Through bleary eyes, Bjorn watched her go. The medicine was finally beginning to work. His eyes were growing increasingly heavy as the seconds passed, but his body was light as air. His mind drifted as he let his head drop back onto the feather-stuffed pillow. He felt as if he were floating on a cloud and looking down upon himself. Higher and higher he continued to rise, into the clouds, and toward a ball of blinding light.
“Bjorn, son of Vargr,” an unearthly feminine voice spoke from the light. “I have heard your prayers.”
“Who are you?” Bjorn asked, heart racing.
“I am the mother of all and the spinner of fates.”
“You are Frigg?” Was this really the goddess or merely a figment of his imagination?
“Your pain has been my pain,” she said. “I, too, lost a beloved son.”
His heart raced. “Then you will return my family to me?”
“Sadly, I cannot,” she replied. “But take comfort that Astrid and your son live with the gods.”
“If you will not return my family to me, please let me join them.”
“That is not your decision,” she replied. “Your time has not come.”
“But you said you heard my prayers!” Bjorn protested.
“I have indeed,” she replied. “You have been forgiven.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I have released you from the guilt that binds you. Isn’t this what you sought with your sacrifices? And now I offer you a greater gift. The wound in your heart will be healed by the one who is destined to be your life mate.”
“My life mate? I had a life mate and you took her from me!” Bjorn cried. “I want no other wife. I want Astrid back!”
The goddess’ voice became louder, booming in his ears and causing the clouds to rumble. “You presume to know more than the one who weaves the threads of fate?” she angrily demanded. “When the gods answer, ’tis advised to accept their decisions with humility and gratitude.”
“Forgive me, Frigg. I meant no disrespect.”
The goddess continued in a milder voice, “Your son will be a king and the conqueror of many lands.”
“Kings and conquerors? This is Valdrik’s destiny, not mine!”
His body suddenly seized as if struck by lightning. He could neither move nor breathe. His ears still rang with Frigg’s angry voice. “You have been freed, Bjorn. Reject my gift and I will forever be deaf to your prayers.”
Bjorn jolted awake at a sudden stinging sensation in his thigh. He opened his eyes to a woman kneeling on the floor, head bent over his injured thigh. His muddled mind fixed immediately upon the crown she wore on her head. Strange, he’d always imagined the messenger goddess’ hair would be gold. “Fulla?”
“What did you say?” It was the countess who looked up at him with her soft green eyes and a threaded needle in hand.
“Nothing,” he mumbled, feeling confused and foolish. It had felt so real to him. Was it but a fantasy brought on by the drugged drink?
“I am sorry if I hurt you,” she said. “I had hoped your sleep would be so deep that you wouldn’t feel it.”
“Feel?” He’d hardly noticed the needle, but lightning had jolted him to the core.
Squeezing his torn flesh together, she pierced his skin a second time and drew the suture through. He watched her work with a sense of fascinated detachment. Her stitches were small and neat and evenly spaced. “You have had much practice at this?”
“Not exactly. I have embroidered for many years but ’tis the first wound I have sewn.”
“You do it well. I would like to see your other needlework.” He added with a smirk, “I am in need of a new shirt.”
Her brows rose haughtily. “And you expect me to make it for you?”
“Expect?” He shook his head. “I expect nothing, but I would be grateful if ’twere made by your hand.”
“Who made your other shirts?” she asked.
“My wife sewed most of them.”
Her gaze jerked up from her work. “Your wife?”
“Aye, but her stitchery was not as good as yours.”
Her hand paused. “Was not?”
“She is dead,” he answered flatly.
“I’m sorry.”
Her expression compelled him to elaborate. “My wife, son, and an unborn child. I lost all of them one summer while I was raiding.”
“All of them?” Her eyes widened. “How?”
“There was a fire. I don’t know the details. They had been dead for weeks when I returned.”
“I also lost someone I loved… the man I was betrothed to.”
He read pain her eyes. “A man you loved?”
“Aye.” She averted her gaze. “He was killed by a band of Viking raiders.”
He digested that slowly. It did much to explain her animosity and fear. “I come from a harsh place where only the strong survive. The winters are long and hard and most of our stores are depleted by spring. Raiding is a means of surviving until the harvest. It is a way of life for us.”
“Do you deny that Norsemen take great delight in bloodshed?”
“I do not deny it. Many do.”
“But not you?” she asked.
“I did at one time,” he confessed. “I have killed many men, Countess, but I have never harmed a woman.” Somehow it was important that she knew that. He wanted her respect, but not her fear. “Do you believe me?”
She stared back at him as if struggling with her answer. “I suppose I have to believe you. I have seen no evidence of violence to women here, but that doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“Do you trust any man?” he asked.
“I do not.”
“Not even your husband?”
“No.” She made no effort to deny it.
“You do not love him.”
She shook her head. “I never did.”
“Yet, you married him?”
“It wasn’t by choice. Our marriage was arranged by the king after Hugo was murdered.”
“How long has it been since Hugo was killed?”
“Six years,” she replied. “But I remember it as if ’twere yesterday. I think the pain will never fade.”
