“Erin told us what happened to you, Brenna,” Maudya started. “’Tis a wonder you are alive.”
Brenna only nodded. She rarely thought of the time she nearly died. It was best forgotten.
“Garrick is a true Viking now.”
“What do you mean, Maudya?” Brenna asked. She found she was eager for information about him, no matter how little.
“He is the kind of man my mother used to scare me with tales of when I was bad. He has grown terribly mean, Brenna, since you left. ’Tis much worse then before, when that other woman left him for another. Now his temper is never below the surface. He scares me so.”
“How is he otherwise?”
“If you mean his health, ’tis fine. Except he drinks more and more, until to everyone’s relief, he sleeps.”
“Surely you exaggerate?”
“Were it only so.”
“Not even a little?”
“Nay, Brenna,” Janie remarked sadly. “He has offended his friends with his temper—even Perrin. Words were spoken that could not be undone. Perrin no longer comes.”
“I am sorry,” Brenna offered.
“And if it is to be believed, Master Garrick turned even meaner after he crossed the fjord,” Maudya added.
“When was this?” Brenna asked excitedly.
“Not long after you came back. He was thoroughly armed when he went, as if he prepared for war. But he was gone less than a day. He would tell no one why he went, or why he was not pleased with what he found.”
What could he have found that would not confirm her story? Or perhaps he learned the truth, and was now furious that he had been wrong—too stubborn to undo the damage he had wrought with his doubt.
“’Tis a wonder he came back that day at all,” Maudya continued. “He could have died, had the Borgsens found him.”
Some of her old curiosity returned to Brenna. “This feud between the two clans. Tell me about it.”
“Don’t you know?” Maudya gasped. “I thought Janie told you.”
“I thought you did,” Janie returned.
“Will one of you explain?” Brenna asked in exasperation.
“There is not much to tell,” Janie replied.
“Then let me,” Maudya cut in, for this fulfilled her love of gossip. “Five winters have passed since it all began. Before then, the chief of the Borgsen clan and Garrick’s father were close friends, blood brothers if truth be told. Latham Borgsen had three sons: the youngest, who had just returned from his first sea voyage, was Cedric, the one you claim to have—”
“Yea, go on,” Brenna interrupted quickly.
“’Twas fall, and time to pay tribute to the gods and good harvest. A huge feast was prepared by Anselm, and both clans joined together to celebrate. The drinking and merrymaking went on for weeks—more mead was downed than ever before.”
“But what could have happened to put an end to this long friendship?” Brenna asked impatiently.
“The death of Anselm’s only daughter, Thyra. She was a pretty maid, from what we have been told, but sickly and terribly shy, except with her own family. She was fifteen summers then, but she never attended celebrations, even after she was permitted to. So ’twas understandable that Latham Borgsen’s sons did not know who she was, having never seen her.”
“What have they to do with her?”
“’Tis not really known exactly how it happened, Brenna. The general agreement is that Thyra had gone out for a walk to get away from the noise of the feast. She was found the next morn behind the storehouse, her face badly beaten, her skirt still bunched up around her waist and her virginal blood covering her thighs. Her own dagger was plunged in her heart with her hand still clutching it.”
Brenna was struck with horror at the plight of one so young. “She killed herself?”
“No one knows for sure, but ’tis the opinion of most that she did, because she could not live with what had been forced on her.”
“Who could have done such a monstrous thing?” Brenna realized the answer from the other things they had told her.
“Latham’s sons: Gervais, Edgar and Cedric—all three of them.”
“How was this learned?”
“They gave themselves away that morn when they found out who Thyra was. All three panicked and fled. ’Twas a terrible time for all—the grief, and then the blood-lust for revenge. Master Garrick cherished his little sister, but so did Hugh. The two brothers fought over who would have the honor of avenging her death. Hugh won. It did not matter that the Borgsen brothers thought they had tumbled an unimportant wench, no doubt assuming she was merely a slave. A crime had been committed against the Haardrad clan, and the offenders would pay.
“Anselm, Garrick and many others crossed the fjord with Hugh. Anselm was heartsick over what happened, and so was his friend Latham. Hugh first challenged Edgar and killed him fairly. When he would have challenged the other two in turn, Anselm put a stop to it, against both Hugh’s and Garrick’s protests. The Haardrads all returned home and waited for the Borgsens to retaliate. But they never did, except for the minor slaughtering of stray animals. Both families had suffered a loss and both chieftains were loath to add to that count.”
“Such a tragic story. Did no one ever wonder why Thyra did not cry out when she was attacked? None of it need have happened.”
“She was such a timid girl, frightened of everything,” Janie answered. “She was no doubt too frightened to scream, or mayhaps they prevented her from doing so.”
“They say she was always a weak child, even from birth,” Maudya added. “’Tis a wonder she was allowed to live when she was born.”
“Allowed? What play on words is this?”
“’Tis the right word, Brenna,” Janie said with disgust. “Had I known of the Viking custom when I carried my son in me, I would have been terrified. But my baby was healthy, thank the dear Lord.”
Brenna had turned a sickly white, “What are you saying? What Viking custom?”
