She stared at him, and then her face softened. For the first time, hope shone in her tired eyes. She turned her gaze to Sindre. “There was never aught here for me. Trygve was not a good man, and his kin are no better.” Her gaze flickered to the house. “There is naught I would take with me, even if what little there was had not been claimed by Olaf. Já, I will come.”
Sindre stepped out from behind him. Brandr’s brows rose again at the look on his uncle’s face. He would swear he wore a look of joy, and there was an undeniable tenderness in the way he placed a hand on the small of Siv’s back and began to guide her toward the river.
“Alwin, come!” Sindre winked at the boy and gave him a man-to-man look from the corners of his eyes.
Alwin’s eyes, already big, widened further, before he grinned and hopped over to take Siv’s hand. “Hello, Siv. I am Alwin.”
Siv, looking as if lost for words, nodded. Together, the three trudged toward the river, Sindre’s head bent solicitously close to Siv.
Brandr stared after them, then turned to the others, wondering if his face reflected the same incredulity in their expressions.
Lissa came to take his hand.
“That was strange.” She looked at him, bafflement in her golden eyes. “But then, I suppose together we do make a rather uncommon group. I cannot wait to hear the verse Turold composes out of our adventures.” She laughed. “Come, my love, shall we join them?”
The trio was already halfway to the water. He grabbed her hand, and catching the eye of Turold and then Oswulf, he gestured for them to lead the way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Siv aided them in avoiding Birbekkr, though for a time they followed a brook she said flowed from the settlement. Lined with birches, it babbled its gently winding way beside them until a sharp bend carried it out of sight to the north. They made camp there for the night.
Lissa could not help but smile at the change in Brandr. The simple act of crossing the River Ligean into the land of Guthrum, his king, had invigorated him, and Sindre, too. The light in their eyes grew brighter with every step they took eastward, toward home.
A sudden chill at what awaited them at the house of his parents made her shiver, but she refused to let it dishearten her. Secure in Brandr’s love, she chose to trust he would find a way to settle any dispute.
Also obvious to any with eyes was that Sindre was smitten with the widow. While Siv seemed wary of his gruff attentions, which Lissa thought understandable, neither did she rebuff him. It lightened her heart to watch as the big víkingr’s eyes lost the regret they had for so long carried when he beheld her.
They met few people, but no longer did Brandr rush to hide them when they did. Nor did he lead them on forgotten byways and little-used paths. They walked with bold strides on well-traveled public trails, through hamlets and past farmsteads, and replenished supplies at settlements. One night, at the home of a friendly pig farmer, Brandr paid for all of them to have hot baths. He and Sindre openly spoke their own tongue with Turold and Siv, some of which, after Brandr’s patient instruction, she was beginning to understand.
But if she had thought to meet with looks askance at her and her fellow Saxons, she was mistaken. They met few Northmen, who paid them little heed, but many Saxons.
“Brandr, this land belongs to your king, but I have noticed most of the people we encounter are Saxon.”
“That is because most of my people choose to live further east. There is a large garrison of Guthrum’s troops in Colneceaster, and many of us live around that area, but most live nigh the sea coast or in the north of the kingdom.”
“Those of your people we meet seem to see naught strange in the appearance of Saxons with you. Is it because they believe us slaves?”
“Nei. Many Saxons live in the kingdom, both free and thrall.”
“It is strange to me it should be so. I know of few Northmen in Alfred’s lands.”
“Ah, but then your people have been here almost since beyond memory. We have new come, and while we take what we need, it is a wide land, and we are not opposed to sharing. For the most part, your people and mine have learned to get along here, but it is not so in Alfred’s kingdom. There, we were only recently a conquering army, but now the lands have been divided, and many do not forget. In time, we will all share the whole land, but not this day.”
Four days later, they were still in the midst of a great forest into which they had plunged shortly after crossing the River Ligean, but where the wood on the other side of the river had seemed a place of dark magic, happily left behind, this one held exquisite beauty.
