Читать книгу One Night With The Viking - Harper St. George - Страница 13

Chapter Five

When Gunnar next awoke it was to the warm, soothing strokes of a washcloth moving slowly across his chest. A woman hummed and the soft sound would have lulled him back to sleep if his head hadn’t begun to ache. But he didn’t want to acknowledge the pain, so he kept his eyes closed to enjoy the music a moment longer. It was pleasant, something a woman might sing to her child as she bathed him. He wondered if his own mother had ever sung to him like that as she held him close. He only had vague recollections of the woman: long red hair, dark eyes. She had been a shadow behind his father and Eirik’s mother, lurking, or perhaps banished, to stand behind the dais at meals, to serve rather than be served. Then one day she had disappeared altogether. He could remember the child he had been, wandering from one chamber to the next, from one outbuilding to the other, looking for her.

Nay, she had probably never sung to him. He didn’t know why the ridiculous question had even come into his head. To ponder those memories only made his head ache more, so he opened his eyes instead of facing them. But he wasn’t prepared for the dream in front of him.

Kadlin.

It took a moment for his eyes to focus in the flickering light of the single candle, but he knew it was her. Even with her gorgeous hair subdued in braids and pinned to her scalp, he knew it was her. He’d seen her beloved face in dreams enough to know that he had woken from one dream only to be thrust into the next. Or perhaps he was awake now, as the pain in his head would suggest, but he had finally gone mad and was seeing her when he knew that her presence was impossible. It didn’t matter. He’d gone beyond caring if he was mad, especially if it meant that she would be with him.

‘I dream of you often, you know.’ The timbre of his voice was rough from disuse. He didn’t even recognise it; more proof of his unconscious state.

Her blue eyes shot to his, widened in surprise, and just as quickly returned to their study of his hand as she drew the cloth between his fingers. ‘That sounds like a sentimental endeavour. Surely too sentimental for a warrior such as you.’

He smiled and waited for her to finish, enjoying the feel of her gentle-but-sure strokes. Though he was becoming aware of the way his entire body thrummed with pain, focusing on that small pleasure helped him to push the discomfort to the back of his mind and he didn’t want to say or do anything to make her stop. Eventually she finished and went to place his hand gently back at his side, but, instead of letting her go, he turned his hand and captured hers. It was warm and small in his own. He caressed his thumb across her knuckles and then laced his fingers with hers. It had never been like this before. In all of his dreams, he’d never been able to recreate the heat and spark of excitement that warmed his belly from her touch. He glanced at her long, graceful fingers to make sure that he actually held them. ‘A warrior such as me? I fear you’re mistaken. Warriors are required to swing their swords in battle and recite poetry over the fire at night.’

She gave a soft laugh as if she were humouring him. He didn’t care. He loved her laugh, even if it was given to placate him. She smiled as she said, ‘You’ve never recited a poem in your life, Gunnar.’

‘Nay, I suppose I haven’t.’ He loved the pink of her lips, the vivid blue of her eyes, the stubborn tilt of her chin. All of his other dreams had never got her completely right. There was a challenge in her eyes now that he’d left out before. It wasn’t a mistake he’d repeat. She was captivating, truly the most becoming woman he’d ever seen. ‘But it’s a testament to my sorry ways. I should have said a poem for you every night of my existence. Perhaps that’s why you haunt my dreams, a recompense for my wrongs.’

A shadow passed over her eyes, stealing the joy that had sparked there and he was sorry to see it go. When she would have pulled her hand free, he held tight and reached for her other one with his free hand. She pulled that one back, though, so his dropped limply to his side. ‘You’re angry. I’ll accept your anger if it means you can stay with me and not dissipate as you have before.’

‘You’re not dreaming and I’m no phantom to disappear.’

He smiled. ‘You’ve said that before. It’s a trick that rouses me to waking, but I’ve not fallen for it in a long time.’

‘Believe as you wish, but I need my hand to finish bathing you.’ Her eyes softened again as she tugged gently on her hand.

He reluctantly let her go, but only because she promised more of that wonderfully soothing caress, and he watched her closely as she fulfilled her promise. But when she had finished his left arm and hand and moved to draw back the blanket, he moved quickly to grip it tight and hold it in place. The abrupt movement caused a sharp pain to lance through his head and left leg. It was so bad that he disgraced himself by gasping aloud.

‘Please, you must keep yourself still.’ She rose over him and pressed his shoulders to the bed at his back.

‘I’ll not let you bathe me there like a child,’ he panted, when he caught his breath.

‘All right, I won’t, but you must be calm before you injure yourself further.’

