One Night with the Viking

by Harper St. George

  ‘This isn’t over,’ he promised and then stepped back.

  She was so far gone, she didn’t even notice that Ingrid and the others had come out of her chamber until he allowed her the space to breathe. Gasping for breath, she watched as he gathered his sapling and limped over to brush his lips against Avalt’s wet hair and whisper something to their son.

  Then he left them. Only then did she allow the tears to fall.

  * * *

  One by one the fires of the night began to light up the houses of the village in the valley stretched out below him. It was his home, or it had been until he’d left over two years ago with Eirik and the harsh words of his father ringing in his ears. Bring Eirik home or don’t return at all. Gunnar had known when he’d set sail that he wouldn’t be coming back, that his home had been taken from him. Looking down on the familiar houses with the jarl’s longhouse in the distance, he should have felt...something. There should have been some gratification from seeing the place again. There should have at least been some sense of well-being, some sense of belonging now that he had returned to the place that had borne him. But there wasn’t. Or if there was, he was too numb to feel it. The euphoria of the fight had long since worn off in the day-long journey from the farm to the village. The three assassins had been dispatched too easily. They barely had a sporting chance.

  In some ways it was worse than his time fighting the Saxons. Then, he’d welcomed death with each fight, but he’d always imagined Kadlin’s face before battle, remembered the way it had felt to hold her, to sink into her body as she clung to him. Those thoughts were still there now, but marred because he’d hurt her and potentially lost her. Again. The pain in her eyes as she’d watched him leave was still with him. There was no pleasure, no escape to be found in those thoughts, so he closed his body and mind off to everything. Some part of him was aware of how the endless jarring of the horse’s steps for the past hours had hurt his leg, but the pain was only a minor tug in the back of his mind. It didn’t mean anything.

  A footstep sounded at the bottom of the slope and Gunnar dug his fingers into the grass, ready to push himself to his feet at a moment’s notice to meet the enemy. The gentle snicker of recognition from one of the horses in the forest behind him told him it was Dom, so he relaxed and got to his feet more leisurely. They had arrived earlier in the afternoon and Dom had gone down to assess what was happening. The village moved lethargically, getting ready for the night ahead. There were no signs of strife or even a skirmish. ‘Vidar is alive. Jarl Hegard still lives, though barely.’

  Gunnar nodded, though he hadn’t expected the boy to be harmed yet. Baldr would need Vidar to pledge fealty to the new jarl. He’d only be harmed afterward; killed for refusing to pledge, or killed in a convenient accident after pledging, for assurance that he wouldn’t go back on his word and rally men to his side.

  ‘I talked to some of the men about you...’

  ‘And?’ Gunnar prompted.

  Dom looked down, unwilling to say what Gunnar had already anticipated.

  ‘Out with it.’

  ‘It’s been years since you were home, Gunnar. You didn’t leave under the best circumstances and...’ his gaze flicked to Gunnar’s leg ‘...and they’ve heard about your injury. Most don’t think you can stand, much less wield a sword.’

  Gunnar nodded again. He’d already gone through the likely scenarios in his head and every time he had come back to this one. He wouldn’t put his support behind a man who hadn’t come to ask for it, a man he didn’t know could bear the weight of that support, so he couldn’t expect his father’s men to, either. ‘Then we go in alone.’

  ‘I didn’t think to ask you earlier, but...can you? I saw you wield your sword with Baldr’s men, but can you stand, fight for any length of time?’ Dom shook his head, already assuming the worst. ‘Give me a day or two. I’ll make the rounds of the farms. I’m sure I can find men to come in with us. Flein will be back then, too, and I’ve no doubt Jarl Leif will have committed men.’

  ‘You didn’t think to ask me that earlier?’ Gunnar laughed, already limping back to the horses. ‘I’ll fight until I can’t, but we go now. We can’t wait for Baldr to get reinforcements. If what you say is true, my father could die at any hour. I won’t allow Vidar to face that risk.’

  ‘It’s madness. At least wait for light.’

