“Very well,” Hod said. And without another word, he approached the carriage and swung up onto the tiny platform. The carriage bounced beneath his weight, and Alba stared at Ghisla, dumbfounded.
“The blind man is coming with us,” she whispered.
Ghisla could only nod, her hand pressed over her racing heart. “It seems he is.”
She was intimidated by the knowledge that Hod would hear her every word. The bumps and jostles of the wheels and the thundering clap of horses’ hooves would not be enough to shield their conversation from his ears. She sat in agonized silence, unable to believe the turn of events, and unwilling—for a multitude of reasons—to speak of them to her young companion. Alba’s mood improved with each mile from Garbo, and she chattered about this and that for the first hour but then curled herself up into an impossible ball and fell asleep, her hands folded beneath her chin and her head against her knees. Ghisla had not slept in ages, and quickly succumbed as well, waking only when they stopped at midday to water the horses and eat a hasty meal. Hod was coated in dust and spent several minutes shaking out his clothes and washing the grit from his skin. The driver goaded him good-naturedly.
“Ye’ll be covered again, Northman, within the hour.”
Hod nodded, acknowledging the truth of the man’s statement, but he washed anyway. Alba worried that he’d had nothing to eat and made sure he was given food from the provisions. She was so thoughtful that Ghisla was shamed, but she had no notion of how to speak to him when there was so much to say. And there were eyes and ears everywhere.
Before resuming their journey, Alba and Ghisla were escorted to the trees to find some seclusion to relieve themselves. It was always a difficulty for the guard when they traveled; they had to keep their distance while maintaining a protective presence. Hod was recruited to the detail, the captain of the king’s guard remarking dryly that his blindness made him the perfect escort for such things. The fact that he was Gudrun’s man did not seem to bother him overmuch.
It bothered Ghisla, but she did not protest. She and Alba hurried through their privacies and washed with him standing watch. It was also Hod who extended his hand to assist them back into the carriage. He helped Alba first, and when he offered his hand to Ghisla, palm up, the lines of the rune he’d made a decade before were still visible to her eyes. Very softly, she rested her hand on his. His reaction was immediate, a tightening of his lips, a flutter of his lids, and Ghisla’s breath caught.
His fingers brushed over the thick, star-shaped scar on her palm, and his brow furrowed. She dared not stand with her hand clutched in his and climbed the steps quickly so she could let go, but his hand tightened around hers.
“What happened to your hand, Ghisla?” he insisted, his voice flat. It was the first time he’d acknowledged her at all, and he’d used her real name, the name only he knew.
“You called her Ghisla. She is Liis,” Alba corrected. “Release her please, Northman.”
Hod did so immediately, but he didn’t move.
“What happened to her hand?” He directed the question at Alba instead. He stood in the doorway of the carriage, his face perfectly void of emotion, but his voice was lethal.
“It was burned,” Ghisla said.
“You had best keep your distance, Blind Hod,” Alba murmured, urging him to close the carriage door. The guard was mounted and the driver in place.
“When did this happen?” He was addressing Ghisla now, but Alba answered.
“It was many years ago. It does not pain the lady anymore. Now . . . please. Retreat.”
The driver called down, impatient. “Are you ready, Northman?”
Hod stepped back and shut the door without another word. They felt him hoist himself onto the footman’s stoop, and the driver cracked his whip. The carriage lurched forward, falling into line with the cavalcade, armed riders taking up positions on each side.
Alba frowned at Ghisla in confusion.
“How odd . . . and impertinent. He should not have asked something so personal. And what was it he called you? Ghisla?”
Ghisla was too shaken to speak. She could still feel Hod’s fingertips against her palm.
Alba tipped her pretty head, studying Ghisla with new eyes.
“Was that your name? Do you know Blind Hod?”
“His name is not Blind Hod,” Ghisla said, her voice low. She hated when people called him that, as if his sightlessness was part of his name. “He is Hod. And I do not . . . know him.” Once she had. Once she’d known him better than she knew herself.
“But you did,” Alba guessed, nodding, warming to her conclusion. She crowed and clapped, thrilled at the surprising discovery.
“Alba,” Ghisla protested softly. “Please. Please. Let us not speak of this.” Hod would be able to hear, but that was not what scared her most. Any familiarity between them would be noticed and punished. Alba knew this. It was why she’d immediately warned Hod to not linger.
“He does not act like the other Northmen. He is quiet and . . . very clean. He reminds me a little of Bayr too. He is humble, though he has every reason to be proud. He does not boast or brag like most men do.” She paused and then made her pronouncement. “I like him very much.”
“You would, Alba. You have a soft spot for the strange.” Ghisla winced at her own words. Hod would think them critical when they were not. She too had a soft spot for the strange, and Hod’s peculiarities had always been precious to her.
“No.” Alba shook her head. “Not for the strange. For the good. He is good.”
He once was. Once, he was very good. But Ghisla didn’t know anymore. They’d been parted too long, and he was too removed. Too different.
“I thought you seemed nervous around him. That is not like you. You are so self-contained,” Alba said, prying, curious.
“I will not speak of this,” Ghisla insisted again.
“All right, Liis,” Alba sighed. “We will not speak of it. Your secret is safe with me.”
Her sisters did not know about her past with Hod. She’d never confessed to having feelings for him, never spoken of him at all. But Ivo knew. Dagmar knew. And if Dagmar knew, Ghost knew.
It would be seen as an omen when they discovered he’d returned to the mount.
She would be warned to stay away from him and watched even more closely than before.
It made her angry. Hod had done nothing but supplicate the keepers for a place among them. He was blind, but he was fully capable and supremely well-trained in the art of the runes as well as for the defense of the temple. He’d been raised up for a purpose, and his purpose had been denied him. He’d been branded a risk, a threat, a portent, and he’d been rejected.
They could not reject him now.
He would not need or seek their acceptance. For whatever incomprehensible reason, he was now a servant of the North King, an emissary between lands, and Master Ivo would have no influence over him whatsoever.
For the first time since she’d seen Hod’s face in Chief Benjie’s great hall, Ghisla smiled.
22
MILES
Twenty-two miles beyond the border of Berne and a day’s travel to the mount, Hod began to shout for the king’s company to halt. The rain had drizzled from before sunup, and the dry, late-summer earth drank greedily, gorging itself, but by midafternoon, the road to the mount had turned to mud.