Restless and agitated, she paced the chamber. She wondered when Adèle would return to Vannes. She still couldn’t comprehend what had compelled her to help Valdrik. Why hadn’t she just let him die?
Even as she questioned Adèle’s behavior, she pondered her own reaction to Valdrik’s brother, Bjorn. Although she passionately wanted to despise him, he’d provided little fuel to her fire. He hardly seemed like the bloodthirsty beast she’d imagined, and no one seemed the worse off for his being here. Bjorn was calm, polite, and impossible to read. But far worse was her disconcerting physical reaction to him. His rugged good looks, deep voice, and strangely arresting eyes were agitating.
Mathilda soon arrived to help her undress. “You will be sleeping here in the queen’s chamber?”
“Aye,” Gwened said. “I feel more secure here.”
“You should know that he sleeps nearby in the duke’s bedchamber.”
“Oh.” Gwened swallowed hard, wondering if she’d made a poor choice. “Should I fear him? What do you think of these Norsemen?”
Mathilda paused, boar’s bristle brush in hand. “I do not trust them. Nor do I like that they are here, but milady Adèle suffered far worse under Duke Rudalt.”
The maid’s response came as no great surprise. “My brother was a brute,” Gwened said. Rudalt had treated his wife abominably from the very night of their wedding. “Are you saying this Valdrik treats her with respect?”
“More like a man smitten,” the maid replied with a snort. “I would not presume to guess what he thinks or feels, but anyone can see how he reacts to her.”
Gwened spun around to face her. “And what of Adèle? How does she react to him?”
“At first, she only cooperated out of fear and the desire to prevent bloodshed, but I think ’tis much more than that now.”
Gwened was aghast. “You think she cares for him?”
The maid shrugged. “I do not know my lady’s heart, but when she heard of his injury, she went immediately to Quimper.”
Gwened sighed as Mathilda began stroking her hair with the brush. “I wish she would return. There is so much I don’t understand.”
After Mathilda departed, Gwened barricaded the door with a chair. Although he had given her no reason to fear, caution prevailed. It would hardly keep him out if he truly wanted to enter her chamber, but at least it gave her a small measure of peace.
For the next two days, Gwened avoided the Vikings altogether, taking her meals in her chamber and busying herself with tidying the solar. If she was going to be a hostage, she decided she might as well keep herself occupied.
Hoping to fill her hours with needlework, she searched for supplies. There were several distaffs, spindles, tambours, and needles, but she was dismayed to find little embroidery thread. This would not do at all! Although she probably could have found a servant to procure her some spun thread, they were unlikely to have any in the colors she sought.
Gwened stared at the basket of combed wool with a sigh. She could spin it herself, but it would take her many days just to make the thread, let alone dye it. Nevertheless, the more she thought about it, the more Gwened longed to escape the castle, if only for a few hours. Bjorn had promised her the freedom of the bailey; might he also allow her to go outside its walls to gather lichens for dye?
Taking up a basket, she descended to the great hall, only to find servants cleaning up the aftermath of breakfast. “Where is…Bjorn?” Gwened asked, refusing to call him by any other title than the name he’d provided.
“Milord just left a short time ago intent on hunting,” one of the servants replied.
“Thank you.” Gwened hurried from the great hall in hope of catching him before he departed. She found him with a group of his men, girded with knives and spears, but with no dogs or horses. What manner of hunt was this?
He suddenly looked in her direction, his brow cocked. “Countess? Do you intend to join us for the hunt?”
The curious looks his men exchanged told her it was a joke.
“I do not hunt,” she replied. “At least not anything that moves.”
His brows furrowed in a silent question.
“I only hunt lichens,” she explained, raising her basket.
“Lichens?” his mouth twisted. “Is this some Breton delicacy?”
His look of revulsion almost made her laugh.
“We do not eat them,” she explained. “We use them for dye. Your tunic is a beautiful color,” she remarked with reluctant admiration. “That shade of blue is hard to achieve from woad. Do you know what kind of dye was used?”
He glanced down at his tunic with a shrug. “I am partial to this color, but I know naught of lichens and dyes.”
“I do. It’s one of my chief interests,” she said. “I dye my own wool for my needlework. Which is why I sought you. I would very much like to go to the forest to gather dyestuffs.”
His brows met in a scowl. “You cannot go alone.”
“Then send a servant with me,” she suggested. “I won’t go far.”
“How can I know this isn’t a ruse to escape?”
“I suppose you will just have to trust me.”
“Not good enough,” he replied. He then turned to his men and murmured a remark in Norse. With snorts and guffaws, they dispersed.
“What did you tell them that was so funny?” she asked.
His glower 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.”
“My men are used to raiding and taking what they want. I mistrust how they look at you.”
His meaning made her shiver. “But you do not take whatever you desire?”
“I did at one time,” he confessed. “But this is different. We did not come here 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 the task, but at least he’d obliged her request.
“Perhaps you could hunt while I collect the dyestuffs?” 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 with a dire look. “Do not betray my trust 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! Her pulse pounded as two large, hairy animals emerged from the shadows of the downed tree. Snouts in the air, they faced her. Fearful of attack, she backed slowly away while her gaze darted about for anything with which to defend herself.
With tails and hackles raised, the pair took a step toward her.
Her heart pounded heavily against her chest. The first boar, a male, snorted and growled at her, but just 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 refused to give up the fight. Bjorn spun back to the thrashing boar, but rather than delivering the death blow, 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 growing 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.
Having seen animals bled many times after a hunt, Gwened recognized that he was not preparing the animal to eat but performing some kind of unholy sacrifice. Unable to watch his pagan sacrilege, 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 his actions revealed a hidden thirst for blood. How long would it be before he returned to the violent nature he’d concealed 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.
“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 own 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 labeled 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 could never 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 remove 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 lambig to ease the pain and aid sleep.”
“Lambig I will take,” he said. “I am thirsty.”
“Mayhap ’twould be best if your men were to assist …”
“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 mixed it with some powder 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?”
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 awareness of 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.
“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 deep into the wounds. After several excruciating minutes, she 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 asked with a laugh. “Now you’re going to stick me with needles?”
“I thought you said Norsemen relished pain?”
“I said I don’t fear it, but I never said I love it. 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.”
Although she still regarded him as her enemy, her actions indeed matched 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.
His gaze sought hers. “I do not wish to be your foe, Countess.”
“But how can it be any other way?” she asked softly.
“The duchess made peace with my brother,” he suggested.
“I suspect she was given no choice.” Her gaze abruptly broke from his. “I will return anon.” She laid down her cloth and poured him another cup of her special pain potion before departing.
The Wolves of Brittany Collection: A Romance Bundle Books 1-3 Page 27
