by A. E. Rayne
‘And how long do you think you can live this way?’
‘I...’ Fyn looked defeated.
‘You should have friends, and fights, and fall in love, have adventures, have a family, or at the very least someone to talk to,’ Jael implored, turning to him. ‘You have to leave here. Surely your mother wouldn’t want you to exist like this? She would want you to have a life of your own.’
‘But who would protect her if I go?’
‘Protect her from what? Your sister, or your father?’ Jael wondered.
‘Both of them, I suppose,’ Fyn said quietly. ‘I know I can’t do much all the way out here, but I didn’t want to leave her. She is not like them. I wanted her to come with me, and I know she thought about it, but I think some part of her still loves my father, so she stayed, told me about this hut, said she’d send food for me. So, I stayed here... for her.’
Jael was troubled. She liked Fyn. It was like having a little brother again, but easier; she didn’t resent him. She wanted to help him have a life again, somehow. ‘I could talk to Eirik,’ she suggested. ‘He seems to like me well enough. I’m sure I could convince him to bring you back. You could go home again.’
‘No!’ The look on Fyn’s face was pure terror. ‘No, please Jael. Please don’t do that!’ He reached out, grabbing her hands. ‘Promise me you won’t say anything to the king, or to my mother or father. Please!’
His eyes were desperate and something else. Scared.
‘Alright, alright,’ Jael soothed. ‘I won’t say anything, I promise. On one condition, though. That you tell me why you were banished.’
Fyn gasped. His eyes told her that he wanted to run and hide, but he kept staring at her. He dropped his head, at last.
‘Alright, I will.’
‘And where is your wife this morning? Still trying to seek revenge on Thorgils no doubt?’ Eirik laughed, prodding the fire cheerfully.
Eadmund raised one eyebrow as he leaned into the flames. ‘No, not this morning. Thorgils is busy wrestling Torstan and Klaufi out in the Pit. I haven’t seen Jael. She probably went riding.’
The hall was filled with a murmuring quiet that felt comfortable to both men. Eadmund seemed reasonably sober, and was starting to change shape, Eirik noticed. They were able to sit here and just talk around the fire; a reminder of how things used to be, many years ago.
‘She’s always riding, that one, or fighting it seems,’ Eirik observed. ‘Not the kind of wife I imagined you’d end up with! I wonder how she will be when my grandsons start arriving?’
Eadmund squirmed. It had been playing on his mind these past few weeks, that he must change things with Jael. He needed to find a way to break down the wall between them before his father had reason to grow suspicious about his lack of grandsons. He just hadn’t found the opportunity to do so. Not yet anyway. ‘I imagine she’ll be much the same. I can’t see her sitting around the fire, with a circle of women, embroidering a tapestry,’ he grinned.
‘No, nor should she,’ Eirik smiled. ‘That would be like putting a wolf in a room of children and asking it to play nicely. It would end up a big, bloody mess!’
Eadmund laughed, remembering the look on Jael’s face when she had fought Thorgils. She certainly was wolf-like with those eyes of hers. They followed him everywhere; he saw them constantly, even when he was with Evaine.
‘So, will you be placing a few coins on your wife in the contest?’ Eirik wondered. ‘Or perhaps, Thorgils?’
‘Or Tarak?’ Eadmund suggested, nodding to Erland and Orvar who had wandered into the hall.
‘I think most people’s coin will be on Tarak, as always,’ Eirik muttered, shuffling his stool closer to the fire. ‘Although, I’m a bit bored with him winning every damn contest we have. I’d rather bet on Jael or Thorgils instead.’
‘I can’t see Jael beating Tarak,’ Eadmund mused. ‘He’s a giant next to her. She wouldn’t be strong enough against him, despite her skill with a sword.’
‘Thorgils isn’t that much smaller, and she coped with him well enough,’ Eirik considered. ‘Although, Tarak is the better fighter, for sure.’
‘Don’t tell Thorgils that,’ Eadmund smiled. ‘He thinks he has a chance this time.’
‘And maybe he does, with Jael helping him.’
‘Maybe, but I’d still choose Tarak. He’s made of stone. It’s like hitting a wall. Nothing moves him. He’s unbreakable.’
