warriors smartly lingering back near the longhouse entrance, the youngest of the group followed hotly at his heels. Later, when he was calm, he would look back at the situation and grimace at how mishandled it was. But in the moment, still annoyed at being forced to acquiesce to Alfred’s summons, all fluency of sound decision making evaded him. All he could focus on was the unevenness of his furious breathing, and how his anger pitched higher and higher with every step the young Dane took as he followed him.
He was halfway through Coccham’s central clearing when he finally had enough. He’d given Sihtric ample time to correct his attitude and back off.
“You are treading dangerously,” he growled after spinning around to face the teen. He didn’t miss the boy’s bold move in calling him by his first name instead of the respectful title of ‘lord’. And considering the warriors that watched them wearily from a distance, neither did they. “Do not forget to whom you speak to, boy.”
Normally, the Dane teen, born a slave and raised as such, would shrink back from such a caustic voice. He knew his place, most of the time, and painfully strived to remain obedient to Uhtred, the man who assumed his ownership since he escaped Kjartan’s oppressive clutches. The teen’s loyalty hadn’t swayed once since proving himself to be one of Uhtred’s most trusted men. And this moment, Uhtred realized, was no different. No, the boy’s sudden brazen flair wasn’t fueled from an awakening of mutiny.
It was nothing more than a product of adolescent defiance. They’d all been there at some point in their lives, when racing hormones superseded logical minds, making heated words whip out without thought. And as he took in Sihtric’s sharply defined jawline - one of the few features inherited from his father - clenched back as tight as his shoulder muscles were taut, he remembered his own adolescence with Ragnar.
He had thought his adopted father lacked patience. How wrong he was.
“You are being unfair.”
Uhtred almost laughed. Days later, when he’d be nursing a tankard of ale and getting drunk with Sihtric, they’d look back at the quarrel and most certainly laugh then. But in the moment, humor was a scant feeling.
“Good!” Uhtred gleefully retorted back with a humorless smile that spread the distance of his face. “You want to see me continue to be unfair? You are not going with them. In fact, not only are you not going with them but every hour they’re gone, you’ll be at work here. Continue to push me, Sihtric, and I will continue to show you how unfair I can be.”
It was supposed to intimidate and deter the teen’s argument. But it only made him madder. “Why?!” He exploded. Behind him, the audience of warriors looked on, curiosities turned to grimaces. “Why are you being like this? It’s stupid to-”
“-So now I’m stupid and unfair...”
“-and sending a patrol without me! I’m your best scout! And instead I’ll be stuck here because you damn well feel like it!”
“You’re right,” Uhtred said back with a single nod. He saw the more mundane peasants of Coccham look curiously from their doorway, the shouting voices drawing their attention. Great. “It is because I damn well feel like it. That is how our relationship works, Sihtric! I give an order and you follow it. What part is confusing to you?”
The air felt hot and decaying. And trained in the ways of battle, Uhtred saw a deceiving calm on the Dane teen. It wasn’t a genuine calm of one backing down; it was the calm before a storm, when the body was reconciled with itself to no longer engage in the endless battle of fight or flight. The boy had resolved himself to a fight, one that was about to take a turn for the worse. Uhtred saw the subtle tensing of the boy’s arm as he prepared to throw a punch. After having trained with him for months upon months, he had long ago learned his body’s minutiae subtleties, maybe even knew Sihtric’s body better than he knew himself. But one thing was certain – he had no interest in getting in a physical brawl, despite knowing how fast he could make Sihtric submit. He turned from him and began to walk away, hoping to put an end to the quarrel and stop the boy from doing something incredibly stupid.
If Uhtred could go back in time and redo the entire argument, he would pinpoint that moment as when everything went wrong. And he would’ve stayed, took the punch, and hastily hit Sihtric around a bit for a quick, fitting punishment. A physical altercation was easy. It could be explained away as the sudden tide of emotions and hormones, a warrior’s mere instinct. But words… even in the heat of a moment, words came from somewhere. People who claimed words to be cheap didn’t value reputation and honor like the Danes did. Words began feuds and wars. For a man’s word was everything.
And when Uhtred denied Sihtric the ability to throw a punch, he forced the teen to arm himself with the next best thing to harm him: words.
“It’s no wonder you don’t have Bebbanburg back.”
He stopped suddenly and turned back to the teen.
