Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Why in the name of all that is holy are ye bleedin’?”
Isolda’s voice sliced through the corridor the next day. Freyr had half-dragged him the last stretch, muttering creative curses under his breath about death wishes—but Ragnar hadn’t registered a word.
Now, though, he heard everything—the anger in his wife’s tone, the thread of panic beneath it and the way her footsteps quickened as she crossed the space toward them, her gray-green eyes wide and fixed on the gash splitting his shoulder.
“Ye shouldnae fash yerself over—”
“Haud yer wheesht!” Her hands moved before he could stop her, fingers cold against his warm skin as she examined the wound. “What happened?” her voice cracked, betraying the fear behind the anger.
“Found Graham’s men skulkin’ about at the shore,” Freyr said, keeping his voice low as he guided Ragnar toward the nearest bench in the infirmary.
“And?” her eyes never left the gash.
“Two are feedin’ the crabs. The third got a lucky strike in before Ragnar gutted him.”
“Lucky.” She said flatly.
“Got him secured in the dungeon.” Freyr met Ragnar’s eyes briefly. “He can sit and rot until ye’re ready tae question him, me laird.”
Ragnar nodded, then immediately regretted the movement as pain lanced through muscle and bone—white-hot and vicious, making his teeth ache.
“Dinnae move,” Isolda commanded.
She turned sharply, calling for Liv with an authority that would have made him smile if breathing didn’t hurt so much. The healer appeared from the back room, her blonde braid swinging as she assessed the situation with professional calm.
“Och, Ragnar,” she shook her head, already gathering supplies. “What have ye done tae yersel’ this time?”
“Played hero.” Isolda jabbed. “And nearly got himself killed fer it.”
“I’m nae—”
“Ye were.” She rounded on him, and the fear flickering in her eyes stole whatever protest he’d been forming.
Is she… afraid fer me?
Freyr cleared his throat. “I’ll leave ye tae it, then. Liv kens what she’s about, and…” his gaze slid to Isolda with poorly concealed amusement. “It seems ye’ve got enough hands willin’ tae sort this mess.”
He disappeared before Ragnar could respond, leaving him alone with two women.
“That shirt needs tae come off,” Liv said, setting her supplies on the table beside him—strips of clean linen, a clay pot that held honey and another filled with crushed yarrow root. “Can ye manage it, or—”
“I’ve got it,” Isolda said, her voice clipped.
Liv raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, moving to prepare the needle and thread while Isolda stepped closer. Her hands found the hem of his shirt, hesitating just for a breath before she began working the blood-soaked fabric upward.
Ragnar held still, fighting every instinct that told him to help her, to move, to do anything but sit there like an invalid while she peeled his shirt away from the gash. The linen had dried slightly, and stuck. When she peeled it away, the fresh sting dragged a breath through his teeth.
“Sorry,” her voice softened. “I dinnae mean tae—”
“Ye didnae hurt me, lass.”
She didn’t answer, too focused on pulling the shirt over his head and dropping it in a ruined heap on the floor.
“Looks deep,” Liv said from behind them, her tone matter-of-fact. “But nae the worst I’ve seen. However, ye’ll be needin’ stitches, me jarl, and plenty of them.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Aye, I can see that.” Isolda’s voice went quiet, almost distant, as her fingers traced the air above an old scar on his ribs—the one that curved beneath his heart like a crescent moon. “This one looks like it should’ve killed ye.”
“It tried.” Ragnar followed her eyes. “Blade went in durin’ a raid when I was a lad—deep enough that the man who gave it tae me thought it would.”
“But ye’re still here.”
“Disappointed?”
Her eyes snapped to his, sharp and bright. “Dinnae be daft.”
Ragnar grunted amusingly. “I let him think it fer long enough tae return the favor. Then stubbornness did the rest.” He glanced at Liv. “And a healer who refused tae let me die, even when I was fool enough tae want tae.”
Liv snorted from across the room. “Are we goin’ tae stand around discussin’ history or stitch ye up, me jarl? Ye dinnae have tae stay,” she then said, turning to Isolda.
Isolda straightened, her chin lifting. “Of course I’ll stay. I’ll help. Tell me what tae dae.”
Both Ragnar and Liv turned to stare at her.
“Me lady—” Liv began.
Isolda’s voice held steady despite the slight tremor in her hands. “Just tell me. I’m nae squeamish.”
“Isolda—” Ragnar’s voice came low, careful.
“What?” She swerved to face him, eyes blazing. “Ye think I cannae handle it?” a bitter laugh escaped her. “If I’m goin’ tae be married tae a Viking who’s determined tae get himself killed, I should ken how tae tend tae him.” She turned toward Liv. “So teach me.”
