Chapter Eight
She waited until Arne’s eyes were shut and he’d pulled the blankets over him before she removed her apron, hanging it carefully over the back of a chair and placing her two brooches on the table.
It was too cold to sleep just in her sark as she usually did, so she climbed into the bed still wearing her dress.
She had sewn herself a new set of garments in the Norse style as soon as she had arrived at Kirkjaster, grateful for the material provided by Aoife and Rhiannon.
Ylva had been pleased to have the garments she had lent Gemma as they travelled returned, especially as Gemma had added some fine embroidery to them to thank her.
The Norse clothes helped her to blend in to the settlement, but she missed the fine materials she was used to wearing and the warmer cloaks and furs that had been hers in her previous life.
Where were all her fine clothes now? She had brought so little when she had escaped from Alt Clut— only two sets of clothes, both of which were in her pack.
It had seemed a good idea to be able to dress as either a Briton or in Norse clothing—whichever identity would keep her and Caelin safer.
Caelin didn’t seem to feel the cold and had already thrown off his covers, but she covered him back up, tucked the blankets tightly around his sleeping form and gently stroked his hair.
If only she could sleep so deeply and peacefully.
Worries plagued most of her nights and she woke frequently, feeling almost as exhausted each morning as she had done when she went to sleep the night before.
What would she do now? The weight of responsibility lay heavy on her shoulders again.
How should she decide on the right course of action for herself and Caelin?
And even if she chose her next steps, would Arne allow her to do as she wished?
Would Tormod? Which option should she insist on?
Not that it would matter. Arne was the one with the weapons and superior strength.
For now, they would have to do whatever he decided was the right thing, and there was little she could do about it.
Would he help her? Or would he return her to Kirkjaster?
It seemed far longer ago than just yesterday afternoon she had been walking with Aoife and seen the coracle on the firth.
Her mind raced through a series of if onlys.
If only those fishermen had not headed out to sea.
If only the wind had been less fierce. If only they had been closer to a different part of the shoreline.
She drew in a shallow breath, shocked when it came out as a whimper.
“What’s wrong?” Arne’s voice was quiet, as if not to wake her if she were already asleep.
Gemma waited, unsure how to respond. It was still unclear to her whether he was a help or a hindrance to her future, but at least thanks to him, she had a future beyond freezing to death tonight.
“I don’t know what to do,” she finally whispered. “I don’t know what the right thing for us is.” She despised the way her voice broke and refused to let the tears pricking her eyes fall.
Arne didn’t answer right away. The silence was so long she wondered if he was going to reply, or if he had fallen asleep.
Was her future of so little concern to him?
A tear slid down her cheek when she realised that if she was gone from Kirkjaster, then maybe he would not care whether she lived or died.
“Sleep. We will talk in the morning. There are not so many options.”
“I don’t want my son to die.”
This time there was no silence. “As long as I am protecting him, I promise he will not.”
She swallowed against the lump in her throat. Why did she believe this man? A man who saw her as his enemy, someone who would betray him and his people for her own benefit. And yet he was the one promising to keep Caelin safe, although she noticed he made no such promise to her.
Gemma wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. She needed to speak to him, but wouldn’t do so without being able to see his face. What she had to ask was too important.
Carefully, so as not to wake Caelin, she moved from the bed towards the fire.
Arne rolled onto his side, leaning up on his elbow, watching her as she approached and sat on a chair, looking down at him.
He had arranged his blankets close enough to the fire to stay warm, but close enough to the door to ensure he would be awoken if anyone tried to enter.
She spoke quietly. “If anything happens to me… Will you take him, bring him up with Elisedd and Einar? Give him a chance to live?”
“And what of his birthright?”
She hesitated, but only for an instant. “The chance to live and grow up is all I want for him now. Anything else… His lands, his title—they are not worth dying for.”
“Does Caelin agree?”
She looked over at him. “Even as a child would you not rather have been alive, than be a dead landowner?”
