Until Forever (22 page)

I
t took two long weeks for October 14 to arrive. Roseleen spent most of that time aboard the
Mora
, usually by Thorn’s order, but sometimes by choice, as when the smoke of burning huts was heavy in the air.

It didn’t take long for the Normans to secure the port of Hastings and its immediate environs.
Devastate
would have been a more appropriate description. But then even the famous Bayeux Tapestry that depicted William’s battle for the coveted English throne had one scene that showed him feasting at Hastings with his brothers Odo and Robert while a woman ran from a burning hut with her child.

This
was
war, after all, something that Roseleen had to keep reminding herself. That she knew the outcome and all the tactics employed well in advance tended to downgrade the seriousness of it in her mind, but the fact
was, people were dying out there, and a lot more would die before the end of the day.

William and his army were long gone when that realization hit her in relation to herself. She might be perfectly safe being left behind with the ships, but Thorn had marched with the army down the road that connected Hastings with the town of Battle. He might not be able to die, but he could still get hurt, especially since he wouldn’t actually be fighting to kill anyone, merely defending.

And she knew that William’s scouts had reported in the middle of the night that Harold had arrived with his army, that the Normans had broken camp and were marching to meet the English, and the battle would begin this morning by nine o’clock.

That was no more than an hour away. And it didn’t take more than moments for the thought of Thorn being hurt and her not being there to help him to drive her crazy. She had to get to the battlefield. She knew the layout of it, and that the English would be contained on the ridge where they took their stand, that every Norman assault would be against that containment, so the battle wouldn’t be spread out where it might reach her if she sneaked in on the sidelines. And she could at least keep an eye on Thorn then.

Making the decision to go was so much easier than accomplishing it, because she happened to get stuck with Guy of Anjou, who had been charged with guarding her. He liked it no better than she, but he was staying close
to keep her in sight. He took his duty very seriously since he’d nearly lost her the last time.

She had little doubt that he’d prefer to be in the thick of the battle, guarding Thorn’s back, as was a squire’s duty. But he wasn’t a squire yet, so here he was with her instead. And she couldn’t see any way to take off without him this time—which meant convincing him to come with her.

It was incredible how stubborn that lad could be, and how condescending. He laughed, of course, when she broached the subject with him. And he stood fast in his refusal to budge from that ship for a good hour, even when she had him convinced that through a dream, it had been revealed to her that it was a certainty the battle would be met today. Medieval folk were too superstitious not to credit things like dreams and omens.

It was an appeal to his own importance that finally enabled her to get through to him, when she said, “If England is conquered, other Normans will come to settle here. And they will all be eager to hear about the glorious battle that won them this prize. It’s going to be one of the most famous battles in history, Guy. Wouldn’t you prefer to be able to say you were there and speak of it with authority? Or will you have to admit that all you know of it, you gleaned from others’ accounts?”

He didn’t
immediately
change his tune at that point, but she’d hooked him through his vanity, so it wasn’t long after that that he
grudgingly agreed to fetch his horse—about the only one that had been left behind—and take her a ways down the road, not too near the battle, he’d stressed, but merely close enough for them to be of assistance when it was over.

“
Oh, sure
,” she felt like saying, but refrained from doing so. But she knew damn well he wouldn’t be able to resist taking a peek at that battle if they got close enough to hear it. And she was right. He did it by playing dumb, pretending he didn’t hear any of the various sounds of combat until they were nearly right up on the Normans’ flanks.

Only then did he say in exaggerated surprise, “Verily, we have come too close.”

Yet he didn’t turn his horse about. He sat there and waited for her to convince him that they’d be safe where they were. Trouble was, where they were, she couldn’t see much of anything with all those tall Norman backs in front of her, even if the fighting was taking place up the gradual slope of the ridge where Harold had taken his stand. But to the west was another hill, probably the one where William had first sighted the English.

So she told him, “Nay, this is much too close. I think yonder would be much safer, don’t you?” She pointed to the hill. “And we might even have an unobstructed view of the battle from there.”

He needed no further encouragement to swing their horse in that direction. And soon they were both dismounted and somewhat
concealed by the underbrush, with a clear view of the ridge. Harold’s standards could be seen near the lone apple tree at the topmost point of the ridge where he’d planted himself, both the dragon of Wessex that he fought under, and his own personal banner of a Fighting Man.

It was a tightly contained mass of men, just as the accounts had claimed, a very strong defensive position that could have won Harold the war if his men hadn’t broken rank to chase the retreating Normans when they lost hope. She didn’t know what point the battle had reached—and then she did.

Disheartened, Guy said, “We are retreating.”

