by Jianne Carlo
“How long has she been like this?” Brökk went down on one knee and caged her hand between his. Her flesh was as cold as a glacier. He blew on her hand and rubbed and massaged her delicate fingers.
“Some time. The captain brought her to me right as the heavens opened up.” The alewife shook out a woolen blanket. “My lord, we need to get her out of those wet garments. Her lips are bluing and should she take a chill…”
The woman need say no more, Brökk had seen only too oft the result of exposure to a storm and a sudden drop in heat. He pushed off the pallet and stood, not realizing he dripped onto Skatha’s slippers until Raki pulled him away from wooden frame.
A young boy burst into the room. “Mama. Papa says that the Arabs are back and you are to stew fowl for them.”
Ice shards pricked Brökk’s blood.
Konáll entered the room.
“Wazir Niketas has returned?”
“Aye. They docked as I arrived. The squall is nigh through the fjord. We will have little time afore the next one hits us. Do we move her?” Konáll’s gaze swept the tiny chamber.
Brökk glanced at Skatha. He had but one option to assure her safety and health. “Aye. Head back to Bita Veðr. Take Lady Gráinne and the others to my lodge. Tell them what happened to Skatha. Get them whate’er they need to nurse her back to health.”
“Worry not. ’Twill be as you wish.” Konáll spun around and hurried out of the room.
“Have you any skins?” Brökk asked the alewife.
“Aye.” She turned to the boy. “Firth, take the jarl to the shed. I will change her clothes and wrap her tight afore you return, my lord.”
“My thanks. To me, Raki.” Brökk hurried out of the room with the captain on his heels. “Stay here. Watch Wazir Niketas like a hawk. Set a guard to his ship. If aught amiss occurs, send a messenger to my lodge. Aught, Raki. The slightest misstep, the faintest hint of anything not expected.”
“As you command, my lord.”
Brökk strode through the kitchen door. He scanned the tavern’s small courtyard, spotted the shed, and raced to the ramshackle lean-to. Raki followed in his wake.
They sorted through the cured skins, selected two, and sprinted through the mud to the kitchens.
“Did she speak to you?” Brökk had vowed he wouldn’t ask the question.
“Aye. She asked me to describe the square and the dwellings around it. She wanted to know who else had been sentenced to the pillory. She spoke of her wolfhound, Lawri. Of her herb garden at Sumbarten. Of the skalds who had visited the abbey. Of the tales of Ragnarök she had heard.”
Brökk halted in the corridor and stared at his captain. “My wife, who has ne’er offered information freely, told you of all this?”
“Methinks she chatted to distract herself from the discomfort she endured.” Raki shook his head. “We had to find boulders for her to stand on so we could lock her into the pillory. You are my liege lord and I honor my fealty oath, but I beg you, Jarl, never command me to such a task again.”
Aye. Never would he punish her again, not even if she refused him bedsport, not even if she defied him in front of Harald Bluetooth, not even if she wanted to divorce him.
With Raki and the alewife’s assistance, he soon had Skatha bundled head to toe in the watertight skins. The alewife had changed her into a cyrtel spun from coarse wool that was too long and wide to fit her petite stature. But ’twas dry and clean and her hands no longer held the chill of icicles.
Holding Skatha tight to him with one arm, he used the other to guide the racing stallion away from the incoming squall to his lodge. He arrived just as a torrent of fat raindrops coursed from the black clouds overhead. He dismounted in a jump. The door opened before he started up the path.
Lady Gráinne greeted him with a terse, “Lord Konáll says she was struck by lightning and has not awoken since.”
“’Tis what Raki recounted.” He laid Skatha in the middle of the mattress and only then did he become aware of Lady Muíríne, Lady Elspeth, and the nurse, Dagrún. All glaring at him, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.
Guilt had him backtracking from the bed. “Heal her.”
The abbess snorted. “Aye. Now you want our healing skills. After you have caused her grievous harm. What madness had you in thrall that you would sentence your own wife to a pillory? Look at her. She is naught but a tiny thing.”
His entire face heated. He fisted his hands and studied his slender wife’s wan complexion. He had done this to her.
