by Sandi Layne
That came out as a whisper, but they heard her, all of them. Not one had been lost. Not one. Cowan had called it a miracle from his God. Charis didn’t know what to call it, but she couldn’t quite discount his explanation. By everything she had seen in the world, some of Ragor’s children should have perished. She had no natural explanation for it.
“I want to stay here!” one of the boys said. His name was Faolain and he had about seven summers. He bounced up on his toes and waved his arms in enthusiasm. “The brothers said they will teach us to read and write!”
Other boys echoed this and Charis nodded. It was fated, Achan would have said. Fated.
But what to do with the others? The girls, especially, would need protection. Cowan was undoubtedly correct in his belief that Agnarr’s people would return, and the healer would not wish for any of her children to be taken captive.
She looked around for Branieucc’s son. He was sharing wine with one of the monks, but he glanced at her and tipped his cup in acknowledgment. With a slight motion of her head, she beckoned to him. He smiled and rose immediately to join her. The children gazed warmly at him, for he had brought their healer back to them and they had all expressed their appreciation—loudly.
“What is it, lass?” Cowan inquired, hunkering down next to her. He had bathed and trimmed his beard while she reunited with the children. His breath smelled of sweet wine. “Sure you don’t have any problems with the monks here now?”
She frowned and nodded. The monks—to the last, tonsured man of them—had been very positive in their reception of her. Anyone who inspired such devotion in children, one bald, emotive man had remarked, could not be evil. But the lack of condemnation almost made Charis more uneasy than their lofty displeasure and determined bad opinion. When she responded to Cowan, her voice was husky with uncertainty. “No problem that I can put my tongue to, Cowan. It’s just so strange.”
He shifted a little and sat next to her on the floor. Two little girls immediately came to perch on his lap. With a chuckle, he ruffled their hair. “So you wanted to talk to me?”
She sighed. “I’m at a loss. We found them and I’m heart-glad of it, but . . .” After taking a deep breath, she found the courage to finish, gripping her thin, tattered léine in tense fingers. “But I don’t know where to go, now. What do I do? Who is there for me to care for? My whole life,” she went on, gently shifting the boys from her knees, “I’ve cared for the people of my rath. Raising my herbs, seeing to the needs of the village. Now the village is gone. The children have no families, and some of them wish to stay in the monastery.” She felt her stomach muscles clench with tension, for she felt adrift, as if she were once again on the longships of the Northmen. “I—what do I do with the others? Where can we go?”
Cowan’s clear green eyes burned for a moment. “We have families in my father’s lands, lass,” he murmured, moving to take her hands in his. His fingers were warm and his clasp was sure; she clung to that and to him. He offered her a slanted, serious smile. “You’re right. Ragor is gone. The monastery and the brothers can offer little protection to so many children if the vikingr return. But Braniuecc’s people are first in generosity and first in strength among the middle kingdoms of Ulaid. There will be places for all your children, Charis. This I promise you.” Rising to his feet, he drew her once more into his arms. “And you will always have a place with me, lass. Always. If you want it. I know that taking care of my hide is a chore, but . . .”
The fire crackled into the silence as the monks busied themselves with whatever chores they had in the evening. Charis was held in Cowan’s gaze until young Aidan tugged at her léine.
“Charith?” he asked with his gap-toothed lisp. “Can I go with you and him? I want to be a warrior!”
“Me, too!
“I want to be a healer!
“We’ll come with you, Charis.
“Don’t leave us again!”
From soft pleas to boisterous demands, some of the children made their wishes known, crowding around her and Cowan until the red-bearded lord laughed out loud and scooped up the nearest girl-child to nuzzle her hair.
Charis could almost hear Achan’s laughter in the dying echoes of Cowan’s, and she had to smile. “Isea, then. We’ll go with you, Son of Branieucc. Any of them as wish to come may join us, and I’ll train all who wish to learn my craft.”
“That’s good enough for now, lass,” Cowan said, putting the tow-headed girl down. “I’ll work on more when there’s time for it.”
