Fires of Winter (40 page)

“Nay, as long as you wish, Brenna. But my husband has bid me tell you that come spring, he will return you to your land if that is your desire.”

Brenna took this news with mixed feelings. To leave this cold land had long been her only wish, then she had lost her heart to Garrick. And now? What would it matter if she put the distance of their respective lands between them? There was an ocean between them now as deep as any, filled with hatred and distrust.

“Brenna, is that what you want?”

“Yea.” Her answer came as a whisper.

“But there is no one for you to return to—is there?” Heloise asked sadly.

“Nay,” Brenna replied and lowered her eyes. “Yet there is no one for me here either.”

“Your aunt is here—and your sister. And I have come to love and worry over you myself, because my son—”

“Do not mention him to me!” Brenna snapped, cutting her off. “He is the most hateful, mean, most distrusting person I have ever known!” Brenna stopped, biting her lower lip.

“Forgive me. He is your son and I suppose he can do no wrong in your eyes.”

“Nay, my son has done much that I am not proud of,” Heloise admitted.

Brenna fought to shake Garrick from her thoughts. “My aunt? Would you release her to sail home with me?”

“I do not know, child.” Heloise frowned. “She and I have become close friends, yet I suppose you will need her more than I. I will think on it and decide before you sail.”

“And my sister, and the other women from my village?” Brenna persisted.

“The others have made new homes, Brenna. From what I know, they are happy here.”

“As slaves?” She could not keep the sarcasm from her tone.

“You and I could argue endlessly over this issue, Brenna,” Heloise smiled. “I know how you feel and you know my views. These other women are no worse off than they were.” Brenna started to protest, but Heloise held up a hand so she could continue. “And your sister can never be released now, for she carries my oldest son’s child. I do not think she will want to return to a ruined estate anyway.”

Brenna cringed. She had not thought of that. She would have to build a new home to replace the old one. Even if the gray manor still stood, she could not bear to live there alone.

“You said there is a house where I may live until spring?”

“Yea, ’tis not far from here, near a small lake. And there is a well close to the house.”

“I will of course pay for the use of the house.”

“Of course.” Heloise said diplomatically, knowing better than to argue with stubborn pride. “The family who used the house last gave a share of their summer crop. But since you cannot do that, I think two furs a week will do for payment. I understand you have hunted game since you were a child, so this should not be too difficult for you.”

“Nay, ’tis too little. I will give three furs a week,” Brenna returned adamantly.

“Brenna!” Heloise admonished.

“I insist.”

The older woman shook her head, but smiled despite herself. “Then I insist you let me furnish you with salt, for you will end up with more meat than you can eat and will have to cure it. Also oats and rye, and some dried vegetables, for you cannot exist wholly on meat.”

Brenna nodded, satisfied. “I agree. And I will also have enough furs by spring to pay for my passage home.”

“Now
that
is not necessary, Brenna. Anselm will not hear of it.”

“Nonetheless, that is the way ’twill be.” And she turned and left the hall.

Heloise threw up her hands. “Foolish pride,” she muttered under her breath before she again started working at the loom.

T
he little house was perfectly suited to Brenna’s needs, and had been thoroughly cleaned before she arrived. It was small enough to contain the warmth of a fire, and very near the woods, where ample game roamed. In the house were iron pots for cooking, clean woolen blankets, a crossbow and snares for hunting, and even a change of clothing made of soft wool, and a warmer cloak.

The only thing that had not been provided was a tub to bathe in, but Brenna supposed that was because the small lake was so near. However, the lake was now covered with ice, and breaking that ice to wash in freezing water was not in the least tempting. She would manage with sponge baths until the weather warmed.

Brenna settled into her new home with the joy and excitement of a small child. She was independent now, solely responsible for herself. She luxuriated in her new freedom, but it did not take long for the novelty to wear off and loneliness to set in. With such complete solitude, she could not stop herself from thinking of Garrick constantly. When she saw him one day in the woods and they passed with the hostility of enemies, saying not a word, her brooding became even worse.

She would wear herself out hunting each day, then exhaust herself further by preserving the meat and treating the hides, finally making her meal for the following day before she would at last go to bed. Her days became monotonous, involving only work, as she tried desperately to keep her mind filled with immediate concerns.

The ice cracked and melted with the lengthening of daylight hours, but the weather seemed no warmer, so Brenna still chose not to bathe in the lake. Then new flowers began to take the place of winter blooms, and snow disappeared from most of the land. Spring had come to Norway.

Brenna was ecstatic when she saw the cart drawing near her house. She hoped it would be Heloise or Linnet, with news of how soon Anselm would sail. But she was so starved for company that she was not in the least disappointed when Janie and Maudya alighted from the cart that Erin had brought them in.

After warm greetings were exchanged, Brenna took them in her house, grateful that she had a generous meal stewing that she could offer them. Erin had brought a skin of wine which Garrick had given him over the winter celebration, and they all drank to each other’s health. Erin then went to cut wood for Brenna against her protests, for he felt uneasy around so many chattering women. At first Janie and Maudya were distant, awed by Brenna’s new status, but as they consumed more wine and felt Brenna’s genuine warmth, their unease soon disappeared.

“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.”