Chapter 8 #2
Then, he nodded once and returned to his task.
“Come along then,” Liv said, gently steering Isolda away. “There’s more tae see than sweaty Vikings, me lady.”
They walked through the village that hugged the base of the castle’s walls in a protective semicircle. Quaint stone cottages with thatched roofs clustered together, smoke rising from their chimneys, women calling to each other as they worked, completing their domestic tasks.
“That’s Torvi,” Liv pointed to a woman hanging up laundry. “Her husband serves in the jarl’s guard. They’ve three wee bairns and another one on the way. When her eldest took ill winter past, the jarl paid fer the tonics out of his own horde.”
They passed a smith’s forge, where a large, round man was shaping what looked to be a horseshoe. He looked up, sweat dripping down his flushed face and called out to them. “Nice tae see ye, Liv! Whose yer companion?”
“Have ye been livin’ under a rock, Hvitserk?” Liv jabbed, though there was no real heat in her voice. “This here’s Lady Isolda, soon tae be our Lady Ketilsson.”
The smith set down his hammer and wiped his hands on his apron, studying Isolda with frank curiosity. “Welcome tae Uist, me lady. If ye need anythin’ from the forge, ye’ve only tae ask.”
“Thank ye. That’s very kind of ye.” Isolda managed, caught off guard by the genuine warmth in his voice.
“The lady’s had a rough introduction tae island hospitality,” Liv said with a grin.
Hvitserk’s expression sobered. “Aye. We heard about the attack. Damned Graham bastards!—beggin’ yer pardon, me lady. But ye dinnae fash yer head about it, aye? The jarl’l nae let them get tae ye.”
“Ye sound awfully certain.”
“I am.” Hvitserk’s conviction was absolute. “The jarl has never failed tae protect his people. Nae once. And I dinnae reckon he’d start now, especially nae with his own bride at stake.”
His bride. Strange how that phrase meant both nothing and everything all at once.
They continued through the village, and everywhere they went, the pattern repeated. People greeted Liv warmly and regarded Isolda with curiosity rather than hostility. And when they spoke of Ragnar it was with respect and affection.
“He settled a land dispute between me kin and the Grahams—different ones,” one elderly woman explained when Liv stopped to check on her rheumatism. “Could’ve taken sides, but instead he listened tae both parties and found a solution that satisfied everyone.”
“Aye, Hilde, ‘tis just so! He saved me wee lad’s life after a fishin’ accident,” a haggard farmer added. “Carried him all the way up tae the keep himself and stayed with him through the night while this one worked her healin’. I’d follow him anywhere he asked, nay question about it.”
Story after story came, each one painting the same picture: a man who led with strength but governed with compassion. A man who remembered names and honored promises. A man who’d earned the loyalty of his people through actions, rather than demands.
‘Tis almost too good tae be true… so, who are ye really, Ragnar Ketilsson?
By the time they made it back to Liv’s quarters, Isolda’s ankle was aching and her head was spinning with everything she’d learned.
“Ye’ve gone quiet.” Liv observed, moving to gather a small bundle of dried herbs. “Hope we didnae overwhelm ye, me lady.”
“Nae at all. I’m just… thinkin’.” Isolda watched as Liv wrapped a packet of willow bark and chamomile with swift fingers. “Everyone speaks so highly of him.”
“‘Tis because of who he is. And because he’s earned it through and through.” Liv tied the bundle and held it out. “Fer the pain and tae help ye sleep. Take it before bed and ye’ll feel right as rain in the mornin’.”
Isolda accepted the packet, turning it over in her hands. “What if I cannae dae this?”
“Dae what, me lady?”
“Marry him. Live here. Pretend everythin’s fine when it isnae?”
“What’s fer ye will nae go by ye.” Liv said simply, squeezing Isolda’s hand gently. “Besides, the alternative is runnin’. And runnin’ only works until there’s nowhere left tae hide.”
“But what else is there tae dae?”
“Sometimes all that’s left is tae turn and face what’s chasin’ ye, me lady.
” Liv’s smile was gentle. “Ye’re stronger than ye think, Isolda MacGregor.
Ye wouldnae have run otherwise. I can see it in ye.
And if ye let yerself—if ye let him—ye might just find that this trap ye’re in has room fer growth. And perhaps even happiness.”
Isolda looked down at the tea in her hands—a remedy for pain, for sleep, for healing. Such simple things, and yet they represented something more: care and the understanding that she was not entirely alone within these walls.
“Thank ye,” she said quietly. “Fer the medicine. And fer… the rest of it.”
“Come back whenever ye need, me lady.” Liv said, walking her to the door. “Me door’s always open, and I dinnae care fer gossip. Ye’re free within these wee walls of mine.”
Isolda stepped out into the courtyard, the bundle of herbs solid in her grip—tangible proof that perhaps—just perhaps—she wasn’t as trapped as she believed.
She turned back to look at the healer’s quarters where Liv stood framed in the doorway, and then back toward the practice yard, where the warriors still trained.
Somewhere, Ragnar was going about his duties, carrying the weight of leadership and the burden of this forced marriage—same as her.
What if Liv’s right? What if he’s nae me enemy after all?
The thought terrified her. But more than that, it had lit a tiny ember of hope deep within the darkest corners of her soul.