Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (41 page)

It was quickly discovered not one of the trio was in the room.

If the scene had been chaotic before, it now descended into outright pandemonium as the men, most of whom had too much drink in their bellies, rose as one, and with the innkeeper joining in for good measure, tried to search the room all at once. Nicolaus bawled conflicting instructions and his men shouted back.

Brandr took Lissa’s hand, closed his eyes and waited out the tempest. The room was taking on a tendency to lurch sickeningly every time he opened his eyes.

“Brandr!”

He jerked his eyelids up and tried to focus on the author of the sweet voice in his ear. “Lissa? What is it?”

“Are you worried about them? Perhaps Sindre has only escorted them to the privy, and they will return any moment.”

“What? What is it, you say?”

“The privy, Brandr, did they go to the privy?”

“You need the privy? All right, I will take you.”

He made to help her up but instead, found himself abruptly sitting again, his back to the wall.

Her sigh sounded close to his ear. “Never mind, my love. Bryda and I will find them.”

“Love, já. You love me.” He grinned, and leered at her. “I like that. You
should
love me.” A frown replaced the grin at the look on her face. “Oh. That is not your meaning, is it?”

She smiled and dropped a kiss—too quickly for him to catch and enjoy—on his mouth. “No, it is not, but do not worry. All is well. Lean back, and close your eyes.”

“You do love me though, do you not?”

“Yes, Brandr, I love you. Close those beautiful blue eyes of yours.”

“Beautiful. You think my eyes
beautiful?
That is foolish, woman. Men do not have beautiful eyes. Sharp, perhaps, or fierce or commanding, but not beautiful.”

“As you say. Close them, anyway.”

It was too easy to obey. Hmmm. He really needed to do something about this woman. She was always giving him commands. He started to open his mouth to explain,
again,
that he was the one who gave the orders, but promptly forgot what he meant to say.

“Go to sleep, Brandr.”

His eyes were already closed. His mind followed, with no trouble at all.

∞∞§∞∞

Lissa ran her fingers over Brandr’s braids, pushing back from his face several loose, barley brown strands. Then, still marveling at how tightly they curled, she pulled one straight and watched it bounce back into place. Her lips curved in an indulgent smile. He was not so much sotted as bone-tired. He had drunk far less beer than some of the others. She turned and caught Bryda’s eye. Her friend nodded.

Edging their way around and through the men who were slowly, one by one, sinking into the places where they would sleep out the night, they worked their way to the door.

Bryda got there first. “Did you see them leave?”

“No, but they cannot have gone far, and they would not leave the village without letting Brandr know. Howbeit, they cannot have gone to the privy, for they would be back by now.” Her gaze swept the room one last time and returned to Bryda. “I must confess, I cannot think where they would have gone. It is very late, and it still rains. They would not have gone for a walk.”

“What about the kitchen? Perhaps it grew too raucous out here and Sindre took Siv and Alwin in there.”

“No. I peeked in before I left the table and got a good look. There is no one there but Beornred and Guthild. Guthild sleeps, but Beornred waits for us to settle.”

“Then for some reason, they have gone outside.”

“And that is where we must go. I will not rest well if I do not know they are safe.”

Brandr’s cloak enclosed her shoulders and she pulled up the hood, then reached for the latch, only to feel it turn beneath her hand. She stepped back as the door swung open. A short man in priest’s garb stepped inside. He wore a huge smile. Alwin, sheltered beneath his cloak, a grin also stretched across his face, held his hand. The rain had slackened to a fine drizzle.

The priest shut the door and took a quick inventory of the room. “I see we are too late with our news.” He laughed. “But it will keep for the morrow. I am Father Norbert.” He released Alwin’s hand and strode into the room, going first to the kitchen. “A cup of mead, Beornred! Weddings make a man thirsty.”

He moved to the tables. Thanks to the earlier ridiculous, and unsuccessful, search for Sindre, he easily found a vacant place on a bench and made himself comfortable facing them, his back to the table edge.

Lissa looked at Bryda. “Weddings?”

Mystified, Bryda shrugged.

“Sister?” Alwin tugged at her hand.

She bent her gaze to the child—this
brother
—she had grown to love. “What do you know of this, Alwin?”

