Fires of Winter (26 page)

Brenna turned to see him scowling at her and reasoned that he was not too pleased with his father’s words.

“You need not shout, Viking. There is naught wrong with my hearing,” she admonished him haughtily and turned to leave. She stopped by Perrin first and leaned over to whisper in his ear. “’Twould appear you must wait forever to find him in a good mood. Poor Janie.”

“Poor me,” he whispered back at her, his expression full of woe. Then he grinned. “’Twould help matters if you would but smile at him.”

Brenna straightened and laughed aloud. “Shame upon you, Perrin, for even suggesting such a thing.”

She then left for the cooking area, unaware that Garrick followed her with his eyes, now become the dark color of turbulent waters in the deep sea.

I
n all her years, Brenna wondered if she would ever again see anything as beautiful as the northern lights. She gazed in wonder at the swirling violet mist in the sky. The ground, the buildings, everything about her was painted a bright, glowing violet. Who would ask for a sun to light the way, when they could have such magnificent displays of color instead. If only it were not so cold, Brenna would have stayed and watched the glowing mists indefinitely. But it was cold—freezing, in fact.

“Come on, Coran, before my feet turn to ice and me along with them.”

She hurried along with the young man. He too was bathed in violet and looked as though he belonged on a tapestry.

It was a stroke of luck when Coran asked her if any more supplies were needed from the storehouse before he retired for the night. There was really nothing needed that couldn’t wait till morning, but Brenna made the excuse that they were low on rye for bread, and it they fetched it now, Coran could sleep later in the morning.

Brenna made him wait while she got two sacks from the small storage area behind the stairs where food and spices were kept. She hid one of these sacks beneath her cape, then told Coran she would accompany him in case she saw something else they might need.

This was the opportunity she had hoped for. She could get weapons that she would hide away until she needed them. And if she could find a lighter cape she would exchange hers, though she had to admit now that the heavier one did keep her warm.

Brenna was thankful it was late and the other women were busy in the hall, clearing away the remains of the roasted bear that had been served earlier.

Coran unlocked the sturdy door to the storehouse and quickly lit the candle that was just inside. Brenna was disappointed to see that the room contained only foodstuffs, but was amply filled indeed. A large vat like the one outside the house in which rain water was collected in warmer weather was full almost to the brim with barley, and another was filled with oats. Salted meat was hung from the rafters—small game that Garrick had caught. There were barrels of rye, and one full of mountain apples and other dried fruits. Large sacks containing peas, onions and nuts, and many smaller sacks of herbs and spices were on shelves built on the walls. What Brenna was after was obviously behind another locked door, the one at the back of the storehouse, where a smaller room had been added.

“What is back there, Coran?” Brenna asked innocently enough, pointing to the closed door.

“’Tis where Master Garrick keeps his wealth.”

“Do you have the key?”

“Aye,” Coran answered. “But ’tis forbidden to use it unless ordered.”

“Have you never used it?”

“Of course,” he replied proudly. “Four times each year I clean and polish the weapons kept there. And ’tis where I put the furs after they are tanned.”

“Could you open the door now, Coran? I would love to have just one look.”

“Nay, I cannot.”

“Please, Coran,” Brenna said very sweetly. “The master need never know. I could look about while you fill the sack with grain.”

Coran shook his head slowly. It was obvious he was terribly afraid to do as Brenna asked. However, she was determined to get inside that room.

“I must not, Mistress Brenna. ’Twould mean a whipping if the master found out, mayhaps worse.”

“But he won’t find out, I promise,” Brenna persisted. “He is making merry in the hall at present, and does not even know we are here. Please, Coran—for me.”

He hesitated only a few seconds more, then smiled timidly. “Very well. But only for as long as it takes me to fill this sack.” He moved to the door and opened it. “And you must not touch anything.”

Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Coran. I will not forget this.”

His cheeks reddened, and he ducked his head bashfully and went to fill the sack.

Brenna threw the door open wide to let the candlelight filter into the smaller room. She had expected treasures, but not the abundance that she could see even in the dim light. There was a small pile of furs, which would grow high before spring, and beside this was an open coffer filled with exquisite material: silk, brocades, velvets made of the finest fabrics. On a shelf against the wall were beautiful chalices made of brass, silver and even gold, and inlaid with jewels. Beside them were carved and engraved silver platters and tankards.

On a long table were many oddities of value, statues of marble and ivory, gold candle-holders, tiny brass incense burners, a jeweled cross a foot in length, ivory chessmen, and many other treasures. In a carved teakwood chest lined with velvet that sat on the center of the table, Brenna saw jewelry that dazzled her senses: necklaces of rubies and diamonds, armbands of gold and silver studded with gems or delicately carved. Another chest was open on the floor, and filled with gold and silver coins.

Finally the weapons caught Brenna’s eye. Hanging from the two side walls were arms of every description. Crossbows and arrows, spears of different lengths, axes and broadswords, spiked clubs and, on a special rack, jeweled daggers. Brenna went over to these and took one inlaid with amber stones. Perhaps the amber, which was reputedly Thor’s favorite stone, would protect her. Not that she would need Thor’s help.

Brenna looked at the crossbows, which she was expert in handling. She took one, along with a supply of arrows. She put these in the sack tied to her belt, and stuck a sword through her belt. It was not as lightweight as her own had been, but that precious sword was no more.

Brenna started to leave the room, her sack full, but a pair of black leather boots caught her eye. Her own! Next to these on a shelf were her clothes, the ones she had worn to bury her father. She was still wearing them when she lost the most important battle of her life to Anselm Haardrad.

