The Viking's Witch (15 page)

“Odaria, come back.”

Had she no idea how inflamed he was? A man in his condition could barely walk, let alone engage in a game of chase. He headed in the direction that Odaria had gone, his penis surging and pulsing with every step. Odaria was happy and ready to make love to him. This would be a perfect day, and here, isolated from the others, they were guaranteed no interruptions.

A shrill scream from up ahead shattered his pleasant thoughts, and he took off running.

Chapter Eight

Rothgar bolted around the bend in the pathway and stopped short. Odaria stood in front of the ruins of what once had been a thatched cottage. “How could they? Why?”

His stomach lurched as he stared at the burned-out cottage. A fire. Just like the one that had destroyed his home three years ago …

“Chester?” Odaria darted inside before he could stop her.

He caught up with her in the main room. The air was thick with the smell of charred wood and embers. He coughed a few times and held his breath as he glanced at the remnants of Odaria’s home. The main structure still stood fast. The wooden supports were scorched but not burned all the way through.

Odaria shrieked as she looked up at the main beam. He scowled and tried to see what had shocked her so. Something black was stuck to the wood. A dagger protruded from the center of it. What was it?

“Chester.” Odaria reached up to touch the singed remains, then jerked her hand back at the last second. “I canna touch him. Get him down. Take him down from there, Rothgar.”

Him? What did she mean? He was about to ask when he spotted bits of orange and white fur near the edge of the dagger. It was the body of a cat, although he could barely recognize the four paws and tail.

Odaria yanked on his left arm and turned him to her. “Why? Why did they do this? Why him?” she shouted, then burst into tears.

He draped his arm around her shoulders and led her outside. She didn’t need to see this, and the stench of burned wood and scorched flesh was turning his stomach. He sat her down on a rock several feet from the cottage and knelt in front of her. “Shh, shh, I’m here.”

She struggled to speak through her tears. “Chester was a good cat. Why did they do it? He never hurt anyone.” She clutched his arm. “Pray, fetch him. I canna leave him there.”

“I will. Stay here.” He swept a lock of black hair away from Odaria’s face and kissed her cheek. “I will take care of everything.”

He reentered the cottage. Odaria was right. The fire had been no accident. The villagers had burned down her home and killed Chester on purpose.
Bastards.
The utter silence and stillness in the air surprised him. It seemed as if time had stopped. He listened for the sounds of birds chirping in the distance or the bleating of a sheep, but all he heard were Odaria’s sobs.

He took his time and looked around. A sleeping area was partitioned off to the left, and a small iron pot lay near his feet next to a broken ceramic jar. This little cottage had been a cozy haven at one time, much like his home before it had burned to ashes.

“Don’t dwell on it,” he muttered as he walked to the center beam.

A thick wooden dagger suspended the cat in midair. He placed one hand on Chester’s ribs for support and yanked the dagger out. The stiff, burned body dropped into his outstretched hand. He shuddered. Chester was a big cat, nearly the size of an infant. He fought the urge to throw up. The smell of singed hair, charred wood, and the memories of his own tragedy sickened him. He picked a piece of burlap off the floor and wrapped Chester’s body in it.

He carried the bundle outside and knelt next to Odaria again. She took Chester from him and cradled him in her arms.

“My sweet baby. What did they do to you?” She sobbed as she rocked Chester. “He always slept with me at the foot of the bed and kept me warm at night. He was—”

“I’m sorry, Odaria.” He stood up quickly. He had to leave. Now. He couldn’t bear to hear her sobs of anguish. They reminded him of his own. “I’ll return in a moment.”

He walked around the side of the ruined cottage and nearly gagged. The unmistakable stench of rot assaulted his nostrils. “By Thor’s wrath, what now?” He followed his nose, and the smell of death led him down a small hill. His stomach lurched at the sight in front of him.

Odaria’s goats and sheep had been slaughtered and left where they fell. Flies buzzed around their gaping throats and sightless eyes. The villagers had failed in their attempt to rid the isle of Odaria, but they had succeeded in destroying everything she’d owned. He spotted a small spade lying on the ground. As he picked it up, a light rain began to fall.