“She is hot, my lady.” The flame-haired one, Lady Elspeth, had a hand on Skatha’s forehead. She had removed the skins and the peasant gown had ridden up to Skatha’s knees. Her face, throat, and shins were flushed.
Brökk sank into his chair. He leaned his forehead on his hands. Images of the delightful smile she had worn while learning his features filled his mind. He had ne’er encountered a woman-child like Skatha. Had known only women of the courts, wenches, and whores.
Save for Hjørdis, he had ne’er wanted to converse or spend any but the bare modicum of time with females. Even when Etta had him following her like a stallion pacing a mare in heat, he had no desire to stay with her after his lust was sated.
Skatha beguiled him, enticed him, and he enjoyed peeling away the defensive cloaks she wore and learning the way her mind worked. And ’twas his fault, he was the only one to bear the blame for her being insensate. His pride had caused her harm.
“’Tis not a fever. She is warm yes, but not overly so.”
He glanced up to find Lady Gráinne bathing Skatha’s temples with a cloth. A peculiar fragrance filled the room. He sniffed, but could not identify the aroma.
Lady Muíríne shot him a scathing glance. “We do not poison our beloved friend. What you smell is Cocklebur, a herb we use to cool the body and soothe the soul. Elspeth is brewing a tea made from horehound and hyssop. ’Tis used for reducing fevers. When Skatha awakes we will have her drink the tonic.”
“’Tis a measure of prevention only, Jarl, for she is not fevered.” The abbess sighed. “I spoke without thinking earlier, Lord Brökk. You must, of course, do your duty as jarl. Howbeit, methinks you should reconsider applying one punishment to men, women, and children alike. The pillory is no place for a woman or child.”
If he had applied the laws to Etta, mayhap Hjørdis would be safe at Bita Veðr at this very moment. He had erred and let his experiences with Etta cloud his judgment. Skatha was not Etta.
As if he had called her name, she moaned, “Brökk?”
He bounded to his feet and covered the distance to the bed in one huge leap. Kneeling, he held her small hand in both of his. “Köttrynja, speak to me.”
To his utter joy, she rolled onto her side and opened her eyes.
“’Tis a dream. The sweetest dream.”
The smile she wore dazzled Brökk and stabbed a sharp slice in his chest. She stared directly at him, and ne’er would he have believed those beautiful violet eyes saw naught. In that moment a golden glow lit her face and the goddess in her shined nigh to blinding.
She propped herself on one elbow and stroked his war braid to one side. “’Tis exactly how I imagined you. Muíríne played me false. None can be as handsome as you.”
His jaw dropped.
She could see?
Chapter Nine
Skatha woke slowly, a trick she’d developed when the darkness had descended. ’Twas far better to ease into the day rather than open her eyes and see naught. She stretched, arching her back, pointing her toes, and reaching over her head with splayed fingers. She felt for Lawri who always slept at the foot of the pallet, her nose nudging Skatha’s sole, the right one, ne’er the left.
Last eve Lady Gráinne had bid them prepare for a day of herb gathering. Samhain approached, the winter-fylleþ would soon follow, and ’twere few days left for foraging outdoors. She inhaled and blew out a long sigh. How she hated the dreary days from Yule to Spring.
Where had Lawri gone to? The wolfhound
’s habits had changed as her belly grew. She would soon whelp the pups. Skatha could hardly wait for the arrival of the baby hounds. ’Twas not oft that they had the joy of new births at the abbey.
“Good morn, Skatha.”
A man’s voice.
In her chamber.
She opened her eyes and turned to the source of the sound.
Blinked.
Dug her heels into the straw and scooted back to the wall.
It had been many moons since she’d last had the cruel dream. The dream where she saw again.
’Twas so real this morn.
She saw.
Saw an enormous man.
A warrior cert for he wore war braids at his temples, had a mane of hair the color of sunshine, and eyes of a blue so deep as to be black.
“You see.”
’Twas more a statement than a query. Skatha smiled. “You know this. You are part of my dream. Who are you warrior-man? You have not come to my dreams afore.”
