Lord of Fire and Ice (6 page)

“Your tunic is still in the other room. It should be dry enough by now,” she said, trying to keep her tone even and failing miserably. “Go put it on.”

“
Ja
, princess. As you will.” He stomped toward the door to the main bath but stopped before putting his hand to the latch. His thick cock was still engorged, and the muscles beneath his skin twitched, ready for action; however the expression on his face was anything but a lover’s summons. The oil lamps seemed to flare brighter for a moment, but Katla dismissed it as a trick of light. “This is not over, you know.”

She lifted her chin. “It is if I say it is. Step lively, thrall. You will attend me at table this night.”

Brandr made a low growling noise in the back of his throat and left, slamming the door behind him. The lamps flickered hotly and then dimmed.

Must have been the blast of air from when he opened the door
, she reasoned, though she didn’t remember ever seeing them vary so wildly before.

Katla sank onto the bench near the cooling barrels, afraid her legs wouldn’t hold her up any longer. She crossed her arms over her breasts, her body throbbing for the release Brandr would’ve given her.

But she couldn’t have done otherwise.

She would control him. Not the other way around. She still had to avenge Osvald.

She drew a ragged breath and tried to clear her head of the heart-stopping things he’d done to her. The things he’d made her wish he’d do. Her belly turned a slow backflip at the thought of his mouth on her.

His kiss. Everywhere.

No
, Katla told herself sternly. She had no time for such dallying. Her brothers had brought another suitor for her to consider. Albrikt Gormson of Stord Island was no doubt waiting in her longhouse that very moment, wondering what was keeping her.

She didn’t need a lover. She might well have a husband before long. A man who wouldn’t play games, who wouldn’t have to be ordered to kiss her, and who most especially wouldn’t be the son of her enemy.

Katla stood and dressed in the tunic and overdress old Gerte had delivered to the bath house for her. She fastened her best brooches at her shoulders. After plaiting her hair, she twined the braid around her head and fitted the elaborate headdress over her wet hair.

Dressed in her best ensemble, she was the perfect picture of a high-ranking Norse matron. She had to be. If she was to give Gormson’s suit a fair hearing, she must present herself in a way that brought credit to her house.

Her body still craved Brandr, but the worst of the madness was passing. She sniffed the air, hoping she no longer smelled like a wanton. The stiff brocade overdress had been laid by with cedar chips, so the fresh scent of wood followed her out the bath house door. But before she reached the longhouse, she had to admit Brandr was right.

This was not over.

Katla’s longhouse might not have been the largest structure in the islands, but it was undoubtedly the cleanest. She demanded her people respect their living space and one another by keeping their home spotless and sweet smelling.

Therefore, when she pushed through the big double doors, she was aghast to find the floor was slick with spilled food and slopped drink. Swirling scents of a rich feast combined with ale, beer, and mead fumes. They coalesced into a smoky fug that hovered in the high peak of the longhouse.

A grease fire sputtered on the central hearth, and Inga, the girl whose job it was to turn the spit, was trying to beat it out with one of the sheepskins. With another determined slap of the rug, Inga quelled the blaze, turning the air gray and hazy with even more smoke now that the flames had died.

The girl had been Osvald’s bed slave, but Katla had freed her when he was killed. Inga asked to be allowed to stay on as a freed servant, and she’d become one of Katla’s best workers. Right now, Inga was the only one who seemed to be trying to keep some semblance of order.

Katla bit her lip to avoid shouting for quiet. Shouting was unbecoming.

No one had waited for her arrival before being served. As she walked down the long room, she saw trenchers piled high with glistening chicken cooked in beer, root vegetables glazed with honey, and barley bread slathered with butter.

Her people raised their horns to her, drinking to her health as she passed, but her brothers were the founders of this feast. Finn obviously wanted to impress her suitor with a lavish display, not mindful the bounty she’d laid by with such care would have to last till harvest. When the last carrot was gone and the last barrel of barley meal was spent long before the new crop could be harvested, what would her brothers do then?

She shot Finn a glare that should have lit him aflame. Perhaps later, she’d have Inga beat
him
with a rug.

There was a stranger in the seat of honor next to her empty place. Katla knew without being told this was Albrikt Gormson of Stord Island. He had the solitary look of a man who commanded other men and demanded their unquestioning allegiance.

