24. The Star Stitch #2
She locked eyes with him, questioning his feelings with unspoken words. She wished she hadn’t because he answered, or perhaps she only imagined it. Wishes were for people who shouldn’t dare dream. He’d shown her kindness and respect, that was all, and she was married.
Words crawled to the top of her throat, but never left her lips. She broke his hold and slipped her hand from his after a moment left too long.
“It must be the child. Sometimes the pregnancy is a strain on the heart,” she said, cheeks blushing. She averted her eyes and focused on threading the needle. It settled her breath, and she began to work.
The gash along Erik’s shoulder wept beneath the edge of her needle.
He sat on the bench with one hand gripping the edge of the seat, his jaw set.
She stood behind him, hovering near the wound. The needle tip gleamed red.
Margot leaned by the council chamber door with her arms crossed, watching the hall beyond with the sharp stillness of a hound.
The hearth crackled low, casting soft orange shadows across Erik’s back.
The spearhead tattoo within the circle of runes was etched just below the wound.
It looked angry now, inflamed with blood and heat.
She had always wondered what it meant. Tonight, she found herself staring amid the silence that she wanted to fill.
“Does it hurt?” she asked. A brainless question. Of course it did.
“Yes,” he said.
She guided the needle in.
She shouldn’t have noticed the line of his spine or the slope of his neck, the way his hair curled slightly damp from the heat of the hearth. She shouldn’t have been close enough to smell the iron of blood and the faint wild scent of the woods still clinging to him.
But she was, and she wanted to be.
“Do your marks mean something? Like this one looks to be of a spearhead.” Her eyes trailed the spear’s handle down Erik’s arm and forced her gaze back to her task. She hoped the question would open a conversation so he wouldn't focus so much on the pain.
“It is called Gungir, Odin’s spear, with the serpent, Jormungandr, circling the spearhead for fate,” Erik said through clenched teeth. “Gungir grants me Odin’s power never to miss my target. Jormungandr is a reminder that fate is inevitable.”
“And the circle on the other shoulder? It looks like a compass.”
“It is. We call it the Vegvisir. It means I cannot lose my way.” Erik’s voice dropped. “Though I feel I have, if I’m honest.”
Seren’s heart twisted, but she was happy that he trusted her enough to be vulnerable with her. She had to say something to encourage him and to keep him talking.
“Keep to your path, Erik. It’s hard to see the destination through the forest,” she said as she tightened the flax. Half the gash was knitted. The top half remained.
“How do I know I’m on the right path?” he asked.
She paused.
“Trust the Lord,” she said, finally. “Or your gods if that is what you believe.”
She rolled her own shoulders and neck from the laborious work. “That is what I do. I’m not sure I’m on the right path either, but I know the Lord will provide for me, one way or another.”
She threaded more flax, reheated the needle, and began again, once more in silence.
“Tell me of the one on your side,” she said to Erik.
The thread slipped through his skin. Her fingers brushed his shoulder as he tried not to tighten the muscle.
Erik rubbed the side of his ribs where the mark lived. “It’s called the Valknut. I dedicated my life to Odin once. I was supposed to be destined for Valhalla, but none of Odin’s shield maidens would select me now, not after living this life.”
“A shield maiden is a Valkyrie?” Seren asked.
Erik nodded.
“And you call me Valkyrie?” Seren placed her hand over his on his ribs. She shouldn’t have done that; even so, she leaned and whispered in his ear. “I would choose you, Erik.”
His brow furrowed as his thumb stroked the side of her hand. He was going to say something, but stopped short before saying, “Now it is you who honors me, Lady Seren.”
He remembered what she had said to him all those years ago. It must have meant something more to him than just respect for her.
But his focus was intent on the hearth.
She pulled her hand away before Margot turned to look at them. No matter how much she trusted Margot, there was a limit.
Seren dropped her gaze to be intent on the gash. She was almost to the top of the wound.
“My father gave me my name,” she said. “It means star in my native tongue.”
“Star,” Erik repeated in a whisper as he gripped the seat.
“When I tended to my brothers’ wounds, I’d put a star at the top of my stitch as a way to tell them I’d always be with them. We all knew I’d likely be married off far away, and they hated never seeing me again.”
She hesitated. She shouldn’t ask him, but he’d saved her life so many times and called her Valkyrie. She needed something to show him how much she respected him, too. That when he had leaned in to kiss her, it wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted him, but that she was married.
