Fires of Winter (5 page)

Bolsky was expecting the blond Viking, for he had requested the engraver to make him a fine, silver medallion with the picture of a beautiful girl engraved on the underside. He had given Bolsky a sketch of this girl, and the engraver was proud of the finished work. On the front was a proud Viking ship with nine oars, and above the ship was a hammer with crisscrossed wings and a broadsword. On the back of the medallion was the girl, worked in minute detail, the very image of the sketch. A sweetheart, perhaps, or a wife?

“Is it finished?” Garrick asked.

Bolsky smiled, and opening a fur-lined bag, produced the medallion with its long silver chain. “It is done.”

Garrick tossed a pouch of silver on the table and took the medallion, slipping it over his head without even inspecting it. But Perrin, his curiosity pricked, lifted the heavy silver disk from Garrick’s chest and examined it closely. He admired the symbols of wealth, power and strength, but when he turned the medallion over, his brows drew together in a disapproving frown.

“Why?”

Garrick shrugged and started for the door, but Perrin was close on his heels and drew him to a halt. “Why torture yourself this way?” Perrin asked. “She is not worth it.”

Garrick raised an eyebrow in surprise. “
You
would say this?”

Perrin grimaced. “Yea, I would. She is my sister, but I cannot condone what she has done.”

“Well, do not fret, my friend. What I felt for Morna is dead—long since.”

“Then why that?” Perrin asked, gesturing at the medallion.

“A reminder,” Garrick answered, his voice hard. “A reminder that no woman can be trusted.”

“I fear my sister has left her mark on you, Garrick. You have not been the same since she married that fat merchant.”

A shadow came over the younger man’s blue-green eyes, but a cynical smile twisted his lips. “I am simply wiser. I will never fall prey to a woman’s charms again. I laid my heart open once, and will not do so a second time. I know them for what they are now.”

“All women are not the same, Garrick. Your mother is different. I have never known a kinder or more giving woman.”

Garrick’s features softened. “My mother is the only exception. But come enough of this. Today, our last night, I intend to drink a barrel of ale—and you, my friend, will have to carry me back to the ship when I am through.”

B
renna sat in the center of her large bed polishing her sword with the care given a prized possession, which indeed her sword was. Finely crafted and honed just for her, the weapon was lightweight but razor sharp. It was a gift from her father on the day she celebrated her tenth year. Her name was inscribed on the silver handle, surrounded by rubies and bright sapphires the size of plump peas. Brenna cherished this sword more than any of her possessions, if for no other reason than because it was a symbol of her father’s pride in her achievements.

She held it up now against her forehead, her thoughts gloomy. Would her female body imprison her in her husband’s land? Would she ever be able to wield this sword again, to fight for what was her own as any man would? Or would she be expected to act the wife in every way, never to use her skills again, to be a woman and do only what a woman should?

Curse men and their set ways! She would not be treated thus. To be undermined and ruled, nay! She would not be acquiescent. She was Brenna Carmarham, not some simpering, cowering maid!

Fuming indignantly, Brenna did not hear her aunt enter her chamber and quietly close the door. Linnet stared at her niece with tired, heartsick eyes.

She had nursed her own husband through months of suffering, each day sapping more of her strength. When he died, a part of her did too, for she loved him dearly. Now she had been doing the same for her brother Angus. Lord in Heaven, please: no more death.

Brenna gave a start when she perceived the haggard figure out of the corner of her eye. She turned to Linnet, hardly recognizing her. Her hair was unkempt and her gown soiled, but it was actually her face which was so disturbingly different. It was powder white, her lips were taut, and there were dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes.

Brenna got off the bed and led her aunt to the long gold couch beneath the window. “Linnet, you have been crying. ’Tis not like you,” she said worriedly. “What is wrong?”

“Oh, Brenna, lass. Your life is changing so much. ’Tis not right to have it all happen at one time.”

Brenna smiled weakly. “You have been crying for me, Aunt? You need not.”

“Nay, love, not for you, though I will surely. ’Tis your father, Brenna. Angus is dead.”

Brenna drew back, her face a sickly white. “How could you jest about this?” she accused harshly. “’Tis not so!”

“Brenna,” Linnet sighed, and reached out to caress her niece’s cheek. “I would not lie to you. Angus died but an hour past.”

Brenna shook her head slowly, denying the words. “He was not so ill. He cannot die!”

“Angus had the same illness as my husband, but at least he did not suffer overmuch.”

Brenna’s eyes were the size of saucers, and filled with horror. “You knew he would die?”

“Yea, I did.”

“In God’s name, why did you not tell me? Why did you let me go on believing he would be well again?”

“’Twas his wish, Brenna. He forbade me to tell anyone, especially you. He did not want to see you weeping by his side. Angus never could tolerate tears, and ’twas enough that he put up with mine.”

Tears now sprang to Brenna’s eyes. They were altogether unknown to her, for she had never shed them before. “But I should have been the one to nurse him. Instead, I went on my way as if naught was amiss.”

“He did not want you grieving overmuch, Brenna. And you would have if you had known. This way you will mourn for a while, then you will put it behind you. Your forthcoming marriage will help you.”

“Nay! There will be no wedding now!”

“Your father’s word has been given, Brenna.” Linnet spoke a bit impatiently. “You must honor it, even though he is dead.”

Brenna could hold back the heartbreaking sobs no longer. “Why did he have to die, Aunt? Why?”

Lord Angus Carmarham was laid to rest on a clear blue morning. Birds had only just begun to greet the day, and the fragrance of wild flowers drifted through the chill morning air.

Brenna, her eyes dry now, was dressed in black from head to foot. She wore a tunic and trousers gartered with leather, topped by a short, flowing mantle trimmed with silver thread. Her long raven tresses were braided and as usual tucked securely beneath the mantle. The only outstanding colors were the white of her face and the shining silver of her sword.