In that, they were cut from the same cloth. She, too, was alone and firmly in charge.

Most of the time.

Katla could tell Albrikt was a formidable man among a race of formidable men. His russet hair gleamed with oil, and his beard was neatly braided. A wicked scar snaked across one of his cheekbones, turning a corner of his mouth up in a habitual sneer. It demolished any chance Albrikt would be considered handsome, but that was low on the list of masculine attributes she needed in a husband.

A
warrior, this one.

Osvald had been a farmer. She’d tread warily till she learned if Albrikt was the sort who wore his power lightly or if he felt the need to grind others down with it.

His eyes were so pale, they glinted like a wolf’s, feral in the dimness. A silver armband bound the thick muscle of his bared sword arm, and his tunic was trimmed with ermine. He was a man of wealth, if the richness of his garments were any indication, and obvious physical power.

How on earth had her chuckleheaded brothers ever managed to reach even a tentative agreement with this man? Especially such a lopsided bargain that had him giving up his much-larger estate for her?

“Glad you could join us, sister,” Finn said. “You certainly made us wait long e—”

“A wait well worth it.” Albrikt cut him off without apology, rising to his full, impressive height. “Katla the Black, your brothers told me you are a good steward of your late husband’s wealth. I respect wisdom and industry in a woman, but they failed to mention that you are also exceedingly comely.”

She dipped in a low curtsey. Albrikt Gormson’s words were fair enough, but they didn’t make her belly flutter like Brandr’s rousing confession.

I
burn
to
kiss
you. Everywhere.

She forced herself to focus on the man who’d presented himself to court her, instead of the one who was trying to seduce her.

“Welcome, Albrikt, son of Gorm.” Katla swept around the table to take her place at his side, careful to face forward, but she watched him from the corner of her eye as a mouse would give heed to the cat lolling by the fire. “I trust the food is to your liking.”

“
Everything
is to my liking.” Now that the formal introductions were over, he obviously felt he could address her with more intimacy. He imbued the word with unmistakable meaning, and in case she had any doubt, he followed it up with a slow perusal of her profile, not stopping at her chin.

Since her brothers didn’t seem to mind the man ogling her in public, she’d have to ignore it. The man was her guest. She couldn’t make a scene.

“I’m sure my brothers showed you the extent of my possession. My husband left me a snug holding,” she said, taking a small sip of her ale.

“Your brothers couldn’t show me that.” Albrikt barked a short laugh. “Just what every man wants in a wife—a snug holding. I’ll look forward to that tour.”

She bit her tongue.

Her nape prickled, and she lifted her gaze as the doe raises her head when she senses an arrow is on the string, aimed for her heart. Brandr Ulfson was leaning against one of the longhouse’s massive support posts midpoint along one wall.

His deep brown eyes were riveted on her.

She jerked her gaze away.

“You have missed my meaning, sir,” she said to her guest, her tone clipped and icy.

“Mayhap.” Albrikt leaned toward her. “And mayhap you wanted to distract me with wondering just how snug your
holding
is. You’re a cagey one, Katla. No one without a level head between her ears could make a small farm like this one support so many mouths.”

She allowed herself a small smile at this acknowledgment of her accomplishments. It pleased her even more than when he called her comely. Her appearance was none of her doing, so she could hardly take pleasure in an accident of nature. But the success of her steading was due to her hard work and management. And Gormson had noticed. Her cheeks warmed at his praise.

“So I expect you’re clever enough to know finalizing the contract is the last time a woman has real power in a marriage,” Albrikt said.

“When you put it like that, there’s very little incentive for me to take another husband.”

“I didn’t make the world, but that’s the way of it. Besides, your brothers have told me you’ve sworn to marry. So you want to negotiate the best possible terms from me. I understand that.” He clinked the rim of his drinking horn with hers. “And respect it.”

“We are far from finalizing terms or anything else.”

Albrikt speared a plump sausage with his knife. “Your brothers have already admitted they want my land on Stord. What is it
you
want from me?”

“I don’t know you well enough to know if you have anything I want,” she said tartly.

A trencher groaning under the weight of food was plopped down before her.