Lissa was enraptured. There was enchantment here, too, but it was of the light. They hopped on convenient stones across babbling brooks where emerald ferns thrived, passed a broken tree trunk upon which a large beetle with jaws like the antlers of a stag sunned itself, and skirted a sunny pond where they took their noontide rest. The forest fair teemed with life, and they caught glimpses of deer and hare, and many birds. All the while, she marveled at the soft shafts of golden light that never failed to illumine their path.
As they entered a tree-clad valley, they came to a crossroads. When Brandr turned them from the narrow, easterly path they followed to a more northerly, and heavily traveled road, she slipped her hand in the crook of his arm. He turned a warm azure gaze upon her that set her heart to singing and her blood to throbbing.
They had not been long on this wider thoroughfare when the ground began to quiver. Before she could think to ask the cause, Brandr threw up a fist to halt them. Turold and Sindre raced to stand on either side.
They waited, gathered in an expansive glade at the top of a rise. The road wound down its long slope to pass between two ancient and giant oaks.
Bryda, who crowded behind Lissa, called to him. “Leóf, what is it?”
He threw a glance over his shoulder. “Listen for it!”
Soon, the quaking beneath their feet was accompanied by the thunderous thud of horse’s hooves, many in number, driving rapidly toward them, the pounding only slightly muffled by the blanket of last season’s fallen leaves.
Brandr turned and began to gesture with broad sweeps of his hands, herding them before him. “Back! Off the road! Into the trees! Go!”
Heart in her mouth, Lissa went, her grip tight on Alwin’s arm, for Sindre, Frithr in hand, was pushing Siv ahead of him, while Turold and Brandr armed themselves with shield and sword. Oswulf took his bow in hand, Bryda hurrying with him.
There was no time to hide. The forest was too open, the bright, golden sunlight too revealing. The best they could do was get out of the way before the horsemen came into view.
Lissa gasped at sight of them. They numbered more than half a score, and one glance at shields and armor revealed they were warriors. Northmen warriors. Big. Fearsome. Menacing.
Saint’s bones, are all Nordmanna giants?
Sindre was immediately by Brandr’s side. “Drengr?”
“Já, since they ride, that is my guess.”
She sidled close, and tried to keep the dread from her voice. “Brandr, what are ‘drengr’?”
He glanced at her, then transferred Frækn to his shield hand just long enough to slip his arm around her waist and hug her. He dropped a kiss on her temple. “A warband. This one, since they are horsed, is most likely on a mission for the king.” He glanced around. “The trees offer some cover, but they will see us. Still, it is best if we stay out of their way. We do not know their purpose, but it is my hope they will spare no time to trouble themselves with simple travelers.”
“Agreed,” Turold said, his tone heartfelt. “I am not certain we make an adequate force to fight them off.”
Sindre laughed and shook his head, his now shaggy white locks gleaming in a beam of sunlight. He stuffed his beard inside the neck of his tunic. “What then, skáld? After all this time, you doubt our prowess? Why, they are but puny king’s men. It is too long since we had a good fight.”
He brandished Frithr
and roared a challenge.
Brandr threw him an exasperated glance, but the oncoming troop had already seen them. Without a word or gesture from their leader that Lissa could see, they came to an instant halt between the twin oaks at the base of the rise. The leader of the band urged his mount forward, but stopped a short distance past.
She wondered at his motive, for he made no further move. He seemed to be waiting. Another warrior lightly heeled his horse’s flanks and came up beside him. The two conferred. The leader pulled off his helm. Sunlight flashed from the tiny clasps in the plaits that held back his hair, three braids each side, like Brandr wore, only these were the color of sun-burnished bronze, streaked with gold. His face was that of a young man, but hard and solemn, and he bore a green mark on his right temple and a black one above his left eye. His beard was full, but close-trimmed.
She jumped as Brandr’s sudden roar shook the trees.
