Éire’s Captive Moon (28 page)

“Here’s some tea,” Charis said, her voice strained. Agnarr had no sense as to what was good for him. Mead, indeed. Foolish man. She brought her wavering attention to her patient. “It’s made with chamomile. It won’t disturb your stomach.”

Cowan’s stomach was the least of her concerns.

She had seen some of his fighting. It was as if Cu Chulainn himself had returned out of the old tales and fought for the Northmen in their own village. But Cowan was not a hero of the legends. He was a mortal man, like all her patients, and had not escaped from the battle without injury. His body was striped with gashes. He had fought unshielded, and Charis was utterly baffled as to how he had managed not to get himself killed. Another finger’s breadth there and his kidney would have been punctured. Another hand’s width there and his neck would have taken the hurt done to his shoulder. A spear or flying knife scraped his head, just over the ear. It could have taken his eye. She had had to cut away his beard and part of his hair to stitch him up, and he looked . . . alien. Not like himself or anyone she knew.

Her fellow countryman smiled weakly. She helped him to recline and held the cup to his lips. His body was warm from the fire, furs, and the soup she’d given him earlier. He could not move his hands well at all, so she was still feeding him.

“I thank you for the tea,” he said, also speaking in
Gaeilge
. They weren’t supposed to do so, Charis knew, but she did not feel like obeying Agnarr just now. “I have news for you,” he said after he had taken a couple of sips and handed the cup back.

“What news?” Careful not to disturb his dressings, she eased him back down on the bench bed. “Good, I hope?”

“Tuirgeis spoke to me about my fighting,” Cowan told her.

She checked the stitches on his jaw. “Careful. Don’t pull these,” she cautioned. “What did he say? I heard that it was death for a slave to use a weapon.”

“That’s what he told me, aye.”

Charis paused, feeling as if snow had been ladled directly into her chest. What if Cowan were to be put to death? Her mind fought against the idea, but she kept her voice calm. If she did not, she might be punished for speaking in
Gaeilge.
“And?”

Cowan darted a glance around her and she refrained from following it. She had become, all at once, very cautious. Cowan tried to smile at her, she saw, but the expression was mostly evident in his eyes. “And he said that if I lived, he wasn’t going to anger my god by killing me.”

Charis was amazed, but she snorted. “Your god? What does he know of your god?”

The translator was silent for a moment. Behind Charis, the fire crackled, men spoke, and she could hear Magda laughing in a false, fragile way. It made Charis’s hackles rise, as if she herself were a wild creature. She made herself get past that. Magda was a worry for a future time. Right now there was the problem of Cowan—who hissed lightly to get her attention. She blinked.

“I told Tuirgeis of my god,” Cowan informed her, his voice still quiet and his words still slow, if they were intense. “He believes, now, that God, Jesu the Christ, kept me alive in the battle.”

Charis shook that off with a shrug. “Well, he didn’t keep you whole, Cowan. You’re a proper mess, you are.” She ran her fingers lightly over the linen strips that bandaged him. “I don’t see your god getting you out of here either.”

To her complete surprise, Cowan laughed. It was a soft sound and ended with a gasp of pain, but it was a chuckle.

“Careful!” she admonished him. “You’ll shake off the poultice on your chest. Hush now, and let me see to it.” She tugged back the furs to expose his chest. A poultice of comfrey and moistened garlic—to heal the wound and keep it free from infection—dominated the skin over the lower ribs. Two of Cowan’s ribs had been cracked, but apparently not shattered. Charis still did not know why.

“Well, lass, you don’t have to see God to see him working. I’m still alive, and that’s really more than I expected.”

She tossed her head, clamped her lips shut, and lifted the edge of the fur to check the wounds on his right thigh. “That’s enough, then, out of you, Cowan. You’ll be pulling your stitches out if you’re not careful, that you will. Shame on you for undoing all my work.”

“
Na
, lass, I’m fine, no need to go on.” He managed to move his hand enough to stop her from uncovering him entirely.

