Time passed. The storm came. Wind shook the mill so they almost did not hear the second rattle of the lock. “We have to hurry,” Turold said as he opened the door. “They have not gone far. Quickly!”
Brandr helped her settle the húdfat on her back, then turned her to face him. His hands felt their way up to frame her face. He touched his lips to hers. “I am sorry, litíll blóm. I would bear this load for you were it not necessary I remain unencumbered.”
She forced a smile into her voice. “I know.” She covered his hands with her own, wishing she could see the look in his beautiful eyes. “Worry not. I am strong. I will do what I must, as will you.”
Her hand once again secure in his grip, she stepped through the door and was encompassed by the torrent. Turold reset the lock. Brandr led them in a stumbling procession upriver. Though the night was not so black as it had been inside the mill, and she did not feel so blind, the rain was heavy enough he ordered them all to clasp hands at the riverbank and form a line to cross.
“Should one of us lose our footing,” he said in explanation, “and go down in the water, we could too easily become separated.”
Shivering as would a newborn kitten without its mother’s warmth, and grateful for Brandr’s unbreakable hold on her wrist, Lissa clambered up the far bank. His cloak, still about her shoulders, was sodden, offering little protection except from the wind. Between the steady fall of rain and the uneasy fording, she felt wet clear to the marrow.
As they set off into the night, she could not remember being so utterly wretched, but the discomfort of her body was naught compared to the misery of her heart. Brandr, the man she loved, could have died this day, because of her. Sindre also, and Oswulf. It came as a surprise that should the big víkingr be lost, she would truly grieve. When first they met, she had been so afraid of him, but no longer. He felt almost like…family.
But to lose Brandr! So swiftly, so suddenly could life be snuffed out, and that, when least expected. A great quaking, quite apart from the external chill, rent her soul. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and never, ever let go, and with that thought, came a resolution. No longer would she keep her love to herself, or hold it close to keep her heart safe. At first chance, she would speak of it.
She thought of the men who had died, believing they were setting her free. Had they wives, or children who depended on them, family who would miss them? It hurt to think of it. Wat, a lifelong friend, had almost fallen with them. She had seen the bewilderment in his eyes when she refused to come with him. He had not understood.
What of the morrow, and the next day? Would Talon, also a true and loyal friend, be the next to die because of her stubborn pride, her selfish desire to live life as she wished? Why had she been so foolish, so obstinately set on grasping more than what was needful? Had not her lady taught her better, shown her by example that the needs of others were as important as her own? She had deliberately ignored the precepts taught to her throughout her life, and chosen a grasping road. Now, the man she loved and good men, friends, were endangered because of her. She could not bear it. The handful of men with Talon was all that was left of her people. She could not—would not—lead them to their doom.
But how? How could more death be avoided? Fresh tears joined the steady stream of rain flowing down her cheeks, but with a sharp gesture, she dashed them aside. Regret would not help her now. She needed to think, to form a plan. Brandr would never willingly release her to Talon. This she accepted, as she understood the sun would rise come the morn. If she somehow managed to break free of him in the stormy darkness and find her way to the village—to Talon—it would not be enough. He would follow. He would come for her, and he would not stop until Talon was dead, or he was. Neither, would she allow. There had to be another way.
The night dragged on, endless. The tempest did not ease, nor did the storm in her soul. Exhausted, chilled to the core and sick to her heart, she staggered along in Brandr’s wake, over low hills and along the floor of valleys until she was numb. A part of her mind wondered at his endurance, at the sheer strength of his determination. How in the name of the saints did he know where they went? She felt blind, yet he led them through the gloom as if he guided them by daylight, bright and clear. She prayed Turold kept Alwin in hand, that none of the others had become separated.
The wind slowly died, and the rain slackened, but did not cease entirely. They came to the third river, though how Brandr kept from tumbling headlong into it in the darkness, she could not guess. Only then, when all of them were gathered round, were her fears of separation proved groundless. Turold and Sindre had kept them together.
