Fires of Winter (11 page)

“Yea, but they are taken. My house is full of men, mistress—those who returned with me. I am sure they would not mind you stumbling upon them in the dark, but your screams for release would not aid my sleep.”

“The screams of your men, Viking, not mine,” she replied.

He sighed loudly. “You greatly overestimate yourself, wench. Now give me peace and come to bed.”

Brenna suppressed another retort and approached the bed slowly. It
was
more appealing than the floor, she admitted to herself. She crawled onto it and lay next to the wall, a good two feet away from the Viking. Indeed, the ermine spread that he lay under, and she on top of, was like a wall between them.

A moment later she heard his deep, even breathing. Sleep evaded Brenna for a long while.

B
renna was rudely awakened when Yarmille burst into the room. “Wake up! Wake up, girl, before he returns and finds you still abed.”

Brenna raised her head and saw that Garrick was no longer beside her. Then she looked at the stern, hard-faced woman standing by the bed and shot her a look of contempt. She wondered what the woman would do if she attacked her. Probably run screaming to her master, and she had yet to judge his merit—to learn whether or not she had need to be wary of him.

“Be quick, girl, and dress yourself,” Yarmille continued, handing Brenna a rough woolen shift. “Garrick no longer wants you in his room. To be sure, he is not pleased at all with you. ’Tis no wonder, with your evil eye.”

Brenna gave her a piercing look, but said nothing. She had decided to continue to pretend ignorance of their language. If they spoke in her presence believing she could not understand them, she might be able to gain useful information. It was difficult to act thus, when already her lips were burning to snap this woman’s head off, but she would try.

Yarmille started for the door and motioned for Brenna to follow. Sounds of revelry drifted up from the lower floor as they passed the stairs, then entered a small room on the other side. When Yarmille lit several whale oil cups for light, Brenna saw that she was in a sewing room, where all manner of things were made.

The chamber was not so different from the sewing room at home, though Brenna had never spent time there. Her curious eyes took in the yarn reels weighted with soapstone, a loom for rug making, wooden boards for weaving ribbons, long-toothed combs and shears. Piles of animal skins were stacked high in one corner, and dyes sat on a shelf. This was a woman’s room, and Brenna felt completely lost.

“Garrick has gone to fetch his father here, but he was most adamant that you remain in this room and not leave it,” Yarmille said, making signs to explain the words she spoke. “I have much to do below to prepare for the feast, so I cannot stay to watch over you. Here.” She crossed to a large loom in the corner, on which sat a crude, half-finished rug. She made it clear that Brenna was to work on it. “This should keep you busy.”

“It shall rot with mold before I touch it,” Brenna replied in her own tongue, a smile curving her soft lips.

“Good, good,” Yarmille said, returning a tight smile. “Garrick seemed to think you would give me trouble, but I think not. You will make yourself useful, and all will go well.” She turned to go, then added sternly, “You stay here—stay—here.” Then she left, closing the door behind her.

Brenna looked menacingly at the rug loom, then said contemptuously, “Humph! If she thinks she will force me to do woman’s work, that old hag will have more trouble than she can handle.”

Brenna rummaged idly around the room. She found several strips of wide leather and wove them together to fashion a crude belt for herself. Then she braided her hair in a long single plait which fell to her hips, and interlaced it with a thin strip of leather to hold it in place.

The sounds coming from the lower floor reminded her of home, when her father entertained guests. This recalled her grief. Until now, anger and frustration had forced it below the surface. The memory of her father’s death and the bloody scene she witnessed at home only increased her outrage.

“Oh, father, you were a fool,” she whispered. “You drew them to us with your offer. You sought to save us, but you have destroyed us instead.”

Brenna would not cry again. She would harbor her grief deep inside, but she would not moan over it, for she had other things to occupy her thoughts.

She firmly resolved that she could not stay here. Somehow she must find a way to leave this Godforsaken land and return to her home. She would need time to learn the way of the land, and to discover a way to escape. She hoped for revenge also, and would be more than pleased if she could accomplish both.

Her thoughts unwillingly turned to the Viking. Garrick Haardrad was a puzzle. He had no part in the deception played on her people, yet he posed the greatest threat to her. In his mind he owned her and could do with her as he pleased. That she would not allow this, he would find out.

This tall, virile man did not look on her with lust, and this, though a bit disconcerting, was a blessing. Brenna knew he expected her to make herself useful. If only she could think of something she would not mind doing, she would have no difficulty staying here for a while, and this would buy her the time she needed. But what was there for her to do?

Brenna opened the door quietly. She supposed if she left the sewing room, she would incur Yarmille’s wrath. But then, she could always plead ignorance, saying she did not understand Yarmille’s instructions.

The sounds from the lower floor grew louder. She wondered if Garrick had returned yet. If so, then Anselm would be there. That man she would take immense pleasure in destroying, just as he had destroyed her people. Poor Fergus and Wyndham; Dunstan, who had been reluctant to fight; and sweet, dear Alane, who had been like a mother to Brenna—all dead. Not by Anselm’s hand, certainly, for he stood at the hall entrance and only watched the bloody battle, but he was responsible nonetheless. Besides, it was he who cut her treasured sword in two, rendering her helpless for the first time in her young life. Yea, Anselm must die. She would find a way.

Brenna stepped into the wide corridor and closed the door so that no one would know she had left the room. At the end of the passage another door opened to the outside, and she headed that way. Her eyes scanned the buildings below, but no one was about. In the far distance she could see the brilliant blue of the ocean; a cloak of diamonds seemed to shimmer on its surface. To the left was the fjord and the meadows that extended from the opposite bank. On the downward slope to the right were fields and forests; small houses occasionally dotted the landscape.

