The Heart's Warrior (31 page)

When Jonas reached for her, she flinched. He pulled her to his chest, his mouth crushing hers. She felt his pain. There was so much between them. Too much. Never could they forgive and forget.

Again and again he kissed her, until she hung limp in his grasp and gave up the hope of ever breathing again.

He let her go and the ground swayed beneath her

feet. Stepping back, Kerstin clasped a hand to her mouth, her lips moist from his kisses. She still tasted him on her tongue. She longed to kiss him again, to feel the security of his strong arms wrapped around her. He stared at her, his eyes blazing, his expression fierce and closed.

“Remove your magic spell. You’ve taken enough from me,” he growled. “It is cruel for you to keep me enthralled when I am nothing more than a beast.”

“There is no magic spell on you, Jonas. There never was. Not from me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She gave an abrasive laugh. “Remember our

agreement? If I hate you so much, don’t you think I would have done everything, if I
had
such power, to save Sigurd?

I wish I were a witch, Jonas. Then I could have saved him and gone home, free of you.”

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Thor, the god of weather, raised his mighty hammer and the sound of thunder filled the blackened sky. The cold wind cruelly beat against the hall. Inside the room she shared with her husband at Hawkscliffe, Kerstin stared at the dancing flames in the brazier and ignored the host of people gathered outside in the hall. The solemn crowd gave no laughter or cheer. They would hold Sigurd’s funeral this afternoon. In the morning, Jonas and his men would leave to join the king.

“Are you well?” Letta asked from the doorway.

Looking up, Kerstin nodded.

Letta came near, wringing her thin hands. “I worried for your safety while you were gone.”

“There was no need. Jonas tended me well enough.”

With a scoff of disgust, Letta glanced toward the open door. “He hardly takes his eyes off you. It makes it difficult for me to hate him when he cares so much for you.” Hah! Jonas cared for her? Kerstin doubted it. He blamed her for Sigurd’s death and kept her alive so he wouldn’t earn the king’s wrath. Since their return to Hawkscliffe yesterday with Sigurd’s body, he had spoken no more than a few words to her. Last night, she slept alone in his great bed. The sound of Tovi’s heart-wrenching sobs filled her ears. How she longed to comfort the woman, but she didn’t dare. No doubt Tovi blamed her for Sigurd’s death, too. She could hardly stand it.

Now, Kerstin felt the burn of tears and wondered

why she should care. But she did. She cared for these people even though they hated her. And she didn’t understand it one bit.

Taking up her satchel of healing herbs, she left the hall, grateful no one seemed to notice. Walking through the fields of grass, she headed for Haki’s cottage near the forest.

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“Come in.” Gudrid greeted her with a smile when she arrived. “Come see how well Ota’s burns are healing.”

Kerstin entered the cottage, glancing at Gudrid’s distended pregnancy and the healthy glow in her cheeks.

“You look well. How are you feeling?”

Gudrid smiled. “Wonderful. I’ve been resting and

drinking the teas you gave me. I believe I’ve carried this babe long enough for him to arrive safely now. He moves often and even my mother remarked that you’re a great healer.”

A healer! Not a witch. Spirals of happiness sprang through Kerstin’s heart. Finally. Finally someone recognized her for what she really was. But it amazed her that Astrid would admit such a thing. As Kerstin leaned over Ota’s bedside, she couldn’t help smiling.

“Kerstin!” Little Ota exclaimed when she opened her eyes. Laying her packet of herbs on the rough-hewn table, Kerstin sat beside the girl and felt her forehead. Astrid entered the room carrying a wooden bucket of eggs. In the past, Astrid would have flown into a tirade at seeing her here. Not this time. The woman smiled and Kerstin marveled at the change in her behavior.

Astrid set the bucket aside and came to stand near.

“We’re so glad you’ve returned. It’s too bad about Lord Sigurd, though. We know you did all you could to save him.”

Her words meant so much to Kerstin. She nodded her thanks, wishing everyone felt that way. Especially Jonas.

