Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

T he following morning, before they went to Magnar and Frida's wedding, Ingrid declared that it was time to remove the stitches on Caedmon's injury.

"It's been more than a week and you slept without a bandage last night. It is perfectly dry. You don't want to wait any longer, or they will become embedded in the skin and hurt when I take them out."

"You?" She would offer to do that for him? Surely there was no need. Placed where it was, he could easily access the wound. "I can manage on my own."

"Please. I'm sure you can but it will be quicker and less painful if you have help. I don't mind. It will be a lot easier to remove the stitches than it was to make them."

In the end he could not resist the offer. She was right. It would be better if he lay down and relaxed while she took care of him. Eyes fastened on to her, he grabbed the back of his collar and tugged. When he freed his head from the shirt Ingrid had moved. She was by the table, looking into a small basket.

"I need my scissors." She was muttering to herself like an old woman. "Some fresh linens, the ointment..."

Caedmon arched a brow. Was she embarrassed to see him bare-chested? It would be odd if she were, considering how often she'd seen him without his shirt in the last week, but she was acting all strange all of a sudden and her cheeks had acquired a suspicious flush. A smile tugged at his lips. For some reason he found her shyness endearing.

He lay on the pallet. "I'm ready. Do your worst."

She whipped around, scowling. "I would never inflict you pain if I can help it!"

"I know," he soothed. "I don't know why I said that. It's just a phrase."

She knelt by his side and bent down to examine the stitches with featherlight touches. It was his turn to be embarrassed, because once again, the evocative position and maddening caresses were creating havoc with his senses. Just like the other day, when she had washed him, he could not help his body's natural response to the touch of a beautiful woman. Fortunately this time he'd anticipated it and he was holding his bunched up shirt over his groin like a shield. With luck Ingrid would not realize that under it all he'd gone hard as wood.

Apparently she had not. She was cutting at the stiches carefully, and appeared lost in thought.

"I'm so glad for Frida and Magnar," she said in a low voice. "That night in the hut, I…I admit I thought he might turn away from her after the assault."

"Why would he do such a thing?"

She hesitated. "Men don't seem to want women who've been?—"

"Men," he cut in before she could use the word "soiled", "don't want to hear that women have been raped, because the thought is unbearable, that's not quite the same."

Frida, Frigyth, and now Ingrid…Why were they all convinced that an assault reflected badly on them ? Why couldn't they see that a normal man would not hold something like that against her? And what did Ingrid know about being spurned after being the victim of a rape? He suddenly remembered what she'd said while she sewed his wound.

Don't worry about me. I'd much rather be here stitching a wound than in that hut being raped. Again.

All the blood froze in his veins. He'd been forced to ignore the comment at the time because she'd started to stitch him up and, to his shame, he'd forgotten about it afterward. He would not make the same mistake twice.

"Ingrid," he started slowly, "were you?—"

"There. All finished."

She raised her head and gave him such a pointed, imploring look that he didn't insist. If she ever wanted to tell him why she thought men would spurn a woman who'd been the victim of a rape, she would. But he would not cause her pain by making her talk about something she clearly didn't want to discuss.

"Thank you. I didn't feel a thing."

The urge to place a hand on her cheek was too strong for him to even try to resist it. He heard her inhale when his fingers touched her skin but she didn't shy away from the caress. For a long moment they stayed like this, looking at each other.

Then he broke the spell. "Let's go and see Magnar marry his beautiful bride, shall we?"

Perhaps that would go some way into restoring her faith in men.

After putting some order to their clothes, they made their way to the center of the village, where everyone one was assembled in the spring sunshine. The atmosphere was one of pure joy. Birds were chirping away, music was playing, children were running around. Caedmon recognized Frigyth's son Moon chasing Wolf's daughter, a little blonde girl who screamed in delight when he finally caught her.

The ceremony was short and sweet, quite unlike any Caedmon had seen before, quite unlike his wedding in London would have been. He felt privileged to be able to witness such a moment. The women all wiped a tear from their cheek when Magnar lifted his new bride into his arms and kissed her soundly on the lips.

Usually one to look upon weddings with suspicion, today Ingrid was finding it hard to contain her emotion.

Without thinking, she took Caedmon's hand in hers. The gesture was intimate but he did not protest. Just when she was thinking that she ought to remove her hand, he tightened his fingers over hers and drew her even closer. In that moment they undoubtedly appeared like the lovers they were supposed to be. Fortunately, Bj?rn was deep in discussion with his newly married friend.

"Thank you," she said, her voice taut with emotion.

