Branded By Etain (2 page)

“I learned of the festival when I visited the blacksmith last eve, and pleased I am to accept your kind invitation,” he murmured.

She loved his accented Gaelic, the slight burr that sprouted goose bumps on her arms. For long moments, the meaning of his words eluded her. The blacksmith, he had spoken with the blacksmith, and he was pleased to accept her invitation. Never had she felt so thrilled. Fate had decreed all events to align.

“I am Brand of Bärvik, my lady.” He bowed again.

Brand, his name was Brand. She had never heard of Bärvik. Who to ask about this place?

“And you are, my lady?”

Jolted out of her scheming, Étaín blurted, “I am Lady Étaín.”

“My lady, what do you do?” Cedilla barked as she stomped into the hut.

Shocked and startled, Étaín stumbled to the right, and tried to shake the guilt from her expression. For two long breaths, her mouth refused to form words. “The pasty maker was so kind as to offer me a pie to break my fast.”

Étaín tensed and waited for Cedilla’s barrage of questions. She spread her lips in a smile and squared her shoulders hoping to block the warrior who topped her height by a head and a half from her nurse’s view.

Cedilla looked to the cottage’s roof. “Did you forget Gavin went for currant pies for you?”

Étaín’s eyes widened, and she dared a surreptitious peek to the back of the hut.

He was gone.

Disappointment swamped Étaín and a hot wetness dampened her palms. She glanced down and realized she had squeezed the pies into a gooey mess of pastry, stewed venison, and swede. Before Cedilla’s sharp gaze saw too much, Étaín stuffed the food into her mouth and chewed.

“No matter, Gavin has not returned as yet, but Rory is here with your wool brat.”

Étaín swallowed the last morsel. Her mind raced as she sought to distract Cedilla. “I needs visit Margie’s privy.”

Margie, her boon companion these past ten summers and more, had recently married Darren the blacksmith and now lived in a thatched cottage not far from New Chance River.

“You dinna fool me, lassie. What are you up to?” Cedilla wagged a finger at Étaín.

She hopped from one foot to the other. “We must make haste Cedilla, or I will ruin my new shoes with pis—”

“You are not too big to be paddled, lassie,” Cedilla warned.

Étaín marched out of the hut, turned her face to the rising sun, and grinned like a fool when Rory draped the thick brat around her shoulders. “My thanks.”

She had met
him
. Spoken to
him
.

Brand. She said his name under her breath.

The fates showered approval on her choice, otherwise they would never have met on such an auspicious day, the day of The Choosing.

Unable to resist, she skipped a few steps, glanced over her shoulder, and glimpsed Cedilla waddling after her at a fast and furious pace. The word piss spoken by a princess, she’d learned, defeated the sensibilities of warriors and nurses alike.

’Twas an incredible morn. The morn she had met her mate.

She yearned to throw her arms to the heavens and whirl around and around; instead she slowed to a walk and allowed Cedilla and Rory to catch up with her.

“How fares your wife and the new babe?” They turned off the main street and onto a dirt path paralleling the river.

“My Dorie is well, milady. The babe is wee, but pretty as a peach. We decided to name her Siobhan. My ma is grinning like a banshee, to be sure.”

Étaín fair melted under Rory’s brilliant smile and the tender, faraway look in his black eyes. That a newborn babe transformed such a ferocious soldier warmed her heart. “’Tis an honor for your ma to have the babe named after her. Is Dorie well enough to attend the feast?”

“Aye, milady. She and the babe will be there.”

The last hint of the sea’s scent vanished when the winds changed direction, now blowing from the mountains in the distance and carrying a woodsy fragrance. The sun climbed fully above the horizon and cast their forms in fat shadows to one side. Étaín shaded her eyes and scanned the wide bay.

“Seven ships. I have ne’er seen so many in the harbor. Do the three with the red sails belong to Lord Irvin?” Étaín couldn’t keep the quiver out of her voice. Her mother’s step-cousin, Irvin, made her uneasy.

“Aye, milady. He has brought three ships and several scores of warriors for the feast.”

Unease draped Étaín’s nape. The fine hairs there prickled.

Why had Irvin come? He had not visited since her mother’s passing, and then he had only stayed for the funeral rites.

Her worries vanished when she glimpsed Margie sweeping a broom across the front yard of her cottage. Yellow and white daises crowded the tiny garden fronting the thatched dwelling. The shimmering petals danced in the morning breeze and glimmered when the sun’s rays plucked at them.

“Étaín.” Margie set her broom to the wall and opened her arms wide.

“Margie.” Étaín broke into a sprint and flung herself into Margie’s embrace.

“I know who he is,” Margie whispered.

“So do I.” Étaín wanted to howl her exuberance. “Brand. Brand of Bärvik. Know you this place? Has he asked about me?”

“Shush,” Margie muttered. “Do you want all to know? Is he the one? Will you choose him tonight?”

•●•

“’Tis a prosperous settlement.” Nikolas pulled the hood of his thick cloak forward.

“Aye.”

“How fared your meeting with Princess Étaín?”

“As planned. We are invited to feast at the castle.” Odin’s luck had been with Brand the first day he set foot on Caul Cairlinne.

He had encountered his prey, Princess Étaín, and captured her attention with one heated glance. Every night since then, he had woven his way into her dreams and filled her mind with images of the two of them in bedsport. Timid visions, to be cert.

It had taken all his discipline to keep the images tame. To tamp down his burning desire to bedevil her with carnal pleasure until she did his bidding with not a moment’s hesitation.

