Burn Your Village || The Last Kingdom

|| CHAPTER 10 - Demon Garb ||

|| CHAPTER 10 – Demon Garb ||

(Series 1- Episode 6)

»»———-　　———-««

Signe's nose tickled as she made her way into the barn, her booted feet stirring the hay on the ground and throwing up dust that danced in the sunlight that was streaming in after her.

Uhtred was tending to his horse; brushing a handful of straw down the stunning white coat to clean it. Leofric stood nearby, looking over his shield. Unwilling to make eye contact with the Saxon, Signe walked over to her own black steed, and went about stroking his snout. She was beyond frustrated; she was trying to maintain her irritation with Leofric because of the ridiculous scheme he had suggested to Uhtred, but every time he looked at her she couldn't help but think of the tenderness with which he'd kissed her.

They hadn't spoken about it, but that was a result of not allowing herself be left alone with him since it had happened. It was cowardly, but she wasn't used to being so uncertain about something that she also found herself wanting more with each passing day. There was no future in it, so why let herself have something she knew would be snatched away? It seemed like self-flagellation.

"Are you sure you want to do this arseling?" Leofric asked as he eyed Signe attentively.

Uhtred remained unperturbed as he carried on brushing his horse. "Is there a law against it?"

"Dressing up as Danes, no. Plundering Cornwalum, yes. We're supposed to be at peace."

Signe shook her head angrily. "If you are so concerned about keeping the peace, why did you suggest doing this in the first place?"

"I did warn you that it was not a decision to be made lightly." He said with a victorious smirk on his face, pleased that he had finally managed to get her to face him. Bastard.

"You didn't warn me of anything." Signe countered disgruntledly. "I have told both of you, many times, that this is a terrible idea."

"And we heard you, many times." Uhtred said flatly as he dropped the handful of straw, letting it fall about his feet as he looked to her over the back of his horse. "And I have given you the same answer. If I'm to reclaim Bebbanburg, I'll need an army. If I am ever to raise an army, I'll need silver. We go."

"I have no quarrel." Leofric cut in with an anticipatory grin in on his face.

Signe just rolled her eyes, mostly feeling put out by Uhtred's unrelentingly poor attitude.

She knew that the public penance Alfred had subjected him to had wounded him deeply—had hurt both his pride and his heart—but she had hoped that the anger would burn off like mist in the morning light. It had not.

He was changed. As was she. And yet they had never been more different.

"Will Odda not miss you?"

Leofric looked up from his shield, a conspiratorial smile on his face. "I'm doing as he asks; I'm watching the two of you." His eyes lingered too long on Signe. "He's building Alfred a church, at Cynuit, have you heard? With an altar of gold, they say."

"What use is gold to a God?" Signe said, torn between amusement and scorn.

Danes served their Gods with action and sacrifice; their deeds in battle were their worship. What did they need with sparkly gemstones and gaudy buildings for? It seemed to her, that the decadence was more about posturing than anything else. Saxon men were so quick to see their women as flighty, delicate creatures attracted to anything pretty, and yet they loved to surround themselves with shiny things. They may say otherwise, but she was certain they adorned themselves and their buildings in gold simply because it made them feel special.