The Heart's Warrior (30 page)

Halfdan shrugged. “We packed his wound but we

didn’t know what else to do for it. We are warriors. We live and die by the sword.”

Kerstin cringed. “Couldn’t you at least stop the

bleeding? He’s weak from loss of blood.”

His mouth tightened, his expression dark. “To die in battle is an honor.”

“And a waste of a good man’s life.”

If she had been here when Sigurd fell, she might

have been able to save him. Now, the wound festered and he had lost too much blood. She didn’t know how he had survived this long.

“Had he not been a great earl, would you have left him behind to die?” she asked.

Halfdan’s gaze dropped away. “We never leave a

fallen man behind if we can help it.”

Nor had they done anything to help him. Kerstin

sighed. It did no good to argue, but she was determined to speak with Jonas about teaching the men to care for wounds on the battlefield.

Halfdan’s jaw hardened. “If you’re a witch, you can heal him.”

“I’m no witch, but I’ll do all I can.”

A scowl drew his bushy brows together, as if he

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doubted her words.

She glanced at him. “Can you bring me boiling water and a torch so I might see the wound better?”

With a nod, Halfdan left the hut. While she waited for his return, Kerstin opened her packets of herbs and laid out clean bandages. Looking up, she saw Jonas gazing at his father, their hands clasped. The older man’s eyes were closed, his face glowing white in the dark room, and she hurried to mix her potions.

Halfdan entered the hut with two torches. He was

followed by another man hauling buckets of fresh water.

Halfdan placed more wood on the fire and set a cauldron over it to boil water. When the water was ready, Kerstin scooped some into a pottery bowl. She sprinkled dried leaves over it and stirred until a pungent aroma filled the interior of the hut.

“When we were young,” Sigurd’s raspy voice startled her, “I loved Alrik like a brother.”

Kerstin froze, staring at him. He watched her, his eyes glazed with pain and keen intelligence.

“I didn’t know you cared for my father. I thought you hated each other.” She saw no reason to pretend

otherwise.

“Before you were born, we went on a raiding party to Eire. My pride almost destroyed us when we fought over Iona, your mother. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I was a fool. Tovi waited at home, loving me.

She’d given me two strong sons, but I let my man’s lust for Iona drive a wedge between Alrik and I.”

Stunned by his words, Kerstin continued to stir. Her mother had told her she had been taken captive by Alrik, but she came to love him dearly. Had she known Sigurd also wanted her? If Tovi knew, Kerstin’s heart ached for her. “I love Tovi more than my life.” Sigurd’s voice grew weaker. “She’s my heart’s desire, but I can never mend the wrong done to her and Alrik. I’ve hurt them enough. I have but one request of you, Kerstin of Moere.”

Taking the pottery dish with her, she went to kneel beside Sigurd, looking down on his ashen face. “What is it?” He grimaced with pain and inhaled a sharp breath, 204

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then coughed, a dry, hacking sound. She knew his lungs were filled with fluid. Still, he seemed determined to speak. Jonas held one of Sigurd’s hands. When Sigurd reached for Kerstin, she set the pottery dish aside and clasped his fingers with her own. She blinked as Sigurd joined her hand with Jonas’s and squeezed them with what little strength he had left. Her gaze locked with her husband’s.

“This war for Hakon’s throne will eventually end,”

Sigurd whispered. “Odin willing, Hakon will be king and the Eirikssons will be killed or sent into exile.” Sigurd shuddered. He grit his teeth and continued to speak in a rasping voice, drawing on his last reserves. “You must return to Hawkscliffe and continue to live. Together, you’ll lead our people. Let there be happiness between you. Give our people a child. Let there be peace in the north.”

Kerstin’s breath froze. Peace? She longed for it with every fiber of her being.

Sigurd dropped their hands and closed his eyes.

Kerstin drew back, clasping her hands together. She trembled and prayed Jonas didn’t notice.

“Has he died?” Jonas’s voice was hoarse with emotion and Kerstin’s heart shredded.

She placed her fingers beneath Sigurd’s nose to check his breathing. “Nay, he’s sleeping. I’ll give him something for the pain.”

