The Promises We Make- Uhtred of Bebbanburg

Chapter Seventeen

The taste of blood had become well known to my senses as strings of sticky crimson drip slowly from the corner of my mouth, decorating the stone floor of the cell. My body hangs lifeless against the sharp metal chains that cut deep around my wrists, with the slightest move causing ripples of agony throughout my arms and shoulders. I look down to my stomach, detailing the changes of my festering wound in my mind. Black and blue now surround the infected area lord Maurice so kindly gave me. Most of the skin rotted away, leaving foul stench of death behind. With every aching breath I force myself to take, small piles a puss seep through the exposed flesh, making my heave. If Maurice doesn't finish me off, this wound certainly will.

I push my focus away from my impending death, praying to God that Delphine, my darling wife Marie and the little life she carries were able to get to safety. It's the only thing that is keeping me sane in this hell I am living.

Heavy boots echo, drumming the same beat as my heart as my body shivers in fear without my control. The simple sound now haunts my mind. The blare of metal scraping against the bare floor tightens every muscle as a solider I have come to know casually strolls in. My barely opened eyes focused on his well kept shoes placed directly under my limo head.

"I can see you haven't died yet." He said annoyingly. I could feel is eyes roll at the back of his head. I kept silent, though it was clear that he wasn't happy with my response as he roughly pushed my head up to face him.

"Silent now are we? Maybe we should change that." The solider whispered, blowing his reeking breath on my nose. I jerk against the chains holding me hostage, ignoring the fresh blood that pours out my cuts. I quickly look to the table in the corner, starring at the different types of instruments used in torture. The man now resides there, gliding his hand across the very used and very familiar tools.

His dark black brows frowned heavily over his deep, sunken eyes. He's deciding what one to use, but it doesn't take long before his eyes beam in delight. He swiftly turns to my direction, proudly holding what looked like a rusty stained butchers knife.

"N-no." I tremble, though I know it would make no difference in stopping them from doing what they want to me.

"No?" He laughed emotionlessly, repeating it again while mimicking my broken voice. The solider suddenly stormed towards me, his hand tightly wrapped around my jaw.

"My brother shouted no before you pushed a sword through him, ending his life. He begged for your mercy!" Spit flew from his foaming mouth. His brother? I killed his brother?

"By the look on your face, it seems that you don't remember what happened five years ago. Let's refresh your memory shall we." He snared, smacking my cheeks with both his hands.

*

Five years ago

Tournament day. Most French provenance join to compete in a tournament to prove their strength and power. It is a brutal game that most dukes have tried to ban to protect their sons or brothers from injury, or in rare cases, death.

I'm currently being dressed by a steward, assigned by my father to put on my personalised armour for the competition, proudly showing the lion of Normandy on my chest plate. I'm up next, fighting against the Duke of Flanders younger son. I've never met the boy but I am told this will be his first time taking part.

Tighten the leather strap across my chest, the steward finished his task, leaving me alone in the tent to get my sword from the blacksmith.

The tent doors opened wide, allowing my father to enter. I turned to face him, expecting the usual hand shake and a wish a luck. But he did none of those things. He lent forward, forcing our faces to be much closer than I was comfortable with and whispered.