Brenna quickly grabbed these, then pulled her cape tightly about her and left the room just as Coran approached.

“I had not realized Garrick was such a rich man,” Brenna commented uncomfortably. She prayed Garrick would not notice the missing weapons.

“Aye, ’tis not many who know this.”

“But he is so young to have accumulated so much wealth. He must have raided often in his youth.”

Coran grinned. “Nay. Most of what you saw he brought with him from the East. Our master is a crafty tradesman.”

After Coran locked the doors, they returned to the house together. Hearing the sounds of revelry still coming from the hall, Brenna bid Coran goodnight and went quickly upstairs to the sewing room.

Though it was the middle of the night, Brenna was still wide awake. She turned over and burrowed deeper into the furs. There was a small fireplace in the room, but she had not bothered to light a fire in it. Now she wished she had. It was odd, but she could not remember ever being cold at home. Yet there had been chilling winters there too.

Home—so far away. No one was left there to make it home for her. She missed her father terribly. If he were alive, he would be moving heaven and earth to find her. A comforting thought, but not realistic. She missed Linnet, too, who was so close, yet unreachable. And God forbid, she even missed her stepsister.

If these self-pitying thoughts do not stop, I will be crying soon, Brenna chided herself. A moment later, she heard the stairs creak under a great weight and Garrick bellowed out her name from down the corridor.

“Brenna!” he yelled again.

“By the saints, Viking, must you shout the house down?” Brenna said to herself as she went to open the door. She called out to him in a soft whisper, “I am here. You have no doubt aroused your mother with your blustering,” she added as he came over to stand before her. “Did you consider that?”

“That good woman is used to being roused from sleep during a feast,” Garrick answered in a loud voice which made Brenna grimace.

“By her husband, yea, but not by a drunken son,” she scolded quietly. “Now what did you want?”

“I am not drunk, mistress,” he said evenly enough, his dimples showing as he grinned. “To answer your inquiry, I want you,” he added as he laughed and grabbed her about the waist, lifting her from the floor and carrying her against his hip to his room. Once inside, he set her down. She backed away from him toward the divan while he closed the door. When he faced her he grinned, but did not approach her.

“Will you have some wine with me?” he asked pleasantly enough.

Brenna hesitated, wondering at his mood. It was the first time he had offered her wine. She recalled him saying once that slaves were not allowed it.

“Yea, I will drink with you.”

She curled up against the armrest on the divan while he filled two chalices from a wineskin. A single candle lit the room and cast a flickering, dim light, but Brenna could see Garrick clearly. He did not appear drunk as she first suspected. He had changed from the clothes he wore earlier to dark-green trousers with soft-skinned boots trimmed in white fur. His short robe was of white silk, with green thread shot through the hem and the long sleeves. On his chest rested a gold medallion with a single large emerald in the center, instead of the engraved silver medallion he usually wore. He looked terribly handsome this night, and Brenna found it hard to take her eyes from him.

Garrick brought her a chalice. She took only a small sip of the bittersweet liquid, savoring the taste, then held the vessel in her lap as she watched him move to light a fire in the hearth. She had forgotten how chilly it was, forgotten everything except Garrick’s presence.

The fire caught, and added more light to the room. Garrick picked up his wine and joined Brenna on the divan. He leaned back against the wall and raised one leg, on which he rested his arm, then took a long draught of wine.

Brenna was so nervous waiting for Garrick to make some kind of move that her hands would have trembled if she were not gripping the chalice so tightly in her lap.

“The wine is not to your liking?”

She started when he spoke, then looked guiltily at him. “Nay—I mean, ’tis fine.”

He grinned at her knowingly. “If you have it in mind to delay me with the excuse you have not finished your wine, ’twill not work. Still, I am not in a hurry, mistress, so relax and drink your wine. You may have more when you finish.”

Brenna took his advice and downed the intoxicating liquid, hoping it would steady her nerves. Yet she could not relax, even as the wine warmed her blood.

Finally she leaned back, beginning to feel the effects of the wine. “If you were to die, Garrick, what would happen to me?”

He looked at her with amusement. “Are you contemplating foul play?”

“Nay, I fight fairly. But suppose you did not return from one of your hunting trips?”

Garrick sighed and stared thoughtfully at the chalice in his hand. “Since I have no bastards nor a wife, all that I own will fall to my father. That should please you, Brenna,” he added dryly.

Brenna knew what he meant, but she could not let him see that. “Why should that please me? I hate your father even more than you.”

“Would you still hate him if he set you free? That is his wish,” Garrick said in annoyance. “He regrets now that he gave you to me.”

Brenna finished her wine and looked at Garrick seriously. “Then give me back or sell me to him.”

Garrick picked up a lock of her hair from her shoulder and twirled it slowly around his finger. “And what would you do for me, sweet Brenna, if I agreed?”

She stared at him in surprise. What price freedom? “Anything,” she breathed.

“You would make love to me?”

She did not hesitate. “Yea, even that.”

Garrick set his wine down and pulled her onto his lap, supporting her back with his arm. He grinned down at her before he buried his head in the hollow of her neck. His lips felt like a searing brand, and she moaned softly until his mouth claimed hers in a kiss that demanded more than a mere response.

Brenna dropped her empty chalice on the floor and gripped Garrick’s head, pulling him even closer. She was lost to him. She did not know if it was for freedom or for herself, and she didn’t care. She wanted him.

Brenna protested when Garrick moved her and stood up, but smiled when she saw him begin to remove his clothing. She stretched languidly, contentedly, before she got up to do the same. On her feet she swayed dizzily, then giggled.

“Too much of your precious wine, I think.”