“The ritual of birth,” Maudya said with equal distaste. “A newborn baby must be accepted by his father, whether that father be wed to the mother or not. As you know, these people prize strength and deplore weakness. ’Tis assumed that a man or woman who is not strong cannot survive in this hard land. So a baby born deformed or weak is rejected by the father and exposed to the elements. It dies, of course, but the father absolves himself by reasoning that the child would not have survived anyway, and ’twould be wasteful to give it food and attention, when others are more in need.”
“That is barbaric!” Brenna gasped and fought to control the nausea rising in her throat.
“What is barbaric?” Erin asked, coming in with a stack of wood in his arms.
“The custom of rejecting a weak baby and putting it out to die of cold or starvation before a mother can even hold it in her arms,” Janie answered.
“How is that barbaric?” he asked testily, dropping the wood by the fire.
“You think it is not?” Brenna snapped. “You are as heathen as these Vikings, Erin, if you can condone such a hideous custom!”
“Nay, ’tis not so. I only think it is the kinder of two evils. Ask Janie, she is a mother. Ask her if her love does not grow stronger for her child with each day’s passing.”
“This is so,” Janie agreed.
“What are you saying, Erin?”
“The bond between mother and child is a strong one, but it does not grow strong until the mother knows that child.”
Brenna was appalled. “So you think ’tis kinder to kill the child at birth, before a bond can be formed? What of the bond the mother feels while carrying the child? Do you discount that?”
“I know only that I lost a son at birth through none but natural causes. My wife and I grieved only a short while, and then the child we never knew was forgotten. I had another son whom I came to love, and I lost him after ten short summers. This son I grieve for to this day, carry memories that still haunt me.”
“
I am sorry, Erin.”
“You are sorry, but do you understand, Brenna? Can you see that ’tis kinder to lose the child at birth, before the child knows what life has to offer, before the parents know what ’tis like to love that child, rather than lose the child later, when the loss will nearly destroy the parents?”
“Nay, this I cannot understand. A weak child can be made strong, a deformed child can be taught to do for itself.”
“Mayhaps in your land, lass, but this is the North, where lives are governed by snow and ice. This is spring, and yet you still burn your fire for warmth. Look at the smoke, Brenna. A weak babe would die from that smoke, yet to keep it from the fire would cause it to die from the cold.”
“I could never see the wisdom of it, Erin, so enough,” Brenna said and turned away.
Her hands were shaking as she served her friends a meal. She had been so delighted to see them, but now she wished they had never come. Their talk of the feud and killing babies had depressed her terribly. She could not touch her own food, her stomach was churning so.
The others chatted on as if they were unaffected by the earlier talk. Erin stared at Brenna thoughtfully. She tried to avoid his eyes, and finally left the table to tidy the room. After a while, she still found him staring at her, and could stand it no more.
“Why do you look at me so?” she demanded.
Erin was not abashed by her sharp tone. “Are you breeding, lass?”
Brenna had refused to admit it to herself. She would be damned if she would to anyone else.
“Nay, I am not!”
“I was going to ask the same thing, Brenna,” Maudya said. “You have put on a little weight.”
“I said nay!” Brenna shouted, unconsciously covering her belly with her hands. “I am not with child, I tell you!”
All kinds of disastrous possibilities tumbled through her mind. Garrick rejecting her baby because of his hatred. Being forced to stay here like Cordella. It would not happen! Spring was here. She would go home soon, very soon.
The others left after her outburst, unconvinced by her denial.
Brenna spent a sleepless night filled with terrifying imaginings she could not control. She was in a highly nervous condition by morning, exhausted yet wide awake. She had finally accepted the truth. A child was growing within her.
“A child for a child,” she spoke aloud, feeling sorry for herself. “We can both play games, both throw tantrums. Lord, I don’t want to be a mother! I don’t know how!”
She cried, though she had done so all night long. Anselm must sail quickly, before anyone else noticed her plight. She must get far away from this heathen land and give birth to her child among her own people, where she need not fear for her baby’s life.
Brenna prepared to leave. When she opened the door, she felt as if the heathen gods were conspiring against her. The ground was covered with a white cloak of freshly fallen snow. How did it dare snow this late in spring? she wondered unreasonably.
Panic gripped her, and she rode with careless speed to Anselm’s settlement. She sought out Heloise and found her with Cordella. They were both sewing tiny clothes, clothes for a new baby. Did Cordella know what fate awaited her child if it was not born healthy? Did Heloise know? Brenna stared at the little garments, forgetting momentarily why she had come.
“You look flushed, Brenna,” Heloise commented, setting aside her sewing.
“It must be the light, milady,” Brenna said guiltily. “I feel well.”
“Would that we all did.”
“Milady?”
“Oh, my husband has become ill. ’Tis not serious, but he cannot abide taking to bed.” As if to prove her words, he bellowed from his room. “You see?”
“How soon will he be well enough to sail?” Brenna asked anxiously.
“’Twill not be soon, Brenna, but not too long. The ship was being refurbished until this unexpected snowfall. Now the men must wait till the weather warms again to continue. By then my husband should also be well.”