“Ho! Snurre!” He tore off down the slope as one possessed by a gást, racing toward the two fighters with Frækn raised.
Stunned, she stared after him, then whirled to grab Sindre’s arm. “Sindre! Go after him. Help him!”
In a desperate effort, she tried to push him after the foolish man she loved, but the big víkingr was unmovable. He was also grinning from ear to ear as if he, too, had taken leave of his senses.
Her gaze sought out Brandr.
He is going to die!
The leader of the troops had dismounted and taken up fighting stance, awaiting Brandr’s approach. Only then, as the two men closed, did she realize he looked a great deal like Brandr, and Sindre, too—enough to be close kin. They were matched in height, but Brandr was heavier.
But if they were kin, why did Brandr attack? She glanced about. The others appeared as confused as she. Only Turold’s expression held a speculative look. Then there was no more time to wonder.
The leader screamed something she did not understand and leapt to meet Brandr with a fierce clash of swords.
They fight like madmen! At least the other warriors do not interfere. But what if he kills the leader? Oh, they will kill him!
“Sindre!”
He paid her no mind. His arm was still in her grip. She tried to shake it to gain his attention, but she could no more move it than his big body. “Sindre, please, do they fight a blood feud between kinsmen?”
Sindre, relaxed as if he beheld a mock battle between children, gave a brief shake of his head and never took his eyes from the raging battle. “Nei. Watch.”
With a suddenness that took away her breath, the battle below ceased. The two combatants stood staring at each other. Then both dropped their swords, started to laugh and grabbed each other. They pounded each other on the back. The second warrior, the one who had spoken with the leader, threw off his helm and leapt to the ground to walk, grinning, to where Brandr was now talking in high excitement with the leader. That he was also kin to Brandr was clear to see in his barley-hued, wavy locks, but unlike the other two, he was clean-shaven. He was immediately enveloped in a powerful hug. The back pounding continued.
“Behold,” Sindre said. “A meeting of brothers.”
Anger, rich and freeing, flowed through and over her like a flood. “That half-witted, high-handed, thoughtless, …músa! Since they failed to kill him, I will!”
She sensed Sindre’s astonishment at her words, but she did not stop to explain. Release from terror gave wings to her feet as she sped down the slope toward the man whose crazed action had nigh stopped her heart. Screaming every Saxon curse she had ever heard the men of Yriclea utter, she leapt upon Brandr as he turned, dimly aware of the astonishment on the faces of the other two. He staggered, caught himself and her, and promptly began to defend himself from the blows she rained upon him. Tears dripped down her cheeks, but she did not care.
Then, in the blink of an eye, her blows turned to kisses. She covered his beloved face with them, his name falling again and again from her lips.
He laughed as he caught her hands between their bodies. He pulled her close, wrapped one arm around her waist and with the other hand, held fast her face. The kiss he lavished was like no other, filled with battle lust, heat, and power. She thought he might devour her, but sought only to draw more of him, his inner self into her very soul. She demanded. He gave, and then gave more.
“Brandr!”
The word, bellowed loudly enough to split the nearby tree trunks, came from the leader.
Brandr did not release her, not for a long, long moment. Slowly, oh so leisurely, his hard mouth released the possession of its hold.
His breath was a lot shorter than when he had finished the fight.
So, it seemed, was hers. She panted like terrified hare. She opened her eyes and found his intense blue gaze, slitted in a heavy, sensual heat, taking in every sentiment that must be showing on her face.
She felt exposed, but it did not matter. He was hers, and she was his. All was as it should be.
He grinned, a predatory, proprietorial token of masculine triumph. The azure fire scorched her face. He swung her around to face the two men who looked so like him. “Nicolaus. Hakon. Meet Lissa of Yriclea, the woman who will be my wife!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It was nigh Mithnætti, that same night. The feasting and celebrations for the ‘lost ones’, now found, were over. Except for his brothers and the guards, the members of their party were ranged around them, fast asleep.
