Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (43 page)

“Understood.”

“I will send Hakon with you, and come to you as quickly as possible, but it might be Mithnætti before I am free.” He grinned. “Do not eat all the food. This fortress has strong walls, but the cooks think there is only one way to serve meals—burnt!”

Brandr barked a laugh at the time-honored complaint.

The transport across the river took very little time. Setting up camp took less. He had no intent of relaxing enough to unpack more than the food. They would not stay that long.

As he had predicted, Nicolaus came to them at Mithnætti.

Brandr heard them coming and winced. His brother and his men rode into camp as if Alfred’s entire army was after them, their horses sliding to a dusty halt just short of the perimeter.

Brandr’s eyes rolled, but fortunately, Alwin and the women did not wake.

“Call in your men, Bjarki,” Nicolaus said, striding toward him. “My men will guard until the dawn. Here, you have need of this.”

He dumped a sack in Brandr’s lap.

He untied it. Inside was fabric. He raised his brows at his brother.

“You look like a Saxon peasant. I brought trousers and tunics, and new boots, for you and Sindre, and a serk and smokkr for Lissa, though I hope she does not ask where I got them. I thought it would not go amiss should she arrive in Ljotness wearing the clothing of a Danski woman, though there is naught we can do to disguise her hair.” He sauntered off to set his men to guard, calling over his shoulder, “There are clothes for Siv, as well, but I could not find any to fit Alwin. There are few children here, and they are younger than he.”

“He can make do with what was bought for him in Basingum.”

“Ah, ‘with raiment and arms do friends gladden each other’. That was a wise decision, Snurre,” Hakon said, as he strolled into camp. “Even though all will know, as soon as she opens her mouth, she is Saxon, it will give Lissa an advantage to look like one of us.”

“Já.” Brandr set the sack aside. “The clothing will set her aside from the Saxon thralls in the village.”

A short time later, he shared a blazing, well-tended fire with Sindre, Hakon and Nicolaus.

“There is much we need to discuss,” Nicolaus said between bites of bread, cheese and roasted beef. He had not eaten since morn and stuffed food into his mouth as quickly as he could, and still speak. “We are but two days walk from Ljotness, and have yet to decide our course when we arrive.”

Hakon helped himself to a hunk of cheese. “Think you any plan we make will lessen the outburst of fire over our heads when Father learns of Bjarki’s intent?”

“That is my cheese you steal, Gríss,” Nicolaus complained. “Get your own. But you are right. We will all be burned by Father’s wrath, no matter what we do, yet I think there are things that may be done to insure we do not also lose our heads. Sindre, how loudly will Father roar?”

Sindre snorted and jerked his head in the direction of the fortress. “When he learns of my actions, those who guard these walls will believe the dragons of old come upon them again. When he hears of Músa’s plans, all of Guthrum’s kingdom will know of it.”

“Já, that is my thought, as well.” Nicolaus wrestled the bread loaf from Hakon’s hold. “So, we must douse as much of his fire as possible. Bjarki, have you naught to say of this?”

Brandr started, feeling their gazes heavy on him. His thoughts had been on Lissa and his fear for her should their father—or their mother—seek to put a permanent end to what they would see as an intolerable obstacle to the expansion of the family fortunes through his marriage to a wealthy wife. “The most important decision that must be made is how we will protect Lissa.”

Silence greeted his bald statement, then Hakon grunted. “I fear you are correct, Bjarki, though it grieves me to say it.”

“Já. Because I have claimed her as dottír, neither would dare lay a hand on her openly,” Sindre said, “but there are many ways to arrange ‘accidents’ that could not be traced back to them.”

“Both are capable of such an action,” Nicolaus agreed. He had finally filled his stomach and now washed his meal down with ale. “Father is cunning. He will try to separate us all, and to part you from Lissa. Mother will insist Lissa be taken to the baths with the women. That must not be allowed to happen.”

“How will we achieve this?” Brandr shook his head. “It is our custom that females spend time together. To refuse this will set many against us.”

“Say naught at first,” Hakon said. “Our behavior will be enough that all will know Lissa is no thrall, but if no one knows exactly what her position is, and none immediately knows your intent, it will keep them wondering. Warn Lissa of what she may say, and what she may not.”