Jonas sighed with relief and scrubbed a hand against the day’s worth of stubble on his face. Standing back, he watched as she cleansed the wound, his gaze like a leaden weight on her shoulders. He paced the confines of the hut like a nervous tiger, his gaze moving between her and Sigurd. She pretended he wasn’t there as she tried to mend Sigurd’s raw and bloodied flesh. After she gave the man a small dose of nightshade, she bathed his fevered brow, cleansing the dirt and sweat away. When he

thrashed in delirium, she spoke soothing words to him.

Time passed and she found herself alone with Jonas and the injured man. He never left his father’s side, reaching to hold Sigurd’s limp hand.

“He almost had you burned as a witch,” Jonas said in a whisper.

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His words startled her and she looked up.

“He hated you, yet you tend him so gently.”

“Wouldn’t you do the same for my father?” she asked with some amazement.

Jonas nodded. “I would do what I could.”

Halfdan and Ivar returned to check on Sigurd but

soon left again. It was a solemn time to sit beside a great earl as he struggled for life. Jonas remained quiet as he listened to Sigurd’s rasping breath. The death rattle.

Kerstin had heard it before and a heavy foreboding filled her, knowing it was just a matter of time.

What would Jonas tell his mother? It would be hard for him to take Sigurd’s body back to her. Bjorn was gone.

They both had lost so much.

Kerstin’s heart went out to them.

She jumped when Jonas took her arm and pulled her to the doorway. Several bandages fluttered to the ground unheeded.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Save him, Kerstin. If you save him, I’ll give you your freedom. I swear it.”

Stunned by his request, her mouth dropped open.

Her surprise turned to outrage. “I’m a healer, Jonas. I’m not God to choose who should live or die. I help them all and pray for life.”

The sound of raindrops drumming against the

meager roof reached her ears. It mimicked the beating of her heart.

“Can you save him?” His voice cracked and so did her heart.

She looked away and spoke in a gentle whisper. “The wound has festered and he’s not a young man. If only your men had done something to help him, but he has lain here for days without aid. I’ve done my best, but I can’t offer hope, Jonas.”

****

anguish. Her words tore at him. He refused to accept that his father might die. They all depended on him. Sigurd’s strength, his robust laugh, his chilling command when they were under attack. He’d been a formidable presence at Hawkscliffe, leading his people through every peril.

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Jonas couldn’t imagine life without him. If he died…

Kerstin tried to turn back to her work, but Jonas pulled her around to face him. The muffled tone of deep, voices could be heard outside by the campfire and Jonas knew the warriors awaited word of their earl. An

occasional snore mingled with the thrum of crickets.

“Save him, Kerstin. Save him and you’ll be free to go to Elezer. I promise you this.”

“I don’t want Elezer.”

He snorted. He didn’t believe her, nor did he

understand why she would lie. “Save my father. That’s all that matters now.”

She jutted her chin, her mouth tight with anger. He saw hurt in her expressive eyes. He thought she would be pleased by his offer of freedom. He couldn’t stop now to consider her feelings. His father was dying and he could hardly stand it.

“All right.” Her voice sounded hard as granite. “It’s agreed. If I save Sigurd, I’ll be free of you once and for all.”

****

struggled for life most of the next day but never regained consciousness. Jonas paced the confines of the small hut, repeatedly asking her why Sigurd wouldn’t wake up. She had no answers for him.

On the second day of their arrival, as evening

darkened the western sky, Sigurd died. As he breathed his last, Kerstin cried, her forehead bent to rest upon Sigurd’s limp shoulder.

She looked up and saw Jonas approach the bed, his eyes unblinking. His hands trembled as he reached out and touched his father’s rough cheek. She ached for his loss and longed to comfort him. She had lost her mother and understood his grief.

Brushing the tears from her eyes, she tried to offer him words of condolence. How she wished she could have saved Sigurd. “I’m so sorry, Jonas. He rests now. He’s at peace.” She coughed, her voice raspy.

“Peace!” Jonas snarled. “Aye, my father is at rest.

But you and I, we will never know peace between us.”

