A movement from the circle of men that had gathered around them to watch caught his attention. A man he faintly recognised made a move towards Baldr. It seemed the tide had turned in the room, but Gunnar held out his hand to stop him. ‘Nay, the bloody whoreson is mine.’ He growled the words. They were pulled from deep in his chest where the ache for Kadlin lingered.
Baldr laughed and twirled the knife in his hand. ‘You always were a jealous one. You were jealous your father chose your brother and now you’re jealous he chose me.’ Baldr lunged, swiping the knife towards his throat, but Gunnar pushed back to avoid the blow. ‘Even your woman chose me. I’m going to fill you with my blade and make you scream the way your whore screamed when I was inside her.’
Gunnar barely listened to the words. They were a poorly veiled attempt at distraction. Nothing more than the taunts of a desperate man who knew he would be beaten. ‘She would never let a disgusting piece of filth like you touch her.’ His gaze never wavered from the weapon as Baldr started to circle around him. Impatience for the man to strike gnawed at him, but Gunnar forced a calm he wasn’t even close to feeling. He wanted to pummel Baldr some more. And he would, but first he needed to wait for him to strike to catch him off balance.
‘Perhaps after I beat you, I’ll take her right here and we can compare. The screams of a cripple and the screams of a whore. I’d be hard pressed to say which I liked better.’
The idea of Kadlin at Baldr’s mercy was enough to spur him to action. He shouldn’t have, but he lunged with a punch to the coward’s leg. It opened him up and left him vulnerable so that Baldr could swipe with the knife, narrowly missing his throat and leaving a stinging cut where his shoulder met his neck. Then the man swung back out of his reach. ‘Coward! Come and fight me like a man!’
‘You’re not a man.’ Baldr sneered. ‘You’re a waste of life. I’m the one your father chose.’
It was the only taunt that Gunnar couldn’t deny. It shouldn’t have held any power to wound him, yet it did. He’d been told to leave while Baldr had been invited to his father’s dais, to Gunnar’s old seat. He hesitated for a heartbeat. That was long enough for Baldr to risk kicking him, his booted foot landing on Gunnar’s shoulder. He’d seen the blow coming an instant before it connected, long enough to brace himself for it and then grab the boot in both hands and twist. He might have heard a crack as the ankle twisted, but Baldr yelled as he lurched to the ground to ease the pressure from his leg, covering the sound. The knife clattered to the floor, giving Gunnar the opening he needed to pounce on the man’s back. Digging his fingers into Baldr’s dark hair, he pulled his head back to ram his forehead into the floor, then let loose a torrent of blows. He pounded the back of his head in a blur of rage. It wasn’t until Dom was pulling him away that he realised Baldr was unconscious and not fighting back.
Blood whooshed through his ears, his entire body alive and pumping with it, numb to the pain in his fists, leg and side, that would surely come later. As Gunnar rose to his feet, Dom pressed the hilt of his sword into his hand and he automatically turned towards the two men left on the dais. They were standing with their own swords in hand, ready to fight him, but a roar filled the room. It took a moment for his thoughts to clear, for Gunnar to realise that the roar was a collective cheer from the men. It was followed by the sounds of metal and wood clashing in a chorus over and over again. Shields piled high on the floor as one by one the men laid down their weapons, offering him their fealty.
Only the two on the dais dared to oppose him. His gaze swung back to them. ‘You can fight and die tonight, or live out the rest of your life in exile. The choice is yours to make.’
They stared at him, hatred, fear and humiliation robbing them of their reasoning. As one they lunged from the dais, but didn’t get far before a wall of warriors stopped them. The skirmish was brief. The warriors were still riding the energy of the fight they had just witnessed and itching for one of their own, and they didn’t go easy on them. Subdued and beaten, they were brought before Gunnar, but he barely spared them a glance. ‘Take them to the hold and free my brother. Take this waste of life with you.’ He nudged Baldr’s boot with the tip of his sword.
