Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Iken ‘tis tender, but please try tae hold still, me lady.”
The healer’s voice was calm, practical, and belonged to a woman with sun-kissed skin and ash blonde hair that was neatly braided away from a face that radiated competence.
She’d introduced herself as the healer of Uist when Isolda had gone to the small stone building tucked against the castle’s eastern wall.
Isolda winced as Liv’s fingers probed the tender skin around her ankle. “How daes it look?”
“Nae as bad as it could’ve been.” Liv wrapped the joint, her touch gentle despite the firmness of her grip. “Ye’ve been lucky, or stubborn, or both. Most lasses would still be abed with a sprain like this, but here ye are, walkin’ about like naethin’ happened.”
“‘Tis nae entirely by choice.” Isolda watched the bandage take shape, impressed with Liv’s neat, efficient work.
“Aye, yer journey here was definitely nae borin’.” Liv’s hazel eyes flicked up, assessing. “Attacked on the road, dragged across rough seas, carried up a cliff on horseback… ‘Tis quite the welcome tae the Isles.”
Something in her tone made Isolda’s shoulders relax fractionally. “Is that what we’re callin’ it? A welcome?”
“What would ye call it, me lady?”
“A kidnappin’.”
The corner of Liv’s mouth twitched upward. “Fair point. Though… if ye think about it… ye were already promised tae the jarl, and ye came willingly in the end, did ye nae?”
Despite everything, Isolda felt a genuine laugh bubble upward. “Ye’ve certainly got a plain way of lookin’ at things, Liv.”
“So I’ve been told.” She tied off the bandage and sat back on her heels, studying Isolda with an intensity that felt oddly comfortable. Familiar. “There. That should hold if ye dinnae try runnin’ away again.”
Liv stood and moved to a table crowded with clay pots and various dried herbs hanging from the rafters above. “Tea?”
“Please.”
The healer’s quarters were small, but cozy—one main room with a hearth, shelves lined with mysterious bottles and medical tools. There was a narrow bed in the corner that looked like it rarely saw use. The air smelled of lavender, rosemary, and something sharper Isolda couldn’t place her finger on.
“Willow bark and chamomile,” Liv explained, following Isolda’s gaze to the pot she was preparing. “Fer aches and sleepin’. Ye look like ye could use a hearty helpin’ of both, if ye dinnae mind me sayin’ so.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Milady, ye look like a woman who’s been through hell and is tryin’ very hard tae pretend she hasnae.
” Liv poured the steaming liquid into two wooden cups and handed one to Isolda.
“‘Tis admirable, fer sure. But ye dinnae need tae pretend. Nae in here. I’ve nay interest in reportin’ yer state of mind tae anyone. ”
Isolda wrapped her hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. “Why did ye send fer me? Me injuries arenae—”
“Nae sent. Invited.” Liv settled into the chair opposite, cradling her own cup. “The jarl suggested ye might benefit from proper tendin’, and I agreed. Sprains left unattended can worsen, and ye’ll be needin’ yer strength fer what’s ahead.”
“Fer the weddin’, ye mean.”
“Amongst other things.” Liv took a sip of her tea, her eyes never leaving Isolda’s face. “How d’ye like Uist so far?”
The question was so ordinary, so completely normal, that Isolda almost didn’t know how to answer it. “Well, I’ve barely seen it. The keep, the courtyard, me chambers… that’s basically the extent of me acquaintance with the island.”
“Well, that’s a cryin’ shame. Uist’s bonnie in its own, harsh way. All cliffs and grey stone and wind that’ll freeze yer bones if ye’re nae careful. But there’s warmth here too, if ye ken where tae find it.”
“And where would that be?”
“In the people, mostly.” Liv gestured vaguely toward the window, where voices could be heard. “They’re good folk, the ones who call this place home. Loyal. Hardy. Quick tae help a neighbor and slow tae forget a kindness bestowed.”
Isolda studied the woman across from her, trying to determine if this was genuine, or some sort of test. “Ye sound like ye’re tryin tae convince me this is a good place with good people.”
“I’m just tellin’ ye the god’s honest truth about where ye’ll be livin’.” Liv’s expression remained open, honest. “Whether ye think that’s good or nae, well, that’s yer own business, me lady.”
“And the jarl?” The question escaped before Isolda could stop it. “What truth would ye have me ken about him?”
Liv’s smile was knowing. “Ach… now there’s the real question, aye?”
“I barely ken the man I’m meant tae marry, Liv.”
“Then I’ll tell ye.” Liv set down her cup and leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on her knees.
“Ragnar Ketilsson is the finest leader these lands have seen in generations. Fair, steady, strong without bein’ cruel.
