Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (22 page)

Lissa giggled. “You do not look the worse for wear.”

Turold clasped a hand to his heart. “Ah, the maid has no sympathy for my travails. I am wet, weary and lighter of purse, and she but laughs. Alas! Will I also be forced, even among friends, to sing for my sup?”

Brandr decided the skáld had trifled long enough with his thrall. With his fine looks, courtly manners and laudable voice, his was a figure many women would find irresistibly attractive. He did not wish his thrall to become enamored and have her heart broken when Turold left to go his own way. He ruthlessly silenced the nagging voice in his head that proclaimed she was
his
, and he wanted all her admiration for himself.

“Leave the food,” he said. “Bryda will deal with it when she returns.”

The crooked smile on Turold’s lips mocked, but hand to his heart, he made a small bow to Lissa and left.

Voices rose in greeting without. Oswulf appeared, smelling like smoke, his arm around the waist of his wife. Bryda laughed at some comment he had made. Alwin was not far behind, his arms, like Bryda’s, full of bright blossoms and crisp-smelling greenery.

Bryda smiled at Lissa. “I have brought flowers to weave Midsummer wreaths for us both. We will put the men to work decorating the cottage with these branches, and we shall….” She stopped as her gaze fell on the bounty at the hearth. “Oh!”

“Thorr’s hammer!”

Brandr snorted at Alwin’s use of his favorite oath. Oswulf grinned, but he also stared at the food.

Brandr wanted naught to do with women’s work. “I go to seek my uncle.”

No one paid him heed as he made a hasty exit. The rain had slackened to a drizzle. Moving deep into the trees, he came to the low mound he had built that morn and topped with a flat slab of rock, slightly angled. From that slanted side he had chipped a smooth runnel. On the ground beneath the runnel’s mouth was set a small, empty bowl, and not far from it, another filled with water.

He had charged Sindre with an unusual task for a special purpose, and was eager to attend to it. Matters with Lissa had become unacceptably complicated, yet he could no longer deny his heart was gladdened by her presence in his life. It was Midsummer eve, and he wished to offer
blót
to express to Thorr his joy at obtaining a thrall so lovely, valuable and…well, perhaps not obedient, but otherwise, most pleasing.

“At last you arrive, Músa!” The cloaked figure rose from where he waited beneath the shelter of thick branches. He sounded weary. The high-pitched screech of a terrified hare accompanied his movement. Holding the squirming animal by the scruff of its neck, he handed it to Brandr. “I have waited here for some time. I was beginning to think you had abandoned your intent.”

“My thanks, Uncle. I have, myself, just returned.”

“What did you find?”

“Naught. No sign at all. Lissa believes he has moved ahead of us and prepares an ambush.”

“As we also considered. In so much, you trust this thrall?”

His tone indicated he still thought such faith was foolish.

“Já. She has no love for this Talon, though she does not wish him dead.”

“And the Saxon and his woman? Do we drag still more of this cursed land’s useless inhabitants along with us? I made no protest with the skáld, Brandr, because he has shown his worth, but these two have none I can see, and may well prove a dangerous hindrance.”

“The matter has not been decided…and the woman, at least, has been of much use this day. As for her husband, we will learn what skills he may possess. We will discuss this further at a later time, when plans must be made.” He paused, and indicated the hare. “Will you join me?”

“Nei.” Sindre’s exhalation was deep, slow and resigned. “I have already offered worship to Odinn. Náttmál is nigh. I look forward to a meal to fill my grumbling belly and the warmth of a hot fire. Would that the heat of a woman also awaited, and in a comfortable bed. It is has been too long.”

“The meal and the fire I can offer. Perhaps, when you partake of the feast we will have, and the ale, the other will cease to matter, at least for this night.”

“Ale?” Suspicion sharpened his tone. “From where comes ale?”

“Turold visited the village to the south this day. He went to the alewife’s house, plied the owners with song and silver, and returned with food and drink enough to forget one’s woes.”

Sindre grew still. “We have allowed him to walk with us because he is a skáld, but I do not forget he is a Saxon warrior. Think you we should prepare for Saxon swords at our necks at Ótta, when night grows darkest?”