It made no doubt in her mind that this wedding was happening thanks to the man next to her. Had she been raped, Frida would have considered herself soiled, unworthy of Magnar and would have fled the village, never to be seen again. She had told her as much while they traveled in the cart after their rescue. Ingrid had not known what to answer. She knew all too well the shame associated with having a man you didn't want enter your body. Besides, whatever Caedmon thought, some men didn't want women who'd been soiled, and she'd had no idea then whether Magnar was one of them or not, so she had been unable to comfort Frida. It turned out that he was as steadfast as she could have wished.

Caedmon leaned in toward her. "If you mean that without me this wedding wouldn't have taken place, then you are mistaken. Magnar told me yesterday that he would have married Frida regardless of what happened with the Saxons."

She squeezed his fingers. He'd read her mind and she was grateful for the reassurance. "I'm proud of him. He's one of Bj?rn's friends and I always thought him more sensible than the others. I'm glad to be proven right."

"I told you. A man worthy of the name would not think any less of a woman for being abused."

Ingrid bit her bottom lip and nodded slowly, eager to put an end to that particular discussion. She had already said too much and they were in full view of everyone, Ivar included. She could not betray herself now.

They watched as the newlyweds walked toward the hut that had been allocated to them under the cheers of the onlookers.

Ingrid felt a pang of envy. It was one thing telling herself she was happy on her own, quite another to believe it when she saw the love and joy on someone else's faces and felt the warmth of Caedmon's hand around hers.

"Come. Let's go and feast," she said, pasting a smile on her face. Today was not a day to be sad. "And then we'll dance long into the night."

Caedmon returned the smile. Only his was genuine, and made his eyes shimmer like a bright summer's day. "Dancing? Is that what you'd recommend to a man who's just had his stitches removed? May I remind you that only yesterday you forbade me to lift your basket when it was only half full with vegetables?"

She twisted her lips, feeling caught out. Of course, he couldn't dance! What had she been thinking? "Let me rephrase, Saxon. I will dance, and you will watch."

Something flit across his face, like a ripple over water, too elusive to catch. "Oh, I will."

"Forgive me, I can see you're busy, but I had to get away from the forge for a moment," Agnes fell on the stool with a sigh. "Magnus is tearing his hair out and trying my temper sorely. I had to leave for fear we would come to an argument."

An argument!

Shaking her head, Ingrid poured them both a cup of ale from the cask Bj?rn had brought only that morning. She found it hard to believe that things were as dire as her friend was making out. The blacksmith was one of the most even-tempered men she knew and Agnes had the patience of a saint. They were a perfect match in that way, so a pointless argument between them seemed unlikely. Theirs was another shining example of how successful marriages between a Saxon woman and a Norseman could be. Those were becoming quite common in the village. Would it be the same the other way around, she wondered? The thought made her flush because she knew of only one Saxon man and he was just outside, cleaning the coop. He had wanted to chop wood for the fire but she had forbidden him to go anywhere near an axe. Though he was recovering from his life-threatening wound with surprising speed, he was still on the mend.

Ingrid took a long swig of ale.

Ever since Magnar and Frida's wedding a week ago she had been feeling oddly despondent. From the age of eighteen she had known she would never live with a man. But now she was, in effect, doing just that. Even if it was no romantic arrangement, even if it was temporary and had only been brought on by necessity, the result was the same. She was living with Caedmon and she could not help but find it comforting to have a presence in the hut, someone to rely on and share a meal and a laugh with at night.

Someone she felt desire for...

There was no point denying it any longer. She was lusting after him. Over the last few days she had tried to convince herself that what she felt when he was near was nothing out of the ordinary but she was losing the battle, fast.

She most definitely felt desire for Caedmon, a bit more every day, and she had no idea where that would lead her.

With some effort, she brought her mind back to the present and Agnes, who was complaining about Magnus' unusual behavior.

"So tell me, what happened that made you both so out of sorts?"

"A man from town came visiting the other day. A Saxon. He had business with Wolf." Ingrid nodded, not in the least surprised. Everyone within a twenty-mile radius had had something to do with the Icelander at some point or other. This was nothing new. "While he was there, his wife felt a bit hot in the forge. She undid her cloak and somehow her brooch snapped open. It fell to the ground and Growler ran away with it. By the time Magnus had prised it from his jaw, it was quite mangled."

Ingrid could not help a laugh at the scene going through her mind. The smithy's dog Growler was still a puppy, and as excitable as they came. "Yes, I can imagine."

"Magnus was mortified and promised the poor woman he could repair it. Her husband, a prosperous land owner, was delighted and assured him he would commission work from him and mention his name to his friends if he did a satisfactory job on the brooch. This is a golden opportunity to gain some wealthy customers. But, as talented as he is, Magnus cannot get it right. He lacks the dexterity needed for delicate work." Agnes reddened. "At least, for jewelry making," she finished in a whisper.

