'Father ... oh, Father!'

The words run through my mind like a prayer, but prayer will not keep back the barbarians who press around me. The wall of noise assaults my ears, but I will give none of these Danes the satisfaction of seeing the daughter of Alfred of Wessex and the wife of Æthelred of Mercia cower like a serving-maid. It is the Lady of Mercia whom they hold prisoner, and I keep my head proudly high; whatever the cost, I will not let them see me weep.

The voice from behind me speaks in my ear. It is warm with its owner's pleasure in his own cleverness, but nonetheless I catch the note of a wish to reassure me a little, to prepare me for what is to come. "There will be many men inside. They will want to get close to you, look you in the eye."

Of course they will. I am Æthelflaed of Mercia, of Wessex, and I am a prisoner.

My own husband's folly has brought me to this.

"They will want to frighten me." I force the words through lips that are frozen with fear already, but I will not let him think me mute with dread.

"They will." At least he does not insult my intelligence by pretending otherwise; but I feel his right hand detach from the rein, and give me the smallest squeeze as he holds me steady before him. He is a barbarian, a Dane and an enemy, and yet I have the strangest feeling that he means to give me courage.

The memory rushes through my mind of my capture in the woods. I had never felt so alone, so terrified. Already the screams of other captured women rent the silence; what other could I expect, king's daughter or no?

I will not scream, the promise ran through my mind. Whatever they do, I will not scream. But nevertheless, terror filled me; I had ample experience of what pain a man can inflict on a woman's parts. My husband desired heirs of me, and was not gentle...

But this man who now bears me before him on his horse had been one of my captors. When at last I was brought to bay and could run no further, he had not seized me and flung me to the ground to lift my skirts.

"Lady," he had said, coming to a halt in front of me. "Lady Æthelflaed."

"You mistake," I said, trembling and panting. Not to save myself from ravishment, but to save my father's daughter from capture. Maybe when they had had their pleasure they would kill me, and that would be the sword removed from the throat of Wessex.

"No mistake, Lady," he said, gently enough. "You are my prisoner. You will be treated with the respect due to a king's daughter, I swear it."

"And you are?" I flung back at him.

"I am Erik Thurgilson, Lady, and I offer you my protection if you will accept it."

It was gentle of him to make it sound as though I had a choice. And though I had heard dreadful tales of the Thurgilson brothers, and his face was filled with triumph and determination, still his eyes were kind, and the hand he extended towards me was open for me to take or spurn.

A gesture only; I was his prisoner, whether I would or no. But I laid my hand in his, reluctant token of surrender and my acceptance of his protection.

The walk back into camp beside him was a foretaste of this entry into Beamfleot. I saw the bodies of the dead, saw Danes rutting on helpless women – women I knew, and who were here only in my service. I looked around in terror for Thyra, but did not see her; dear Father Beocca had left her with me, in the protection of the Lady of Mercia...

They were in haste to be away, of course. My lord husband would return to find an empty camp and the proof of his own reckless stupidity laid bare.

They gave me my own horse until we were well clear, for better speed, though its bridle was safely tied to Lord Thurgilson's lest I had any thought of escape. Indeed I had thoughts of escape – more than once during that wild ride I thought of casting myself from the saddle so that my neck might be broken on the hard ground, my body trampled by the horses following. But he watched me closely, doubtless understanding much of all this, and besides, over and over again I saw a face in my mind's eye; one that brought me comfort and hope, even in my despair.

Not my husband's. Forwhy should I have any hope in him? Behind his handsome face is a weak man, a cruel man, a reed bent by the wind. He will care for nothing save his own weal. And though they may not be daughters of the King of Wessex, wives are easy to come by.

No. It was Uhtred's face I saw, Uhtred's before any man's. Though I had seen him only seldom since my lord father began to hold his stubborn paganism against him, still I trusted him utterly. He could speak with these Danes, could bargain with them...