“What did you say?” He heard Sihtric well. Everyone did. But asking was a ploy that his own father used on him when he’d say something incredibly disobedient. It had taken Uhtred a while for him to realize it was Ragnar’s merciful attempt to allow a child see the error of their ways and correct themselves, for he would patiently wait to see if Uhtred would repeat the same scathing words or let cooler minds prevail and seek forgiveness to defuse the situation. Ragnar was a good man to idolize, and he was an even better father.
Uhtred wanted to fall into his footsteps, even in the moment with the boy, and follow the same methods Ragnar did. But there was one glaring difference: Ragnar had formally adopted Uhtred as his son, saving him from his slave rank. Uhtred hadn’t done that. The angry Dane before him wasn’t just a warrior, but a slave showing an unseemly amount of disobedience to his owner. It was a sudden imbalance of power, enough that it eclipsed the humor of the situation. Uhtred was Coccham’s lord and the leader of his men. And among them, Sihtric was undoubtedly of the lowest rank. The seething words threatened his position of power, honor, and integrity in the eyes of not just his men, but the people of his estate and lands.
Uhtred couldn’t laugh at the normal hormonal whims of a very normal teenager. At least not then. Not when his life’s work – his due birthright - was thrown in his face as a failure.
Sihtric’s words cemented his fate: “You heard me.”
The distance between them was suddenly gone as Uhtred closed it within a second. His own anger took on a life of its own as he grabbed Sihtric, ignoring the boy’s protests and curses and promptly overpowering any physical attempts to thwart him off. Either the teen wasn’t prepared for the violent reaction, or Uhtred’s anger really did lend itself to easily subduing him. Within seconds, one hand fisted the young Dane’s hair, messing his braids and small bun, while the other sharply grabbed at his upper arm, fingers curled so tight they would leave an army of bruises.
“Unfair?” He hissed down into the boy’s ear as he half-dragged him towards the stables connected to the longhouse. Around him, the citizens stared wide-eyed at their lord, some murmuring approvals at the heavy-handedness dealt to the impudent pagan teen. “Let me show you what it truly means to be unfair.”
“Uhtred-“
“This does not concern you, Finan.”
Maybe there was murder in his eyes. Or maybe the Irishman simply came to the aid of his lover. That much Uhtred could understand; he’d do the same for Gisela and she’d do the same for him. Pausing briefly, he yanked the writhing boy to stop and flatly addressed his second-in-command standing in his path. “You will see him when you return.”
Finan frowned but nodded. “In one piece?”
“That is up to him to decide.”
The two lovers exchanged looks, the older warrior sending him very obvious beseeching stares. If Sihtric was half as smart as Uhtred gave him credit for, he’d heed his lover’s silent advice and beg for forgiveness. But he didn’t. He was broodingly silent as he was dragged the remaining distance to the stables, where they passed by the whining horses neighing at their interrupted meal and the elderly stablemaster staring at them in shock. He quickly scrambled out of their way.
“You are given so many freedoms, Sihtric. So many.” He dragged him to the last stall that was empty save for the end section of the long water trough shared with the rest of the horses and a wall of tools used by the stablemaster. “Do not forget that those freedoms come from me. And I can take all of them away.”
He threw the rebellious Dane into the stall, and out of the corner of his eye saw the stablemaster lingering near the front of the stables, watching them. Good. He needed him there for now. “Take off your vest and shirt.”
Reputation was everything for a new lord, especially when Coccham’s Christians were still slow to warm up to him. But he wouldn’t earn their trust from being overly merciful. He had to show he was a rock and wouldn’t bend for anyone, especially his own slave. Still, a part of him withered up and died as he reached for the whip hanging on the wall.
He felt two pairs of eyes on him – Sihtric and the stablemaster. But as he held the whip, he stopped existing in Coccham. No, he was back on Sverri’s boat, tasting the bitter sea splash on his face as pain erupted from his broken back. The snap in the air seconds before it landed was the worst. The sound would always haunt him.
And as he looked down at a shirtless, prone Sihtric, that withered up part inside of him decayed and rotted. The boy wasn’t like him: he didn’t bolster himself with his pride, didn’t distance himself from the impending punishment, didn’t enamor his integrity with self-righteousness and fantasies of revenge. While there was still some residual rebellion in his eyes, it was mostly eclipsed by a brokenness. He accepted what was about to happen to him.