Brenna considered going down to the fjord to see if a ship lay there. She would most assuredly need a ship when she was ready to leave, but how could she sail it alone? Perhaps she could hide on one when it left to raid her homeland. That would not be until spring. Could she wait that long?

Brenna descended the stairs and walked briskly to the small buildings behind the large stone house. The grunts of animals met her ears, and she entered one building whose doors were wide open. It was a stable, with four fine horses inside.

Brenna was delighted. A magnificent black stallion caught her eye and she walked over to him, then gasped in alarm when she saw an old man rubbing the beast down.

The old man straightened up, groaning, a hand pressed to his back. A full beard covered his face. It was streaked heavily with gray, as was his sandy-colored hair. Mellow brown eyes regarded her intently.

“And who might you be, lass?” he asked in her own tongue.

“Brenna, Brenna Carmarham. Do you work here?” she questioned as she put a hand out gently for the horse to smell.

“Yea, almost two score years now I’ve tended the horses,” he replied.

“Does no one help you?”

He shook his head. “Not since the master took most of us to sell when he sailed east. He left me behind since I am too old to bring a goodly price.”

“You speak of Garrick, the Viking?” she asked. “Is he the one you call master?”

“Yea. He’s a good lad. I served his grandfather before him,” the old man said with pride.

“How can you speak kindly of the man who owns you?” she demanded.

“I am treated well, lass. Garrick is an ambitious young-blood trying to make his way in a hurry, but he is a fair master to us all.”

Brenna did not pursue the subject. “Are these the only horses?”

“Nay, there are a half dozen out to pasture. And three others were borrowed by Garrick’s friends, those who sailed with him and have gone to collect their families for the feast. These here,” he pointed to the others horses in the stable, “they belong to Anselm Haardrad, who just came with his family.” He rubbed the stallion’s flanks. “A finer animal than this one I have never seen.”

“Yea, he is,” Brenna readily agreed. She looked with longing at the sleek animal. The man gently wiped the stallion’s back. The horse had obviously just come from a run.

“The master brought him home with him. Found him in Hedeby, he said. A fat purse this one cost him, to be sure.”

Brenna nodded, but her thoughts were no longer on the great steed. So Garrick was at the house, and Anselm with him. No doubt his brother Hugh was there also, that vulgar animal who had dared to maul her before all.

A frown creasing her brow, Brenna walked to the stable door and stared apprehensively at the stone house. How much time did she have? Was he looking for her already, or would he even bother, thinking she was safely tucked away in that sewing room? And why should he make the effort? He already showed that he had no interest in her, that she was only a nuisance to him. Even Yarmille said she did not please Garrick.

Brenna preferred it this way. She must keep out of the way and not draw attention to herself.

She walked back. “What do they call you?” she asked the old man, who was still grooming the stallion with tender care.

“Erin McCay.”

“Well, Erin, do you know the girl Janie?” she questioned, her smile warm.

“That I do. A pretty lass, Janie.”

“Where can I find her now? She took care of me when I was confined, but I was ungracious and needs must make amends.”

“You were confined?” He looked at her curiously. “So! You be the one the tongues are wagging over, Garrick’s new—”

“Yea!” Brenna cut him short, stopping him before he spoke the word she detested.

“And they have released you?”

She nodded. “They have. Now, whereabouts is Janie?”

“The lass is at the big house. She will be busy all the day and most of the night, serving the feast.”

Brenna frowned. “This feast. How long will it go on?”

Erin smiled amiably. “It may last for days.”

“What?”

He chuckled. “Aye. There is much to celebrate. The master has returned a wealthy man, and the family is reunited again. Truly there is much to celebrate.”

A look of disgust crossed her features. Was she to be tucked away from sight all this time? Why did Garrick not want her to be seen?

“May I help you, Erin?” she suddenly pleaded.

“Nay, ’tis a man’s work.”

Brenna refrained from debating this and asked instead, “If I obtain Garrick’s permission, will you let me work with you here in the stable?”

He raised a brow. “You know horses, do you?”

“Aye,” she grinned, “As well as you, I’ll wager.” She was silent a moment; then in a soft voice she continued, “I rode every day when I lived in my father’s home—out through our fields, over the streams and stone walls and into the forest. How free I felt…then.” She stopped, and a look of great sadness passed over her face. She shook it off and looked once again at Erin. “If I work with you in the stables, will you let me ride the horses?”

“Aye, lassie. Nothing would please me more. But I must secure the permission of the master. Otherwise I can do naught.”

“I will speak to him, then.”

“You had best wait until the feast is finished. The master will be well into his cups by now and may not remember your request or his answer.”

She would prefer to have it done with, but perhaps Erin was right.

“So be it. I will wait.”

“And, lassie, I suggest you remain away from the hall ’til the guests have all gone. ’Twill not go well for you if you are seen.”

Curiosity made her eyes sparkle. First Garrick left instructions that she should stay in that small room. Now this old man warned her to stay out of sight.

“What is wrong with me that I should not be seen?”

“Brenna, lass, you must know you are a comely wench. These Vikings are a lusty lot, with an eye for a fair maid such as you. The master is generous with his female slaves. His friends need not even ask permission to have one of his wenches, for his hospitality is well known.”

“You cannot be serious!” Brenna gasped, appalled.

“’Tis true, lass. At one particularly boisterous affair, a poor wench was tumbled before all, right there on the floor of the hall.”

Brenna’s eyes opened wide; they were filled with repulsion. “Garrick allowed it?”

“He would have stopped that form of entertainment, but he was passed out on the table—or so the story made the rounds—thoroughly besotted.”