Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

Nearly two weeks later…

on the thirtieth day of the men's sojourn on the island

" Faen I helvete !" Frida spat out the curse.

Her heart was heavy, for her women's sickness had come. ‘Twould be at least another cycle of the moon before she'd know a child was growing.

She stared forlornly into the full pot simmering over the fire-pit. Swallowing back her tears, she took up a ladle, circling through the fragrant broth. How often she'd done so in the past, days when the meal had been for herself alone? Now, there was another to share it with. She sipped at the stew, then sprinkled in more chopped sage and stirred again.

Gunnar was chopping wood again and had insisted she needn't stand over him. He was right, of course. He was neither invalid nor child, and it was natural for him to desire more freedom—within the confines of what was permitted.

In all things, she wanted to please him.

Though it may be of no matter, in the end. If I fail to fall pregnant, the others will insist he bed one of them, and I'll lose him.

There was no escaping the facts. Gunnar had been allocated to Frida solely to make a child. Regardless of whether that came to pass, the other women were not expecting her to keep him as her own. Only Bothild had inferred that rule might be broken, but it would depend on the ties that formed between herself and Gunnar.

He's made no outright declaration of love, but he's fond of me. He must be. The intimacy we've shared these past weeks cannot derive only from lust.

She wanted to believe it, but doubt nagged at her. She'd been certain of many things, not least of which had been the notion that Freyja intended her to bear a child.

Why hasn't it happened yet?

Gunnar had warned her that such things didn't always come to pass promptly, but she'd thought it would be different with the goddess watching over her.

Does Freyja no longer think me worthy?

Her growing intimacy with Gunnar brought her joy, but each peak of passion also brought the visions, each more desolate than the last. Despite Gunnar's tenderness, she could not shake her dread. The horror was becoming more than she could bear, not least because she knew not what to do with such knowledge. She felt so powerless.

Frida's spoon halted.

Is Freyja angry with me? She expects me to take some action I've overlooked…but what?

Frida pushed the heel of her hand to her eyes. She understood no more now than she had before. All that had altered was her attachment to Gunnar.

She loved him. That much was obvious to her heart, yet she could not continue like this, ruled by fear.

Something had to change, and she prayed Freyja would guide her.

"You've made good progress." Elin beamed as she assessed Gunnar's injury.

Frida had seated him outside, where the light was best, though mostly because she knew Gunnar preferred the fresh air.

"You can begin to place more weight on the limb,"—Elin gestured toward the support Gunnar had been using—"going farther with your crutch."

His face lit at her pronouncement. He'd been waiting for such a verdict.

"I cannot say it will heal entirely," Elin added. "You may always encounter a limp."

"I shall be fit in no time." Gunnar waved away the warning, though his brow furrowed slightly. "In fact, I shall stretch my legs this moment."

Frida followed his hobbling departure, hoping he would keep to where the ground was level.

Elin rubbed her arm sympathetically. "All men need their independence. Let him regain strength at the pace that suits him."

Frida nodded, though she'd have much preferred to keep Gunnar close.

"In any case, I seek your advice." Elin shifted from one foot to the other. "Or, to be more exact, the counsel of your runes."

"Oh?" It was unusual for anyone to make such an appeal. Frida wondered what had provoked the need but was not displeased. There had been many times when she'd wished the women were more at ease with her and might request her help where she could give it.

Elin had been a good friend of late, and Frida was grateful for her care of Gunnar. Frida was more than happy to oblige.

"Let's go inside." Grasping her runes, she invited Elin to sit by the fire, and Frida shook the pieces into Elin's cupped palms.

"Look upon them and decide your question. Ask the gods to show you what is to be. When you are ready, cast them onto the ground."

Staring intently, Elin did so before clasping her hands tightly about the runes and closing her eyes. She took her time, deep in thought it seemed, before expelling a slow breath. She met Frida's gaze briefly before throwing the pieces between them.

"What do you see?" Elin's voice was hopeful. "I need to know about Rangvald. Does he care for me at all? He's usually so angry about everything, ‘tis hard to tell…" When Frida failed to answer immediately, Elin gave an awkward laugh. "Sometimes, I even think he detests me."

The first stone that drew Frida's attention was Wungo, the character of joy. Her brows knitted at Inguz, the sign of fertility, sitting beside its sister. The runes spoke of an impending arrival for Elin—good news for her friend. Frida felt a surge of envy.

Elin wasn't even certain Rangvald liked her.

Was this some cruel game?

"What do you see?" Elin prompted. "You garner their meaning?"

Frida took in the other pieces, all of which had tumbled farther off, removing themselves from the heart of the reading. The indication could not be clearer.

"Have the two of you been intimate?" Frida deflected the question. She wished nothing but the best for Elin, but the injustice was crippling. Why should she receive the one thing Frida craved?

