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

by Norris, Màiri

  “Another thing,” Nicolaus said. “By all you hold sacred of the tenets of Thorr, Bjarki, never admit Lissa was a thrall. Explain her cropped hair as an expression of deep grief for the death of her dear friend, the thegn’s wife. That much is truth, and the rest will make it seem Lissa is equal in rank to the Lady Eadgida. I do not say lie, but if your heart is so given to this woman you are willing to risk banishment, and you are committed to keeping her, then protect her with silence. Say naught more of her than must be said.”

  “That is wisdom, Snurre,” Hakon said, his voice quiet. “And you, Sindre, admit to no one the youngling, Alwin, is the son of a charcoal maker. You must impress upon both of them, Lissa and Alwin, and the others as well, never to speak of their past. It is no lie to leave unspoken that which does not need to be told.” He paused. “For what it is worth, Bjarki, I like your Lissa.”

  Nicolaus nodded. “As do I. She might even be woman enough for you.”

  “She is worthy.”

  The words were quiet, and it was all Sindre said, but it was enough. They all knew his support did not come lightly, and they knew its value.

  Brandr lifted his head and met their gazes, one by one. His pride in them was never greater than at that moment. “It is well.”

  “You know what you face, Músa. It will not be easy.” Sindre’s face suddenly split into a huge smile. “By the eight legs of Sleipnir! This will be a battle worthy of remembrance. We should have included the skáld in our talk this night.”

  Hakon rolled to his feet. “Já! Why did we not?” He and Turold had become nigh inseparable since their meeting. “Perhaps I will call him.”

  “Nei,” Brandr said. “There will be time to discuss all before we reach Ljotness.” He yawned. “I will sleep now. The rest of you might be foolish enough to babble away the rest of the night, but I have no wish to endure painful tumbles on the morrow when my feet fall asleep while I walk!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The final leg of their journey took them through heavy forest, but as they approached the coast, the wildwood began to thin and reveal farmlands and pasturage.

  They awakened that morn to a sunrise of violent reds that painted the heavy cloud cover in livid, angry hues.

  “It is beautiful,” Lissa said, watching the rapid changes in the smears of vivid crimson.

  “It will storm by nightfall,” Brandr said, his tone abrupt as he handed her cheese and smoked fish to break her fast. He stared at the heavy clouds that rolled in from the east. “It will be a strong storm. Best if we hasten to reach Ljotness.”

  She stared at his profile. In truth, their trek across country from Colneceaster took them a half-day longer than Nicolaus, who had taken the lead, had expected. They should have arrived at Ljotness the evening before. Yet, none of the four Northmen seemed in a hurry to get started. Brandr in particular seemed reluctant to set forth. Tension coiled within him and he had grown increasingly curt and uncommunicative.

  She had not failed to notice that since leaving the powerful garrison, their pace had gradually diminished until they seemed to be dawdling through the woods as if they were merely out for a stroll.

  When she asked why, his jaw tightened, but he merely glanced sidewise at her.

  Curious.

  They passed through a hamlet along the bank of a narrow river, a friendly enough settlement of little more than a handful of houses ranged around an unusually small longhouse. Nicolaus halted to speak briefly to the inhabitants, all of whom were farmers. They appeared as equally pleased to make them welcome as to see them go.

  She waited until the village was out of sight behind them before she broached the subject of Ljotness again. “Brandr, when we camped last night, you said we would come to your home early on this morn, yet it is now well past noontide and we have not come there. How much farther is it?”

  The look he threw her was apologetic. “In truth, lítill blóm, we should have arrived last evening.”

  “Yes, that is what Nicolaus said, but I have noticed we travel very slowly, not at all like before. Why?”

  From behind them, Hakon, who walked with Turold, made an odd noise, then said, “Go ahead, Bjarki. Explain why we walk as if we go to an execution—our own.”

  Brandr cleared his throat, glanced at her, looked away, and cleared his throat again. “It is because….”

  He trailed off.

  She watched in disbelief as a brief ray of sunlight pierced through a break in the cloud cover to illumine the red that spotted his cheekbones.