His grin, already huge, got bigger. Excitement danced in his bright eyes. “It is the Leóf Sindre and Siv. They got married! Lissa, Siv says I can be her son.”

His voice sounded astonished, thrilled and not quite believing.

None of those words was strong enough to describe the feelings Lissa underwent at his words, and from the look on Bryda’s face, she felt the same. “Married. Sindre and Siv got
married?”

“Aye! They did. The priest did it. I was there. I swear it!”

“He speaks the truth,” Father Norbert said from his place at the table.

Reeling from the news, she turned to find he watched them. The priest accepted the cup of mead from Beornred and drank deeply. He heaved a huge sigh. “Someone told them I was in the village, staying with friends. They came looking for me. I saw no reason not to oblige their request, and indeed, decided it was most needful when they said they would spend this night together, regardless.” His beatific smile increased. “They also paid well.”

Beornred hovered, a hopeful look on his thin face. “A wedding! Then there will be much feasting and celebration?”

“Aye, Beornred, and it will take place here, in your good inn.”

Beornred’s eyes lit up and she could almost see the calculation of coin in their depths. He hurried to the kitchen. “Guthild! Guthild, wake up woman! There has been a wedding. We must prepare.”

Guthild’s answer was low-keyed, but the tones were unmistakably sleepy and fractious.

“Nonsense, woman! We have lost a night’s sleep before. Think of it! Word will spread quickly and the villagers will wish to share in the couple’s joy. Up, woman! We need much more bread and meat for the breaking of the fast.”

Lissa met Bryda’s gaze. “I think Guthild cares more for her sleep than the hope of more coin.”

Bryda humphed. “I cannot blame her. It will mean much extra work.”

Just then, Beornred’s son stalked into the room, his expression that of one seriously put upon. A blanket trailed over his shoulder. “Some folks got no respect for a man’s sleep,” he mumbled. “They roust him out of bed at an hour not fit for the horses to be awake, all so’s they can ‘be private’.”

He looked blearily around, found an empty spot on the floor, and wrapping the blanket around him, curled up in it. From the kitchen came muffled clatters of pots and pans, and muttered maledictions.

“It would seem Sindre and Siv have found a warm, dry place to consummate their marriage,” Bryda said.

Lissa felt herself flush. “Yes. Bryda, this thing between Sindre and Siv grows stranger with each day. Do you not think this wedding…hasty?”

“Aye, but it was their choice.”

“Well.” Lissa looked at the priest, who stared back. The smile on his face had died, but it still lurked in his dark eyes. She flushed again and turned back to her friend. “It would also seem the innkeeper’s son is not needed in the kitchen.”

“Aye. I suspect he cannot cook. He is accustomed to caring for the horses, and it may be he is clumsy in a kitchen, so Guthild prefers him not underfoot.”

She met Bryda’s gaze. “Well, we are awake, and I am certain I will not be sleepy soon. Shall we?”

Bryda grinned and gestured toward the other room, where the cross mutterings were steadily gaining in strength. “After you.”

“Perhaps there is some help I may also offer,” said Father Norbert, rising. “I will consider the morrow’s banquet safer to eat, if we calm Guthild’s ruffled feathers this night.”

With a fond glance at Brandr, who was slumped into the corner fast asleep, Lissa followed Bryda and the good Father into the kitchen.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The uproar that ensued the following morn was extraordinary. Brandr watched it all with a skeptical eye.

The romantic and highly exaggerated story of the ‘rescue’ of Siv by the huge Northman who had, by all accounts, fallen in love with her upon first sight, and their subsequent marriage right there in the village, quickly became a tale recounted far and wide.

The villagers were ecstatic. Naught this exciting had happened in their little hamlet for time out of mind. The inn was inundated with farmers, herdsmen, craftsmen and a traveling party of merchants who sought refuge from the weather. The thegn’s wife—without the thegn, who was away hunting and, she insisted, would be appalled he missed the whole thing—made an appearance.

There was no room for them all in the inn, but somehow, it seemed the whole bunch of them had managed to cram themselves inside. Brandr, stuffed like a sausage between Nicolaus and one of his men, did not know what to think. Lissa, mumbling about helping with the meal, had fled to the kitchen with Bryda and the thegn’s wife and not returned.