Amused, she glanced up at him. “Oh? And who do you think stitched you up when you were passed out here, not so long ago?” She laughed softly when his green eyes widened in shock. “Did you think it was Agnarr, maybe? Or your Lord Tuirgeis?”

“By all the saints,” he said, and then he laughed at himself. “Serves me right. Well, not now then, eh, lass? I’ve had enough of your healing. I have news, I told you.”

Behind her, just then, she could hear Agnarr’s feet land heavily on the floor. “What?” he blurted loudly. “You did what?”

Afraid she had somehow done something to displease the man, Charis bounced to her feet and turned in a flowing movement. The whole
langhús
went still, since Agnarr’s displeasure could affect them all.

Agnarr crossed the house in two or three long strides to come towering over Cowan. “You freed him? I can’t believe it.”

Charis gasped and dropped the cup with the tea. She did not even notice. “You’re free?” she repeated. In her relief, she spoke in the language she and Cowan had been using.

Agnarr growled, low in his chest and turned on her. “You will speak my language!” he roared. He raised his fist, as if to strike her, and Charis braced herself. But then, to her surprise, he cursed and dropped his arm. “Heed me, or it will be the worse for you.” Without another word, he turned and stalked away, going to join his betrothed and her father by the fire.

Charis bent to clean up the mess of tea on the floor. “So, you’re free?” she asked Cowan softly in Norse.

“
Ja
,” he answered. “I am.”

She rose to her feet and drew in a deep breath, smelling smoke, roasting meat, and mead. “You’re free to go?” she went on, bending slightly over him.

He met her eyes, but his own were deadly serious and she wondered why he was not happier. Perhaps he was in pain? She asked, but he said it was nothing he could not handle. “No, it’s just . . . no, don’t concern yourself about it, Charis.”

“Will you be leaving then?” She swept a glance over his body. “I mean, when you’re healed?”

He was slow in answering, but his gaze never left her face. It felt, to her, as if he were trying to communicate without benefit of words. But she had never pulled anyone’s thoughts from their heads, so that was no help. “I should return to my people.”

“I should return to mine,” she whispered quickly, her heart suddenly pounding in hope. “Would you take me?”

His mouth opened. Shut. Opened again. “Healer. I—are you sure you wish to go?” His dark red brows lifted high into his forehead as if to question her motives.

She almost laughed at him. “Sure? Sure?” she said again, incredulous that he would even ask. She dropped her voice to the barest whisper as she deftly brushed hair from his forehead. “Cowan, I will leave in the spring, and be damned to that man there.” She stood and shook her apron out with one hand. “I will have my revenge, and then I will leave.”

Chapter 21

“So,” Tuirgeis said, “I plan on having the full adoption ceremony when you are healed enough to stand it.” The leader leaned against the sturdy walls of Agnarr’s house. Cowan watched him, still confused.

“Let me see if I am understanding you,” he said. Each word pulled at the stitches that held his flesh together at jaw and cheek, but he had to get some clarification. What Tuirgeis had told him was almost unbelievable. “You want to adopt me? Into your family?”

Tuirgeis nodded then swallowed a long draught of beer.

Cowan looked around, thinking hard. The longhouse was mostly empty at present. Agnarr and his brother, Bjørn, were fishing with most of the men from the village of Balestrand. Charis had been instructed to go from house to house, helping where she could. Agnarr had seen to it that she was escorted. Gerda Grindesdottir was the only one left in the longhouse, to see to Tuirgeis’s needs, Cowan supposed.

He carefully raised his beer to his lips and sipped. “What about running fast and far?” he finally said. “Isn’t that what you expected of me?”

The Northman smiled thinly. “Yes, but it’s winter. Almost time for the
midvinterblót.
You won’t be running anywhere, fast or slow. And who knows?” he went on. “You might find yourself a wife while you are here. There are young women who found you worthy, after the battle. They would wed you if they could.” Tuirgeis shrugged dismissively. “You are not just a freedman, you know, Kingson. You will be my brother when the ceremony is over.”

Cowan almost choked on his beer. His brother! “You honor me,” he managed to gurgle without spilling.

