and tied the line to the bird’s leg. The other, he secured to his wrist. Reaching in, he allowed the bird to find a perch on his gloved hand and brought it forward, rewarding it with a small piece of bait. The falcon gobbled it up and stretched its wings, flashing a beautiful array of brown and black patterned feathers.
Æsa petted the bird again and found it tolerating her affection.
“She is comfortable with you,” Øyven said.
“Sæhildr is beautiful.”
As if the bird enjoyed her praises, it batted its wings, fluttered about with the tether at her ankle, and landed on Æsa’s shoulder. She felt reluctant to let it perch, though the thick wool of her cloak protected her from its sharp talons.
“Here, give her this.” Øyven produced a small chunk of bait from his pouch and gave it to Æsa. She giggled as the bird seized the food and swallowed, proud that she was interacting with such a marvelous animal.
In an instant, the falcon ascended in the air and returned to Øyven’s hand. “What?” he asked, admiring the keen intelligence of his new pet. “You think you shall gain another bite of food for this?”
Æsa laughed, uncertain what she enjoyed more; the fact that the bird learned to hop from person to person in hopes of gaining a treat or that Øyven was talking to it like it was a human being. As she sat with him, sharing the peregrine seemed to help him open up and before long, they were enjoying each other’s company. So much that Æsa forgot about the nefarious men tailing them and Ragnar’s ring they’d left behind—until the sound of wood, clattering in a pile, jarred her from her merriment.
A heap of wood and kindling lay at Gustaf’s feet, his dark gaze resting heavily on Øyven. Nervously, Øyven secured the falcon and returned it to its cage.
“I will go in search of water, m’lord,” Øyven said, excusing himself.
Æsa watched Øyven leave then regarded Gustaf’s reaction. “What was that for?”
“Until Jørgen and Snorri return, we should all remain alert. All of us.”
“Meaning?” she taunted.
“Meaning,” he reiterated with distain in his voice, “that the bird would be better use to us if left alone. Animals often hear and see things before we can.”
Like a scolded child, Æsa held her tongue as Gustaf walked toward Øyven’s horse and plucked a few strands of hair from its tail. Tying the binding at both ends of a stick, he created a makeshift bow to which he wrapped another stick, sharpened to a point, in the center. He worked tediously to fashion a drill, using a rock and a spindle. With his foot and knee on a flat piece of wood, he held the rock atop the drilling stick and gripped the bow with his right. In a delicate balance of downward pressure and moving the bow back and forth, the drill stick spun. It took a long time of sawing the bow, but eventually a black powder formed and a sliver of smoke emitted from his relentless effort. With a tiny hot coal burning on the board, Gustaf carefully transferred it to the tinder of leaves and shredded cedar he’d set at the base of the tented wood. By fanning his hand, the coal ignited a flame and blazed through the kindling.
On his haunches, Gustaf waited for the wood to catch. When it snapped and crackled under the blaze, he sat back on the hide he’d spread out and slipped a dagger from his boot. With a sandstone in his grasp, he sat in silence, drawing the edge of his blade against the rock. Slowly, methodically.
Æsa recalled the last time she’d seen him do this. It was before he’d found the last man who murdered his father. She remembered the temperance in his movements, the long, slow strokes of his hand as he sharpened the weapon along the stone. Just as he’d done then, he sat lost in his own world, his mind tumbling with thoughts he’d yet to share.
She imagined it had something to do with feeling helpless. Right now, as they sat waiting for word from Jørgen and Snorri, the unknown was a
Æsa petted the bird again and found it tolerating her affection.
“She is comfortable with you,” Øyven said.
“Sæhildr is beautiful.”
As if the bird enjoyed her praises, it batted its wings, fluttered about with the tether at her ankle, and landed on Æsa’s shoulder. She felt reluctant to let it perch, though the thick wool of her cloak protected her from its sharp talons.
“Here, give her this.” Øyven produced a small chunk of bait from his pouch and gave it to Æsa. She giggled as the bird seized the food and swallowed, proud that she was interacting with such a marvelous animal.
In an instant, the falcon ascended in the air and returned to Øyven’s hand. “What?” he asked, admiring the keen intelligence of his new pet. “You think you shall gain another bite of food for this?”
Æsa laughed, uncertain what she enjoyed more; the fact that the bird learned to hop from person to person in hopes of gaining a treat or that Øyven was talking to it like it was a human being. As she sat with him, sharing the peregrine seemed to help him open up and before long, they were enjoying each other’s company. So much that Æsa forgot about the nefarious men tailing them and Ragnar’s ring they’d left behind—until the sound of wood, clattering in a pile, jarred her from her merriment.
A heap of wood and kindling lay at Gustaf’s feet, his dark gaze resting heavily on Øyven. Nervously, Øyven secured the falcon and returned it to its cage.
“I will go in search of water, m’lord,” Øyven said, excusing himself.
Æsa watched Øyven leave then regarded Gustaf’s reaction. “What was that for?”
“Until Jørgen and Snorri return, we should all remain alert. All of us.”
“Meaning?” she taunted.
“Meaning,” he reiterated with distain in his voice, “that the bird would be better use to us if left alone. Animals often hear and see things before we can.”
Like a scolded child, Æsa held her tongue as Gustaf walked toward Øyven’s horse and plucked a few strands of hair from its tail. Tying the binding at both ends of a stick, he created a makeshift bow to which he wrapped another stick, sharpened to a point, in the center. He worked tediously to fashion a drill, using a rock and a spindle. With his foot and knee on a flat piece of wood, he held the rock atop the drilling stick and gripped the bow with his right. In a delicate balance of downward pressure and moving the bow back and forth, the drill stick spun. It took a long time of sawing the bow, but eventually a black powder formed and a sliver of smoke emitted from his relentless effort. With a tiny hot coal burning on the board, Gustaf carefully transferred it to the tinder of leaves and shredded cedar he’d set at the base of the tented wood. By fanning his hand, the coal ignited a flame and blazed through the kindling.
On his haunches, Gustaf waited for the wood to catch. When it snapped and crackled under the blaze, he sat back on the hide he’d spread out and slipped a dagger from his boot. With a sandstone in his grasp, he sat in silence, drawing the edge of his blade against the rock. Slowly, methodically.
Æsa recalled the last time she’d seen him do this. It was before he’d found the last man who murdered his father. She remembered the temperance in his movements, the long, slow strokes of his hand as he sharpened the weapon along the stone. Just as he’d done then, he sat lost in his own world, his mind tumbling with thoughts he’d yet to share.
She imagined it had something to do with feeling helpless. Right now, as they sat waiting for word from Jørgen and Snorri, the unknown was a
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