Blood & Honor
Uhtred x (f)Reader [The Last Kingdom]
Chapter 2
SUMMARY: You were born the bastard child of King Alfred and banished from your homeland. Raised a Dane, you honored the call of the gods to heal the sick and wounded. Though you did your best to not draw attention to yourself and your parentage, the fates had another path instore for you. After all, destiny is all.
warnings: descriptions of gore/violence, sexual themes, strong language. viewer discretion advised
Part 1
BEOCCA PRAYED TO GOD THAT HIS PLAN WOULD NOT FAIL HIM. He had sent word to his oldest friend a fortnight before your arrival, and yet, he could not shake the worry building in his chest. He had not seen nor talked to Brünnhilde in nearly a year and was sure as the sky was blue that she would not take too kindly to his sudden appearance. But he also knew she would not turn away an innocent in need. For a Dane, she had a strict moral code of chivalry and kindness that rivaled even the best of Christians.
"Where do we go?" you asked, your voice small and unsure. Beocca startled the slightest bit, holding onto the reigns of his horse until his knuckles turned white. You were a quiet and observant child, never speaking unless you needed food or water. You sat atop Beocca's horse as if you were made to ride horseback, never complaining of being uncomfortable or tired. He tried to speak with you, ask you questions about your homeland, but you could not truly provide the answers he sought after.
"To see an old friend of mine. She will take care of you, provide you a home."
"Why not my father's home?"
"You mustn't speak of your father, child."
"Why?"
"Because," he exhaled as he tried to find the words, "it is not safe to do so."
"Why?"
"Because it is dangerous."
"Why dangerous?"
The priest sighed in exasperation. "Because child, your father cannot claim you. He is an important man."
"Like my mother?" your voice was a whisper, and tears began to cloud your vision. "She was killed by bad men."
"I know," Beocca touched your shoulder gently, "which is why I am taking you to a safe place."
~
Brünnhilde was a towering woman with cunning and watchful eyes. Her bright red hair was pulled back from her face, the plaits of her braid cascading down her shoulders. She gazed at you in brief curiosity before inviting Beocca and you into her home. It was no more than a hut at the edge of a large forest, surrounded by farmland worked by Danes. Inside hundreds of dried herbs hung from the wooden rafters and clay bowls were strewn haphazardly on the wooden table.
"This is her then?" the Dane woman's voice was hoarse with age, her weathered face staring intently at the priest.
"Yes, this is she. Come child, say hello to Brünnhilde."
You hid behind the priest, eyes wide.
"I will not harm you child, come forward."
Cautiously you stepped towards her. The elder woman held her hand outstretched, coaxing you gently. Gingerly you grabbed it with your own, the warmth of her palm reminding you of your mother's touch.
"Who else knows of her location?"
"No one."
"Not even her father?"
"No," Beocca took a breath, "he thought it best if he was not made aware of the details."
"That is smart of him."
"My King is the smartest man I know."
Brünnhilde snorted. "Smart men do not tend to keep their bastards alive." the Dane women looked at you once again. "Do you know who your father is, girl?"
You nodded your head. "An important man."
"Aye, an important man indeed." Brünnhilde knelt down to her knees, grey eyes fierce. "He is the King of Wessex, young one. King Alfred of Wessex."
"Brünnhilde!" Beocca's eyes went wide with shock.
"Your father is a Saxon King, young one. But you are not his daughter. His blood may course through your veins, but you are no child of Alfred. If you wish to live your days in peace, you must never utter the truth to anyone. You must never discuss your parentage. If you do, you will die, just like your mother. Do you understand?"
Your small frame trembled at her words. You did not fully understand her meaning nor why it was so important. But somewhere, deep down, you could feel the weight of her truth. "Yes."
"I promise to take care and protect you to the best of my ability. But I cannot promise no harm shall befall you if you speak who your father is. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Good." Brünnhilde stood to her full height. "Go sit, there is bread and broth waiting for you. The priest and I have matters to discuss."
~
Beocca sipped from his goblet gingerly, the taste of ale unsettling to his senses. You slept soundly in the bed near the corner; furs wrapped around your legs wildly. Candles flickered on the table, encasing the priest and Dane woman in golden light. Brünnhilde poured herself more ale and sat in her seat expectantly.
"So," she took another sip, "what do you plan to do now?"
"What is your meaning?"
"Will she know you?"
Beocca thought for a moment, eyes lingering on the small child. "I do not know if that is the safest course. She is believed dead in her homeland and only the King and a trusted few in his court know of her existence. I fear it would raise too much suspicion if a habit were made of me leaving Winchester so often and traveling this far north."
"Hmm," Brünnhilde exhaled softly, "does the Queen know of her? Do I have to worry of Saxon spies coming to slit our throats in the night?"
"The Queen has no knowledge that the child is back, nor would she dare to send Saxon warriors here to Northumbria. There is no talk of the banished foreign princess within the walls of Winchester, nor of the babe borne of her womb."
"I see. And did your King leave any instruction for her?"
