Yet, he had stirred when the men had lifted him from the wagon and she was sure that he had recognised her. It gave her hope, even though he had now settled into a laboured sleep. His breath came harsh and uneven.
âWhat does Eirik think of his leg?â The right leg of his trousers was intact, but the left had been cut away to allow for wood and bindings to keep his leg stabilised.
Vidar shook his head. âThe leg is ruined.â
She had spent many late nights cursing Gunnar, but she had never wanted this to happen. Kadlin blinked past the sudden haze of tears in her eyes and focused on the dirty linen binding his leg. The bandage, along with his clothing, had likely not been changed since the men had set off on their journey. His tunic hung from him like rags and his hair was a tangled mess. She decided that the first thing to do would be to get him clean.
âGo help yourself to broth and ale.â She looked at the two men who had accompanied Vidar and waved them towards the front room and the pot bubbling on the fire. Turning her attention to Vidar, she said, âHelp me undress him.â But Vidar didnât move when she reached for the hem of Gunnarâs tunic. âLift him up a bit,â she urged.
âKadlin...â He glanced towards the men who had moved to do as she had bidden, then lowered his voice. âI donât think you should be the one to undress him.â
âHave I shocked your delicate sensibilities, Vidar?â She gave him a wry smile and tugged on the tunic. âHeâs filthy. Someone needs to bathe him.â
âButââ
âItâs not as if Iâve never seen a man before. Help me!â
He sighed and when Gunnar groaned at a particularly harsh tug, he relented and lifted his brotherâs shoulders to help her divest him of the tunic and undershirt. Fabric was tied tight around his torso, making her suspect he had at least one broken rib.
âI can do the rest. Fetch me a bucket of the water by the fire and then go and get Harald.â
Eirik owned the farm where she lived and his farmer-tenant Harald lived across the field. He had experienced a similar leg injury as a young man, so she hoped that he would be able to provide some guidance. When Vidar left, she was alone with Gunnar, except for the two men who had accompanied them. But they were famished and drank their broth by the fire, not paying her any attention.
This was not how sheâd imagined meeting Gunnar again. Any number of scenarios had crossed her mind and they varied from angrily smashing a tankard over his head to holding him tight and vowing to never let him out of her sight again. Her emotions regarding him had been wild and unrestrained. Much like her love for him had been.
She brushed the grimy hair back from his face with her fingers, noting that it was tangled and would likely need cutting. His beard, too, was caked with grime and would need to be shaved. It was a task she looked forward to, because sheâd always preferred him without one. It obscured the sculpted beauty of his high cheekbones, which was the very reason she suspected he liked it. Men werenât supposed to be beautiful, but he was. A Christian monk had once wintered with her family years ago and told them stories of angels and demons. She had always imagined Eirik to be beautiful like one of that Godâs angels, full of light. But not Gunnar. He had always been wicked. He was one of the dark ones, a fallen and wrathful angel.
Fishing the washcloth from the bucket, she rung it out and began wiping the grime from his torso, careful of the bruise over his left side. She tried to work in a perfunctory manner and not linger on the scars heâd acquired since sheâd last seen him. But she couldnât help but stop to wonder how heâd come by each one as she found them. Try as she might, she couldnât stop the flood of memories that came over her. Their days of running wild through the forest as children and their evenings spent inside playing hnefatafl, when he would tease her mercilessly as he tried to break her concentration while she stared at the board, contemplating her next move. The first time heâd kissed her when theyâd been children, when she was just beginning to understand what it meant. How strange and wonderful it had felt to have the weight of his body pressing down on hers, even though sheâd not understood her own reaction. The years afterward when heâd become almost like a stranger to her, but she would still watch him and feel her breath catch when his gaze would lock on hers.
Heâd held a strange power over her even then and she could feel it now trying to take her over. It wanted to make her soft where she had tried so valiantly to harden herself against him. She was seized by a nearly overwhelming devastation that their lives should have turned out differently. She thought sheâd squelched that longing and the anger that accompanied it, but it rose up inside her anew. Tears stung her eyes, but she was able to blink them back and shake the melancholy from her head. Her task was to get him clean before Harald arrived and then to make sure that he wasnât lying on his deathbed. Then she would see him gone, back across the sea or wherever he longed to be, somewhere away from her, before he could destroy her again.
* * *
A short while later Harald arrived. Kadlin averted her eyes from the crutch the man held and the stilted but efficient way he moved with it. She immediately felt ashamed, because it had never bothered her before, except that now she could only imagine Gunnar walking in that same crippled manner and it filled her heart with sadness. Together with Vidar, they unwrapped the wounded leg to examine it. It was horribly discoloured, but Vidar thought that it looked less swollen than when they had set sail. Harald confirmed that it had been broken in more than one spot, so they were careful to hold the wood in place to minimise any movement, but Gunnar still roused from the pain. Vidar was quick to supply him with the small barrel of mead heâd been clutching in the wagon. She gave it a harsh study, suspecting that it contained something much stronger than mead, but held her tongue.
After Gunnar settled down again, they wrapped his ribs and then the leg in clean linen and she grabbed a knife to cut away the rest of his trousers so she could finish cleaning him. Harald stopped her with a hand to her shoulder.
âLet me do this part.â
She frowned and shrugged him off.
âKadlin, do you think he would want you to bathe him? Heâll have trouble enough when he awakens. Donât do more to take his dignity away.â
Her eyes froze on the grime-covered trousers and she realised that he was right. It would likely embarrass Gunnar if he knew that she had tended to him so intimately. âIâll wait by the fire.â
He nodded and took the knife from her, so she left him and Vidar to finish washing him and went back to the front room of the sod house. The fire warmed the space comfortably. It was small, but she never failed to experience a wave of satisfaction at how she had managed to turn the house into her home in the year that sheâd been there since her husband had been killed in battle. Benches dressed in cosy blankets surrounded the perimeter of the room, while the stone hearth sat in the middle. Off to the side were shelves and a table used for eating and preparing food. It had given her sanctuary when sheâd needed it and it appeared that it was to be Gunnarâs sanctuary, as well. Picking up the empty bowls the two men had left behind, she intended to wash them, but she couldnât concentrate. So she abandoned the bowls to the bucket of water and moved to the bench where she usually did her sewing, lighting upon it briefly before standing again to pace the length of the hearth. Her gaze repeatedly went to the alcove just off the hallway until Harald and Vidar finally emerged.
âHow bad is he really, Harald?â
Harald shrugged. âHard to say. If the fever has passed and doesnât return, he should live, but he wonât ever have use of that leg again.â He indicated the large crutch he leaned against. âAt least not without one of these.â
She