“Wait to tell him until after I give him the gold,” Sindre rumbled.

“Já, that is wise. Laugh with him but withhold your thought. He will be in an excellent humor when he sees the fortune you lay before him, and his mind will be occupied with calculations. It might be enough to defer his wrath long enough for Lissa to spend time with the women, and for all of us to consolidate our positions. After that, we can move her to Sindre’s house. Both Lissa and Alwin can be protected in such a way. Mother will not understand, but by then, it will not matter.”

“Another thing,” Nicolaus said. “By all you hold sacred of the tenets of Thorr, Bjarki, never admit Lissa was a thrall. Explain her cropped hair as an expression of deep grief for the death of her dear friend, the thegn’s wife. That much is truth, and the rest will make it
seem
Lissa is equal in rank to the Lady Eadgida. I do not say lie, but if your heart is so given to this woman you are willing to risk banishment, and you are committed to keeping her, then protect her with silence. Say naught more of her than
must
be said.”

“That is wisdom, Snurre,” Hakon said, his voice quiet. “And you, Sindre, admit to no one the youngling, Alwin, is the son of a charcoal maker. You must impress upon both of them, Lissa and Alwin, and the others as well, never to speak of their past. It is no lie to leave unspoken that which does not need to be told.” He paused. “For what it is worth, Bjarki, I like your Lissa.”

Nicolaus nodded. “As do I. She might even be woman enough for you.”

“She is worthy.”

The words were quiet, and it was all Sindre said, but it was enough. They all knew his support did not come lightly, and they knew its value.

Brandr lifted his head and met their gazes, one by one. His pride in them was never greater than at that moment. “It is well.”

“You know what you face, Músa. It will not be easy.” Sindre’s face suddenly split into a huge smile. “By the eight legs of Sleipnir! This will be a battle worthy of remembrance. We should have included the skáld in our talk this night.”

Hakon rolled to his feet. “Já! Why did we not?” He and Turold had become nigh inseparable since their meeting. “Perhaps I will call him.”

“Nei,” Brandr said. “There will be time to discuss all before we reach Ljotness.” He yawned. “I will sleep now. The rest of you might be foolish enough to babble away the rest of the night, but I have no wish to endure painful tumbles on the morrow when my feet fall asleep while I walk!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The final leg of their journey took them through heavy forest, but as they approached the coast, the wildwood began to thin and reveal farmlands and pasturage.

They awakened that morn to a sunrise of violent reds that painted the heavy cloud cover in livid, angry hues.

“It is beautiful,” Lissa said, watching the rapid changes in the smears of vivid crimson.

“It will storm by nightfall,” Brandr said, his tone abrupt as he handed her cheese and smoked fish to break her fast. He stared at the heavy clouds that rolled in from the east. “It will be a strong storm. Best if we hasten to reach Ljotness.”

She stared at his profile. In truth, their trek across country from Colneceaster took them a half-day longer than Nicolaus, who had taken the lead, had expected. They should have arrived at Ljotness the evening before. Yet, none of the four Northmen seemed in a hurry to get started. Brandr in particular seemed reluctant to set forth. Tension coiled within him and he had grown increasingly curt and uncommunicative.

She had not failed to notice that since leaving the powerful garrison, their pace had gradually diminished until they seemed to be dawdling through the woods as if they were merely out for a stroll.

When she asked why, his jaw tightened, but he merely glanced sidewise at her.

Curious.

They passed through a hamlet along the bank of a narrow river, a friendly enough settlement of little more than a handful of houses ranged around an unusually small longhouse. Nicolaus halted to speak briefly to the inhabitants, all of whom were farmers. They appeared as equally pleased to make them welcome as to see them go.

She waited until the village was out of sight behind them before she broached the subject of Ljotness again. “Brandr, when we camped last night, you said we would come to your home early on this morn, yet it is now well past noontide and we have not come there. How much farther is it?”

The look he threw her was apologetic. “In truth, lítill blóm, we should have arrived last evening.”

“Yes, that is what Nicolaus said, but I have noticed we travel very slowly, not at all like before. Why?”