“Surely from among all that, you’ll find something you want, my lady,” Brandr said.

“That’s enough from you for this evening,” she warned.

He bent in a mocking bow before he came around the table and took his station behind her.

Gormson turned and shot Brandr a glare. “When thralls speak out of turn on Stord, we remove their tongues.”

Katla would never allow such a cruel thing, but she hoped Brandr was eavesdropping from his place of subservience. It would serve him right to stew a bit.

“This one is new to the iron collar,” Katla said. “He hasn’t been thoroughly schooled in his duties yet.”

Albrikt grunted and shoveled in a large bite of chicken. “A sound whipping would teach him quick enough.”

“The son of Ulf is the first thrall I’ve ever owned, so if he offended you, the fault is mine.” Katla picked at her own trencher, unsure where to begin so as not to topple the mound of food onto the table. “Obviously, his training is far from complete.”

“The son of Ulf?” Albrikt turned around to give Brandr a more thorough inspection. “Ulf of Jondal?”

“That’s the one. Ulf the Ruthless. The man who killed my husband.” Katla took a long draught of ale. She rarely drank to excess, but she suspected this night might call for it. “But Ulf is dead, so I took his son as my thrall to avenge the death of my husband.”

Albrikt stared at her for moment, his pale eyes darkening as his pupils widened. Then he chuckled.

“Katla the Black. And here I thought you were named for your raven hair.” He slammed his palm on the table and loosed a full-throated guffaw. “Now I see they meant your heart. Enslaving the son for the deeds of his dead father! That’s an idea I’ll remember and use as the occasion calls for it.” He laughed again. “I like you, woman. We’re well suited, you and I. You remind me of me.”

She arched a brow at him. “I think it should remind you not to anger me.”

“Noted,” Albrikt said with a gruff nod. Then he turned to Brandr. “A friend of mine was on the Orkney coast when Ulf Skallagrimsson’s ship went down in that storm. He told me your father wailed like a little maid before he sank for the last time.”

Then Albrikt fell to his meal with renewed relish and an occasional chuckle.

Katla sensed Brandr stiffening behind her and hoped he’d control himself. If he insulted or, Odin help her, attacked a guest, she’d be honor bound to punish him, despite the provocation. To distract him, she lifted her horn for him to refill and was glad to see him tight-lipped but struggling to bridle himself.

“Pay him no heed,” she whispered to Brandr.

“I will if you will.” He shot a glare at Albrikt but stepped back when Katla waved him away.

An insult to a thrall was not uncommon, but Albrikt’s other words seared her mind.

Enslaving
the
son
for
the
deeds
of
his
dead
father.

She’d thought it the logical course when her brothers first dropped Brandr across her threshold. When it was put so baldly, enthralling the son of Ulf did smack more of cold vindictiveness than honorable vengeance.

She reminded Albrikt of himself. The last thing she wanted was to be like this warrior from Stord. Not that he was a bad sort, even though he did take an unnecessary swipe at Brandr, knowing a thrall had no recourse. He was no different than many other men she knew—shrewd, strong, and ruthless.

Still, there was something about the man that made her hackles rise. He was not here because he wished to court her for herself, however much he might appreciate her appearance, and he’d already dismissed her property as small.

So what did he really want?

Albrikt Gormson is naught but a violator of sheep and
wants
only
to
add
you
to
the
flock, Katla
, Brandr would have told her if the princess would deign to let him speak. He’d always been a steady judge of character, and in short order, he’d decided Gormson had none.

Desiring a woman was one thing. He completely understood Gormson’s lascivious glances at Katla, even though they made his fingers ball into fists.

But the urge to subjugate, to dominate and control her, was quite another thing. He saw that need flare in Gormson’s eyes more often than raw lust.

This man meant Katla, and the people she cared for, no good.

Brandr stood by, refilling Katla’s drinking horn, and Gormson’s as well, when the man thrust it toward him. In his mind, he gutted and quartered Albrikt several times, but he guarded his expression with care. Only the discipline he’d learned in the Varangian Guard allowed him to stand by in silence.

But that didn’t mean there’d never be a time to act. No matter how frustrated he was with Katla, he wouldn’t let Gormson bring her to grief.