“Turn around and put your forehead on the ground.”
His respect for Sihtric grew. Or maybe it was pity. The boy didn’t beg for mercy like other men would. He merely blinked a few times with a distant look as he complied, turning stiffly until his face was pressed against the floor. When talking to Sihtric about Dunholm and his father, Uhtred had pressed him for every detail the boy could offer. Whenever the conversation would touch on how Kjartan treated his son, Sihtric would become reclusive and quiet. There was more said in those moments, in the way that he would dodge Uhtred’s gaze to try to hide his shame.
But Uhtred saw it. Eventually, the boy was honest with him over his mistreatment when living in Dunholm; the beatings when he misbehaved or didn’t meet an expectation, and the only respite he got was when he was bedded by the warriors for entertainment.
Those dark thoughts were with Uhtred as he looked down at the boy’s naked back. Not overly muscular or bulky, it narrowed at his slender waist, the skin a milky hue accented by a few strawberry colored scars. His punishments and treatment in Dunholm were brutal but they weren’t done by a whip. His back was free of the telltale whip scars Uhtred’s own back was riddled with. As irony and fate would have it, he would be the first to inflict those scars on the teen.
The whip was yanked back abruptly, its long tail cracking the air, before it came down… and hit the ground right next to Sihtric’s face.
As Uhtred pulled his arm back to prepare to unleash it again, movement in the corner of his eye made him pause. He turned to find the stablemaster shaking with shock at what his lord had done. “Go!’ He barked at the older man, keeping his arm and whip poised to strike again near the boy tucked into the stall. At the angle they were standing, the stablemaster wasn’t able to see the teen. And didn’t see the whip hit the ground instead of Sihtric.
The man’s scurrying boots became more and more distant as he undoubtedly fled into Coccham proper to tell others of what he saw.
The whip and his arm were lowered once he felt confident they were alone. “Next time you make me treat you as a master would, that whip will be aimed at you. Do not ever disrespect me in front of my men and my village again. Am I understood?”
Sihtric nodded solemnly and slowly lifted his face from the ground, looking at him in slight confusion. “Yes, lord.”
“For both of our sakes, that struck you.” He flung the whip across the stables, not bothering to watch where it landed. “Until I say so, you will stay in these stables – sleep and eat – when you are not working. You will stay here for the rest of the day. You leave for nothing. Food will be brought to you.” He nodded towards the trough; that would be his water, no more explanation needed. “Your work begins tomorrow at dawn.”
Uhtred liked Coccham’s carpenter. He was a master of his trade and preferred the quiet meadows of sungrass and lilacs to the dusty, crowded streets of Wintanceaster. An older man with a shiny bald head and muscular frame hidden under an oversized tunic, he looked worriedly at the small collection of bubbles rising to the river’s surface.
“Lord…”
“You’ve wanted this dock post repaired since winter when it cracked.” Uhtred also kept vigil over the bubbles, quietly counting the passing seconds in his head. “And now it shall be fixed.”
“Yes, lord. Thank you, lord.” The worry creased his words as much as his brow. “But… well, lord, we usually don’t do the dock footing until late spring when the water’s warmed up. It’s… it’s still rather cold, lord.”
Indeed it was. “Good. He needs the cold water to cool down.”
Shifting the collection of furs held in his hands, Uhtred’s counting reached a minute. And as if on cue, the bubbles grew more monstrous and livelier as Sihtric suddenly crashed through the surface, taking huge, desperate gulps of air between a pair of blueish tinted lips. A collection of tools rested on the edge of the dock, mockingly beside his boots and clothes he’d left in a neat little pile. When Uhtred told him of his first task - to reinforce a crack in the dock’s support pole - diving naked into the cold river had been his idea. It would at least save him the horrible experience of having to suffer sopping, wet clothes after he finished the grueling deed.
Sihtric stopped keeping track of how long he’d been working on the dock when he lost feeling in his feet. Maybe it was now late morning or almost noon, if his hunger pains were any indicator. He could look up to the sky and check the sun’s placement, but that would mean possibly catching Uhtred’s eye as the lord stood resolutely on the dock. And he refused to give Uhtred any kind of acknowledgement during his punishment.
He never complained. Not once.