  Nay, there would be no waiting. Aside from the fact that Vidar’s life hung in the balance, Gunnar recognised that so did his life with Kadlin. This was his only chance at a future with her. If he could take his father’s place, then he might finally deserve her. He might finally be able to offer her and their son a home. He closed his eyes briefly as he saw the pain on her face again—pain he had put there. He’d caused enough pain in the past by leaving her. It was time to fight for her.

  ‘They’re warriors, Dom, they gossip worse than women. By first light every one of them will know I’m here hiding like a coward. What’s wrong? Afraid to die tonight?’ Gunnar grinned and grabbed the reins. ‘Stay here if you’d rather. Someone needs to live to tell the tale.’

  ‘Daft bastard.’ But Dom was smiling as he walked over to mount his own horse.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  They rode down the hill to the edge of the valley where he slowed his horse to gauge the distance to his father’s longhouse. His gaze lit on several of the men, recognising most, but noting some new faces. Faces of men who likely belonged to Baldr. Whether they had come with him from Jarl Leif’s land or had been acquired from lands farther away, he didn’t know. Instead of riding the horse to his father’s door, he dismounted with his sword strapped to his back, determined to walk the distance even though he’d have to use the hated sapling. It was best for the men to see that he was still capable of walking, still capable of fighting, still a man. He was dimly aware of Dom dismounting, following him just off to his side, as he made his way through those who had lingered outside during the evening meal.

  Some had stopped to watch him and, now that they were closer to the house, more were turning their heads. A murmur had begun, as they recognised him and wondered at his presence. In his borrowed trousers and plain tunic, he didn’t look like a jarl coming home to claim his place. At least he’d removed the bindings from his leg so that his injury was disguised, even if his limp was not.

  The outside kitchen was bustling with activity, but even that came to a halt as he approached. The women who worked there glanced up, either afraid to be admonished for halting their work or afraid that his presence meant a confrontation. ‘Lord Gunnar!’ The voice belonged to Hilla, the slave in charge of the kitchens. She had practically raised him. The fact that she’d hushed her voice midway through his name told him that this would go badly. He was firmly in enemy territory.

  ‘Hilla.’ He paused and nodded, noting that her face appeared pale, strained.

  ‘Your father...’ She walked over to him, shaking her head with despair.

  ‘Aye, I’ve been told. Is Baldr inside?’

  The woman nodded, but cast a worried, disdainful glance at the front door of the longhouse. ‘Inside with his men. They sit at the dais as if they belong there while your father rots in his bed.’

  ‘Think I’ll go remind him of his rightful place.’

  ‘I knew you would come, Gunnar. I’d heard of your injury, but I knew it wouldn’t keep you away for long.’ She reached out to touch his arm and he briefly covered her fingers with his own before pulling away.

  ‘Go now, back to work before one of his men has reason to question your loyalty. You need to keep yourself safe, no matter the outcome tonight.’

  The woman harrumphed but backed away, though not before whispering, ‘If it comes to it, I’ll kill him myself.’

  Grinning, he continued towards the house, but the smile faded at the glares coming from the two men guarding the open door. On
e he didn’t know, but the other he did. A younger son of a farmer who had joined up with Eirik years ago to seek his fortune, but had married and stayed behind rather than fight the Saxons. He was decent, honest, but Gunnar couldn’t tell from his expression if he could count on his support. Instead of the sounds of revelry that generally accompanied the evening meal, the sounds coming from the large front room of the house were hushed, sombre. Their jarl was dying. That in itself was enough for the lack of merriment, but Gunnar had to wonder how much of that was due to Baldr’s presence. Did the men really want him there or was Dom right? Only one way to find out.

  ‘Good evening, Geir. It’s been a while.’

  ‘Evening.’ The younger man nodded, but didn’t crack a smile, instead casting a quick glance at his counterpart on the other side of the doorway.

  Gunnar made to walk between them through the open door, only to be stopped when the other guard stepped in his path.

  ‘Who are you?’ the unknown guard demanded.

