Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Leaning against the threshold of the hut, Gunnar waited for Frida's return. Many hours had passed, and soon the light would fade.

Was she expecting him to remove himself—to sleep outside until other arrangements were made? He rubbed at his chest, which felt tight and sore. He'd ceased his tears, but his eyes remained dry and itching. He didn't wish her to see him so. A woman needed a man to be strong, and his weaknesses were enough as they were.

His stomach ached, too, though as much from hunger as worry and grief at what had passed between them. He hobbled to the fire-pit, where the stew was bubbling, its aroma enticing, and ladled himself a portion. Awkwardly, he lowered himself to a stool, taking care not to spill from his bowl. Having not a spoon, he sipped directly from the rim. ‘Twas tasty and warming—a good broth he and Frida had made together. He'd insisted on helping where he could, not only preparing the vegetables but skinning and stripping the rabbit Hedda had left for them.

Frida had smiled, watching him handling the knife, and teased that he made a good wife to her. The heavier work of bringing water for the cauldron had been hers and bringing herbs from the corner where she kept such things. She'd been stirring the pot half the day.

Where was she?

Surely, she would come back before dark. Like him, she must be hungry.

Using his crutch, he began raising himself again, intending to take watch once more, but before he was upon his feet, a familiar voice carried through.

"Alone! ‘Tis fortunate!" Eldberg strode inside, closing the door behind him.

With only the smoke hole in the roof providing light, beside the low flames of the fire-pit, the room was dim, but Eldberg's expression was not hard to read. His eyes were bright with news to tell.

For a moment, Gunnar thought his jarl might have brought tidings of Frida, but that was nonsense, of course. Eldberg had other things on his mind.

Without asking, he pulled up the other stool Frida usually sat upon, sitting close to Gunnar. It made a comical sight, for Eldberg's height brought his knees near up to his chin upon the flimsy wooden seat, but Gunnar could only think of how upset Frida would be if the legs broke.

Eldberg glanced down and frowned, as if reconsidering his decision to perch upon the thing, then leaned his elbows upon his thighs.

"Rutger is progressing well with our oars," Eldberg declared, wasting no time in conveying what was upon his mind. "We need then only the mast and to procure a sail, for which J?rgen has the job. ‘Twill soon be time to ascertain which women may row with us. My Hedda is yet ignorant of the plan, and has an excessive fondness for this place, but I have faith she'll come with me when the time is right. In any case, how goes it with your wench? Think she'll be willing?"

Gunnar gave a hollow laugh.

By Odin's balls, the way matters stood with Frida, there was as much chance of her accompanying him off the island as there might be of Odin dropping in to offer Sleipnir's swift-hooved legs in replacement of his own. As to whether Frida had muscle enough to take a share in pulling the oars, it was unlikely to be put to the test.

"Not so well, hmmm. Women are ever troublesome!" Eldberg leaned closer. "But you like her, yes? I can tell as much by the disturbed look upon you! No doubt, I've appeared the same, for Hedda has turned my emotions in every direction. Never before have I been so…" Eldberg stroked his beard, looking thoughtful. However, the next moment, he slapped his thigh. "Come now! Hast told the wench you love her?"

"That I love her?" Gunnar's indignation rose. "‘Twould do little good, for Frida has no such affection for me." He tapped his foot upon the floor.

Did I tell her?

Gunnar thought back.

Perhaps not, but she knew, surely, the strength of my feelings. Did I not worship her in all the ways a man does when he loves a woman?

"Whether you mean it or no, ‘tis best said," Eldberg continued. "You know our plan. Every man must woo his woman and bring her to our side. Without their help, our escape shall be so much the harder. Throw her over your knee if you have to or feast betwixt her thighs ‘til she loses the power of speech, but make her believe you're besotted."

"Nay!" The declaration came more forcefully than Gunnar intended. "If I am to tell her, ‘twill be honestly said, not to deceive nor manipulate. Besides which, she's dedicated to the island. I can't imagine her leaving." Gunnar sat up straighter, looking his jarl boldly in the face. "Moreover, if she feels that way about wanting to remain here, I won't allow her to be taken against her will."

"You'd defy me, would you, for the sake of this bit of skirt, even if I command you otherwise?"

"I will if I must." Gunnar swallowed, very much aware of his duty to his jarl. Eldberg was not just his superior physically but the leader to whom he'd sworn allegiance in all things.

"Hah!" Eldberg narrowed his eyes. "I'd like to see you try! But, in any case, ‘tis obvious you more than amply love the wench. Never would you oppose me otherwise! In which case, there be no obstacle to you declaring it. Pump her good and hard, then whisper whatever sweet words come to you. Promise marriage if you must but leave her in no doubt that your cock will pine and shrivel if it cannot find her sheath for its embrace this night and all those to come."

Gunnar gave an inward groan.

