Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (45 page)

Óttarr, eyes hooded, listened as Sindre stood before the council, recounting all that happened during and after the failed raid.

His uncle was a good storyteller. The men were engrossed, and many a bellow of laughter, roar of appreciation or grunt of approval accompanied the tale. Every word Sindre spoke was truth, but in his version, the both of them figured as quite the heroes, felling mighty enemies, rescuing the innocent, and outwitting cunning challengers. His carefully expurgated re-telling of the flyte at the cottage elicited such a howl of favor it nigh shook the heavy beams of the rafters. By the time he finished, the men were openly regarding them with looks of grave respect, and calling words of fulsome praise.

Sindre fell silent.

“You make a good tale of it, brother,” Óttarr said.

Tankards were pounded on the table amid shouts of agreement.

Óttarr raised his hand and the hall grew quiet. He sat up and his gaze speared Brandr. “Howbeit, you, my son, were commanded to lead this raid, and to bring back wealth and slaves to enrich this community. I see neither in front of me, so how is it my brother lifts you up as an example to the men of this village? You disobeyed my orders. You failed in your duty. Why then, should honor be attached to your name?”

The words were acid, eating at Brandr’s heart. He did not answer. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire, the rising scream of the wind and the continuous rumble of Thorr’s hammer.

“I told you earlier, brother, not to judge without knowing the full truth. I left out one fact.” Sindre’s low tones were ominous, varnished in his own brand of derisive hostility. In front of them all, he lifted the hem of his tunic, unwrapped the long belt pouch he had worn for so long, and opened, one by one, the flaps. In the light of the fire and the wall torches, he upended it at Óttarr’s feet. The fall of yellow fire was a golden flame that ignited awe and lust in the heart of every man. When the last coin dropped, slid and settled in the glittering pile at the base of the High Seat, the heart of every man beat heavy, and the eye of every man was fixed on the treasure. Óttarr sat as if turned to stone.

“Thorr’s chariot,” Karl breathed.

Brandr stood, and faced his father. He bent to pick up a handful of gold, and let it slip through his fingers to fall in metallic thuds upon the pile. He met his father’s gaze. “Without Lissa, this treasure would not now lay at your feet. We
owe
her. What portion Sindre may accept is his decision. As for me, I relinquish all right, so I may claim a prize of far greater value.
I…will…have…Lissa
.”

He turned and strode from the hall into the cleansing storm.

∞∞§∞∞

Lissa waited for Brandr’s return in the family room of Óttarr Grimarson’s home, a large residence of unrestrained luxury fit for a wealthy jarl. Though the space was clean and comfortable, she wished to be anywhere but here. Siv and Brandr’s mother sat close to the fire, sewing. Nearby, watched by a female slave, an angelic child with curly, barley colored hair and vivid blue eyes, played with a set of carved animals. The little girl had perhaps three summers. She jabbered constantly, though Lissa had no notion of what she said, and she laughed delightedly at her toys and her nurse. Two other slaves worked to clean up from sup and prepare the house for the sleep period.

What do they discuss in that great hall across the village?

To distract herself from anxious thoughts and the rancor emanating from Brandr’s mother, she let her eyes wander the jarl’s snug, cozily appointed home. It was built close to the north palisade, which served as a windbreak to protect the structure from the bite of the cold north wind. The family room was narrow but spacious, with two aisles separated by a raised firepit in the center, which was flanked on either end by tables where the family and guests dined.

She sat, hands in her lap, at a worktable, one of several, set against the front wall of the house. Thick posts, carved and painted red, supported the ceiling. Against the opposite wall, a series of platforms where the brothers slept were separated by support posts matching those on her side. Above these were hung the men’s weapons and shields. Items of clothing draped from pegs around them. The platforms were covered with thick pallets and furs.

In truth, every surface seemed covered in furs. Never had she seen so many, along with beautifully woven blankets and thick sheepskins. They covered the walls, protected the feet from the hard wooden floors, draped the sleeping platforms and the room’s many benches, and even dangled from the ceiling support beams.

