Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (42 page)

He did not remember falling asleep, but when he woke, his head no longer hurt, the rain had stopped, the sun was shining, and the common room was miraculously, quietly empty of patrons except for himself and a handful of sleeping others. He made a hasty, desperate dash to the privy, and returned to find Lissa.

She was still in the kitchen, sitting with Bryda, Alwin and Guthild, munching on honeyed panbread.

She saw him and jumped up, her smile glowing brighter than the sunlight. “Brandr? Do you feel better? Are you hungry? The bread is delicious.” She tore off a hunk and handed it to him. “Eat. It will ease the slight nausea you feel.”

“Come, walk with me. No, not you, Alwin, but you have permission to eat more of the sweet bread,” he added when the boy’s face fell. Alwin brightened. He stuffed another piece in his mouth and gave them a good-natured wave.

Lissa wiped her hands, excused herself and hurried to his side. “I have it on good account Sindre and Siv will return in time for sup, and then we will truly celebrate. Rumor says they have spent the day at the home of an older couple who gave up their cottage to them. Is that not sweet?”

He chose not to answer, but she merrily chattered on. Unobtrusively, but with definite purpose, he urged her toward a grove of alders beside a swiftly flowing stream. Thick, soft grass beneath their feet kept them from sinking too deeply into the soaked ground, but he would not have cared if the muck came to their knees. He had not spoken to her, had not kissed her for the entire day. If he did not get her to himself, he was going to start knocking heads together, beginning with his uncle and brothers.

Without a word, he grabbed her hand and swiftly pulled her behind a clump of trees that effectively screened them from curious eyes at the inn.

“Brandr!”

It was some time before either of them uttered another word, then Lissa broke the heated silence.

“
Brandr….”

Just his name, but it was a long, drawn out, happy sigh of a sound. Triumph surged. It had taken a wedding, a crowd of wellwishers and the best part of the day, but he had finally got her alone. He settled in to enjoy it.

∞∞§∞∞

The celebration at the inn that night quickly grew so big it spilled outside the boundaries of the hamlet. Thankfully, the bright, warm sunshine had dried the worst of the mud by then. The newly married couple arrived to rousing cheers, good wishes, a few good-natured insults and many comments that elicited roars of laughter, but which, seeing Bryda’s and Siv’s blushes, Lissa was thankful she did not understand.

Her gaze bounced back and forth between Sindre and Siv, whose countenance was transformed. Sindre’s wife truly glowed. Disillusionment and despair had vanished, along with the lines they had carved into her face. She was beautiful.

The change shocked and gladdened Lissa. She knew the power of love, had seen the changes it wrought in both Brandr and Sindre, but the men did not
show
it, as did Siv. As for Sindre, he loved as he lived, boldly, lavishly and with an unfeigned indifference to the concerns of others. In front of countless witnesses, he picked Siv up, kissed her lustily, set her down and then laid his palm on Alwin’s golden head.

He waited for the roars of approval to die down.

“Be it known! I, Sindre Melrakki, declare Alwin Brandr-thrall, no longer thrall, but Alwin Sindreson, son of my heart, and son of my wife, Siv!”

Lissa’s eyes flew wide. Astonished, delighted laughter broke from her. Beside her, Brandr sputtered and dropped his beer. He stared at Sindre, mouth open. She pounded him on the back. The walls of the common room shook with the applause of the crowd.

But the big víkingr was not yet finished. He threw back his white head, grinned and patted the plaited white beard that flowed down his great chest. “Be it also known that Lissa of Yriclea, brother to Alwin Sindreson, is declared to be our daughter. Rise, Lissa Sindredottír, and be welcomed!”

Nicolaus choked. Hakon whooped. She thought Brandr would pass out.

If he does, I will fall on top of him in the same faint.

Her eyes locked onto Sindre’s wry gaze. The ice blue depths were filled with an irony utterly self-derisive in nature. Beside him, Siv, her arm around a beaming Alwin’s shoulders, also smiled at her, a signally sweet curving of the lips.

Lissa’s eyes misted and she nodded, accepting the precious gift.

Shouts rose for her to rise and be acknowledged. Somehow, she found her feet.

