Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (49 page)

“Not everyone is as enamored of our vale as we are, my love, and for that, we should be grateful. It would quickly grow far too crowded if all knew how wonderful it is.” She reached to catch a fiery yellow leaf that drifted down in front of her. So rich was its color it nigh glowed in her hand. “Nicolaus stayed so long his king may think him gone for good, and of course, Karl and Rathulf are needed in Ljotness.”

Brandr’s eyes slid to meet her gaze. A shadow came and went in the deep azure depths. “I did not speak of this to you before. When word came of Father’s death, I made sacrifice to Thorr in gratitude that Father died in battle, as befits a mighty warrior. He feasts now with the honored dead in Valhóll.”

She tightened the pressure of her fingers, just enough to let him know she understood the feelings burning in his heart. Óttarr Grimarson had fallen while leading the defense of Ljotness against a sea raid by renegade troops of King Alfred, who believed their king should forcibly take back the lands allotted to Guthrum.

“Karl will be a good jarl,” she said. “It is what he was born to do.”

“I know.” A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. “And Hakon will now be well come in Ljotness again.” He shook his head. “At least, he will be if he and Turold survive this foolish quest of theirs. Did I not know the both of them so well, I would find it difficult to believe they would hare off to Saxon Mierce in search of some elusive new tale of a golden dragon said to dwell in the north of the land.”

Laughing aloud, she turned to look out upon the land that was theirs. “I am certain there is no dragon, but if there was, those two would find and slay it, and then compose the most wondrous song to tell of it. Still, I prefer to be here, with you and our people.”

Life had been more wonderful than she could ever have imagined since coming to the valley. Watching the love grow between Sindre and Siv was pure joy. So much about the big víkingr had changed. He was devoted to his wife and Alwin, and Siv’s firm, caring hand settled him, gentled his wildness, and seemed even to ease the blood lust that had once driven him. If the tranquil, mundane pace of their lives bothered him, he did not show it. He worked like a thrall with Brandr, Oswulf and the master breeder he hired to get the farm going, and spent many an evening giving warrior training to Alwin and several boys from the village.

Bryda, the babe within her womb growing and kicking, was busy learning from Tofa how to weave. Already, arrangements were being made in surrounding villages to trade Tofa’s lovely work for some of the many things they still needed. Their little settlement was prospering, though it had not been easy.

“These first months have been hard, but are we not blessed, my husband, as few have ever been?”

Together, they looked out upon their side of the valley. With the willing hands and open hearts of the people of Ailwic, with whom they had become friends, much had been accomplished. The longhouse that served as a great hall for their community was complete, and many houses were under construction. The first of the barns to be built would be finished well before the cold set in. In the pastures grazed the first of Brandr’s new breeding stock, a pair of magnificent stallions and a score of proud, fine mares. Smoke rose from the smithy, and among the houses, smaller outbuildings took shape. Scattered between them were the outlines of gardens and small animal pens. It was a scene of peace.

“Já, it is becoming a home,” Brandr said. “But it will continue to be difficult for some time to come.” He looked down at her. “As I have said before, we build more for our children than for ourselves.”

“It is as it should be.” She took his hand and placed his palm against her belly. “Speaking of children, would you prefer our first child be a son or a daughter?”

His eyes grew wide, and a burst of delighted laughter broke from him. “Lítill blóm, you are certain?”

She could not hide her joy. “As certain as can be. It is three months today since we were wed, but you are lusty as your stallions, my love! Father Erwin could not have known at our wedding how quickly would come true his assurances God would bless us with much fruitfulness.”

Still chuckling, Brandr lifted her fingertips for a kiss. “Lítill blóm, on that morn when we attacked Yriclea, I strongly questioned Thorr’s purpose in leading us there. I asked myself many times, as we journeyed across the land, why the runes had lied about the raid. They promised success, and wealth beyond knowing.” He paused. “Only in recent days have I come to understand the runes were not wrong, and Thorr did not lead in error, for I have gained wealth beyond what I could dream.” He bent to brush a kiss across her lips. “Nor do I speak of material wealth, though that is part of it.” He took her in his arms. “From the moment I knew I could not slay you, I understood I was in trouble, but I could not resist the lure of you any more than water could cease its plummet over a fall. Though I knew it not, I was lost from the first moment I saw your dirty little face and your determination to honor the one you had loved. Where do I end, Lissa, and you begin? It makes no difference, for we are one. With you, I am complete.”

