Page 50 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3
“At the top of the hill, near the edge of the forest and…”
“You must tell me, Astrid!”
She flinched at my raised voice.
“Around the jarl’s longhouse.”
The room swayed. No matter what I told myself, I could not escape. My knees buckled and I fell to the floor, dissolving within the dark tide.
23
Their raised voices roused me, far across the room. I couldn’t make out the words; wasn’t sure that I wanted to. I was warm where I lay, in darkness but not asleep. Somewhere between—not awake either. My fingers found the goatskin beneath my body. I was comfortable. If only they would stop shouting, I could stay here and hide, drowsy and safe.
I remembered now; I’d fallen, in a faint, the floor hard under my cheek. Astrid had been telling me what I could scarce believe, yet which I felt to be true. The sins of the past were not forgotten, and Asta did not lie peacefully in her grave.
Who but I was to blame? I’d failed to save her; hadn’t acted quickly enough, had overlooked something. I’d loved her… but had some dark corner of my being wished her to die? Hadn’t I been envious? I’d wanted to bear Eirik’s children, to be his wife, to claim the status that would bring. Instead, I had no choice but to rely on the good favour of others.
As for the jarl, I was no naïve maiden, my virginity seduced away. I’d known what I was doing. I’d become his willing lover, overtaken by a madness of self-loathing, fed by emotions I could barely fathom. He and I were alike in ways I’d not wished to recognize. We were capable of wild fury, stoked by grieving anger. Whatever excuses I conjured, I couldn’t escape my guilt.
Someone was sobbing, someone shouting; words coming closer, louder.
“…dark forces, in the forest. Just like her grandmother.” It was a voice filled with hate. “…goes out at night, looking for her creatures, picking plants for her spells.”
There was a murmur through the room.
“…bewitched Eirik… made him bring her here… put magic on my father before that… been casting her enchantment on you, Gunnolf… she wants Asta’s place… was chieftain’s wife once and wants to be again.”
“Wake her.” The speaker was gruff, his voice commanding.
Hands raised me up, splashed water in my face. I shied from returning but those hands were insistent. Someone pinched the skin on the inside of my elbow, hissed in my ear. “Wake up, witch!”
Faline was holding something in her palm, raising it to my face, her serpent eyes lit. Her mouth was voluptuous even as she spoke venom.
“I found what you’ve been carrying in your apron pocket! A deadly mushroom, and one piece missing!”
I shook my head in confusion. I hadn’t anything in my pocket. The mushroom had been lost weeks ago, beforeOstaranight. I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen it.
“What say you?” It was Gunnolf’s voice, full of pain. “Was it your scheme all along? To kill whoever stood in your way? To seduce whichever man could most advantage you? What mischief did you plan?”
What had I done? This looked much like the one I’d picked, so long ago, when I’d walked in the forest with Helka. The red rim beneath the cap was distinctive. I’d brought it with me, across the sea—a symbol of unused vengeance. I could have killed a host of warriors with this tiny mushroom. Had some part crumbled into Asta’s food? Had I poisoned her? I thought back to her symptoms—the stomach cramps, nausea, vomiting bile, and the itch across her skin. Not the pox at all, but the gradual, agonizing failure of her body.
The horror of it jolted me awake, tore at my chest so I could hardly breathe, wrenched my gut like the devil’s own claws. The mushroom was mine.
“The guilt is in her face!” Faline spat the words. “Look! I dare her to deny it!”
“It’s true,” declared Gunnolf. “I see it, now. Only a conscience wracked with shame could look thus.”
“No…” My tongue was thick in my mouth. What could I protest against? Had I not wanted position and power? Had I not envied? Kept secrets? And who but I had tended Asta?
“Murderess!” Faline hissed, as they led me away.
24
Many gathered, watching as the jarl’s men led me to the harbour, my hands bound. Wrongdoers were beaten, but what of murderers? What of witches?
They secured me to the whipping post, but not in the position for flogging. I faced forward, my back pressed to the old wood.
“If you’re innocent, explain your actions. You assured me you would take good care of my wife and youproclaimed yourself a healer.”