Liv studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “All right then. But ye dae exactly as I say, and if ye cannae handle it, ye stop.”
“Aye.”
Ragnar watched as Liv moved to her side, guiding Isolda through the preparation. First, the cleaning—water from the fire, still warm, mixed with crushed yarrow and honey. Isolda dipped clean linen strips into the concoction, wringing it out carefully.
When the cloth touched his raw flesh, Ragnar’s eyes pressed shut. Pain bloomed white and vicious, spreading like fire across the gash.
“Now, take the whisky,” Liv said, handing her a flask. “Pour it directly intae the wound. It’ll burn worse than the yarrow, but ‘tis the best defense against fevered flesh.”
Isolda’s hands were steady as she poured, and this time, Ragnar couldn’t stop the sharp hiss that escaped through his teeth, his knuckles turning white where they gripped the bench.
“I’m sorry,” Isolda whispered, genuine distress flashing in her eyes.
“Dinnae be,” he managed. “Just dae what ye need tae dae.”
Liv threaded the needle—silk thread, fine and strong, waxed to slide through flesh. She showed Isolda the proper angle, the tension needed and the spacing between stiches.
“Small and even now, me lady,” Liv instructed. “Too tight and ye’ll tear the flesh. Too lose and it willnae hold.”
Isolda took a deep breath and watched as Liv pressed the needle to his skin.
The first puncture was sharp and clean, making Ragnar’s jaw clench, but he didn’t move—just kept his gaze fixed on Isolda’s face as Liv worked.
“There,” Liv murmured. “Just like that. Even tension, nae too tight.”
She repeated the motion. Ragnar felt every draw of the needle, the thread sliding through his skin, the pull and gather of flesh being knitted back together.
“How many more?” Isolda asked Liv, holding his hand.
“Three. Maybe four.” Liv handed her a fresh length of thread.
By the time Liv tied off the final stitch, Ragnar’s shoulder throbbed dully—a manageable ache rather than the startling burn from before.
Liv inspected her work. “Aye, that’ll dae.” She turned to prepare a bandage. “I’ll wrap it now but ye’ll need tae change it twice daily, me lady. If ye see any heat, red streaks or catch a foul smell—ye send fer me immediately. Understood?”
“Aye,” they answered in unison, then caught each other’s eyes.
Isolda looked away first, color rising in her cheeks.
Liv tied the bandage carefully. “There. Now, ye have tae let it rest fer at least two days. Nay sparrin’, nay heavy liftin’, and fer the love of all that’s sacred—nay more heroics until ye’re properly healed, me laird.”
“Aye. Thank ye, Liv.”
“I mean it.” She fixed him with a look that had cowed many a warrior. “If ye tear ‘em out, I’ll sew ye up again with a dull needle.”
Liv gathered her supplies as Ragnar chuckled, and disappeared into the back room, leaving him alone with Isolda in the empty infirmary.
She stood with her back to him, dipping her hands in the basin near the door before scrubbing her fingers violently as if she could wash away more than just his blood.
“Thank ye.” He said softly.
“Ye dinnae need tae thank me.”
“Aye. I dae.” He rose carefully, testing the pull of the stitches. “Ye didnae have tae tend tae me as well. Liv would’ve—”
“I wanted tae.”
He took a step closer. “Why?”
“Because…” she met his eyes, and whatever excuse she’d been forming died on her tongue. “Because I needed tae see tae it meself that ye’d be all right. That ye’d live.”
“Why?”
“I dinnae ken,” she whispered. “I just…did.” She swept from the room, heading out the door. “Ye should rest,” she said without looking back and disappeared into the corridor before he could even open his mouth to respond, her footsteps echoing away into silence.
Ragnar lay alone in the infirmary, his shoulder aching and his mind filled with the image of her bent over his wound, her hair falling forward, her touch so careful it almost felt like a kind of worship.
The bathhouse sat tucked in a quiet corner of the castle, a construction of smooth stone with a sunken pool fed by heated springs from beneath the castle.
Isolda had discovered it a while before, but had never used it. That night, however, she felt the need to wash away the feeling of his blood on her fingers, the heat of his skin, and the way he’d looked at her while she worked, as if she were doing something miraculous.
The corridor stretched empty before her, the castle settling into the stillness of late evening. She pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, letting it close behind her with a soft thud.
Steam rose from the pool in thick white columns, filling the chamber with humid warmth that settled on her skin.
The lamps burned low in their sconces, and the air tasted of minerals and stone—clean, medicinal and soothing.
Isolda moved to the edge of the pool, already reaching for the ties of her dress.
She stripped quickly, leaving her clothes folded on a bench near the wall, then descended the stoney steps into the water.