Page 46 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3
There was nothing but the breeze of the night hours, shivering the far-off trees. Nothing but my own breath, and the beating of my heart.
21
Faline filled the jarl’s cup once more then withdrew to the corner of the room. Her cheek bore a bruise, her eye darkened above, the brow cut. I’d given it three stitches to close the gash, for which she’d grudgingly given her thanks.
Gunnolf had been drinking since that morning. We knew how this fuelled his moods. He was as likely to become violent as melancholy. I watched from the alcove of the pantry, Sylvi and Guðrún beside me.
He cupped the dice close, whispering to them before casting, but the outcome was the same as it had been on every throw.
“To Hel’s realm with this!” He pushed back from the table. “There’s Loki’s trickery here, or one of you has replaced the dice.”
“Peace, my jarl,” soothed one of thekarls. “’Tis but a friendly game. We may play some other if you prefer.”
“Damn this foolishness and take up your weapons,” Gunnolf commanded, staggering some steps to grasp his double-handed axe from where it hung—a monster of a weapon, heavier than many could wield. “It’s been too long since we practised our skills. What manner of men are we if we forget how to fight?”
“My jarl, now is not the time,” urged another of the men. He rose warily from the table, his gaze upon the blade in Gunnolf’s hand. “We’re in our cups and may not judge as we should. We wouldn’t wish an injury on our brethren.”
“A man should be always ready.” Gunnolf planted his feet and raised the weapon above his head. “I’m not my uncle. I’m not weak, like Hallgerd.”
“Of course not, my jarl,” answered one. “You’re the bravest and strongest of men. With pleasure, we’ll polish our swords on the morrow and join you outside, but not tonight.”
Gunnolf swayed where he stood then roared in anger, swinging the axe in a great arc that threatened to meet with their heads. Stumbling under its weight, he brought the edge down, embedding it with a mighty thud in the age-stained table.
All had risen, moving beyond the jarl’s reach, looking wildly one to the other, as aghast as we women.
“I see into your hearts.” Gunnolf spat the words, tugging fiercely on the weapon, cursing as he endeavoured to release it from the wood. “You’ve no stomach for battle. You’re as slippery as eels, making excuses for your fear!”
Though he clearly spoke in drunkenness, the declaration was the greatest of insults. A man’s honour was everything; not to be challenged, not to be ridiculed.
There was a grumbling of displeasure among thekarls, but none raised his voice above the others, their eyes still upon the axe, which Gunnolf had now freed and was passing from one hand to the other, stepping towards the men who’d pledged their service to him.
“When I call on you to attack Skálavík, which of you will take your sword and bathe it in enemy blood?” Gunnolf almost lost his footing as he raised the mighty weapon above his head, lurching into the midst of hiskarls. “When I put Eldberg’s head on a spike, what will you be doing?”
The men scattered, some bounding for the door, others dodging the jarl’s swinging axe, leaping across the table to escape his rash attack.
“Run away, weasels,” he shouted after them. “Get out of my sight. You’re not fit to call yourselves men, let alone Vikings of Svolvaen!”
As the last scurried for safety, he crashed the door closed with his shoulder and flung his axe across the floor. Finding his cup, he drained it dry.
“More ale!” he shouted, but Faline did not step forward. Hidden far in the corner of the room, she shrank from him. I couldn’t blame her, for I wished only to do the same, to escape his notice. He was in no state for company, his behaviour shameful. Yet, some compulsion bid me do as he’d requested.
“Are you the only one brave enough to face me?” Gunnolf’s eyes were steely.
I said nothing, refusing to bow my head or look away. He was used to blind obedience but I resolved not to show meekness. He returned my unflinching stare, the silence a wall between us, tension heavy in the space dividing his body from mine. At last, he held out his cup, indicating for me to fill it, and I willed my hand to remain steady, vowing not to give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear.
His draught was deep, the ale brimming the edges, running down his beard. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he grimaced, tossing the empty cup to the floor.
“What is a man to do, Elswyth, when all about him are cowards?”
“You’re tired, my Lord. Take the rest you need.”
“Rest!” He flung back his head and gave a hollow laugh. “Sleep brings no rest.” A shadow crossed his face. “Better to stay awake and find diversion.”
He shrugged off his jerkin and flopped back onto one of the deep benches, propping his head upon his arm, his eyes still upon me.
“Do you wish diversion, Elswyth? Or do you prefer to sob to your pillow, thinking of the man who has left you?”
He inclined his head, waiting for my answer, but I gave none.
