Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

" N ow what has you looking like a beast, I wonder?"

Instead of answering, Sigurd glared at Wolf. Ingrid's mouth quivered. She knew the Dane had been nicknamed Beast as a child and hated it. Only Wolf would dare call him that when he was already riled up. The two friends were like brothers but they never missed an opportunity to rankle each other.

"I just caught Elwyn kissing a girl behind the hut," Sigurd said in a snarl. Really, for someone who hated being likened to a beast, he had quite a temper on…Not daunted in the least by her formidable husband, Frigyth placed a hand over his arm.

"And?"

"And nothing! Isn't that enough?"

The people assembled by the well looked at each other, evidently doing their best to hold on to their composure. It was obvious they had expected something of quite a different nature—and magnitude—to explain the outburst but they didn't dare admit as much out loud. Unsurprisingly, the Icelander was the first one to speak.

"Calm down, my friend. It's just a kiss. It's part of life." He shrugged. "Don't you remember your first kiss? You must have been a similar age."

Sigurd grumbled. "I can't have been that young. And, anyway, I'd like to see your face when your daughter Eyja starts seeing boys! I doubt you'll like being reminded it is only part of life then!"

All the blood seemed to drain from Wolf's face at the words. "Mm. Yes. You might have a point."

"A first kiss is always special," Merewen said with a laugh, placing a hand on her husband's arm in much the same way Frigyth had done with hers. No one quite knew how to manage those fierce men as their unassuming wives. They always seemed to be able to soothe them.

"Yes, it is special," Ingrid was surprised to hear Caedmon reply.

This morning, making the most of a sunny interval, they had decided to take a walk around the village. After days cooped up inside, he'd been about to tear his hair out in frustration. Impressed by his patience thus far, Ingrid had agreed he would benefit from a change of scenery and some fresh air.

Soon, a group had started to assemble around them, eager for news of the hero of the moment, which Ingrid had fully expected. What she had not anticipated was that the conversation would turn to kissing, or that Caedmon would take part in it so readily. But his smile was wistful at the memory of his first ever kiss. She felt a highly unwelcome pang of jealousy at sight of that smile.

"I think the first girl you kissed must have been very dear to you," she murmured. Perhaps if she acted as if she didn't mind it, it would lessen the sting.

"Who's to say it was with a woman?" Sigurd snapped.

Her eyebrows shot upward. What was he insinuating? "Are you saying he?—"

"Oh, no, it was most definitely with a girl," Caedmon cut in. "A sweet, warm, delicious girl. One day we went to spend the day outside the town gates. We had a lovely time frolicking in the flower-strewn fields. By the time we got back into town, though, it was raining and we took refuge between?—"

"I don't think we need to hear about that!" Sigurd, who had managed to calm down, looked on the verge of another outburst.

"No," Frigyth agreed, her cheeks going an alarming shade of red.

"I mean," the Dane grumbled. "‘Frolicking in the flower-strewn fields.' What are you, to talk like that, some kind of poet?"

Everyone laughed but Ingrid found herself frowning. What was going on? Her friends seemed desperate to bring the subject to an end and Caedmon was behaving oddly, talking about his personal life with surprising eagerness in front of a crowd. Frolicking in flower-strewn fields…Indeed it was an unusually poetic way to describe what he and his first conquest had done.

"Sigurd is right," Wolf intervened. "I'm not in the mood to talk about this and I'm sure we all have better things to do."

Though it was not precisely an order, everyone started to scatter. Once they were alone, Caedmon turned to her. There was an odd expression on his face.

"I will stay here a while, take the sun, if you don't mind," he said, not quite meeting her eye.

"Of course."

It was clear he wanted to be alone. She walked back toward the hut, telling herself she didn't mind. She still had to make bread, anyway.

Caedmon sat on the nearby bench, closed his eyes and started to think.

Now that he was able to walk with relative ease, he had to leave the village, and to hell with his injury. He'd meant to stay only one night at first, and in the end had stayed for two because of Ingrid's indisposition. He hadn't minded but then when he'd finally left, he'd found himself being carried back to her hut the very same day. It was as if he could not take his distance from the Norsemen village. Or perhaps from a certain woman residing in it. Was fate trying to tell him something? Was it a sign that he could not seem to get away from Ingrid, no matter how much he tried?

But a sign of what? Surely the only woman he was interested in was Frigyth?