Shakily reaching for another set of nails, he tried to prepare his lungs to inflate like a balloon and dive back under. His chest ached terribly from the cold and constantly having to hold his breath. It was torture, for the cold waters made him want to instinctively take in breath more laboriously. And yet, he couldn’t if he wanted to avoid drowning.
Uhtred would’ve happily had the boy continue to suffer in the river for the entire day. Let him be cold and miserable. He brought it on himself. But he could no longer ignore the angry glare boring heavily into him from the figure at the far end of the dock. He’d seen her approach some time ago with her slender arms crossed tightly above the small bump beneath her dress.
“Uhtred…”
Gisela’s voice was beyond warning. It was threatening. He should’ve known his pregnant wife would be the one to run to the boy’s defense. As much as he wanted to continue to punish the teen with the river for his disobedience, he wasn’t willing to do it at the expense of his wife’s wrath. He had his own survival to consider.
Wanting to delay Sihtric’s descent back into the water, he kicked the nails out of his reach and turned to Gisela with a tight smile. “How can I help you, wife?”
She stomped forward with the strength of an army, her scowl more fatal than any blade Uhtred fought against. He didn’t even put up a fight as she ripped the furs from his arms. “I have come for the boy. If you are finished with him, I will take him. And if you are not finished with him, I will still take him.”
“He is my man and in need of discipline.” The water sloshed gently against the dock as Sihtric continued to hold onto it, looking between them. “I will send him to you when I am through.”
She ignored him, and for that Uhtred was actually appreciative. Give him battles. Give him shield walls. Give him war-crazed Danes. But a woman’s scorn knew no bounds, especially one as proud as the daughter of an Earl.
The commanding aura around her was indisputable. Had she been born a man, her foes would’ve cowered in fear at her might. She moved through the world having been taught how to exist and thrive through silence, much like the shivering boy in the water. And maybe that’s why she found her gaze softening when she looked at him. He was oppressed and silenced as much as she was, perhaps even more given his unfree state. They were both fluent in the same unspoken language. Stepping around Uhtred, she lifted the furs up and gave them an inviting shake. “Come, Sihtric. I have need for you in our hall.”
Sihtric looked from her to Uhtred.
Coccham’s lord eyed the blue hue of his lips. “You are technically under her household and belong to her,” he mumbled, the explanation more for his own wounded pride than anything else. “Listen to her for now. I will come get you later.”
After he quickly crawled out of the river, she wrapped the furs around his quivering shoulders, using the thick hide to try to absorb the waters dripping from him and return some much needed warmth. He kept his head ducked low, letting his hot breath plume against the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “Yes, lord,” he whispered back in a small voice and knelt down to collect his clothes and boots.
He was eternally grateful when Gisela remained silent as she led him to the longhouse with one hand placed on his fur-covered shoulder, as if to tell the world that he was under her hawk-like jurisdiction. Once in the longhouse, she continued to nudge him forward when he slowed, having intended to get dressed so that he could see to whatever chores she’d have for him, only to find himself guided to the sprawling hearth. It was lit with a roaring fire and kettle resting in its bed of flames.
It had been made for him.
It wasn’t that he felt embarrassed at being punished. Back in Dunholm, he’d been subject to occasional shaming by his father’s men to remind him of his place, especially when he was disobedient. The emotional turmoil was infinitely worse than the physical pain of the act. Though it would take a couple days for his body to fully recover from that level of trauma, it would eventually recover while his pride and honor would forever be tarnished. They humiliated and demasculinized him. For a freeman, it would be shattering to his reputation. But for a slave, it only reaffirmed that he had no reputation to grieve.
He was nothing to them.
Uhtred never treated him cruelly. True, he didn’t pardon him to be a freeman and didn’t seem interested in entertaining the thought. But he was a good master and lord; he gave Sihtric a small stipend that allowed him to purchase some luxury items. Like most slaves, his basic needs were met by Uhtred’s obligations as his owner, though were exceeded thanks to his lord’s generosity. Most of the other warriors in the camp were merely given a salary for their service, leaving them to determine how they spent it and where. Their armor was up to them to maintain, while Sihtric relied on his master to provide for him.
And yet, Sihtric had arguably some of the best armor and items in the village. The gods had seen to giving him a generous lord who gave him battles and a warrior’s reputation, and he’d dishonored all that Uhtred had done for him by saying those words.