‘You should kill him.’ Dom spat on Baldr’s unconscious body as someone grabbed him under the shoulders to lift him.
‘He’ll die a slow death knowing he failed. We’ll ship him to the Saxons and Eirik will hear of his deeds. Everyone will know. He’ll not have the reputation nor the gold needed to ever have warriors under his command again, so he’ll die a labourer. That’s enough.’
As Baldr was carried out, cheers went up around the room and Gunnar allowed himself a moment to take them in. This was the moment he’d dreamed about as a boy. The moment when he would hold his head high in this very hall and hear the warriors he’d fought beside swear allegiance to him. It felt like acceptance, like everything he’d ever worked for was finally coming together. It almost felt like coming home. Almost, because this wasn’t his home and he wasn’t jarl, no matter that they seemed to think so. His father was still jarl. Still, a stirring of hope began in his chest that perhaps he could have Kadlin and Avalt after all.
With a nod of acknowledgement, he took the sapling Dom held out to him and rested his weight on it while raising his sword high in victory. The cheers went up again and he finally allowed himself a smile to savour the moment. It was only when he lowered the sword that he winced from the sharp stab of pain in his side and remembered Baldr had stabbed him. Dropping the sword to the floor, his hand found the wound sticky, still oozing warm blood. He cursed.
‘We’ll get Hilla to sew it.’ Dom smiled and walked away to find her, just as Gunnar’s father’s voice filled the room.
‘Your jarl’s not even dead yet and you offer your loyalty to this misbegoten cur!’
Tending to his wounds would have to wait. Gingerly taking his shirt off over his head, Gunnar wadded it and pressed it to his side. Now that the heat of battle had died out, he could feel the wound throbbing along with his hands. Together they almost matched the ache and shooting pains in his lame leg.
The room quieted as the crowd parted and all eyes turned to where the man stood just outside the door to his chamber. ‘I should skewer you all with my sword and be done with the lot of you.’
‘Quit your barking, old man. I just rid your house of a viper.’
His father gave him a fierce stare, but Gunnar couldn’t say what was in his eyes. They were bloodshot, sunken into their sockets, and filled with bitterness even as he stood on the edge of death.
‘In my chamber, boy.’ Certain that his authority would be obeyed, the man turned and disappeared through the doorway.
Gunnar almost turned the other way. He almost walked out of the house without looking back. There was nothing for him here while his father lived, but then his gaze went back to the men in the room, moving over each one in a slow study. Each one of them looked back at him, meeting his eyes head-on with looks of acceptance, maybe even pride.
‘Welcome back, Gunnar.’ One of them spoke and clasped his arm as he walked by to leave, in pursuit of other entertainments now that the fight was over. Others joined in with a clasp of his arm or a slap on the back as they left the house or went back to their meals at the tables. No matter what happened with his father, they had already made up their minds about him.
His mother had left him, his father had rejected him and his own guilt about his past had held him down for too long.
He had finally been accepted. Nay, not finally. Kadlin had accepted him long ago. Taking a deep breath, he smiled and let it out as his gaze took in the great room once more. It was time to bring her home.
Chapter Twenty-Three
After the last hand had been clasped, Gunnar made his way to his father’s chamber. Gritting his teeth through the pain of his wounds, he paused at the door. His father lounged in his c
hair before the hearth, eyes staring blankly into the fire and hands limp on the arms of the chair. He didn’t look like the image of the larger-than-life jarl that Gunnar had stowed in his memories. The fire in him had waned, leaving him slumped in his chair and defeated. The plain, linen tunic he wore reached his ankles, showing his bare feet.
This was not a jarl. This was a mere man meeting his death. All of the anger Gunnar held for the man fled, leaving him hollow and aching. None of it mattered any more. Kadlin was his future and the men had accepted him. Nothing this man thought or did could affect him.