  He is embarrassed! But why?

  Her mighty víkingr, blushing!

  Mirth twitched her lips. She put her head down, as if to watch where she put her feet, not wanting him to see her amusement at his expense. The hole in the cloud cover closed again and the light dimmed. They passed into a cool stretch of woodland. She saw that Nicolaus led them along a frequently traveled trail now, not just an animal track. They must be getting close to a village. Ljotness?

  “Well, Bjarki, shall I tell her then?” Hakon’s laugh was derisive. “The reason, sweet Lissa, we have slowed to a crawl is because the four of us, Danski men, who proclaim ourselves fearless warriors, are afraid to brave the wrath of our father.”

  Turold chuckled. “Only a very brave man admits his fear.”

  Brandr threw a glare over his shoulder at Hakon, but when he caught her gaze again, his blush deepened. “Not afraid! But Gríss is right, lítill blóm. We, all of us,” and he jerked his chin forward where Nicolaus led, while another backwards look took in Sindre, who brought up the rear, “while not afraid, are loathe to face the…unpleasantness that will arise when we come there.”

  “Is he really so terrible? Does he care naught for his sons?”

  “Óttarr Grimarson was born to a poor household. He only seeks to insure the legacy he leaves to his sons is better than what he was given.”

  Hakon made a rude noise. “Our father is a skálaglamm who cares for coin, for wealth, naught else!”

  “Gríss, you should not speak of our father with disrespect.”

  “He has earned our contempt, Bjarki, and well you know it. No one cares for him, and no one respects him, though all fear him. He has not sense enough to understand the difference.”

  “I do not understand, Brandr,” Lissa said. “If he rules unwisely, why has he such power?”

  “He is jarl. Our godi should control him, but he is very old, and lives in Weala Tun, nigh three leagues north of Ljotness. The distance is too far for him to travel. He is unable to hold Father’s judgments in check, as should be done, and Father does as he pleases.” He shrugged. “Most of the time, he remembers to rule with some degree of justice. We are a lawful people, Lissa. It takes much to goad us to rise and remove such a one from his place.”

  “Sometimes too much, I think,” Hakon said, sounding a lot like Nicolaus. “We are not thrall! We should act as freemen, yet we deal with Father as if we have no rights. Even we, his sons, have little influence with him, though if we stand together he will sometimes back down. I believe the people of Ljotness put up with him because he is a shrewd and cunning trader. We have grown wealthy from his merchant ventures.”

  Nicolaus’ shout floated back to them. “We have come!”

  He had hurried some distance ahead and awaited them atop a very long rise. Lissa’s heart made a sudden leap into her throat, and then sped up. Her mouth went dry. The strain evident in the men was understandable. She was nervous, too.

  She slipped her hand into Brandr’s. He squeezed it, and smiled into her eyes, as if to reassure. Moments later, they stood at the edge of the wood, looking to their left past farmhouses, barns, and other outbuildings, and across fields of barley and rye, and pastures where livestock grazed, to the town of Ljotness. A strong breeze surged against them, as if it sought to push them back into the trees. It carried the odors of animals and humanity, and salt tang and fish.

  At first sight of it, she was taken aback. It was not very large
, nor did it look prosperous. She did not know what she had expected, but surely, a wealthy town should appear a little less…ordinary. And bigger.

  Set well back from grass and scrub strewn cliffs of reddish earth that swept in long, gradually sloping incline to a narrow beach, it was protected by a high, semi-circular palisade over which she could see little but rooftops. Beyond stretched the sea, a vast water, the surface dark and sullen, and whipped into little caps of white by the wind. Seabirds flocked, their cries stark. Many winged inland, while others had come to rest in the pastures and fields. No one was nigh, but within the open gate, she saw hurrying figures.

  Brandr was right. A storm was building out at sea, and it came their way. She could feel it in the air.