Brand studied the crowded market and spied Étaín turning onto one of the paths leading away from the village. She headed in the direction of the blacksmith. A smile chased his lips. He had promised the blacksmith work aplenty, enough to fill his coffers for a lifetime and more, and gained a wealth of knowledge in return.

Princess Étaín.

The truthsayer of Caul Cairlinne, the daughter of King Mac Eiccnigh mac Dalagh, his wife to be, and the woman who would make him a ruler of this settlement.

Her innocence struck at the ugliness carved into his soul, the beast that had arisen within him and the other members of his demesne when the fire mountain on their isle began spewing its innards and dense clouds of acrid smoke and black ash.

Their herds died overnight. Hundreds of cattle carcasses littered the settlement. The stench had been overwhelming. A sickness spread through the population and sent those who were struck into a berserker killing spree. Then the dream weaving began in the survivors and threatened their sanity. Brand had been the first one to speak of it, and he became the leader of the reduced numbers left in the colony.

“Think you she will breed the dream weaving out of you?”

Brand shrugged. “Only time will tell.”

The sun bathed the crush of market goers and glinted off the axes of the fishermen hacking at their catch. He followed Étaín’s lithe form as she meandered between the throngs.

She brimmed with life spirit, the joy bubbling into her lithe fidgeting; the happiness she exuded glowed like ’twas a tiny bright sun following her, which shone only on her petite figure. She bristled with energy and had danced in place earlier while searching the throngs for him.

He smirked. It was him she looked for, it was him she sought, and tonight he would make her his.

Brand sidled into the shadows of the furrier’s cottage. He drew his cloak together and leaned against the rough wood staves of the dwelling.

Nikolas followed Brand’s example and withdrew from the swarm of people making their way to the shoreline. Nikolas propped a booted foot on the wooden planks and leaned his head against the cottage’s walls. He elbowed Brand. “That
is
her. The one with the golden curls and happy feet?”

Happy feet? Brand pondered his brother’s words. He grimaced. “Aye. That is she. Princess Étaín.”

“Are you cert of this, brother? ’Tis not an easy path you choose.”

Brand scanned the multitudes gathering for the last market day of summer. By the morrow, these people trooping about would either be dead or would have pledged allegiance to him, their new king. “I see no other way. She and this isle are ripe for the plucking.”

“Aye. I have ne’er seen the likes of it. There are no defenses. Why has not someone claimed this settlement afore? How has it withstood pillaging?”

“I have asked myself the same question since discovering this kingdom. ’Tis incredible that neither Gunnar the Godless or Fagan the Fire-eater have not invaded and claimed it afore.” Brand had examined every aspect of his plan for seizing the settlement over and over for the last fortnight and found no weaknesses.

“See you how they interact? Has this settlement seen naught of war and destruction? These people smile and laugh and make merry as if no enemies exist. Few of the men, even the young warriors, are armed. How is this possible?” Nikolas waved his hands at the masses packing the shoreline.

“The blacksmith speaks of a spell of protection. Of a fairy mound atop that hill, which will allow no invader to set foot on this isle’s soil.” Brand had learned of the friendship between the smith’s wife and Princess Étaín, and he had gained knowledge of the princess’s movements and intentions, not from the smith, but his new wife.

“We are invaders, are we not? And we are here. Fairies and gold, that is all these Celts speak of.” Nikolas stamped his feet. Clumps of sand quilted the cobbled stones with each downward trod of his boots.

“Aye, but Caul Cairlinne has ne’er been taken by Norse or others. ’Tis not an omen to my liking. I am wary of mine own plans.” Brand rolled his shoulder. The restlessness that always preceded a battle hounded him. He pushed away from the cottage and signaled Nikolas to follow him.

“I have ne’er heard you speak like this. Seek you your own defeat? We have no choice in this matter. Either we take Caul Cairlinne, or Gunnar or Fagan does.” Nikolas flipped his cloak forward and walked alongside Brand.

Brand bit his tongue. He wanted Étaín to come to him willingly, to
choose
him, but never would he admit that to anyone, not even Nikolas. He liked naught that she stirred some part of him he considered long dead and buried.

“We have both seen magik at work in strange lands. From what I have learned during my past visits Princess Étaín is the reason Caul Cairlinne has ne’er been plundered. The people here believe she protects them in some way.”

Nikolas paused when they reached a fork in the path. “The castle or the langskip?”

“The langskip,” Brand replied. “We have much to do afore the feast begins this eve.”

It took the better part of the day before Brand was satisfied with their preparations and their new situation. The weather had changed during the day, and by late afternoon a thick fog rolled in from the sea. Their five langskips loaded with warriors were now concealed in a cove not half a mile distant from Cairlinne Castle.

The castle’s dramatic twin towers rose from the junction of the two rivers feeding into the sleepy bay. Most ships couldn’t enter the narrow channel leading to the gated kitchen entrance of the keep, but Viking langskips were built and designed for shallow-water, silent, deadly invasions.

All was in place at dusk and Brand, Nikolas, and five of his men mingled with the hordes swarming into the castle’s grounds. None glanced their way. Once inside the great hall, they stuck to the shadowed corners and waited for the signal to begin the feast.

A thin veil of smoke filled the packed great hall though the three hearths in the room were stacked for firing, but not set ablaze. The smoldering haze came from blazing torches attached to the walls and the flames of dozens of tallow candles situated on the trestle tables crammed into the long, narrow chamber.