“If I believed that of him, I would have parted company at our first meeting. It is not his way. If he decides to fight, he will do it face to face, without deceit.”

“You place too much trust, too easily.”

“And you place too little, and ignore your instincts!” He sighed. “Still, you and I will share the watch this night.”

“So be it, Músa. Do not spend too long at your prayers, lest the others wonder.”

He headed toward the cottage.

From its sheath at the small of his back, Brandr pulled his sax. He dropped to his knees and stretched the hare upon the rock he had prepared. As if it knew its fate, the animal panted silently, no longer fighting. Brandr closed his eyes and imagined the salty tang of the breezes that blew from the sea at Ljotness, and the deep, steady rhythm of a drum. He readied the knife, and began a low, rhythmic chant.

Night had fallen when he returned to the cottage. Bright light, laughter and the aroma of well-cooked food flowed, welcoming, from the open doorway.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Movement at the cottage entrance caught Lissa’s eye. Brandr entered with a skinned hare.

So that is what he was doing. It is a thoughtful gesture to Bryda, to skin the animal before bringing it to her to cook. The other men failed to offer that courtesy.

She straightened the circlet of flowers that adorned her hair and pushed aside the fur. The fire blazed as high as was safe, as a substitute for the Midsummer bonfire. With all of them now inside, the small room had become stuffy.

Between the leaks in the roof and the confined space, it was difficult to find places to sit. Oswulf cuddled with Bryda against the wall beside the sleeping platform. In the far corner, nigh the door, Turold occupied the three-legged stool. Against the opposite wall, Alwin nestled as close as he dared beside Sindre. His eyes rarely left the big víkingrs’ face.

“Now we are all here,” Bryda called gaily, “it is time to eat!”

Cheers were cried as cups of ale were lifted high, and bowls of stew passed around.

Brandr came to sit with her, bringing a food-filled trencher made from the fresh bread. Mouth watering, she willingly shared.

The swelling of her face had diminished due to Bryda’s attentions to her injury with the knitbone. Still, Brandr helped her cut the tougher foods into tiny bites, which she chewed with care.

“I am hungry enough to eat all of this,” she said. “Bryda has allowed me naught but broth all day.” She mouthed a sliver of boar, relishing the flavor. “At least I still have all my teeth, for which I am grateful.”

He grinned. “Já, it was most considerate of the outlaw to use such care with his blow.”

She huffed a pained chuckle. “Do not make me laugh. It hurts.”

His gaze was indulgent as he fed her a cut of pickled egg. “Shall I then move your pallet into the byre before the flyting begins, so you cannot hear? I would not have laughter bring you suffering.”

She elbowed his ribs and he grunted.

“I will not miss a contest of insults in which Sindre is involved,” she said, “no matter the discomfort. Am I correct in assuming he is exceptionally good at flyting?”

“You begin to know him. Já, his skill is highly respected at home.”

“I request a courtesy.”

“You wish for the jeers to be less lascivious than is usual, for Alwin’s sake.”

“Will Sindre agree?”

“He will argue the boy will soon learn of such things on his own, and say it will not harm him to begin this night.”

“Alwin is very young. I would like to see his innocence untarnished for a little longer. Please, Brandr.”

His expression grew thoughtful. “Only once before have you spoken that word to me.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth. So potent was the blue fire of his regard it was as if he caressed her, but without touch. She felt a drawing in her belly and looked away, unable to sustain the contact.

He cannot kiss me without causing pain. I am sorry for that. The first time was an experience I would like to repeat.

She returned to the subject at hand. “What say you?”

“If Sindre refuses, the first affront I will fling at him will involve his stupidity and incompetence in failing to meet a challenge of so simple a nature. It will goad him into expressing his thoughts in such a way the boy will not understand the references.”

She started to thank him, but he turned his profile to her at sound of a hearty burst of laughter from Oswulf. Her eyes lit on the series of blue markings that adorned his temple and ran from in front of his ear to curl below the angle of his chin. He had shaved that morn, and they were clearly visible. She touched the one on his temple.

He instantly speared her with his keen azure gaze, his look questioning.