Yes…Although, if he were honest, something seemed to have changed within him. After their discussion the other day, his feelings for her, which he had never questioned before, seemed to have taken on a different form. He had always assumed they would end up as husband and wife because they got on so well growing up but he had never stopped to ask himself if that was really what he wanted. Same for his love. He had taken it for the real thing, but what if had been the sweet love of a boy toward his only friend, nothing more, what if it had just been the tenderness he'd felt for the sister he had never had? He'd seen Frigyth's misery and he had wanted to be there for her. It had worked, for a time. But then he had left. And now someone else was here for her.

Sigurd.

It was hard to imagine her happier with anyone, himself included, than she was with her husband. The blasted Norseman had done everything right from the start, married her, adopted her son, given her the life she deserved and the kind of love she wanted. What if Frigyth was right? What if they weren't suited to each other and had only realized it after getting married, when it was too late, and they could do nothing but resent a choice made for the wrong reasons? He'd never asked himself the uncomfortable question before but now he was.

He hesitated in answering it, however, because if he admitted to himself that he'd never really been in love with Frigyth then he'd have to accept that he'd never been in love with anyone. And it was easier to hold on to the fantasy that he could have been happy with Frigyth than to accept he'd been wrong all this time. He'd held on to what they'd once shared for nostalgia's sake, because he resented the fact that he had been left behind while she was happy, married to a man who doted on her and gave her everything she needed. She had a family, and he was alone and away from home, with no one to wait for him at night when he got home.

That was why he had agreed to get married to Mildred in the end. To finally have the life he'd wanted. But his heart had never been in that union. When her treachery had been discovered, he'd been more hurt in his pride than in his feelings.

He sighed and opened his eyes. A man was standing in front of him, intent etched on his face. Who was he? Ivar's friend from the other day, the one who'd been with him when the man had accused him of stealing the horses? Caedmon could not recall his face but he seemed to be about the right age, just over twenty. Was he about to accuse him of some other ludicrous crime?

He waited. If the man wanted to say something, he would eventually speak.

The youth cleared his throat and started. "Hello. I'm Magnar."

Caedmon just stared. Was that supposed to help him? It did not.

"Frida's betrothed."

Still nothing. He didn't know any Fridas, even if he could easily guess she was a Norsewoman from the village.

"One of the women who were abducted the other day. I wanted to thank you for what you did."

Ah. Now he understood. He was about to be called a "good man." It seemed inevitable. The youth seemed very emotional, embarrassed about it, but determined to do the right thing, whatever the cost to his dignity. It brought a lump to Caedmon's throat to be faced with such genuine gratitude.

"'Tis nothing," he said in a rumble.

"It's not and you know it. So I had to thank you." Magnar shifted on his feet and then lifted his head, as if to signify that they would not broach the topic again. It suited Caedmon fine, for he really felt as if he'd done no more than what anyone else would have done in his place. "Anyway, I came to invite you to our wedding tomorrow. We had decided to get married in the summer, but after what happened, I can't wait to make her mine. I need to feel…I know that her being married will not prevent evil men from doing what they want if they ever cross her path, but I need to feel as if I've done at least something to try and protect her. I need to make her feel loved, to make sure she knows I'll always be there for her, no matter what." Another pause, during which Magnar cleared his throat again. "Will you come, wish us well?"

"Oh." Caedmon had not seen this coming. "Of course. It would be my pleasure."

He was moved. It was one thing helping people because you knew it was the right thing to do, quite another to see the consequences of your actions firsthand. It felt good. Perhaps being a good man, or at least doing good deeds, wasn't a bad thing after all.

"Do you know what Frida told me when she got back to the village that morning?"

"No." Caedmon already knew he would hate it but he could not refuse to hear it.

Magnar bunched his hands into fists. "She said all she could think about while she waited for those bastards to come to get her was that if she were ‘soiled' she—" From the anger in the man's voice and the way he spat out the word, Caedmon guessed that was the word Frida had used, not what he thought. "She told me that if she'd been ‘soiled' that day then she would have been unworthy of me. As if I'd ever think that! As if it would make me change my mind about marrying her! As if I'd only offered to marry her because she was a virgin! As if I'd only wanted to be the first! I don't care about being the first, I only ask to be the last to take her in my arms."

The youth ran a hand over his face, looking on the verge of collapse.

"I understand," Caedmon murmured.

The day Frigyth had told him she had been raped, she'd added that she was now unsuitable to be his wife. It seemed she'd thought the same thing as Frida. But it was as Magnar said. He hadn't cared a jot about not being the one to deflower her, but the thought of what she'd had to endure at the hands of that Norseman had nearly destroyed him. How could she have thought him so shallow as to reject her over that?

Now, of course, he knew it had only been an excuse to refuse his offer of marriage. But at the time it had torn him apart to see that she thought him so unreliable as to abandon her for something that was not her fault and should only have rendered her more precious to him.

