Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (16 page)

“Perhaps,” he said, his hair dripping into his eyes, “we are not meant to travel much farther this day.” His exhaled, a deep, long-suffering sigh. “Alwin stinks, and since we are now both thoroughly wet, I say we all wash. We will make camp in that clearing yonder.”

Alwin squawked as if someone had pinched him. “Bathe? Nay!”

“I would have the slave stay dirty, Músa,” Sindre said, still chortling. “His smell is so bad it surely drives away predators. Even the scavengers would have naught to do with him.”

“You stay put,” Brandr said to Alwin as he waded out. He rummaged in the húdfat and brought out Lissa’s sash. Splashing back into the water, he handed it her, pointing upstream to where a thick growth of leafy tree branches grew far out over the surface. “Those will screen you well. Go.”

Still chuckling, she accepted the sash and splashed off with it high above her head.

He turned to Alwin. “Strip, and scrub well, thrall, including your hair and clothing, or I will do it for you.”

The threat was effective. Alwin went to work getting out of his filthy clothes.

Brandr was squeezing water from his tunic when he noticed his uncle gaping. Sindre closed his mouth and started to grin. “Are we certain this lad is not, in truth, a sweet-faced female?”

Brandr stared at the clean, red-faced, golden-haired boy glaring back at Sindre through eyes of deep golden brown. The child was handsome indeed, but who could have seen it beneath so many coatings of grime?

That odd sense of familiarity struck him again, but before he could catch and hold it, Alwin’s eyes snapped to the tree line behind them. His belligerent stare altered to one of stark fear.

Before his axe was in hand, Brandr knew his response was too late.

A deep, well-pleased voice halted both him and Sindre in mid-turn. “Make no sudden moves! My archers will not take kindly to the threat. You will
slowly
toss your weapons to the opposite embankment and turn around.”

He caught Sindre’s intent sidewise glance. His uncle’s rage was rising with every passing moment. He wanted to attack, but they had no knowing how many of the enemy awaited them. With a minute shake of his head, he ordered Sindre to obey the directive. They could fight later, when they understood what they were up against.

Their weapons landed with a thunk in the grass. They pivoted.

His first thought was that he should never have allowed them to stop. Fighting for one’s life was much easier on dry land. His second, that he hoped Lissa stayed hidden. The danger she would face from these men was greater than that of being left to fend for herself. His third…that he should have given heed to Sindre. The five men—two of whose arrows were aimed at their hearts—were the same hearth companions who had ridden through the meadow the previous afternoon. He had wondered if the leader sensed their presence, but when the patrol kept going and made no attempt to follow, he had deemed the man satisfied. They must have returned later and tracked them.

∞∞§∞∞

“I searched for a league along the line of their passage,” Wat said as he entered camp after a long day spent tracking, “but found no sign of them.”

Talon nodded. “As expected, the storm washed clean all tracks.”

“Aye. However, I did meet up with a ceorl complaining of a missing lamb. He said no predator took it, for there was neither blood nor remains to be found. He believes a neighbor snatched it in retribution for the kiss his son stole from the man’s daughter.” Wat’s eyes gleamed with mirth. “The neighbor did not take it. Howbeit, our quarry does seem to have claimed another hostage. A youngling, probably a boy. They found him in a valley and took him with them when they left.”

“You have done well, Wat. Eat, and rest.” He turned to his men. It was time to disclose his latest plan. “I believe those we hunt were stranded at Yriclea, and now seek to return home. Their detour along the coast before turning east and north was likely an effort to meet up with those traveling in the ships, but the attempt was thwarted by the king’s patrols. We have lost their trail, but they now journey overland, on foot, and advance in a line, more or less straight northeast, toward the land of the Danes. I believe they will continue in that direction. They will stay clear of Wintanceastre, and of Lundenwic, for our king’s rule extends fully to the coast and the estuary of the Temese. They cannot reach Guthrum’s land by that path. That means their most likely course will take them farther north. My guess is, they make for Basingum. That is what I would do, and that is where we will seek them.