He’s lost people, and it’s made him careful about who he lets close.
Some might mistake that fer coldness, but it’s nae. ‘Tis just… protection.”
“What could a Viking possibly need protection against?”
“From losin’ those he holds dear.”
“That daesnae sound like the same man forcin’ me intae marriage.” She said quietly.
“Ragnar might be many things, but he’s just a man, ye ken.
” Liv’s voice was firm, yet gentle. “And he kens what it’s like tae have yer entire life decided fer ye by forces beyond yer control.
” Liv reached over, her hand gently patting Isolda’s leg.
“Ye might find that the two of ye have more in common than ye think, me lady.”
“If that’s the case, then why go through with it?”
“Because he believes in the Pact. In the peace it brings.” Liv sat back, picked up her cup again and cradled it between her palms. “Ragnar’s seen enough blood tae last several lifetimes.
If marryin’ a Highland lass he daesnae ken means his people can live without fear of raids, of losin’ their sons and fathers tae endless warfare, then he’ll dae it. Even if it costs him.”
“Noble, fer a savage.” Isolda said, unable to keep the bitterness from her tone.
“Aye, ‘tis actually.” Liv’s tone held no judgement. “Ye can resent him fer it if ye like, but ye shouldnae mistake duty fer villainy. He’s just obeyin’ a royal order and daein’ what he thinks is right, same as ye tried tae dae when ye fled tae that nunnery.”
Isolda’s cheeks flared. The comparison stung, but it was accurate. She had fled to Iona seeking exactly what Ragnar was trying to offer his people—safety, peace and freedom.
“Drink yer tea, me lady.” Liv said gently. “It’ll help with the pain.”
Isolda obeyed, letting the warm liquid settle in her stomach. It tasted of herbs and honey, soothing not only as a medicine but also as an offer of friendship.
After Isolda had finished her drink, Liv stood and moved to the door. “Come. Let me show ye a bit of the village. Ye should at least ken who these people are if ye’re tae become their lady.”
Isolda squinted against the bright afternoon light as she stepped into the courtyard, which was bustling with activity—servants scurrying between buildings, warriors running drills near the practice yard, and children chasing one another around the well.
The sky was grim and grey and the wind icy cold, but the air carried with it the scent of freshly baked bread and livestock.
“Ye’ve met Bjorn,” Liv said, pointing to the steward directing a group of men unloading supplies from a wagon.
“He’s been with the Ketilsson family since Ragnar’s grandsire’s time.
Kens more about runnin’ this place than anyone alive, I’d reckon.
Bit crusty on the outside, but soft as butter once ye’ve earned his respect. ”
They strolled toward the gates, Liv matching her pace to Isolda’s careful steps. Warriors nodded respectfully as they passed, and Isolda noticed how many of them looked genuinely pleased to see the healer.
“The village is just beyond the walls,” Liv explained. “Nae grand like yer Highland holdings I’d wager, but we’ve a blacksmith, weavers and fishermen. Everyone contributes where they can, everyone looks out fer each other.”
As they passed through the gates, Isolda caught sight of the practice yard. Her attention snagged on a familiar broad-shouldered figure moving through sword form with deadly precision.
Ragnar.
He stood in just a tunic and breeches despite the chill in the air, his movements fluid and economical as he demonstrated a parry to the younger warriors stood around him.
Sweat dampened his dark blonde hair, and his face held the kind of intense concentration that made Isolda think of storms gathering on the horizon.
He’s nae bad tae look at, truth be told.
She pushed the wayward thought away.
“He trains every mornin’.” Liv said quietly, following Isolda’s gaze.
“Has done since he was old enough tae lift a blade. Says it keeps him sharp, but I reckon it’s more than that.
” Liv inched closer, her voice soft. “I think it reminds him that strength must be earned. Maintained. That leadership isnae just about shoutin’ orders, but about bein’ worthy of those who follow ye. ”
Isolda watched with wide eyes as Ragnar corrected a lad’s grip with patience, demonstrating the proper angle without embarrassing him. The other warriors around them responded with obvious respect, their attention complete, their trust evident.
“The lads love him,” Liv continued. “He’s hard on them when he needs tae be, there’s nay doubtin’ that.
But he’s fair. Never asks them tae dae what he himself wouldnae.
And when they’re injured or ill, he checks on them personally.
He remembers their kin, their names, their concerns.
He’s nae some distant pompous laird in a tower—he kens his people. Each and every one.”
As if sensing their attention, Ragnar’s gaze lifted and found Isolda across the yard. For a moment, their eyes met—his steady and unreadable, hers uncertain—and Isolda’s heart fluttered traitorously.