Hearing and understanding his tone and the meaning behind his promise, Charis blushed. Work on more. Yes, she was sure he would.
“Being wed agrees with you,” Charis told Cowan as he stroked the bare skin of her back. “You are learning much that you did not know just a moon past.”
She heard his soft chuckle as his lips brushed the small of her back. She sighed into the blanket under her face as he continued to knead the tense muscles of her back and thighs. She had performed surgery today and reset a broken shin. These tasks took strength.
“Aye, lass. I have learned much under your tutelage.” He leaned to nuzzle her neck. “Not quite what you are teaching the children, but I have always been a good student.”
She turned to find his lips. “Yes,” she breathed. “A grand student.”
Her skin warmed as he proved how much he had learned from her, and she turned to welcome him eagerly. Only for a heartbeat did Agnarr’s blue-eyed visage rise above her, only for a few more did the twin dark heads of Devin and Devlin smile down instead of the green-eyed, blond-and-red-headed man who was her husband. Husband in the first degree. A king’s son had wed her. Achan would not know what to think.
But she knew what to do and she did, replacing the intruding faces with Cowan’s, letting his touch and delight in her wipe away the other faces. For now.
They were dressing afterward, knowing that their privacy was rare and would soon be interrupted. Cowan heard steps pounding on the beaten path that led to their door.
“Aislinn?” he guessed, winking at Charis, who was hurriedly tugging a bright yellow léine over her head.
“It’s a boy,” she said, just before the door swung open without a pause.
Padraig, a lad too young for fighting, all but fell into the house. “Cowan! Invaders!”
Cowan tensed. “Where? And have you told the king?”
“Isea, lord,” Padraig answered, nodding. “They are east,” the boy drew in a huge breath and bent over with his hands on his knees. “Armed.” He gasped. “War band.”
Cowan finished adjusting the belt on his kilt and inhaled deeply. Charis could see he was briefly lost in thought, so she dismissed Padraig herself, with an admonition to get a drink before running farther.
She knew, though. Somehow, by some means that she did not care to dwell upon, she knew that Agnarr had come for her, and she was torn with the knowledge. She had taken Cowan to be her husband, and they had been married by the custom of his rath. He was good to her, cared for her, and made her laugh. She cared for him, too, and did her best to make him laugh when she could.
Cowan’s touch pulled her from her reverie, though she could almost feel Agnarr’s vibrant presence near at hand. “So. You heard.”
“Isea.”
He braced her face between his callused palms. “I will not allow them to take you again. Do you believe that?”
“I believe you,” she returned sincerely. Then she smiled, because it was simply unnatural for Cowan to be so serious for so long. “And I’ve seen you fight, Kingson. I’ll not be after getting in your way.”
He smiled crookedly. “Now there’s a woman,” he murmured before bending his head and capturing her lips with his. “I’d tell you to stay put, but I’ve learned better. So I’ll just tell you to watch yourself.”
“And you do the same. You don’t want to be coming under my hand again any time soon.”
His eyes flashed with laughter as he bent to pick up his sword. “A
h, but that depends on what your hands might be doing!”
“Oh, go on with you,” she said, pushing him out of the house. “Just make sure to stay away from the well and water. I’ll not go swimming after you.”
“It’s on a hill, Agnarr. Fortified. I can see fires within.” Erik the Hardheaded made his report and Agnarr nodded thoughtfully. It would be a challenge, but he hoped to find just one treasure within those walls.
He signaled to his men to stand down. “I am going to go on my own to speak with their leaders,” he declared. There was no surprise, but there was some grumbling. It was known that Agnarr was seeking his healer, the woman who had run away at the end of winter. Most of the men did not believe she would have made it back this far, but Agnarr knew better.
He took his sword, but left his shield behind him before striding up the steep hill to the walled village. His only language was Norse, but he approached with his arms spread out from his body. Trusting completely in his wyrd and the Norns who had woven it, he called out in the only language he knew.