“’Tis no dream, Köttrynja. You are my wife. I am your husband.” He reached out to touch her, but she scrambled away from him.
“I can smell you.” She looked around the chamber. “’Tis not my room. I begin to not like this dream. I shall awake.”
Hastily, she closed her eyes, said the Lord’s prayer, and then lifted her lids.
The warrior had not moved.
She knuckled her eyes.
He still did not budge, but remained there staring at her with such a sad expression fear sprouted and her heart skipped a beat.
“Do you remember naught of what happened yesterday?”
Swallowing hard, she took note of the oversize bed, the hearth, a massive chair, and a stool and table. ’Twas not familiar. None of it. She must awake.
Holding out her arm, she ordered her dream warrior, “Pinch me.”
“’Tis no dream, wife.” He disobeyed and instead of twisting her skin, he half-rose, brushed her lips with his, and then sat on the mattress. “Know you where you are?”
The contact set her a-tingle all over. She swallowed again, naught a little overwhelmed by his closeness, by his giant size, by the smell of him, which seemed so…so right and so familiar. Words refused to get past her parched throat, so she shook her head.
“You are at my holding in the Norse lands, Bita Veðr. Yesterday, you were struck by lightning.”
Frowning, she drew back and studied his features, the many scars on his cheeks and forehead, the arrogant line of his nose, the high forehead. Rays of sunlight danced around the room and a ring of metal twinkled at his ear. Without thinking, she leaned forward and touched the earbob, then realizing what she had done, whipped her hand away, clenched her fingers into a fist, grabbed a bed cushion, and crushed it to her chest.
“Yesterday, you could not see.”
“I cannot see. I am blind. The darkness descended in my tenth and first year. Why can I not awake? I like not this dream.” Dread and an awful doom settled low in her belly, her insides clenched, and bile rose in her throat. She searched the room for a chamber pot and cupped a hand over her mouth.
She gagged.
The sourness raced up her gullet.
“Here.” He shoved a basin onto her lap.
She retched violently, over and over, until ’twas naught left in her stomach. When the convulsions subsided, she glanced up to find he had vanished. For a moment, she just sat there staring at the putrid puddle in the pot, then she carefully lowered the fired clay to the floor, and pushed it under the bed. Dizzied by the action even though she had moved slowly, Skatha leaned against the bed head.
The door opened and closed and low female murmurs reached her ears.
“’Tis a miracle.” Elspeth’s voice.
A vision appeared at the side of the bed. She stared at the female who stood there, taking in the long braid draped over one shoulder, the slight hint of freckles sprayed from one cheek to another, the heart-shaped face, and the shimmering wide green eyes. A teardrop pooled and fell, then another. The woman opened her arms, hopped onto the mattress, and gathered Skatha into a tight, fierce embrace. “You can see.”
Elspeth’s voice.
She drew back.
They stared at each other. “’Tis not a dream?”
“Nay, my beloved friend. You see.” Tears continued to stream down Elspeth’s cheeks. “We dared not hope after you awoke last eve and looked Lord Brökk full in the eyes and told him he was handsome.”
“I do not remember him. We are wed?” She knuckled her throbbing temples. “He speaks the truth?”
“Aye.” She hugged Skatha again. “’Tis a miracle Skatha. Mother Mary has answered my prayers. I have said a score of Hail Marys every day since we met, pleading for the return of your sight. We have known each other for nine summers and ’tis the first time we have looked at each other.”
“You played me false, Elspeth. For you are a true beauty.”
“Nay. You must see the freckles and my carrot hair, and I am thin and too tall.”
“Your hair glows, you are slender, yes, but so elegant.” Skatha traced a freckle. “’Tis not so bad. I count only eleven.”
“Let me see you, child.”
Lady Gráinne. Eagerly, Skatha twisted to get her first glimpse of her mentor, of the woman who was more mother to her than abbess, of the one constant in her life. She looked not at all like her stern voice. Though the habit obscured her hair and ears, Lady Gráinne’s stunning magnificence could not be disguised. She had the face of a siren, full pouting cherry lips, slanted eyes of a hue ’tween green, gold, and brown, a straight noble nose, and a creamy, radiant complexion.