“Warm up first,” Gisela’s voice interrupted his musings. She pulled the kettle from the fire and poured an amber liquid into a wooden cup. The rising steam carried a most appetizing aroma of apples and cinnamon.
“I don’t deserve this.” He looked away from the offered cup, refusing it.
She frowned at his weak protest and overpowered it with shoving the cup more insistently into his chest until he was forced to take hold of it. “No one deserves to catch fever. Not even you. And you’ll be no good to Uhtred sick.”
“I’m no good to Uhtred now. What good is a misbehaving slave,” he mumbled mournfully, grudgingly taking the warm drink and wafting the delicious smells billowing from the cup. Hot spiced cider. It was a drink befitting someone of Uhtred and Gisela’s rank, but not a slave. Let alone in the midst of his discipline. “I was stupid.”
Gisela said nothing for a spell as she slowly sat down on the bench near the hearth, her eyes quietly looking at the teen’s slumped form covered in furs. His misery was heartwrenching to her, for she knew of his unending loyalty and love for Uhtred. He was a warrior through and through, but his submissive, quiet nature left him vulnerable to exploitations. And while she appreciated his loyalty that had helped her eventually wed Uhtred, she loathed his eagerness to please. It reminded her of the women her brother and father had wanted her to be some day, to fall so keenly into line with what men wanted and become a dutiful little wife. She was to be the byline of a man’s glory rather than have her own.
They wanted her to be submissive and supportive to the point of sacrificing her own identity.
“Have you tried apologizing to him?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. I want our anger to subside, so he knows I am being sincere and not just… not just trying to get out of punishment.”
Men made of lesser would’ve tried to avoid punishment. But not Sihtric. A smile came to her face. “The rest of your chores today will be inside,” she said, gesturing to the large kitchen, where grains and herbs awaited them. “Alfred’s men took too much of a liking to my primrose bread. They even took what was in my stores back to Wintanceaster with them.”
He looked at the stone mortar and pestle filled with stalks of wheat. “Uhtred said he wants me to work the fields after the dock is repaired.”
“Then Uhtred would be without his beloved bread,” she countered. “I know he wouldn’t want that. And so you will serve me. I could use a warrior’s strength in milling.”
A day ago, he was fighting Uhtred about not being allowed to fight a collection of Danes to the north. And now he would be doing a woman’s task of making bread. The irony didn’t make him feel nearly as shameful as it should’ve. Rather, he laughed lightly. “If that is your wish, lady.”
“Well, my wish now is to see you thawed out. Drink that. I will not have you catching sick under my watch.”
Though he felt a scratchiness and cough cloy at his throat, he ignored it as he happily drank the warm cider. The sweetness and warmth chased away the mild discomfort long enough for him to forget about his turmoiled position. He let the heat from the hearth and the thickness of the furs reinvigorate his muscles with life. And once he felt dry again, he stood, collected his clothes, and leveled a timid, requesting look at Gisela. She immediately registered his desire for modesty and turned her back on him to begin preparing the bread ingredients while he dressed. No words were exchanged, but so much was spoken in those moments.
And yet, when he came up beside her and took up the mortar and pestle, their silence comfortably transitioned to voiced conversations that lasted a few hours. She showed him how to best angle his elbow to drive his strength into the milling motion. After he got the hang of it, he asked about her renowned primrose bread and how she came about the recipe. A Völva, she fondly informed him, told her that to find true love, she would need to feed primrose to every man she met, for primrose is one of Freyja’s favorite flowers. Gisela knew she couldn’t very well ask her suitors to taste primrose and see the results. So, she devised a creative way by baking it into bread to serve at her father’s feasts.
“But you have your husband,” Sihtric chuckled lightly after she described a particularly eventful feast where every man in her father’s employ had their own dedicated mini loaf of primrose bread, with her watching intently for any signs of true love. “Why do you keep making it?”
She rubbed cod’s liver oil over the smooth rocks that’d be placed in the hearth for the bread. “Because Uhtred loves it. And it’s become something of a staple here in Coccham.” She placed her hand lovingly on her swollen belly. “Clearly it’s been bringing us Freyja’s blessings.”
“You should eat more of it, Sihtric.” A deep voice resonated behind them. “Primrose is known to make children act more respectful to their parents.”