  ‘Let him pass,’ Geir urged. ‘He’s come to see his father.’

  The man looked to Geir and then back at him, and his face turned in a sneer. ‘I don’t like the looks of him. Baldr won’t, either.’

  Gunnar curled his hand into a fist, aching to pound the sneer from his face, but forced his fingers to uncurl. A fight now would be a very bad idea. He’d save it all for Baldr if the man was foolish enough to put his face that close to his fist. ‘If he can tolerate you, I can’t be that objectionable.’

  The guard all but growled, but Geir stepped in and pushed him back. Outraged, the man brought up his hand to push his arm, but Geir wouldn’t be put off so easily. He shoved and the guard stumbled to the side and Geir followed, clearing the doorway. Gunnar stepped inside with Dom at his heels. The ceiling soared to an arch high above them, held there by the thick timber posts placed at even intervals around the room, scraped bare and polished to a golden shine. Benches lined the walls, and tables laden with food filled the floor around the centre stone hearth, though its fire was banked now since it was warm and the cooking was being done outside. It didn’t feel like coming home, but Gunnar could appreciate the grandeur of the long hall. It had been designed to be impressive, intimidating, and it had succeeded. He’d always felt a sense of pride walking through the door. Even now, the sight made a heavy warmth begin to spread through his chest, but he stifled it before it could start. This was not his home yet, and he held no illusions about walking through the door into enemy territory unnoticed.

  Already the men at the tables closest to him were putting down their bowls and staring. Soon their stares were accompanied by murmurs that led the way to the raised dais on the right, where Baldr and his cohorts sat smiling and drinking his father’s mead. Hatred, cold and deep, ran through his body, settling like a vice around his heart. The whoreson had no rightful claim to that seat, yet there he sat, though the smile had been wiped from his face. The man’s eyes immediately darted to the guards at the door before latching on to the men seated nearest Gunnar, searching for allies and protection. Coward.

  ‘Bold of you to show your face here, Gunnar,’ he called out, making sure that the entire room heard him.

  ‘Bold of you to sit your arse in my father’s chair.’ Gunnar surveyed the room, but it was impossible to read the men. Most of them were his father’s men, which meant they were well-trained warriors and they wouldn’t give up their secrets until they had to. Right now they waited to see what he planned, to see how Baldr would react, before making a decision. Aware of the need to prove to them all that he was worthy of their support, he walked the last few yards holding his head high and meeting the eye of every man who dared to meet his gaze. ‘Looks as if we’re both feeling reckless tonight.’ He grinned up at Baldr as he came to a stop before the dais.

  Baldr laughed, though it didn’t reach his eyes. It was for the men in the room, a ploy to show them that he was in charge. ‘How’s the leg? Still dragging it behind you, I see.’ The two men on either side of him chuckled, but Gunnar shut them both down with a cutting glance. They twitched and glanced to Baldr. ‘And Dom. I have to admit I’m a bit disappointed to see you with this mangled excuse for a warrior. I thought you were smart.’

  Gunnar didn’t give Dom time to respond. ‘You have my brother. I’ve come to set him free.’

  ‘Your brother is comfortable. He’ll be free to leave soon. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for you.’ Picking up his tankard, he took a drink while gesturing to the men nearest Gunnar and Dom that they should be taken.

  Gunnar glanced around. A handful of men stood and he nodded at each one to acknowledge them. The rest stayed seated to watch the confrontation unfold. It wasn’t a good sign, but it wasn’t bad, either. When the two men nearest him began to get to their feet, Baldr’s men intent on following his order, Gunnar turned his attention back to the man. ‘You want me? Come take me yourself.’

  Baldr laughed and swung his tankard in the air. ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘Busy? Is that what you are? Looks more like insolent cowardice to me. The only thing you’re busy doing is drinking mead that doesn’t belong to you and sitting in a chair to which you have no claim.’ Gunnar spat and cast another glance over the room. All eyes were on Baldr now. Good.

  ‘Get him out of my sight.’