She wasn’t a dream! As waves of pain crashed through his body, he realised with unyielding clarity that he was awake and not dreaming at all. He remembered Vidar explaining his injury to him and he had a vague recollection of getting to his feet and falling just as he saw her. None of this was a dream. He had been gravely injured and then Vidar had accompanied him on a journey to...to where? He didn’t even know where he was.

‘Has Vidar brought me home?’ But that didn’t seem right. This wasn’t his chamber and he knew the chambers and alcoves of Kadlin’s home enough to know that he wasn’t there. Another thought—an excruciatingly horrible one—pounded through his head: that he had been delivered to Kadlin at her husband’s home.

She had turned her head, as if searching for someone to help, but looked back at him after his question. ‘Aye, Eirik believed that your recovery would best take place here.’ One hand stayed on his chest, but the other stroked his face to calm him. ‘We are at Eirik’s farm. Do you not remember it?’

He blinked and tried to look past her, but had trouble pulling his gaze from her face. It seemed so unbelievable that she was with him, after all of their time apart, that he had trouble believing she wouldn’t disappear on him if he looked away. Besides, she held him mesmerised, the stroke of her fingers on his cheek like a balm. Then he realised that there was nothing between the flesh of her hand and the skin of his face. He raised a hand to his chin, expecting to feel his beard there, but there was nothing. ‘You shaved me, woman?’

‘Aye, you were quite disgusting when you came here. I cut your hair, too. You can thank Vidar that it’s not shaved, as well. He refused to let me.’

‘Then it’s true? The battle? My horse?’

She nodded. ‘So I’m told. You arrived here the day before yesterday, but already your colour is better. We’ve tried to get some broth in you, but without much luck. I think if you can begin to eat, you could make a swift recovery.’

She was being evasive. He could plainly see the false way her eyes lit up with the hollow optimism. Before she could think to stop him, he tore the blanket back from his legs, uncaring that he was nude beneath it. He could only see the binding wrapped around his left leg. When he rolled his foot to the side, a shard of pain sliced through it.

‘How bad is it?’ he asked with the perfunctory tones of a commander, as if he were talking about the injury of one of his men. There was a part of him that couldn’t accept that the injury was his and he couldn’t even begin to contemplate what it meant for his future.

When she hesitated, his gaze jumped back to hers. ‘Tell me, Kadlin.’

‘Harald says that it is broken.’ She moved slowly and held her hand above an area of his shin. As if anticipating her touch and the pain it would bring, it began to throb. But she held her hand aloft. ‘Here. Though only a fracture, not a clean break. It is the knee that sustained the most damage. Magnus told Eirik that the limb was a bit twisted under the horse and pulled it out of place. I don’t know if there was a break. It was wrapped so tight and seemed to be so painful when we tried to unbind it that we can’t examine it. Also, you have a few broken ribs.’

He watched her soft, full lips form each word, but even that wasn’t enough to keep the despair at bay. He’d never walk again. No one had to tell him that. One look at the swollen appendage and he could plainly see it for himself. The useless limb was damaged beyond repair. They should have just cut it from his body so he wouldn’t have to look at it. He flopped back down, grimacing from the shard of lightning that lanced through his torso, and closed his eyes as he tried to imagine what a useless leg would mean. He’d never command a ship again; he’d never be able to stand with the rocking of the vessel. That would hardly matter, though, none of his men would follow a lame master. None of them. He’d be seen as unfit to lead. He would be unfit to lead.

The worst of it was that Kadlin would see him like this. He was lamed and deformed and she would witness it all. There would be no peace in believing that she would never know of his weakness. There was no hope that she would only hear of his good and heroic deeds and imagine him as the warrior that she had known. His weakness, once seen, couldn’t be unseen by her eyes. It was why they were lit with a false light; she was trying to hide her disgust. He couldn’t blame her for it.

‘There is no recovery for me. I’ll be broken like Harald. Unfit to wield a sword.’ Unfit to call myself a man. Now Kadlin—the one person who had always refused to see the bad in him—would be forced to see how useless and unworthy of her he really was. Perhaps being sent to her was his one last punishment. He’d get to watch any tenderness she felt towards him slowly leave her eyes to be replaced with pity. He refused to submit to that.

‘Leave me.’

She rose to her full height, but hesitated to go. ‘I’ll bring you some food. You need it to recover.’

He shook his head and then grimaced from the pain. ‘Send it with Vidar, if he’s still here.’

* * *

‘Mama!’ Her son toddled into the house, a smooth river rock held out in his small, chubby hand. ‘Treasure!’

