Beware of Jezebel

12. The work commences

            The attack was fierce and damage could not be avoided. Mary spent the entirety of the battle in a temporary tent, commanding thralls, healers and tending to soldiers on the spot, trying to ignore shouts from the fight and earth shaking beneath her feet. Neither side gained significant leverage during the ambush, but Bjorn's and Harald's forces could not breach Kattegat defences and had to retreat. What concerned Mary was that they weren't pushed out by Ivar's forces, meaning Bjorn's army was strong, likely matching Ivar's. Thus any ensuing fight between them would result in bloodshed of many Vikings and an insignificant victory on one side. Alfred's plans were clearly coming together nicely, and neither Bjorn nor Ivar seemed to see that.

Currently, however, the hall resounded with victorious cheers, and the air was thick with the scent of mead and roasted meat. Oblivious leaders and soldiers celebrated to their hearts' delight, laughing, fighting and groping women, but Mary could not bring herself to enjoy the feast. Although it was the first time she was sitting at the table as a free woman at such an event, she was no longer surprised by peculiarities of Viking feasting, so different from her home court. The atmosphere wasn't the issue for Mary, nor was the outcome of the battle. Her heart was heavy, and thoughts were running one after another in her head, for she could not stop thinking about Ivar. She had never felt this infatuated with anyone before, but her vows weren't a concern at the moment and she only thought of how to breach the subject of her confession. Mary kept her eyes trained on the King, but he didn't spare her a single glance.

As the night progressed, Mary could not stand the inner turmoil anymore, amplified by drunken blabbering. More and more the feeling of regret grew and she cursed herself for being so foolish. Why did I have to open my mouth at all? She was a maid, previously a slave, a christian out of all people, and spat something so unexpected right before the battle to one of the most cruel men on Earth. Where does the wisdom go, when heart is in love? Of course he had no mind for her- he valued her healing knowledge and occasional political input, but how stupid she had to be to think that he loved her back? He liked blonde viking girls who called him a god, not uptight nuns who periodically called him a fool. Could he love at all?

Mary gently placed her empty silver chalice on the table and slipped from the hall undetected. She hadn't noticed that she was the only person given a chalice- everybody else, even Ivar, had either horns or clay cups. Her chamber drawned out all noise from the hall, and while dressing for sleep, she tried to calm her mind as well. Back in York, while she still had to sleep in the hallway or on the floor in Ivar's room, she used to wear her habit at night as well. Mary shuddered remembering how dirty she felt after a month of hard work and same clothes. In Tamdrup, however, Ivar made her live in his hut and gave Mary fabric to make clothes. Up to this day she wore the same nightgown she had made back then, doing her best to recreate the clothes she had in the monastery. She had also made herself a night cap, a new coif and guimpe. The cap, veil and coif now were discarded and put deep into the clothes' chest, because Mary could not bring herself to even look at them, altough she still wore guimpe on her habit.

She had been plaiting her hair when the door was carefully opened an inch. Ivar put his head through, surveyed the room, found Mary in the corner and only then entered. He didn't say a word, but limped toward her as fast as he could. He didn't hesitate to grab her chin and put his lips to hers, which made Mary freeze with her fingers still entangled in her braid. Mary could not understand why, but she answered his kiss and their lips moved in sync, Ivar's hand moving to the back of her neck. Once they finally pulled apart, both breathing heavily, Ivar held Mary's head, resting his forehead against hers. The smell of mead and sweat clung to him, but Mary paid it no mind. His eyes were droopy and he swayed a bit. When he spoke, Ivar's voice was a low murmur.