  ‘A true leader isn’t afraid to face a challenger.’ His words echoed in the stillness of the room.

  ‘Are you challenging me, Gunnar?’ Baldr threw his tankard to the floor at Gunnar’s feet, so angry now that his face was turning red.

  The two men had moved to either side of Gunnar and Dom, but they hesitated. It was now or never. If they tried to take him, the action could turn the tide of the room and the few followers he’d found would be no match for the rest. ‘You’re a coward. If you can’t take a lame man out, what sort of leader can you call yourself? Do you follow a coward?’ He raised his voice to ask the room. Murmurs rose throughout the tables. The two men who had stood to take him in hand moved back to their seats. It wasn’t an endorsement, not yet, but it meant he’d get to prove himself. Gunnar grinned.

  Baldr rose and walked slowly around the long table before jumping down from the dais. His insolent gaze raked Gunnar from head to toe and Gunnar realised that he’d never expected to face him. He’d never expected Gunnar to come and challenge him. The man was an imbecile as well as a coward.

  Shrugging out of the sword sheathed diagonally across his back, Gunnar held it out to the side with his right hand. ‘I’ll make it easy for you. Without swords. We’ll fight like men were meant to fight.’

  ‘Aye, I’ll kill you with my bare hands and then I’ll take Kadlin as my whore.’

  Baldr lunged for him, barely giving Gunnar the time to drop the sword to the ground and brace himself for the impact. He just managed to stay upright, but Baldr took the advantage and kicked the sapling out from under him before landing a hard blow to his gut. Breath whooshed out of him. The second blow came hard and he couldn’t withstand the impact and keep his balance. The added pressure on his leg caused pain to slice through the limb and he crumpled beneath Baldr’s weight. But he went down laughing. Baldr didn’t know how many wrestling matches he’d fought with Eirik, or how many fights he’d initiated over the years, trying to get himself pounded into oblivion so that he could forget Kadlin. He excelled at fighting on the ground and when the men all got to their feet, standing on tables and grappling to get a better view, their energy moved through him.

  Baldr rose above him, glaring down at him as though he was mad for laughing. Perhaps he was, because he only taunted him. ‘One punch to my face. That’s all you’ll get. Take it.’

  As if he’d been waiting for permission, the other man pulled his arm back and let his fist fly. It connected with the ridge of his cheekbone, just below his eye. It was a solid blow and the pain of it vibrated through his entire fac
e. Pain he understood. He’d lived in it for so long that it was a source of strength. He used it now, absorbed it until it mixed with the energy of the room and he erupted. Grabbing a fistful of Baldr’s hair in each hand, he pulled him down and drove his head into the bridge of his nose. Blood spurted and the man howled, his hands instinctively going to his face. Using the power of his one good leg to propel them over, Gunnar swapped their positions so that Baldr was on the floor, still holding his nose, blood seeping through his fingers. Gunnar didn’t give him time to assess the damage before laying into him, landing a few solid punches to his gut, before the man could even try to defend himself. When he did finally lower his arms to counter the blows, Gunnar just changed the direction of his blows to the man’s face.

  Each fist landed with satisfaction. This was real. The crunch of bone along with the pain he was dimly aware of throbbing through his fist with each blow told him that. This was something he could control, unlike protecting Kadlin’s heart, or the ache gripping his chest when he thought of her—this was pain he could manage. Though it wasn’t enough. He wanted someone who would fight back more. The bloody coward wasn’t even trying!

  A shooting pain suddenly bloomed throughout his side. It was so sharp and unexpected that he realised immediately the whoreson had somehow got his hands on a blade. Gunnar reared up on to his knee on instinct, his hand going to the wound that was already sticky and warm with blood. Baldr quickly shuffled out from under him and rose to his feet, a grin on his lips, though his teeth were as bloody as the rest of his face. He wielded the knife that must have come from his boot, and he looked far too pleased with himself. Satisfaction made Gunnar grin when Baldr frowned and worried a tooth with his tongue, before spitting it to the floor, leaving a gaping hole in the front of his mouth.