‘But you defeated him,’ Eirik smiled. ‘Don’t you remember?’
‘Not really,’ Eadmund said dismissively. ‘It was so long ago. I think I was probably drunk at the time! I almost didn’t, I think. I had a lot of luck that day.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been in a fight that didn’t involve some luck,’ Eirik noted. ‘The gods are always watching. They choose to help the one they think worthiest.’
Eadmund looked scornful. ‘Well, what does that say about them, if they keep picking Tarak as their champion?’
‘Ahhh, well, they like a man who knows how to win. Say what you like about him, but he never gives in, no matter how the fight is going. He always finds a way to come back and win. Except against you, of course,’ Eirik smiled. ‘So, perhaps you need to step up your training now, see if you can be the one to defeat him. I know it would make a lot of people happy to see him lose.’
Eadmund laughed. ‘Me? Ha! I don’t think so, not this year at least. But it would be nice to see someone give him what’s he had coming these past few years. Whoever it is.’
Fyn had stalled, insisting upon going outside to the woodpile to bring in another armload of logs. The room was too cold, he told Jael, and she hadn’t complained because, well, he was right.
Now the fire was spitting happily, and the room had warmed up so quickly, that Jael was almost considering removing her cloak. Fyn sat quietly next to her, vibrating with nerves.
‘So, begin then,’ she said plainly. ‘Tell me what happened. It can’t be that bad, can it?’
He swallowed, gulping a few times, his eyes wandering around the room. ‘It was bad,’ he whispered quietly. ‘For me, it was very bad.’
Jael waited. She didn’t want to rush him.
‘My father, he... didn’t like me. I don’t know why, but he never liked me, so when he... when he found me, as he did, he knew he’d found a way to get rid of me. He didn’t want to listen or hear anything because his own ideas were already planted in his head. So, he told the king everything he’d seen and gave him no choice. He had to banish me.’
Fyn saw the confused look on Jael’s face and tried to unmuddle his thoughts. ‘He found me,’ he paused, coughing nervously. ‘Being raped.’
Jael gasped. She couldn’t help it. Her eyes widened in sympathy as she stared helplessly at him.
‘I was face down on a table, being raped,’ Fyn shuddered, the memories painting torturous pictures in his scarred mind. ‘And my father didn’t stop him. He didn’t stay and try to stop him. He just left. Left me being raped. The look on his face... disgust, that’s all he felt. He didn’t try to save me. He, he thought I was doing it, part of it, finding pleasure in it. I don’t know. But he didn’t do anything to stop it.’
Fyn’s eyes were wet as he stared into the fire, reliving everything. ‘He told the king, though. He couldn’t wait to do that.’
‘I don’t understand how you could be punished for being raped?’ Jael said, frowning, her heart throbbing loudly in her ears. ‘How is that possible?’
‘There are rules, laws on the islands. About men laying with other men,’ Fyn said awkwardly, the words poison on his tongue. ‘It’s acceptable to be the man doing it, but to be the one... receiving it... allowing it... that is to be like a woman. Not a man. No one like that is acceptable on the islands. They are banished.’
Jael was horrified. ‘What? But you were raped, Fyn! Didn’t you tell your father that, or Eirik?’
Fyn was silent, lost in his memories.
Jael reached out one hand and touched his arm
. He shuddered.
‘No, I didn’t tell my father. I didn’t speak to the king. I just left when my father told me to. He warned me to never come back.’
‘But why? And what about the man who did this to you? He should have been punished. He should have been the one banished!’
Fyn laughed at that, and it sounded bitter and rust-tainted. ‘Not him. They would never banish him. There was no point in me ever saying anything, not against him.’ He looked angry now. ‘He didn’t just rape me that night, Jael. He had done it to me since I was a boy.’
Jael’s body clenched. Her breathing stilled.
‘He would find me, no matter where I went, or where I hid,’ Fyn went on, numbly. ‘He would come and get me, and hurt me, and make me do things that made me want to vomit. And he would scare me so much that I never said anything, to anyone. He told me that he’d hurt my mother if I did. So, I never said a word. Not once, till now.’ Fyn dropped his head into his hands and sobbed, his shoulders heaving up and down with the force of his pain.
