“I will pray to St. Cuthbert for his intercession on Thork’s behalf,” Athelstan told Ruby sympathetically before going off with Eirik and Sigtrygg. He came back several times during the next two days to talk with Thork, but there was nothing he could do for Thork and he finally departed.
Despite Ruby’s prayers and the powerful healing herbs he was given, Thork grew weaker by the day. Dar and Aud were practically catatonic with grief. Tykir was kept away from his father’s chamber because of his outbursts of fear which upset Thork and everyone else. Eirik was stoic in hiding the turmoil which must have been rocking his soul. Ruby lived one day at a time, trying to survive, hoping for the best.
One week after Thork’s return to Jorvik, a great uproar took place outside the palace. Ruby was too disheartened to make the effort to go to a window and see what was happening. Soon the loud voices entered the palace, accompanied by a booming voice and much running.
“Where is my son?” someone bellowed imperiously.
Ruby looked up to see an enormous bear of a man filling the doorway, blocking out all of the people behind him.
Outraged, Ruby hissed, “Get out of here! Can’t you see we have a sick man here?”
The giant didn’t budge. “Who are you, wench?” he demanded with supreme arrogance.
“I’m Thork’s wife. Who the hell are you?”
“I am Thork’s father.” He glowered down at her as he scrutinized her through pale blue eyes—eyes that mirrored Thork’s.
Stunned, Ruby examined the old man more thoroughly. Dressed in a black velvet cloak, embroidered with gold thread and studded with precious jewels, he towered over her, about the same height as Thork but bulkier. His pure white hair hung exceedingly well-groomed all the way to his shoulder blades, held in place by a gold circlet around his forehead.
Ruby saw through the open doorway that a number of splendidly dressed noble Vikings filled the hallway, probably companions or family to this King Harald of Norway. Even Sigtrygg stood in the background in deference to the mighty ruler. But Ruby wasn’t impressed. This was the same father who’d neglected his son for years, who’d failed to protect him from his vicious brother, who’d never showed an ounce of affection.
Without being invited in, Harald walked regally to the bed and sat down in a chair. You would have thought it was a bloody throne. Placing a hand on Thork’s chest, he said in a surprisingly gentle voice, “Thork, ’tis your father come to see you.”
Thork opened his eyes slowly and blinked in astonishment. “Father! What brings you here? Have I died already and gone to hell?”
Harald smiled wanly. “Nay, alive you are, and if I can help it, you will remain so. I have brought my own healer with me. I came as soon as I heard.”
Thork arched his eyebrows disbelievingly at his father.
“Didst your brother Eric have aught to do with this?” Harald’s mouth formed a thin line of displeasure and his eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Nay, not this time,” Thork answered with a short laugh at his father’s belated concern over Eric’s deadly games. ” ‘Twas Ivar.”
“This I promise you, son, Ivar will be dead within the month, a blood-eagle on his back and your name carved in his chest.”
Thork tried to shake his head as his strength faded again. ” ‘Tis no longer important—the killing. ‘Tis all a waste.”
“No man harms my son and lives to boast of it,” the Norse king avowed with a steely voice.
“It all comes back to you, as always, does it not, Father?” Thork accused tiredly. “Why then didst you let my brother pursue me so?”
King Harald’s face grew hard and his lips trembled with indignation at his son’s harsh words. Finally he said, “I let him loose on you to make you strong, and it succeeded. You are the strongest of all my sons—the best of the litter.”
“The litter!” Thork choked on the exclamation. Ruby glared at Harald, trying to tell him silently that he was not helping his son. Thork muttered weakly, ” ‘Twas all I ever was—one of your vast get, no more important than a dog.”