To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse Series Book 2) (19 page)

“Do you think that matters to me?”

“Winter’s coming,” he said, every inch a hard Viking. “It will matter when the best shelter I provide matches what we had on the island.”

“I don’t understand, your shipbuilding on Gotland, won’t that be enough?”

Fingertips digging into his arms, Brandr stared past the open door, and a new higher wall wedged itself around him. A raven landed on the cauldron shard resting on ashes. The quiet unnerved her more than the clamor of a raid. No matter what Brandr’s answer was, she’d lost the man she loved before he was even hers to claim.

“There is a…
requirement
.”

She swallowed the dryness in her throat. “You mean a woman.”

The skin tightened around his eyes. “Yes.”

“Is this what you want?”

Brandr turned, his silver eyes pinning her. “No. I want you.”

Her knees buckled but she caught herself, setting a hand over her belly. Why did he have to say beautiful words on one hand and ugly words on the other? He was gutting her one simple statement at a time. Brandr was never fluid with words, but she deserved more than this.

“I don’t understand,” she said raising an imploring hand. “Please explain yourself better.”

“It’s simple. I have no land. No means to take care of you save my sword. I’d sell it but where would we be if I had no weapon to defend you?”

“We would make do.”

“With battles rising like the tides these days? Not a chance,” he scoffed. “Until the question of who sits on the throne is settled, more trouble such as what we faced on the island will come.”

“But—”

“In the best of times a man should never be without his weapons,” he snapped.

Her breath raced. “You’d rather have security and be with the wrong woman than be with me?”

He leaned a shoulder against the shutter, his eyes a touch mocking. “Didn’t you tell Ella it’s better to have security with a wealthy master than forge a life on your own?”

“You heard me?”

“I’ve heard a good many things you’ve said.”

“That’s not fair!” But, it was true. She’d said that and spouted similar words all summer long.

“Is it unfair because you’re a woman? Because you were born a slave? What makes life fair for the likes of us?”

Chin dipping, she wrapped both arms around her waist. Scalding tears stung her eyes, threatening to spill. “I’m not that woman anymore. Because of you.”

“No. Because of you.”

She raised her head to meet sharp, all-seeing eyes. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Brandr knew what it was to claw his way back from dark, degraded places. He was on his way to making a better place for himself when this thing between them happened.

“You changed, became stronger, became a woman of courage all on your own,” he went on. “
You
did that, Sestra. No one can lay claim to your bravery, your will…those were gifts you gave yourself.”

She leaned a shoulder on the shutter facing him, and her head slumped against solid wood. Wind riffled through long grass where sheep once roamed. She’d visited Lord Hakan’s farm when it thrived this past summer, and in the blink of an eye, lives were changed. These troubled times stole the farm of a worthy chieftain yet offered her a way out of lifelong enslavement. Nothing here was fair.

Freedom tasted bland in her mouth if she couldn’t be with Brandr.

She stared at the lonely fields outside, hot, churning bile roiling in her stomach. “Tell me about her.”

“Sestra,” he chided.

“Do you love her?”

Her eyes bored into him. Primal emotions pushed her. No matter how painful, she wanted details. She’d gambled on hope and lost again. This was what happens when she spoke her deepest wishes aloud.

“No.” His mouth clamped a hard line as if refusing to give more, but her furious glare must’ve prodded the stubborn warrior.

Sighing, he explained, “Last spring, Hakan bid me to stay at his ringed fort near Paviken, on Gotland. He was taking his last voyage before settling in to farm here.”

“The voyage that brought me to Uppsala.”

“Yes,” he said, eyeing the fields. “If I’d been with him, all would be different, wouldn’t it?”

“It’s like a test.”

The small line slanted hard between his brows. “One I’ve failed.”

“You’ve wanted to build ships like Egil for a long time, haven’t you?” she asked quietly.

“Yes. Thought about it every day when I trudged through ibn Dawla’s fight yard.”

“What happened last spring?”

“I ran into Grete, Egil’s widow in Paviken. She was overjoyed to see me.”

Her body jerked off the shutter. “She doesn’t expect you to serve her as slave again? Not after all you’ve been through?”

“No. She welcomed me to her home. Treated me like a son. I shared what had happened in the years since I last saw her. We both shed tears of sadness over Egil, but she’d long since remarried. To another shipbuilder.”

Sestra stared past the open shutters at the fields, folding her arms on the bottom frame. Brandr’s feet shifted the subtle sound loud in the cavernous longhouse. In her side vision, he stood beside her, his hand gripping the wooden frame near her elbow.

“Grete’s husband is long in years but he has a daughter—”

“Of course he does.” She rolled her eyes, and Brandr waited.

A gentle breeze blew wisps of hair across her face, and she saw green fields through a haze of red. If survival was a need, love was pure want. His tale of wants and needs poured salt on a new wound; one she suspected would never fully heal.

“He asked if I’d consider marrying her,” he finished.

Men and women married all the time for lesser reasons. Love was a luxury, and she was still a slave. It’d be unwise to get drunk on too much freedom.

 “I was promised half his forest as a dowry,” he said. “A longhouse had already been built inland on a river. He vowed the rest of the forest would be mine when he dies.”

