“Indeed,” Bersi said thinly.
“You will eat, and then you will walk back to the village,” Iarund said with finality. “I will send an acolyte to your father’s house to change the poultice and see that the wound is healing cleanly. You will have a scar, but you have your life.”
“What of Solva?”
“His body was burned,” Bersi said stiffly. “He dealt a great insult to the Jarl by attacking his sister.”
She nodded briefly and brushed her fingers over the hilt of the knife. It was fitting that it should have been the weapon to take his life. His disrespect of her father’s memory had been repaid with his blood.
With determination, Torunn pushed back the blankets and tried to sit up. She grunted as a jolt of pain fired through her side, and Bersi lunged forward to help her up. She tried to push him away, but he overpowered her easily and she had to allow him to help her into a sitting position. Her legs moved easily enough and she felt a small twinge of victory to feel the cold floorboards under her bare feet.
“I need my boots,” she said. “And my clothes.”
“I brought you fresh clothing,” Bersi said. “Your tunic is in need of some… repair.”
“It was my favorite,” Torunn grumbled.
Bersi smiled briefly and set a basket down upon the floor beside her. He drew out leggings, a tunic, and the cloak she had discarded at the funeral feast, and laid them down upon the bed beside her.
“Leave me,” she said. “I do not need your help.”
Bersi’s eyebrow rose slightly. “As you say.” He backed away from the bed and stood in the doorway with his back to her.
Torunn took a breath and pulled the hem of the linen shift she had been given up over her head. The cold air hit her bare skin and made her shiver. It was cold in the room, and now that she was out from under the blankets, it was all the more obvious. She reached to her ribs and touched the linen wrappings gingerly. They were crusted with the clay and herb poultice that Iarund had smeared over the wound and she wondered just how much damage Solva’s sword had done.
Her ribs were stiff and when she lifted her left arm, pain spread through her chest in an overwhelming bloom of heat.
“Stop touching it,” Bersi said from the doorway.
“Do not look at me,” she snapped.
She thought she heard the rebel chuckle, but she couldn’t be sure. Her hand dropped away from the bandage and she placed her palms on the edge of the bed. “Stand up, get dressed, walk back to the village,” she muttered.
Torunn took a breath and then pushed herself up off the bed. Her knees were unsteady, and she teetered just a little. She reached for her breeches, but as she bent over, the room tilted strangely, and a wave of nausea rose up. She felt hot and cold at the same time, and the edges of her vision blurred.
Before she could catch herself, she stumbled and fell hard on her knees. The sudden jolt sent a blaze of pain up her side and she cried out as it overwhelmed her senses. Before she could tumble to the floor, she was scooped up by strong hands and set down on the edge of the bed once more.
Her hands came up instinctively to cover her breasts, but then she dropped them to her waist and glared at the bearded man in front of her. Bersi’s eyes stayed on hers for a long moment before he reached for her tunic and knelt in front of her.
“Arms,” he commanded.
She did not move, but then she lifted her arms as high as she could and allowed him to pull the tunic over her head and down her body. He kept his eyes averted from her bare flesh and Torunn felt her cheeks warming as he dressed her. It was a terribly intimate process, but he treated her with dignity and neither his hands, nor his eyes, lingered for longer than they should have.
When her tunic had been properly fastened, he held out a hand to help her to her feet. “Lean on my shoulder,” he said as he drew her breeches off the bed and arranged them on the floor so that she could step into them without any trouble.
She did as she was told and leaned her weight on Bersi’s wide shoulder and stepped into the breeches. Bersi pulled them up her legs and tied the drawstring at her waist with deft fingers before pulling her tunic back into place.
“Sit down,” he commanded gently.
She turned back to the bed and accepted his assistance to sit down as he pulled her boots from the basket. He pulled her right foot onto his knee and pushed her boot onto her foot before lacing it quickly.
“You have done this before,” she observed. It was just a way to break the silence between them, nothing more, but she felt a strange twist in her stomach as he smiled.
“I helped my father when he was ill,” he said simply. “It was hard for him in the winter, the pain in his limbs was so severe that he could not dress himself.”
Torunn could only nod. She had seen the elderly people in the village move more slowly and painfully in the cold months of the year, but she had never known anyone close to her to live so long.
“Is your father… Is he still living?” she asked haltingly.
Bersi tied her second boot and set her foot upon the floor before meeting her eyes. “No. He did not live long enough to see me become a slave.”
Torunn’s eyes narrowed. “He did not live long enough to see you rebel against your Jarl.”
He said nothing in reply, but his eyes did not leave hers. She shook her head, braced her hand on his shoulder, and pushed up off the bed. Her legs were steadier now and she strode past him toward the door. “Where is Iarund, I am hungry.”
12
“You ate too quickly,” Bersi chided her.
Torunn lay on her bed with her eyes closed and her hands pressed to her stomach. Cold sweat rippled over her body and her stomach cramped painfully. “Shut. Your. Mouth.”
“Three days without food is a long time,” he said.
She could hear him smiling and she hated him for it.
“Shut. Your. Mouth.”
“Just breathe,” he said. “Iarund should not have given you anything but broth.”
Torunn shivered and let out a slow, shuddering breath. “Why... are you still talking.”
She heard the rebel settle himself on a chair and she focused on breathing slowly and deeply. If she did not give in to her stomach, she would be fine. Vomiting was the one thing she hated most in the world. And she had done enough of it at Iarund’s house.
“Torunn! You are back! I did not know when you would return, that old bastard of a healer would not allow us to see you. Can you imagine such a thing? I should take his head for daring to insult his Jarl!”
Torunn forced her eyes open as Hallvard strode through the door of her room. He sat down on the edge of her bed and laid a hand upon her thigh. “You look very well, Sister. We were… we were afraid that Solva’s blade had sent you to Valhalla with our father.”
“Not likely,” Torunn croaked. She sat up painfully and Bersi was at her side in an instant to lift her up and pull a pillow behind her back. She winced as her wound stretched with her movements. Hallvard’s eyes narrowed to see her reaction and Torunn immediately wished that she had prepared herself better to hide the pain she felt.
Hallvard had a nose for weakness, and she hated showing it to him.
“I am glad to see you well. Asgaut and I have instructed the priests to entreat the gods on your behalf—I am pleased to see that it was not in vain.”