Indeed the Normans were, but she knew that to be the beginning of their triumph. “Yes, they’ve heard that William has been killed, they’ve tried to break through the English shields all morning with no success, but look there,” she told Guy, excited. “That’s Bishop Odo swinging his mace, exhorting the men to take heart, assuring them that William is hale and hearty.”

“But the English are now attacking!” he exclaimed as the English started rushing down the slope after the Normans.

She grinned. “Don’t worry, Guy, that is their greatest mistake. Watch and you will see William’s knights turn to make mincemeat of them.”

He looked at her aghast when that was precisely what began to happen. Roseleen didn’t
notice. She was too busy now trying to locate Thorn, and finally found him at the base of the ridge near William, neither actively fighting yet.

She sighed in relief, and then realized belatedly that of course he’d stay near William, and thus out of the attacks of the mounted knights. It was why he was there, to find out why William didn’t give the order for the arrows to be fired into the air later.

They had a long wait yet, so she remarked offhandedly, “That retreat was genuine, but there will be other feigned ones that will yield the same results.”

“How do you know?”

“Ah, I told you, I dreamed it,” she replied.

She couldn’t tell whether the boy accepted that lame excuse, but she noticed that he was looking at her differently now, impressed that she knew so much about what was going on before them. “Do we win?” he asked her hesitantly.

A good question that demanded a yes, she thought, unless the Normans failed to fire those arrows this time, and the answer would be no. So she said, “My dream didn’t get that far, though it certainly looked hopeful.”

He nodded, satisfied, and went back to watching the carnage. She averted her own eyes from that, and simply kept track of Thorn. So she was quite surprised when she later saw him talking to Sir Reinard, and not in an angry or threatening way. She even saw
him throw back his head and laugh, which surprised her even more.

She was so bemused over that, that time passed without her noticing much of anything. Then suddenly it was late afternoon, and she saw the arrows flying through the air. She blinked, and her eyes flew up the hill. Sure enough, Harold Godwineson had been struck by one, just as the accounts claimed. She cringed and looked away in time to see the Norman cavalry charging up the hill.

The battle would be over soon. Harold would die by sunset at the very spot in which he had held firm since morning, the Normans would quit chasing any survivors from his army by nightfall, and an intimate of Harold’s, Edith Swan-neck, would be brought in to verify which body was his. By William’s order, he would then be buried on the shore that he had defended. Only much later would the new King of England permit Harold’s body to be moved to consecrated ground at the church of Waltham.

History had finally gotten back to its correct course, ensuring that Roseleen’s time in the future would once again be familiar to her. She didn’t know what had changed to get William to give that order to his archers this time around, as he was supposed to, but why he had didn’t matter all that much now, as long as the outcome was what they had sought.

She vowed that there would be no more time hopping for her after this. It was too
nerve-wracking, and far too easy to change things without even realizing it. If she hadn’t had the history books to tell her what to look for…

“Verily, did I suspect I would find you near.”

Roseleen and Guy both started and swung around to see Thorn towering over them, his expression not so much disapproving as exasperated.

Roseleen merely grinned, but Guy began to stammer his excuses, “My lord, I—I can—”

“Be easy, Guy,” Thorn cut in. “’Tis easily guessed why you are here. I know how the lady doth browbeat and nag until she has her way.”

“Nag?” Roseleen snorted. “I take exception—”

“So you may, but to little avail this time. How else are you here, when this is not where I left you?” She decided to play dumb on that one and clamped her mouth shut. “As I thought,” Thorn added, then to Guy, “They will be setting up camp soon and need assistance with the wounded. Go you and give what aid you can. I will attend to the lady.”

Guy got out of there fast, while the getting was good. Roseleen had to wonder if the scoldings would come now that she was alone with Thorn, but she didn’t think so. He looked a bit weary—he’d been roused in the wee hours of the morning when William’s scouts had made their report—and still exas
perated, but he didn’t look as if he would be lifting her up for some hard shakings.

In fact, all he said was, “Are you ready to leave this time?”

Was she ever. She’d even brought her pillowcase of essentials along, just in case. But a kernel of curiosity got in the way first, and she asked, “Did you happen to figure out what changed things here? Not that it’s important anymore, but—”

“’Twas your Sir Reinard who suggested the use of the archers in that particular way. Until I proved to him that he could not have you, he had been mooning over you, and cared not which way the battle went, he had been so lovesick. With his thoughts on the battle again, and the Normans nigh giving up, he made mention to William of that tactic with the archers that he had once seen previously employed.”

For some reason, her cheeks started to burn with heat. “So it was my fault, indirectly—again.”

