To Burn (35 page)

"I stand as oath-helper," Cynric said firmly, standing to Wulfred's left. "What Wulfred says is true. She would not betray him."

"I stand as oath-helper," said Balduff. "Melania is true to her husband."

"I stand as oath-helper and declare that Melania is a loyal wife to her Saxon husband," declared Cenred.

"I stand as oath-helper," said Cuthred. "She would not fight against her husband from the darkness."

Ceolmund, who stood at Melania's back, shielding her from the hatred she could not see, said simply, "I stand as oath-helper. Wulfred knows the heart of his wife."

Melania felt the sting of hot tears behind her eyes. She would not let them fall and so disgrace herself or the husband who defended her so staunchly. His comitatus defended her; publicly and formally, they defended her. Why? When had this mob of hairy, naked men become her allies? Or were they more than allies? Friends? No, that could not be. Why had Wulfred defended her? Did he not hate and distrust her as she hated and distrusted him?

And she did hate him. She hated the man who stood so strong at her side, holding her hand protectively in his. She hated the man who had twice tricked her into marriage. She hated that he had distrusted her. She hated him so much that tears fled from behind her eyes, where they belonged, to flood her vision as she looked up at him.

Impossible man to confuse everything this way. He had faced down his leader on her behalf. He had distanced himself from his people to stand in defense of her.
Oaf.
She would never forgive him for putting himself in such a precarious position. Could she ever forgive herself for being the cause?

"It is not your oath that must be given," Hensa said, clearly surprised by the support she had among his own. "It is Melania's, and she cannot be trusted because she is not one of us."

"She is my wife. I take responsibility for her actions."

"You knew she met with her Roman brother?" Hensa prodded, looking for a weakness and finding it.

"No," Wulfred answered truthfully, his expression almost pained.

What was coming? What was he protecting her from?

"Then..." Hensa drawled, clearly reaching some sort of conclusion.

"Then"—Wulfred took the initiative—"I propose an ordeal to settle the question."

The room almost flew away with the buzz of voices that his declaration inspired. Cynric clasped Wulfred on the shoulder, his own eyes filling with tears, and whispered warnings into his ear. Cuthred banged his seax against his shield and coughed roughly to hide his emotion. Balduff shook his head and looked down at his feet before looking up at her with an expression of melancholy. Ceolmund, behind her, laid a gentle hand on her shoulder in a comforting embrace. The tension was suffocating, yet she did not understand the cause.

Hensa eyed them both, his gaze long on Wulfred standing so protectively beside his wife. An ordeal... it was the way, yet he had not thought Wulfred so attached to his little Roman wife.

"An ordeal it shall be."

With that, the room dissolved of people. Melania and Wulfred were left alone in the antechamber, the Chi-Rho of the Christ appearing almost miraculously beneath their feet. The silence in that small room was frightening.

Wulfred still held her hand. She jerked it out of his grasp, angry because she wanted to throw herself into his arms and weep.

"What, under all of heaven, is an ordeal and why are you engaging in one? I know it must be some monstrous pagan ceremony designed to pacify your pathetic, pretend gods, but why is everyone so set on having one now? And what has this to do with the charge of treason against me?"

She was frightened; she could admit it, but she would not show it. Not now, not when it felt that the edge of the world was rushing toward her. She certainly would not show Wulfred her fear.

"There is nothing for you to fear," he began calmly.

"Oaf! Have I said that I am afraid? You will never hear such from me! I fear nothing you Saxons can devise, so just get on with your pathetic explanation of this barbaric Saxon ritual." His studied calm escalated her fear like wind fanning a fire.

"Your word, your honor, has been questioned. I will now prove you innocent of wrongdoing."

"Am I supposed to care that some filthy Saxons question my word? And do I need you to take care of me? I can well take care of myself, you insignificant barbari...."

It would have been more convincing if she could have stopped her tears from falling.

"I took a vow" —he smiled gently, teasing her— "as you may remember?" He tugged the ends of her hair, urging her into the solace of his embrace. "It was to protect you. It is a vow I intend to keep."

"I remember," she grumbled, brushing her hands hard against her cheeks. "You don't need to prove anything to me."

"Don't I?" he all but whispered, then added hoarsely, "Perhaps not, but I need to prove something to them."

The tension swirled all around them like the licking flames of a fire; she could feel it, and wondered that Wulfred could stand so quietly in the roar of such swirling heat. Something terrible was going to happen. This "ordeal" was some sort of horrible Saxon custom that would hurt Wulfred. She thought of his scars and shuddered. Wulfred must never be hurt again.

"Let me do it," she said, her voice rough with tears. "Let me do whatever it is."

"No, it is my place," he said, holding out his arms, inviting her to enter into that safe place near his heart.

She could not. She was too afraid. She had never known such soaring fear. And it was for Wulfred, not for herself.

"I think even your Christ would agree, Melania."

"Now you bring my own God against me?"

"I do what I can." He smiled softly, his blue eyes melting in their intensity. "You are less than cooperative, as I have said."

It was the truth; she had caused him little except trouble, as had been her purpose. Somehow, over the course of the summer, things had changed. Or maybe it was that she had changed. She no longer was as certain of the truth; the truths her father had taught her were insufficient to the times. The lessons she had learned, or, more accurately, the lessons she had been taught in childhood, were like smoke trails in the sky: thin, ragged, disintegrating.

Wulfred was solid, immovable, and she found reassurance in his unflagging strength. It no longer mattered that Wulfred was Saxon and she was Roman. Only Wulfred mattered.

Peace, Melanius.