“It was not something I considered.” He smiled at her and she was surprised. Why was he asking then? “Would you sacrifice yourself if it meant his birthright was restored?”
She blinked. She had worried her son would be left an orphan many times, but had never really considered what she was willing to do to ensure his future.
“If it was the only way… then yes.” As soon as she said it, she knew it wasn’t so simple.
“Maybe… I don’t know. I can’t stand the thought of anyone else watching him grow but me. I’m his mother and I love him.”
“You are.” He lapsed into silence again and once more she was unsure whether their conversation was at an end and whether she had said the right thing or not. “I will foster him alongside Elisedd and Einar, should anything happen to you.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. The sense of relief was more than she had imagined. It seemed somehow insubstantial, but there was little else she could say. “I know you will care for him no matter how you feel about me.”
“And why do you say that?” His voice was cold, despite her having made what she believed was a positive observation, and she was confused about why he was asking.
Did he not realise she had witnessed the attention he paid to his foster sons, the way he stood up for them?
Even the way he trained and disciplined them every day made it clear that he cared for them as a real father should.
“The… the fact that you care for Einar. Aoife told me Tormod is not Einar’s natural father, even though he and Ingrid were married when he was born. But at first I—”
“What?” Arne asked sharply.
“I just… when I first saw him… I did not realise he wasn’t your son.”
His expression was… she wasn’t sure what it was. She found him hard to read at the best of times, but now… His gaze was unrelenting. She sensed his anger in the way he sat up straighter, the blanket falling around his waist.
“Has someone said something?”
Was there more to the story of Einar’s father than she knew, than even Aoife knew? She pulled her own blanket tighter around her and stared into the flames.
“No. I… I’m sorry… It is nothing. Just the idle chatter of women.” She hated to say those words, didn’t think of herself as someone who engaged in idle chatter, but she didn’t want to anger him.
He said nothing for a while until finally she looked back at him in case he had fallen asleep. She expected him to look angry, but he appeared thoughtful instead.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “We were just…”
“Aoife is correct. Einar is not Tormod’s son.
Ingrid was already pregnant when she married Tormod.
But she was an ambitious woman, had her sights set on a future jarl and married Tormod knowing she already carried another man’s child.
By the time Tormod discovered the truth it was too late.
He has tried to do the right thing by Einar – to an extent.
It will be a matter of compromises, though.
He will not allow another man’s child to take his place as jarl in the future. ”
Gemma swallowed, shocked to hear him admit that Einar was not Tormod’s son.
“So, who is Einar’s real father? Does Tormod know?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“This is all in the past and not worth discussing. Ingrid is dead.”
Her thoughts raced and she was unwilling to let it go. He said it was the past but… “It seems your opinion of Ingrid is very much what you are using to judge me, Arne. Surely it is only fair if I understand something about the woman whose actions taint your opinion of me?”
He lifted his head and glared straight ahead.
She could not begin to work out what he was thinking.
Why would he not tell her what had happened?
Perhaps he just didn’t want her to have the opportunity to defend herself against whatever sins Ingrid had committed.
Then he sighed and dropped his head into his hand.
“The situation was not straightforward,” Arne finally said so softly she barely heard him.
He pushed himself to a sitting position and watched the flames lick around the last of the logs on the fire.
“Ingrid came from another village. Her father and Tormod’s hated each other, and her father was every bit as ambitious as she was. ”
“In what way?”
“They had attacked our village before, but our defences were sound. She had argued with her family when she first met… Tormod, but after Einar was born everything changed.”
Gemma noted the hesitancy in his voice, the gaps in the explanations and was sure he was holding something back.
“She grew sullen and kept pushing Tormod to bring her more jewels, to strike out on his own. She wanted more status, more thralls, a better house. But Tormod, while ambitious, is also wise and was loyal to his father. He was waiting until the right opportunity arose.”
“And the siege of Alt Clut was that opportunity?”