“I am Agnarr Halvardson. I am seeking the medicine woman or the man called Kingson!”
It was a risk, but he felt it worthy. Nothing worth having—and no honor worth winning—would be easy to obtain.
A warm wind blew down from the village, bringing with it the smells of good, hot food. Agnarr heard his gut rumble with hunger. It had been too long since he had eaten that well. A cloud passed over the earth and he shivered, but it was quickly gone.
Two faces appeared near the iron-studded gate of the village. He recognized both of them instantly, and Agnarr was disconcerted to find himself grinning to see his Eir once again. He quickly damped down the reaction, lowered his arms, and waited.
The red-bearded man called to him. “Agnarr.”
“Kingson. I see you brought her back home with you.”
“Ja, I did,” the berserker replied, nodding. “Are you alone?”
“Né, my men wait in the wood. They are not to approach. They know my business here. We will not touch your village. You have my word.”
Rumbles that sounded angry and confused rolled from the other side of the wall, but Agnarr couldn’t understand them. He just waited, content that his men had treasure enough to satisfy them regardless of the outcome of this meeting. They had already seen the coast of the Anglo-Saxon peoples, and come away with much gold. The only treasure left was Eir.
Her head disappeared, as did Kingson’s, and soon the gate opened. Instead of being asked to come in and talk, he saw that the two would come to him. Wisely, he remained where he was, but he found he could not take his eyes from Eir. She was still as pale as a moonbeam in the fog, as graceful as a goddess. The blue bird tattooed on her face seemed less strange here among her people. She wore a richly dyed yellow dress, covered by her ever-present apron and belted pouches. He could not help but smile wryly at the belt. With those herbs she carried there, or some very like, she had nearly killed him.
He would not waste time with trade talk. “Geirmundr Kingson. Eir.”
She spoke for the first time, meeting his eyes frankly. “I am Charis, Agnarr. And he is Cowan. Why are you here?”
He inhaled deeply, feeling the eyes of his men on his back and the eyes of her people on every part of him. “Charis, then. Ja. I have come because I want you back again.”
Kingson let out a disbelieving grunt. Eir—Charis—turned away for a moment. When she looked back at him, her face was grim and her pale eyes were like the frozen fjørd. “I’ll not go back as your trell or your leman, Agnarr Halvardson. I will not leave my people ever again.”
“I’d not ask you to leave. I am wanting to stay here, in your green country, and bring my family.” He watched their expressions slip from suspicion to disbelief to surprise. “It’s true. It is my destiny to be here; I know it. And I want you by my side . . . Charis. As my wife.”
Kingson became very, very still when Charis did not answer immediately. The woman took five steps away from both of them and turned into the light breeze that still blew. When she turned back, her words barely reached Agnarr.
“I am Cowan’s wife,” she said, her lips thin.
Agnarr gripped the hilt of his sword more tightly. His arms tensed. The berserker had dared? He rolled his shoulders and lifted his chin. He knew that Kingson would understand.
“She is mine,” the berserker said, lifting his own sword and stepping forward.
Jealous, possessive fire flared along Agnarr’s muscles. He narrowed his focus to the red-bearded interpreter. “Not for long,” he ground out.
“I have had two husbands before,” Charis cried out. She did not want them to fight. “Stop this! There are too many who will fight if you do!”
“Charis, lass,” Cowan advised, his eyes flinty as he circled with Agnarr. “You’ll have to choose.”
Charis opened her mouth, but before she could even draw in breath, Agnarr’s sword swept up and down with a flash like lightning.
Cowan countered, his muscles straining under his skin. Charis bit her lip, not knowing what to say to make them stop. But they had to! Voices were roaring—among them, King Branieucc’s—for the death of the Northman. And in the timber line, she could see the restless movement of men and hear their angry voices.
Desperate, she jumped between Cowan and Agnarr. The men froze, horror plain on both determined faces.
“Stop!” she shouted one more time, arms stretched out, one to each man.