Kadlin scooped him up and exclaimed over the treasure he had found. ‘It’s beautiful. We can add it to the collection.’ She set him down so he could go put it in the basket holding the other rocks he had found and deemed suitable for his collection. She smiled as he gave the alcove a quick glance and a wide berth as he went past it. She’d added a heavy blanket as a curtain as soon as Gunnar had been settled inside, so the child had only heard the strange noises coming from it. It was no wonder he was frightened.

‘Thank you, Ingrid.’ She turned and smiled at Harald’s daughter who had followed her son inside. ‘Could I get you something to eat?’

‘No, thank you, ma’am. I need to be getting home.’ With a nod, the girl left.

‘Come, Avalt, let me feed you.’

The boy was too busy admiring his collection to pay her any attention, until Vidar emerged from the alcove. He stopped playing and looked up, waiting until Vidar met his gaze before running to his mother. She laughed softly and scooped him up, cuddling him close as he intently watched Vidar’s approach. He’d been excited to have a man in the house and had generally welcomed Vidar with the enthusiasm of a young child fascinated with someone new. But the fact that he had emerged from the mysterious alcove had set the toddler on edge.

‘Can we not give him more of the laced mead?’ Vidar scowled as he set the empty bowl on the hearth. ‘He’s as irritable as a bear.’

Kadlin stifled a sigh of relief that Gunnar had drunk it all. She’d been worried that he would deny himself nourishment or that his stomach would rebel against the contents, since he’d apparently had nothing in weeks except for the mead concoction.

When she didn’t answer immediately, Vidar brushed past her with an accusatory look. ‘The Saxon witch sent plenty, enough to last for many more weeks. His leg pains him and his head is unbearable.’

‘Nay, he’s had enough. His head wound has healed. I believe it pains him now only because his body has grown to crave the mead. Once he’s gone without it a few days, that will improve. Besides, did you see him?’ Though his shoulders were still broad, Gunnar had lost the heft that came from fighting and his ribs shone through his skin. Even his face showed how gaunt he was; his cheeks had hollowed a bit and dark circles surrounded his eyes. ‘He’s wasting away. He won’t eat unless we wean him from the mead and he needs the nourishment more than he needs the relief from the pain.’ Though the groans from his pain still echoed in her ears and they tore at her. As much as she had tried to harden her heart against him in the years since his abandonment, she couldn’t bear the image of him in pain.

‘It’s cruel. He needs relief from his pain. Nourishment or not, he’ll never walk again. He’ll never carry a sword or stand a ship. Let him have his solace from the pain. What does the rest of it matter?’ It appeared that he had more to say, but he stopped when she rounded on him.

‘What does it matter? That is your brother lying in there. Are you saying that his life isn’t worth anything without that leg to support him? Are you saying that we should leave him to his mindless solace instead of trying to heal him?’

‘You heard Harald just as I did. Gunnar will not use that leg again. You know him as well as I do, or even better, I’d wager.’ He indicated the baby in her arms with his dark, flaming hair so like his father’s.

Kadlin stifled a gasp of surprise. She’d known that her son resembled his father, but she hadn’t realised exactly how much until she had seen Gunnar again. Apparently, the resemblance was visible to those who had a reason to suspect.

Vidar had the presence of mind to seem chastised and lowered his tone. ‘You know that he wouldn’t want to live with that leg.’

She couldn’t deny the truth of those words. The despair Gunnar had felt upon seeing the injury was imprinted on her mind for ever. He would think it was a weakness, an unbearable flaw that wasn’t to be overcome. ‘That choice isn’t his to make. Eirik sent him to my care, so I will see that he recovers. I hope to make him see that his life can still be good.’

Vidar grunted and walked to the front door, but stopped to turn to her. ‘You haven’t a chance, but I wish you luck. I’m going to see if Ingrid needs an escort home.’ He grinned and walked out.

‘Vidar!’ She waited until he’d popped his head back in before lowering her voice. ‘Please don’t tell anyone your suspicions.’ It was widely assumed that her son’s father was her late husband. No one except her parents knew that it was Gunnar.

Vidar looked towards Avalt and nodded. ‘I won’t say a word.’ Then he left, running to catch up to Ingrid.

Kadlin hugged her child tighter and buried her face in his curls. Vidar was right. She knew in her bones that his words weren’t just those of a young warrior unable to imagine life with an injury like Gunnar’s. His feelings were those shared by almost every man that she knew. An injury that left one lame was an injury that should result in death. Was she selfish to want Gunnar’s recovery even if he himself didn’t? She didn’t know, but she did know that it wasn’t in her power to grant him that alternative. He would recover. Despite her often confused and unfortunate feelings for him, she held no illusions about a future with him. She would heal him because the boy she had known deserved a second chance at life and Avalt deserved a chance to know his real father. She only needed to figure out if his father deserved him.