“Have you made preparations for the defense of this farmstead?” Gormson asked.

“We have,” Katla said circumspectly. “But we’ve had peace on Tysnes for so long, there’s been little need.”

“There’s every need,” Albrikt said. “I’m a fair hand with a blade. Mayhap you’d like a demonstration. Who’s your best fighter?”

“There’s too much work to be done to chance injuring someone in a mock battle. I won’t risk any of my people.”

Gormson turned and eyed Brandr. “Then risk one who isn’t part of your household.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll take your word for it. No doubt you’re very skilled with a sword.”

“The ear may hear, but the eye believes.” Albrikt leaped up and plowed into Brandr, shouldering past him with enough force to spin him around, nearly knocking him off his feet.

Brandr clutched at the back wall to remain upright, but he bit back a snarl. He was less successful about keeping the torches from flaring brightly around the long room. When he tamped down his anger, they returned to normal.

Katla gaped after Albrikt as he continued to walk another few paces.

Then Albrikt stopped and turned to look back at Brandr. “No challenge? Not a word of rebuke? Do you not care that I just insulted you, thrall?”

Brandr’s eyes blazed. “’Tis not the first time you’ve done me insult, but my collar protects you. A slave cannot issue a challenge.”

He hadn’t forgotten Gormson’s slanderous words about his father.

“And it won’t be the last time you’re insulted, so long as you wear that iron collar,” Albrikt said as he walked back to stand nose to nose with Brandr. “You may as well get used to insults.”

“That’s enough,” Katla said. “Both of you.”

Albrikt didn’t even glance her way. He put both hands on Brandr’s chest and shoved. Brandr stumbled backward a few paces but didn’t fall.

“Aren’t you going to defend yourself?” the big Stordman demanded.

“If I strike you, I strike off my own head.”

“Oh, that’s right. Pity.” Then Albrikt delivered a blow to Brandr’s jaw that sent him sprawling into the dirt.

Katla shrieked but quickly clamped a hand to her mouth when Brandr glanced toward her with mayhem in his eye.

“I have tried to serve you with honor, princess.” Brandr rose to his feet, his jaw rigid. “Will you give me leave to defend myself?”

Katla shook her head. “Albrikt, I insist—”

“Never mind, Katla,” Albrikt said. “He’s as gutless as his father.”

“Why are you trying to anger me?” Brandr asked through clenched teeth.

“To see if it is still possible. Or did they put an iron ring around your ballocks as well?” Albrikt shook his head, curled his lip at Brandr, and spat in the dirt. “You pathetic excuse for a half man.”

The roar that spewed from Brandr’s throat made everyone jump back a pace. He lunged toward Albrikt, tackling his midsection and sending both of them clattering across the long table in a flurry of flailing arms and legs. Brandr pounded Albrikt, landing several punches that would leave marks on Gormson’s ribs. Albrikt returned the blows, sending a ringing cuff that blacked Brandr’s eye.

When they separated enough to rise to their feet, Albrikt drew his dirk.

Katla sucked in a sharp breath. “Stop! This is still my table, and we will have order here.”

“Your thrall attacked me,” Gormson said, swiping the blood that gushed from the broken skin on his brow. “I have a right to demand his blood.”

“So you do,” Katla said, tight-lipped. “But he was provoked, and he’s unarmed.”

Albrikt straightened and shoved the dirk back into its sheath at his waist. “You’re right. Never let it be said the son of Gorm fought an unfair fight. Call it a moment’s truce while this waste of skin finds a weapon suited to him.”

Katla turned to Finn. “He was armed when you enthralled him, I assume.”

“I was,” Brandr answered for him. “A broadsword in a shoulder baldric, and a dagger.”

“Then fetch his weapons, and be quick,” Katla said. “We’ll move this dispute outside.”

Residents of the longhouse spilled into the inky night, bearing torches and forming a circle.

Brandr followed Katla out. The set of her shoulders was rigid and high. She was obviously furious, but she reined in her emotions with admirable control.

He wondered if she was angry with him or with Albrikt. Both, if the scowl she shot in each of their directions was any measure.

“This is my home. My word is second only to the Law, and these are the rules for this
holmgang
,” she announced in a ringing tone. “This fight is for first blood only.”

