He woke up in the dark quiet room and his arm frantically started searching for the dagger. It took him a while to realize that the silence was not because his guards were lying dead slain. It wasn't a lot that he had slept, a few hours at most but after a fortnight on board and years of sleeping at whatever place they could find, his bed felt too soft and the room too stuffy.
The frosty air hit him like a thousand little arrows but he welcomed it gladly into his lungs. The street was calm, too, and suddenly he felt uneasy. Rows of silent houses. Soft candle lights flickered in some. And so many various smells: of milk, animals, sweat and meat. It smelt of peace and life. Of the life Ivar never wished to have. He wanted to feel blood rushing through his veins anticipating the battle. He wanted to feel the death's breath on his cheeks. He wanted to forget he was different. Back to Ireland he used to be a fearsome leader. He came back here to become a disabled cripple again. He thought he'd convinced himself into accepting it. It turned out he never had.
He had to be done with her. But not now. He needed a few days until she's not busy with healing anymore. And it will be over. He sighed heavily.
Coward.
She was on the meadow, standing on her knees, searching for something. She looked so small with only dry yellowish stalks around. Here and there snow was still lying.
She was moving from one place to another, digging the ground with her fingers, pushing away the grass. The wind was constantly blowing the hood off her head and she had to keep it with one hand, fixing her messy hair with the other.
Her nose and cheeks were red from the frost, the scar - a crimson ribbon slithering down her face.
The scar she was always trying to hide, wearing her hair combed to the right. She didn't bother hiding it now, thinking no one saw her. She didn't know she was being watched.
What herbs could she possibly find, the winter's barely over, Ivar thought.
He tightened his fingers on the dagger. It will be done with her today. His eyes were following her movements like a predator's waiting to attack.
He might have sent his men. But then it would be hard to explain why he would need to have one of the most valuable healers of Kattegat murdered.
Despite old Saga and she would come to him when he was in pain, he didn't really know much about her. They said either her father or mother was from these lands, but she'd been brought here as a slave so he didn't care much about her kin.
She was hardly alive, that old hug. Almost deaf and completely blind, but her shaking hands would unmistakably find the necessary herb, mixture or powder. He shrugged when the old woman came to his mind. Always dressed in black, with her back hunched nearly to the ground. He could still feel her calloused hands on his skin. He could swear people preferred to die rather than have her in their house when it came to that. Her ways of treatment were a lot worse than any pain. He remembered how she used to scold him for crying when he was a kid, when his legs hurt him horribly. But she was considered so respectful and wise that even his mother could say nothing against.
The legs were his damnation. Instead of just running to the girl and strike with the blade, he had to do the talks.
The ground was still frozen allowing him to walk easier than if it was soft.
And he felt miserable. He was going to commit a pathetic thing. Gods must be laughing at him right now.
She saw him and quickly rose from the ground. Her hands grabbed the hood of her coat still struggling with the wind pulling it off. He noticed she tried to pull the right side of her hood lower to hide the scar. You won't need to worry about that soon enough, he though.
'Prince Ivar', a slight bow of her head. And that glance again. He has always detested the way she looked at him. Always those narrowed eyes, always that raised head. As if feeling her supremacy over him. The worst thing was that he felt it, too.
It infuriated him but he had to control it.
'Nice to see you, Esa' all his muscles were so tense that, judging by her expression, his attempt to smile obviously failed.
Just killing her was not enough. He wanted to sweep that arrogance off her face. He wanted her to look at him the way that Margaret does. That slut could talk whatever she wants. Her words might still hang without much value. But gossips have wings, and Esa used to be his doctor. At least she would always tag along with Saga. Even though he could ignore the rumor which was Margaret's doing, Esa knew everything and she could confirm it. He wasn't sure why she would do it but Margaret did, and so she might too. He couldn't bear that young girl knowing his shame. He just needed it over. His legs didn't hurt that much as they used to. Besides, now he knew the ways to reduce the pain.
The fact that she took some knowledge from the old healer didn't make her the best of all. They had plenty of doctors in Kattegat. Some loner-girl wouldn't be missed.
