His scowl lingered. “I told them the hunt is off and that I go instead to gather lichens.”
“You are going with me? Why not send one of your men?”
“I would trust any of them with my own life, but I don’t trust them with yours.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“My men are not accustomed to abstinence. They are used to raiding and taking whatever they desire…and I see how they look at you.”
His meaning made her shiver. “But you do not take whatever you desire?” she asked.
“I did at one time,” he confessed. “But this is different. We did not come to this place to raid. We came to stay. If we are to succeed, my brothers and I must set the example for our men. Let us go now.”
They set out on foot from the castle with Gwened struggling to keep up with the Norseman’s long, impatient strides. He clearly had no liking for lichen hunting, but at least he’d obliged her request.
“Perhaps you could hunt while I collect the dye stuffs?” she suggested.
He considered the idea. “Do you give me your word that you will not run off?”
“I promise,” she said. “Besides, I could hardly get very far on foot.”
“True enough,” he agreed. “Then you will stay here by the river and I will hunt.”
He laid both of his very large hands on her shoulders. “Do not betray my trust,” he warned with a dire look, “or you will greatly regret it.”
With knife in hand, the Viking ventured into the forest while Gwened scoured the boulders and trees by the river.
Scraping the lichens was both tedious and dirty work but she didn’t mind. She enjoyed dying her own wool and experimenting with colors. It had taken years of trial and error, but she had developed her own well-guarded recipes for vibrant colors. Oakmoss produced lovely lilac hues, letharia yielded vibrant yellow. Evernia could be used to achieve deep burgundy.
Spotting a fallen tree, Gwened headed toward it. Dead trees were often a treasure trove of lichen. Approaching the tree, Gwened halted at a sudden rustling of leaves. Had she disturbed a sleeping deer? Hoping to get a glimpse of it, she ventured slowly forward, only to halt again at the sound of snorting.
Gwened stifled a gasp. It wasn’t a sleeping deer that she’d disturbed, but a den of wild boar! Realizing her error and the danger of attack, she backed slowly away. Her pulse pounded as two large, hairy animals emerged from the shadows of the downed tree. Snouts in the air, they faced her.
Gwened froze, her heart pounding while her gaze darted about for anything with which to defend herself. With tails and hackles raised, the pair took a step toward her.
“Keep backing away,” Bjorn whispered. “They’re damned dangerous beasts!”
“Bjorn! Thank God!” she exhaled in relief.
The first boar, a male, snorted and growled at her.
As the animal prepared to charge, Bjorn leaped out of the tree line with a roar. The startled boar halted in its tracks, then spun around to face Bjorn. For a few seconds, they stared each other down. Just as it seemed the animal might retreat, the second boar advanced.
Gwened shrieked a warning but it came too late. With its head lowered to attack, the boar charged Bjorn. She wanted to run, but her feet were rooted to the spot. Gwened shut her eyes in terror, but the sounds of the struggle still filled her ears.
In the end, the boar’s razor-sharp tusks were no match for Bjorn’s skill with his blade. Knifed through the chest, the pig released an earsplitting squeal that put its mate to flight. Gwened breathed a sigh of relief but the wounded animal still had not quite given up the fight.
Now assured that he only dealt with one combatant, Bjorn spun back to the thrashing boar, but rather than delivering the death blow, as she’d expected, he proceeded to remove his woolen tunic and shirt. He then went about shredding the linen into strips that he braided into a makeshift rope that he tied around the pig’s back legs.
“What are you doing?” she asked in confusion.
Ignoring her question, he suspended the animal upside down from a sturdy, low-lying tree limb. Dropping to his knees and looking heavenward, he murmured a stream of words she didn’t comprehend, then sliced the animal’s throat. Gwened watched in horror as a river of blood flowed from its body to create a crimson puddle on the ground. She shuddered in revulsion as he dipped his fingers in the blood and then wiped it down his face and across his bare chest.
Although she had seen animals bled many times after a hunt, Gwened quickly realized that he was not preparing the animal to eat, but performing some kind of unholy sacrifice. Unable to watch any longer, she turned her back and headed toward the river.
Sitting atop a boulder, Gwened stared into the flowing water pondering the turn of events that had placed her homeland, and even her very life, in this heathen’s hands. Bjorn’s actions confused and frightened her. She’d begun to think of him as a man like any other, but the sacrifice revealed his hidden thirst for blood. How long would it be before he returned to the violent nature he’d hidden so well?