“He struck me,” Albrikt said. “I have a right to a kill.”

“Not if you still wish me to consider your suit,” Katla said. “Son of Ulf, if you kill Albrikt Gormson, you will be dealt with according to the Law.”

Even though the penalty for a thrall who killed a freeman was horrific, Brandr was tempted. “Gormson still gets to court you. What do I get if I don’t kill him?”

“If you prove you can show restraint, you’ll be allowed to go armed hereafter,” Katla said. “Do we have an accord?”

Gormson growled his consent.

Brandr nodded. “We have an accord.”

Finn came loping up, bearing Brandr’s weapons. He handed the baldric to him and stepped back into the ring around the combatants.

Brandr drew his sword and made a few practice cuts in the air, testing the blade for weight and balance, in case Finn had ill-used it. He ran his thumb along the edge. A bead of red welled up on the pad of his thumb. Brandr gave a satisfied grunt. Then he settled into a fighting stance and bared his teeth at Gormson in a wolfish grin.

“Now we’re even,” Gormson said, determination glinting in his pale eyes. “Though some might still call this an unfair fight, thrall.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Brandr nodded in satisfaction as he circled Gormson, looking for an opening in the Stordman’s defenses.

“You know a woman’s word is worthless once the
holmgang
begins, don’t you?” Gormson hissed. “If I gut you from balls to breastbone in one stroke, that still counts as first blood, doesn’t it?”

“That’s how I see it.” Brandr feinted left and then struck from the right.

Gormson parried the blow with ease. “Now we have an accord.”

Albrikt was older than Brandr, but he was still a warrior in his fighting prime, with a wealth of experience to aid him. Brandr, however, was blessed with the nimbleness and strength of his younger years and a soul still smarting from Gormson’s insults.

He’d have borne the insults to himself, but he wouldn’t let his father be slandered. The day Brandr’s father wailed like a little maid hadn’t dawned.

They exchanged several ringing blows, but when Gormson pulled his dirk from its sheath, arming both hands, Brandr’s chances dimmed significantly.

Brandr lunged, and Gormson leaped out of the way. But not before his dirk sliced through Brandr’s tunic. Gormson feinted and ran into Brandr’s waiting blade, but he neatly deflected the sharp edge with his own dirk, whirling away unhurt.

There had been a time when combatants in the
holmgang
would stand toe-to-toe, whacking away at each other with no finesse at all, trusting brute strength to win the day. Now fighting was more like a macabre dance, full of leaps and quick turns. They both came close to drawing blood, but Brandr only nicked Gormson’s leather breastplate, and Gormson had only shredded more of Brandr’s disreputable tunic.

Brandr was vaguely aware of the chants of encouragement from the crowd. Einar was taking wagers, shouting out the odds in a loud voice.

He wanted to glance at Katla, but Gormson launched a fresh assault, and his world spiraled down to the next parry, the next thrust.

Keep
your
feet. Don’t stop moving.

Neither gave quarter nor expected it to be given. Their eyes burned feral. Black
berserkr
rage stole over them, setting their blood aflame.

It seemed both were tiring, when Brandr changed tactics and let Gormson get close to him. When Albrikt swiped at him, he used his sword hilt to catch the older man’s blade. With a quick flick of his wrist, he wrenched the sword from Gormson’s hand.

Brandr buried his fist in Albrikt’s belly, and the dirk dropped from Gormson’s grip. With his opponent doubled over, Brandr swept Gormson’s legs from under him in a swift kick.

Albrikt landed flat on his back, sucking wind. With a final roar, Brandr brought his blade down suddenly on Gormson’s neck, stopping a hair’s breadth from the older man’s pulsing life vein. Brandr’s chest heaved, and every bit of his blood screamed out at him for stopping short of the actual kill.

The crowd fell into stunned silence. A thrall had bested a freeman, a landed
karl
. It would take a moment for their world to right itself.

“Do you yield?” Brandr asked between gasping breaths.

“No,” Gormson said between clenched teeth.

“Then I guess I’ll have to blood you.” Brandr pressed down enough to pink Gormson’s neck with a thin mark. He straightened and looked down at Gormson. “Be sure to thank Katla the Black. She’s the only reason you’re still breathing.”