Air hisses through his teeth as he jerks his head away from her touch, gentle though it is. The wound just above his temple is rough and bloody, skin scraped and flesh mess-torn. There’s dirt and gravel in it, kicked up when he’d fallen, and the sting of sweat at its edges matches neatly the sting of his blood-speckled palms where he’d pushed himself up again.
He was lucky. Just a fraction lower, and a blow like that could easily have killed him, crushed his skull in one sweep. His own fingers rise, intending to press against his skin and seek out the extent of the damage, but Elfriede slaps it away.
He resigns himself to her ministrations, examining instead the heel of one palm, fingers picking at dark specks of stone lodged in them.
“You’re an idiot,” she says, decisively, as she pushes his hair from where’s it’s stuck, blood-slick, to his face.
“For taking so long to see them coming? Perhaps.” The rag-tag raiders had fallen upon Coccham just before the full light of dawn. Uhtred is all too certain that they must not have known whose home they attacked—-he has garnered himself enough of a reputation to Dane and Saxon alike that few dare face him in his own stronghold. They had been a loose gang of men, none fighting with any regard for the other, but there had been some skilled warriors among them.
And one big enough to have plucked Uhtred off his feet and send him sprawling to the ground with a single blow of the spike-sharpened club he carried in place of a sword.
Men have died, but none of them Uhtred’s own; he himself came the closest. As it should be. The rest fled when it was clear they stood no chance of winning.
“For running out to meet them, without horses and only half my men? No.” He says it firmly, a tone that brooks no argument. He abandons the examination of his palms and reaches up to clasp her hand, pulling it impatiently away from his head without thought to the softness of her skin beneath his bloody fingers. He is too tired and too sore and too focused to linger overlong on thoughts of her, though later he will remember the way her fingers curled against his, for just the barest of moments before he dropped them. “I would not have had them enter Coccham. Not even if it gave me more time and more men. When a man is desperate, he will do many things, beyond the bond of his honour—-there are too many here I would protect from that. Children. Women.”
“Princesses.” He reaches up, unhindered this time, and grunts at the feel of blood still trickling down the side of his face. He strides to his basin, scoops cold water in his hands and drenches his face, his head. Pain flares bright, but is soothed by the coolness. He washes his hands too, wiping excess water. from his face, still pink-tinged, dragging the back of a forearm across cheeks and mouth.
“It will mend,” he assures her, catching what he thinks might be concern across her face. “But I must ride out to the farms that lie to the West. They cannot defend themselves against such men if they choose to attack as they flee.”
Elfriede watches from the gates as Uhtred and his men ride off to defend the farms against raiders. She blames her bad mood on the fact she has wasted herbs and bandages healing Uhtred only for him to ride off for another battle before they even had the chance to work. No doubt he would garner more injuries for himself that would need seeing to. What a waste of her time. She could have seen for herself how the Lady rules her court at Æglesburgh - instead, the reasons to stay in Coccham seem to pile up. As soon as one thing is resolved, another takes it place, pushing her journey further away. She sighs, smoothing her skirts and walking back to Uhtred’s home.
How quickly she has grown to know Coccham. It is unlike Wihtwara, where still the priests stretch out their hands over the land, seeking to claim it for their God. Here, it seems, all worship is welcome. She keeps her faith more openly than she has ever at home in the palace - although, she thinks with a smile, I’m not sure how the people of Coccham may take to a suggestion of Beltane fires. Uhtred would take to it all too well. She finds a seat by the hearth, bundles of sewing waiting for her.
Filling the hours with embroidery and stitching repairs grows weary. She has finished the embroidery work on the sleeves of her gowns, and any more detailing would begin to look ridiculous. Her mind wanders to the men - but such thoughts must be stifled. If she thought of how they fared, she would be unable to bear it. She even contemplates taking one of Uhtred’s shirts to mend to fill the time. He takes no more care with his clothes than he does his life, both which come criminally negligent to Elfriede’s opinion. But she is struck suddenly by the thought - mending his shirts by the fire while he is out fighting, like any soldier’s wife. The needle pricks her thumb, the moment of distraction causing her to miss the stitch. She sucks on it, flicking her tongue over the indentation.
What am I doing here, playing wife? She stares around her at Uhtred’s hall. It would never be her hall, could never be. She is a Princess - she would forfeit all power and land to a man if she chose to marry. And Uhtred would hardly travel to Wihtwara with her and be stifled in the palace. His destiny lies to the North, and hers is anchored to the South, to Wihtwara. The thought fills her with a peculiar kind of melancholy.
She could marry Uhtred, give him fat sons and pleasant daughters. They would learn his skill with the sword, and her talent for politics. What a force they might be! But her position would be entirely lost. Her brother could throw her out, withdraw her titles and rights. Their mother’s people counted only the mother’s line - all things came from the mother. If it were still so, Elfriede would rule Wihtwara and take Uhtred for her lover and none may say a word against it.
The rest of the day blurs, Elfriede filling her hours and mulling over her thoughts. The news of Uhtred’s return stirs an anxious excitement in her. What condition will he return in? She would rush from the Hall to meet him, but her troubled thoughts prevent her. Rather, she walks (albeit with speed) to find out how they fare. And, true to her expectations, all the work she had done earlier is for naught. She clicks her tongue at him, arching an eyebrow. The work requires a trained healer, not simple herbs and bandages, although Elfriede can assist as well as any apprentice.
It is only once night steals through the village that Elfriede is once more alone with her thoughts. She cannot sleep, her mind busy with thoughts. In Wihtwara she would walk the battlements, walk until her mind stilled and she could return to bed. Here, there is nothing of the sort, and she pads out into the hall instead. The fire in the hearth crackles gently, and she can hear the lowing of animals outside. Still, her mind will not quiet. Her sewing still sits in the corner, and she glances at her thumb. No sign of the needle’s pinprick in the flesh. The same could not be said of Uhtred, swaddled in bandages.
She doubts he made it to his bed without disturbing the dressings, despite his protestations. She has heard much of his battle prowess, but she knows the man at his ease - and at his ease, he takes little care for himself. Even when he should. She huffs out hot air, turning on her heel and tiptoeing to Uhtred’s room. She will only peek in on him, as she used to do with Goderic when he was small. Make sure he made it to bed and did not interfere with the hard work she and the healer put in.
She slips into his room, quiet as a ghost. Moonlight cuts through, and her eyes follow the shape of his body. A small frown grows across her brows at the sight of him bandaged - she laid them herself, but still she dislikes to see Uhtred injured. Her gaze moves to his face, and she is shocked to see his eyes open. Her hands flutter up to her mouth to stop any noise escaping her. What must he think of her, sneaking in by darkness? What is she doing? She is never so reckless as when Uhtred is concerned.