She lightly stroked his barley-hued plaits and touched the blue marks along the side of his face. “I never expected to find love at all. Talon was my only hope of marriage and a family, but we were as wrong for each other as you and I are right. Still, you were the most unlikely of suitors! Ah, but I love you, Brandr Óttarrson, with all of my heart and soul.”

Azure fire blazed in his eyes and she felt her body quicken in anticipation. When he held her so gently, and looked at her with such love, she knew his intent. So familiar was his touch, the feel of him beneath her hands, his great strength, and his matchless honor. All these stirred in her a depth of shimmering, pulsing fire, and of rightness, as if the world made no sense without him. Never had the nearness of another so moved her, so enthralled her.

His head bent to her, and he kissed her with a fervor that first delighted her, then enticed and intoxicated until cascades of riotous pleasure sang through mind and body. He was hers. Her love. Her heart.

∞∞§∞∞

A ray of sunlight shafted through the leaves and touched upon them, illuminating them in radiance as they stood clasped in one another’s arms. Within its bright beam danced thousands of glittering, golden dust motes, bathing them in a fall of yellow fire.

EPILOG

Talon of Andeferas was cold as he rode through the bright autumn hues of the dales and downs, going home to Ricel, but his heart was light and he smiled at the man riding beside him.

Dalmas, his second marshal, tried hard not to let his eyebrows rise, but still they twitched upwards.

Talon’s smile became open mirth, and Dalmas stopped pretending. He grinned at his captain, and behind him, the little group of men who had for so long followed him broke into good-natured chuckles.

“It is a fine day when I find you a happy man, my friend,” Dalmas said, “though the news I brought could not have pleased you.”

“Ah, but that is where you are wrong, Dalmas, is that not so, Wat?”

“Aye, captain, it is so,” the tracker agreed from his other side, his own face split in a contented grin.

Dalmas looked a question.

“All has ended well, has it not? The northern thegn is dead, a victim of his own greed. I find it gratifying, Dalmas, not to say
just
, that he was killed in a fight with yet another tribe who tried to take Yriclea from
him.

“You have also said he ordered the raid because his people outgrew their village and needed more room. He wanted a coastal holding, for the fishing, so he sent his hearth companions to destroy Yriclea in preparation for rebuilding it for his own use.”

“Aye, that is what we learned.”

“And now they are there, in Yriclea, with half their population, rebuilding the village, making it larger and with better fortifications against incursion from both other tribes and the Northmen. Tell me, Dalmas, see you any way to take back the village? Though we are many, and brave, have we here enough men to accomplish the task?”

“Nay, Leóf. It would require a great many more than we have, perhaps even a king’s force.”

“Just so. The man who dishonored Thegn Wolnoth is dead. Those who destroyed Yriclea now occupy it and rebuild it in force. There are none of our people left who wish us to reclaim it. Is there then, any further need for vengeance?”

Dalmas’ grin, which had widened with each statement, now nigh split his face. “It would seem not, Leóf.”

“Then let us turn our faces to our new home, my friend.”

He set his face toward the rising sun, and urged his horse to a canter. Ricel awaited, and he would not disappoint her.

THE END

I invite you to enjoy the following excerpt from
The Broken Heart
, Book Two of Beppie Harrison’s
Hearts
trilogy, set in the beautiful “Green Isle”, Ireland.

Claire, twin sister to Lady Anne [from Book One,
The Divided Heart]
, has longed as passionately for England as Anne clung to her beloved Ireland. Beautiful, charming and docile, Claire is chosen as wife by the heir to a dukedom and settles down with him on the magnificent family estate. But what can she do when tragedy wipes out her expectations, and she must find her own way through the tangle of Irish reality and her English dreams?