A silver-decorated horn of bjórr in his hand, Brandr stared into the flames of the fire, his glower increasing with every word Nicolaus spoke.
“This is foolishness, Bjarki! I do not say Lissa is not a beautiful and desirable woman, but even I cannot understand why you wish to take her to wife. Father will likely become as berserkr when he hears.” He shook his head. “We believed you and Sindre feasting in the halls of Odinn. With this news, Father will think it better if you were.”
He did not answer, for Nicolaus said naught he had not expected to hear. He had just finished recounting the tale of all that had happened since the botched raid on Yriclea thirty days past. He glanced at Lissa’s recumbent form beneath his hand. Her breathing was slow and even, the firelight glinting off the rich gold of her hair. He was thankful she slept, for though she could not yet understand their words, she was clever and might well discern his brothers’ dismay, and guess its source.
Meeting Nicolaus and Hakon on patrol for King Guthrum was a stroke of luck, though Nicolaus admitted he had lingered in the western part of the land, searching for sign of him or Sindre. They brought the very welcome news that the nasty wound in Karl’s thigh healed well. The Saxon’s axe had cleaved muscle, but had broken no bones and severed none of the mysterious inner pathways that allowed free movement of the limb to continue. Already, his brother trained to bring the leg back to fighting trim.
He swallowed a sigh, dragging his thoughts back to the objections they voiced. He had known how his brothers would react to his declaration, but the degree of their resistence was unexpected, and he wondered what lay behind it.
Hakon, lazing cross-legged across the fire from him, agreed with Nicolaus. “Father grows worse, brother. He may kill you, this time. His madness is why I am here, though ‘it is bad luck to give too much favor to the feelings of one’s fellow man’.”
He felt the lines of his face tighten. Hakon, among all his brothers, was the one upon whom his father’s wrath fell most oft, for Hakon was a man with a scholarly bent. He frequented quoted the wise men among their people and was devoted to becoming a skáld. He and Turold had become instant friends, instinctively recognizing within each other a similar temperament, and a shared love of all things skáldic.
Hakon was a powerful warrior, and could hold his own even with Sindre, but their father had little use for him. Skálds were revered, but in the eyes of Óttarr Grimarson, they were weaklings, and unfit to be numbered among his sons.
He and Karl had done their best to shield their younger siblings, to sup
port them, especially as children, but Hakon seemed to need it least. It was as if the more their irascible father harangued him, the stronger and more determined he grew…and the wiser. If Hakon had finally fled his wrath, the old man had indeed become dangerous.
“It is impossible, Bjarki,” Hakon continued, but with no heat in his voice. “It would be best if you declare her a free woman and take her as concubine. Acknowledge her children. It is a position of honor, despite the law.” He paused. “You know Father and Mother have great plans for you.”
His temper flashed. “And how oft have I told you, Gríss, I do not share in those plans!”
Nicolaus humphed. “He will dispossess you, and Mother may forget she is Danski and turn upon you as if she were the shieldmaiden she still wishes to be.”
“Já, Snurre. I know it.”
He met Hakon’s look, and saw there a keen and familiar understanding. As always, it eased his heart. “Yet she is mine, and I will have her. The love I bear her runs deep, and holding her is worth any cost. If we must make our way alone, and with naught but the work of our hands, it will be no less than how many others must live.”
“Nei, you will never be so alone,” Nicolaus said. He picked up a knife-sized branch from the ground beside him and threw it into the fire, sending sparks flying. “You know well we will never allow it.”
And that was truth. Even if they did not fathom his decision, his brothers would stand behind him. It was how they had grown up, supporting and protecting each other. There had been other brothers, but none but they had survived, and they walked as one.
“There is more you should know, Bjarki.” Hakon’s ice blue gaze, so like Sindre’s, flickered over to Nicolaus, who tensed and shifted his weight. “Two days after you left Ljotness to sail for Yriclea, Father visited Abi Bergthorson to begin negotiations for the hand of his daughter…for you.”
Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) Page 30