“You look so pretty today.” Kerstin smiled as she examined Ota’s arms and lifted her shirt to look at the healing wounds. “Who braided your hair and put the pretty ribbon in it?”

Kerstin couldn’t help wonder at how well the burns had healed. Ota had been blessed. As she grew into a woman, there would be little scarring.

“Grandmother did it for me because she knew you

were coming.”

“Oh?” Kerstin’s gaze lifted to Astrid and the older woman flushed crimson.

“I-I was wrong about you and I…I’m grateful you

helped my family,” she stammered.

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Stepping to the door, the woman left before Kerstin could speak. Kerstin stared, knowing what it cost Astrid to declare these things.

Bemused, Kerstin handed more packets of herbs to

Gudrid so she could make the healing teas. Perhaps she had found a few friends here at Hawkscliffe after all. As she returned to the hall, she wished she could enjoy this turn of events, but she dreaded what was to come.

****

They placed jewelry around his neck, blue beads and silver. With tenderness, Tovi slid silver rings upon his fingers and bands about his mighty biceps. Astrid put his best leather boots upon his feet. With tears running down her cheeks, Tovi combed his long hair and beard.

The scent of mint soap filled the air. Kerstin had prepared it for the ceremonial bathing. It stunned and pleased her when Tovi asked her to make it, but she had not invited Kerstin to participate in the bathing.

They were alone in the hall, the people waiting

outside. Jonas and his men had laid Sigurd’s body on a plank table, the fire in the pit built up high to heat plenty of water for their task. As Tovi and Beata rinsed his body of the scented soap, Kerstin ran to the cauldron and dipped out fresh water for them to use.

“Thank you,” Tovi muttered as Kerstin placed the

buckets beside her.

Kerstin was again surprised by her mother-in-law’s regard. In her grief, Tovi must have forgotten who Kerstin was and why she was here. How she wished Jonas could do the same.

When they had prepared Sigurd’s body for the

funeral, Astrid walked to the door. “He is ready.”

Jonas came to stand at the doorway, wearing a gray woolen tunic and soft leather leggings, a thin knife sheathed at his side. His somber expression caused a 213

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tightening in Kerstin’s chest. As he stood before the door, his large form cast shadows in the dim room. His blue eyes shimmered as he gazed at his father. He seemed reluctant to enter.

“Dear friend,” he murmured.

The anguish on Jonas’s face tore at her. His brows lowered and his lips contorted in a brief grimace of despair. He blinked, as if to clear his vision, and his jaw hardened.

He renewed his resolve. Kerstin expected no less.

Serene and handsome in his finery, Sigurd appeared to be asleep. He would wake up at any moment and

bluster and yell at them all. He couldn’t be dead. Not really.

Bending low, Jonas eased his arms beneath Sigurd’s back and legs and picked up his father. Halfdan came inside, prepared to lend assistance. Even though Sigurd was a big man, Jonas was larger and able to carry him without aid.

Kerstin and the other women followed as Jonas left the hall and walked out into the chilly day. He moved slow and steady, his head held high, his gaze raised to face the River Tyne. Sigurd’s people already congregated in the yard, waiting to pay their last respects. Had he not been at war, King Hakon himself would have been

present.

The wind howled, whipping against them as they

gathered around the man that had led them for forty years. As one body, they moved together down to the quay, following behind Jonas. The crunch of their feet on pebbles and an occasional whisper or tearful cough were the only sounds.

At the shore, they stood before Sigurd’s war ship,
Wind Raven
, and waited with patience. The ship rocked on the choppy waves and pulled at its tethers. Some people chanted soothing prayers to the gods, others sniffed and cried as they watched Jonas carry Sigurd on board. He placed him on a beautifully carved bed the men had set there earlier, lined by the women with warm furs.

Sigurd’s head rested upon a red goose-down pillow with black tassels tied at each corner.

Jonas lingered over his father, staring down at the 214

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man who had taught him so much in life. Kerstin saw Jonas blink several times, as if to clear his eyes. He was a strong man and hid his emotions well but she knew his despair.