The abbess sat on the edge of the bed. Elspeth moved over to give her more room. She grasped Skatha’s hands. “You can see.”
For the first time since waking, Skatha believed ’twas not a dream and that her sight had returned. She lifted her hand and skimmed her finger o’er the abbess’s cheek. “My lady, ’tis not a dream? I will not awake in the darkness? I am afeared I am losing my sanity.”
“Nay, child. The goddess said your sight would return once you were with child.” She hauled Skatha close and squeezed her tightly.
“’Twasn’t the lightning strike that brought back her sight?” The warrior scowled when he asked the question. Skatha hadn’t noticed him standing by the hearth.
“I cannot be cert, but on her last visit, the goddess, Skaði, spoke to me of Skatha regaining all her senses in preparation for motherhood.” Lady Gráinne and the warrior gazed at each other for a long moment and to Skatha, it appeared they both acknowledged some unspoken truth.
“She is with child?” He straightened and clutched the hilt of his sword. “’Tis the reason she emptied her stomach?”
She narrowed her eyes, glared at him, and jammed her hands onto her hips. “I have not regained my sight and lost my hearing. Mayhap, warrior, you can address your queries to me.”
“Skatha. Mind your manners. He is your husband.”
That took her aback. She shook her head. Too much had happened too fast. She knew not which way to turn or what to believe. “I do not understand, my lady. We were to gather herbs today. Where is Lawri?”
Again, the abbess and the warrior looked at each other.
“We set out to gather herbs o’er two sennights ago, child. Remember you not the Vikings taking us? The journey on the langskip? The wedding?”
Two sennights ago? Bitterness coated her tongue. She recalled naught of what the abbess spoke. It could not be so. None could forget such momentous incidents.
“Nay, my lady. ’Tis true, then. He is my husband?” She shrunk back against the wall when his brows pinched together and his nostrils flared.
“Aye. I am your husband and master. Lest you have also forgot. The marriage was consummated and the consummation witnessed.” He stamped to the bed and turned to face Lady Gráinne. “I bid you deal with her, abbess, and ensure she remembers her duties by this eve. The storm drove Wazir Niketas’s ship
back to our fjord. He needs stay here this eve and the morrow to make repairs to his mast. You are all to remain here. None of you are to step foot outside this lodge. I will have Lady Hilda bring you food.”
“Who knows the lightning bolt struck Skatha yesterday?” Lady Gráinne asked.
“The alewife, her husband, daughter, and son. They have all been commanded to hold their tongues.”
“Beg pardon, my lady.” Elspeth gripped the sheets. “All in the kitchens knew of the lightning strike this morn.”
“The whole holding speaks of naught but ThMrr’s bolt and the goddess’s fury.”
Skatha had not noticed Dagrún tending to the fire in the hearth. She met her old nurse’s stare and a pang of sadness had her chest aching. When had Dagrún become old and weathered? She remembered a mature girl with apple cheeks and a smooth complexion, not this tired matron with deep lines on her forehead and myriad creases around her eyes. She reached out a hand. “Dagrún. I see you.”
She stifled a wince when Dagrún grunted, set her hand to the hearth’s mantle, and rose in a slow, laborious manner, as if every joint ached. ’Twas painful to watch her nurse limp to the bed. Ignoring her hand, Dagrún swept her into a fierce embrace. “I will give thanks to Mother Mary for your deliverance, my child.”
When Dagrún released her hold, Skatha noticed her damp cheeks and thumbed them dry. “’Tis pure joy to be able to gaze upon your face once more.”
Dagrún kissed her hand. “Lady Muíríne waits impatiently for her turn, child.”
Skatha glanced over Dagrún’s shoulder and smiled. Muíríne, Countess of Britagne, looked exactly as she had imagined. Regal, wide, pale blue eyes dominated Muíríne’s face. She had a flawless cream and peaches complexion and a perfect, straight nose.
Muíríne moved to stand by the bed. Her throat worked as she jutted her jaw and said, “I, too, will offer prayers of thanks to the blessed virgin. I am overjoyed with happiness.”