‘I am surprised that you and Gertrud were not more severely punished,’ Embla said slowly. ‘I mean, it is fortunate...’
Runar nodded. ‘Thorin would have been humiliated by the truth. He told the people it was only a misunderstanding. That I had thought to steal myself a bride, but he had saved Gertrud before any crime was committed. Banishment was my only punishment, and that did not bother me...’
It was a shame his relationship with Thorin had been tarnished because of it. But what had Runar expected? After all, he had tried to steal the man’s wife from his bed.
‘I see,’ answered Embla kindly. ‘It was probably for the best.’
For some reason he had hoped for a greater reaction from her than that. For her to be outraged, relieved, or even disgusted, but not this odd quiet acceptance. After meeting Embla, he wondered what he’d ever seen in Gertrud, and for some reason he had hoped Embla would call her sister a fool for rejecting him...not agree with her choice!
‘I was young, and she was the first stranger I had ever met. There are not many young women in Gudvangen, and I am related through my father to half of them. She seemed...exotic, but I now realise I was simply deprived of company.’ For some reason his explanation only seemed to disappoint her further, and she looked away from him with a brief nod.
With one sweep of her blade, she pushed the chopped vegetables and herring inside the cauldron. Then she stood and began to lift it to the hook over the fire. He rose to help her, but she shook her head.
‘I have it. Do you have any grains, or bread? Any herbs?’
‘Some barley,’ he answered and went to fetch a cup from his stores.
Opening the cupboard, he cast a critical eye over the contents. No wonder his food always tasted so poor; he had no herbs or bread, or anything that a Jarl might possess. She must think him pitiful. Of course, Embla would never consider him romantically; her own half-sister had rejected him when he’d had far more to offer.
When he returned with the small cup of barley, he mumbled, ‘I do not have much grain, or flour. But use whatever you like from my stores, and if you think of a list of things you need, I will try to replenish them. I can always go to my mother’ssiidafor supplies. It would only take me a couple of days.’
She took the cup, poured it in with some of the water from her flagon, and then began mixing it with a wooden spoon. ‘Let us talk about that tomorrow. Tonight, I wish only to eat and sleep. May I have the bed tonight? We could take it in turns...’
‘I will sleep on the floor. It makes no difference to me,’ he reassured her quickly, hating the nervousness in her eyes when she asked the question.
Did she think him unable to control himself around women? He supposed the previous night had done nothing to help her opinion of him.
He had hoped that by telling her the truth about his relationship with Gertrud, it would reassure her that he did not take advantage of women, no matter the circumstances. But she looked at him now with a greater wariness than before. As if she feared he might pounce on her at any moment.
While they waited for the stew to cook, Runar busied himself preparing their chamber for the night. He brought in plenty of logs from the woodpile for the fire, and as much extra bedding as he could find, which wasn’t much.
They ate in silence, and despite the poor ingredients it still tasted better than anything he could have made.
‘Do you play?’ she asked curiously, pointing to his instruments leaning up against the wall.
They had been gathering dust there for months...years possibly. He had almost forgotten they were there.
‘Yes, although it has been a while...’ he admitted.
‘All of them?’ she gasped, and he smiled at her admiration, feeling as wealthy as a king.
‘The drum is more my mother’s instrument.’ He picked it up, wiped away some of the dust, and handed it to her. ‘It is used in Sami ceremonies, that is why it has those designs painted on the skin. For the shaman rituals.’
She admired the artwork, tracing her fingers over the design. ‘It is beautiful.’
‘I can play it competently enough, although not as well as my mother. The lyre and the bone flute were my father’s.’ He passed each of those to her as well, and she carefully held them as if they were made from precious glass, rather than bone and wood. ‘I can play them as well as he could.’ Probably better, although it sounded boastful to say such a thing.
‘I wish I could play an instrument,’ she sighed. ‘It is the one skill I have always envied in others. Gertrud and Thorin can play the lyre, and they have taught the boys beautifully.’
‘Why did you not ask them to teach you? Thorin taught my father how to play.’
‘He did?’ she asked, her eyes wide with wonder.
He nodded, but not wanting to linger on his connection with Thorin, he asked, ‘Were you afraid to ask?’
Embla shook her head. ‘No...but it is something they have always done together as a family. It would have been wrong of me to intrude.’
It sounded unbearably lonely, especially for someone who claimed they couldn’t live without the company of others. Looking in on a family that you were part of, but not accepted in. He knew that feeling well; he had felt it whenever he visited Gudvangen growing up.