Little more than a cycle of the moon before, he'd likely have been the one spouting such vulgarities. Since meeting Frida, he'd come to speak in a less uncouth fashion.

If he were to confess his love, it would be with noble intentions—to make her his wife. Such thoughts were futile now she'd made her feelings clear. She regretted bringing him into her life and her home. Having stormed off, wishing no more to look upon him, only confirmed it.

Gunnar passed his hand over his brow.

"‘Tis the course you took with the lady who harbors you? She's Frida's sister, I believe, but they must be different creatures if such words produced the desired result."

Eldberg grinned. "Aye, no doubt, for there is but one Hedda in all the world. As for the words she finds sweetest from my mouth, they'll remain betwixt she and I, but I find a firm approach reaps the most reward." Leaning back, he folded his arms.

"If you must know, I intend to bring her back, come what may, for I cannot think to live without her—in my bed or otherwise. Perhaps it shall be of consideration to your own stubborn maid to know she'll be sister to the new mistress of Skálavík. A chamber in the great longhouse would be fitting and a wardrobe of silks."

Something about the offer brought bile to Gunnar's tongue. If such a thing came to pass, how many suitors would Frida have, eager to make her their own? She needed no finery nor high status to make her a prize, but such things would elevate her in other men's eyes—men who cared not for her as Gunnar did.

Not that such enticements would hold sway with Frida. She was above such shallow fripperies, but her love for her sister ran deep. Would she join their cause purely to accompany Hedda?

Gunnar's hope rose. He would see her then, whenever he wished—even if she were seated at the high table, her eyes averted from his unwelcome gaze. Seated there beside some man Eldberg would choose for her? One of his high guard, perhaps?

A wave of despair broke upon Gunnar. Could he bear it?

"Hedda shall go then and be your wife. I congratulate you, my jarl, on finding a woman worthy of the position."

"Aye, she'll wed me." Eldberg gave a satisfied smile. "Though the vixen bewails an attachment to this backwater, she yearns to see more of the world, and her bond to me grows daily. I venture to say she loves me as well as any headstrong woman loved a man."

Though the words were bluff and hearty, Gunnar could hear the pride in Eldberg's voice. This Hedda must be special indeed to have captured his jarl's attention so thoroughly.

Lucky for Eldberg—to care for someone who yields to him in return.

His jarl would have made sure of that. When Eldberg set his mind to something, there was no escaping his claim. He would have persisted, leaving her in no doubt of his regard and his desire to place her above all other women.

Meanwhile, Gunnar had given up at the first sign of being dismissed.

He'd too readily deemed himself unworthy, despite knowing that love was the one treasure he could heap upon Frida, no matter his other shortcomings. And he was certain she had cared for him. Something had happened to spoil that, but what sort of man would he be to give up without taking pains to get to the bottom of why her feelings had seemed to change so abruptly?

He deserved a kick up the arse.

If there was any way in which to redeem himself and to make Frida see that he deserved a second chance, he had to take it.

The question was, where was Frida? There was one person who might know. Perhaps Frida was with her even now.

As Eldberg rose, Gunnar reached out. "Know you where a woman named Bothild resides, grandmother to our fair ladies?"

Eldberg clasped Gunnar's hand firmly. "A cunning plan, my friend! Win over the old biddy and secure your maid by stealth!"

Gunnar smiled to himself. His jarl would never change, nor would Gunnar want him to. Perhaps he could learn a thing or two from him.

Determination for one.

Self-belief for another.

How could he expect Frida to love and admire him if he lacked such respect for himself? He was going to speak with her, and he wouldn't leave until he'd made himself understood.

After that, the choice was hers.

Emerging from Bothild's hut, Gunnar scanned the hillside. Frida's grandmother had been surprised to find him knocking at her door but had welcomed him in and had quickly apprised herself of the situation. Old the lady might be, but her mind was as sharp as any.

"Mind the path now." Bothild's gaze rose to where she'd directed him. "You'll know the tree at which to make your turn by the symbol carved into the base. Don't forget! Go steady on that stick of yours. You'll be no good to Frida with a broken neck!"

"Aye." Gunnar couldn't help but like the old woman, though she'd given him a roasting, demanding to know what he'd said to make Frida run off as she had—as if all the fault was his. Not that he was blameless, of course. He'd acted rashly, thinking the worst, and his pride had been hurt.

He'd had no choice but to admit to Bothild how much Frida meant to him. Even so, it had taken a deal of persuasion to get her to reveal where Frida was likely to have gone.

"Be patient with her." One gnarled hand came to rest upon Gunnar's arm. "She's waited long for one such as you."

Frida was no simple maid, and what she'd been through—as her grandmother had told him—made him shudder. Her fears—past and present—had taken such hold that she believed some terrible fate awaited. Bothild had been reticent, but she'd shared enough for Gunnar to see better where Frida's mind had wandered.