Silence stretched with sudden power up and down the grassy hillside. Heartbeats pounded before it was broken.
“I couldn’t hurt you, Charis,” Cowan said, before he moved.
Agnarr’s sword came down slowly to his side. “I have never been able to strike you.”
He ignored the angry flash from her eyes and did not allow himself to lift his sword again. He turned to the berserker, a memory suddenly clear in his mind.
“You saved my life once. When Vigaldr would have slain me, you killed him.”
Cowan nodded, barely remembering that moment in the most miraculous of battles he had ever fought. “I did.” He did not drop his sword, though. He knew Agnarr’s desire for Charis and would not allow him to have her.
“I would not kill the man who saved my life.”
Charis snorted. “I should hope not.” She stepped back so she could see both men. From the rath and the trees, small sounds were heard again. Now what should she say?
Agnarr made a conciliatory grunt and carefully sheathed his sword. After a moment, Cowan did likewise.
The son of Branieucc turned to his wife and took her hands in his. “Charis, my own love, you will have to choose one of us.”
Charis wondered, there in front of Cowan’s people and her own, if she ever had a choice to make. She turned to the man who had killed Devin and Devlin. The man who had violated her, but had never beat her and who had, she believed, come to care for her in their winter together. She steeled herself and opened her mouth once again to speak.
She wasn’t given time to say a word. “You did not kill me,” the Northman reminded her, a smile lurking in his bright blue eyes. “You could have, but you did not. You acted with honor.”
“Honor?” She shook her head and smiled a little. “No . . . I—I could not, Agnarr. I wanted to, but I did not.” Then she knew what to say. “You deserve a wife who has never wanted your blood. I am Cowan’s wife. My bond with you was broken when I escaped.”
Cowan’s relief was palpable even before he grabbed her hand and pulled her up against his tense body.
Pride shuttered the Northman’s face. “I have faced my wyrd,” he stated clearly. “I have not been afraid.” He hefted his sword again without menace. “This village has not heard the last of me or my men.”
“But your promise—” Charis began.
Agnarr’s expression was cold and proud. “It holds. This year.”
As Charis watched the Northman walk stiffly back to his men, Cowan put his arm aroun
d her. “I had wondered, you know. If you’d choose him,” he admitted.
She reached up to stroke the hand he had on her shoulder. “I made my choice before he came, son of Branieucc.”
“Did you, now?”
“Husband in the first degree. You are bound to me.”
He turned her to face him, but only the barest hint of a smile lurked at the corners of his eyes. “I know it, lass, but I had wondered . . .”
She huffed and stepped back. “Well, then, you’re half blind and deaf? And you have the training of the warriors? I guess Aislinn and I had best be making some room for more patients in that house of ours.”
He grinned. “No. Just room for a scholar, one-time interpreter and reluctant warrior, Charis. That’s all I want.”
“Sounds like more than one there.”
He laughed, embracing her in full view of his father and all those who had come to see the Northmen. “Just one, Charis! I’ll not share you with another.” They turned to see the intruders leaving. There were no threatening omens there. Not for that day.
From behind the village walls, they could hear the children cheering and the relieved shouts and taunts of the warriors. Good-natured jests were directed at her and Cowan as well.
Turning her back entirely on the Northmen, Charis clasped Cowan’s hand in her own and waved at Aislinn, who was running, dark hair streaming behind her, from the opening gates.
Charis, Healer of Ulaid, did not look back.
THE END
Preview of Éire's Viking,
Book Two of the Éire's Viking Trilogy
There was a sharp rapping in front of her and to the left. “Aoire? It’s Aislinn. The physician from the monastery. I treated you after you were brought to me. Is that you?” She followed the crashing of underbrush. “Aoire?” Heavy leaves overhead prevented much light from reaching the ground directly but a verdant shading showed the long fall of light blond hair over broad shoulders and muscled back. The man had left without even a brat to keep him warm, and he was her patient! “Aoire!”