Turning, he stormed out of the hut. As Kerstin

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watched his stiff back and shoulders disappear through the doorway, she wondered what she could say to ease his anguish. She longed to soothe the ache in his heart. After a year, the wound of her mother’s death was still raw and brought her great pain.

Jonas needed time to heal.

A shrill cry filled the night air and Kerstin hopped to her feet. A bitter cry of pain, the howl of a lone timber wolf. The hair rose on the back of her neck and her flesh dotted with goose bumps. Twice more the anguished howl pierced the air, more poignant than before.

Silence followed, cold and wrenching.

Though a host of men crowded the camp, not a single noise disturbed the night. No birds or crickets. No wind, no rattling of treetops, no snuffling of horses. Nothing.

Just the empty, eerie loss.

Sigurd, Earl of Hawkscliffe, had died and left them alone.

Kerstin tidied Sigurd’s shelter and cleansed and

prepared his body for the return trip to Hawkscliffe. His proud face showed wisdom as well as age. Peace smoothed his features and he appeared to be asleep. Kerstin placed his once strong hand about the hilt of his sword. If Valhalla existed, Sigurd resided there now.

Kerstin felt lightheaded and feverish, her throat sore.

The journey here and the cold, damp weather had taken their toll on her body. She coughed and blew her runny nose. She hadn’t eaten a decent meal in days. Seeking nourishment, she left the hut.

A few twinkling fires were banked and burned low.

The cool night air blanketed the earth and the air smelled of rain. Tethered horses stood close by. Kerstin guessed the animals had been stolen from nearby farms. They swished their tails and nickered as she passed.

Ignoring the stares of Sigurd’s men, Kerstin crouched before a fire. Without a word, Halfdan slopped venison stew in a wooden bowl and handed it to her, but loathing filled his eyes.

Looking up, Kerstin saw numerous men watching

her. As the fire crackled before them, night shadows played off their faces, accenting the accusation in their eyes.

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Inwardly, she groaned, knowing their thoughts. They blamed her for Sigurd’s death. What could she do to win their respect if not their trust? She longed to scream at them all. How did they think she felt to lose someone she fought so hard to save?

Brushing tears of frustration away, she forced herself to eat a few bites. The meat had a gamy flavor and she had little appetite. After she drank her fill of water, she wandered off into the darkness to be alone for a few minutes.

As she passed by, one of Sigurd’s men spoke to his companion. “I hope the Eirikssons find her and slice the black heart from her body.”

Kerstin stiffened but gave no reply. Biting back

tears, she stumbled behind the trees. She wasn’t about to tell them how much she came to care for Sigurd or how hard she tried to save him.

She had walked a short way when she heard a slight noise. Muffled and lonely, a sad cry, as if someone struggled to keep from being overheard.

Peeking around a spruce tree, Kerstin saw Jonas

kneeling on the damp earth. He rested back on his heels, his hands clasped in his lap. He bowed his head low as his great shoulders quaked with misery. His conical helm and sword lay next to him on the ground.

Watery moonlight trickled through the trees, resting upon his head. It highlighted his golden hair and glinted off the metal of his chain mail. As he raised his face to the heavens, tears shimmered on his cheeks. It was the most poignant sight she ever saw.

Compassion coiled around her heart. It clogged her throat and brought tears to her eyes. She loved her own father. How great would be her sorrow if Alrik were cut down in battle.

With a hesitant step, she went to her husband’s side, longing to comfort him if she could.

Whirling about, Jonas jumped to his feet so fast she gasped in surprise. He towered over her, sword in hand, a snarl on his lips. When had he pulled the blade? He’d moved like lightning, giving her no warning.

“What do you want?” he growled low, sheathing his sword.

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“I-I wanted to tell you how sorry I am, Jonas.” Her voice quavered. “I’m so sorry about your father.”

“Sorry?” He slashed his hand before her face. “You couldn’t be half as sorry as I am. I wish we had never met.” She felt the blood drain from her face. After all that had happened between them, his words left her cold.

They stared at one another, their gazes locked. Time spun away. Somewhere in the forest, she heard the chirp of crickets, the skittering of an animal. And still they didn’t move. His eyes burned like an inferno; fury, hunger and doubt.