“But how long?”
“I would imagine early summer. That is a beautiful time of the year to sail.”
“Summer! I cannot wait that long, milady!” Brenna’s voice rose, though she did not realize it.
“Whatever is the matter, Brenna?” Cordella asked. “I was pleased when I knew you would not leave so soon. Now you will be here when I give birth.”
How impending motherhood had changed Cordella. She was no longer spiteful, filled with thoughts of vengeance. At last she was actually happy.
“It seems I have no choice but to stay, though of course seeing your child before I go will give me pleasure, Della. If you will send for me when your time comes, I will help you all I can.” I will see no harm comes to your baby, she added silently to herself, then bid them farewell.
When Brenna stepped outside to leave, she saw Garrick just riding into the yard. She stopped. Beside him, on a short-legged mare was Morna, her smile radiant, her laughter tinkling in the air.
Brenna met Garrick’s eyes and cringed at the icy look he gave her. She turned to go back into the hall, to hide, to run, to get far, far away from that look that hurt her worse than a physical blow. But the sound of Garrick’s voice stopped her again, torturing her with his soft tone.
“Let me help you down, my love.”
Brenna felt real pain choke her. He spoke her tongue, not his, so she would understand every word. He purposely flaunted Morna before her. How could he forgive her and not me? she cried inside.
“What did you say, Garrick?”
“Let me help you down, Morna,” he answered in his own language.
“I knew you would come around,” Morna said with great confidence. “When I learned you got rid of that Celtic witch, I knew you would be mine again.”
“Did you indeed?”
Brenna could not bear to listen to any more. She ran through the hall, oblivious to Cordella’s and Heloise’s calls, and stumbled out the back of the house. She wiped viciously at the tears that blurred her eyes and ran, without stopping, to the stable to get Willow.
When Garrick saw that Brenna was gone, he quickly released his hold on Morna’s waist. He stared murderously at the open doorway where she had stood, still picturing her there, wanting to put his hands on her, yet knowing full well if he came that close to her, he would kill her.
“Well, help me down then, my love.”
Garrick turned his fiery gaze on Morna. “What I will help you do is feel the weight of my sword!”
“Wha—what is wrong with you?”
“Never approach me on the road and follow me again, Morna! If you value your life, do not ever come near me again!”
“But—but I thought all was forgiven!” she cried. “You smiled at me. You—you did not growl a moment before when she was—” Morna gasped, her blue eyes widening.
“Was your congenial mood just for her benefit?”
“Take care, Morna,” he warned coldly. “I do not have the patience to endure your presence.”
“Garrick, please. You must forgive me for the past. We shared a love once. Have you forgotten that?”
“Nay, I remember you vowed your love.” His voice grew lower, like the calm before a storm. “And also that you turned to the first man who dangled a purse before your greedy eyes.”
“I have changed, Garrick. Wealth no longer has importance to me.”
“You can say that easily, now that you have what you want,” he said with contempt.
“’Tis not true, Garrick. I want you. I have always wanted you.”
“And I wanted you—then. Now I would sooner rot in hell than turn to you!”
“Do not say that, Garrick!” she cried.
“Begone, Morna!”
“’Tis because of that foreign witch that you will not forgive me! What spell has she cast on you?”
“No spell. She is dead to me, as you are. Neither of you will find forgiveness in me!”
“You—”
He cut her off with a sharp whack on the rump of her horse. The animal bolted from the yard, with Morna fighting to control it yet trying to look back at the same time. Garrick turned away in disgust.
That he once thought he loved that woman was inconceivable now. He had been drawn to her beauty, and proud that he would marry the most desirable wench in the county. But these were not measures of love. When he lost her, it was wounded pride that had turned him bitter, the fact that she had chosen a fat merchant over him.
Morna’s only true motivation had been greed. Brenna had needed freedom and was unable to share herself. She had gone to great lengths for that freedom and to control her own life. She had used lies, deception. She vowed love as easily as Morna once did, speaking words that held no truth. Well, Brenna was welcome to her freedom, welcome to return to her land and forever leave his life.
Garrick entered the hall and suppressed some of his anger before he approached his mother. But seeing Brenna’s sister so satisfied and pleased with her new life here, only added to his bitterness. Why was Brenna the only one who could not adjust?
“Where is Hugh?” Garrick asked stonily.
Heloise did not look up from her sewing. “My youngest son is here, yet I would not know this since he has forgotten the common courtesies I have tried so hard to teach him.”
Garrick was duly chastened and smiled despite himself, then leaned over and kissed her on the brow. “’Tis easy to disremember when no other Viking son shows the respect due his mother.”
“A truth that breaks many a mother’s heart, I’ll wager. But you are half Christian, Garrick, and though few know it, I raised you differently.” She put aside her sewing and looked up at him finally, a gleam twinkling in her eyes. “You seek your brother? He took the cattle to pasture.”
“When?”
“Before the snow fell.”
“Then he will be delayed,” Garrick said with irritation.
“He had goods he wanted me to trade. Did he make mention of them to you?”
Fires of Winter Page 30