  Much of the harbor was visible from where they stood. A single dock stretched into the water, but only small boats were tied there. Many other ships, some with the dreadful dragon prows of legend, were pushed up onto the beach. Larger ships floated just offshore. The harbor was hub of activity, the boat crews using ropes and logs to haul the grounded ships higher up on shore.

  Excited shouts rose from the wall as they approached, and though she did not understand the words, the names of Brandr and Sindre were clear. They had been recognized.

  Brandr suddenly bent to her. “Lissa, listen to me! It is very important you remember all I told you yestre day. Do not be afraid, but more importantly, do not show fear. Few of my people can speak or understand your language, and that will aid you, but you will meet a few who will. Say naught, Lissa—naught—but what I told you! I will not leave you alone if it can be helped. Now lift your chin, put on a haughty expression, and show no fear! Give me your smile!”

  Somehow, she managed it, though it wobbled a trifle. She glanced down at the lovely clothes she wore, the smokkr the blue of the sea in the sunlight, with copper tortoise clasps, over a soft, cream serk. They had all bathed in a stream that morn, and dressed in the new finery. She took courage in knowing she looked as good as was possible.

  “Já, it is good. You will be fine. You are strong, and I am proud of you. You are also very beautiful, so remember, you are mine!”

  Those were his last words to her for some time, for despite his intent to keep her close, as soon as they came through the gate, he and Sindre were immediately swept away by enthusiastic villagers who called their names and pounded them on the back. Nicolaus and Hakon went with them.

  They are well liked and respected among their people. That is good to know.

  Siv stepped forward. “Stay close to me, Lissa.” She smiled at them all. “It it best if we who are strangers stay together. Turold and I will do the talking.”

  The scop, clearly fascinated by all he saw, stood directly behind her, holding Alwin’s hand. He grinned. “Do not be afraid. These people are farmers, fishermen and traders. They wonder about us, but I sense no hostility. We have arrived with the sons and brother of their jarl, and it clear we are not prisoners. They will not harm us.”

  Lissa took comfort from his confidence as they followed the brothers, greeted by all who saw them, down the straight central lane that divided the village in half. From up ahead, Brandr shook free long enough to turn. His azure eyes took in all of them, then pierced her with a hard look. He waved and offered what was meant to be an encouraging smile.

  In an effort to fight the fluttering in her stomach, she looked around at the town as they followed in the wake of the men. Behind the palisade, Ljotness was bigger than it had looked from outside the walls, boasting many houses, whitewashed or painted in bright colors, and laid out in an orderly fashion. Trees grew along the central lane, and little gardens and pens for small livestock could be viewed between the houses. People were everywhere, some busy with tasks, others hurrying from one place to another. They eyed her group with bold curiosity, but did not accost them.

  As they drew nigh the far palisade, a building larger than the others loomed. It had once been a large Saxon mead hall.

  “There is a curious mix here of Saxon and Danski construction,” Turold remarked.

  She nodded. “Brandr said this was a Saxon village until his father attacked it two summers ago and wrested it from the Saxon thegn who ruled here.”

  “Ah, I thought as much. Look, the Northmen have rebuilt many of the houses. In some cases, they have connected two, or even three smaller buildings to create the longhouse style they prefer. They have constructed strong, timber-framed structures that will withstand the sea storms.” Admiration was in his tone. “This is a good place, a place to raise a family.”

  She was beginning to think so, too.

  “Bjarki!”

  Recognizing the shouted name, Lissa turned to watch as a young man of perhaps seven and ten summers barreled through the gate to fling himself at Brandr. With shoulder length, flaxen hair held in place by a forehead band, and almost as tall as Brandr, he looked very like him, except he wore no facial hair and had yet to gain Brandr’s muscled bulk. Surely, this was Rathulf, the youngest brother, whom Brandr called Thegjandi, the quiet one. He was not quiet now, but wrestled with Brandr, yelling and laughing all the while.