She heard Turold speak quietly to Brandr.
When he finished, Brandr raised his voice. “We will cross here. You are all cold and weary, as am I, but we cannot stop. It is imperative we get far ahead of those who search, before seeking safe shelter.” He paused. His voice was heavy when it came again from the darkness. “Turold remembers a cottage, not far ahead. It used to be the home of a man who was a friend. If it still belongs to that man, it will be a place to get warm, and to rest, but only for those who choose not to continue. Turold, you and Alwin, with Oswulf and Bryda, have no need to suffer hardship or risk illness because of the rest of us. It is not for you our enemies search. I offer you the choice of remaining at the cottage. I will leave silver, enough to sustain you until you find a place of your own. What say you?”
Silence fell among them, but not for long.
“I w-w-will not l-l-leave Master S-s-sindre!” Alwin’s teeth chattered, but his small voice was adamant. It also came from higher than it should.
“You will do as you are told, thrall!” Sindre’s voice came from the same spot as had Alwin’s.
She suddenly realized the big víkingr carried the boy. The first smile in what seemed like an age touched her lips. Sindre must care more for Alwin than she knew, to bear the child’s weight with his injured ankle.
“Nor will I leave you, though I will lead the way to the cottage for any who chooses.” This declaration came from Turold.
Oswulf and Bryda quietly argued. Oswulf uttered an audible sigh. “For the sake of Bryda and the child, leóf, I would stay at the cottage, but she refuses. She says we gave to you our oath, and naught can be allowed to break it, for it is all we have left that is truly our own.” A thread of pride and wry laughter wove through his voice. “She is a strong and robust woman, as she declares. She is also stubborn, and says if Lissa can manage, so can she.”
Heart in her mouth, Lissa spoke. Though it would do no good, she had to try. Her heart would never forgive her if she did not. “Brandr, you and Sindre should go on, but leave me at the cottage. Talon seeks only for me. He cares naught for any of you. If he finds me at the cottage, he will leave the rest of you alone.”
Brandr’s grip tightened painfully. He growled a sharp “nei.”
She raised a hand to his face, her fingers gently stroking the soft new growth of his beard, seeking to gentle his rejection of her demand. “You must leave me! It is no longer safe for any of you to remain with me. I will be fine. Brandr, you know this. Talon loves me. He will not hurt me, and he will care well for me. Oh, I could not bear it if any of you were hurt because of me. I can persuade him to let the rest of you pass. You must let me go!”
“Nei!” He covered her fingers with his hand, holding them still. “Nei. We have had this discussion before, thrall, and I will no more willingly hear it now, than the first time.”
From the darkness, unlooked for, came the rumble of Sindre’s agreement. “You will stay, Lissa Brandr-thrall. You belong with us.”
“That was never in question,” Brandr said. “If all are now in agreement…?”
He did not allow the question to dangle, but plunged into the river, tugging her along.
I have done what I could. Please let it not rebound to grief.
The current was stronger in this river than in the others and it dragged at her clothing, seeking to pull
her under. She no longer had strength to hold up her skirts. Brandr forged ahead, his hold on her arm relentless, else she would have been lost. Mist hung above the water, swirling, caressing her face and arms with ghostlike fingers as scattered raindrops spattered the surface. Would this night never end?
Brandr counted them all again upon reaching the opposite bank. “A little further. Do not falter!”
On they tramped, until her mind was a haze of fatigue. The night around them slowly lightened. The dawn of a gray, rain-clad day was upon them when Brandr halted them along the brow of a hill. Beyond it there rolled a series of rises, all of varying heights, two of which formed, between them, a deep, bowl-like fold. Blanketed in thick wildwood, it offered the only shelter visible.
Turold came to stand beside her. He surveyed the lands all around, a frown creasing his forehead. “Brandr, you have led us true, but we have come a little too far north.”