Gunnar had been nothing but solicitous, making Frida feel special, and he'd taken care to teach her—in the ways of nurturing her own pleasure and giving him satisfaction.

Their affection was true and better deserving of the gods' blessing!

Elin shrugged. "You know menfolk. ‘Tis no great feat to lure them into bedsport. They take it where they can; 'tis a release, no more."

Frida's chest tightened. Was Gunnar just the same, and she was fooling herself to imagine more?

N ay. Gunnar is a man of honor. He would not intentionally deceive.

Elin leaned forward, seeming impatient. "So, what say the runes? Does Rangvald mask his true feelings?"

Frida bit her lip. The more she looked upon the runes, the more intensely she felt their import, but who could say when this child would come to pass? There could be no telling. Elin's womb might yet be empty.

But not for long. You know it to be. The runes do not lie.

"‘Tis unclear," Frida snapped.

"Really?" Elin's expression fell. "I thought there would be something…"

"Nay. There shall be healing and struggle, but I see nothing more definite." Scooping up the pieces, Frida returned them to the bag. Each seemed to burn in her palm, as though they sensed her wrongdoing.

I only withhold what Elin does not yet need to know. And who is to say the joy refers to this stranger? To encourage her in that belief does her no favor. Better to save Elin from an attachment to a man of whom she's uncertain.

Shame twisted inside her. The runes spoke of Elin's destiny, suggesting that the man she hosted played a significant part in her future, yet Frida was too embittered to share those tidings.

There will be some other time, Elin will ask again, and perhaps things will be different. I shan't hide this from her forever. Of the other matter, of this man's love, she should be able to see that for herself without seeking the runes' guidance.

They were hollow assertions. Elin deserved better, but Frida had spoken now.

"There's nothing to fear. All shall be well." Frida attempted a brighter tone, though dishonesty clawed at her.

Elin forced a smile. "Thank you for your foresight. I should leave. Rangvald will wonder what's keeping me."

Frida wondered if Elin could sense she was concealing the truth, but nothing about her demeanor conveyed suspicion. She trusted Frida, which only made the duplicity worse.

Alone again, Frida could not escape the sick feeling in her stomach.

What had she done?

‘Twas a sorry excuse to tell herself that she was shielding Elin. Perhaps she did merit a better man than Rangvald, but that was her own business and none of Frida's.

What sort of friend was she?

Elin had come for counsel, and Frida had sent her away with falsehoods.

Something else nagged at her.

What had Elin said? That men took their bedsport wherever they could? That it was no more to them than a physical release?

A pang struck Frida's breast sharper than the pain she'd suffered on gaining her blood flow. Was that true in Gunnar's case? The joining of their bodies held no deeper meaning?

It was what she'd expected when first she'd taken him in—the act alone to give her a child—but in these past weeks, things had changed.

She'd changed.

She wanted—nay needed—more!

Swiftly, she tipped out the runes again, holding them close between her hands. She'd inwardly mocked Elin for seeking reassurance over the man she cared for, but Frida now vehemently sought the same.

What does Gunnar feel? Is his heart mine?

Questions assailed her, thick and fast.

Does he wish only to leave? Someday, will he sail away and never think of me again?

A lump lodged in her throat.

The question of a child, which she'd always considered foremost in her mind, came only as an afterthought.

Frantically, she threw the stones before her, scanning them for answers, but they appeared to her merely random, scattered without meaning. Omens were oft hard to discern when her emotions flared.

"Nay!" Blinded by sudden tears, Frida swept at them with her fist. "I must know!"

"Frida?"

She turned to see Gunnar upon the threshold, his expression shocked.

"What is this?" His gaze dropped to the pieces upon the ground.

Frida gaped, unable to speak.

Now, he'll see I'm not as he believed.

The look in his eyes was one of confusion rather than fear, but still, her heart seemed to cease its beat.

His brow arched. "You consult the runes? With what purpose?"

"‘Tis naught." Hurriedly, she brushed the stones out of sight, pocketing the pouch.

She'd endured judgment and the loathing in men's eyes too many times. They'd mistaken her gift for dark witchcraft and cursing them to their deaths. She couldn't have Gunnar see her that way. Without him, the loneliness would be unbearable.

"Speak to me, Frida." He shuffled into the room. "And tell me the truth."

Gunnar gripped hard upon the handle of his crutch.

Frida hadbeen angry when he'd interrupted her, and now she wished to hide the reason.

Those runes!

What was this that his sweet maid dabbled in?

He'd never seen them being cast before, but he'd heard about them. There was a woman, back inSkálavík, living deep in the forest, who was known to have the sight.

A man would need to be desperate to go there, though! Her shelter was a place of darkness, cut into the hillside and filled with the bones of her enemies, it was said. And she was fearful to behold, her appearance twisted by the unnatural acts she performed.