She preferred to stay on her own most of the time and people talked. It's wonderful how far people's imagination goes when knowledge is out of its power. Some said she was as crazy as the late healer. Some said she performed horrific rituals much more terrifying than their own since she never used runes in her treatments. Some even whispered she was the goddess Hel in flesh and blood. With her timid manners and two-sided face. One side – alive and pretty, the other – ugly and damaged.
Ivar didn't remember her doing anything outrageous or something one might assume she was dangerous or crazy.
No, there was one thing.
When she arrived, slender and frightened, she stole a knife and hid in some warehouse. Everybody thought she was either planning to kill herself or someone else. She kicked and bit and scratched and it took three men to get her out. When they finally managed to pull her outside, people saw that what she'd really done was weird. Her hair was cut up to her shoulders. Flocks of half-cut hair were flailing and hanging like broken ropes. She was trying to tear them off with her bare hands since the knife was taken away from her. She was hysterical. That's how Ivar first saw her. There was nothing new in slaves shouting and scratching, trying to hurt themselves or others. But her intentions were not fully clear. Yet there was something old Saga saw in her. Something that made her have Ragnar free the girl. And that's how Esa had become the woman's assistant since then.
Esa's done nothing of the kind since then. But her hair was always cut not longer than her shoulders.
'Is there something troubling you?' her left side of the face eyed him attentively.
Fine. He didn't even have to think of the reason why he came.
'Eh…Yeah, actually it's my legs. They ache a little lately.'
'You needn't have walked all the way here, Prince Ivar. You could've sent for me.' His jaw clenched. She thinks he's weak, right?
He'd never come directly to her before, so she was clearly taken aback, he could hear uneasiness in her voice. She turned towards her hut, her arm gestured Ivar to follow.
It was the first time he was walking right beside her, on his feet. She was quite short. Her hood covered head barely reached his shoulders.
All his muscles tensed. He could just hit her with his crutch or hand. She's just a slip of a girl. She wouldn't fight him off. And stab the dagger. He felt it on the belt under his tunic. Its hilt was hot like fire. He'll deal with Margaret then. No one will take her death seriously, anyway. Nothing in the world could prove him Ubbe really loved her. It's his and Ragnar's high morality to take too much on them that led to his brother's marriage to a slave whore.
Ivar remembered how she was crying her lungs out swearing she'd never breathe a word. He should have made it true. She shouldn't be breathing.
Just take the fucking blade out and stab. And it's over.
Instead they walked on.
'It's fine. They don't bother me much. From time to time, though. I just needed that medicine you used to give me. I forgot what it was.'
From the side look at her he saw her narrow her eyes again and frown. She didn't buy it.
'It's started just recently. Seems like a settled way of life is not really my thing. Back to Ireland everything was perfectly fine.'
The corner of her lips tugged upwards.
'I'm really glad your legs are better. You probably won't need the old medicine this time. It was quite strong.' The tone of her voice, so sterile and polite.
'You're the healer, you decide,' he smiled. She didn't say anything. The conversation wasn't going as he planned. Nothing actually was.
It was the first time he walked in the cabin, not was carried into.
The door opened with a soft creak. He was expecting to hear the sound of tablets hitting each other. But apart from the door, it was silent.
From his memories, it used to be the realm of gloom and terrific pain. At times it got so intense he could hardly see anything around. But as far as he remembered, there were always amulets made of bones or animal fangs hanging above the bed, there were charms and figures of gods leaning against the walls. And sickening smell of onion and garlic. And darkness.
When he stepped into the hut he felt like the world was left behind him. It still smelled of the disinfection mixture, there was no way of getting rid of it. But the room looked empty. No idols or charms or amulets. Only carefully piled up rugs, dry herbs hanging from the ceiling, plates and pounders towered neatly onto each other near the fire place.
Though perfectly clean the place seemed uninhabited. It felt like they were the first who set feet inside the hut years since old Saga passed away. As if nobody's lived here since.