“Aye, yours indeed.”

“You don’t have to rub it in. I didn’t exactly encourage the man.”

“There is no need for you to encourage, Roseleen. You needs simply be present, for a man to fall in love with you.”

Her blush deepened. “Well, you can’t blame me for that.”

“Can I not? You would not have met Reinard de Morville had you not—”

“All right! That was a perfectly innocent…
blunder…which just supports the conclusion I’ve reached. We have no business tampering with the past in
any
way. So I’m going to withdraw my permission for Blooddrinker’s Curse to be used for jaunts into the past—after you get me home, of course.”

He sighed and took her hand, bringing it up to his lips before he said, “Aye, I did anticipate you wouldst say just that. Odin did warn me I may not like what I find in the past.”

She made a rude sound of disagreement. “You’ve enjoyed every minute—”

“Nay, I do not like seeing you fret and worry, Roseleen,” he told her sincerely. “’Tis not worth whatever battle I might find here.”

Words like that made her want to kiss him till he begged for mercy, but he didn’t give her the opportunity to try. Even as her free hand reached for his neck, they entered that void that sent them through the realms of time.

“I
like it not, being kept waiting, Blooddrinker.”

Roseleen heard the rasping voice behind her and swung around to try to locate it. They were back in her bedchamber in Cavenaugh Cottage, which meant no one else should have been there, at least not someone whose voice she didn’t recognize.

But when she found the speaker, slouched back on her narrow desk chair across the room, her eyes flared wide, and she sucked in a breath so fast, she choked on it and started coughing. Unfortunately, that got her the palm of Thorn’s hand slamming into her back, though he didn’t even look her way to see whether he had knocked her off her feet or not. He hadn’t, though it had been a close thing, which made her glare at him in return, but he didn’t notice.

His blue eyes were riveted on the unwel
come visitor, and a slow grin slowly came to his lips.

“Ah, but you have naught better to do, do you?” Thorn said in response to the remark they’d heard, then as an afterthought added, “Greetings, Wolfstan. You really must make a better effort to visit more often.”

A low growl came from the very obvious Viking. He was a ghost. Roseleen had a ghost in her bedchamber, not an assumed one this time, but a real one. And yet—he looked substantial enough, so substantial that the legs of the delicate chair he sat in bowed under his weight.

Long, stringy blond hair fell halfway down his chest. His eyes were so dark they defied color. And he was huge, easily as big as Thorn, with bulging muscles on the bare arms that presently crossed his chest. The sleeveless vest he wore was some kind of untanned black furry hide. The same matted fur edged his boots at his thick calves. And strips of it, with only a patch or two of fur left, cross-gartered his leggings.

Behind him, lying across the top of her desk, was the largest, ugliest ax she’d ever seen. A battle-ax, designed for chopping off heads and limbs, and if used by a wielder of great strength, it could even cleave a man in two. Wolfstan the Mad looked as if he had a lot of strength.

Thorn remarked on the same thing, but with a good deal of scorn. “I see you still have that weak weapon Gunnhilda bestowed on
you when you lost your own. You should have killed her when she gave it to you.”

“Think you I did not try, the many times she called me to her to exhort me to kill you ere she died? That ax is as cursed as your sword, Blooddrinker. ’Twould fall from my hand each time I did raise it against the witch.”

“A shame.” Thorn sighed. “I would at least one of us had stolen a few years from her wretched life. ’Twould have been some small recompense for what she did to us, to send her to her devil’s realm early.”

Wolfstan nodded in agreement, only to demand, “Then why did
you
never try? You, at least, were not under her command, as was I.”

Thorn snorted at that. “Think you I did not search for her to do that very thing? I had great hope that the curse bestowed on me would end with her death, yet was she more powerful than that. And she hid from me well ere I departed that realm for Valhalla.”

The name of that Viking heaven was obviously a sore subject between them, because its mention drew another growl from Wolfstan and brought him to his feet, the poor chair creaking with his movement. And he really
was
as big as Thorn, maybe even slightly bigger.

His reaching for the battle-ax on the desk was a fair indication that he was a little more than annoyed. Thorn’s suddenly shoving Roseleen behind him made it a sure enough
guarantee. And with Thorn’s sword still in hand from their journey there, it was only seconds before the two men were joined in battle.

Roseleen stared at them aghast. They were actually battling, trying to kill each other, right there in her bedchamber. And then the blood drained from her as that word
kill
set off alarms throughout her whole system. This was the one being who could actually kill Thorn, not just hurt him, but really kill him. And that’s exactly what Wolfstan the Mad was trying to do with every swing of that mighty battle-ax he wielded.