Not that he knew firsthand. ‘Twas only what he'd been told.

She was nothing like his Frida, but he could not ignore what he'd seen.Was she hexing someone or casting a spell?

He'd wondered at her being so often alone.Not like the old woman in her lair, but alone nonetheless, far more than she should be.

Why was that?

She was cowering now, as if afraid of what he was thinking.Though if she were any threat at all, it should be he who was fearful.

He searched his heart but found nothing of that nature there. He felt only compassion. She'd found these stones, or been given them, and was toying only. The frustration he'd witnessed could be naught else.

"There isunderstanding enoughbetween us, is there not? Whatever ails or worries you, I'm here to share the burden. Rise and embrace me, then tell me what troubles you." He spoke softly, hoping to soothe her, butshe did not move.

With a sigh, he made his way closer. Carefully, he bent, wincing as he lowered himself until he sat also upon the floor. He placed the stick behind him.

"You wanted to ask a questionof therunes?" He kept his voice gentle. "What is it, Frida, that you wish to know? Whether you shall marry and have a clutch of babies?" He'd intended the question in jest, but he saw her irritation flare.

"Nay!I expect nothing of the sort!" She was immediately defensive.

"What then? You were hoping for some glimpse of what may be? ‘Tis my belief that it's not for us to know, no matter what others say. Some speak of foretelling by combing entrails, but I'd as soon rake through the stable excrement to know what the future holds for my horses. ‘Tis a better indicator, I vow." Again, his merriment fell flat.

"The gods are with us always." A frown creased her brow, and her eyes seemed to beseech him. "Why shouldn't they speak through the waves and clouds, through birds and other animals? Through dreams, sometimes, and the runes, too."

Gunnar gave that some consideration. "Some say seeing a pale horse in your dreams foretells a death, but I cannot thinkit so. If ‘twere true, there would be none of my acquaintance yet alive, for my jarl keeps seven silver mares, and they are oft in my slumbers. Those images of the mind have no bearing on what befalls us."

"But what if they did?" Frida persisted. "We should not fear those messages, should we? Nor any means by which the gods deliver them?"

Gunnar rubbed his chin. "I suppose not, but I believethefuture is notours to know until tomorrow becomes this day. ‘Tis fruitless to try to understand the will of the gods."

Frida's shoulders slumped. "I've always looked for such signs, though I admit, little makes sense to me of late. I find I don't know what to believe. I fear there is sorrow ahead for us… pain and some terrible ending. Perhaps ‘twould have been better had you never boarded your longship..."She looked at her lap, seeming to have nothing further to say.

A throb was starting up in Gunnar's temple. What was this? She was tired of him already or had decided a man with a limp wasn't good enough to father the child she so often reminded him was her goal?

He'd pushed her to hide nothing from him, and here was the truth.

She wishes I'd never come to this place.Had I not, perhaps ‘twould be Rutger in her bed orJ?rgen. Both are handsome and strong, and their injuries less bothersome.

Gunnar was not one to compare himself with others, but what differing interpretation could there be? Frida was beautiful and in her prime. She deserved the best of men, not a cripple who talked overmuch of horses. Did the aroma of their dung yet cling? He gave himself a surreptitioussniff but could not tell.

"Please,say no more," he answered stiffly. "You may be right to see no future for you and me and need not dabble with runes to convince yourself. ‘Tis clear the distance between us is too great to breach."

He shifted his legs, for his ankle was uncomfortable, and his calf cramping.What had possessed him to get down on the floor? He'd only embarrass himself, trying to stand again.

She wanted him to leave, he supposed, though she was having trouble saying it. It was the least he could do to make it easier for her.

The state of his heart was not her concern. Never had she seen him as more than a stud. It had been all his own wishful thinking to believe there was more, and his dignity would not let him prostrate himself. Had he done wrong, he'd beg her forgiveness, but he wouldn't beg for her love.

He'd sufficient pride to avoid that.

"Perhaps there is somewhere you can send me..."

Someone would take pity on him, he supposed. His cock worked well enough, didn't it, and there were small ways in which he could be useful. One of the older women, perhaps, would deem him amusing for a while.

He gave an inward shudder.

There had been a time when he'd been only too willing to take such a role. Now, the prospect was stale in his mouth.

Eldberg had been right. The sooner they returned to their rightful home,the better. He trusted his jarl to arrange things and hoped there would still be a place for him as stablemaster back inSkálavík. A limp might slow him down, but he knew his way around horses.

As she says, better I'd never come to this place.

Forget her and forget this island.

Frida reached for him, her face stricken, but he turned away from her pity.

He heard her sob and the scuffle of her feet as she ran for the door, but he kept his own tears in check—until he was alone.