Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (37 page)

He grew serious, and held her gaze. “Lissa, I will not hide from you that my family will not approve our marriage. I will not be deterred, I
will
have you, but it may be Father will shame and disinherit me, with Mother goading him on, and he will cast us out. Should that happen, we will have to make our own way, with naught.” He caught her face in his hands. “You understand? It would be very difficult. We would be forced to travel far from my home, perhaps to make our way back into Saxon lands where none could know of my dishonor. It is possible we might not survive.” He paused, and felt in his soul the weight of what he offered. “I have no right to ask such a thing of you.”

She leaned into him. “Think you I do not know the cost to you as well, and that it would be greater than mine? You would lose your status, your home, your dream. Worse, you would lose your family. I know the value of these things, Brandr. It is I who would be shamed, not you, for having no courage to set you free.”

“I will never let you go, Lissa! Have I not said so, time and again? Your love is worth any cost.”

He suddenly realized she still had not actually said the words
to him
. “You heard all I spoke to Talon?”

“Yes, I heard.”

He stared into her golden brown eyes, willing her not to make him beg. “You heard
all
of what was said, and meant the things you said?”

Laughter sprang into those golden depths, and she took pity on him. “Yes, Brandr, I heard it all, and I meant what I said. Yes, I love you, too.”

He whooped, picked her up and swung her in a circle, enjoying the startled little yelp she gave. “I should punish you for that, thrall!”

“Ah, but I am no longer your thrall. You can no longer give orders to me!”

“So you may think, but you are wrong. A man may give orders to his wife as he pleases.”

“I am not your wife, either.”

“We are betrothed, in front of many witnesses. You are my responsibility, to care for and protect. As such, you will obey when I command.”

“Perhaps.”

He set her on her feet, but kept her in his arms. “You will drive me to an early grave, lítill blóm.”

“Never!” She leaned into him and twined slender arms around his neck. “Command me, now, warrior. You will see I know well how to obey.”

It was some time before the sound of voices, filled with laughter, interrupted them. The others returned from the market. Brandr growled. “A day comes when you and I will find time together with
no one
else about. I would hasten that day, if I could.”

“As would I,” she said, and she laughed—breathlessly, he was pleased to note—and her cheeks were rosy.

They did not hurry to make their way back. Brandr caught Sindre’s gaze on Lissa as they came into camp. His uncle turned to find him watching, but though he said naught, the blue ice of his eyes held a tacit acceptance.

Alwin bounced to Sindre, grasped his hand and started chatting about his day at the market. Sindre tousled his head and shot Brandr a last, wry glance before the two wandered away, deep in discussion.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Recalling the words of Thegn Heorulf, that his name would yield protection as far as Lundenwic, allowed Brandr to set an easier pace during the days of travel that remained to reach the boundary of King Guthrum’s kingdom. Though they still exercised caution and kept away from villages and towns except to purchase supplies, they rose later, walked slower, took noontide breaks and stopped earlier each evening.

During this time, Bryda’s sickness of the morn eased, and though she tired easily because of the babe, the noontide rest each day refreshed her. Alwin took to calling Lissa ‘sister’, and in the evening Sindre, arguing Alwin’s education in certain matters was lacking, instructed him on the stances, traveling steps and basic tactics a warrior used while fighting. Turold taught them songs to keep them moving during the day and told them spellbinding tales to settle them at night.

At daybreak on the fourth day out from Basingum, Turold came to sit beside Lissa and Brandr, who sat looking out over a pond. Ducks clacked where they nested among the willows on the far embankment.

Brandr was giving Lissa further lessons in his language, and they were laughing over her pronunciations.

Turold dropped beside Brandr. “Sometime on the morrow we will come to the river Temese. In its western courses, it is less wide than in the eastern ways, or as it flows through Lundenwic. Still, it remains a deep river, and wider than any we have so far encountered, and I know of no place where it may be forded in the area we must cross. We will require a boat. There is a ferry at Windles-ore, but it is my thought you would prefer transport less public.”

Brandr, munching on a piece of cheese, nodded.