"It has never seemed to stop you," she said with tearful wryness.

"Nothing stops me, Melania. Especially concerning you," he said softly.

Cynric came upon them then, his face as somber as Melania was sure hers was terrified. Never had she known such nameless panic; not even the attack of the Saxons had rendered her so enfeebled, because then she had known something of what was coming. Now all she knew was the roar of panic and the blinding blaze of imminent danger. And the danger was for Wulfred.

"All is ready, Wulfred," Cynric said. "They await."

They await.

Wulfred took one deep breath and then led them out of the antechamber, Melania's hand firmly in his. The Saxons, all of them, had formed two rows down the length of her courtyard. They stood with weapons out and shields up, and they stood staring at Wulfred. Releasing her hand, Wulfred walked to the end of the line, his spine stiff and his head high, looking each man in the eye, letting them measure his confidence in his wife and her honor.

Melania studied the scene, looking for the cause of her tumbling panic. She found it at the end of the row. There, resting quietly in a hot fire, was a length of iron, the end of which was beginning to glow red.

It was when Wulfred began to walk toward the glowing iron that she began to scream.

"No!"
She ran forward and pulled him back, her arms wrapped around his waist. "Stupid, pagan barbari," she screamed, sobbing, "to do this! What does this self-mutilation prove? Except that you are a hopeless pagan and an imbecile..."

Wulfred turned within her arms and held her, his arms strong and sure while she jerked in her sobbing. He bent his head low—she could feel his breath on the top of her head—and she clung to him as he spoke.

"If you are innocent of wrongdoing, then I shall heal cleanly. Have no fear. Have no doubts," he whispered, kissing her brow. "As I have none."

"Why?" she cried, turning her face up to his, uncaring that the whole Saxon world watched them.

"Because I trust you, Melania," he said, kissing her softly on the lips. "Now give me your strength, not your fear-driven rage. This cannot be stopped. I would prove to them that you would never betray me. I would prove to you that I..."

He did not finish. He squeezed her gently and then turned again to face his ordeal, an ordeal she had precipitated. But she would not crumble under the weight of that guilt now. Now she would give him what he had asked of her. She would give him her strength and her courage and her faith that God would not allow this man to be harmed even in such a pagan ritual.

She watched him walk to the fire. She watched him with her spine stiff and her head up, as he had shown her how to do. She watched him pause as the iron spat heat up into the misty air and the flames engulfed the metal he must touch.

She did not cry out; she would bite her tongue off first. She did not weep; her tears were blown dry by the heat of this ordeal. He would not see her weeping; he would not think that she in any way doubted him. She would give him her trust and her love.

Her love. She paused as the word took root, suddenly understanding that the seed had been cast long ago. Yes, he had her love. She would give him nothing less.

With his right hand, his sword hand, he grasped the glowing metal almost with eagerness. This he did for her. Melania's right hand clenched in futile imitation until she punctured her palm in shared sacrifice.

The hiss and stench of burning flesh blew back to her almost immediately. She gagged down her sobs and faced him proudly. He turned in place and then, step by slow step, walked the length of that endless line of men. Walked back to her. With her love for him as her only prop, she watched him and waited for him, his every step echoing in her heart as the blood ran down her hand to the ground.

The Saxons banged weapons to shields, a sign of their approval. The pounding roar was nothing to her; she lived in a world of only Wulfred and he was walking toward her. She would be there for him. She would not fail. She knew the color had left her face, but she would stand as straight and tall as a lance for him. He would come to her, and when he did, the ordeal would end.

Four steps taken, five; he stumbled, but held firm. Six steps and then seven. His eyes were glazed and his skin covered in a sheen of sweat. On the eighth step he faltered and looked ready to drop to his knees.

Melania held out her arms to him, welcoming him, beckoning him. Wanting him beyond all the world, whether Roman or Saxon. Every dream she had ever had of her life lay in ashes at her feet; she took a step toward her husband and left the ashes of her dreams behind her, forgotten and unlamented. Everything she wanted in the world was walking toward her. Tears coursed down her cheeks, unheeded and unchecked; she could only hope that he could see what she felt for him in her eyes.

On the tenth and final step, he dropped the iron and fell into her embrace.

"I've got you now," she whispered against his skin, whispered the words she had longed to hear all her life. Words that a Saxon warrior had taught her as he held a frightened child. "I've got you."

Her words caressed him as she held him. She would not let him fall. She would never let him go.

"Never again will Rome cause you pain, Wulfred. This I vow," she stated over her tears as he closed his eyes against the pain blazing up his arm.

Chapter 27

With the help of Cynric and Ceolmund, Wulfred had attained the chamber he shared with Melania. Melania had seen to it. She had also seen to it that Wulfred's hand was dressed properly and bound in clean wool. This first binding had to be well accomplished because it would be the only time the wound could be attended to; the purpose of the ordeal was for the wound to heal cleanly by God's design, not man's skillful intervention.

Monstrous, pagan ritual.

The only reason she would abide by their insane stipulations was because she knew that Wulfred would want it so. And she did not want him to think that she doubted the justice and honor of this Saxon system of determining guilt. But she did. It was barbaric. He was most likely crippled for life...

unless God truly did intervene. Miracles were not unknown, and if anyone deserved a miracle of healing, it was Wulfred.

Such an act of... love? Devotion? Such words tangled hopelessly in her mind when coupled with the thought of Wulfred, yet she did not know what else to make of his act of self-sacrifice. And all because he trusted her.

The tears rushed up and she let them fall. What good trying to stop them? They only came again. She had never cried so much in her entire life.