Another bubble of laughter rose in Ingrid's throat. Apparently after five years of marriage and two children, the two of them were still as in love as ever. She had once thought that the little Saxon might marry her brother. But it had quickly become clear that Bj?rn only had eyes for Dunne, who had since then become his wife, and that Magnus was the perfect man for Agnes. Between the two of them, it had been love at first sight.

And apparently, he was seeing to her needs quite satisfactorily.

A highly unwelcome pang of envy tore through Ingrid. Would that she too had a man seeing to her needs. A man with dextrous fingers and a fascinating body covered in dark hairs...

"He dreads admitting to the woman that her brooch is ruined," her friend carried on, oblivious to her lewd musings. "Not to mention that after his accident, we could do with the money the commissions would bring in."

Yes, that Ingrid could easily believe. Last fall Magnus had broken his arm while playing with his eldest son and had been unable to work for weeks as a result. Though the villagers had done what they could to compensate the loss of revenue by ordering twice as many nails, chains and axes than they normally would, the long inactivity would have taken its toll on the family. Becoming the supplier of a group of wealthy customers was an opportunity to be seized with both hands.

"I think I can help," Ingrid said. "Well, not me, really, but Caedmon. As luck would have it, I found out the other day that he's a goldsmith."

The revelation had struck her. A more fitting occupation for a man whose eyes sparkled like precious gems she could not imagine. It was like being told that Wolf was in fact descended from a pack of wolves or that her parents were still watching over her from where they were. It just…made sense.

"Caedmon? Your lover, you mean?" Agnes' eyes were aglow with mischief. "He's rather dashing, is he not?"

Ingrid felt herself go red to the roots of her hair. After the initial lie destined to placate Ivar, she had not told anyone, not even her closest friends, that Caedmon was not really her lover. She had a suspicion no one would believe her if she said it now anyway. After all, she herself had announced what they supposedly were to each other in front of her own brother. Then he had rescued her from a mob of Saxons and almost gotten killed in the process, and they had been living together for over two weeks now. It certainly didn't look as if they did not care for one another.

"I'm sure he can solve Magnus' problem," she said instead of answering.

As if he'd heard her, Caedmon chose this moment to enter the hut, a stack of logs cradled in his arms. Dear, he did look rather dashing. Yes…And wasn't that the problem? If he had not, she might have been able to keep a clear head around him.

"Are you all right? Did anything happen while I was out?" he asked, stopping in his tracks. The questions made Ingrid realize that she and Agnes were staring at him as if he had grown two heads. She cleared her throat, feeling foolish.

"Yes. I mean no, nothing happened. Only…We were talking about you. Agnes and Magnus could do with your help." She stood up. "Do you think you could repair a brooch that has been chewed on by a dog?"

"Chewed by a dog…My. That would be a first." A corner of his lips curled up. "I could try. I always enjoy a challenge." He dropped the logs on the fire pit and nodded. "Does he want me to go now?"

"Please." Agnes stood up in turn, looking relieved. "Thank you, that would be most kind. He's probably?—"

"Wait!" Ingrid cut in, as realization hit. "You've been cutting wood! I told you not to go anywhere near the axe!"

"Did you?" Caedmon threw her his most innocent look. "I must have missed that over the hens clucking. The gray one is incredibly noisy, isn't she?"

"You're impossible!"

"Don't worry. I promise I'll spend the rest of the day sitting down, handling nothing bigger than files and pliers. No chance of hurting myself then. Does that satisfy you?"

She had to smile. He was impossible, but in a good way, and she could not stay mad at him. "Yes."

Without another word, he went to retrieve his bag, which she imagined contained all the tools he needed, and left.

"Let us hope he can solve the problem," Agnes said.

Ingrid didn't answer but, she didn't doubt it for a moment.

Later that evening she and Agnes made their way to Magnus' workshop. The sun had started to disappear below the horizon and a velvety sky was slowly replacing the sheet of blue they'd had overhead all day.

As soon as they walked through the door, the smithy lifted his wife into his arms. "My angel. Thanks to you, our problems are over."

Agnes laughed. "I didn't do anything. Ingrid was the one who mentioned Caedmon could help, and he was the one who repaired the brooch."

Her husband kissed her full on the mouth. "Yes, but if you hadn't gone to see them, I would still be here, messing it up even further."

"I take it that it is now fixed?" Ingrid asked. She was glad for her friends and grateful to Caedmon for helping them.

"See for yourself."

Magnus led the two women to the table by the window. On it was a gold flower, so realistic Ingrid had the impression that it had just been picked from a shiny, enchanted bush. With its delicate petals, the flower seemed so real that she almost bent down to smell it.

"My! That is incredible," she breathed, unable to believe her eyes.

"Astounding," Agnes agreed.

As one, they turned to face Caedmon, who shrugged as if he had not just created something extraordinary. "It's easy enough to do when you know how and you have the proper tools."