After a few minutes, she startled at the crunch of footsteps. Barely looking in her direction, he squatted down by the water and began washing himself.
“Is this a common Norse ritual to bathe oneself in animal’s blood?” she asked.
“It is my ritual,” he replied. “I made a vow long ago that every boar I kill will be an offering to the gods.”
“Why do you make such an offering?” she asked.
“My reasons are personal,” he replied tersely.
As he cleaned himself, she couldn’t help taking in the exposed parts of his body. She knew she should look away, but found herself mesmerized. Although she hadn’t seen many half-naked men, she still recognized that he was a superior specimen. He was a veritable sculpture of muscle and sinew that she admired as one would admire anything so beautifully made.
“Is this blood sacrifice limited to animals, or should I fear for my life?” she asked.
“I only offer the blood of boars.” He rose and wiped his face and chest on his tunic. “Your blood is quite safe, Countess.”
“You are still covered with it,” she remarked. Although his upper body was now clean, his leather-encased thighs were heavily stained.
His gaze dropped down to his trews. “I will deal with it when I return to the castle.”
It was only then that Gwened realized it wasn’t the boar’s blood, but his own. Although the victor of the encounter, Bjorn had not emerged unscathed.
“You are injured!” Gwened cried.
“‘Tis nothing,” Bjorn declared gruffly.
“Let me see it!” Gwened insisted. “You came to my aid, at least let me clean it for you. Such wounds can be perilous if left untreated.”
“It will wait.”
“At least let me staunch the bleeding,” she insisted. “Is there anything left of your shirt?”
“Maybe the sleeves,” he mumbled.
Gwened raced back to the place of sacrifice. Ignoring the dead animal, she scoured the ground for the remains of his torn shirt. Returning to him, she mimicked his earlier actions, shredded the cloth and tied it tightly around his upper thigh.
“Come, let us return now,” she urged. “I have had my fill of lichen hunting, and this needs proper attention.”
Although he refused her help, Bjorn’s gait became increasingly unsteady as they trekked back to the castle. By the time they reached the gates, he was staggering.
“I need help!” Gwened called out to his men. “We were attacked by a boar.”
Ignoring his protests, his men carried Bjorn up to the duke’s bedchamber while Gwened ordered hot water to bathe the wound. After commanding the servants, she went directly to Adèle’s still room in search of healing herbs.
Entering the small room, Gwened was nearly overwhelmed by the teeming shelves. She stared blankly at the neatly labeled jars of dried herbs, ground roots, and pressed flowers, trying to recall what items might
best aid his wound. Adèle was a gifted herbalist and healer, not Gwened. Why had she never paid greater attention? Her gaze rested upon a jar labelled yarrow. She knew yarrow was oft used for bleeding. She grabbed the jar along with mandragora for pain.
***
Bjorn’s injury was far worse than he had let on, but he refused to let the countess see any weakness. If she’d realized the extent of his injuries, she might have run off, and he never could have caught her. But by the time they reached the castle, he was completely drained of strength. His men carried him to the duke’s bedchamber where he struggled to removed his trews. The blood saturated leather stuck to his skin.
“We’ll need to cut them off,” his captain, Lars declared.
“Then do it!” Bjorn ordered with a curse.
The gashes made by the boar’s tusks were long and deep, but at least the bleeding had slowed, now only leaking when he moved. He was lying completely naked on the bed when the countess arrived. She froze on the threshold, her pupils widening and her face flushing a deep shade of red.
“It needs cleaning,” Lars said.
“The countess will do it,” Bjorn replied. “You may go now. Come,” he beckoned her. “As you see, I am ready to be tended. Have you medicine?” he asked.
“Aye,” she replied, quickly averting her gaze. “I have yarrow for a poultice and mandragora. Mixed with lambig, ‘twill ease the pain and aid sleep.”
“Lambig I will take,” he said. “I am thirsty.”
“Mayhap ‘twould be best if your men…”
“Do you go back on your offer to tend me?” he asked. She was a married woman. Why did she act like a maid? “Come now, countess,” he chided. “You are wed. Surely you have seen a naked man before.”
She licked her lips. “Never in full light of day.”
She came slowly toward him, offering a bed linen. “Perhaps you could cover up that which is not injured?”
He humored her request. With a groan against the pain, he pulled himself to a sitting position and covered his lower body with the sheet, leaving only his right leg exposed. The wound, however, was only inches from his groin. He thanked the gods that the boar hadn’t aimed his tusks any higher.