He carried the spade to the front of the cottage and glanced at Odaria. She sat hunched over Chester’s body, crying. His heart went out to her. Everything she had ever loved in her life was gone. He silently vowed to make it all up to her the moment he brought her home.

He sat on the ground and stuck the spade into the soft earth. The first spadeful of dirt carried him back three years. His past was never settled. It kept finding new ways to haunt him. Today was no exception. He let the painful memories wash over him as he dug Chester’s tiny grave.

Three years ago, he had returned from a long journey only to find his cottage burnt to cinders. The two people he loved most on earth were dead. One marital indiscretion in six years had wiped out his beloved family.

His fellow villagers had tried to console him, but it was no use. His cottage had caught fire the night before, with Gretta and Rurik trapped inside. The men had dug Gretta’s grave, and he’d held on to his son’s body much as Odaria clung to Chester’s now.

He pitched a rock out of the way as he dug, and he groaned as the rain came down harder. Why must it always rain at the worst times? What he wouldn’t give for one peaceful day on this godforsaken isle. He measured the depth of the hole with the spade and resumed digging.

Another tiny body, another small grave.
He had insisted on digging Rurik’s grave and placing him in the earth himself. No other man would touch his only child, the firstborn son who had never grown up to run or play. Rurik’s final resting place hadn’t been much larger than this one. He had only been three months old when he’d died.

Tears mixed with rainwater dripped down his cheeks, and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. Odaria didn’t deserve this, and neither did her poor cat. They had done nothing wrong. As he finished digging the grave, he bowed his head and said a quiet prayer to the gods. A moment later, he walked to where Odaria sat rocking Chester in her arms.

“I dug a—”

“I know.” She glanced at the muddy spade in his hand. “Thank you. You must think it foolish of me to cry, but Chester was my only friend. He was all I had after my mother—” Odaria burst into tears, and a sudden downpour soaked him to the skin.

He gazed up at the sky. Heavy gray clouds seemed to hover over the cottage. Was it possible that Odaria’s tears drew down the rain?
He knelt on the wet earth and wrapped his arms around Odaria. “I do not think you are foolish. You loved him, and now he’s gone. I know how much it hurts to lose someone you love.” He closed his eyes as the tears he’d kept buried for three years threatened to spill over.

After a moment, he cleared his throat and stood. “Come, let’s lay him to rest,” he said, making his voice sound as gentle as possible.

Odaria rose. “I wish you could have met him before. Do you like cats? Most people do not.”

“
Ja
, as long as they earn their keep and do not steal food off my table,” he said, hoping his words would soothe her. Gretta had hated cats and refused to let them anywhere near their cottage. She threw rocks at them and called them filthy flea carriers. He had never formed an opinion about them one way or the other, until now.

He led Odaria to the small grave. He looked away as she laid Chester’s body in the hole and lovingly adjusted the burlap around his burned tail. It was almost too much for him to bear.

“Good-bye, Chester. I love you,” Odaria said, then began covering Chester’s body with dirt.

As he looked around, he spotted the heather he’d picked for Odaria lying a few feet from the cottage. She must have dropped it when she saw what remained of her home. He walked over and picked it up, then carried it back to where Odaria was working.

The grave was filled in, and Odaria was stacking large rocks on top of the mound of earth. She had stopped crying. The rain had also subsided, but a gray mist and dark clouds still loomed overhead. Odaria spotted the heather in his hand and nodded. He bent down and placed the flower across the grave.

“Thank you, Rothgar. You have been a comfort to Chester and me. I’m grateful for what you did for us. Not many men would have helped so.”

“I only wish there was more I could do.” He stared at the cottage. Nothing could be salvaged from it. “The goats and sheep are—”

“I expected that. Brennan wouldna keep anythin’ of mine alive. He’d believe it to be hexed or cursed in some way.”

