Far After Gold (26 page)

She closed her eyes and waited. Feather-light, his mouth arrived. She sighed and drew in air that carried his life-force, and felt a surge of utter contentment. This was where she wanted to be. Her arms lifted, found his shoulders, and explored — clasped his face in her fingers, felt the play of muscles in his jaw as he opened his mouth and kissed her, truly kissed her; a kiss that grew and deepened until there was no division between them. Her hands slid over his shoulders. He jerked and then stilled.

She looked into his eyes. “Flane? Your back? Let me look at your back?”

Chapter Eighteen

Emer woke next morning to a glimpse of Flane’s booted leg sliding silently around the edge of the door. Daylight dazzled her for an instant before the door closed. One soapstone bowl still flickered and by its mellow light she recognised the bathing hut. Blinking sleepily, she wondered, as she stretched out on the warm sheepskin and lifted her arms above her head, why he always got up so early. Niggling aches in her arms and shoulders made her groan. Her glance fell on a pair of discarded wrist guards. She picked one up and traced the pattern of silver studs across the stiff brown leather. The inside surface was still warm from his body. He always wore them, so why had he removed them today? The
hólmgang
! He was slinking off to his precious
hólmgang
without her.

“Flane!” She sat up with a jerk. There was no reply, of course. He would be out of earshot by now. She hesitated, looking wildly around the hut for her clothes. She heaved to her feet, groaned as strained muscles complained, and limped to the carefully folded garments laid across a stool. He must have done that before he left, because last night, she remembered, she tossed away her gown and chemise without looking where they fell.

Her arms felt like fire as she pulled her chemise and gown over her head but she tightened her lips tight against the pain. If Flane believed he could go off, fight and possibly die without her knowing about it, he was very wrong. How could he fight with a back as sore as his must be?

She had checked Skeggi’s bandaging last night and seen the livid weals across Flane’s back. Not all had broken the skin, but the long open wounds were puffed and angry and what made it worse was that there had been nothing she could do to help beyond slapping more salve over the wounds. She couldn’t even fault Skeggi’s wrappings, though she did manage to tie flatter knots.

Where were her sandals? Ah! She pushed her foot into the leather, slipped the toggle through the loop and patted her pocket for her comb. Dragging it through her hair, she coiled the strands round her hand and knotted them so they hung down her back. A swift splash of cold water over her face, and she limped to the door.

Movement slackened her stiff muscles, and by the time she reached the hall, she walked normally. She snatched a hazel twig from the pot at the door and rubbed it against her teeth as she looked for Flane.

He was nowhere to be seen. One or two folk gave her black looks which she ignored. Skeggi and Oli had disappeared. In fact, she realised as she glanced around the hall, most of the men had vanished. She hastened across the hall to Steini’s mother.

“Where are they?” she begged, quite unashamed of her need to know. “Please tell me! Please!”

Steini’s mother was not much older than Emer, and had always been sympathetic when Katla was not present. Now she nodded toward the open door. “Down by the strand,” she said quickly. “Near the river mouth. All the men are there.”

Emer pressed her palm against the woman’s sleeve in a gesture of thanks, grinned at Steini, whirled around and tore through the door. Though her muscles might pay for it later, she ran the quickest way of all, in a straight line across the grass behind the settlement. A stone got into her sandal and made her hop a step or two, but she only slowed when she approached the group of men clustered on the raised beach by the river mouth. Panting, she looked around.

It hadn’t started yet.

Her muscles twanged uncomfortably as she slid down the slope toward Skeggi and Oli. They barely registered her presence, for they couldn’t bear to miss what was happening in front of them, but they made space and allowed her to stand between them. Emer caught her breath and looked around. They had chosen a pretty spot for the
hólmgang
. The dark water of the loch led the eye to the shoulder of the brown and green mountain behind it. Sunlight sparkled and glittered on the dew-bespattered grass and gulls wheeled and cried in the blue sky above their heads.

Flane stood off to one side, quite alone. A lump rose in her throat as she gazed at him. He stood like a warrior out of the old stories with shoulders relaxed, hips jutting forward and his hands crossed over the hilt of the long sword held point down against the earth. The sun winked on his silver-chased wristguards and flashed now and then on the arm rings above his elbow. His long brown tunic hid the bandages, but something else was different.

