Éire’s Captive Moon (27 page)

It didn’t matter that he was fighting for the enemy. Though the Northmen had taken him captive, he saw the rightness of their cause. More than that, though, he felt a bond to two men in particular: his master and the husband/master of the pale, mysterious Healer of Ragor. This latter bonding was reason enough for him to fight. To see to it that she would not be taken by another or killed through her own lack of discretion.

All of this passed through his mind in the moment it took him to step over two men, their bodies steaming into the now-freezing air. Intestines spilled from them onto the earth, blood pooling and thickening. Cowan only spared them a glance as he found himself at the broken gates to the village.

He saw two men stumble frantically into the hills. The clarity of battle still upon him, Cowan drew in a breath to follow them, but was stopped by a hard, heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Enough, Kingson. Enough. We’ve won.”

The words didn’t penetrate his mind at once. The
Oran Mór
was still too strong. It was Tuirgeis who had stopped him, though, and the underlying obedience Cowan held in their relationship was deep enough to keep him still for a few steady heartbeats.

Tuirgeis’s mouth curved in a wry smile. “I did not know I’d found a berserker on the Green Island. But enough, now. The battle is over, Kingson. Can you hear me now?”

“
Ja
,” Cowan assured him, nodding slowly as the sense of things seeped into his skin and brain. Cold. He was freezing. Where was his cloak? His feet were so heavy, and suddenly, Cowan felt as if he were carrying a boulder in each hand. He staggered forward.

Tuirgeis stopped him and slowly slid the blood-caked sword from Cowan’s hand. “This . . .” The older man grimaced and shook his head. “This, Kingson, would be cause for death, when used by a slave.”

“Death?”

“
Ja
. But,” he went on, gesturing abruptly around them, “I think that under the circumstances, we’ll think of a reward instead.”

“Reward?” Cowan tried to move, to see around Tuirgeis’s shield to the village square. “I don’t understand.”

Tuirgeis chuckled shortly. “Later. Now you need to see the Moonbeam Healer.” The smile left his voice. “It’s thanks to the gods that you are on your feet at all, Kingson.”

“Thanks to God,” Cowan echoed, feeling a new strain in his breathing. “Thanks to God.”

Tuirgeis led him gingerly to the left, and Cowan felt physically ill at the sight of the dead and dying they walked over on the snowy ground. “Where are we going?” The healing house, he remembered, was to the right.

“Gerda Grindesdottir has said you should be taken to her home. She and the healer will see to you there.”

Cowan felt pain, burning pain, creep in on his awareness with each step he took. He blocked out the cries of the women, the shouts of returning children, and the smells of fire and blood. One step. Another. And yet another. All the way to the longhouse with its old, carved bench. Cowan focused his wavering gaze on that bench. Step by step, trying to ignore the pain that told him his immersion in the
Oran Mór
had not been without consequences.

Then he was there. He saw a pale face, a bloodied apron, and a look that spoke as eloquently to Cowan as an entire saga. Charis had not expected to see him alive again. More importantly, though, was that she was pleased that he was still among the living.

“Get him inside,” she snapped in Norse, “before he falls on his face.”

With a dry laugh that escaped from somewhere, Cowan stumbled inside.

Chapter 20

“He’s finally waking up,” Agnarr heard, as a wet cloth made contact with his forehead.

“Good. He has to make some decisions,” came another voice. Deeper. Scratchy.

Agnarr pushed the cloth away impatiently and sat up. “What happened?” He remembered fighting Vigaldr. “Did I kill him?” He was not in Valhalla, Agnarr knew. He had not reached the Golden Halls. He was in his own home, being tended to by his own surgeon. “Eir. Did I kill Vigaldr?”

Eir rolled the wet cloth into a ball. “No. He knocked you on the head and you fell. That’s why you ache. Let me get you some willow tea.”

Agnarr grabbed her wrist before she rose, ignoring the shooting arrows of pain in his skull. “Is Vigaldr dead? Does our village belong to us?”

The blue bird on his healer’s face seemed to flutter as she smiled a little. “
Ja
and
ja
,” she said. “Now, let me get your tea.” The smile left her lips. “Els and your mother need to spend time with you.”

Agnarr watched her rise gracefully to her feet and cross the floor to where the central fire burned under a cauldron. He heard his mother’s voice, low and halting, on the next bed bench, but he could not lift his head to see her. It hurt too much. Across his home, he saw another patient lying prone under furs. The smell of herbs, the lingering essence of mint, wafted over his head. Wind whistled outside and he had to wonder how long he had been unconscious. Vigaldr could have killed him.

Why hadn’t he? What had happened?

“Bjørn!” he called out, certain that this brother would give him a straight answer. The shout sent another knife through his brain, but Agnarr made himself ignore that.

“Hush,” Eir called, sounding annoyed. “You need your tea, and I won’t have you making your headache worse.”

Agnarr ignored her. He beckoned again to his brother. Bjørn walked slowly from the end of the longhouse to stand by Agnarr’s bed.

He knelt stiffly, his face grim. “Your medicine woman says there is nothing broken, brother. The invaders have been defeated. The women have tended to the wounded and your slave had to take one patient into your home, but I approved it. He has earned the right.”

Agnarr strained his neck trying to see around his brother. “Who? Olaf? Sigurd?”

