The Weeping Winter: A Viking Saga (The Light of the North saga Book 4) by J C Duncan

Author:J C Duncan [Duncan, J C]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-06-29T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

To the Victors

The victorious raiding party returned to Vatnsborð in high spirits. Jarl Gustav welcomed them back, and after conferring with the leaders, immediately ordered another raid, this time sending mostly those who had not been on the previous one, giving the returned warriors the chance to rest and heal their wounds.

Gjaldir returned to his longhouse and saw Brunhild outside, hanging washed clothes in the warm summer sun. He grinned like a child and it was all he could do not to run over. She looked up as he was nearly there and his heart soared when she immediately broke into a beaming smile when her eyes met his. Aeske was sitting on a box behind her, and he saw Gjaldir too and sprang to his feet in excitement.

It was too much for Gjaldir, who burst into a jog and dropped his bundle of kit, heavy with his new maille, and stretched out his arms, leaning down and gathering the waddling Aeske in mid-stride, lifting him up into the air as the boy squealed with joy. He swung Aeske effortlessly up and planted the child on his shoulders, where his little hands grabbed handfuls of Gjaldir’s greasy hair and clung on as he burbled wordless happiness.

Gjaldir looked at Brunhild, who came over and planted an enthusiastic kiss on his cheek, ignoring for a moment the fact he was unwashed from six days of travel and battle. ‘You seem pleased to see me,’ he jested, his grin even broader than before.

She punched his defenceless stomach lightly. ‘I’m only happy for Aeske that you have returned. He likes you, and he isn’t old enough to know better.’ She gave him a pout and returned to the clothes as he followed, Aeske bobbing along on his shoulders.

‘Jaldir!’ the boy squealed happily.

‘Gods, his hands are strong,’ said Gjaldir, wincing as the boy tried to remove clumps of his hair as he swayed.

‘Yes, he will be a strong man, stronger than you even, but better looking.’

Gjaldir rolled his eyes and reached up with the hand that wasn’t clamped to Aeske’s tunic to try to prise the little fingers free from his hair before it was ripped out. He felt the old, faded stab of pain that the boy was not his, as he wondered what father could sire a child so strong. But the pain was dull and distant, he had come to terms with the truth many months ago; that it didn’t matter whose child Aeske was, he loved him as a father would. More, in fact, than most fathers he had met in his orphaned childhood.

He finally got Aeske’s hands free and lifted the boy back down to plant him on the box where he had been before, tussling his hair and sidling over to Brunhild, snaking a single arm around her waist.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said without looking round. ‘What comes out of Aeske smells and looks cleaner than you do. And is that your blood?’

Gjaldir looked down at himself.

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