Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (28 page)

Lissa’s lips moved and he realized she was speaking, something about his uncle’s ankle not being badly turned.

He interrupted her in mid-sentence. “What do you remember of your life before you were taken in the raid?”

She cocked her head at him, curiosity in her eyes. “I have no memories, only knowledge of a few things I was told by my lady when I was older. I have already spoken to you of those.”

“Were you ever told the name of the village where you were born?”

She scrunched her brows together, her mouth open slightly while she thought. He stared at the sweet curves and promptly forgot what he had asked.

Those curves moved. “Perhaps. There is a name, but it is long since I last thought of it.”

Freyja’s tears! She does naught but speak and I am lost. I fear there is no cure for this affliction.

He forced his thoughts back to his question and her answer.

“Arwenstow? Armenstow?” Her face cleared. “Avenstow. That is right.”

Alwin stared at her. “How is it you know of Avenstow?”

She smiled. “I cannot be certain it is the name of the town where I was born. Only that I heard the name, long ago.”

“But Lissa, that is the name of the village where I was born.”

“Well then, it makes sense I might have heard of it. The place we found you was not so far from Yriclea.”

“You told me your mother died in the attack,” Brandr said. “What of your father?”

“I know naught of my father. Only that my mother was killed. Perhaps my father was gone from the village that day, or it might be he also died, and none knew to tell me of it.”

“Charcoal makers are oft away from home for many weeks. If that was your father’s occupation, he would likely have been gone that day.”

“What are you saying, Brandr?”

“That I believe it possible you and Alwin are half brother and sister.”

“That is it!” Turold, sitting cross-legged on the floor while he tightened lyre strings loosened by the damp weather, suddenly leaned forward. “Every time I looked at the two of you something plagued me, but I could not place it.”

“Já, same for me,” Brandr said. “Just now, with their heads close together, I saw it.”

Bryda, silent until now, agreed. “Aye, I see it, as well.”

“This is foolishness!” Lissa shook her head. “It cannot be. How can it be? Even if it were true, what chance is there we should meet in such a way? Such things do not happen.”

“What are you all babbling about?” Sindre sounded like a fractious child. Two golden heads swiveled to face him.

“Do you not see it, Uncle?”

The look on Sindre’s face was comical. His whiskers twitched. “Já, perhaps. They are alike enough.” He sat back. “It makes no difference.”

“This is remarkable,” Turold said. “I am happy for you, fair maid, and for you, Alwin.”

Alwin touched Lissa’s hand. “You think it is true, Lissa? We are kin?”

Brandr thought she looked a little dazed. He spoke for her. “Many young men marry again if their wife dies, Alwin. It is quite common. If your father was also Lissa’s parent, then it is likely he was away from the village, busy with the charcoal on the day of the attack. He would have married your mother some time after the raid. Do you resemble your father in looks?”

“Ma told me so. She said I was his refect…reflectun….”

He frowned mightily.

“Reflection?”

The frown cleared. “Aye! That word. When I asked her what it meant, she said if I looked in still water on a bright day, I would see how my father looked as a young man.”

Lissa’s face softened into a smile. “Perhaps it is true. Would you like to be my brother, Alwin?”

“Aye.” He looked at Brandr. The boy’s countenance nigh glowed and hope lit his eyes to golden flames. “Can we?”

He is very young. His family is gone. He has been alone for too long, and needs someone to call his own.

“If the two of you
are
brother and sister, that is not a thing I can forbid. It simply is.”

Lissa looked as if she might cry and laugh at the same time. “I have need of your aid with Sindre’s ankle, brother.”

A grin stretched Alwin’s face from ear to ear. “What do you wish me to do, sister?”

Sindre snorted. “Now we will never cease to hear their bleating, Músa.” His voice took on a false high note. “‘Sister!’ ‘Brother!’“ He frowned at them both. “Bah!”

Lissa laughed and winked at Alwin, then turned to Brandr. “I need more knitbone.”

He made a gesture with one hand toward the door. “I will escort you.”

Bryda stirred. “Have you need of my help, Lissa?”

“No, not for this.”