‘You coming in or standing there all night?’ His father’s gravelly voice drew him into the chamber.
The smell in the room was horrible, made only worse by the stifling heat from the fire. It might have turned his stomach if he hadn’t already had numerous other ailments taking his mind from it. ‘Just making sure you’re not changing your dress.’ He managed the wry comment as he stepped inside.
The man turned his head and gave him a scathing look that took in his bare chest and then the wound at his side. ‘You’ve gone soft lying up in bed at that farm fostering that lame leg. The boy I taught to fight wouldn’t have let him pull a blade on you.’
His father had never taught him to fight. Dom had taught him, demonstrating holds and how to exploit known weaknesses, having him spar with opponents and correcting his errors. His father’s version of teaching involved pitting a boy against a warrior over twice his size and watching the entertainment while he drank his mead on the dais. Not that it mattered any more. Gunnar shrugged and pulled the wadded shirt away from the wound to examine it. The linen was almost completely saturated with his blood and it stuck to his skin a little when he shifted it. The wound burned like someone had lanced him with fire, but at least the blood flow was slowing. ‘It appears we’re both losing our touch. Why would you get sick and allow a scoundrel like Baldr to take over?’
‘Who are you to question me? You’re nothing but the bastard I was too stupid to send off with your mother when she left me to marry that farmer. A thorn in my side since the day you were born.’
‘Aye, you’ve always made that fairly clear.’ Walking around to stand next to the fire and face his father head-on, Gunnar sucked in a long, quiet breath before asking the question that had always lurked in the back of his mind. ‘What did I ever do to displease you so?’
His father answered without hesitation, ‘You had my eyes. Eirik was my true son and he didn’t have my eyes. What makes you think you’re entitled to them?’
Those words made no sense. Either the man was truly close to death and running off at the mouth with nonsense, or his words hinted at something more. Determined to smother any flicker of pain, Gunnar grinned. ‘What’s this, Father? Complaining because your seed runs true?’
The jarl had already turned his attention back to watching the fire, seeming to get lost staring at the flames before he spoke again. ‘You looked like Finna, except for your eyes. Those were mine. Everyone knew. Eirik’s mother—my own wife—knew. If not for those bloody eyes we could have passed you off as the son of some other man.’
‘My apologies for ruining your plan of keeping your wife’s sister as mistress under her own roof. I’m sure it was disappointing for you.’
‘Quiet!’
Clenching his jaw, Gunnar turned his attention to the fire, determined to allow the old man to say whatever he needed to say and then leave him to rot. It didn’t matter.
‘You don’t understand. When I walked into their father’s home to meet my future wife, Finna was the first person I saw. I wanted her immediately. I even asked her father to allow me to have her instead of her sister. He refused, claiming she was too young for marriage. She wanted me, too, but even she couldn’t sway him. So I married as planned and I convinced my wife that she should bring her sister home with us.’ He paused as if lost in the memory before continuing. ‘Finna was able to hide her pregnancy until after Eirik was born and there were whispers then, except no one had seen me go to her bed, no one could say for certain. But then you were born.’ He huffed at the memory and shook his head. The momentary spark that had returned snuffed out again. ‘It was the longest day and night of my life. She was so young, so small... I was sure that I had killed her. That you had killed her. It was a much tougher, longer labour than Eirik’s. You always were disagreeable. My Finna was strong, though. She made it through and later...after all the others had found their beds... I went to her. She was exhausted, but she presented you to me with more pride than I had ever seen in anyone.’
Lost to memories, his father’s words tapered off and his heft slumped down in the chair even farther. Was it possible that the man had actually loved her? The thought had never crossed his mind before. It seemed impossible that the hard man who had never cared about anything except leading his men could have stooped so low as to lose his heart to a woman. Gunnar couldn’t bring himself to believe it, but he’d also never heard him talk about anyone this way. Perhaps what the man had felt had been some distorted version of love, but it hadn’t been what Gunnar felt for Kadlin. It hadn’t been anything like his need, his absolute knowledge that she was his. Guilt had been the more likely emotion his father had felt.