“Stop it!” she cried “Stop it this instant!”

Neither of them paid her the slightest attention. She might as well have not been there. But she was, and she was utterly terrified.

Thorn had no shield to use in fending off the swings coming at him. He had to use his sword to deflect those quelling blows, if he couldn’t get out of the way in time. And God forbid he should slip or fumble. Wolfstan like-wise had no shield, but he was on the attack, had been since their blades first drew sparks, and he was giving Thorn no time or opening to mount an offensive of his own.

Without thinking beyond getting this horrible fight over with, Roseleen worked her way around the combatants until she was behind Wolfstan. There she picked up her desk chair and swung it at his back with all her might, uncaring whether Thorn might object to her interference in such a way. But she was forget
ting that Wolfstan was a ghost. Unlike Thorn, he really did lack substance, so that the chair actually passed right through him, nearly hitting Thorn in the process, and she ended up swinging around with it, losing her balance, and falling to the floor.

She sat there for a moment, wondering how he’d managed to put weight on that chair to bend its legs and make it creak, if he lacked any substance at all. Or was it selective? Did he have the power to change the consistency of his body himself? His ax certainly didn’t lack substance. Again and again she heard it clash with Blooddrinker’s Curse. But if there was nothing but space and image to him, how could Thorn manage to kill him? Wouldn’t his sword pass right through him as well, causing no damage at all?

Roseleen had to suddenly scramble out of the way as they neared her. She wasn’t quite quick enough to prevent Wolfstan’s foot from passing through hers, leaving an icy chill in that part of her body. She shivered as she got to her feet. She
had
to stop this fight. But short of calling the village priest to ask him to get over here on the double, she couldn’t think of—

“You always were a weakling, Wolf, even when you lived. Come now, can you give me no better sport this time? A wench could withstand those puny blows of yours.”

Roseleen glanced sharply in Thorn’s direction to see him all but laughing. He was
enjoy
ing
himself. She was frightened out of her wits, and he was having the time of his life.

She could have taken an ax to him herself at that realization. And yet, she should have known he’d consider this battle fun-and-games time. Hadn’t he mentioned just recently that he wished Wolfstan would find him more often?

“You are an overweening braggart, Thorn. If your family had not the power of Irsa giving you added strength, I would have had your head chopped off long ere the witch got around to cursing you.”

Mudslinging now? Roseleen wondered as she picked up the desk chair, sat down in it, and listened to them throw insults back and forth for the next twenty minutes, some of which had her ears turning pink. Her arms were crossed, one of her toes was tapping impatiently—she was actually getting mad. They were like a couple of kids playing cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers—in their case, the cursed one and the ghost. It was obvious that they had known each other prior to Gunnhilda’s interference in their lives. She could imagine they had behaved much like this back then.

When they returned to some serious hacking and slashing, she merely sighed, no longer afraid that Thorn was going to get hurt. Obviously, he was the better-skilled fighter and he’d merely been toying with his longtime enemy to prolong the enjoyment they were both having. But when Thorn finally spared her a
glance and noticed how obviously annoyed she was, he made quick work of ending it.

The next swing of Wolfstan’s ax was deflected as before, but this time Thorn’s wrist twisted and brought his blade quickly back for a slash that should have opened the ghost from one side of his belly to the other. Instead, it passed right through him, just as the chair had, with no blood to show for it.

But instead of Wolfstan’s paying no attention to it as he had when she’d hit him with the chair, he behaved as if he’d received a mortal blow. His ax slid from his hand, he clutched his middle, and then he was gone, having vanished within a blink, and in the next second, his battle-ax was gone with him.

“Until next time, Wolf,” Thorn said quietly as he sheathed Blooddrinker’s Curse.

Vaguely, as if from an echoing distance, Roseleen heard the sound of laughter. She gritted her teeth and just managed to refrain from rolling her eyes.

“Is this a weekly occurence?” she asked him in one of her driest tones. “Monthly? How long will it take him to find his way back to you?”

“He comes only once during each new summoning,” Thorn replied, choosing to ignore her sarcasm. “Actually, he will not come again, as there will be no new summoning.”

He said that with a degree of sadness, having only just realized it. Roseleen heard only that there would be no new summoning,
which meant he was going to stick around permanently, as he’d said.

Now would be the time to disabuse him of that notion, to send him away, to get her life back to normal—if that would ever be possible. But looking at him standing there, triumphant from battle, so handsome he took her breath away, she couldn’t do it, not yet. It was too quick, too sudden.

Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow she’d do it. Till then…