Brandr’s gaze slid to her face. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then turned a rueful smile on the skáld. “In truth, I am grateful my instincts served me so well. I would not have been surprised had the light of morn proved I led us in circles.”
Turold’s tired face lightened and the corners of his mouth kicked up. “So confident, were you? Had I known, I might have kept a warier eye out for our pursuers!” He sobered. “I know this land. I have spent much time here. As it stands, our course will take us to Readingum. It was my thought you wished to pass closer to Basingum, but to do that, we must turn south.”
Brandr’s voice was husky with weariness. “Já, though for now, it makes little difference. We will stop here.”
For the first time since they left the mill, he let go her arm. She stared at the wooded refuge before them. It was only a little distance away. She glanced around at the others. Sindre still held Alwin, who slept, his small head lolling in the crook of the big víkingr’s neck. Oswulf was all but carrying Bryda. She wondered if she looked as bedraggled and half-dead as the other woman.
The refuge beckoned. Focused on that one spot in a soggy, chill, colorless landscape, she started down the hill toward it. Her feet tangled in the heavy hem of the cloak.
“Lissa!”
She heard him as from a distance.
How strange! The ground heaves.
It rose to slap her in the face.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“I can find no trace of them, leóf. They have slipped our net.”
Seated at the trestle table in the manor hall, Talon stared at his tracker. Wat looked wearier than he had ever seen him. Annoyance shimmered like a cold fire in his belly, curdling what had been a hearty sup. He rose from his seat at Thegn Heorulf’s right hand, but Ricel’s slender fingers caught his arm and gently squeezed in subtle sympathy. Lifting her hand to his lips, he pressed a tender kiss to her fingertips, and pointed to the open window across from them. Soft evening light played upon green fields, wet with nature’s life-giving rain.
“My lady, the glow of your lovely countenance outshines the beauty of the gloaming.”
She blushed and offered a demure smile, but her beautiful eyes let him glimpse the passion in her nature—a passion reserved for him. His body tightened. Wedding this beauty, this desire of his heart, could not come too soon, yet all must be delayed so long as Lissa remained with the Danes.
The short time he had spent with the thegn had been productive. During their nightly conferences before retiring to their pallets, he had spoken much with Ricel’s father. Already a friendship based on mutual respect, and irrespective of his love for Ricel, prospered between them. The thegn was a leader to whom he could gladly vow not only loyalty, as he had proffered Thegn Wolnoth, but high esteem, as man to man. Ricel’s dower was substantial, and included land. While not extensive, that land was situated nigh the river, and fertile. He had only to build upon it, and one day, when his service to Heorulf was finished, another would take his place as first marshal and he would move there with Ricel. He was well set for the future, as much as a man could hope for in these troubled times, and more than he would ever have gained had Yriclea not been attacked. Aye, a man could live a lifetime and never achieve all he now held within his hand.
As if all that were not enough, the thegn had kindly granted permission for him to wed with Ricel before he set off to avenge the death of Thegn Wolnoth. It was an unexpected and much appreciated boon, but it was as far as Heorulf, or he himself, would go. There would be no wedding until Lissa was safely recovered.
He turned back to a patiently waiting Wat. “Reports from the scouts agree with your conclusion. The Northmen and their captives are gone.” For a single heartbeat, his anger at the cursed invaders slipped his control. His teeth gnashed and a deep rumble issued from his throat. He glanced at the wide-eyed beauty beside him and found strength.
His scowl eased. He looked at his tracker. “Do not think I hold you responsible, Wat. No one expected the Northmen to have gained a knife-throwing ceorl as an ally, much less a skilled warrior scop. I cannot imagine what possessed our people to fall in with them.”
Wat shuffled, his stance uneasy. “There is more, Captain. It concerns Lissa.”
“Go on.”
The tracker flicked a wary look at the Thegn Heorulf, whose brows lifted. He gestured toward the sleeping chambers at the far end of the hall. “Ricel, if you will excuse us, my dear?”