“We ought to return to the village and—”

“Nay. Go without me. I wish to stay here.”

“You should come with me. I would feel better knowing where you are. I can keep—”

“I’ll be fine.” Odaria whirled to face him, the gold flecks in her green eyes shimmering.

Instinctively, he took a step back. He’d seen the same look come over her when she had attacked Brennan. Odaria wasn’t merely saddened over her loss; she was furious.

“I have private matters to attend to. Go back to the village. I shall be fine.”

“Odaria, why don’t you let me—”

“Go!” She closed her eyes. “I do not wish to become angry with you. I merely wish to be left alone.” She looked at him. “Pray understand this.”

He nodded. There was no sense in trying to argue with Odaria. She had lost everything, and she was entitled to her privacy. Sadly, he understood all too well what she must be going through.

“I’ll go back to the gathering hall and wait for you to return.” He touched her shoulder and wasn’t surprised to feel heat radiating from her body. “Be careful, and try not to be long, lest I worry.”

She rested her hands on her hips. “There is no need to worry about
me
. Worry instead about those who dared to commit this terrible deed.”

Rothgar studied the crude map of the village that Sig had drawn for him. He made a line through the building representing the church. Yesterday, after hearing Odaria talk of being held in a chamber beneath the church, he thought that Brennan might have hidden Orvind there. A complete examination of the building had proven him wrong.

All the cottages in the village and in the outlying areas had been ransacked and searched from top to bottom. Every barn and storage place had been torn apart, and yet there was no sign of Orvind or any of the other missing Nordmenn. Where in the name of Valhalla had Brennan hidden them?

A heavy rumble of thunder shook the gathering hall. He stood and looked out the window. Thick, black clouds blocked out the late-afternoon sun. A big storm was brewing. He frowned and rubbed his beard. Strjonsey was haunted or cursed or both. Strange storms rose up and capsized their sturdy ships; rain appeared from nowhere; mad villagers tried to burn an innocent girl alive … It was no wonder why Odaria desperately wanted to leave this place.

He lit a whale-oil lamp and sat back down. Poor Odaria. She’d been through so much in her young life. How could he ever make it up to her? The wind howled, rattling the shutters. Where was Odaria now? Should he go look for her? He didn’t want her to be out alone in the storm. Damn that Brennan, why did he always cause such trouble for her? After all, he was her—

The door burst open and Haraldur ran into the room. “Rothgar, you must come to the church at once.”

He sprang to his feet. “Has Orvind been found?”

“
Neinn
,” Haraldur answered, tugging his tunic sleeve. “It’s her, that witch of yours. You must stop her.”

He followed Haraldur outside and glanced at the sky. It was nearly as black as night. The wind whipped in from off the sea, pelting him with bits of sand. He winced as the rain stung his face like needles. “What in the name of Thor is happening?” he shouted to Haraldur as they ran to the center of the village. In all his years, he’d never seen odder weather.

The wind blew stronger, nearly knocking him off his feet as he and Haraldur made their way to the church. A brown cloak blew past him, followed by debris from the campsites. Everywhere he looked, Karnik’s men were clustered in small groups, trying to hold down their tents or keep their cook fires from flying away. They clutched whatever they could find to keep from being blown over or drenched with icy-cold rain. He thought he heard screams in the distance, but he couldn’t be sure. The wind howled so loud that he could barely hear Haraldur shouting next to him.

“None of us dare go near her for fear of our lives.”

The rain and wind grew more powerful as they approached the church. He stopped several yards away and stared at the sight before him.

Odaria stood facing the church with her arms outstretched. She wore a long-sleeved crimson dress and had a dark brown cloak pinned around her shoulders. The wind billowed the cloak behind her like a sail. Where had she gotten those clothes? Everything she owned had been burned up in the fire.

A peal of thunder boomed so loud that he was momentarily deafened. He saw Odaria’s lips moving, but he couldn’t make out her words. Even so, he had a good idea of what she was doing. He followed her gaze to the church, where the villagers hung suspended in the nets.