Emer studied him critically, and decided it was the narrow band at his brow that made the difference. Made of smooth leather, it held his long hair out of his eyes. Tied at the back of his head, the long ends of the leather strip dangled between his shoulder blades. Cloth strapping bound his trousers close to his calves. Her gaze drifted back to his brown arms. His wristguards were longer, much more ornate and covered much more of his forearm than the ones he wore every day.

She hoped all the metal studs and arm rings offered protection against steel blades. Frightening though the
hólmgang
sounded, and though fighting was against everything she had been taught, she was also aware of a fierce pride in him. He was so brave. Her feelings ought to shame her, but they didn’t. Instead she thought of their lovemaking and her inner body flickered and leapt.

She took a deep breath. “What’s a
hólmgang
, Skeggi?”

“It’s a duel of honour to resolve disputes.” He reeled off the information in his deep voice without looking at her. “The Holm is the area within the nine-foot square and the man who steps out of it loses the fight.”

Oli turned bright hazel eyes briefly in her direction. “I wanted to lay out the marking ropes, but they wouldn’t let me. They said it’s a man’s job.”

Emer smiled, laid a commiserating palm on the lad’s shoulder and surveyed the nine-foot square with some doubt. Even she could appreciate it was a small space to contain two men fighting with swords two feet long. Two or three linden shields lay in a pile by Flane’s feet.

“Will they use the shields?”

Skeggi grunted and Oli shook his head. “Not for this bout.”

“Normally, they would,” Skeggi told her.

She supposed Flane wouldn’t use one because Gamel, with a broken arm, couldn’t use one. He was fair to a fault. A man walked around the perimeter of the square, ensured the ropes were correctly pegged down and signalled all was as it should be. Flane came forward and stepped into the square. Once there, he stood straight and recited the rules of the
hólmgang
in a clear, carrying voice.

“He has to do it,” Oli breathed in her ear. “Because he’s the challenger.”

Hostility bubbled through Emer as she gazed at the other man. Gamel looked as grubby and disreputable as ever with his sparse, greasy hair flopping over his limp tunic collar. He scowled and fiddled with the wrapping on his broken arm, and the glances he flicked at Flane would have curdled cream. Emer clasped her fingers together to still their shaking. Although Flane stood ready to begin the bout, Gamel continued to fold and refold the edge of the cloth, and in doing so kept Flane waiting.

“How do you win a
hólmgang
?” Emer asked without taking her gaze from the square.

Oli answered her. “The first man to leave blood on the ground is the loser.”

Emer waited, but Skeggi added nothing more. She glanced sideways. Skeggi stared straight ahead. “So the one who fights best wins? But…that means…might makes right?”

Skeggi nodded. “Of course. What else did you expect?”

“I thought it was some kind of trial,” she said lamely, and wondered exactly what she had expected.

Skeggi nodded. “So it is. The gods will guide their hands, and the victor’s viewpoint or decision is accepted by everyone.”

It sounded very odd. “Do they ever, you know…kill each other?”

Skeggi finally looked at her and saw the way her hands twisted together. “Sometimes,” he said, smiling. “But not today. We all know Gamel is never going to beat Flane.”

Oli sniggered. “That’s why Gamel is fiddling about with his bandages. He’s scared. He doesn’t want to fight!”

Emer watched two men chivvy Gamel into the square. To her eyes, Gamel looked almost as powerful as Flane. His customary slouch made him look smaller and less of a fighter, but when he finally stepped over the rope into the square and straightened his back, she saw the two men were almost equal in height and weight. Gamel leered at his younger opponent, but Flane’s face was a blank mask.

Emer swallowed hard and fought the sick feeling that rose at the thought of Gamel’s sword piercing Flane. Emer had never seen men fight with swords. In fact, she couldn’t remember ever seeing a man on Pabaigh wear a sword. There had been one or two fist-fights when there’d been too much ale available, but that was all.