Jael put her arm around his back, brought his head down onto her shoulder, held onto him while he wept and wept. She felt sick. Sad for Fyn. And angry, so angry that this man had tortured him and ruined his life, while he was still living in Oss, free and unpunished. ‘Who was it, Fyn? she asked, her voice hard as stone. ‘Who did this to you?’
He sat up, wiping his dripping nose on the back of his hand. He sniffed, a lot, considering, not wanting to speak that name again. Then looking at her strong face, he suddenly felt reassured and not alone; she was his friend.
‘It was... Tarak.’
Thorgils was waving his arms around, retelling his battle victory to two attentive women, when Jael strode past and climbed through the railings, into the Pit. She shrugged off her cloak but kept her sword-belt on.
‘Let’s try with real swords today,’ she snapped, glaring at him intently.
Thorgils’ attention was immediately drawn away from the attractive faces, towards the fearsome creature who stood there, waiting for him. She had a look in her eye today that creased his forehead. ‘Real swords?’ He smiled politely at the women, excusing himself with a bow. ‘You think you can handle that? Have you even used that sword of yours before?’ Thorgils removed his cloak and clambered into the Pit. He wasn’t sure this was the wisest game to play, but he was too intrigued to stop and think about it for long.
‘No,’ Jael said quickly. ‘But I need to know how to, so you can help me. Unless you’re scared of my little Toothpick? It has a very sharp blade, you know. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.’
Nothing in her eyes was sympathetic. Just hard. He flinched beneath her scowl. ‘Hurt me?’ he asked, his smile wavering. ‘Go ahead, if it will make you feel better.’
They had trained together, many times since the fight, but without much intensity. Jael had tried to give Thorgils some advice, which he had almost listened to; shown him ways he could play with Tarak’s mind to help him win. But now, after her conversation with Fyn, now she wanted the pleasure of beating Tarak herself. And she needed to get stronger and sharper, in every way possible if there was a chance of that happening.
‘Better?’ Jael scoffed. ‘This won’t make me feel better, but it will help me on the way.’ She squatted slightly, shifting her legs apart to balance herself, scuffing the ground until she could feel the certainty of the earth beneath her boots. ‘Come at me as hard as you can, with everything you have. Let’s see where we are at. How ready we both are, for this contest of yours.’ She was so angry, felt so enraged by what Fyn had told her. She didn’t know what she could do to help him, but right now, she needed to release all the furious tension that was threatening to drown her.
‘Well, certainly, I can do that,’ Thorgils smiled confidently, noticing that the two women had remained behind to watch. ‘If you think you’re ready for it?’
‘Oh, I’m ready.’
And she gripped her sword tightly and went for him.
21
‘It’s stopped bleeding, I think,’ Biddy murmured as she stepped back, admiring her needlework. ‘You’ll live.’
Thorgils groaned, unconvinced.
‘It’s not that bad,’ Jael insisted with a grin. ‘Hardly worth a stitch really.’
Biddy and Thorgils glared at Jael, neither one impressed by her lack of sensitivity.
‘You nearly took my balls off!’ he grumbled crossly, wincing at the sight of the small wound on his upper thigh.
‘How big are these balls of yours, Thorgils? I scratched your leg!’
‘That is not a scratch,’ he insisted. ‘That sword of yours is deadly!’
‘Good!’ Jael laughed as she sat down on the bed next to him. ‘There wouldn’t be much point to it otherwise.’
‘But perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to practice with it, not unless you’re actually trying to hurt someone?’ Biddy suggested as she brought Thorgils a cup of ale to settle him down. ‘Surely that’s what the wooden swords are for?’
‘They use real swords in the contest,’ Jael told her as she leaned back against the wall, enjoying a cool sip of ale. ‘And I need to learn how to use mine, and quickly if I’m to make an impression.’
Thorgils raised an eyebrow at that. ‘You want to make an impression now, do you? Why the change?’