"Just that I ensure her safety and the discretion of her keeper."
"And he has no knowledge that you have entrusted her to a Dane? A heathen?"
"None."
"I suppose it is a smart plan. Who would look for Alfred's bastard living amongst a heathen crone?"
"My thinking exactly," he admitted, "but there is none other I would entrust this task to. Pagan or no, you are my oldest friend. Saved my life more than once."
"Ha, "Brünnhilde scoffed, "more than once indeed."
"You are sure you are up to the task?"
The Dane woman's eyes narrowed as she looked to your sleeping form. She was not new to loss, nor the cruelty of the inner Christian courts. She was once a stranger to these lands with nothing and no one. "She will be safe with me. You have my word, Beocca."
~
Brünnhilde kept her promise and treated you with care. You did not question why the priest never appeared again, and instead, became absorbed in the daily and ritualistic life of a Dane. Though you kept your promise to never speak of your parents, your mind toiled with unanswered questions and heartbreak. Your heavy emotions were palpable to the Dane woman, and with a heavy sigh, she decided she had enough. "What is it that troubles you, girl?"
You peered up at her with wet eyes, the cloth doll in your hands trembling. "It is about my parents."
"What of them? Speak of it now, child, so long as you never talk of it again."
"Why did my father send me away? Because of him, my mother and I were banished. She told me the story before she was taken."
Brünnhilde set her eyes downcast as she resumed her work undressing a rabbit upon the table. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, and a dense fog settled on the land. Autumn was making her descent, the ease and flow of time slowly coming to a dull thrum.
"King Alfred was sworn to marry a high-born Lady of Mercia," she sliced the fur from the animal with expert hands, "you were born of an affair before they married."
"Why did my father not marry my mother then? She was a princess, well respected by her people. Why not make her Queen?"
"Alfred was not yet King, and your mother was not Saxon."
"So?"
"In these lands, child, origin of birth is everything. He could not marry a heathen woman and raise heathen heirs, even if she was of royal birth."
"But my mother worshipped the Christian god, she was not a heathen."
"She had no Saxon blood within her veins, and so she was marked thus."
"But I do," you played with the hem of the doll's dress, "I have Saxon blood."
"You do." she agreed.
"Would that not make me his heir?"
Brünnhilde's eyes flashed, sharp and stern. "Do not speak of such a thing!"
You bowed your head in shame. "I just do not understand why my father did not want me, why my mother's people did not want me. I have both their blood coursing in my veins, and yet, I belong to no one."
The elder woman regarded you for a moment, a small frown tugging at her lips. "You belong to yourself, child. That is more important than anything else, more than most can claim for themselves. You are not alone in this world, as you have my protection."
With your bleary eyes you met her gaze, tears rolling down your cheeks. "I see."
Brünnhilde stood from the table, wiping the rabbit's blood on the front of her dress. She crossed over to where you sat and knelt, taking your hands in hers. "I may not be the woman who gave you life, but I will treat you as my own. You are safe here, girl, this I swear to you, as the gods are my witness." She gently cupped your cheek, wiping away the tears that spilled. "Come now, let us prepare our mighty feast!"
The next morning, Brünnhilde decided you would learn the art of healing and save you from the fate of idle hands and a wandering mind. The elder woman took you with her to collect herbs and mushrooms, teaching you their various properties and powers. As you grew, you assumed the role as her apprentice, aiding with the preparations of balms and salves. It was never said outright that Brünnhilde was a medicine woman, not that the distinction mattered much to you. Her ability to heal was as obvious as the sun rising in the mornings, as the rains during the spring. You saw first-hand as she set a joint back into place, mended the mangled body cleaved in battle, coaxed a babe borne foot first from its mother's womb. On the sacred days you tended to the fires, aided in the rituals, helped prepare the earth medicines. The townsfolk of your hamlet absorbed you as one of their own, never questioning your origins. To them, you were Brünnhilde's daughter, and she thought of you the same.
The evening of your twelfth birthday, you began your bleed. Brünnhilde wept with joy and gifted you your very own herb satchel, a protection rune etched deep into its leather.
"You are a young woman now, my child. It is time you learned the true art of healing."
And so you did.
You saved a life for the first time when you were sixteen. A clumsy boy named Bjorn miscalculated the swing of a wood axe and cleaved right into his leg. The neighboring boys ran to your home to fetch your adoptive mother, but she had gone to forage at first light. Without hesitation, you grabbed your medicine bag and a few extra supplies before running out to help.
The boy's blood pooled down his leg and soaked the earth beneath him. He cried and screamed an awful sound, the blade of the axe still imbedded in his flesh. You bent down without second thought or care of the blood soaking into your dress. With expert hands you took out fresh strips of linen, soon followed by the sharp and shaped curve of a bone carved into a sewing needle. You tied the strips of linen just above the injury to his leg, ensuring not to bump into the axe with your movements. Your hands found the extract of henbane and poured the draught into the boy's mouth, fighting with all your strength to ensure he consumed every last drop.