Bargain for Wessex's downfall!

The great roar of noise brings me back to the present. Erik's brother Sigefrid is speaking – or rather shouting; not for him the quiet authority of my father the King. He is a dark, hulking brute of a man, with teeth that flash in his black beard like those of a bear – even his smile looks to me like a snarl.

I am glad it was not he who took me up before him on his horse...

"What did I say?" he bellows. "I told you I would invite King Alfred's daughter, and she is here!" Then, making himself heard above the cheers, "I swear to the gods, that this prize will not be sold cheaply.

"There will be wealth and glory for every man here!"

The words confirm my blackest fears. I am a hostage, and my father will ransom me for whatever ruinous sum the Thurgilsons demand. With this silver they will buy ships, arms, support – and with these they will overwhelm Wessex like the ravening sea washing over a breached dyke in a summer storm.

Behind me, Erik is laughing, sharing in the general triumph. I stare about wildly, hating him, hating all these barbarians who see in me nothing but the means of my father's destruction. But even in the midst of laughter I feel the encircling arm tighten gently once more, reassurance from my father's enemy. Tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them back. I will not grant the barbarians the satisfaction of seeing Æthelflaed of Mercia weep.

(...Æthelflaed of Mercia. My lady mother sought me out, the morning after my wedding. Although duty and trouble have made her stern to outward seeming, still we love each other dearly. Without words, her eyes asked was all well, and though I put on my most valiant smile, still I saw hers crumble a little; and her manner to my husband after was chill...)

The horse comes to a halt amid the press, and he dismounts. For a moment I sit there alone, the focus of all those greedy eyes. The faces of Wessex's enemies stare up at me, their hands touching my legs, pawing at my gown, lifting it to see my ankles and more.

"Lady." He holds the horse still, lifting a beckoning arm to me. "You must come down now."

Indeed, I have no choice. With the best grace I can muster, I slide from the horse's back. Among all those bodies the beast shifts awkwardly, and I all but fall into his arms. He steadies me carefully, shielding me from the coarse laughter, and I have the strangest desire to bury my face in the sheepskin about his shoulders and hide from the world...

That, however, would not be worthy of the Lady of Mercia. I put off his steadying hands and show him my bravest face, looking directly up into his eyes. Blue eyes, dark sea-blue in the torchlight, searching me intently, with something of surprise and a little of admiration. "Where am I to be imprisoned?"

A prison has indeed been prepared for me. A stable, musty but clean, and with fresh straw laid to sweeten it. A bed has been brought in and placed against one wall, with a blanket and a rough mattress packed with bracken. "It is the best we have," Thurgilson tell me, and gestures to the men who have accompanied us in. "These are my own men, they will watch you. You will have a guard at all times. You will be safe here."

'Safe'? Among the barbarians, a hostage in Beamfleot? I am not safe! "And my companions, my servants from the camp?" I demand.

At least he does not insult me with a worse well-meant lie. His voice is level, his words honest. "Any woman who is not Æthelflaed will have been killed or claimed. Claimed, most likely."

'Claimed'. Despoiled, enslaved. My gorge rises in my throat. Once again the words run through my mind, All this, through my husband's folly!

I think it is in his mind to say more, but at a guess even he thinks it kindest to leave me to recover myself as best I may. With a half-smile at me that might even hint at compassion and encouragement, he turns and strides from the stable; but though he assured me that I will be safe, the Northman who still lingers terrifies me even more than Sigefrid does. Haesten, they called him on the ride hither. His eyes slither over me, reptilian and covetous.

There is a pail; he makes a crude jest of it. Then, to my relief, he too leaves.

My cell feels cleaner when he is gone, the air fresher.

Father, I think, Father, save me. Then, when I remember what that rescue would achieve, I think words more fitting a Princess of Wessex: Father, no – for all our dreams of Wessex and England, leave me here.

But again, it is Uhtred's face I see when I close my eyes.