The raucous response of the villagers nigh brought the rafters down. Saxons and Northmen together, they had found a way to live in harmony, and this example of the same generosity by an unknown Dane garnered their full approbation.

She started violently when she was suddenly flipped around and heartily kissed by Turold, who laughed so hard while he was at it, he almost missed and kissed her nose. She sat down rather abruptly as Brandr rose, growling.

Turold only laughed the louder and pounded him on the back, knocking him back into his seat. “Relax, my friend! This is an occasion worthy of poetry and song.”

So saying, he fought his way to the corner where his lyre waited, and began to make one up on the spot, aided and encouraged by those around him.

“Well, brothers,” Hakon pitched his voice to be heard below the furor, “if this does not blunt our father’s rage, I can think of naught that will.”

“Nei, Gríss,” Nicolaus said. “It will but anger him more. He will see it as betrayal. The fool may well challenge Sindre.”

Lissa gasped at the words. “Surely, that will not happen!”

“Snurre is right, lítill blóm,” Brandr said. He nuzzled the silken skin below her ear, evoking from her a shiver that deepened the azure fire in his gaze. “But concern yourself not. Our father is no longer the warrior he once was. Does he try to kill Sindre, he will succeed only in losing his own life.”

He raised his tankard and mumbled something into his beer that sounded very much like, “and even Mother will not miss him.”

She was horrified. Her gaze slipped from one to the other of the brothers. “I do not wish to bring further conflict to your family.”

“Fear not, Lissa.” Hakon’s smile was kind. “Father makes his own trouble,” he said, sounding like Brandr. “‘Oft is family divided at table, and kin, ever the source of strife’. We are used to it.”

Nicolaus snorted. “Já, if aught that is ugly comes of this, it will not be your fault, Lissa Sindre-dottír.” He raised his flagon. “Well come to the family of Óttarr Grimarson. Know you have my support!”

“As you have mine,” Hakon declared. “Hold her close, Bjarki. Do not let this one slip from your fingers!”

Brandr growled again, but his arm about her shoulders tightened.

The bemusement clouding Lissa’s thoughts left her bereft of words. These brothers of the man she loved all accepted Sindre’s declaration as if it was the most ordinary thing, but she felt the way little Alwin looked. Befuddled. Happily, warily dazzled, but still nonplussed.

One of the Northmen farmers rose and challenged the Saxon thegn, who had returned early from his hunt, to a flyte. The dare was instantly accepted and the uproar rose to new heights. Those outside tried to push their way inside so they could hear. She was squeezed so tightly between Brandr and the stranger beside her she feared she would be squashed. Brandr, seeing how the other man was plastered to her side, growled, picked her up and plopped her on his lap. His arms went possessively around her waist. She glanced at his face over her shoulder in time to see him glower so hard at the poor men on either side of him they began to look alarmed. His expression turned complacent. He met her look and smiled.

A wolf might grin in such a way before it devoured a mouse.

As insults began to fly, he turned his attention to the flyte. She relaxed into his encompassing arms. Little interested in the contest of wits, she let her gaze flicker over the profiles of his brothers. They laughed, groaned, and yelled encouragement to one or the other of the contenders. Bets flew back and forth.

He has fine brothers, good men, much like himself. Each holds the same powerful sense of honor that guides their life. I am blessed to belong to such a family.

They all looked so much alike, yet each was so very different. A flame burned in Nicolaus’ ice blue gaze, but its fire was deeper even than that which glowed in Brandr’s eyes. Impulsive and wild, with a restless spirit akin to Sindre’s unruly heart, he was untamed and fey. He displayed tenacity akin to that in Brandr, but less focused. Beneath his skin, he seethed, as if always but one step from violence.

Hakon was his opposite, his spirit quieter, more controlled, forged, as Brandr had explained, in the fires of his father’s wrath almost since his birth. He had harnessed it, and used it to strengthen his soul, and it had bestowed upon him kindness and wisdom unusual for one so young.

She liked them both very much.

As if he felt her perusal, Nicolaus’ head snapped around. He focused his gaze full upon her. So intense was his regard, she ceased to breathe. Then the hard, fierce lines of his face dissolved in a smile. He winked, and returned his attention to the contest.

She breathed again.

Confounded men are all stunningly handsome too, a state of affairs not at all fair to the womenfolk around them.