“Yes,” Tuirgeis responded without apology. “But you are a proven fighter, you have excellent language skills, and I could use your help in the coming years. You are a worthy brother, with all that you offer.”

“You see yourself as needing me, then?” What did the older man have in mind?

Tuirgeis’s mouth slanted in a thoughtful smile. “I have other travels planned, Kingson. Travels that could prove . . . profitable for you, if you’re interested. As my brother, you might want to stay here, marry, raise a family.”

Cowan shook his head slowly. “No, Tuirgeis, I don’t see myself as marrying anyone here.”

The Northman shot him a knowing glance. “You might get a bride from your island and bring her here, too, of course.”

Cowan felt as if he could see, however briefly, into the future. Tuirgeis planned on returning to Éire, bent on conquest. He wanted Cowan to go along. Why?

Cowan shook off the sudden picture. He could not bear to be a part of that. He still planned on returning to his people. He would not go as part of Tuirgeis’s raiding party.

“I will think on it,” he said in a neutral tone. It was the truth; his mind would not be able to avoid thinking on it. Then he turned the topic slightly. “When do we have the ceremony?”

“As I said, when you can stand. I am thinking of adding it to the
blót.
It will be important and lend more power to the adoption. There will be a wedding around that time, as well. Agnarr Halvardson, your host, will wed Elsdottir.”

“What is the
midvinterblót
?” Cowan asked. He had not heard of this. In his home, midwinter was the time of the Christ Mass for his village. They honored the birth of Jesu, the Christ, in the worship service. Other people celebrated the Winter Solstice with feasts and long nights of storytelling. What did these
vikingr
do?

Tuirgeis smiled again. The man was relaxed, having had his beer and being warmed by the ever-burning fire in the longhouse. Shifting to cross one fur-covered leg over the other, he told about the celebration.

“In older times,” he began, “the
midvinterblót
was a time to sacrifice. Sacrifice for thanks to the
Aesirs
. We gave thanks to our gods for the year that had passed, thanks for the warriors who had been called to Valhalla, and we wished for a good year to come. We still celebrate, for Odin has decreed it, but we no longer sacrifice people.”

“Human sacrifice?” Cowan was appalled, his mouth falling open until his stitches pulled with sharp tugs into his flesh. “You did that?” He shrank away, unable to believe that Tuirgeis had been involved in such fiendish rituals.

“I did not, Kingson,” Tuirgeis declared, slapping him on the thigh. Cowan winced—he had a wound there—but did not cry out. “No, it was our fathers who thanked the gods in that way. Today,” he continued, with a nod to where the women were warming beverages, “we drink. We tell stories. We still give thanks, but we sacrifice only from our livestock. Then we eat.”

Animal sacrifice was not entirely foreign to Cowan’s experience, but he had never seen it done. “And you add other ceremonies along with it?”

“
Ja.
We do. If it is approved by her family, a woman may wed in midwinter. Luck might follow, for any babes born the following harvest then would live through their first months. The gods are pleased with us at that time.”

Cowan could only nod, but his agreement was in reference to the survival of children. He had heard, in his travels, of the harsh northern winters. It could be bad enough in places where the snow did not cover the houses. Here, he had heard, the snow stayed long. Starvation would be a problem.

Gerda bustled by at that moment, carrying more beer. “Lord Tuirgeis,” the older woman said. “I would be honored if you would stay with us for our evening meal.” She spared a glance to Cowan. “Our medicine woman said she was going to see if he could be moved soon to your cousin’s house.” Her face and tone took on a superior air. That did not bother Cowan; he knew that she did not entirely approve of him. “With Elsdottir becoming Agnarr’s wife, we will need to prepare a place for her and rearrange our home.”

“Agnarr is your eldest son?” Cowan asked. He had learned that it was normal for the eldest to stay home and the younger ones to be on the
vikingr
raids.

“Yes,” Gerda snapped, impatient with a question from an outsider. “He is the head of our household and is due all honor.”

Cowan would not argue with that. “I respect that, Grindesdottir. I was only asking out of curiosity.”