They both turned around to find Uhtred closing the longhouse doors. So distracted by their conversation with one another, they hadn’t heard his approach. The distraction was a welcomed one for Sihtric, allowing him to temporarily forget the wrongdoing he’d done and the defiance that landed him in his current regime of punishment. The hours had turned natural for him and Gisela, her maternal qualities reminding him of his mother and making him long her for wisdom and love. She’d always been his voice of reason that reminded him not to draw too much attention to himself, prompting him to remain obedient and avoid chagrined attitudes. She would’ve lectured him for his lapse of good judgment.
Catching Uhtred’s rigid stare, he quickly lowered his head respectfully. “Lord.”
Uhtred casually crossed the distance between them, curiously looking at the various wooden bowls and millstones at work to determine exactly how much his wife had put the boy to work. Domestic work. Not nearly as grueling and physical as he’d had hoped. He expected nothing less from his wife who had the most inconvenient knack of looking at Sihtric as though he were a child. Their child.
And yet, it was him that had made that comment regarding primrose and Sihtric.
He stared at the silent boy out of the corner of his eye. “Leave us, Gisela.”
She would fight, he fully expected, and he took a breath in preparation to demand she remove herself from the longhouse entirely. He had no intentions on reviving their fight but neither did he want her standing behind the boy in his defense. Uhtred didn’t stand a chance if that happened. And he needed to talk to Sihtric alone, man to man.
Gisela must’ve sensed the shift in moods. She was always intuitive. “I’ll be back soon to put the bread in.” It was her not so subtle threat for attitudes and moods to stay in check. And the teen, for his part, actually nodded. Uhtred didn’t.
After she slipped out from the longhouse, the two men remained silent. Uhtred leaned on a small table pushed against a wall in the kitchen that served as the main preparation area, where his wife had just departed from. The fragrant smell of primrose was mockingly inviting against his burdensome thoughts.
“Lord…” Sihtric turned to him, head and eyes lowered. “I… I’m sorry for what I said. I was not thinking and-and… what I said… I was wrong, lord. You’re right to have punished me as you did, and I thank you for not… for not treating me unkindly.”
Uhtred stare lingered on him for a few seconds before he looked away. “You were not wrong. Actually, you were very right.”
The teen looked up at him. “Lord?”
“Well, you were not right in the way that you said it or saying it at all. But your words were truthful enough. Maybe that is why they made me so angry. Because you are right. I am the heir of Bebbanburg and yet here I am. In a small village within Alfred’s reach.”
The bitterness wasn’t nearly as surprising as the words. “Lord…” Sihtric wet his lips and took a cautious step closer to the older man. “I was the one that was wrong. I spoke angrily and just to… just to hurt you. I don’t believe what I said. Neither should you.”
Uhtred took a breath. “And yet you were right.” He leveled a calm stare on the teen. “You were not allowed to accompany Finan and Hild because we are hopeful to avoid battle with the Danes. Long ago, they had been subject to King Ecgberht’s unfair taxing on their trade and came assuming the same unfair treatment would continue. Your father was the king’s hired bodyguard and tax-collector during that time.”
Understanding was slow to reach Sihtric. But when it did, it splashed over him colder than the river. And while he wanted to wither under Uhtred’s incredibly docile stare, he couldn’t seem to find the strength to do so.
“I had you stay back because I did not want any harm coming to you,” Uhtred sighed. “Yes, you are my best scout and spy. Yes, you probably could have helped immensely and cut the workload down. Yes, you possibly could have made the negotiations in our favor.” He shook his head. “But you also could have been recognized by your name or one of Kjartan’s previous followers that have now sworn loyalty to these men. How would that have looked for us? To have Kjartan’s son acting as Alfred’s oathman? It could have come across as too similar to what your father did, and they would not talk with us. I could not risk that.” A pause. “And I did not want to risk you.”
A warrior who had accompanied Uhtred on countless battles, Sihtric almost opened his mouth to point out the flawed thought process. But he stopped himself and thought back on everything Uhtred has ever asked of his men. Never, not once, did he knowingly place them in mortal danger beyond the typical battle risks. They were never placed against odds, walked into a trap, set off to a task with the knowledge that they had no chance.
Uhtred was a good man. Alfred didn’t deserve his loyalty.