“It does not lessen,” he said. “I lost my family three years ago. I will never be the same.” Yet, as he watched her work, Frigg’s words echoed inside his head. The wound in your heart will be healed by the one destined to be your life mate.
As Bjorn lay naked in the bed, Gwened could barely keep her mind focused on her task. His thighs were thick with muscle and covered with dark hair that prickled her skin as she worked. Although his more intimate parts were now covered, that portion of his body was at eye level every time she glanced up. The size and shape of him were clearly defined. Were most men thus proportioned? Mateudoi surely was not!
The sight of Bjorn sprawled out in all of his masculine glory stirred something strange and unfamiliar deep inside her, a feeling that was impossible to ignore. Her face flushed with awareness of her wayward thoughts. Virtuous women were not supposed to have such lurid imaginings. Nevertheless, she had oft wondered what her wedding night would have been like had she not wed Mateudoi. Would she have found any satisfaction in the marriage bed had Hugo lived?
She couldn’t help wondering how this man had felt about his dead wife. Were they happy together? “Did you love her?” the question somehow slipped from her lips.
“I did,” he answered.
“Yours was not an arranged marriage, then?”
“Nay.” He laughed, a full-throated chuckle. “Her father had much higher aspirations. He had hoped for a union with Valdrik.”
“If you are brothers, why would her father object to you? He would still achieve an alliance with your family.”
“He objected because I am a bastard. My mother was a concubine, which means I had no inheritance. Nevertheless, Astrid still chose me.”
“She was given a choice? She was allowed to marry for love?”
“Why do
you seem so surprised?” A hint of a smirk hovered over his lips. “Do you think Norse savages are incapable of love?”
“I never thought of it at all,” she snapped.
Gwened cut the thread and then smeared the wound with a thick and sticky paste comprised of yarrow and honey. “My sister-in-law is the true healer, but I hope this will prevent putrefaction. You must apply this to the wound daily.”
She froze when he laid his large callused hand on hers. “Thank you.”
“It needed tending.”
Gwened swiftly pulled her hand away and then proceeded to collect her sewing implements. His mere touch made her tremble. Why did she have such a strong reaction to him? “’Twould be best if you do not move about excessively,” she advised, willing her voice to remain cool and steady.
He snorted with contempt. “I will not stay abed, if that’s what you mean.”
“I didn’t expect you would, but please be mindful of it and tell me right away if it reddens or becomes swollen.”
Gwened left his chamber feeling angry and confused. The world suddenly seemed so unfair. She was a devout Christian and a dutiful daughter. Why had God forced her into a loveless and childless marriage? She envied this Norseman’s wife. Even his heathen bride had known both a husband’s devotion and the joy of motherhood. She was overwhelmed with a sudden sense of desolation.
She felt robbed.
Chapter Ten
Avoiding Bjorn, Gwened confined herself to the solar where she applied herself to the distaff and spindle, spinning all of the baskets of wool into fine thread. The coarser thread she would use to weave cloth, while the fine thread would be reserved for embroidery. Though she tried to keep her mind occupied the Norsemen was never far from her thoughts.
She wondered how Bjorn’s wound was healing. Was he on the mend or had the wound putrefied? Why had he not sent for her?
“Mathilda, how fares the Viking chief?” She couldn’t bring herself to speak his name.
“Milord seems well enough,” Mathilda answered. “He tends to his business.”
“What kind of business?” Gwened asked. “How does he spend his days?”
“He rides out each morn through his men’s encampment. He meets with the captains and then inspects the crops or rides onward to the village. He speaks much with the farmers and merchants.”
Gwened snorted. “No doubt demanding a hefty share of the harvest and profits from the merchants.”
“No more than Duke Rudalt took,” Mathilda answered. “On the contrary, this one seems more intent on learning how we do things. He even speaks of planting more fields and improving trade with Neustria.”
The information took Gwened very much by surprise. As duke, her brother had delegated most of his responsibilities to others so that he could do nothing but drink, hunt, and whore. He gave no thought to planting fields or expanding trade. He cared only for his own pleasures.
“Does he? And what do his men do?” Gwened asked.
“Many of them have taken up the plow, milady.”
“They have?”
Gwened took it all in with cynicism. Why would Bjorn and his brothers act with such uncharacteristic restraint? Could it be true that they wanted to settle peacefully in Brittany? She found it hard to believe. Although her father had finally freed Brittany of the terror, Vikings were still a plague all over Europe. They came every spring and left a path of death and destruction in their wake.
“Do you think this is just a charade, or do you believe they truly wish to become farmers and tradesmen?” Gwened asked. “How long will it be before they experience the overwhelming urge to return to raiding?”
“I think only time will tell, milady,” Mathilda said.
And time was passing all too slowly for Gwened. A fortnight had passed with no word from anyone. She coiled the last skein of spun wool with a sigh. “Mathilda, would you please bring me the chamber pots when you collect them each morn?”
Mathilda regarded her with a questioning look. “Whatever for, milady?”
“I need the urine to extract the dye from the lichens I collected.”