Her aunt had expressed disapproval at her apparel, but Brenna remained adamant. Her father had treated her and raised her as a son, and she would dress like that son for their final farewell.

The people of the village were present, and many wept loudly. Linnet stood on Brenna’s right, her comforting arm wrapped around the girl’s shoulders. Cordella and Dunstan were on her left. Dunstan spoke words of praise and past glory, but Brenna did not hear them. In those few moments she was reliving memories: a young child sitting on her father’s knee; a proud man yelling encouragement when his daughter rode her first horse. She recalled the tender, cherished moments.

Brenna felt lost without him, and a terrible feeling of emptiness washed over her. But she stood proud for her people to see. Only her eyes, lackluster and deadened, told of her heartache.

The moment when Dunstan spoke no more was silent and solemn. It was with much surprise that those in attendance saw a rider burst through the trees and descend upon the large gathering. He jumped from his horse and made his way quickly through the throng to Brenna’s side.

“Your betrothed has come.” The young man spoke breathlessly. “I was returning from Anglesey and passed the party on the way.”

“How do you know ’twas my betrothed?” Brenna asked apprehensively. She was not prepared for this news, not with her father just laid in his grave.

“Who else could it be?” the man replied. “’Twas a large group of huge, fair-haired men. They are Vikings to be sure.”

Alarmed voices broke out in the crowd, but Brenna could only think of her own predicament. “Lord in Heaven, why now?” she cried.

This the young man could not answer. Linnet drew her close, saying, “Never mind why, my dear. ’Tis done.” Then she spoke to the messenger. “How close are they?”

“On the other side of those trees.” He pointed northwest. “About a mile.”

“Very well,” Linnet replied. “We must receive them at the manor. You people return to your village. You have naught to fear from these Vikings. They come in peace.”

Back in the manor, Brenna paced restlessly in the large receiving room. Fergus sat anxiously with the rest of the family. He was responsible for the Vikings being here, and was eager to make them welcome. He had spent a good deal of time in a hostile land finding the Haardrad clan. The head of the clan himself had received Fergus and made the bargain for his son, giving his solemn word that all would be as agreed upon. With the death of Lord Angus, the bride was worth a great fortune, for his lands and manor were now hers, and thus her husband’s. The Vikings would be pleased indeed.

“Brenna, love, ’twould be more seemly if you would change to a gown,” Linnet suggested.

“Nay.”

“Brenna, you cannot receive your future husband this way. What will he think?”

“I said nay!” Brenna snapped, and continued her nervous pacing.

Cordella eyed her stepsister smugly. She was amused, for she guessed why Brenna was fretting. The young woman was worrying if her betrothed would want to marry her before they sailed. The wedding could be this very night or on the morrow. And then came the wedding night—and the terror. Cordella almost laughed aloud. There would be pain that first night, and Brenna would think it would always be thus, thanks to her. What sweet revenge. If only she could be there to see it.

Brenna was thinking exactly that. She was not ready for marriage, and never would be. She was not geared to suffer pain without retaliation. She would fight! Lord in Heaven, what if she killed her husband for claiming his rights? It would be her own death sentence.

These wild thoughts were tumbling through her mind when the first large boulder struck the manor door. Startled exclamations came from one and all. Questioning glances met confused looks, but when a choked cry came from the yard, followed by yet another boulder against the door, Brenna dashed to the window to take in the scene with disbelieving eyes.

“Holy God, they are attacking!”

A servant lay decapitated by the path from the stables, and the yard was crawling with Vikings, their swords, axes and spears drawn and ready. A small, crudely constructed catapult was worked by two men. A third boulder hit the door. From down the hill, dark curls of smoke drifted skyward—the village was afire.

Brenna turned to the group behind her. Wyndham was among them, and her eyes met his accusingly. “Is this the way your kinsmen come for a bride?”

Wyndham had no answer, but Fergus spoke with uncertainty. “These Vikings cannot be the ones I sought out.”

“Look, then, and see if you know them!” she ordered harshly.

“Brenna, calm yourself,” Linnet said, though her own voice betrayed her anxiety.

Fergus went to the window, and it took only a second for him to recognize the tall chieftain of the Haardrad clan. Anselm the Eager stood before his men shouting orders.

“’Tis not possible!” Fergus cried, facing the small, terrified group in the room. “He gave his word!”

Another boulder against the door prompted Brenna to action. “Wyndham, are you with us or with your treacherous kinsmen? I would know before I turn my back on you.”

He looked sorely affronted. “With you, my lady. I do not claim kinship with these Norsemen who do not honor their word.”

“So be it,” she replied. “Those fools have given us time to prepare by bombarding an unlocked door. Dunstan, go bolt it now before more damage is done.”

Dunstan drew back from her, his eyes filled with horror. “Brenna, they are thirty or more to our three!”

“Four, curse you!” she snapped. “Do you think
I
will sit back and watch?”

“Brenna, be reasonable. We have no chance!”

“Do you suggest we surrender? Fool, have you forgotten Holyhead Island? Those who did not fight, as well as those who did, all met the bloody axe. Now bolt the door! Fergus, gather the servants and arm them. Wyndham, secure the rear of the manor, then meet me in the hall. We will be ready for the bloody bastards when the door finally gives way.”

All left to do her bidding without further question. Cordella sat huddled in the corner, weeping hysterically. Linnet was also near tears when she grabbed Brenna’s arm to stay her.

“You cannot fight them, Brenna! They will kill you the same as a man!”

“They would kill me anyway, Aunt. My father trained me for this. I will die fighting with honor, rather than weeping in self-pity as Della is wont to do!”

“They would not kill you, Brenna, if you do not resist them,” Linnet persisted. “They take women—”