To her right was a door leading to the jarl’s private sleep chamber. To the left, a corridor ran between two rooms. One was a cool, sunken pantry where grains, smoked meat and fish, and dairy foods were stored, and which included a storage area for cooking utensils and cleaning tools. The other room, much smaller, served as an entrance chamber to the house. Sparsely furnished, it held little but pegs where outerwear might be hung, a bench where one might sit to remove wet or dirty footwear, and to either side of the inner door, a statue of Odinn and one of Thorr. The sight of those made her uneasy, reminding her the man she loved was a pagan who worshipped not one god, as did she, but many. It would take some getting used to.

Beyond the corridor was one more small space where slept the home’s three female thralls.

Despite the furs, a draft ghosted around the space, slipping in past the skins that hung over the high, slim windows in the wall above her and stirring up the smoke from the fire. She sneezed and shivered, and pulled closer about her shoulders the woolen blanket Brandr had given her before he left.

She glanced again at Elsef. Brandr’s mother was as richly appointed as her home. She wore a serk of cream and a smokkr of rust red with silver tortoise clasps. Woven bands in beautiful gold patterns decorated neckline, sleeves and hems. Her white hair was knotted and braided in intricate style and held in place by a forehead band of interwoven gold and silver chains. Rings, a silver armband, a multiple-stranded necklace of precious metals and brightly colored glass beads, and a golden brooch adorned her person. A silver needlecase hung with keys and personal grooming items dangled from her waist. Over it all, was draped a finely woven cream shawl with long, thick fringe.

Lissa’s gaze flickered over Elsef’s lined face and sought for signs of contentment. She found none. The woman chatted amiably enough with Siv, and spoke gently and with fondness to baby Signe, but her expression was as empty as the jarl’s eyes. If love or happiness touched her at all, she hid it well. A shaft of pity lanced through Lissa. To have so much—riches to obtain all one could desire of material things, a safe, comfortable home, fine, strong sons and a beautiful daughter—yet, to view life as so meaningless…she could not fathom such loss. She dropped her eyes to her lap to hide her thoughts. Elsef would only scorn her compassion.

She listened to Signe’s bright chatter and the quiet responses of the nurse. Brandr had assured her his mother spoke her language, but Elsef had not uttered a word to her from the moment Brandr had introduced her. She was not sure the woman had
looked
at her. She wondered where the others were, and missed their bright and cheerful company.

Time passed. The storm increased in strength and sheer noise, the wind buffeting the house. Baby Signe grew sleepy and fractious, and was settled into her warm furs for the night. The thralls finished their chores and they, too, were given leave to find their beds. The silence became so heavy she felt it like a stifling fur swathed about her head. Were it not for the constant roll of thunder, she would feel as if she had wandered into the barrow of a long dead king.

What takes them so long? It must nigh the mid watch of the night.

She caught Siv’s eye. Sindre’s wife rose and came to sit beside her. They chatted quietly of inconsequential things for a time, and she realized Siv was not as easy in her heart as she outwardly seemed.

Nerves stretched to the limit, she was about to leap up and excuse herself to go for a walk—never mind the storm—when the door from the entry crashed open. She nigh jumped out of her skin. Whirling, she watched as Brandr stalked inside.

He stopped before Elsef. “Mother, I am taking Siv and Lissa to Sindre’s house. I do not know when Father will be home. I thank you for supper.”

He turned and held out his hand.

She took it, blessing the firm, sure clasp of his fingers. In the entry, he wrapped her in the familiar folds of his cloak and helped Siv with an extra one, then led them from the house.

She drew deep breaths of the clean, moisture-laden air, thankful to be at last free of the stuffy, inhospitable jarl’s house. In her heart, she hoped, once they married, she and Brandr would not have to live there.

Sindre’s house was located on the far side of the village, nigh the mead hall and the gate that faced the sea. It was a much smaller house, and furnished as befitted an unmarried warrior, though it retained touches of the long dead feminine hands that had once made it a home. Despite its austerity, the welcome they found there lent a warmth and comfort the richer house of the jarl could never offer. Sindre had not yet returned from the
thing
, but Brandr showed Siv the private chamber, where Alwin already slept. She thanked him with a huge yawn and went inside. Oswulf and Turold sat awake, but Bryda, yielding to her babe’s needs, was curled on one of the sleep platforms.