“I’d thought I might put my star on your stitch, but it will distort the tip of Gungir. You may miss your target.” She tapped the place at the top of his shoulder.
“I’d be honored to wear your star on my skin, Lady Seren,” Erik said with a soft focus on the hearth. He hesitated but added, barely audible, “And I will carry you with me wherever I go.”
His whisper melted any lasting reservations Seren held about his feelings toward her, revealed the lies she’d told herself, and let the truth flood in.
That was dangerous ground. Because if she were honest, she wanted a life with him, but she couldn’t afford to be honest. Her vision blurred with tears, but she blinked them away and acted like she hadn’t heard the latter. “Very well, then.”
Her voice was clogged, and she tried to clear it. “I apologize to Odin for distorting his spear tip.”
“No apology is needed, Lady Seren,” he said.
The last stitch was done. She made her five-point star, tucked the thread, cut it, and pressed a clean vinegar-soaked cloth over the wound.
Behind her, Margot tapped on the door to give her a warning.
Tomas had passed once already, walking the corridor. He’d seen Seren in the council chamber, her hands red, Erik shirtless. But he’d said nothing; she hoped he would keep his mouth shut as he had for the others.
She dipped the cloth in vinegar again, wiped the blood from Erik’s skin, and reached for his uniform. He bent over to beat her to it. But he grunted and recoiled his arm.
“Remember, you have a nasty wound on your arm,” she said.
His cheeks turned red. He opened his mouth to say something, but bit back whatever it was and simply said, “Yes, milady.”
Seren picked the surcoat and chainmail off the floor and placed them on the table with a grunt. It was so heavy that she wondered at his strength in wearing it all day.
She checked the stitches.
They held.
She wrapped his shoulder and then moved to stand in front of him.
Resisting the urge to glance at his broad, finely haired chest, she draped his cloak over his shoulders.
He wouldn’t even be able to don his uniform with that injury.
A tunic would be hard to put on without help.
A knight always had a squire, but Henry refused to let him have one. Erik would be on his own.
She clipped the cloak’s brooch at his neck. Her fingers rested on the brooch’s polished metal, not wanting to let go.
He ran a fold of her dress in between his forefinger and thumb out of Margot’s sight.
“Thank you for carrying my star with you,” she said in a whisper and gazed into his eyes. She wanted him to know how she felt toward him, but the hearth light glinted off her silver ring.
It might have been different had Henry loved her or hadn’t tried to trap her with a reward of death, or treated her as anything other than a breeding mule. But she had made vows before God. She knew what life awaited with Henry, and she’d made the vows, anyway.
Before she realized it, Erik wiped away a tear.
She startled.
“I apologize,” he blurted.
“It is I who cried,” she said. “I . . . I miss my family.” She spoke half the truth. She’d missed him, too. Missed his embrace, his whisper, his presence, the what could have been tender kiss in the stairwell.
Though she wanted to, she couldn’t let Erik know of her feelings. What a misery it would be to both of them if she did.
He was unmarried and could have any woman he wanted. Why steal that choice from him? It was she who had made the marriage vow.
She swallowed the lump in her throat as his eyes bared his soul before her.
His lips parted as he would speak, but he only averted his gaze to the hearth behind her. She realized his silence was not indifference.
It was something worse—longing with nowhere to go.
She knew then, it wasn’t admiration alone.
He loved her.
She glanced at his lips before returning to his eyes—they were questioning if she felt the same way as he did.
“May the Lord bless your wound. Let it heal quickly,” she stammered.
His hand slowly rose and wiped away another tear. The warmth of his hand soothed her. She closed her eyes and turned her cheek into his touch.
No, she shouldn’t have done that.
“I am glad you have returned to us, my friend,” she whispered.
His fingers twitched at the word “friend.”
The poor man was probably lost on her, both pulling him closer and pushing him away, but she couldn’t trust herself with him anymore. She covered his hand on her cheek and opened her eyes, a few tears escaping with the release. Lowering his hand from her face, she tried to speak, her voice fading.
“I must return to my room.” Her lip trembled. “On behalf of Lord Henry, I grant you permission to see your son.”
She’d take whatever beating Henry gave her for that. Erik needed to see his son. Ragnar missed him so much.
“Please wait here for a little while before going, so Lord Henry’s guards . . . ” Her voice gave out.
It hurt too much—the life she had, the situation she had allowed herself to be in.
He nodded after a moment of silence.