Suffolk, England – 1811

She had never been this happy.

Lady Caroline Robinson, Countess of Ross, pressed her heels lightly against her horse’s side. Admittedly Caroline was no fearless rider, but the obliging mare her husband had insisted she ride today would have been more suitable for a child or a delicate old lady. The horse lacked a single competitive bone in her body. This was the third time Caroline had made an attempt to catch up to Henry, riding swiftly ahead. Her husband—how she liked the sound of those words.

How long had they been married? Not yet six months. His blond hair flew loose, just as it looked when she ran her fingers through it in their great bed. That would be at night, of course. This was the morning of a sunny autumn day, the only clouds white puffy ones that floated far away toward the horizon. The tall grasses and dry leaves added some fragrance to the air as the three of them rode across the field, Henry in front as always. Behind him came his brother, Lord Eustace, and a great deal to the rear, Caroline.

Henry was laughing back at her. “Caroline! My love!” he shouted over his shoulder. “You’re such a slow coach!”

“It’s this horse—stupid old Bluebell,” she called to him. “She’s the slowest in the stables, and you know it.”

He was still laughing. “Better safe than sorry. She must have a bit more speed than that, dear heart.” She shook her head at him, blushing a little. Her heart tightened with pleasure. It was so like Henry to share his endearments for her with anyone who happened to be around. He loved her as completely as she loved him and far more openly.

Still well ahead, Henry turned his horse to wait for her. The great bay, Sylvester, was as eager to keep speeding forward as his master was, and clearly unhappy at being held back. Henry laughed, both at the horse and at Caroline. She gradually approached at the much slower pace that Bluebell maintained.

“Come
on
, Caroline,” he called to her, shaking his head, his broad smile still on his face. “A sheep crosses the road faster than you do. Sylvester is losing whatever patience he had.”

“So go on!” Caroline waved her hand. “I’ll catch up.”

He hesitated, but only for a moment and then, Eustace now close behind him, raced off toward the distant end of the meadow, marked by a stone wall. Caroline settled back in her saddle, no longer trying to match his pace. Bluebell was clearly bumping along as fast as she intended to move.

They trundled along, Caroline enjoying the lovely morning and the delightful picture the two men ahead of her made, almost like a portrait of horsemen at play. They were side by side until abruptly Henry veered off to the right, toward the closer wall running down the edge of the field.

“I’ll bet I can take this one!” Henry’s voice floated back to her.

Víking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire

The Stranded One

Copyright 2014 © Màiri Norris

Cover Design © Dar Albert

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This novel is a work of fiction. The names, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are historical references used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to any other actual persons or events, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means without written permission of the author.

AUTHOR’S NOTES

The title of
Viking Sword
is a play on the name of the hero, Brandr. In Old West Norse,
“brandr”
meant “sword” or “sword-blade”. It was a name common in the land now known as Denmark.

Gold—This precious metal was extremely rare in the Viking age, and its value reflects that scarcity. Values were variable during the period, but in general, eight ounces of silver (one ‘mark’) equaled one ounce of gold. Sixteen milk cows could be bought for only four ounces of gold, considered a
very
substantial sum. One and a half ounce gold was the price for one adult male slave (also variable: the more skilled or beautiful the slave, the higher their value).

Godi—The Vikings were an extremely law-abiding people with a well-structured code of behavior for all levels of society. The powerful and revered office of priest-chief upheld and enforced the law (the priest-chief was subject to the law, but to nothing and no one else), and existed throughout the Viking era among all the Scandinavian peoples. The nature of this office covered many aspects of life, including religious, political, civil, judicial, maritime/trade values and foreign relations. The name
‘Godor’
for the office, and the title
‘godi’,
for the priest-chief, were used almost exclusively in Iceland. Though the community of Ljotness is Danish, I have chosen to use this highly descriptive and inclusive Icelandic term to describe their priest-chief.