She relaxed into Brandr’s embrace as the flyte reached a raucous conclusion. Life with the sons of Óttarr Grimarson would be a never-ending adventure.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Leather creaked as Lissa, riding beside Brandr, shifted in her saddle. He glanced her way, noted her discomfort, and faced forward again. She was sore, and heartily sick of riding, but his grip on her reins never slackened.

She had pleaded with him at the noontide break to let her walk.

He refused. “It is not safe,” he had told her. “I will take no chance with your welfare. Why do you think Bryda and Siv also ride, when they prefer it not?”

They were a day and a half out from the inn, and drew nigh the large, forbidding fortress of Colneceaster. Troops of soldiers had passed them all day, coming and going. Despite the warmth of the day, the women were cloaked, but neither he nor the other men in their party had missed the lustful glances thrown in their direction.

Alwin and the three females formed the heart of the protective circle in which their group moved. Around them tramped the men on foot, and ringing the walkers were the rest of those on horseback.

“But Nicolaus is with us, and his men,” she had pleaded. “He is a leader among them. These others would not attack one of their own. Would they?”

“If they do not, it is only because we are so many, and well armed. We wish to make it clear that should they attack, and win such a battle, the cost would be very great. Too great.”

“Then why do we stop in this place, this Colneceaster? Turold agrees it is dangerous because there are so many soldiers about. He says he does not like it there.”

“We will not stop
in
the fortress. Nicolaus will see us camped on the far side of the river, then go inside to make his report. After, he will return, and his men will guard the camp during the night. Only when we are well away on the morrow will his men return to the fortress, while he will accompany us the rest of the way to Ljotness.”

She had not understood his concern, not until a fracas had occurred in which a band of young soldiers, more belligerent than the rest, had decided on a confrontation.

Nicolaus had wanted to fight, posturing before the other group in typical fierce display. He and Hakon had forcibly reminded their brother his first responsibility was to the women and Alwin. He had not liked it, but he had backed off.

Even so, it had not come to blows only because another troop had come along. Their grizzled commander was a ranking warrior with no patience for the foolishness of youth. He had snapped orders to the first troop that likely left boils on their backsides. At first angry and resentful, they had tried to face him down. The look in his eyes, and on the faces of the battle-hardened men with him, had convinced them to leave the fight for another day.

After, the pallor in the faces of Lissa and Bryda, and the watchfulness in Siv’s eyes, had satisfied him. The women had needed to understand the danger.

The road rounded a bend within the trees and abruptly opened onto a vast green floodplain, through which ran the River Cóln. He stared at the fortress walls that rose grim and formidable along its southern bank, which wound along the foot of a gently sloping ridge. Many men moved around lazily smoking campfires in front of once colorful tents dotting the land outside the walls. In the lush pastures beyond, much livestock grazed. Their number included more horses than he had ever seen together in one place.

In the river, knórr and kaupskip, snekkja and drekar, their bright sails furled, lay moored, a few Saxon merchants among their number. Workers in small boats transferred goods from one of the merchant vessels to the dock, where it was loaded onto wagons. Downriver, at a smaller pier, more small boats floated. The ferry that would take them across to safer ground waited there.

It was late, nigh sunset. Brilliant rays of pink, orange, lavender and gold layered the sky and found a like image in the water’s gently flowing surface. Upended duck tails clustered around lily pads, their owner’s heads below the surface, seeking a meal, reminding him it was past time for sup.

He glanced again at Lissa, and grinned. She would find the scene ‘pretty’. “What think you of what you see, lítill blóm?”

She will tell me the walls are ugly, but the river is a place of beauty.

“It looks secure enough, but I am glad we will not be staying long.”

“You do not think the river lovely?”

“I suppose so.”

His brows rose but he said naught more.

Nicolaus urged his horse ahead to meet with two men who waited along the side of the road. Brandr heard his laughter as he dismounted to clasp wrists with one of them. They spoke shortly, then his brother returned to escort them to the ferry. “Once you are across, Bjarki, do not stop. Continue on, until you reach that large grove of trees yonder. Make camp there. Other travelers, not soldiers, also stop there this night. Their presence will provide additional deterrence to unruly troops subject to stupid urges. And Brandr, do not let down your guard.”