“If we continue on foot, we will never catch them. Howbeit, if we can procure horses, we can move swiftly ahead of them and cut them off. Not far south of our present position, lies the village of Tyewic. The thegn is a friend, and more, he owes to me a life debt.” A little smile curved his mouth. “He is a man with a fondness for horses and the coin to afford them. He will loan what we need.”

Wat, contentedly munching bread and cheese, met his gaze. “This idea has merit, if they stay their course.”

“There is a risk we will miss them if they turn aside to a way we do not expect,” Talon agreed. “But it is a chance I will take. To follow on foot serves no further purpose.” The men nodded as one. He savored their approval. “We make for Tyewic in the morn.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lissa donned the clean, dry cyrtel from her sash. A sunny, grassy spot on the bank, a bit farther along where the river made a sharp bend, struck her as a good place to spread out the wet cyrtel and syrce to dry. Wondering when the men would finish their ablutions, she sat beside the wet clothing to comb her unruly curls. She had forgotten how light and free her hair felt when short, for she had been allowed to grow it out when given her freedom. It had reached halfway down her back before she sheared it for her mourning. She gave a little shrug. It would stay short, now she was a slave again.

The gentle sway of willow fronds nearby caught her eye. Willow bark! She had need of it, to add to the tiny packet of medicinals she had carried from home. Forcing away memories of her lady’s eyes, frozen open at the moment of fearful death, she fought to remember instead Eadgida’s quiet voice and the laughing gleam in her eye, while she taught the younger Lissa the uses of the willow tree.

She rose, took from her sash the eating knife Brandr had provided her and walked, barefoot, to stand beneath the branches. Soon she had collected a goodly number of twigs and enough leaves to fill her packet.

She had just pulled her boots back on when movement on the river caught her eye. Frozen in amaze, she stared. A boat, a simple, flat-bottomed fishing vessel, floated round the bend, close to the riverbank. The man rowing it gestured wildly at her and pointed downriver. At first thinking him mad, she opened her mouth to scream, but he shook his head vigorously. He held a forefinger to his lips. Shipping the oars, he raised both hands wide apart above his head, three fingers extended on the left hand and five on the right. His chin jerked to indicate the river beyond the sheltering swatch of limbs.

Abruptly, she understood. She rushed back to the thickly leafed branches that had offered privacy as she bathed, and pushed back foliage to peer downstream. The view caused her heart to stutter, and then race. Brandr, Sindre and Alwin were climbing out of the water, three armed men fording the river behind them. On the opposite bank, two archers protected their fellows. One of the three warriors glanced around and she gasped, fear curdling in her belly. The hearth companions from yester day! How had they found them, or even known to look for them?

A hand covered her mouth. She started so hard she nigh fell. A wickedly strong arm encircled her waist and drew her back against a hard chest. So absorbed was she in the drama playing out before her, she had foolishly forgotten the man in the boat!

“Say naught!” The whisper was fierce, the man’s expression no less so when his hand pulled her face around to meet his gaze. “I know those men. They are not…kind. They would hurt you. Best if they never know you are here.” He watched her through wide, thickly lashed brown eyes that held a tinge of green. “Will you keep silent?”

She bobbed her head. The situation had progressed so quickly from relaxed enjoyment of the warm sunshine to one of fearful uncertainty she felt a little dazed. His frown dissolved in a quicksilver smile. He stepped away and bowed. “I am Turold of Hamwic, my girl. I am a scop, on my way to the southern village of Eadfordwer from Wiltunscir and Searesbyrig, where I met those gentlemen who now escort your friends to yon clearing.”

Lissa looked him over from tousled, fawn-brown hair to feet protected by worn but finely made boots. He was tall and trim, and clearly fit. “You do not look like any scop I have ever seen.”

In truth, he did not. In his right hand, he hefted a well-used sword and slung over his back with his shield was a bow and quiver. Her single glance identified three visible seaxes on his person. There was no sign of a musical instrument, though a small flute might be hidden within his tunic—along with, she felt certain—more long knives.