“Why do you have these? Have they meaning?”

He pressed her palm against his cheek. “They do, já. This one,” and he lifted her hand to touch her fingertips to the symbol at his temple, “I chose. It is Mjóllnir, Thorr’s hammer. I received it the day I finished my battle training, and was declared a warrior of the ætt. These,” and he traced each of the others with her fingers, stopping when her palm rested against the column of his neck, “are runes that spell my name, which means ‘sword’. They were awarded in honor of my blooding.”

“Blooding?”

“The word can carry two meanings, either the first time one is wounded in battle, or one’s first kill.”

She was almost afraid to ask. “And which did it mean for you?”

He stared at her, as if gauging her courage. “I did not receive my first wound until my fifth battle.”

“I see.”

His lips curved, and mirth stirred in the blue gaze. “Does this bother you?”

She gave a tiny shrug. “I know men kill.”

“What then?”

“I do not understand why killing is a matter of such pride to men.” She looked away. “Death is a terrible thing. It should not be celebrated, even when it is necessary.”

He angled his head to peer more closely at her face. “It is the way of the world, and you think as a woman.”

“I know. Pay no attention.”

He smiled. “I like it that death disturbs you, that you wish for peace. With a woman, that is how it should be. Women nurture. Men fight to protect them. It is the way of things.”

She frowned. His words made her sound like a weakling. “I am not helpless, you know.”

He grinned. “Nei, you are not, nor are you craven. But a woman’s strengths are different than those of a man. Fear not, lítill blóm. In the way of a woman, you are powerful. You have earned my respect.”

He might have said more, but Turold called from his corner. “Brandr! We have a disagreement. We would hear your opinion on the matter.”

Her heart glowed a little at his praise. With his attention diverted to the argument, she delighted to let her eyes roam the unyielding lines of his profile.

There is much appealing about this man apart from the strong attraction of the body we share. He can be kind. Though he seeks to deny it, gentleness lurks beneath the savagery. His honor is true, if only to his own beliefs. He came to my rescue, when he could have left me to those terrible men. Though his anger scorches, and is oft bewildering, he controls it well. He is more like Talon than first I thought, consumed with his belief in his own rightness. So strong is his resolve, so adamant his will, he rules even the headstrong, unpredictable Sindre. Both traits are unsettling…and I have not yet fully forgiven that rebuff at the mound, for my heart felt truly betrayed. Still, I should not have expected aught else with such a one. He is a warrior, after all. They hide their affections behind gruff words and fierce deeds.

I have much regard for him, and when he is nigh, I feel as if I am hidden away in a strong bastion, a place of shelter where I may rest in safety. If only I knew his thoughts. I fear this flowering affection for him that unveils more fully each day, entwining sweet tendrils ever deeper into my heart. It might be too easily betrayed and then, what protection would I have? He may sense somewhat of my feelings, for I do not know how well I hide them, but he must not guess at their depth.

Her thoughts wandered through the various futures, few of them comforting, rendered possible by his choice of actions. The one that frightened her most was that he would sell her to another. It was said víkingrs kept few of those they enslaved. Tales of the fates of those unfortunates were rimmed with horror, yet Brandr offered no assurances save his insistence he would keep her. He made no secret he wanted her body, but if a slaver offered an enticing price for her there was naught, least of all her wishes, to hold him from accepting it.

Even could she convince him he needed her, she feared he would demand no more than that she become his concubine. He had said, with such conviction, he would never let her go, but what would become of her if he chose to take a wife, while keeping her beneath his hand? Could she bear to share him? Should that fate come to pass, all she might ever have of him would be remnants, gleaned from that part of himself he gave to his wife and children. It was not an existence she favored.

If that time came, she supposed she could still leave, but envisioning a life lived without him, she saw naught but a disheartening span of empty, lonely days. Aye, if she made that choice, the best she could hope for would be to marry another man to gain a home, and children. That thought also held little appeal.

She was strong enough to live without him, but if she stayed, could she bear to follow wherever he led, for sake of the caring she bore him? Perhaps she should trust his word. To follow the desire of her heart was a terrible chance, one that might well destroy her, but oh, it could also be well worth the risk.