“You may rest here, lítill blóm,” Brandr said, leading her to the platform closest to the firepit. “But first, is there aught you would know of what happened tonight?”

“Only everything.”

“Aye, and we would hear it all, as well,” Turold said.

Oswulf grunted in agreement.

Brandr humphed. “I will begin by stating Sindre should have been a skáld. He told the story of our journey with humor and a fine wit, forgetting naught except what needed to be forgotten, or left unspoken.”

“Ho,” Turold laughed, “do you say I should take care I am not replaced by your uncle?”

Brandr chuckled. “I do not say he would, only that he could, just as he would make a very fine leader, should he choose to exert himself. Next, I will say that Sindre and I left every man in the mead hall speechless.”

Lissa held her breath.

“Ah, and how did you manage such an impossible feat?”

“We dumped the gold at Father’s feet.”

Though she had known what was coming, Lissa still gasped.

“Gold?” Turold’s left eyebrow rose nigh to his hairline.

“Gold?” Oswulf spat out the word as if it tasted bad on his tongue.

Brandr caught her eye. “Gold,” he said. “It belonged to Lissa’s Thegn Wolnoth. She gifted it to us before we left Yriclea.”

“How much gold?”

“A fortune.”

“And how did we manage to transport all this gold with no one the wiser?”

“Sindre carried it in a specially made pouch around his waist.”

Turold blinked. “Around his waist?” He started to laugh. “And all this time, I thought he was just thick around the middle—too much good Dane beer, you understand.”

“I believed the same,” said Oswulf, and suddenly, all three of them were guffawing. The laughter grew until Brandr was slapping his knee, Oswulf was bent over in his chair, and Turold’s head was thrown back and tears ran from his eyes. Lissa, at first amazed, was soon giggling helplessly with them.

Into all this hilarity strode Sindre, Nicolaus, Hakon and Rathulf, Karl following more slowly. So grim were their expressions the merriment was too quickly squelched.

Lissa’s heart gave a frantic little beat. This did not bode well, for any of them.

Brandr rose. “Well, what damage has my father committed in the name of wealth?”

Rathulf burst into angry speech. “He is wrong, Brandr! We told him so. We argued. We threatened. We demanded. Sindre spoke much of your honorable behavior. We asked them to wait two days, and give the matter more thought. He ignored us all.”

The brothers stared at him. He flushed, but raised his chin. Brandr had said Rathulf was shy, and spoke little. Their reaction indicated the outburst was uncharacteristic.

She hid a smile. Apparently, the shy one had inherited the instinct to protect those he loved.

Sindre laid a calming hand on Rathulf’s shoulder. He made no effort to lessen the gravity of the verdict, but immediately reported the worst. “As we feared, Óttarr prevailed. He has convinced the men you suffer from a mind fire and are a danger to the community. I do not think even the godi will be able to change their minds.” He held Brandr’s gaze. “He has disinherited you, and banished you from the ætt. You are to be put from Ljotness at dawn, never to return, with naught but the clothes you wear, and you are to take Lissa, Oswulf and Bryda with you.” His gaze swung to Turold. “You are skáld. You may go or stay, the choice is yours.”

Brandr went still as death. For the space of several heartbeats, he did not move. Then he sighed, a long, drawn out breath. “I am not surprised, but I had hoped….”

He trailed off.

Sindre picked up the sentence. “That the gold might make a difference?”

“That there might still be something human left in his soul.”

Lissa’s heart broke at the pain he could not hide, at the bleakness that leached all expression from both face and voice. The pinch of guilt bit at her. This, too, she had brought upon him. But she would not dishonor, with her own feelings, either his hurt or his choice, for love drove him to his decision, and he would not regret it. Nor would she allow it of herself.

She could but imagine how terrible it must feel to be stricken from the heart of one’s family, though it must be like to that pain she had felt at the death of those she had loved. Yet, his family still lived, but would be to him as if they did not.

Would he allow her to offer him what comfort she could? She came to him, placed her palms upon his chest, and let her love blaze from her eyes to try to ease the torment in his.

He looked down at her, and smiled, but it was a brittle thing. His hands settled on her upper arms. “I am sorry, lítill blóm, that again you must be forced to take to the road with me. I had hoped you would find a home here.”