Chapter Eleven
Eadlyn blinked against the sudden flare of the oil lamp as it hissed to life.
She stretched, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, still heavy with exhaustion from the day before.
The ache of yesterday settled into her limbs like a slow bruise.
After all the greetings and visiting, another hour or two of rest would have been welcome, but this was only the first day of the Gathering.
Ranvi had said it would go on for six more.
She slid out of the bed to gather her clothing, and Aevar kept his attention averted.
He always left shortly after waking her, allowing her to change in private.
They never said much, but after all the mornings like this, she was getting used to the routine and to sharing the room with him.
The awkwardness lingered but was softer now, wrapped with a strange sense of comfort.
With so many new men in the village, especially Staegar, she found it reassuring to know Aevar was there at night.
He turned to go, one hand on the door, but hesitated. “How are you handling all of this?”
She thought for a moment before answering.
This wasn’t so different from the celebrations back at Kenwich, though the rowdiness here was on another level.
“I’m all right. Not knowing the language makes it difficult sometimes, but I’m managing.
I’ve enjoyed getting to know some of the women. They’ve treated me kindly.”
A small, fleeting smile tugged at his mouth, so brief she might have missed it if she hadn’t been looking. “Good.”
“So what happens today?”
“Everyone will have the morning to rest after their travels. This afternoon, my father will call the jarls to council. They’ll speak about the clans, the alliance, and whatever disputes need settling. After that—” a note of anticipation colored his tone “—we feast.”
Feasting meant drinking. Likely more than last night. A knot of unease wound tight beneath Eadlyn’s ribs, but she pushed it aside.
The morning slipped by faster than Eadlyn expected as she met more of the visiting women.
Few spoke her language, and once again she leaned on Ranvi or Inga to bridge the gap.
Some women were warmer, others more distant, but none hostile.
Not like the crackling tension in the air whenever Staegar passed within sight.
By late afternoon, movement stirred at the far end of the hall.
The scrape of chairs dragged across packed earth pulled Eadlyn’s attention toward the dais, where Aevar and his brothers worked.
They placed one chair atop the dais, draping it in a thick bearskin.
Runar’s seat of authority. The others they arranged in a semicircle below, leaving a path open to the center.
This must be the council.
The jarls filed in, some with sons at their heels, a few with wives who drifted to the edges. Warriors filled the remaining space. Eadlyn hesitated before following the other women, unsure whether she should stand with them or somewhere else.
The hall thickened with silence as Runar climbed the dais and took his place. Erik stood beside him, and when he spoke, his voice cracked like a whip against the walls. Though Eadlyn didn’t understand the words, the weight of them was unmistakable.
“He’s calling them forward to swear their oaths of loyalty,” Aevar’s voice murmured beside her, low and close. She startled, not having noticed him at her side. “And to offer their tribute.”
She glanced up at him, grateful for the translation.
One by one, the jarls stepped forward, each kneeling before Runar, offering oaths and chests heavy with tribute. Aevar named them quietly, translating when needed. It moved with solemn precision, the ceremony steeped in honor and tradition.
Until the final jarl.
Staegar strode down the aisle, his nephew Sig trailing. Neither carried a chest nor a sign of tribute. Only the heavy, dangerous air of a challenge. The hall seemed to shrink around them, the light itself dimming. Halfway to the dais, Staegar ripped an axe from his belt.
Eadlyn’s breath seized. Beside her, Aevar’s hand jumped toward his own weapon, body snapping taut.
But Staegar didn’t attack. Instead, he drove the axe into the packed earth at the foot of the dais with a brutal thud.
Straightening, he spat out a string of words so sharp and venomous Eadlyn didn’t need a translation to understand their threat.
The hall held its breath.
Runar stood and descended the dais, each step deliberate.
When he reached the axe, he tore it free and stepped nose to nose with Staegar.
He bit out a short couple of words and offered the axe back.
Staegar snatched it and turned on his heel, stalking from the hall.
Murmurs rose behind him, a rumble of unease and speculation.
Eadlyn spun toward Aevar. “What just happened?”
His jaw clenched, his focus fixed on his father. “Staegar challenged his position as king.”
Eadlyn’s heart stumbled inside her chest. “He can do that?”
“Anyone can if they have the will. He’s invoked the right to fight for the crown.”
“To the death?”
Aevar shook his head, yet uncertainty lurked. “It’s meant to end when one yields. But Staegar…if he sees a weakness, he won’t stop. So far, he’s never been given that opportunity.”
So far? She stared at him. “This has happened before?”
“Once. Years ago. My father won the challenge.”
His words brought little comfort. Years could change a lot. She swallowed hard as the crowd advanced toward the doors. The heavy stench of sweat and smoke hung thicker now, pressing on Eadlyn’s lungs.
Outside, the longhouse emptied like floodwaters breaking through a dam. Eadlyn followed, legs stiff, blood pounding in her ears. Runar’s men moved swiftly, clearing a space in the yard. Already the crowd pressed in, breathless with expectancy.
She stuck close to Aevar as they wove through the growing throng toward one side of the ring.
There, Erik was helping Runar into a shirt of mail, the heavy links catching the sunlight that broke through the clouds.
Across the clearing, Staegar strapped on hardened leather, his glare molten with unmasked hatred.
Erik spoke clipped words into his father’s ear.
Runar nodded once, grim and resolute. Inga approached, resting her hand on Runar’s arm and whispering something only for him.
For one aching heartbeat, Eadlyn saw the man behind the king.