What had she said?

There was sorrow ahead and an ending that would bring pain? She'd urged that he'd have been better never coming to the island.

He'd interpreted that as a rejection, but Bothild was convinced Frida's anxiety was more widely cast. The gods spoke to her, it seemed, through the runes he'd mocked and other signs—through visions even. He didn't know if he'd ever fully comprehend the gift Frida possessed, but he wanted to try. The gods worked in mysterious ways, and this sight —as Bothild explained—must have been bestowed for a reason.

Bothild fixed him with eyes pale blue like Frida's.

"Remember to love my granddaughter is to accept the dark with the light, the hidden with the seen. She needs your love and your courage, for her burden is heavy. Draw on your strength, enough for the both of you, and hold fast, young man."

He nodded his assent. He sensed Frida kept much to herself that even her grandmother was unaware of. How bleak that must feel. It was a cold prospect to be always set apart.

Little wonder that Frida was afraid.

And what had he done but push her away at the very moment when she was reaching out to him, trying to make him understand…

Sweat trickled down Gunnar's spine. Getting about had been hard enough on flat ground with the crutch; making progress uphill was another matter altogether. Moreover, the path was slippery from a sudden downpour of rain earlier that day, making the ascent a great struggle.

Pausing, he shifted the small bag slung across his torso. Bothild had insisted he take it—containing a pouch of water and some victuals. Though his mouth was parched, he took but a small sip of the quenching liquid, wanting to save all for Frida.

The sun was almost touching the water now, with a faint moon rising in the East. How much longer did he have before it was dark altogether? Nothing short of the fullest moon would give sufficient illumination to guide him, and that had passed some days since. Once the day was gone, he'd have no choice but to stop—to spend the night here, beneath the trees, while Frida was alone, thinking he'd forsaken her.

Keep going, then. You've no time to lose.

Step by step, he pushed on, looking for the markers Bothild had made him memorize—a large boulder flanked by several smaller, a place where two trees arched overhead, an open view to the beach, then the wide trunk with the special mark carved upon it. Only then must he leave the path.

At last, he saw it, though the angular, runic writing was part-concealed by ferns. Clutching tighter upon his crutch, he moved through dense foliage, making toward the rising face of the hill.

Thankfully, it was but twenty steps before he saw the curtain of leaves Bothild had described. By the way the grass was crushed, he could see that someone—Frida surely—had recently passed this way. His heart, already pounding with the effort of reaching this place, took on a fiercer beat. She was here, he felt sure.

Stepping carefully, he navigated past gnarled tree roots. On pushing back the vines, a crevice was revealed, musty-odored, rough-walled, and constricted, leading on to where he could not see.

"Frida!" he called, listening for a reply. When none came, he did so again, louder, but the interior seemed to eat his voice rather than amplify it. No echo returned.

He could not help but pause. With the day fading at his back, the recess of the cleft appeared wholly black, so that he was loath to enter. Even with a lantern and two good legs, he'd never have sought such an adventure. Unlike those who worked the mines in Skálavík, he'd no love of dark places.

Moreover, could he keep hold of his stick? If he were to drop it, there was hardly space in which to bend. Even were he able to do so, he'd likely lose his balance.

Don't think on that. Frida needs you. Whatever it takes, I must put things right.

After a moment's deliberation, he set aside the crutch. There was a better way.

Shuffling inside, he braced his back to the wall and touched the opposite face. His ankle throbbed as he placed his foot flat upon the ground, but there was no helping it. He needed both legs to keep his balance. There would be time for rest later.

As the veil of foliage closed behind him, he lost his sight entirely. Only the hardness beneath his fingertips and the gnarled rock against his spine anchored him in the space. His breath was loud, pulled jagged from his chest.

What had made Frida come here, of all places? Was she entirely in the dark, somewhere beyond, or had she some means of illumination, a lamp of fish oil or a tallow candle? If she had, the flame had not reached this far. He detected not even the smallest glow.

He blinked, steadying himself, and his eyes gradually adjusted. The thinnest light entered between the leaves, but it would soon be gone. He could not let that deter him, however. Ignoring all but the need to move, he proceeded deeper, measuring his progress by the distance of one hand meeting the other, then skimming onward.

He could not be sure, but it felt as if the narrow confine was curving, leading him away from the entrance into some other space. His arms were now fully extended, and a new worry assailed him. If he could no longer touch the wall while keeping support behind, how could he advance?

Something fell upon his cheek, cold and wet, and a strange panic took him. Jerking back, he wiped away whatever had touched it.

‘Twas only water, but he was trembling now. Sinking his face in his hands, he pushed back against the rock, desperate for its solidity.

Frida!

He tried to picture her, to calm himself, but his knees were shaking. He was going to fall.

"Frida!" He called aloud, praying to Odin that she would hear.