stories of angels and demons. She had always imagined Eirik to be beautiful like one of that Godâs angels, full of light. But not Gunnar. He had always been wicked. He was one of the dark ones, a fallen and wrathful angel.
Fishing the washcloth from the bucket, she rung it out and began wiping the grime from his torso, careful of the bruise over his left side. She tried to work in a perfunctory manner and not linger on the scars heâd acquired since sheâd last seen him. But she couldnât help but stop to wonder how heâd come by each one as she found them. Try as she might, she couldnât stop the flood of memories that came over her. Their days of running wild through the forest as children and their evenings spent inside playing hnefatafl, when he would tease her mercilessly as he tried to break her concentration while she stared at the board, contemplating her next move. The first time heâd kissed her when theyâd been children, when she was just beginning to understand what it meant. How strange and wonderful it had felt to have the weight of his body pressing down on hers, even though sheâd not understood her own reaction. The years afterward when heâd become almost like a stranger to her, but she would still watch him and feel her breath catch when his gaze would lock on hers.
Heâd held a strange power over her even then and she could feel it now trying to take her over. It wanted to make her soft where she had tried so valiantly to harden herself against him. She was seized by a nearly overwhelming devastation that their lives should have turned out differently. She thought sheâd squelched that longing and the anger that accompanied it, but it rose up inside her anew. Tears stung her eyes, but she was able to blink them back and shake the melancholy from her head. Her task was to get him clean before Harald arrived and then to make sure that he wasnât lying on his deathbed. Then she would see him gone, back across the sea or wherever he longed to be, somewhere away from her, before he could destroy her again.
* * *
A short while later Harald arrived. Kadlin averted her eyes from the crutch the man held and the stilted but efficient way he moved with it. She immediately felt ashamed, because it had never bothered her before, except that now she could only imagine Gunnar walking in that same crippled manner and it filled her heart with sadness. Together with Vidar, they unwrapped the wounded leg to examine it. It was horribly discoloured, but Vidar thought that it looked less swollen than when they had set sail. Harald confirmed that it had been broken in more than one spot, so they were careful to hold the wood in place to minimise any movement, but Gunnar still roused from the pain. Vidar was quick to supply him with the small barrel of mead heâd been clutching in the wagon. She gave it a harsh study, suspecting that it contained something much stronger than mead, but held her tongue.
After Gunnar settled down again, they wrapped his ribs and then the leg in clean linen and she grabbed a knife to cut away the rest of his trousers so she could finish cleaning him. Harald stopped her with a hand to her shoulder.
âLet me do this part.â
She frowned and shrugged him off.
âKadlin, do you think he would want you to bathe him? Heâll have trouble enough when he awakens. Donât do more to take his dignity away.â
Her eyes froze on the grime-covered trousers and she realised that he was right. It would likely embarrass Gunnar if he knew that she had tended to him so intimately. âIâll wait by the fire.â
He nodded and took the knife from her, so she left him and Vidar to finish washing him and went back to the front room of the sod house. The fire warmed the space comfortably. It was small, but she never failed to experience a wave of satisfaction at how she had managed to turn the house into her home in the year that sheâd been there since her husband had been killed in battle. Benches dressed in cosy blankets surrounded the perimeter of the room, while the stone hearth sat in the middle. Off to the side were shelves and a table used for eating and preparing food. It had given her sanctuary when sheâd needed it and it appeared that it was to be Gunnarâs sanctuary, as well. Picking up the empty bowls the two men had left behind, she intended to wash them, but she couldnât concentrate. So she abandoned the bowls to the bucket of water and moved to the bench where she usually did her sewing, lighting upon it briefly before standing again to pace the length of the hearth. Her gaze repeatedly went to the alcove just off the hallway until Harald and Vidar finally emerged.
âHow bad is he really, Harald?â
Harald shrugged. âHard to say. If the fever has passed and doesnât return, he should live, but he wonât ever have use of that leg again.â He indicated the large crutch he leaned against. âAt least not without one of these.â
She couldnât face that just yet, so she didnât think about it. âHow long before he...before he can attempt walking?â
He shrugged. âThatâs largely up to him. A couple of months, maybe more.â
Months. How would she survive being so close to him for months? Yet her heart wouldnât let her send him away. âThank you for coming. Stay for a while and have supper.â
He shook his head. âIâve already supped. Iâll come back in the morning to check on him.â Vidar rose from his seat on a bench to escort Harald home, but the older man waved him back to his seat. âIâve crossed that field many times without you, boy.â He smiled and made his way out the door, stopping outside to talk with the men who had accompanied Vidar in the wagon. Their voices rumbled through the wooden door, speaking of the battle across the sea with an excitement that baffled her.
âHas he been awake at all?â she asked Vidar.
âMerewynâs Saxon witch made a potion of laced mead. Eirik gave it to him before they set his leg and heâs been drinking it since. We thought it was best for the pain. It makes him sleep. Heâs been awake a few times, but heâs not very lucid.â
âDonât give him any more of it. He needs nourishment now more than he needs oblivion.â
âBut, Kadlin, heâs in pain.â
âNo more, Vidar. Heâs wasting away.â
Vidar sighed and nodded from his seat on the bench beside her, exhausted. âAll right. Heâs in your care now.â
She frowned at his resigned expression. âWhy has he been sent to me? Wouldnât it have been better to let him rest and recover at Eirikâs home?â
âPerhaps, but Eirik believed that he had no will to survive his injury. I agree. He would have died had he stayed and he still may.â
She crossed her arms and held them tight to her belly, trying unsuccessfully to hold back the pain. Seeing Gunnar again had caused the old wounds to fester and it was taking all she had to keep them from reopening. âWhy does he think that?â
âGunnar has changed.â Vidar glanced to the alcove where his brother slept, seeming to weigh his words. âHe fights with recklessness, without thought for his own well-being. Like a madman. Itâs true that he was reckless before, but now heâs even more so. Itâs clear to anyone who knows him that he fights with a longing for death.â He paused as if trying to determine how much to reveal. âI once saw him walk into a camp of Saxons, alone, and draw his sword. He fought them all with a smile on his face. The men who fight beneath him have tripled in size, because heâs amassed a fortune, or so the stories claim. But
