Page 88 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3
I stiffened at his touch, but he was still asleep, and dreaming—of something that disturbed him, it seemed, for he cried out, though not loud enough to wake himself.
He tossed and mumbled, then curled back to me once more. And I lay listening, as his murmurs became words I understood: “No” and “Find her”.
He pulled me tighter to the curve of his body, and his lips found my neck.
“My love, my love…”
And with his caress, he repeated the name of the woman he dreamed of.
Bretta.
* * *
In the weeks that followed, Thoryn came to the longhouse each morning, escorting me to his home to attend Thirka. In his care, she flourished, healing more quickly than I’d expected.
He’d offered Eldberg twice her value, and they were to wed as soon as Thirka could stand unaided.
The jarl did not speak of it, merely purchasing two thralls to replace her—a married couple of Norse blood and older years, enslaved during a raid to the north. Though Sigrid kept Ragerta and me busy, the work became easier, with more shoulders to bear the burden.
Eldberg’s moods were varied—at times angry, at others, considerate. There were days when he kept me in his bed, watching as he caused my tension to build, edging me toward release, making me shudder with passion I could not withhold.
I endeavoured to close my mind against all that shamed me, accepting that a thrall had not the privilege of choice. What shamed me most was my desire to be comforted and caressed. I wanted to defy him, yet fought the impulse to reach out. A strange intimacy had grown between us, and it was as if two different men resided within him.
Despite these thoughts, I didn’t forget that I was his captive, and he my master—for as long as it amused him. When that time was over, I knew not what would come. He could dispose of me in whatever fashion he saw fit—selling me in some far-off market, to whoever paid the best price. Selling my child, too, if it lived.
The need to escape remained with me, though I knew not how I would realise such a plan. To stow away on some trading vessel would likely take me from one danger to another. To attempt a crossing of the mountains would be madness. The river which had brought me to Skálavík swept the edge of the settlement only to flow into the fjord. I might follow the water’s path as it had brought me to this place, but I knew not if anything remained of Svolvaen.
If my old friends had survived, did they think me dead, or that I’d colluded with Skálavík to bring about the events of that terrible night? It pained me to think of it. The friendships I’d made had been precious to me—hard won as they were.
Astrid. Ylva. Torhilde. Helka… And Eirik. Was it foolish of me to hope they might still live? Hadn’t I seen the longhouse set afire and heard the screams of those within? Hadn’t I witnessed Eldberg stand over Eirik and plunge his blade into his body?
I oft saw Eirik in my dreams, so vividly—his shoulders squared for battle, his sword raised in defiance.
To reach Bjorgen would be my best chance. Jarl Ósvífur would grant me protection, surely, honouring my position as Eirik’s widow. Perhaps, Helka and Leif had survived the attack, and I’d find them safe there, although it hardly seemed possible to hope. If they were alive, wouldn’t they have come and bargained for my release?
Still, I needed to believe there was a place for me, somewhere beyond Skálavík.
* * *
Wormwood for stomach cramps, milfoil to stop bleeding, burdock to ease aches in the bones, and feverfew to subdue a headache. I touched each plant as I recounted them to myself, then broke off a stem of lavender, rubbing it between my fingers. Lavender for sleep. There were many others I recognised—mugwort, chicory, chamomile, angelica, yarrow, and plantain.
I’d grown the same plants in Svolvaen, using them in so many combinations when I’d been seeking a cure for the disease that plagued us. Little had I known, then, that the answer lay in the caves of the fjord, where a particular seaweed grew thick on the walls.
The herb garden had been Bretta’s and had grown neglected, nettles growing through the rows of plants. Not that nettle leaves weren’t useful, but they couldn’t be allowed to swamp everything around them.
Sigrid shouldn’t have allowed it to become overgrown, but it wasn’t my place to correct her. Instead, I resolved to tidy it a little each day.
This morning, I was looking for fennel and thyme. With comfrey and marigold, they’d make a good salve for Elberg’s eyelid, which still wept and seemed unwilling to heal.
Beyond the little garden, where the grass grew long, I spotted the frothy white flowers of giant cow parsley. Now there was a source of retribution! A drop of sap from its stem into each eye would burn his vision entirely, but it struck me that I would never, now, want to inflict such a thing upon him.
With passing time, the urge to take my vengeance had faded. I might easily have concealed a knife and slit his throat as he slept, but I’d lost the taste for such revenge.
When I fled, I vowed, it would be without blood upon my hands.
Still, I jumped at the feel of Eldberg’s touch upon my shoulder.
“Mixing your potions, thrall?” He plucked the thyme from my fingers, raising it to his nose.