His eyes narrowed a fraction, but the grin did not waver. “Nevertheless, a scop is what I am. Howbeit, I admit I am also somewhat adept at the fighting skills, which should not surprise you. It is a dangerous world. Even a man who sings for his meals must be prepared to defend his life…or the life of a fair maid.” He cocked his head and returned her perusal. By the look in his eyes, he liked what he saw. “I was once a hearth companion, you see, but….” His chin gestured in the direction the men had gone. “Not of their ilk. They serve Aldwulf, King’s Thegn of Searesbyrig, a man for whom I have no love.” With a startling shift, his expression turned fierce again. “Your companions appear to be Northmen. If that is so, they will fare ill with Thegn Aldwulf. He is not known for offering goodwill to any but those he favors, and he makes no secret of his dislike and distrust of all things Dane. Still, I can help you free them.” His gaze flicked over her shorn hair and the makeshift slave collar she wore. His eyes smiled again. “Or perhaps, you prefer to accompany me on my journeys, and leave them to their likely fate?”

She blinked, trying to keep up with his lightning changes of humor.

“Rescue or flight, fair maid? Which do you choose?”

She was not prepared for the decision, thrust upon her so suddenly. Each passing moment bound her wayward emotions to Brandr. He made no effort to ensnare her, yet the secret desires of her heart entangled her in tender, ever strengthening, fetters. No longer could she deny the yearning to learn, in his arms, of the pleasures to be savored between a man and a woman; and yet, that which she felt was so much more than the pull of the flesh. She looked beyond the outward appeal of his physical beauty, and the allure of the power and quiet competence of the warrior, to the honor and decency within.

She believed him a good man, in the way of his people. But he
was
a man, and even those with the best intentions, like Talon, could not always be trusted to do right by a woman…and she did not yet know Brandr’s plans for her. She did not think
he
yet knew his designs.

Reckless it was, and dangerous, to stay with him. There was no surety he would ever grant her freedom, even did he come to care for her. But since the nightmare, she no longer vacillated over whether to chance escape, or follow where led her foolish heart. The fear she could not make it alive to a suitable village held her.

Howbeit, with this man, she would not have to journey alone. Still, she knew him not, or if he was worthy of trust. Maybe, the choice he offered would be worse than any Brandr gave.

Turold raised his hands to his hips. His tone, when he spoke, was sharper than before. “It is dangerous to tarry here, fair maid. Are you truly of such uncertain resolve, in this matter?”

Inwardly, she winced. He had correctly ascertained her slave status, and must think her the greatest of fools. He would be right. Only one lacking in wit would waver between slavery and freedom. Even Brandr had mocked her hesitancy.

She drew herself up. “I do not know you, and there is the boy to consider. He is innocent. I…I must think.”

Abruptly serious, he caught her elbow and led her to the boat. He hauled it further up the bank among a thick patch of rushes and reached inside for a satchel, a leather-covered object shaped like a lyre and another, disk-shaped, that might be a hylsung. Perhaps he spoke the truth, and was truly a scop.

Slinging the items over his shoulder, he said, “Gather your things. We should find a safe place to wait until after dark.”

“But the others!”

He shook his head. “We can do naught for them now. We will not abandon them, unless that be your choice. Come. There is a place around the bend that will suit our need.”

With a last look in the direction the men had gone, she followed him, her mind considering and rejecting options. By the time they came to a spot where a thigh-high area of the riverbank had been dug out by the current, leaving a very narrow, dry strip of pebbly sandbank, she had decided one thing. If this warrior scop proved less than honorable, she would clout him over the head with a stout branch.

Turold dropped to the sandy stretch and lifted her down beside him. “We should be well hidden here. Do you hunger? I have food. We will eat, confer over how best to proceed, and rest.”

They sat cross-legged. Her mouth watered when Turold unwrapped a whole chicken, baked and well seasoned, strips of roast boar, dried pear, creamy cheese, boiled duck eggs and an entire loaf of light bread. It was a feast. She would insure enough was left for the others, too.

Turold looked up and chuckled as she licked her lips. “I bought this from a farmer’s wife upriver this morning. Do not be concerned, there is plenty, for all of us. Howbeit, there is a price to pay if you wish to eat.”

As his words sank in, her jaw tightened and she lurched to her feet. His long fingers circled her wrist and pulled her back down. “You misunderstand. The price I ask is your name.”