She walked to the large flat stones Jonas and his men had brought down from the mountain and picked up her chisel and hammer. As thralls finished loading the ship with supplies, she carved the last few decorative designs and Rune symbols into the stones. Jonas had said he wanted the stones to mark this site for a thousand years. Kerstin couldn’t imagine such a long time, but she knew Jonas’s love for his father went far beyond.

They laid weapons of war and tools upon the ship

and prepared slaughtered horses, dogs and a single peacock for Sigurd’s use. Food, including potted jugs with Sigurd’s favorite ale and his intricately carved drinking horn rested close by. His bow and arrows and ivory chess game lay at his feet. His war shield, freshly painted with vivid yellow, rested beside his chain mail and conical helmet. Everything he needed to be comfortable in his eternal life.

Finished with the last symbol, Kerstin blew the dust from the stone and arched her back. She clutched her shawl close about her throat. Holding her head high, she went to stand beside Jonas and her mother-in-law, as was proper.

Jonas wrapped his arm around Tovi’s trembling

shoulders. The widow’s silent weeping was so sad, Kerstin could hardly bear it and she wiped tears from her own eyes. The air vibrated with wails of torment as Sigurd’s people mourned their leader. Kerstin shivered, the memory of burying her own mother haunting her.

Halfdan stood nearby, his sneer of hate as black as the angry sky. Kerstin looked away. The air smelled of rain and she longed to be lost within the storm. Oh, how she longed to return to Moere where she would be

welcomed and loved.

“Look how she pretends to cry. Does she think we

don’t know she let Sigurd die?” Halfdan snarled to the man next to him.

She felt the burn of tears and blinked her eyes. It 215

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was so unfair of him to blame her.

Kerstin heard several cruel barbs from other men

and women, as they intended her to, and she tried to ignore them. Why should she care what they thought of her? They were in no position to judge her.

Jonas left his mother. Head held high, he walked

with pride as he passed the crowd. He moved with the grace of a panther. In his hand, he gripped the silver hilt of Sigurd’s sword.

As the eldest male relative of Sigurd, it was Jonas’s honor to officiate at his funeral. Kerstin noticed the subtle tensing of his shoulders. A sense of pride filled her as she gazed at her battle-hardened, scarred husband. He had earned every nick, every wound through valor and

courage. Kerstin could not fault his flawed body when she knew the price he paid for his loved ones.

And he blamed her for the loss of every one.

His face was harsh, intent on his mission. Without a word, he stepped onto the funeral ship. His long hair blew back from his shoulders as the brisk wind swept past him.

Lifting his head, he stared at the distant horizon.

The waves chopped at the hull, relentless in their quest to pull the ship away. Jonas balanced himself against the buffeting. He had been born to the sea and was at home. He looked at the frothy billows, his gaze filled with such longing. As if he wished he could go away anywhere but here. To be with Sigurd, Bjorn and Olga once more.

Kerstin’s throat closed. He didn’t want her.

Turning, he stared at his beloved father and his

expression became all at once tender and pained.

Hefting the weighty sword with one hand, he knelt beside Sigurd’s funeral bed. The long muscles of his thighs flexed as he laid the sword upon his father’s chest.

With reverence, he lifted Sigurd’s hands and wrapped the dead man’s cold fingers about the silver hilt. He leaned close to whisper against Sigurd’s ear and Kerstin could just make out his words.

“Rest well, Father, and know that I will keep my

pledge to you. God willing, we will meet again in Valhalla.”

For several moments, Jonas rested his chiseled cheek 216

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against his father’s bearded one. Drawing back, Jonas stood, his gaze fixed on the far horizon where the river meandered across the valley. He stepped off the ship and reached to accept the flaming torch Halfdan placed in his hand. Lifting it high, Jonas threw back his head and his shrill war cry shattered the air.

A tremor ran through Kerstin’s body. She

remembered his cry from the night Sigurd had died—the cry of a lone timber wolf.

The bleak sky mirrored the heaviness in her heart.

No rain fell to desecrate this sacred time. Odin must be pleased with this new offering.

When Jonas had vented his woes until his throat