Читать книгу One Night With The Viking - Harper St. George - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Two years later

Gunnar squinted into the grey dawn and tried to make out the figure he was sure he had seen just over the ridge. It had been a quick movement, but too large for a small animal. Though the signs of spring were all around—the frost losing its grip on the earth, the small white flowers peeking out of the dead foliage on the forest floor—it was too early in the season for the larger animals to be out. It must have been a Saxon. The smell of their unwashed bodies wafted across the distance.

It was time for battle. Absently, his fingers reached into his tunic to stroke the lock of silvery-blonde hair he kept tied on a leather thong around his neck. It had become a habit before battle, one that he couldn’t break, even though he had determined to stop thinking of her. More than once, he’d found himself doing it and resolved to cast the lock into the nearest fire, but he never could bring himself to do it. As paltry as it was, the memento was his only link to Kadlin—the only link he would ever have. Stroking it never failed to make him remember how good it had felt to become a part of her that night, to claim her and make her his. Or how her scent, like sunshine mixed with wildflowers, had stayed on his skin for days afterward; and how in summer, when the afternoon sun shone through the clouds after a rain, it reminded him of her scent and would never fail to arouse him.

One night would never be enough with her, nor would a lifetime. He could touch her every day for the rest of his life and it would never be enough. She was the only light able to penetrate the coldness inside him. He’d willingly warm himself for an eternity in her light.

He wanted her. By the gods, he wanted her with him more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Her absence left a gaping wound inside that no one could see and it festered worse every day. But she wasn’t meant to be his.

Leaving her after taking her body, after hearing the sweet words she’d whispered in his ear, had been the hardest thing that he’d ever done. He’d lain with many women, but he’d never experienced the overwhelming wave of possessiveness that had overcome him when he’d risen to dress and looked down at her. With his seed glistening on the tender flesh of her inner thighs, he’d felt as if he’d branded her, marked her as his in a primal ritual as old as man. It had taken every ounce of will he possessed to walk away.

He’d only been able to do it because he’d convinced himself that leaving was best for her. She deserved a life where she would be surrounded by those she loved. She was meant to be a jarl’s wife, not the wife of an unwanted bastard. Not the wife of someone incapable of loving and protecting her as she deserved. It was only that memory of how he had failed in the past that had given him strength to ignore the darkness within him that urged him to take her away with him, to leave her to her peaceful life without him.

When his ship had set sail, he’d known that he was entering some of the darkest days of his life. The years away from her had been black; he had no reason to believe that the ones ahead of him would be any better.

The soft crunch of dry twigs alerted Gunnar to his friend’s presence behind him just before Magnus spoke. ‘What do you see?’

Gunnar opened his eyes and tried to shake thoughts of Kadlin away. If he wanted to live, he couldn’t afford distractions. That was the very reason he needed to get rid of that bloody lock of hair; it was a distraction. Nodding to the small break in the trees, he spoke softly. ‘I saw a Saxon. Just there.’ They were both silent, waiting for another movement. After a few minutes, they were rewarded as the figure of a man darted across the opening.

Magnus grumbled in disgust. ‘They should come fight us like men instead of hiding in the trees.’

‘They already tried that and realised they couldn’t win,’ Gunnar muttered as he scanned the treeline, looking for more. Earlier in the week, he and his men had come across a ragtag group of Saxon men. There had been a fight, and when it had become apparent that his men were the stronger warriors, the Saxons had scattered. His men had found some of them, but the rest had escaped and had regrouped and followed them. He didn’t like their cowardice in hiding and his blood pumped furiously at the thought of crushing them. ‘They won’t approach. They’re waiting. We’ll have to root them out.’

Magnus nodded his agreement. ‘There are at least two score. If they met with others, there could be more.’

‘I’ll take some men and ride in behind them. Drive them out into the open.’

‘Why not wait them out? We can handle them.’

Gunnar shook his head, the need to fight outweighing his patience. ‘Nay, we’ll fight them now.’ He turned to go back to camp. They needed to strike fast.

‘Wait, brother,’ Magnus said as he put a hand on his arm. ‘Let us wait. We don’t know how many men are hiding. We don’t need to fight now.’ He paused and when Gunnar seemed unmoved by his logic, he added, ‘It could be suicide.’