No one appeared in the least convinced. With infinite care Ingrid took the brooch in her hand and was surprised to find it so sturdy when it appeared so fragile. She could not help but think that were she to take it outside, it would be blown away by the breeze in a blink.

"A dog rose," she murmured, looking at the brooch resting in her palm. The petals had just unfurled and she could see every stamen in the middle, fashioned from little dots of pure gold. It was beautiful, and unlike anything she had ever seen.

"Dog roses are my favorite flowers and relatively easy to reproduce," Caedmon explained in an apologetic tone, as if he thought she would have been more impressed by a more majestic flower. She would not. This was perfect, elevating something common into a work of art. It was as if he were the first man to see the plain flowers for the marvel they were and wanting to do them justice. "I had no idea how the brooch looked originally so I took a guess but I don't think the woman will complain. Considering how badly it was damaged, this can only be an improvement."

Magnus gave a laugh. "Yes, and not all of it was Growler's fault, unfortunately. My attempts at repairing it took their toll. But it is close enough to the original, I'd say, only better, because before it was just an indistinct flower. She will be delighted." He turned to his wife and rubbed a hand over his face. "Shall we? After the last few days spent worrying about that damn brooch, I'm exhausted. I would like to sleep a bit before I face our potential client tomorrow."

Agnes nodded. "You've earned it." She turned and faced Caedmon with a smile. "Thank you for your help. How can we repay you for what you did?"

Caedmon waved her offer away. He was glad to have helped and did not need any reward for doing something that came so easily to him, especially when Magnus had been amongst the men coming to his aid against the Saxons. How could he take money from the man he owed his life to? Had the smithy not been so skilled at throwing objects, the cut on his stomach would have been fatal. This was priceless.

"I never got the chance to thank you for what you did the other day," he'd told him once he'd finished working on the brooch. "Without you, I would be dead."

"Please. The whole thing was Wolf's idea. When he saw the man holding the blade to you he told me to go around the back before the Saxons could see me. He knows that as a child I used to practice throwing stones at birds. Don't ask me why, but I thought it a more satisfactory way to hunt. And eventually, it worked. Of course, I went to bed hungry more than once before that."

Caedmon had smiled at that. Never had a skill come in more handy.

"I don't need anything," he said, slapping the smithy on the shoulder.

He would not take anything from a man who had saved his life. If anything, he should be repaying Magnus for what he'd done. And then an idea popped into his head. There was something he wanted to do and the smithy was the only man who could help.

"If I may," he started, taking a pair of pliers in his hand, "I would like to use the workshop to create something while I'm here. It would stop me from going mad while I wait for the injury to heal."

He'd missed his work in the last few weeks. Creating jewelry was what he did best. More to the point, he wanted to take this opportunity to make something for Frigyth. Magnus, for all that he was no goldsmith, was well equipped. He had scraps of metal and a furnace. It was petty but Caedmon needed to make something better than Sigurd, he needed to make Frigyth see there was at least one thing he could do that the Norseman couldn't. His ego demanded it. He was not proud of it but there it was, he had to know he had somehow succeeded in giving this woman at least one thing of his.

So he would make a necklace, the best he had ever created. He would put all his disillusion, his pain, his lost hopes in it as he worked and then he would give it to her. It would be a way of freeing himself of all he had felt for her. Would it work?

It was worth a try at least.

"Of course, my friend. Use what you need," Magnus gestured to the tool bench. In that moment Caedmon had the impression that he could have asked him for anything and the man would have agreed.

"Thank you."

Ingrid lingered a moment after Magnus and Agnes had left, looking rather…The word that come to Caedmon's mind was "awed." Ever since she had seen the brooch he'd created, something had changed within her. It was as if she credited him with magical powers and wasn't sure how to behave in front of him anymore. Absurdly, it warmed something inside of him. No one had looked at him like that before, as if he were extraordinary.

"Do you need anything?" she asked. "I could bring you something to eat or?—"

"No, thank you, I'm not hungry."

His fingers were itching to start on the necklace, even though he had no idea what he wanted to make yet. What kind of pendant would Frigyth like? A flower, an animal, something more abstract? Or perhaps he could do a ring, a brooch, earrings instead? No, it had to be a necklace and pendant, he decided, so she could compare it with the one Sigurd had attempted to make and see the difference.

"I'll leave you to work then," Ingrid murmured. "Good night."

"Thank you. Good night."

As soon as the door was closed, he sat down on the bench and started to think.

What now?

Not knowing what to do, he took a piece of metal and started to turn it this way and that. And just like that, his fingers took over. It was always the same. It was as if the less he thought about a project, the easier ideas came to him. His hands seemed to know what he could do better than his mind did. Today was no exception.

Fanning the fire, Caedmon smiled to himself. He already knew he was about to create one of his best pieces.