Read The Sixth Lost Tale of Mercia: Hastings the Hearth Companion Page 2
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In his dream he guarded the aetheling while she slept and listened to the sounds of her breathing. At first it was soft and slow, rising and falling with the carefree gentility of a child’s. But she was not a child anymore; she was fourteen, and sometimes at night she was plagued by nightmares. Her breath grew faster, heavy and deep, and a soft moan escaped her lips.
“Hastings ... Hastings!”
“I am here, Aydith.”
He found her in the darkness, his large hands closing around hers, gripping her tightly. In his dream he could see her, even though it was dark and not a single candle was lit. Her brown eyes shone like copper moons, searching his.
“Hastings, the Golden Cross failed?”
“I am afraid so, my lady.”
“But ... I don’t understand.” Her hands tightened against his, and at first he enjoyed the sensation, their skin pressed so firmly together that he could feel the tiny ridges of her palm sliding against his own. Then her nails dug into his knuckles, and pain overwhelmed the pleasure. “It is you who failed.”
“No, Aydith, please, I did what I could ... !”
“The Golden Cross, whose mission is that of our Lord in heaven, would never fail. This is your failure!”
He cried out, then clutched for her, even though she was the source of his pain. She was also his only source of comfort and healing. She thrashed against his searching grip, evading him. “Forgive me … please. Isn’t there anything else I can do? Anything?”
She became still very suddenly, and his hands reached further through the shadows, for now everything in his dream had gone dark again. He found her face and stroked it gently. Her cheek felt soft and warm.
“Aydith,” he whispered. “Serving you is the joy of my life. All I want is to give you joy in return.”
“Hastings ...”
“Please tell me what else I can do,” he said. “Please, let me make it up to you ...”
He leaned closer to her, and now he could not only hear her breath, but feel it, too. He could see her again, her eyes sparkling, her face suffused with red, her neck lax in his grip.
“Please,” he whispered, and brought his lips to hers.
Pain seemed to explode across his ribs, as if in his heart, and the agony was excruciating. He screamed and thrashed and flailed.
And in such a state he awoke, panting.
A soldier stared down at him with a disapproving look in his eyes. His boot was in such a position to have kicked Hastings, and awoken him thus. Hastings glared with fury.
“Get up,” said the soldier. “Sweyn’s fleet has broken the truce. The Vikings are sailing for Thetford.”
“What?” Hastings sat up, his heart pounding, the anger draining away from his blood in a flood of excitement. “So … what does this mean?”