The husband, the father, the one with everything to lose in this fight.
When Erik finished securing the armor, he passed Runar a round shield, deep blue and white with a black eagle emblazoned across its face.
Runar took it without ceremony. He turned to Inga, pressed a brief kiss to her forehead, then strode into the ring.
His sword hissed free of its sheath. Across the space, Staegar stepped forward, every movement coiled with menace.
Erik barked an order to a nearby slave boy and turned back to the ring. His voice was low with restrained anger. “If Staegar wins, his first act as king will be to face me.”
Aevar flicked his gaze toward the crowd’s edge. “Halbjorn might not wait that long.”
Eadlyn followed his glance. The other jarl already stood armed, shield ready, sword drawn. He looked like he was just waiting for an excuse to jump in.
Erik’s face remained hard. “As long as one of us puts him down.”
Eadlyn wanted to believe it wouldn’t come to that.
Erik and Halbjorn would both uphold the alliance, but it didn’t feel right.
Not when the agreement had been made with Runar.
And it had only been a couple of weeks, but she cared for her father-in-law.
She did not wish to see him defeated or, worse yet, killed.
Lord, he may not be one of Your children, but I pray for his protection, and that You would give him the strength and guidance to defeat Staegar. So much relies on it. Please keep him safe. Don’t let Staegar succeed.
Across the ring, Staegar let out a guttural shout that rang of challenge.
Runar gave no reply. He only lifted his shield, shifted his sword into a ready guard, and advanced.
Their blades met with a crash that echoed against the longhouse, rattling the air itself.
Eadlyn flinched and clenched her hands tight against her skirts.
The two men circled, swords flashing, each strike reverberating like thunder as the crowd roared, a wild, wordless sound that surged and dipped with every movement.
Splinters burst from their shields with every savage blow.
Runar’s shield split halfway down, a jagged gash cutting through the eagle’s wing. Still, he pressed forward.
The brutality of it turned Eadlyn’s stomach. This wasn’t some staged duel for sport or practice. This was pure survival. She couldn’t imagine either of them walking away whole if they walked away at all.
Staegar feinted left, swinging hard right. Runar blocked it but stumbled. Staegar hammered at him in a brutal assault that forced Runar into a hard defensive rhythm. Shield up, blade flashing, struggling to keep pace. For a breathless moment, Eadlyn feared he might fall.
With a roar, he countered. One brutal slash clipped Staegar’s arm.
Blood flowed, dark against his leathers.
Yet Staegar didn’t even flinch. He charged like a wounded bear, swinging harder and faster.
Their blades locked, and they strained against each other in a test of strength.
Inch by inch, Runar shoved Staegar back.
And then a slip. Barely a misstep but enough.
Runar lunged. His sword bit into Staegar’s thigh.
The man snarled. Runar’s sword and shield worked in a furious tandem, battering Staegar’s defenses.
Their feet tore up the dirt, their faces contorted with effort.
Staegar rallied and launched a brutal swing at Runar’s head only to have it blocked and answered with a shield to the shoulder.
Staegar reeled, and Runar pressed his advantage. He slammed the damaged remains of his shield against Staegar’s sword hand. With a clatter, the blade spun from Staegar’s fingers, landing a few feet away in the dirt.
A roar erupted from the crowd.
Desperate, Staegar clambered sideways, reaching for his sword, but Runar slammed into him with his shield. Staegar crashed to the ground, the breath punching from chest. His shield snapped up, but Runar was already there, knocking it aside and planting the point of his blade at Staegar’s throat.
Silence swept over them.
Runar stood, unmoving, his sword held steady. One thrust would end it. But he waited. The two men stared at each other, breathing hard, locked in a silent war of wills. Moments dragged. Every heartbeat boomed against Eadlyn’s ribs and in her ears.
Finally, Staegar spat out a word, and Runar withdrew his blade.
The crowd exploded in wild, triumphant cries.
Relief flooded Eadlyn so fast she swayed a little, but only as Runar approached his family did she feel as though she could breathe again.
He had won and, for now, the alliance remained safe. Thank you, Lord. Thank you.
As quickly as they’d exited, everyone streamed back into the longhouse.
Runar took his place on the dais again, and the other jarls settled into their seats.
Staegar returned, wounds hastily bandaged, pride hanging off him like a tattered cloak.
He limped toward the dais and paused. Slowly and painfully, he lowered himself to one knee.
His voice came thick with resentment, but the oath of fealty was unmistakable.
The moment the last word left his lips, he hauled himself upright, the intensity of the fight still evident in his staggered movements.
He limped to the vacant seat in the semicircle of jarls, his presence now marked by defeat.
The oppressiveness that had gripped the hall since his challenge seemed to melt away with his submission.
The council resumed, and Eadlyn realized Aevar had once again settled at her side.
She turned to him, keeping her voice low. “How exactly does someone become king? I thought it passed from father to son, but if anyone can challenge…”
Aevar’s attention didn’t leave the dais. “It passes down by blood, yes, but the other jarls have to agree, and anyone with enough strength or ambition can fight for it.”
She swallowed hard. “It must be difficult knowing anyone can challenge your father.”
Aevar shrugged, the motion detached and almost cold. “If a man isn’t willing to fight for the position, he doesn’t deserve it.”
Eadlyn’s thoughts shifted to Edward. Men like Galen held the responsibility of fighting to ensure her brother’s position as king. She couldn’t see her brother ever being willing or able to fight for it himself.