Eventually, in begrudging acknowledgement of their empty stomachs and stiff backs, Aethelflaed and Erik stood and left the solitude of the library. They joined Uhtred and his men in the hall, where Aethelflaed was warmly greeted by Finan, Osferth, and Sihtric. Aethelflaed took her seat at the head of the table and Erik found a place farther down, but her gaze was drawn to him, again and again, as if she needed to be sure that he was really so close. The men joked and laughed as usual, tactfully ignoring the pair's late arrival and the emotional tension that hung between them. Once she had enjoyed a cup of mead and a story or two, Aethelflaed felt herself relax. After the social pressure of Winchester and her long months of isolation, it felt good to be surrounded by familiar faces. Here was a room full of men whom she cared for and trusted. Here she was safe.
Several hours later, Aethelflaed rose at last to do her rounds of the house. She sent Estrith to show the men to their rooms, giving careful instructions on who should be put where. She saw that the gates were secure and that her servants were well fed and relieved of their duties. She refilled the water bucket left out for the cats that roamed the property, hunting out mice. And she sat for a moment on the steps, waiting for the nightly arrival of her favourite cat: a scrawny black creature with an unreasonably fluffy tail. The cat, who she had yet to name, had made it a habit of visiting each evening looking for affection. Sometimes Aethelflaed brought scraps from the kitchen, but even when she came empty handed the cat seemed satisfied with having her chin scratched and belly rubbed. It seemed strange, with all these human guests, to keep her appointment with the cat. But Aethelflaed had come to depend on routine and this small creature had been loyal to her for so long. She loved to run her fingers through the thick fur, teasing out the mats while the cat purred, a steady reassuring rhythm.
When Aethelflaed finished her rounds and returned to the hall, the men had gone to bed. In the unexpected quiet, Aethelflaed felt the heaviness of the day. She was exhausted. But when she finally found herself lying in bed, sleep did not come. She lay in the dark, her mind a whirl of thoughts, feelings, and worries.
Erik woke to the sound of the door opening. It took a moment for him to recall where he was, but even when he recognized the fine room in the dim light, he was still tense, ready to defend himself. He thought quickly, going over the relevant details: his knife was within reach, on the table on the right side of his bed. His axe and sword were on the floor; he could grab them by stretching out, but he would have to shift his weight to the edge of the bed, and he was not sure he could do it quickly or quietly enough. The room was small and the intruder would reach the bed before he could grab his weapons. The knife, then, he decided, as he gripped the smooth wooden handle. The intruder would approach from the left and he could strike with the knife in his right hand and then go for his weapons.
His warrior's mind was interrupted by a dull thud, followed by a mumbled curse in a woman's voice.
"Aethelflaed?"
"Yes?"
Erik dropped the knife and laughed in relief. He could make out her shape now and she stumbled towards the bed, unsteady on her legs, and sat heavily on the mattress.
"Are you alright?"
"I hit my knee on the bed frame."
Erik was bent over with laughter now.
"Are you laughing at me?"
"I am sorry," he said, catching his breath, "I thought some bitter Saxon warrior had come to kill me in my sleep, but it was only you, losing a battle with a bed post."
Aethelflaed shoved Erik in annoyance and he fell back on the bed, struggling to breathe through his laughter.
"It is not funny. It hurts quite badly. I might have a limp tomorrow!"
Her protests had no effect on his amusement. She took another tack. In a single fluid motion, she straddled him and took the knife from the mattress. She pinned him with one arm and held the other high, the knife pointed down at his chest.
"You should not laugh at me, Erik Thurgilson. You are not out of danger yet. I could destroy you if I wanted to." She stared hard at him, doing her best to appear menacing.
He was quiet now, his face serious. But he did not look afraid. Instead, he looked up at her with something like devotion.
"I know it. No one could hurt me like you."
She saw it then: her own grief, reflected in his eyes. He had lost so much because of her. He had resigned himself to a life without her. And then he had dared to seek her out. She put the knife down on the table but did not let him go, keeping him pressed into the bed first by her arm and then by her kisses and caresses. She vowed she would never let him go again.