“Then I will search around the hut for greens and onions for tonight’s meal.”

“Do not go alone, Bryda,” Brandr said. “Find Oswulf and have him accompany you.”

Turold put aside his instrument. “I will take over the watch.”

“Alwin, start a fire, please,” Lissa said. She stood and followed Bryda outside.

Brandr took hold of her elbow as soon as they were clear of the door. “A moment.”

She looked at him, happiness in her eyes.

“It pleases you the boy might be your kin.”

“Yes. It is good we have each other. Even if we are not truly kin, now we are no longer alone.”

“Nei. You are not alone, lítill blóm. From the moment I first saw you, you never were.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Something shivered in Lissa’s heart. Her breath caught in her throat at Brandr’s declaration. His look was so intent it was difficult to hold. She felt as if she might melt beneath the azure heat. “What are you saying, Brandr? We…that is, Alwin and I, we have had no one since the deaths of our families.”

The deep timbre of his voice caressed her with warm strokes. “You were not alone. I was with you, every moment.”

“I do not understand.” She searched his face. “Are you saying…?” She hesitated. “Are you saying you care for me?”

He did not move and the blue gaze never wavered, but she felt his withdrawal. It was not like before, when he had gone completely away, and that gave her hope.

“I am saying, so long as I live, you will not be alone.”

Instinctively, she retreated, as well. She believed he
was
coming to care for her, as a man, and not a master merely desiring to get a useful slave home in one piece, but to corner him now, when he was not ready, would only push him away. Still, there might be much to be gained by yielding a little more of herself. “Then I am glad, Brandr Óttarrson. I am content to be with you.”

His eyes ignited, became an inferno of azure flame, and his grip on her arm tightened fractionally, but he only nodded. “It is good.”

She returned to the hut to find that while she was out with Brandr, Sindre had tried to walk. His ankle supported his weight, but not without cost. He refused to admit to pain, but the pallor of his face belied his protests. She fussed at him for his premature effort and as soon as it was ready, packed a warm knitbone paste in a thick layer around his ankle and wrapped it with the cloth that had braced Brandr’s healing ribs. The air was heavy with the scent of the herb.

Folding her sash, she used it to prop up his foot. “If you wish to leave with us on the morrow, you will sit still unless you have help to get to your feet.”

He growled like an angry dog, and muttered about insolent thralls who did not know their place. She kept hidden her smile when he admitted by his scowling nod he knew she was right.

The rest of the day passed swiftly. The men moved out among the trees to keep watch, insuring she and Bryda had privacy for bathing.

While the men each took their turns swimming, she washed clothes, a task she shared with Alwin. Bryda prepared a hot, hearty stew.

After the meal, Brandr sat with a long, sturdy, forked branch of oak in his hands, smoothing the length with his knife. He carved a kind of cradle within the fork.

She watched for a time. “You make a walking staff for Sindre.”

She spoke softly, for it was a quiet night and Brandr wanted no possible passersby, unlikely as that was, to hear them and come nosing around.

“Já. We cannot risk staying here another day, and though his injury is not severe, Sindre will need aid to walk.” He stared across the low flame of the fire at his uncle. “Our journey will be one of slow progress for a few days, but one must make allowances for the weak.”

Sindre’s face darkened and he started to rise, but she beat him to it. “Do not dare to move, Sindre Melrakki! And you…!” Hands on hips, she glared at Brandr. “You will not vex him.”

That neither corrected her said much about their focus on each other.

The big víkingr had removed the braided leather headband from around his forehead. With his abrupt movement, his hair fell forward around his face in a silvery white swathe and his beard bounced on his chest.

“Melrakki! Of course.” Turold laughed, staring at Sindre. “It is your hair and beard.”

Sindre grunted, but settled back in his place, eyeing her with a baleful stare.

She looked a question at Turold, who was still grinning. “It is his nickname. It suits him. It means ‘white fox’.”

“Ah! I agree. It does fit him.” She injected a teasing note in her voice. “And not just for his hair. Are not foxes the slyest of all animals?”

“You go too far, thrall. Músa, you should beat your slave.”