The jarl sighed and began again. ‘You had my eyes and my wife had her accusation. I ignored her as long as I could. Her father had died by then so she had no one to which to voice her appeal. You were my son after all, no matter her feelings. But then she began taking her jealousy out on your mother until even she was asking to go, begging me to allow her to marry. I was weak back then. I thought her happiness would absolve me of my crimes against her and I allowed it to happen. She married and begged me to keep you here. She wanted no reminders of me.’
His only knowledge of his mother, aside from the brief snippets of memory he had, was learning of her death years ago. The moment he was told hadn’t even been very noteworthy, just a simple declaration by his father one evening before they had retired to bed. There had been no mourning or explanation. He’d felt nothing then aside from a strange, hollow ache. That ache was back now and growing larger. Gunnar couldn’t look away from his father. He’d always assumed his mother had abandoned him like the unwanted bastard he had been. He had no memory of her leaving, just that one day she was gone from his life. But to hear the awful truth stated aloud, that he had merely been an inconvenience unwanted by both of his parents... The pain grew until it sucked the air from his chest.
It was no wonder that he had clung to Kadlin, the only constant source of love and approval in his life. It was no wonder that he had sought her out when everything else around him had been so horrible. Yet, instead of protecting their love—instead of protecting her—he’d been obsessed with protecting himself. And then he had thrown her love in her face. He’d taken everything that she had given him and turned it against her.
‘I was wrong,’ his father continued. ‘Her happiness only fed my misery.’
He’d always thought of his mother as nothing more than a convenience for his father. The man was notorious for his fickle affections when it came to women. There had been no reason to suspect that she had been anything other than a momentary distraction for him. Nothing more than a challenge or another conquest. Could it be that she had been more? ‘You loved her.’ The idea was so unfathomable that he could barely get the words out and when he did they were more of an accusation.
The old man flinched, but didn’t shift his gaze from the fire. ‘It wasn’t a sentiment in which I could indulge. I had my duty and the rest didn’t matter. Finna knew that. She had known that from the beginning.’
It was so easy for him to cut people out and pretend they didn’t matter. It was what he had done to Gunnar’s mother and what he had always done to Gunnar. Gunnar stared until he realised his fingers were wet. The shirt was completely red with his blood, so he tightened his grip and pressed i
t hard to the wound at his side. It burned and throbbed, but he made himself ignore it. ‘She knew that she didn’t matter because you had other things to do? What sort of man—’
What sort of man allowed the woman he loved to think she didn’t matter?
He’d been as horrible as his father, only in a different way. The blood drained from his face, leaving him slightly dizzy and as disgusted with himself as he was with his father. Kadlin had thought that very thing and he’d done nothing to make sure she knew it wasn’t true. He’d abandoned her without a promise for the future and with his child to raise alone. That wasn’t any better than what the defeated old man before him had done. Making her decisions for her hadn’t protected her at all. Neither had trying to make it up to her, but then, she’d wanted so much more from him than just the pleasure he could bring her body. She’d wanted all of him. Every piece of him that he kept hidden away because he’d spent his entire life being afraid.
Not any more. Nothing mattered without her.
He was not his father and he refused to repeat the man’s mistakes. He also refused to live under the weight of his family’s rejection any longer. Kadlin was his family and she had given him a son. He’d spend every day until his death letting them know how much he valued them, how much he regretted every moment he had spent away from them.
‘I put what was right for my men before what was right for myself. I am jarl. You’ll do the same.’
‘I will.’ That didn’t mean sacrificing Kadlin. It never had. His own fear had guided him in that. Fear that she would one day look at him and see what everyone else saw. She’d never believed what they had seen and for once he was beginning to suspect that she had been the one who was right. Or at least he could strive to be that man she saw.
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