“There is a man I know. He lives on the river, some two leagues from the city. He is old and strange, but sometimes, for a price, he will make loan of his boat—which I have always suspected is older than he, but sound enough in the past to carry me safely across. I make mention of him because he keeps his own counsel about who comes to visit. It is an isolated cottage, and were we to cross there, none would know but he.”

“I do not mind admitting it will be nice to travel
over
the surface of a river for a change, instead of
through
it,” Brandr said.

“As do I,” Lissa agreed, with feeling.

Turold chuckled. “One thing this part of the kingdom does not lack is rivers and streams, but most people use the ferries and bridges. It is only those who pass in secret who must slosh their way from one side to the other.”

Brandr humphed. “The next town of any size we pass, I will have Oswulf go and buy new boots for me. Mine have stood me in good stead, but they will soon fall apart.”

He waggled his toes to illustrate, and the binding between upper and sole showed gaps.

“So then,” Turold said, “I will take the lead again on the morrow, for I know the way from here to where we might cross. I suspect if the old man is gone, his boat remains. We will for once, stay dry—if it does not rain, of course!”

He cast a hopeful eye at a sky through which floated billowy white clouds with gray bottoms.

As it happened, it did not rain, the old man was older—and according to Turold, queerer than ever—and his boat, while indeed ancient, conveyed them all safely to the far bank. As the elder paddled back to his cottage after ferrying them across, he suddenly shouted something about it being time for his yearly bath, dove over the side into the water and swam the rest of the way, towing the boat behind him with a rope.

Oswulf scratched his head. “What was that about?”

“We are thankful to avoid the water. He jumps in on purpose!” Sindre said, looking bemused. “Perhaps it was not wise to trust ourselves to him.”

Brandr glanced at Turold’s I-told-you-so expression, raised his brows and shook his head. Lissa burst out laughing.

On a beautiful, clear morn, the ninth since leaving Basingum, Turold halted them atop a hill higher than its neighbors and pointed south. In the far distance, rooftops and towers were visible. “Yonder lies the magnificent city of Lundenwic, known throughout the world. It is a place of magic, like no other in the land, where more people than you can imagine live in one place, and there are glorious wonders to be discovered.”

His eyes sparkled with laughter as he held their spellbound gazes. All had heard of the great city, but none but he had ever been there.

“It also stinks to the skies,” he said, and still laughing, led them again on their way.

The next day, Brandr took them into a wilder wood than any they had yet traversed. The trees were thick and huge, and their upper limbs tangled in a dense canopy. It was hushed and dark, and very warm, and smelled of leaf mold, rot and past ages. They caught glimpses of wildlife, and now and again, rustlings of larger animals sounded in the dimness, and there was birdsong. Brandr found a trail that led in the direction he wished to go and they followed it, but little of the day’s breezes could penetrate to the forest floor and the close heat weighed on their hearts. Only the spirits of Brandr and Sindre remained high. Turold sang, as he said, to lighten their humor, but his normally pleasing voice fell flat.

They stopped in a clearing for the noontide rest. Though all wished to continue, Brandr insisted for Bryda’s sake, and the little mother had need of it, for she slept like one exhausted beside Oswulf.

Alwin took heart from Sindre’s cheerfulness. “My feet hurt,” he said. “Will you tell a story to make me forget?”

Sindre grinned and launched into a tale of a great sea battle between opposing warships, which he named
snekkja
.

Warfare not being her favorite subject for discussion, Lissa turned quietly to Brandr. “This wood, it is ancient, is it not?”

“Já, I would say so.”

“Is it haunted?”

He blinked at her in the gloom. “Not that I have heard, though if some swore it so, I would not gainsay them.”

“It is only that it reminds me of the old tales of the dark days, when such places were better left untraveled, for even the great warriors found them dangerous.” She leaned close, and when he slipped an arm about her, she rested her head on his shoulder. “Look there,” she said, pointing to where Alwin nigh sat in Sindre’s lap, his eyes wide and watchful as he stared into the dark spaces beyond their small clearing. “Alwin is frightened, and the rest of us are uneasy, as well. Yet you, and Sindre too, seem unaffected.”