She poured some liquid into a cup and offered it to him. “You might wish to drink this before I touch the wound.
“What is it?” he asked with a sniff.
“Something to ease the pain.” The liquid sloshed against the sides of the cup as she extended it to him.
“I make you nervous?” he asked.
She did not answer, but her gaze flickered to his as he rested his hand on top of hers.
“I promise I will not bite you,” he said. “Even if I had the will, I haven’t the strength.” Accepting the cup, he drained it in a few long swallows. He watched her intently as she prepared a poultice for his wounds.
When she finished with the poultice, she knelt beside the bed and dipped a piece of linen into a bowl of steaming water. Her touch was uncertain as she gently began to wipe away the blood.
Bjorn’s body tensed, but it wasn’t as much from pain as from the awareness her touch on his bare skin. It had been a very long time since he’d known a woman’s caress. Her kneeling position, made it even worse, filling his head with lascivious thoughts that he was quick to tamp down.
“I must clean the wound well,” she said. “But I will try not to hurt you.”
He laughed. “Norsemen do not fear pain. It reminds us that we are alive.”
“By the look of this leg, you must feel very much…alive,” she remarked dryly.
He bit back a hiss of pain as she began prodding the gash, and then mumbled a curse as she pressed the cloth into the wounds. After a few moments of agony, she finally stopped. He dropped his head back with a groan of relief.
“Tis as clean as I can get it,” she said. “But I fear ‘twill not heal easily unless the flesh is sewn back together. I have some embroidery needles and thread in the solar. I could get them and stitch it for you,” she offered.
“Poking and prodding the holes in my body wasn’t enough for you?” he said. “Now you’re going to stick me with needles?”
“I thought you said Norsemen relished pain?”
“I said we don’t fear it but I never said I love it,” he replied. “I suspect you are relishing this opportunity to torment me.”
“Then you would be wrong,” she said. “I do not take joy in anyone’s pain be them friend or foe.”
“I do not wish to be your foe, Countess.”
“But how can it be any other way?” she asked softly, her green gaze probing his.
“The duchess made peace with my brother,” he said.
“I suspect she was given no choice. I will return anon.”
She laid down her cloth and poured him another cup of her special pain potion.
It was finally beginning to work. His lids felt heavy while his body was light as air. Through bleary eyes, Bjorn watched her go.
Although she regarded him as her enemy, her deeds did match her words. She had tended him with gentleness and compassion. There was much about this Breton woman to admire besides her physical beauty. He hadn’t experienced this kind of interest, or any interest in a woman for that matter, in a very long time.
Recognition of his desire flooded him with guilt. Although his wife was long dead, he still remained loyal. Until he could forgive himself for her death, he would not betray his vows to her. But thus far, the gods had been deaf to those prayers.
His eyes were growing increasingly heavy as the seconds passed. 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.
“I am the mother of all and the spinner of fates.”
“You are Frigg?” he asked in disbelief. Was this really the goddess he spoke to or was it 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. “Take comfort that Astrid lives with the gods now, as does your son.”
“If you will not return them to me, I choose to join my family.”
“That is not your decision,” she replied. “Your time has not come.”
“But you said you heard my prayers!”
“I have indeed,” she replied. “The void in your heart will be healed when you meet the one destined to be your life mate.”
“My life mate? I had a life mate and you took her from me!” Bjorn cried in anguish. “I want no other wife. I want Astrid back!”
Ignoring his plea, she continued, “Your sons will be kings and the conquerors of many lands.”
“Kings and conquerors? That is Valdrik’s destiny, not mine!” Bjorn protested.
His body suddenly seized as if struck by lightning. He could neither move nor breathe. The goddess’ became louder, booming in his ears and causing the clouds to rumble.
“You presume to know more than the very 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,” he answered. “I meant no disrespect.”
“I do forgive you, as does Astrid,” she replied.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Isn’t that what you have sought with your sacrifices? To be released from the guilt that binds your heart? You have been freed, Bjorn. Now I offer you a greater gift. Reject it 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 and his ears still rang with Frigg’s angry voice.
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?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” she replied. “I have embroidered for many years but ‘tis the first wound I have sewn.”
“You do it well,” he remarked. “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 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 already been dead for weeks when I returned.” Astrid has forgiven you.
“I also lost someone I loved,” she said. “He was the man I was betrothed to wed.”
World of de Wolfe Pack_THE BASTARD OF BRITTANY Page 6