‘I know,’ Gunnar replied and kept walking the path back to camp. It could be suicide, but not in the way Magnus suspected. He’d never risk the lives of his men. He intended to go alone, to figure out what they were dealing with before leading his men in. He’d gained a reputation for recklessness, but every chance he’d ever taken had paid off. It was why the men under his command had quadrupled in size. They wanted the treasures and accolades those fighting beneath his command had accumulated over the years.

The truth was that he no longer cared if he lived or died. He could have stopped fighting. Eirik had offered him numerous opportunities to take over command posts. He could have become a jarl in this new land in his own right by now, commanding the battle from afar at times. And while that idea had originally held some allure, it had come too late. He’d learned that Kadlin was married to someone else now.

The night he had come face to face with her husband was the night he realised that some part of him had still held out hope. It wasn’t until that moment that he knew he had lost her for ever. And nothing seemed to matter any more. That shouldn’t matter. She’d already been lost to him, but the thought of her touching another was like a knife blade taken to his already shredded heart.

Though he tried to stop it, the memory of that night came back sharp and crisp. The meeting had happened during the first snowstorm of his first winter here. New arrivals from home had only recently joined them so the hall was crowded. Somehow, through the din of multiple conversations and revelry happening around him, her name came to him.

Kadlin.

It took his eyes only moments to identify the one who had spoken it. A man on the other side of the fire had been regaling anyone who would listen about the beauty of his new wife. Gunnar’s heart had stopped for one endless moment when the newcomer described her long blonde hair. Before he’d even realised what he was doing, Gunnar had found himself standing in front of the fool who had only smiled up at him.

‘You have married, Kadlin, eldest child of Jarl Leif?’

The fool had barely managed to offer an acknowledgement before slumping to the floor, knocked cold by Gunnar’s fist. He’d wanted the man to stand and fight him. Blood had pumped through his body, urging him to kill the man for daring to lay any claim to her, but he turned and left the hall instead.

The vision of her with someone else only made the pain in his chest so great that it escaped in a cry of rage that echoed in the sudden silence of the hall. No one was brave enough to approach him. Even Magnus and Eirik only hung back, waiting to see if any of the man’s friends were foolish enough to chase him. Not one of them did. Though he was looking for a fight, he couldn’t blame them. He must have looked like a madman. He was a madman.

Any flickering hope he’d carried within him that he might one day claim her had died out that night. He’d been a fool to let it persist as long as it had. There was nothing left of him. Death was the only cure for the excruciating pain. He’d let out one last bellow of rage and then hung his head as the snow fell around him, collecting on his hair and shoulders. His father had been right. A warrior is all that he was ever meant to be. So a warrior he would be. From that moment onward, his entire life became the fight and nothing else mattered. He had pushed Kadlin from his mind as much as he could and waited for death to claim him.

It hadn’t helped that he knew losing her had been his own fault, somehow. Gritting his teeth to stifle the cry of rage that the memory brought with it, he rammed his left fist into the base of a fir tree and watched the bark splinter beneath the impact. He cradled the hand against his chest and threw his head back to take a deep breath as he savoured the momentary numbness before the pain exploded in his hand. The tree was a poor substitute for the crunch of bone a Saxon nose would have provided—he knew he should have waited for the upcoming battle to vent his anger—but the pressure in his chest had been too great to carry into a fight. There was an aching relief to be found as the pain shifted from his chest to his hand. Blowing out through the pain and then sucking in a deep, wrenching breath, he made his way to his men and forced Kadlin out of his mind.

Motioning a boy over to wrap his hand, he gathered them all to go over the plan for battle. In moments, he was mounted, leading the small group to their location behind the Saxons. He knew the forests in this land so well now that he rode on instinct, knowing the best place to attack, knowing exactly where they would be hidden even if he didn’t know how many there were.

The scream came from nowhere and then it was all around him at once. The Saxons had been circling them, preparing an ambush. His horse, though well trained, reared in surprise just as a spear broke free from the trees. It landed in the beast’s chest, making him scream in pain and lose his balance. Gunnar was unable to jump free as the horse fell backwards. Pain exploded in his legs and head when they landed, then everything went numb and quiet. A strange peace crept over him as he watched the Saxons flood out of the forest to surround his own men. He smiled because he knew that they had given themselves away prematurely and Magnus would surely crush them with his larger group of warriors.

Blackness pulled at him, but it didn’t take his smile. It might not have happened with a sword in his hand or a sword in his belly, but he was dying in battle, a welcomed relief. He closed his eyes and waited for Odin to greet him.