“Of course, Father.” She nodded her head and took her leave, the green folds of her gown swirling around her feet.
Talon watched her cross the room, enjoying every sweet, feminine sway of her hips. He could not fathom how rational men could be deterred from her side by the slight limp she could not quite disguise. For her sake, he was angered by their cruelty, but for himself, he rejoiced. Their blind rejection was his greatest attainment. She was perfection. He glanced at the thegn, who watched him watch Ricel.
The eyes of his future father-by-law smiled in tacit acknowledgement of his desire.
“I love my daughter, Talon of Andeferas,” he said. “I have chosen well for her.”
Pride and satisfaction washed through him like a tide, but he kept it from his countenance.
Heorulf gestured to Wat. “Please continue, tracker.”
Wat’s gaze came back to Talon, who gave an infinitesimal nod.
“She refused to come with me.”
Talon stiffened and felt his expression blank. “I do not understand. Exactly what do you mean?”
“Leóf, she would not come. The men we hired did as ordered. They engaged the fighters to allow her to escape. I was there, my hand held out to her, but three arm lengths away. She did not move. She did not speak. I could not get to her. The ceorl protected her. Yet, she could have broken free, had she wished. She only stared at me with fear and horror in her eyes. Then our men went down. I had no choice but to leave without her. She would not come.”
Talon realized he gaped, and closed his mouth. “Are you saying she was somehow prevented from leaving?”
“Nay, leóf, she refused.”
He could not seem to catch his breath. Why would Lissa refuse to flee to the safety of his arms? She could not know he had found another, and would still believe he waited for her, and meant to marry her.
Why did she refuse to come to me? She knows I would never abandon her to make her way alone.
“Captain, perhaps she….”
He raised a hand. “She is afraid, of course. That is why she did not act. As we know well, she is a gentle maid, and unaccustomed to violence. She has but recently lost all she ever knew or loved. The savagery she has seen has unnerved her, or perhaps, temporarily unhinged her mind.”
The thegn cleared his throat. “There is another possible explanation. I have no wish to be crude, but she has seen many days in the Northmen’s hands. They are not known for their temperance where lovely, young females are concerned.”
Talon hid a wince as a bitter savor filled his mouth. “You believe she is ashamed, and no longer
believes herself worthy of rescue.” He considered the matter. This was a contingency he had not anticipated. “Aye, it is true a woman of her virtuous dictates would be inclined to think such a thing. She might wish to escape, but fear rejection, or worse, persecution upon her return.”
That is certainly the cause for her behavior. Never would she choose to reject my protection or care, never willingly stay with barbarians, unless she felt she had no other choice.
The thought warmed and settled him. She might no longer be his Lissa, but she was a good woman. Whatever evil had befallen her, she did not deserve to be left in the hands of barbarians.
“What will you do?” Heorulf peered at him. “How will you find them when none knows where they have gone?”
“Since leaving Yriclea, they have followed the course I anticipated. I do not believe they will alter it now. They go to Basingum, or at the least, they will pass it close by. Howbeit, they must be in great need of supplies. I think they must risk going into town. On foot, they cannot traverse the distance in aught less than a day and a half, and more likely, two days.” He smiled. “It will be market day in Basingum then. They will think to hide in the crowds as they make their purchases. But while they must walk the distance, we will take to the river. We can be in place, waiting, well before they arrive.” He looked at Wat. “Make ready, my friend. We leave first thing in the morn, as soon as preparations can be made. Should we, perchance, miss them in town, we will make new plans at that time.”
“As you say, leóf.” Wat bowed and made his way from the hall.
Heorulf stood. “I am for bed, but first, I would make a request.”
“Of course. Anything, my lord.”
“It is long since Ricel has been out of Andeferas. She would enjoy the trip to Basingum, as would I.”
“I believe it will be safe, and I welcome the company.”
Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) Page 24