Bjørn shook his head. “It is not important. But I do have to tell you the names of the fallen who have gone on to Valhalla.”

Agnarr grabbed instinctively at Thor’s Hammer, which still hung about his neck. “Tell me.”

A sudden hush blanketed the longhouse and Agnarr felt his stomach sink with unaccustomed dread.

The longships that carried those who went to Valhalla’s halls floated gently in the harbor. Gerda stood with staunch fortitude next to Agnarr, with Bjørn on the other side. The snow had stopped late on the night of the battle, and the wind had blown it into drifts all over Balestrand. The way to the harbor was clear, though, and the
fjørd
was free of ice. All those who could stand unassisted were lined up on the shore, bundled in furs and colorful cloaks that swirled with the frigid breeze. There was only a short period of light at this time of the year, so all who could be there appreciated it.

Arknell was on the ship in a place of honor. Several men of Balestrand accompanied him. The dead men who had fought under Vigaldr deserved no such treatment and had been left outside the village for their own kinsman to carry home. No fires waited for them. No welcoming cup hereafter. But Agnarr believed his brother had earned a cup. Arknell had saved his life, had died in a brave and worthy manner, and would surely be greeted with pleasure in the Golden Hall.

“We should have buried him with the ship,” Gerda rasped. “His father was buried with his ship. It would have been right.”

Agnarr clenched his jaw. They had been over this already. “There were so many who deserve honor, Mother. It is right that we send them to Valhalla together. They will join Halvard and the others with honor.”

Magda touched him on the arm. He glanced down to see the faint sparkle in her eyes before she lowered her lashes. “They’re wanting you to fire the boat, Agnarr. It is your right.”

He grunted. It was his right, his duty, and his privilege to send the warriors on their way, yes. But he was still reluctant to do so. Arknell was his brother. It was not easy to set his ship on fire, no matter the honor that was garnered in so doing.

Nevertheless, he strode confidently to where Tuirgeis waited with the torch. The ship had been soaked with oil and now it only remained to set it alight. Magda stayed at his side, but Agnarr didn’t mind her. He was focused on the ship. Torch in hand, he waded into the icy water for three paces.

In older times, wives of the slain warriors would sometimes perish with their men. It was done to honor the dead, to provide their company in the Hall of Honor. That day, no women traveled with the men on the
skipniu
. Agnarr was grateful for that. Not all traditions needed to be observed.

These funeral rites were kept and Agnarr tossed the flaming torch to the deck of the ship. It landed in a pool of fish oil and ignited instantly, sending flames racing, crackling up the mast, dancing along the ropes, and searing the handles of weapons and clothing worn by honored warriors. Behind Agnarr, several men with long, thick staves pushed the funeral ship out from the shallows so that it would catch a current and leave the
fjørd
.

The men would taste the mead of Valhalla. It was right, but Agnarr knew he would miss his brother.

The walk back to the
langhús
was quiet. Magda walked on his right, Bjørn on his left. Agnarr went first through the door, and his gaze went immediately to Eir and her resident patient: Kingson. Agnarr beckoned to her; she was his
trell
still, and obeyed him in all things. She crossed to him, and he shrugged off his furred cloak.

She shook it out. “So. You have sent your brother on his way?”

“
Ja
.” He did not wish to discuss it.

Eir hung up his cloak while Magda and her family circled the fire to get warm. The healer returned with a cup of tea. “I prepared this for you. To help warm you.”

“I want mead, woman, not tea.”

Magda had tossed her woolen cloak off as well. She approached them, her plaited hair gleaming darkly in the firelight. “Hear him? He wants mead, slave. Get it. Now.”

Agnarr did not intervene in Magda’s officious command. She would be living in this house soon enough and he supposed there would have to come a time for Eir to learn to obey the woman who would be his wife.

However, Eir didn’t move from where she stood, still with a cup of steaming tea in her hands. As if she had not heard his betrothed, the healer asked, “You said mead? But the tea will strengthen you and keep you healthy.”

“Then give it to your patient, not to me!” he told her, pushing her away from him.

She stumbled, but managed not to spill her cup. “As you wish,” she said, loudly enough to be heard by all in the house. “For my patient, then.”

Her unbound hair whipped around her like an angry cloud as she turned to bring the tea to Kingson. Meanwhile, Magda pressed Agnarr’s arm and whispered, “I’ll get your mead, Agnarr. You should sit down. I’ll take off your boots for you and see to your meal.”

Such consideration was appealing and Agnarr did as his betrothed suggested, getting himself comfortable on his own bed and leaning his head back against the wall, hearing the winds outside and the people within, thinking of the changes he had seen and the changes still to come.

“Halvardson. Good. I wanted a chance to speak with you before I left.”

Agnarr pushed his shoulders off the wall and moved a bit to make room for Tuirgeis. He had wealth, land and sons to hold it. Agnarr did not want to alienate him.

Magda brought them mead and left quietly. Agnarr appreciated her discretion but did not allow himself to be distracted from this guest. “What is it, Tuirgeis?” he inquired without much inflection.

“It has to do with your guest there. My slave.”

Agnarr nodded. “He is a fine interpreter. I will see to it that Eir has him ready to rejoin you soon.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Agnarr lifted one brow, staring at Tuirgeis without one suspicion about the other man’s concern.