My cheeks flamed, and I kicked at a rock because I knew Bjorn didn’t deserve harsh words from me. “My head hurts.”
Which wasn’t a lie, but it also wasn’t the reason for my anger. By treating me the way he did, Bjorn was tempting fate in the worst sort of way. Already, Bodil suspected there was something between us, so how long until Ylva did as well?
No matter what sort of trickery Ylva had used to give herself an alibi in Fjalltindr, I knew she’d been conspiring with Harald to get rid of Bjorn. She wouldn’t need to resort to such desperate measures if she could prove I’d broken my vow. While my husband might not kill his son for the betrayal, he’d most certainly disinherit him in favor of Leif, which was what the bitch wanted.
And Bjorn knew that. Knew that Ylva was looking for ways to get rid of him. Yet instead of treating me like his father’s wife, he treated me as…as his own.
My breath caught as the thought registered, visions of every moment that had passed between us flickering through my mind’s eye. A flush of warmth filled me, but it was swiftly chased away by icy fear. It was as Bodil had said: Bjorn was a notorious risk-taker. So of course he didn’t fear the repercussions of being caught.
But I did.
Feared for him. Feared what Snorri would do to my family. Feared the guilt I’d have to bear as a result.
It was better that I’d said what I said, because maybe it would cause him to keep his distance. Would drive him into the arms of another, so that suspicions would fade. Yet even as that thought filled my head, my eyes pricked with tears and my chest tightened so that it hurt to breathe.
Why was I acting this way? Why was I constantly having to remind myself of logic and consequences to the point I wanted to scream at myself?
Why did I keep asking the same questions despite knowing the answers to all of them?
We’d reached the beach, Bodil’s maidens rising from where they crouched in the rain. Each of them held a shield, and I stared at the circles of painted wood. This is your fate, Freya, I told myself. This is what the seer foresaw for you. What the gods want from you. Nothing else matters.
* * *
—
We drilled for hours, Bodil calmly instructing me in how to fight in a shield wall and how to fight against larger opponents in single combat, her maidens gleefully battering me with weapons wrapped with wool. I learned a great deal, but not once did I feel impassioned the way I had when I’d trained with Bjorn. Which was likely for the best, given I rarely made good decisions when my temper was high. Yet I couldn’t help but sigh with relief when Bodil called for an end to our practice, her maidens wandering off in search of food and drink.
“That was good fun,” Bodil said, sitting on a log with her weapons discarded at her feet.
“For you, maybe.” I groaned, muscles protesting as I eased down to the ground. “Every inch of me will be purple tomorrow.” Crossing my legs, I examined my hand, which throbbed mercilessly, my scarred palm raw from fighting with a stick all day.
“You’re supposed to use the salve.” Bodil leaned closer, taking my hand. “The one Bjorn made for you.”
Scuffing my shoe in the sand, I remembered all the moments today that I’d felt his eyes on me. I’d refused to meet his gaze, only waited, tense and breathless, until he’d abandoned the beach again. “I don’t know why he cares so much.”
Bodil was silent for a long moment, but I could feel her scrutiny, weighing and measuring the question before she finally said, “It’s because he feels guilty that it was his axe that burned you.”
An obvious excuse for his behavior. One that I should’ve thought of. “Wasn’t his fault.”
Bodil snorted. “Not having willed something to have occurred doesn’t render a person blameless, woman. You know that as well as anyone.”
Given that guilt was a near-constant companion these days, I probably knew it better than most.
“The real question we need to discuss,” Bodil continued, “is why you don’t tend to your scars.”
My spine stiffened. “What are you talking about? Of course I do.”
“I’ve not seen you voluntarily do it once.” The jarl pried my hand free from where I’d shoved it in my pocket, examining the burn scars, her own hands marked with the countless nicks and cuts that came from being a warrior. “The salve takes away the pain and makes your hand limber, but you choose over and over not to use it, despite Bjorn’s reminders.”
Was that true? I wracked my brain, searching for an instance where I’d done it myself without Bjorn’s prodding, but came up empty. “I…I’m forgetful.”