* * *

Light flashed behind his eyelids and sent shards of pain shattering through his skull. Or it should have been pain, like every other time he’d awakened to pain so sharp that it had sent him hurtling back into unconsciousness. Instead, it was darts of light that roused him enough to open his eyes and it took an extraordinary effort to accomplish that minor task. Almost too much effort, as the need for slumber pulled him under again. But the sensation of falling was enough to make him finally open them. The light that had teased him before had disappeared to a hazy golden crest on the horizon. It was dawn or perhaps dusk and he was floating in the sky, which was absurd.

Gunnar turned his head to the left and then the right and realised that it wasn’t him that was floating, but everything else around him. The horizon wobbled as if the world itself had shifted. A man’s head drifted into his line of vision and then moved out again. Soon, more heads followed, but none that he recognised. These weren’t his men.

The realisation brought with it the awareness that he was on a ship. Only it wasn’t his ship, because these weren’t his men. His gaze travelled over the vessel, trying to identify it, but he was having trouble keeping his gaze steady to look for markings. There was no figurehead on the prow.

‘Where are we going?’ he called to the man nearest him. He hardly recognised his own voice and it was delayed when it came to his ears.

‘Up the coast, Brother.’ Eirik knelt beside him, his face looking solemn and grim in the morning light. It must be morning if they were setting sail.

Gunnar jerked, not expecting to see anyone appear so close before him. Brother. The word rang around in his head and he had trouble holding on to it. ‘Brother,’ he whispered the word as if he’d never heard it before. As it found purchase, he was able to capture it on his tongue. ‘You are my brother.’

‘We haven’t been good brothers, not in a long time. I regret that.’

Gunnar smiled, though he couldn’t understand his compulsion to respond in that way. Perhaps it was because his body was finally numb from the endless pain that had gnawed at him, though he had no memory of what had caused the pain. He felt heavy and weightless all at the same time. He raised his hand and, after an attempt or two, it landed on his brother’s shoulder. ‘Aye, Brother. But there’s not much comfort in regret. What use is it?’ The soft leather of a well-worn tunic met his fingers, not the chainmail of battle. He thought it curious Eirik wouldn’t arm himself properly for battle and he meant to comment on it, but another figure he’d not noticed before materialised at his side. ‘Vidar, little brother. You are a man now. Do you go to this fight with us?’

Vidar glanced at Eirik before shrugging. ‘I go, but Eirik is staying.’

The unfamiliar smile stayed on Gunnar’s face and he couldn’t make it leave no matter how he tried to summon a scowl. He struggled to keep his eyes open as that strange heaviness tried to claim him. His head drooped and he noticed that his legs were covered in furs. Did they think he’d go to battle like a woman, wrapped in blankets and furs? His legs wouldn’t obey his command to kick them off so he yanked at the coverings. And then he stared because one leg was wrapped tight in rags and appeared twice as big as the other. But that didn’t seem possible, so he considered the fact that the appendages weren’t his legs at all but something foreign from his body entirely.

Eirik grabbed his hand, drawing Gunnar’s attention back to him. ‘I thought you’d like this back.’

Gunnar frowned down at the lock of hair Eirik had placed in his palm. He immediately recognised it as Kadlin’s, but wondered how it had become separated from his tunic. A feeling of unease sat heavy in his stomach. ‘How did you get this?’

Eirik was quiet for a moment, drawing Gunnar’s wavering attention back to him. Only then did his brother raise his troubled eyes from the blonde lock. ‘I never knew Kadlin meant so much to you. I should have realised.’

An image of her beauty swam before his eyes, bringing back that bizarre smile he couldn’t seem to shake. ‘She is everything.’

Eirik looked down. Something was troubling him, but Gunnar had no idea why that would be true. He’d gone off to battle numerous times without this concern from his brother. Deep down, he realised that it must be linked to the strange memory of pain, but he couldn’t hold on to the thought long enough to formulate a question. Finally, Eirik met his gaze again and said, ‘I want you to live, Brother. Remember that when you awaken.’

Gunnar intended to ask what he meant, but then Eirik pressed a small wooden barrel of mead to his side and draped Gunnar’s arm around it. It was the kind they would strap to their horses when out on a short campaign. He pulled out the cork and pressed it to Gunnar’s lips. Gunnar obliged him and took a long draught, but something didn’t feel right.