"Be easy with Frida," he told Magnar. "I know it's hard not to, but don't take her comment personally. She has reasons to doubt your reaction. Unfortunately, we both know there are too many bastards out there who would reject a woman over something like that."

He stood up and placed a hand on the youth's shoulder. He was almost old enough to be his father and in that moment he was as proud of him as if he had been. A pang of longing tore through his chest. Would he one day have his own son to give advice to? His own daughter to cherish?

The possibility had never been more remote.

"As men, we have no idea how we would react after such an ordeal. It might be that we would feel the same. But you marrying Frida without delay will show your support better than any words could. You're doing exactly the right thing, Magnar. You're a good man."

Never had he told anyone those hated words before. As they escaped his mouth, he realized that people genuinely meant them as a compliment when they said them and that there were worst things to be called than "a good man." It was a revelation.

Caedmon blinked. He seemed to have had a lot of revelations as of late, too many to deal with.

"Well, anyway." Magnar nodded. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'll see you both tomorrow to wish you well in your new life."

Caedmon stared at the retreating Norseman until he had disappeared into the distance and sighed. Another man marrying the woman of his dreams. Would he be the only one left behind?

Feeling a hundred years old, he made his way back to the hut. His injury, much as he would have liked to ignore it, was itching something fierce. It needed to be bathed, and more ointment applied. The bandage needed to be changed at the very least. And he needed…He needed company to distract him from his maudlin thoughts.

"Ah, Caedmon, there you are. I was waiting for you."

Ingrid was waiting for him? It was almost as if she'd heard all his doubts and questions and wanted to reassure him, make him see that he was not alone in the world. He cleared his throat, absurdly moved.

Damn, that was twice in the space of one afternoon that he'd felt close to tears. First with Magnar and now with Ingrid. What was he turning into?

"Why were you waiting for me? What did you want me to do?"

She appeared nonplussed at the question. "Nothing. And you're not to do anything while you're recovering, do you hear me?"

"What did you need me for then?" He didn't understand.

"Well, I wanted to eat with you and I was starting to get hungry if you must know."

He stared at her. She hadn't needed him for anything, she had simply wanted to be with him and share a meal together. It was exactly what he'd thought lacked in his life. Someone wanting to be with him for no other reason than the pleasure of his company, a sense of belonging, a home.

"I'm hungry too," he said, not quite sure what else to say.

"Then let's eat."

It was that simple. As ever with her, everything was simple, natural. Caedmon sat down and a moment later he was handed a steaming bowl of stew. A rich smell of herbs reached his nostrils. He already knew Ingrid could cook, but this smelled heavenly.

"After we've eaten, I will check your injury," she said as she sat opposite him. "I expect it's itching. If it's dry enough, we won't bandage it again. It will be more comfortable that way."

He didn't answer. He couldn't have. Suddenly there was an odd tightening in his throat that he could not account for. To distract himself, he gestured toward the basket in the middle of the table, the one she used to gather eggs every morning.

"That's excellent craftsmanship. I'm impressed. Basket weaving is one talent I've never been able to master."

She smiled. "Oh, I didn't make this! Like you, I'm not talented enough. This was a present from Sigurd."

He barely repressed a groan. Not that damned Dane again! Would the man best him at everything, do everything he could not, charm everyone he could not? "He's a talented man," he forced himself to say before talking a spoonful of stew.

And a lucky bastard.

"Yes. But you should have seen the necklace he tried to make for Frigyth last summer." Ingrid burst out laughing. It was such a happy sound, Caedmon couldn't help but smile in turn. "It was a disaster. I'm told the pendant was supposed to look like a bird but it ended up looking like a fat turnip. Oh, well. I suppose everyone has their strengths and weaknesses."

"I suppose so," he said, feeling suddenly cheered. "You know, making jewelry is what I did in London. I was a goldsmith."

Ingrid stared at him as if he'd revealed that his fingers were made of actual gold. "You're a goldsmith?"

He nodded. "I learned the trade with an old man I befriended just after my arrival. He'd lost his only son and was looking for someone to pass on his knowledge to. He insisted on showing me and it quickly became apparent that I had an aptitude for it. I can now make all the jewelry a woman could want." He paused, considering. "Perhaps I should make a necklace for Frigyth, to replace the one Sigurd tried to make. It would be easy for me to make a bird that doesn't look like a vegetable. She might like that."

"I'm sure you could, but there's no need. She said she loved the creation, and wears it often." Ingrid twisted her lips and her eyes sparkled, just as if they were made of actual sapphires, which had always been his favorite gem. "You know, I think she did not even lie."

"No," he said darkly. "I suppose she did not."