She shook her head. Would it have been so hard to understand a husband from among the Britons? She drew in a breath. She couldn’t imagine finding a husband among the Britons. Her father and Ula had probably tried before sending her to the abbey.
Tonight, however, Tormod had wanted her, truly wanted her. But had it been mere lust, the kind slaked with any woman or had it been about her? Perhaps her response was unworthy of a wife? And yet it had made her feel wanted. That when he had been fighting, it had somehow been for her, because of her. To keep her safe. After the battle, he had come to her, been so desperate for her that he hadn’t even waited to bathe and…
Her hands flew to her mouth. She knew what he had done differently, knew what was bothering him. He had no withdrawn from her. She ran a hand over her stomach.
He had wanted to wait for a child, and now he may not get his wish. She looked towards the door, wondering whether sheshould follow him and speak to him, or wait for him to return. Then, remembering the sounds of the violent fight from outside, and with no real idea of where exactly Tormod had gone, she decided to stay where she was.
She removed her clothes, washed quickly in a basin of cold water, left from earlier then slipped into a clean sark. When curled up on the bed, she intended to stay awake until Tormod returned, but sleep soon claimed her.
Chapter Twenty-two
Tormod strode through thehall. The thralls and other women scattered as he passed. Even Ragna took one look at him and left him alone.
Outside dawn was breaking. He leaned against the door. What had possessed him to do that? No, that at least was clear. The lust of battle had still been on him, the joy of victory. He had been careless, too overcome by lust to remember that he meant to wait, so that it would be clear to all the villagers any child Aoife birthed was his own. He couldn’t even admit the reasons why it was significant without undermining his position as jarl. He sighed. The impact of Ingrid’s deception was never ending, or so it often seemed. And he didn’t want a child’s life ruined because of his mistakes, no matter how much easier it would make his own to do so.
There was a chance now of a child, whether he wanted one yet or not. He tried to push from his thoughts the hurt on her face when he’d said he had made a mistake. How could he explain to her about Ingrid? About how he’d been taken for a fool? None of that was Aoife’s fault, and yet… He could barely admit to himself what had happened in the past, so how could he explain it to her? He didn’t want her to know how foolish he had been in the past. His poor judgment had nearly been the death of him, and those around him. All he had to do was look at Arne to remind him how important it was to trust the right people. The decisions he made as jarl were important — not just for himself, but for the villagers who depended on him. And especially for the other Brothers of Thunder.
He stopped short, realising with surprise that the reason he didn’t want her to know how foolish he had been, was that he cared what she thought of him. Or was it was something else? Maybe he loved her and wanted her to love him in return?
No, he would never be such a fool as to love another woman. He shook his head. That was a thought he was not going to entertain. What was done was done and he would have to live with the consequences as he lived with the consequences of his marriage to Ingrid. He could only pray to the gods that this would be less catastrophic.
Tormod unbuckled his sword from his waist and hefted his axe in his hand. He headed out of the village. Once he reached the edge of the forest, he began to run. Earlier, he had allowed himself to be distracted. He needed to be alone, to run, to clear his mind and body of the anger and shame that filled him. Why could he not put this behind him? Perhaps he should have insisted Arne stayed at home, in the Norselands, but Ragna had begged him to allow her son to come. Told him that it would not help either of them to pretend nothing had happened.
He gripped the axe tightly, swinging it in front of him when branches got in his way. Otherwise, he pumped his arms back and forth, matching his steps. He could feel his heart racing, his blood beginning to burn. He ran and ran until he could run no more.
When he stopped, his breaths were loud, and his chest heaved. He was deep in the forest and on the crest of a small hill. As he calmed, he heard it. Snorting, and the footsteps of an animal. A boar most likely. He turned slowly in a circle, trying to see through the darkness of the trees. The glint of its eyes gave its positionaway. He dropped the axe from one hand to the other and back again, preparing himself for the fight he knew would come.
The boar stared at him, pawed the ground a time or two, but didn’t move.
Tormod stared at it. It was a big beast, one of the largest he’d seen on these shores, and its tusks were sharp. They would make a fine trophy. He swung the axe around once, then again. The beast lowered its head to the ground, then attacked.
Everything outside of the fight ceased to exist. There was only the swing and miss or swing and hit of the axe. Each time it sank into flesh was a small victory on the way to final triumph, each time it glanced off the tough hide of the boar a time to recalculate, change the angle of the thrust, the speed of the blow. Screams from both man and beast surrounded them until finally there was only Tormod’s breathing.
He dropped to his knees as the boar collapsed for a final time at his feet. He hung his axe on his belt and lifted the beast, staggering under its weight. His muscles shook with the effort, but he had won and he would return to the village with his spoils, no matter how heavy they were or how long it took.
Tormod had run much farther than he’d realised. It was nearly full light by the time he reached the village again and took the boar into the hall. He dumped the carcass beside Ragna, who said nothing, merely looked at him and jerked her head in the direction of the beach.
Tormod didn’t even bother to undress, just strode out into the cold water and, once far enough out, ducked under it. He remained under the water, his body finally cooling while his breathing and heart rate slowed. His lungs began to burn, so he surfaced and took a deep breath. Water sluiced off him as he pulled off his bloodstained clothes and threw them towards the beach. Then he swam a little.
Reality began to seep in. The water was bitterly cold, and his arms were trembling from the exertion of carrying the boar so far. He closed his eyes and floated onto his back, rubbing at his hair and wishing he had some soap.
A soft splash beside him got him to open his eyes and drew his attention to Björn’s presence on the beach. Realising what had made the noise, he scrabbled on the rocky seabed until he found the bar of rough soap his cousin had thrown towards him and quickly cleaned himself and his hair of the last traces of blood and sweat. Then he threw the bar back towards the beach. He exited the water, and as he strode up the beach, Björn handed him a fur that he wrapped around his shivering body.
“We will feast later,” Björn said as they continued up the beach. “I hope seeing you again will be enough to calm that wife of yours, but I doubt it.”
“She was worried?”
“We all were.” Björn looked at him. “No shield, no sword, no armour, just gone. I have been looking for you.”
“I had to get away,” Tormod said. “I had my axe.”
Björn put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him. “She thinks you are angry with her. You are punishing her for the sins of another. She is all alone here. If you turn on her…” Björn left the sentence hanging. Then he looked over towards the barn where Ulf and Arne stood guard over the prisoner. Arne looked away, but not before the sunlight highlighted the scars on his face. Scars from injuries that everyone had believed would kill him.
Tormod closed his eyes, remembering. None of them had thought Arne would survive the journey home, but he had, although he was delirious with fever and had lost a great deal of blood. There was little skin that had not felt the touch of their enemies’ swords or axes - in an ambush meant for him.
Tormod opened his eyes and pulled the fur tighter around him against the chill of the morning air. Ulf approached them.
“The prisoner is chained. Do you wish to deal with him now?” Ulf asked.