“Milady, the Norsemen do not use the chamber pots.”
“They don’t?”
“Nay.” Mathilda shook her head.
“My men prefer to relieve themselves out of doors,” answered a deep voice. Gwened looked up to find Bjorn standing in the doorway. He regarded her with a strangely hostile look. “You have not left this room for two days.”
“I have been busy,” she replied, nodding to the baskets.
“You spun all of this?”
“Aye,” Gwened answered. “I have spun it and now I intend to dye it. I don’t know why this should surprise you. My mother was a queen, yet she spun her own thread. Are Norse women not encouraged to be industrious?”
“They are very industrious,” he replied.
“Why have you come here?” she asked.
“The wound is red and hot,” he said. “It pains me.”
“Then why are you walking about?”
“Because you did not come to me,” he answered with a glower.
“You did not ask me to.”
“I didn’t want to ask,” he muttered.
Gwened shook her head with a sigh. Did all men consider it a weakness to seek help? Or was it just women they refused to be indebted to?
“You will look at it?” he asked.
“Aye. Come.” She beckoned him to follow her into the adjoining bedchamber.
Gwened’s skin prickled the moment he entered the room behind her. The queen’s bedchamber was spacious and well-lit, with sun shining through the large windows, but suddenly felt small and airless in his presence. Why was it so difficult to breathe when he was near?
“You need to remove your trews,” she said, spinning her back as he proceeded to undress.
“Should I remain standing or should I sit?” he asked.
“’Twould be best if you lie on the bed,” she answered, waiting as the mattress groaned under his weight.
“I am ready.”
Gwened turned to discover him lying naked from the waist down, but at least this time his shirt covered his privates. He was grinning at her.
“What is so funny?” she snapped.
“You,” he replied. “Why are you so afraid of me? To my friends, I am quite harmless.”
“We are not friends,” she replied.
His brow cocked. “You would refuse friendship to one who saved your life? ’Tis not the way of it where I come from.”
“I owe you my gratitude,” she said, “but friendship cannot be based on obligation, it must be freely given.”
“What if I asked for your friendship? Would you still deny me?”
She licked her lips and considered his question. “I would wonder why you ask,” she replied. “Friendship between a man and a woman is not a common thing.” She knelt beside him and drew his shirt up. His flesh was hot under her fingers and the skin was an angry shade of red. “It does not look well. Did you apply the poultice?”
“Aye,” he answered, “but I ran out.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you would come.”
His eyes flickered with an emotion she couldn’t quite decipher. Was he actually hurt that she hadn’t checked on him? For the first time, she noticed the brightness of his eyes and the pink tinge to his cheeks. “Are you feverish?”
“Perhaps,” he confessed with a shrug.
“’Tis good you sought me,” she said. “Mathilda!” she called out. “Pray bring me hot water, yarrow, and honey!”
“Aye, milady,” her maid replied.
Gwened then rose to retrieve her own wash basin and a clean cloth. As she cleansed his wound, she suddenly realized this might be her chance to escape. If he became feverish, he would be unable to pursue her. She only needed to drug him with mandragora. He would sleep deeply, and no one would be the wiser. She could then return home.
But
even as she formulated the plan, she knew she could not go through with it. He had indeed saved her life, and she was indebted to him for that reason, if nothing else. But there was something else. Something she’d tried to ignore—his trust. He had come to her, trusting her to heal him. Perhaps she was a fool for not seizing the opportunity, but enemy or not, she couldn’t betray the faith that he’d placed in her.
Suddenly she understood Adèle’s actions. Ironically, she found herself in a very similar position—forced to choose between fighting or helping the enemy. Like Adèle, Gwened had been left with no defenses, but neither of these Norsemen seemed inclined to abuse their power.
When Mathilda returned with the herbs, Gwened mixed part of the yarrow in a cup of hot water as a fever tea, then added a generous dose of mandragora to help the pain, with some honey to combat the bitter taste. She saved the rest of the herbs and honey to make another poultice.
“Drink this,” she commanded, handing him the cup.
His golden gaze sought hers. “What is in it?”
“Yarrow and mandragora. ’Tis good to treat fever.”
“Mandragora? Is that what made me dream?”
“It has been known to induce vivid dreams,” she said.
“Do you intend to drug me and escape?”
“I was thinking of it,” she confessed.
“’Twould do no good. My men would catch you.”
“Why do you keep me here? What do you want from me?”
“Your goodwill… Peace in Poher.”
“Ah! Poher,” she replied. “That is the real reason you hold me! You fear a rebellion against your wounded brother. How badly was he hurt?”
“I hate to disappoint you, but my brother, thank the gods, is on the mend. I expect his return very soon.”
“And then what?” she asked.
“I will accompany you back to your home.”
“There is no need. I have my men to escort me.”
“You misunderstand, Countess. I do not go as your escort. I go in my brother’s service. I will remain in Poher to administer his affairs. And I expect your cooperation.”
“My cooperation? I won’t give it to you and I won’t give up Poher!”
“I don’t ask for it. You have no choice in that matter. I only ask that you care for my wounds.”
Three Book Collection Page 28