For The Sake of Revenge

Chapter 10: Friend? Foe? Idiot?

"Is she awake now?" a wizened old voice said.

"She should wake up any moment now, her head injury was not too severe," another voice croaked.

"For the life of me, I cannot understand why they chose to hit her over the head," the other voice sighed in exasperation.

"Do you really think she knows anything?" a younger, doubtful voice asked.

"She is young and healthy, not to mention not completely uncomely. Someone, even amongst these heathens must have taken an interest in her. Any information is useful at this point. Our scouts have yet to return."

"Hush now, she wakes," the other voice croaked.

It was true I did. My eyelids felt incredibly heavy, but I managed to finally open them. Sad, gray walls met my gaze. My eyes wandered a little, but a wrinkled face blocked my vision.

"Drink," the old man croaked, and I sat up with some difficulty.

I took the small cup from his hand and lifted it to my mouth. My hands were trembling, but I managed not to slosh any down my front.

"You must allow me to apologize for our poor behavior miss..." a man stood at the foot of my bed, wearing magnificent robes of black and silver, his beard was long and white and his salt-and-pepper hair was in a ridiculous bob cut that didn't look good on his sagging square face. Though his face was gaunt, his belly was disproportionately huge on his body.

"Yasmeen," I told him, there was no need to hide my name. What good could it do to me? His eyebrows shot up. I tried to ignore the way they looked at me, as though I was a zoo animal. "Just that."

"Are you Saxon Yasmeen?" the man asked.

"No--" I began but the younger man by his side cut me off. He was in armor that was elaborately decorated, his hair was dark, and he had a pug face.

"Your Grace--you shall address this man as your grace, he is the King of Northumbria," the man informed me sharply. I looked back at the old man.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," I told him, bowing my head in respect that I did not particularly feel towards the man.

"Back to my question, are you Saxon or not?" The King demanded.

"I am not Saxon," I shook my head "I am from Arabia--Egypt," I told him honestly.

"I thought so," the younger man scoffed, "yet how do you speak Anglish so well?"

"My father taught me," I said, shifting to make myself comfortable.

"What happened to your hair?" the King demanded.

"I am a slave. They cut it off," I told the king, it was the closest thing to the truth that I was willing to give to them. I wouldn't tell them anything worth their time. I just wanted to be back with Ivar. Besides, the truth was too long to explain.

I wasn't sure what they were just yet. Were they my allies or my enemies?

"Yet, the others who were with you, they kept their hair," the younger man said testily.

"Their master was not mine," I told him after squinting at him for a moment "Their master decided to keep it."

I was simply omitting most of the truth and twisting what I gave. I'm not sure why, I was still waiting for the point where my conscience would turn its gears to my original escape plan, but I found myself unable to betray Ivar.

I hoped that Benedict, Alys, and Edmund would not give me away. Besides, I don't think they really understood what any of what transpired between me and Ivar meant, I don't think they were actually aware.