Fires of Winter (34 page)

“I am pleased that you have softened to me, Brenna,” he replied, then turned his back to her. “’Tis late and I am tired. Go to sleep.”

His words were like a physical blow. He said naught of returning her love, only that he was pleased that
she
had softened to him. She stared blankly at his hard back. “Methinks I have given you more pleasure than you deserve this night.”

“Eh?”

Garrick’s back remained to her and suddenly Brenna saw red, blind red fury. She shoved him forcefully, gaining his attention again.

“I would know your intentions, Garrick. Will you wed me?”

He frowned at her. “A Viking cannot wed a slave. You know that.”

“Your father would free me! You can free me!”

“Nay, wench, ’twould serve no purpose. I will not wed you. If I set you free, I would lose you.” Then he tried to calm her. “As my slave I will keep you always, Brenna. You will be like my wife.”

“Until I am old!” she snapped. “Then you will put me out to pasture as you would a mare!”

“’Twould not be that way.”

“Words, Viking!” she cried, pain making her unreasonable. “If you know me at all, you know that I have more pride than most. I can never come to you freely without sacred vows between us. You are the only man I will wed. If you refuse, I will never be content.”

“You will in time.”

“In time my love will die through bitterness. Do you not see that?”

“You ask too much, woman!” he said curtly. “I have sworn never to wed!”

“Or to love?”

“There is no love in me. It was destroyed long ago.” He took her hand and held it tightly. “But ’tis you I come to, Brenna,” he said, his voice soft again. “’Tis you I care about above all others. I can give you no more than that.”

“But you can change.”

He shook his head slowly. “I am sorry, Brenna.”

“So am I,” she murmured and added to herself, “for you give me no hope, Garrick.”

Pain and regret brought tears to her eyes and she turned away from him to hide her misery and spill her tears silently.

T
he stars of early morning were sprinkled across the black sky. A lone woman hurried furtively down the fjord where two small canoes were tied to a wooden landing. The fjord was calm, cast in murky shadows, and the woman shivered and pulled her cloak tighter about her.

She quickly untied one of the small fishing crafts and jumped inside. In a second it floated slowly away from the landing. She grasped the oars and they sliced through the water. Time to change her mind was swiftly fleeing.

The plan that had come to her the night before was daring enough, but dangerous. Her destination was the opposite bank of the fjord and the Borgsen settlement. Because she lived on the north side of the fjord, they would consider her their enemy. She hoped that a fat purse would make them forget that. She knew no one here who would do what she wanted—but a Borgsen would. At least that was what she was counting on.

The current hurried her along and she reached the opposite bank. Only once before had she ever set foot on this side of the fjord. That was long ago, when the two great clans were joined in friendship. She had come to a marriage feast held at Latham Borgsen’s house, when his daughter was wed to a distant cousin. It was a grand celebration lasting nearly a month, and all were invited for miles around. She wondered now if she could remember the way to Latham’s house. So many years had passed.

She started to walk inland. Her cloak was wrapped tightly against the cold. A bulky fur hood concealed her features, as she had intended. She did not want her identity known on the off chance her hastily concocted scheme failed. It was such a simple plan, she thought. How could it fail?

According to the woman’s calculations, there was less than half a league left to walk before reaching the Borgsen settlement. She did not have to journey the full distance. In a dense crop of trees she was set upon by two riders who galloped to her in haste. Their mighty mounts pinned her against a tree trunk in her fright.

They laughed at her cowardice. From this and her short stature they knew her to be a woman, though they assumed they were making sport with one of their own.

One of the stout men dismounted. The younger of the two, he was wrapped in fur pelts; these made him look twice his normal size, which was immense to begin with.

“A wench out this early, and alone, must be meeting her lover. You need look no further, for you have found two instead of just one to satisfy you.”

The other Viking still sat on his steed. He was not much older than the first, but just as large and menacing. His expression showed he was impatient with the other man’s remarks.

“Ease off, Cedric,” he said, though it was hardly a command. Then he turned to the woman. “Your name, mistress?”

“Adosinda,” she lied.

“I know of no one with that name,” Cedric remarked. “Do you, Arno?”

“Nay. From where do you come, Mistress Adosinda?”

She hesitated, her heart beating wildly. “From—from across the fjord.”

Both men became deadly serious. “You are of the Haardrad clan?”

“Only distantly, very distantly.”

“If you come from across the fjord, then you must know you are not welcome on this side!” Arno exclaimed.

“This is a plot, Arno,” the younger Viking speculated. “I told you the Haardrads had been quiet for too long. They have sent a woman to sneak into our homes and kill us while we sleep! Who would suspect a woman?”

“’Tis not true, I swear!” she cried. “No one knows I have come here!”

“Do not lie, mistress. I am Cedric Borgsen, third son of Latham. “Twas my oldest brother Edgar that Hugh Haardrad killed. If I sense deceit, you will die instantly!”

“I mean you no harm!” she insisted, fear gripping her. “I came without weapon.”

“Why then do you trespass where you are not wanted?”

“I seek your help.”

“You seek to trick us!” Cedric accused.

“Nay—nay! I know of no man who would help me, for ’tis my intention to slight a Haardrad, and what vassal or kin would do this? Nay, only a Borgsen would carry out my plan.”

“Your words ring false. What Haardrad would seek to harm another?” Arno demanded.

“A woman—one with much to gain by it.”

“Hear her out, Arno. I am most curious now.”

