Chapter 19

Day fifty of the men's sojourn on the island

Leaning against the door of his prison, Rangvald sighed into the endless darkness. Except it wasn't endless. Its territory ended only a few feet away—a fact he knew only too well from having paced its confines. Long days had bled into nights held in this shadowy place.

He hoped someone would visit soon, bringing water if nothing else, for his throat was parched. Bending to the small gap in the timbers, just beneath the locked latch, he peered out at the world beyond, where life went on without him.

He saw naught but a nearby chicken, clucking happily in the sun, scratching the ground in pursuit of scattered seed.

How he envied the witless foul!

It strutted around without a care in the world, blissfully unaware of whether this day might be its last. How low had he fallen when the hapless hen feeding in the dirt led a better life than he?

"Even the bird has more liberty than I in this dark hole." He kicked at the door, startling the chicken, who squawked away. He watched its alarmed retreat with a heavy heart.

Rangvald recalled little of his arrival other than his lousy jarl throwing him unceremoniously inside. Eldberg had thrust him into this makeshift jail—a woodstore judging by the logs piled at the rear. It had not taken long to explore these close quarters, though he'd done so by touch alone. Even with the sun shining brightly, little of its light or warmth penetrated the tightly shiplapped timbers.

His eyes had adjusted partially to the gloom but not to the soulless camaraderie of his own company. If he'd wanted to escape this place, he could have, but Rangvald lacked the will to even try.

It's what I deserve.

Slow, isolated hours had brought little in the way of refreshment, let alone respite. The scowling wench who'd helped drag him here—Eldberg's woman—had brought food and water on occasion, but to everyone else, he seemed all but dead.

Dead.

A swift end was all he could hope for and was his due, considering what he'd done to Elin. Pain knotted in his belly at the mere thought of her.

What have I done?

Pressing his fist to his forehead, he forced himself to revisit those last terrible moments when he'd lunged at Eldberg in anger. Suddenly, Elin had been there, and the knife he wielded was embedded beneath her shoulder—all his hopes bleeding away with her lifeblood.

Elin. A sob caught in his throat. I never intended to hurt you.

Sliding to the hard floor, he permitted his tears to fall.

If she's lost, killed by my hand, I deserve whatever fate befalls me.

He wanted to believe Bothild had saved her, but Elin had been so limp and pale. He'd tried asking Hedda each time she'd begrudgingly brought him sustenance, but she refused to answer.

Neither Bothild nor Eldberg had bothered to come to him.

Not that he desired to see his treacherous jarl.

Eldberg had been gifted with every opportunity, while Rangvald was left with nothing. Eldberg had taken the jarlship after Beornwold's demise, while Rangvald had been left to find his own way.

Ire mixed with Rangvald's sorrow and regret. Alone and with no hope of salvation, Rangvald was all but abandoned. He would gladly welcome death were it not for his fear of the penalties of the afterlife.

"What will I do if Elin is already with the gods?"

Casting his eyes to the musty roof, he beseeched for some sign from the divine to show him that she yet dwelt in the earthly realm, but there was nothing.

Nothing! Have the gods utterly forsaken me?

"I wouldn't blame them." He blinked away tears, once again recalling Elin's face, contorted in pain as his blade pierced her. "I am incapable of love."

But in his heart, Rangvald knew it was a lie.

Elin—always so patient, gentle, and caring—had drawn love from him, coaxing emotions he'd never before experienced, and those feelings had grown strong.

The truth was, he adored her, relishing her lively spirit and passionate submission. He'd even dared hope that he might eventually confide in Elin, trusting her with the poison of his past.

For the first time, he'd believed he might be destined for happiness.

So much for that. I should have known better than to hope for deliverance.

He'd killed Beornwold as vengeance for his mother's suffering, and though the old man deserved his fate, the act had left a stain on Rangvald's soul.

To have slain his father in cold blood, plotting the sly poisoning of his mead, had infected Rangvald's heart. He'd told himself he'd no use for sentiment, that callous indifference was the only way, but he'd been needlessly cruel to Elin, curt where he might have been kind.

Elin warranted a better master.

Not that he'd always been cold and unthinking. Hadn't he spent hours considering how best to tease, punish, and please her? He'd labored over each effort, seeking to know her mind as well as her glorious body, watching how she responded to each new suggestion.

He'd been hesitant to let her know the depth of his feelings, afraid that by speaking them aloud, he might chase away she who'd entranced him, but he'd known all along that he was under her spell.

Even in the darkness of this place, love surged through his veins.

No distance would diminish that, not even the gulf of death.

"I love her." There, he'd said it, even if there was no one to hear. "I love her, no matter that she's lost to me."

He was no fool. Even if she lived, Elin would never wish to lay eyes upon him again. How long she'd been listening at her door, he could not know, but surely she'd heard his veiled confession, delivered without remorse, that he'd murdered his father.

Moreover, she'd witnessed him overcome by fury, striking out blindly. It mattered not that the blow had been intended for Eldberg—his temper had ruled, and she'd paid the price.

How could Elin wish to be with such a man governed by violence and resentment? How could any woman?

I'm a monster.

He pushed the heels of his hands into the sockets of his eyes.

It mattered not what Bothild and the others decided—whether they executed him or left him to a slow-starving death.

Whatever their verdict, Rangvald would never forgive himself.