  Behind him limped another tall, arresting figure, powerful and very much a warrior. His head was shaved except for a short patch that covered his pate, and he had a pointed beard similar in hue to Lissa’s own golden tresses. He wore a mark of black on his scalp, one above his left ear, and another on his neck. His limp, and the fact that he and the other, younger man carried the strong, clearly defined features of the family, identified him as Karl, the eldest. He could not be much older than Brandr, but he wore his maturity well. Brandr had said he was called Vard, the guardian, because Karl was eldest and from childhood, believed it his duty to watch over the rest of them.

  Brandr reached beneath his tunic and took off one of the two pendants he had worn through their journey. He dropped it over his brother’s head and said something. Both men started to laugh and gave each other a single, mighty hug.

  She had almost caught up with them. By unspoken consent, the small group with her stopped a little distance away, so as not to interfere with the reunion of the five sons and brother of Óttarr Grimarson.

  “They are a striking bunch, are they not? Powerful warriors, all.” Turold’s expression held speculation. “I must admit, I would not wish to face them in battle, but to have them at my back would inspire great confidence.”

  “Indeed, they are magnificent, and handsome too, every one of them.” Siv’s eyes glowed. “Especially my Sindre!”

  “They are very big.” Alwin moved closer to Turold.

  “But you are part of the family, now, Alwin.” Oswulf’s reminder was gentle. “You have naught to fear from them.”

  “Aye, that is true.” Turold held Alwin’s gaze. “Northmen treasure their families just as Saxons do. They will welcome you.”

  Lissa nodded as Alwin turned his gaze to her. “It is true. Did Sindre not say before witnesses you are his son?”

  “Aye, he did. I am supposed to call him ‘fadther’,” he tried to say it with the odd accent of the Northmen, but it did not come out quite right, “but it is strange on my tongue.”

  Before she could answer, a sudden silence fell among those with Brandr. She watched as a figure, almost as large as Sindre, strode through the gate and approached them. His face was scarred and lined, and despite his advanced age, he walked upright and proud. The hair on his head was cut very short, so he seemed almost bald, but his facial hair, as white as that on his head, was so thick it fully obscured the lower half of his face. Above it, his sharp, narrowed eyes were deep, deep blue, the same azure hue as those of Brandr, but they were cold, and carried an emptiness that caught at her breath.

  Brandr stepped forward. He stood tall and seeming at ease, but she recognized his tension in the set of his broad shoulders. “Father!”

  The villagers still close to the brothers parted and drew aside. Nicolaus, Hakon and Rathulf ranged themselves behind Brandr, while Sindre
and Karl stationed themselves on either side.

  They align themselves with Brandr! Oh, I am glad.

  “Nicolaus! Happy am I that you have returned sooner than expected, my son. I see you bring with you the lost ones.” He nodded to Sindre. “It is good you have survived, my brother, though of course, I am not surprised.”

  For long moments, Óttarr Grimarson made much of Sindre and Nicolaus, but Lissa felt her heart catch when he completely ignored Hakon. She could not see the faces of his sons, but all five of them stiffened when he turned his gaze to Brandr, upon whom he cast a contemptuous eye.

  “So. The rumors that you feast in the halls of Valhóll are untrue.” He uttered a word that had all the brothers except Brandr bristling.

  Sindre growled, a low, menacing sound. “Óttarr! You know naught of the truth. Save your contempt until you have heard all.”

  “Bah! I have eyes, and know enough.” He suddenly moved to stand nose to nose with Brandr. “Where is the treasure you promised to bring home to me? I see naught of riches.” He gestured toward Lissa. “Are these ragged Saxons all the thralls you could find to add to my wealth? They do not even look healthy.”

  Brandr did not move, nor did he speak.

  Sindre answered. “Those you see are no slaves, but free men and women. Two are honor-bound to serve Brandr, one is skáld, three are kin.”

  “Kin! What is this you say! Do you take me for a fool, Sindre?”

  “You are a fool, Óttarr,” Sindre roared. “Sometimes, I am ashamed to call you brother.” He turned. “Siv, Alwin, Lissa. Family, come to me!”

  The brothers—all but Brandr, who continued to face forward—turned to peer at them. Karl and Rathulf struggled to hide their shock, but it was clear they were as surprised as their father at Sindre’s claim.