It had started when Sindre and Siv had made a brief and early appearance, shaken him, Nicolaus and Hakon awake to give them the news, taken up a basket of food prepared by Guthild, and disappeared into the rain. No one knew where the two were holed up, or if they did, were not admitting it.

Slightly miffed that Lissa and Bryda had heard the news first, he sat nursing a tankard of ale and an aching head. Naught his uncle had done since meeting Siv made any sense. Could it be true the cynical, hard-living Sindre was carried away by…
love,
as he claimed?

“It must have been the beer,” Nicolaus insisted, shouting to make himself heard over the cacophony of wonder-filled voices. “He must surely regret his witless behavior this morn.”

He took a too large swallow of sour milk and choked.

“Why?” Hakon reached across the table to wallop him across the side of his head, ostensibly to help him catch a breath. “He is a grown man. He seemed exceedingly pleased with himself this morn, if you ask me. I sat beside him last eve. I do not remember him drinking much! Oh no, brother, he first pondered all, and knew exactly what he did.” At the last moment, he remembered not to lean back, or he would have ended up in the lap of the man crunched on a stool behind him. “I believe what the others say is true. He married her for love.”

Brandr growled a negative. “That is not possible, Gríss. He only met her five days ago.”

“Ah, but from what you have told us, your love for Lissa blossomed almost as quickly.”

His brows nigh jammed together, so hard was his scowl. “That is different.”

“Hah, it is not! You would allow such a love for yourself but deny it to our uncle?”

“Of course not. It is just that it was so hasty. It…feels unseemly.”

“I agree,” Nicolaus muttered. He downed the rest of his milk, wiped his mouth and belched. “An old man, acting like a young pup. He should have more dignity.”

“Sindre is not old,” Hakon said.

“He is but five years younger than Father, and Father
is
old.”

“Father is a madman. It makes him seem older than he is.”

Brandr grimaced. “The argument is beside the point. It is done. Our uncle has got himself a new wife.”

“Perhaps it can be undone.”

Brandr peered at Nicolaus. “What do you mean?”

“Think, brother! A
priest
married them. Think you Odinn or Thorr care aught for the foolish religion of these Saxons?”

“Nei, the marriage is binding under Saxon religious law,” Hakon retorted. “Guthrum upholds it, as you well know, Snurre, and Sindre and Siv have clearly placed themselves under the authority of the Saxon church by choosing to be married by a priest. Thus, they
are
married, and must remain so.”

Nicolaus pounded his fist on the table and launched into a diatribe on the legalities and complexities of marriage as compared between the two cultures.

Brandr shook his head. The argument was too complicated, and too silly, for his aching head. He wondered where Lissa was, but he could not have moved to go find her if Ragnarók threatened. So tightly was he jammed in place it was difficult to move his arms. Beornred kept them all in food and drink only by standing at the kitchen door and passing tankards and platters back and forth.

The rest of the day crawled by in a haze defined by the pain. Brandr was aware of a certain ebb and flow among the inn’s patrons as villagers crawled over each other to return home to chores, travelers forced their way through the throng for a pint and left again the same way, and those remaining shifted, when they could, to new positions. If the skies had not decided to dump another deluge upon them, he would have left the common room long ago, even if he had to hack his way out with Frækn.

He knew Lissa remained in the inn because twice he glimpsed her at the kitchen door. Her sweet smile faltered a little when he answered it with what he meant to be a grin, but must have looked more like a grimace. Through a flurry of hand signals, she seemed to grasp his problem. She scampered out of sight, only to reappear a few moments later with a wooden cup in her hand.

The mug made its way from hand to hand until it sat in front of him. It had unidentifiable things floating in it. He picked it up and sniffed, shuddered, and put it back down. Glancing at her, he saw her adopt a ferocious scowl, make a show of lifting a non-existent cup to her mouth and drinking, and then gestured to Nicolaus.

His brother saw her. He looked at the mug. Then he looked straight at him. His face took on an unholy grin and he reached for the cup.

Brandr beat him to it, and upended the drink down his throat. He was not in a humor to have to kill Nicolaus, this day.