“You are right, though,” the older Dane continued, misinterpreting Sihtric’s wallowing silence as urging for him to keep talking. “I do not have Bebbanburg because of that refusal to take blind, reckless risks that will bring more men’s deaths than I am prepared to burden on my shoulders. I will not take a death march north, Sihtric, for men to die for my birthright. Falling in battle is one thing but damning men to be slaughtered is another.”
Sihtric closed his eyes and shook his head. “You do not have to explain this to me, lord. I was in the wrong.”
“Perhaps. And perhaps your words were carried by your anger, but they did not come out unfounded.” He tilted his head to the side. “Do not take insult when I say this, but you are your father’s son.” As expected, the young Dane narrowed his gaze on him. “You see what needs to be done to have a quick, deciding victory. Kjartan was the same. He was a good warrior and could imagine a victory on the battlefield against his enemies.” He shook his head slowly. “But he could not imagine the bodies of his men that would be needed for that victory.”
Maybe it was being compared to the cruel man that sired him but Sihtric swallowed repeatedly to try to force the ball of emotion in his throat. He was certain it was only his despairing emotions that made the dull ache clench at his throat and the sudden urge to cough. The man before him had rescued him from death and Kjartan, doubly saving his life within a day. It was true that Sihtric had the chance to flee Uhtred’s camp when they first met, and he’d managed to best his captors to demand a word with Uhtred. But he chose not to run back to Dunholm. He wanted so desperately to find a place among Uhtred’s household and warriors, to be given the glory a true warrior could deliver, to be treated with dignity.
The loyalty he swore to Uhtred had been ripped to shreds when he disrespected and doubted him.
“I’m… I’m sorry, lord.” He coughed a few times as a scratchiness clouded his voice. Sickness or emotion, he couldn’t be sure. “I shouldn’t have questioned you. I shouldn’t have… I know you mean well. You’ve treated me better than anyone else, and I was misguided. I was… I was… I was just so angry that… I spoke with thinking. I wanted to stop, and I wanted to not say those things. But I was just…”
The boy looked genuinely broken… and confused at his own body’s betrayal. And that was the catalyst that finally served as their bridge of forgiveness. When Uhtred laughed heartedly and slapped a hand on his shoulder, he knew he had been forgiven and the fight was over.
“It is called being a young man.” The hand on his shoulder gripped him tighter as another laugh chortled out. “When I was around your age, I would get into the most fights with Ragnar. Even over the smallest things like normal chores in the fields I would argue and then afterwards feel stupid. It is normal.”
Sihtric snorted lowly with a cough. “Is this also the conversation where I learn how a man lays with a woman?”
“I think Finan has covered that well enough.”
The argument had been sated, their anger doused. And yet, Sihtric still couldn’t shake his guilt. He’d been wrong to question his lord’s word and intent and had acted extraordinarily uncharacteristic in challenging him. “I will still see out my punishment, lord,” he replied with a shaky clear of his throat. “I think my work here is finished if you would rather me be outside. I could use the…” reminder of his masculinity? “…change of scenery.”
Uhtred’s eyes narrowed on him suspiciously. “Are you sick?”
His outright denial of feeling ill was met with skepticism. Though for a brief moment, Sihtric considered embracing the scratchiness and urge to cough as a means to escape the physical labor he was willing to go do. In the moment, the pain in his throat was annoying but not hindering to the point of him needing to be forced to lay down. He’d already been subject to being singled out and restricted from following the other warriors and didn’t need to feel more an invalid.
He managed to convince the older Dane that he was well enough to enjoy ale as they both made their way out to the fields. With the argument at their backs, they could laugh at the previous day. Uhtred told the teen of his own sprouts of insurgence as a young man, his stubbornness and rebellion still trademarked features, and Sihtric listened with a warm smile on his face. And as they sat in the middle of the field, untouched tools scattered around them, Sihtric laughed and listened to his lord’s stories of living in Ragnar’s household. It was a pleasant ending to a not so pleasant beginning. Once the ale had dried up and the sun hung low in the sky, they made their way back to the longhouse, Sihtric’s coughing interrupting their conversation a few times.
That scratch in the back of his throat turned to a heated, roaring pain he could no longer ignore. And the coughs were developing a pattern that Uhtred couldn’t shrug off anymore. Apparently the master carpenter’s advice not to dive into a cold river wasn’t without warrant.
Uhtred paused with his hand on the longhouse door and looked pointedly at the boy. “You are sick.”