Gressa bit her tongue. She refused to say or do anything. The owner of the voice came into focus. It was the same middle-aged woman who had found her on the battlefield.
“You recognize me. Very well. You remember that I claimed you as my thrall?” Again, the voice waited, but Gressa did nothing. “I decided it’s worth more to sell you than keep you as my slave. I just have to keep you alive.”
“Sell me back then,” Gressa managed to choke out.
“Back? To Ivar? To that husband who nearly got himself killed trying to abandon his people for his Sami bride?”
Gressa lifted her head at the woman’s last comment.
“Oh, yes. We watched from the bushes. Not only was your husband bound and dragged to his jarl’s ship, he jumped overboard the moment they untied him. He was trying to get back to you. Last any of us saw him, they lashed him then shackled to the mast.”
Gressa stifled the sobs that fought to escape her throat. She looked away from the older woman as she pictured Strian fighting not only their jarl, but his uncle and his best friends. Fighting them to get to her. She prayed to Frigg and Freya that he would do nothing to get himself killed. She shifted slightly, but this time she could not suppress the sound that escaped as her wound shot blazing pain to the very tips of her toes and fingers.
“I wouldn’t move around so much if you don’t want to bleed to death. You won’t do me much good dead.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“You shall see when you arrive.” The woman bent over her and ripped apart the vest and tunic she wore. A bucket of water seemed to appear out of nowhere, and the woman dumped the saltwater over Gressa’s wounds. It felt like a thousand pinpricks dancing across the serrated skin of her back and leg. Before she caught her breath, the searing pain intensified as Gressa caught a whiff of syra, a fermented wine, as she poured it onto the wound. It was believed to have healing properties, but Gressa could not get past the putrid odor.
“I must stitch this.” The middle-aged woman, whose name Gressa still did not know, took a needle and thread from a pouch tied at her waist. Gressa had no way of knowing if the woman knew what she was doing, but she trusted her. She hated to admit it, but it was obvious the woman was a seasoned warrior. Gressa was certain her wounds would not be the first the woman had sewn. Her would-be healer yanked the belt from Gressa’s waist.
“Here.” Gressa took the leather and bit down on it before rolling back onto her stomach.
It took the woman over an hour to stitch Gressa’s back and leg, and by the time she finished, Gressa had a raging fever and was unconscious.
The next time Gressa awoke was when the boat bumped into something and lurched to one side. She lifted her head to see they were docked, and it was the dock that they had knocked against. Gressa had no idea where she was, how long she had been asleep, or what would happen next.
“I see our invalid has rejoined the living.” The words came from a voice she did not recognize. “You’ve been battling a fever for a week and barely been awake. I doubt you remember any of it.”
Gressa tested out shaking her head. There was a dull ache in her skull that matched the ache that seemed bone deep in her back. She tried moving her injured leg, and relief flooded her when she could flex her foot. She had feared she would lose the leg.
“Where are we?”
“Your new home. Wales.”
Three
Strian sat beside Gressa until she awoke. He had a pitcher of water and a tray that held cheese, bread, and an apple waiting for her.
“Water,” Gressa croaked.
Strian helped prop her up as she sipped the cool liquid.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“The rest of the day and into the night. I would say it’s an hour or two after midnight. Would you like something to eat?”
“The apple, please.” She reached for it, but her hand remained empty. She watched Strian peel then cut the apple just as she had always preferred. He did not appear to give much thought to his actions, as though it was still a habit. He passed the wedges to her and waited in silence as she ate.
“What happens now?” She asked around the bite of apple she had taken.
“I’m guessing you would like to bathe and have fresh clothes.”
Gressa’s brow creased as she was uncertain if Strian was being purposely evasive. She looked into his gray eyes; never having forgotten how they were so translucent that they appeared almost silver. It matched his sun-bleached hair. He wore it longer now than when they had been a young couple of seventeen and nineteen. Her fingers itched to comb through the tresses just as she had done countless times while he courted her and then during their all too brief marriage. She forced her mind to return to the present.
“It’s the middle of the night. I can’t go to the bathhouse at this hour.”
“If you want the steam and then the cold-water dunk, then I will take you and stand guard outside, but if you’d prefer to stay here, then I still have the tub I could fill.”