Jael looked down at the bed, the memory of her talk with Fyn still twisting in her gut. She shut it away for now. ‘Well, I suppose, revenge for one thing,’ she said, looking up. ‘I can’t have everyone thinking I can be beaten so easily, especially by a big girl like you. And maybe... maybe I want a chance at Tarak too. Why not? Somebody needs to knock him down, so why not me? You certainly haven’t been able to manage it before now, and one of us needs to put him on his giant arse.’
Thorgils laughed heartily at the determination on her face. He didn’t doubt that she had more than a chance, especially after today. She’d been in the red mist when she’d fought him. If he hadn’t started bleeding so quickly, she would have shown him no mercy, he was certain of it. Something was troubling her, that much was obvious.
‘Well then, here’s to destroying Tarak!’ He raised his cup and knocked it into hers. ‘As long as the contest ends with him in a crying heap of his own shit, we’ll both be happy.’
‘Agreed! If only it were a fight to the death...’
Thorgils looked into her eyes and saw that she meant it.
Jael lay in bed that night, numb; her conversation with Fyn ever present in her mind. She was so troubled by it and consumed with sadness for him, but more than anything, she was furious. And she wanted to kill Tarak. She’d wanted to kill people before, of course, and had, but not for a long time. Nothing had entered her heart to make her feel this wild, where she felt so compelled to act, to seek justice. But how? Where was justice to be found? Not in the laws of Oss, it seemed.
She’d promised Fyn that she wouldn’t say anything to Eirik, or Morac, or even Tarak. But how could she help him, and how could she ensure Tarak was punished if she didn’t say or do anything? Nobody deserved to be banished more than that vile, child-abusing bastard.
She was full of angry steam as she lay there, unable to sleep, incapable of relaxing. And lonely. She would have talked to Aleksander about this. He would have been annoyingly practical, and she would have dismissed his advice completely, but still, it was always nice to hear it, to know he cared enough about her to try to help. The loss of him was hard to escape. She felt as though she was missing a part of herself, that only half of her was here, lying alone in this large, empty bed.
Jael wondered if he was still waiting for her, or if he’d decided to find someone to warm his bed until she came back? In his vision, she had come back with a child, so that was certainly a long way off, especially as she had never even touched Eadmund yet. She shuddered. He was improving, and there were signs of hope, but she couldn’t imagine sharing this bed with him each night. He wasn’t Aleksander. And she loved Aleksander. But if she wanted to get
back to Aleksander, she needed a child. And for that, she needed Eadmund.
Runa felt sick. She held Evaine’s hair back as her daughter bent over, retching into the bucket again. It was the third time this morning; it was the third time this week.
The sick feeling in her stomach had grown every day, fuelled by the look of her daughter, who was both pale and glowing at the same time, whose appetite had changed, who complained about feeling uncomfortable, whose body seemed rounder somehow. There was simply no denying it, but Runa was still determined to do so.
‘Water,’ Evaine coughed. ‘Forget my hair, Mother! Just get me some water!’ She flapped at her mother and straightened up, holding her back, which was aching.
Runa returned with a cup of water and Evaine sipped from it cautiously. Everything was making her ill at the moment, but as miserable as her body felt, she couldn’t have been happier. ‘When do you think I should tell Eadmund?’ she asked coyly, coming to sit by the fire, smoothing her rumpled dress, pressing it firmly over her growing bump.
Runa swallowed sharply, conscious that their house servant, Respa, was sweeping the floor in the kitchen.
‘Tell him about what?’ her father asked irritably as he pushed open the door, shaking himself free of snow.
Runa and Evaine stared at each other in surprise, mouths open, neither wanting to be the first one to speak. Evaine’s confidence dissipated; her father was not going to be pleased with her at all.
‘Evaine?’ Morac demanded. He was feeling old, and cold, and his day with Eirik had frustrated him. They’d talked incessantly about Hest and Eirik had refused most of his advice. He was in no mood for childish games this evening.
‘Yes, Father,’ Evaine smiled sweetly as she moved to sit next to him.
‘What do you need to tell Eadmund?’ Morac wondered, impatiently, as he tugged on his boots.
‘Oh that. It was nothing, just talk between women,’ she giggled lightly. ‘Perhaps you need a drink of something to warm you up? It looks as though you have had a hard day.’ And getting up, Evaine rushed away to the kitchen to speak to Respa.