She dropped to the hard dirt floor beside Brandr and made herself as comfortable as possible. “At least, Sindre, the name you bear is complimentary. It is certainly better than being called ‘sour face’.”

Sindre snickered, while Turold looked perplexed. “Sour face? Who is so foolish, fair maid, to name you such?”

Alwin, who as always sat beside the víkingr, looked up from the stew bone he gnawed. “Sour face,” he giggled, and went back to sucking the marrow.

She jerked her head at Brandr, whose face had taken on an odd expression. “He does. Surely, you have heard him?”

Turold thought about it for a moment. “I have only heard him refer to you as lítill blóm.”

A tiny frown pulled at her brows. “I do not understand. Why then do you say you have not heard him use the term?”

Beside her, Brandr seemed to tremble as if with some sort of fit. He had ceased to carve, holding the knife away from the branch. His face was quite blank. “Are you well?” She raised a hand to his forehead. “You are not hot.”

The quaking in his shoulders increased.

“Lissa.” Turold’s voice was filled with laughter. He exchanged glances with Brandr and Sindre.

Abruptly aware they were all laughing at
her
, she drew herself up. “I do not know what you all find so amusing.”

Brandr took a deep breath. His big hand covered hers where it lay upon her thigh. His thumb rubbed gently across the back. “It is but a jest, lítill blóm.”

She jerked her hand away. “You will explain!”

“And you will cease to give me orders, thrall.” But his eyes gleamed with his mirth.

“Your thrall complains, Músa.” Sindre watched her with an equally amused gaze. “She does not believe she deserves to be called by such a name. You should definitely beat her. She would then show more appreciation.”

“What I would appreciate is being told the jest.”

Brandr’s shoulders no longer shook, but the timbre of his voice betrayed him. “Thralls may not complain about the names given to them by their masters.”

Turold took pity on her. “Litíll blóm means ‘little blossom’, Lissa.”

Alwin giggled again and Bryda, half asleep in the corner, chuckled softly.

“You mean…?” She turned to Brandr. “You said…!” She punched his upper arm. “Oh, you are terrible! All this time, I thought you meant it.”

The levity in his eyes gave way to a gentle light. “You cannot blame me, Lissa. It is not my fault you are so easy to tease.”

He tossed the walking stick to Sindre. “This is ready.” Then he slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Are you truly offended, little blossom?”

All her indignation evaporated as dew under the sun of the morn. “No. But you could have told me sooner.”

“Já, I could. But it would not have been so much fun.”

She rolled her eyes and allowed a chuckle. It
was
a good prank. “I suppose I will forgive you.”

He slapped his hand over his heart. “Your kindness is noted, thrall.”

Oswulf came in and Turold left to take his place at the watch. The men began to discuss problems that might be encountered the following day, for on the morrow, they would approach another of Talon’s possible ambush sites.

Resting her head against Brandr’s shoulder, she heard something about three rivers, fords, and a town called Andeferas, then fell asleep listening to the deep, pleasant drone of masculine voices and the slow, steady beat of Brandr’s heart.

∞∞§∞∞

Talon was troubled, despite the brightness of the new day and the promise of a ride along the river with Ricel. Word had come as he broke his fast with Thegn Heorulf that an army had indeed passed by the southernmost ford the day before, traveling west along the river road. One of his scouts reported that after the troops were well out of sight, a single group of five—two men, two women and a boy, all of them Saxon—had come up from the south and crossed the river, moving in the direction of the small village located just beyond. The leader appeared to be a scop. The women and the boy wore men’s cloaks, clearly too large for them.

At first, he thought little of the fact the women were concealed. It was always best when traveling to keep females covered, and it had been raining. Then the scout mentioned one of the women had slipped while crossing, and some of the hidden fighters had caught a glimpse of golden hair beneath the hood of her cloak. His instincts spiked.

The ambush party had allowed the little group to pass unmolested, but in hindsight, he wondered if that was wise. No other groups of any size from the south had passed that way since his men had taken up position to observe the ford, and only larger groups had passed through the other ways that were watched. Where were the Danes? Had they somehow gotten past his spies?