‘Drink more if you feel pain.’ Eirik put the cork back in and rested the barrel against Gunnar’s side.

‘Where are we going?’

‘I do this for your interest, Gunnar.’

The ship rocked and he recognised that it meant they were leaving the dock and heading towards the sea. But there was a disturbing hole in his memory and his time with Eirik was fading. The blackness was settling around his vision and threatening to overpower him again. He grabbed Eirik’s cloak and pulled him back. ‘Where are you sending me?’

‘Live, Brother.’ Then he pulled away from Gunnar’s grasp with ridiculous ease and seemed to disappear.

Gunnar tried to sit up, but his head swam and began to ache, so he laid back and allowed the comforting blackness to claim him.

* * *

Gunnar floated the entire trip, his body lightened by the strange sense of weightlessness that followed him. There were times when he realised something was odd, that his limbs weren’t responding as they should, that his thoughts were muddled, but he couldn’t find the strength to care. The allure of sleep was too much to resist. Its relentless pull on him was the only thing that grounded him. That split second before it overcame him was the only moment when he felt as if his body was connected to the world around him; it weighted him down and pressed his back solidly to the wooden platform that had become his world.

Most of the time his dreams were nightmares, clawing at his mind with their vicious memories of the past. As always happened when his mind turned dark, it took him back to that night he’d spent with Kadlin. He remembered how he’d spent hours gazing down at her beautiful face, peaceful in sleep. He’d wanted to remember it for ever, because he’d known the horrible words that would have to be said before he left her. He’d known that he had to push her away, even as it had turned his stomach to mar something so precious.

Then the nightmare shifted to that sunny day as an adolescent when he had finally acknowledged that he was as worthless as his father liked to claim. It was the day he had tried unsuccessfully to strike from his memory; the day that he and Eirik had been attacked. A small group of criminals had found them fishing and had overpowered them, tying them up and taunting them with promises of their dark intentions. Gunnar had managed to escape his bonds and had run until he found a washerwoman who sent her son to get their father, so Gunnar had returned. Except he’d been too young and powerless to do anything except hide and listen to Eirik’s screams as the men tortured and violated him. He’d made himself listen, absorbing every scream as if it had been his own, each one a confirmation of how contemptible he really was. Confirmation that had only been reinforced once his father had arrived and saved Eirik only to sneer at his bastard for not intervening.

At times Eirik’s screams would become the hounds of Helheim hunting him down. At other times, the bays of the hounds would become his father reminding him of his many failures. Or the screams of his father on those nights when he’d imbibe too much mead and seek Gunnar out to rail at his son for making Finna, his mother, leave them. He’d awoken many times with a blackened eye from those encounters. They’d begun to happen so often that he’d run to Kadlin’s home when he knew his father was in one of those moods. So, naturally, when his nightmares conjured up those memories, he would escape the nightmare and find himself in her arms. Only this time they weren’t children.

The dreams were so vivid that he was sure that he was finally with her. He twined his hand in her flaxen hair and felt the silk sliding through his fingers; he felt the softness of her mouth beneath his thumb as he rimmed her lips and pressed inside the moist heat just as he had claimed her body; he sang songs to her that he had never even heard before. It was what he had hoped would happen if he died. If not for his occasional awakenings and nightmares, he would have thought the battle had killed him. Though he couldn’t actually remember the battle, just riding towards it. He’d never admit it, though. What warrior would admit to forgetting an entire battle?

Finally, a new voice woke him enough to make him realise that he wasn’t floating any more. The world had stopped and a real beast bayed in the distance.

‘Freyja!’ a woman’s voice called out. The word crashed through his brain and he struggled to understand it. ‘Freyja!’

When he was finally able to make his eyes open, a mongrel’s giant snout appeared in his line of vision, just before a large, wet tongue stroked his face. He grimaced at the sensation, but then sobered when he saw that Kadlin loomed over him, her hair loose and flowing around her shoulders, the sky a fair blue behind her. She looked angry, vengeful. Not his sweet Kadlin. Then it dawned on him what he should have known all along. He had died in battle. Instead of spending eternity in Valhalla, Freyja had claimed him instead. Eirik had sent him off on his journey to Folkvangr. He laughed with bitterness. It seemed appropriate that the goddess would look just like Kadlin.

Death hadn’t provided a relief to his torment after all.