“What I want done is very simple, and I will pay you well for it. There is a slave girl captured only recently—a Celtic beauty with raven hair and eyes the color of smoke. She stands in my way, and I want her gone.”

“Killed?”

“I do not care what you do with her once you have her,” the woman continued. “You can keep her for yourself as long as she does not escape—and she
will
try. You could also sell her far away from here and gain another fat purse. Or, yea, even kill her; I care not.”

“How does stealing a slave girl slight a Haardrad?” Arno demanded.

“’Twas Anselm Haardrad who brought her here and he gave her to his second son, Garrick. In a short time, Garrick has been bewitched by her. He treasures this girl and will be devastated when she runs away.”

“Runs away?”

The woman laughed, an evil cackle. “It must appear that way. You see, Garrick will search for her far and wide, but he will give up eventually. However, if he thought she did not leave freely, that she was taken away by force, he would never rest until he found her.”

“It sounds to me like a trap,” Arno said. “We cross the fjord and find Haardrads waiting there for us.”

“If you know anything of the Haardrads, you know they do not deal in trickery. They fight fairly, Borgsen.”

“’Tis the truth,” Cedric admitted reluctantly. “Hugh came and challenged my brother. ’Twas a fair fight.”

“Mayhaps this is so,” Arno replied skeptically. “But your father should be informed of this plan—he knows the enemy well. ’Twould be foolish to agree to this woman’s scheme without Latham’s advice.”

Young Cedric was affronted. “Do you imply, Arno, that I cannot decide on this matter myself?”

“Nay, only that I think it wise that your father be enlightened. After all, there has been no bloodshed in this feud for years, naught but the slaughter of worthless cattle and scrawny dogs. This woman’s scheme could well bring about vengeance of a different nature.”

“It could also make us richer, with no one the wiser,” Cedric responded greedily.

“And the slave?” Arno persisted. “How will you explain her presence here?”

“My friend, you search for a storm when it has yet to brew. We will keep the slave at your farm until we decide what to do with her. ’Tis that simple.”

The woman stepped closer, glad to see that the greed of these men was overcoming their suspicions. “You need have no fear that bloodshed or vengeance will come of this,” she assured them. “It must be made to appear that the slave has run away. Therefore, you and your clan will not be suspect. And you will have this to gain,” showing them the sack of gold. “You will also have the knowledge that you harmed a Haardrad without him knowing of it. If you give me your word that you will do as I ask, you will have the payment now and see no more of me. Do you agree?”

The man on the ground did not consult his friend again, but answered readily. “First you will tell us how you think this plan of yours can be accomplished, then you will have our word.”

The woman smiled, confident that she would soon have what she wanted.

B
renna woke to boisterous cheers and the sound of horses galloping away from the settlement. Her first observation was that she was alone. Then the sounds that had awakened her made sense in her turbid thoughts. The horse race had already begun.

She quickly donned her velvet gown, careful to shake the straw from it first, grabbed her cloak and left the stable. The crisp morning air helped to bring her fully awake, and she wondered now how she had slept through all the excitement as men readied their horses for the race.

The memory of the night before was like a cancerous sore festering inside her, and the thought of staying for more festivities was abhorrent.

In the crowd that had gathered for the start of the race, Brenna spied her aunt and sauntered slowly to her side. Linnet looked refreshed after a good night’s sleep, and met Brenna with a warm smile.

“I thought you would be here to wish your Viking luck,” Linnet said cheerfully. “He did look for you.”

“If he had wanted any good wishes, then he should have woken me,” Brenna replied in a listless tone.

“What is amiss, Brenna?” Linnet asked. “You do not look well at all.”

“I am merely tired. I did not sleep well in the stable.”

Linnet’s concern was visible in the tightness of her expression. “My quarters are empty. You may sleep there for a while if you like. The men will not return until midday.”

“Nay, Aunt. I will make my way home. I have no wish to see Garrick this day.”

“But the feast…”

“Will continue without me. I will not celebrate when I have naught to be thankful for.”

“What has happened, Brenna? You were so happy when last we spoke.”

“I have been a fool.”

“Because of Garrick? Does he not care for you as I—as we thought?”

“He cares, Aunt, but not enough,” Brenna replied and started to walk back to the stable. “Not nearly enough.”

“Brenna, wait!” Linnet called after her. “He will ask for you. What will I tell him?”

Brenna turned and shrugged. “The truth. I have gone home and will not return. I will see him when he has had enough of revelry.”

It was a short distance from Anselm’s settlement to Garrick’s house on the cliff, but to Brenna it seemed an endless journey. She rode aimlessly for a while, brooding over Garrick’s aloof attitude.

It took several moments after she had reached the stable, before she realized that Erin was nowhere to be seen. That was a stroke of luck. Now she would not have to explain why she was alone. The house was also empty, and as cold as the outside, if not more so. Brenna did not bother to light the fires in the lower half of the house, but went straight to her room. There she sat on her bed, staring dismally at a crack in the floor.

At last anger came to the surface and slowly took hold, searching for an outlet. Brenna was beside herself with this new anger born of hurt. Since Garrick was not there for her to vent it on, she chose the next best thing—his gifts. She yanked off the two gold arm rings and threw them at the wall, but they merely fell and rattled on the floor, coming to rest undamaged. Disappointed, she started a fire, then tossed the rings into it, but the process of melting the gold was too slow and not at all satisfying. Next Brenna tore off her beautiful gown, ripping it again and again till it lay in shreds on the floor.