"This will hurt, but I must clean the wound. Scream if you have to." without another word you poured a cleansing mixture upon his gaping flesh. Bjorn howled so loud you swore the dead could hear him.
Carefully you dislodged the axe from his leg, inspecting the wound to see if he had hit one of the important meridians in the leg. You remembered Brünnhilde's teachings about it - if one of the major lines of blood in the body had ruptured, there was no saving the life. Luckly for the boy, it had missed and gone mostly into the soft tissues and muscle.
"Lay him back gently. I need to close the wound. Quickly now! Bjorn, you need not fight the urge to sleep. The henbane is for the pain, and so that I may mend the leg without trouble."
The boy nodded dumbly, pale face coated in sweat. It took only a few moments for the boy to slip into unconsciousness.
"Hold him steady, I need to ensure he does not move while I work."
Two strong warriors pinned the boy on either side, watching you in awe as you began to sew the broken pieces of flesh back together. You worked as quickly but as carefully as you could, pouring the cleansing draught on the sutures once again to ensure its cleanliness. Once finished, you coated the injury with a poultice of yarrow and calendula before ordering him to be taken inside.
"You are blessed by the gods themselves," the boy's mother wept as she embraced you, "thank you, thank you!"
"Be sure to keep him fed with water and broth. Do not let him eat heavy meals for the next few days. If the wound starts to pus or smell, call on me or my mother. I will visit in two days' time to check his progress." you attempted to wipe the blood from your hands before she pulled you into another embrace. Brünnhilde returned to your home after visiting the boy and his family before sunset. You sat in front of the hearth, sipping a bowl of venison stew.
"You saved that boy's life," she sat beside you and pulled you into her arms, "I have never been prouder than I am now. He will live because of your decisive action. He will keep his leg because you kept the knowledge of healing close to your heart."
"I am glad I could help." you said, eyes wide at her words. "Thank you, mother."
"You did more than help, my dear. You answered a call from the gods. Heed my words, child. The gods will remember this day, as will the townsfolk. Healing is your destiny, I see this now. It is an honorable calling. I will do my best to impart as much knowledge as I can to you. Tonight, you shall eat and rest. Tomorrow, we will honor the gods and begin your studies anew."
~
The years bled into one another as you honed your craft further. Word of your healing prowess spread throughout Northumbria like hellfire. There was not a Dane alive that did not whisper of the strange young woman who coaxed a young boy from his deathbed, how you took his mangled leg and made it whole again. Danes from all walks of life traveled to your small hamlet in the north in hopes you could heal them, and by the gods, you did.
It was a cold and rainy night that the turning of the fates could start to be felt. News of raiders terrorizing nearby villages had finally reached your small hamlet, and in mass their sick and wounded found themselves at your doorstep.
"The gods will have the final say," Brünnhilde muttered as she pounded yarrow into fine powder, "what sort of warriors murder the helpless? Children and the elderly?"
"They say it is Northmen."
"Northmen, Dane, and Saxon. All men do is kill. I have had enough of killing, and of men."
"An elder told me they once marched for the coward-king, deserters they are."
"King Guthred?"
"The very same," you snorted, "our Christian King."
Brünnhilde spat upon the floor at that. "He is no king of mine."
"I think the Northmen would agree with that sentiment, mother. Let us hope they do not travel so far north."
~
Sigefrid stared at the marred stump with empty eyes. The pain radiated from it as if the hand was still attached, aching and burning as if it still could remember the feeling of the axe cleaving through bone.
"Brother," Erik sat on a nearby tree trunk, extending a plate of bread and meat, "you must eat."
"I do not wish to eat," Sigefrid snarled, barring his teeth at his younger brother, "I wish to kill the Dane-Slayer cunt for what he has done!"
It had been many weeks since the ambush and their banishment. The brothers and their men marched further into Northumbria in search of respite, mending their broken prides as they went.
"You should have killed him where he stood," Sigefrid tore his gaze from Erik, "should have given me the dignity of revenge."
"Had Uhtred killed you, brother, all we have fought for would be for naught."
"He took my sword-hand!" the dark-haired Dane lunged to his feet, eyes ablaze. His men eyed him warily, shuddering at the thought if he decided to take his anger out on one of them again.
"He did," Erik nodded solemnly, "but he did not take your spirit, nor your thirst for battle and blood. Do you wish to wallow for the rest of your days? Or will you fight with me, brother, and continue on our set course?"
"You promised that shit-stain we would leave Northumbria."
"I did," Erik smirked mischievously, "that does not make it so."
Sigefrid considered his brother for a moment before taking the plate of food from his grasp. "What is your plan? How can I fight beside you with no sword-arm?"
"I have heard rumors of a powerful healer. Said to have healed a boy who was sure to die, and countless others. My plan, big brother, is we go see this witch, see what sort of healing magick she can do. The men we garnered support with are on their way from Frankia, as well as the men from Beamfleot. The gods are with us, brother. Are you with me?"
The elder Northmen eyed Erik before nodding curtly. "I am always with you, little brother. Let us go see this witch."
~~~~~~~~~~