From behind them, Hakon, who walked with Turold, made an odd noise, then said, “Go ahead, Bjarki. Explain why we walk as if we go to an execution—
our own.”

Brandr cleared his throat, glanced at her, looked away, and cleared his throat again. “It is because….”

He trailed off.

She watched in disbelief as a brief ray of sunlight pierced through a break in the cloud cover to illumine the red that spotted his cheekbones.

He is embarrassed! But why?

Her mighty víkingr, blushing!

Mirth twitched her lips. She put her head down, as if to watch where she put her feet, not wanting him to see her amusement at his expense. The hole in the cloud cover closed again and the light dimmed. They passed into a cool stretch of woodland. She saw that Nicolaus led them along a frequently traveled trail now, not just an animal track. They must be getting close to a village. Ljotness?

“Well, Bjarki, shall I tell her then?” Hakon’s laugh was derisive. “The reason, sweet Lissa, we have slowed to a crawl is because the four of us, Danski men, who proclaim ourselves fearless warriors, are
afraid
to brave the wrath of our father.”

Turold chuckled. “Only a very brave man admits his fear.”

Brandr threw a glare over his shoulder at Hakon, but when he caught her gaze again, his blush deepened. “
Not
afraid! But Gríss is right, lítill blóm. We, all of us,” and he jerked his chin forward where Nicolaus led, while another backwards look took in Sindre, who brought up the rear, “while
not
afraid, are loathe to face the…unpleasantness that will arise when we come there.”

“Is he really so terrible? Does he care naught for his sons?”

“Óttarr Grimarson was born to a poor household. He only seeks to insure the legacy he leaves to his sons is better than what he was given.”

Hakon made a rude noise. “Our father is a
skálaglamm
who cares for coin, for wealth, naught else!”

“Gríss, you should not speak of our father with disrespect.”

“He has earned our contempt, Bjarki, and well you know it. No one cares for him, and no one respects him, though all fear him. He has not sense enough to understand the difference.”

“I do not understand, Brandr,” Lissa said. “If he rules unwisely, why has he such power?”

“He is jarl. Our godi should control him, but he is very old, and lives in Weala Tun, nigh three leagues north of Ljotness. The distance is too far for him to travel. He is unable to hold Father’s judgments in check, as should be done, and Father does as he pleases.” He shrugged. “Most of the time, he remembers to rule with some degree of justice. We are a lawful people, Lissa. It takes much to goad us to rise and remove such a one from his place.”

“Sometimes too much, I think,” Hakon said, sounding a lot like Nicolaus. “We are not thrall! We should act as freemen, yet we deal with Father as if we have no rights. Even we, his sons, have little influence with him, though if we stand together he will sometimes back down. I believe the people of Ljotness put up with him because he is a shrewd and cunning trader. We have grown wealthy from his merchant ventures.”

Nicolaus’ shout floated back to them. “We have come!”

He had hurried some distance ahead and awaited them atop a very long rise. Lissa’s heart made a sudden leap into her throat, and then sped up. Her mouth went dry. The strain evident in the men was understandable. She was nervous, too.

She slipped her hand into Brandr’s. He squeezed it, and smiled into her eyes, as if to reassure. Moments later, they stood at the edge of the wood, looking to their left past farmhouses, barns, and other outbuildings, and across fields of barley and rye, and pastures where livestock grazed, to the town of Ljotness. A strong breeze surged against them, as if it sought to push them back into the trees. It carried the odors of animals and humanity, and salt tang and fish.

At first sight of it, she was taken aback. It was not very large, nor did it look prosperous. She did not know what she had expected, but surely, a wealthy town should appear a little less…ordinary. And bigger.

Set well back from grass and scrub strewn cliffs of reddish earth that swept in long, gradually sloping incline to a narrow beach, it was protected by a high, semi-circular palisade over which she could see little but rooftops. Beyond stretched the sea, a vast water, the surface dark and sullen, and whipped into little caps of white by the wind. Seabirds flocked, their cries stark. Many winged inland, while others had come to rest in the pastures and fields. No one was nigh, but within the open gate, she saw hurrying figures.

Brandr was right. A storm was building out at sea, and it came their way. She could feel it in the air.