Without warning Gamel swung his sword on a line with Flane’s neck. Emer gasped and jumped simultaneously, shocked at the suddenness of the attack. Flane swayed back and sunlight bounced off his own steel as he deflected the attacking blade. The clatter of metal echoed across the loch, underlaid by a disapproving grunt from the onlookers.

Belatedly she realised Gamel’s low cunning. If Flane had stepped back over the Holm rope and out of the square, then he would have forfeited the duel and Gamel would have won. Emer frowned. Gamel was trickier than she suspected and suddenly seemed a formidable opponent with a hard, grim expression. Flane blocked a thrust to his belly, edged around the square and watched his opponent. The dark leather band at his brow emphasised his sharp, fierce gaze.

“Skeggi, who makes them keep to the rules?”

“No one. It is left to the honour of the two combatants to deal fairly with each other.”

Emer frowned. Surely that couldn’t be right? Gamel would never keep to any rules if he thought he could win by trickery.

Gamel, his sword a sweep of shining, glittering steel, stalked Flane around the little square. His blade shot forward on a low trajectory designed to slice through his opponent’s thigh muscles. Flane pivoted neatly and the sword slid by without touching him. Gamel, his mouth lifted back from his teeth like a snarling dog, tried the same movement again.

“Fight me!” Gamel’s tone was an insult. “The sooner this is over, the sooner I get to bed that slave and believe me, she will know her master then!”

Flane retreated, his expression one of distaste, but the size of the
hólmgang
prevented his retreating very far. The clang and clatter of blades rang out over the grass, and a low murmur of appreciation came from the watching men. It wasn’t often they saw a fight between a man with a broken arm and an opponent who had endured a severe whipping the day before. They knew it wouldn’t be the best fight they had ever seen, but it held a certain fascination.

“She’ll make me good bed-sport, then I’ll sell her off—” The rest of the sentence was cut off when Flane suddenly attacked. In a move almost too fast to see, his gleaming sword whisked beneath Gamel’s blade and sliced across his thigh. Gamel cried out, and staggered to one side with blood welling in a bright, steady stream. He trod on the Holm markers, stepped over the rope and admitted defeat with a gesture of his hand.

A smile flitted across Flane’s pale face and he raised both arms in the air, threw his head back and yelled at the sky. Gamel looked back. His face twisted and he threw himself across the square with his sword aimed straight for Flane’s heart.

Emer froze. All around her, men opened their throats and yelled, Skeggi loudest of all, at the desecration of all the laws of
hólmgang
. Emer jammed her hands against her ears to block the offending sound. Flane, with all the skilled reflexes of a tumbler, dropped beneath Gamel’s blade. He caught and held his own weight on his left hand. Emer flinched and turned cold at the stream of pain she imagined must be flickering up and down his back.

Flane lunged toward Gamel, his sword darting forward and up. Blood bloomed on his tunic where newly healing wounds broke open and his blade took Gamel in the midriff. The steel sped up to his heart. Emer did not recognise it as a killing stroke until the shouts and jeers died away. Unable to look away, she saw Gamel’s frozen expression and watched him drop his sword. He toppled over like a felled tree.

Flane got slowly and carefully to his feet, breathing hard. Knowing he must be in pain, Emer would have rushed to him, but Skeggi grabbed her arm and held her still.

“Do not shame him!”

She gulped, swallowed and watched, a frown fretting her brow as Flane retrieved his sword. Distaste shadowed his face as he pulled the blade free and stepped back from the body. It was over. Relief, slow, deep and wonderful welled up through Emer. She pressed her palms together and found to her horror that she was laughing as she watched men surge forward and surround Flane, all eager to congratulate him. She struggled to restrain her laughter. Gamel, however unpleasant, had died, and it was wrong to show such levity at any man’s death.

Her man was safe, and she was delighted. Retreating to watch from a distance, guilt flickered through her. She ought to be praying for Gamel’s immortal soul. That’s what her father would tell her to do. She hesitated, stricken. She could not, would not pray for the brutish man. She didn’t care about Gamel’s soul, immortal or otherwise.

Flane, alive and safe, stood only a pace or two away. She wanted to run to him, fling her arms around him, but hordes of burly men stood between them. She would never reach him. She spied Oli, ejected from the crush of tall, heavy men and seized his hand, smiling.