He chuckled. “It is no mystery, lítill blóm. We will come soon to the end of the wood, and by this eve, we will arrive at the River Ligean, which forms the boundary between your land and mine. When we make camp this night, it will be in our land!”

His voice rang through the clearing and for a moment, the deep hush beneath the canopy was quelled. Shortly after, Bryda awoke and they gladly moved on.

As he had promised, they came to the edge of the wood as the sun threw its rays from high and behind them. She echoed Alwin’s sigh of relief, though naught of consequence had occurred during their passage except when Brandr, Frækn in hand and finger to his lips, had led them silently past the grunts and irritated snorts of a foraging boar a little way off the trail.

They came out onto a floodplain close to the river. Though they could not yet see it, they could scent the water. The air had a humid, heavy feel.

Brandr started to hurry forward, pulling Lissa behind, when Sindre called out. “Brandr, wait!”

He turned to retrace his steps, but the others were nowhere in sight. “Where are you?”

“Over here.”

The call came from his right. The floodplain here was overgrown with numerous small trees, thick brush and high grass. He stretched up on his toes but could see only the top of Sindre’s white head.

He threw a glance over his shoulder at Lissa. “They have found something of interest, or Sindre would not have stopped.”

He pushed between thick bushes higher than his head, with Lissa close behind, her hand grasping the back of his tunic as if she feared becoming lost in the tangle. He came to a halt. Before him lay an unexpected sight. Built on a swelling rise well above the river was a dilapidated farmhouse, and beyond it stretched a single field of grain.

The thing that had caught Sindre’s attention, that being tallest of them all, he had seen over the tops of the heavy screen of bushes, was a runestone, dedicated to one Trygve Ulfson.

His uncle stood in front of the stone, which was taller than it was wide and rudely inscribed. He traced the runes with his finger, explaining their meaning to Alwin. Turold, Oswulf and Bryda ranged around them. He looked at Brandr and then leaned to peer around the stone at the house. “If my count of days is right, Músa, his death appears to have occurred recently. Think you his people remain here, at the farm?”

His hand abruptly fell to caress Frithr and his voice lowered. “I feel as if we are being watched.”

“It looks deserted,” Turold said, but his own hand likewise grasped the hilt of Fægennes. He pivoted in a slow spin, looking all around, as if seeking for probing eyes.

Brandr felt the hair stand up on his nape. He slid his shield off his back and drew his sword, noting Turold did the same. “Lissa, go back the way we came, but stay close. Everyone, into the bushes! Quickly! We need to get out of sight.”

“You have need no of your weapons,” said a soft, feminine voice from behind them. “There is naught here to fight.”

As one, the men whirled and formed a shield wall in front of the women and Alwin, though with only two shields, it was not much of a defense.

Brandr stared. A woman of middle years, perhaps five winters Sindre’s junior, stood looking at them through big, soft brown eyes. She carried no weapon. Unusually tall—he thought the top of her head might almost reach Sindre’s chin—she was also buxom, nicely filling out her serk and smokkr, which showed signs of much wear and little decoration. No jewelry adorned her. Thick, light brown hair was coiled in a knot beneath her cap. She had once been beautiful, but time and hardship had taken their toll and etched their passing in the lines of her face.

Brandr lowered Frækn, but his eyes searched the brush behind her for any sign she was not alone.

She seemed to understand his concern. “I am Siv Hróksdottír, wife to Trygve Ulfson.” She jerked her chin at the runestone. “Until six and ten days ago, my husband and I farmed this land, such as it is.” She sounded weary to the bone. “Now, all that was ours is to go to Trygve’s brother, Olaf. I have been told to leave this place, and am to be allowed to take naught when I go.”

“But that is not our law!” Shock rendered Sindre’s booming exclamation louder than was his norm, and in his tone was not a little outrage.

Brandr’s head whipped around. Where did that belligerent defensiveness come from? Sindre was not one to take up the cause of a stranger.

The woman also seemed startled by his vehemence, but she shook her head. “The river might be just there,” she threw out her hand in a graceful gesture toward it, “but this is Saxon land. Our laws count for little here, and those who wish to flaunt them may do so with impunity. I have no man to speak for me at the
thing
.”