“A fine prize. No wonder you took it.”

Instant wealth and stature. What former slave wouldn’t grab the opportunity?

“I still had the matter of my service to Hakan. I said I’d consider the offer.”

She turned to him. “Then you haven’t accepted.”

“No. I couldn’t get a certain flame-haired thrall out of my mind.” His voice was hoarse as he reached over to twist a floating curl floating around his finger.

“Why did you never say anything to me?” Her lips pursed. “Except to insult me for flirting, laziness, and a sharp-tongue.”

“I thought it was a matter of lust,” he said, his thumb stroking the curl “And more importantly, I wanted you
to want
your freedom.”

“Now I want you.” She stood before him, heart open. “I would easily trade everything for you.”

Did he not understand the power of what they shared? Love wasn’t a transaction done between merchants. It was bigger and grander, the whole of it immeasurable. That’s what made the emotion perfect. Love was free yet was the most costly thing in the world.

His brow darkened at the humble declaration. He ran his fingers over the long red curl and let go. “First, I need to feed you.”

“Brandr—”

He set one finger on her lips. “Food first. Words can wait.”

Because he’d take care of her. Brandr gave his all when he looked after others.

He strapped his sword across his back. “Keep an ear open for Hakan’s men.”

His footsteps light, Brandr disappeared into the forest of trees behind the longhouse. Lord Hakan’s home had been built into the knoll, its roof covered in grass.

She touched his hudfat, burying her nose in coarse fur. His smell lingered on the sleeping fur and on his leather bag, his scent fresh like wind and water and pine trees. From his bag, the springy aroma of mint leaves wafted from the bag’s narrow opening.

She wandered the length of the longhouse, finishing her braid. For all her relaxed nature, idleness felt wrong. She settled on the earthen floor to sharpen her knife on a makeshift whetstone from the fire pit. With a steady hand, she slid the small stone over her blade. Orange cinders glowed amidst ashes beside her. Up and down the stone sharpened iron, the action soothing. There had to be a way to convince Brandr to forge a life with her.

If her palm full bought her freedom, wouldn’t his be enough for a good start? Not enough to build ships, but to start a good life.

The whetstone poised over her small blade when hooves pounded outside the longhouse. She jumped up, dropping the rock. Feet rooted to the ground, her attention locked onto the open, sunny lintel. She hid the knife in the folds of her skirt. In the yard, iron rings clanked. It was the thunderous jangle of metal ornaments Vikings put on their horses for battle.

The noised chilled her spine. She’d heard the sound…in Cherbourg.

In the Dane’s slave camp.

Brandr crouched behind the tree. Through the leaves he counted Gorm with ten riders. Where was Sestra? Sweat beaded on his forehead. He glanced at the river. No boats. He checked the forest line beyond the rye field. Nothing moved.

Where were Hakan’s men?

The Dane pointed at the barn. “You three search the barn, the weaving shed, all the outbuildings.” He waved his arm toward the forest beyond the fields. “You three. Check the forest.” Shading his eyes, he studied the Fyris before notching his head that way. “The two of you, go to the river and see if you find any signs of boats in the sand.”

Hardened fighters galloped their horses across the fields to the forest, the others veered to the river. Three men jumped off their horses, striding through the yard. One knelt by the broken cauldron piece. He sifted through the ashes of yesterday’s fire. He swiped a hand through the center of the broken metal and sniffed his fingertips.

“Gorm. I smell food cooked here.” His tongue tasted one finger. “Rabbit stew. Possibly yesterday.”

The Dane circled his horse around the man crouched by the cauldron. He scanned the line of trees by the longhouse. “They could be hiding in those trees. Keep looking.”

Had Sestra climbed through the shutter openings? Brandr spied no movement below the knoll.

The Dane spoke in low tones to a bulky man. The man turned to the forest, his beady eyes narrowing. The Red Bearded man of Aland, the one who ogled Sestra.

Sweat trickled down Brandr’s temple. Sven had his spies, the Dane had his.

Noises came from the barn and the weaving shed. One man ransacked the weaver’s shed, tossing out a broken loom. Broken pottery shards shattered in the yard. Foolish warrior. He wouldn’t last long with his lanky swagger and puffed out chest.

“Could you be any louder?” the Dane called from atop his brown warhorse. “If Hakan’s men were coming down river, you’ve just announced our presence.” Gorm jabbed a thumb at the longhouse. “Check in there.
Quietly
.”

Sestra.

Brandr dropped to the ground. He inched along on his belly, 
Jormungand
in one hand, his knife in the other. If he rolled off the other side of the roof away from the yard…

A scream rent the air.

“Get your hands off me, you filthy swine.” Sestra.

The lanky warrior led her out of the longhouse, her braid wrapped twice around his hand, a small leather bag clutched in the other. “Look here, Lord Gorm. A woman—” He paused, jerking her braid with one hand, shaking the treasure hoard with the other. “—and the silver you’re after.”

“Give it here.” Gorm cupped his hands to receive the leather bag the warrior tossed up to him. The Dane hefted the bag in one hand, the metal clinking. “Not much is left.”

“Could be the woman knows what happened to the rest.” Red Beard folded his hands on the pommel.

Gorm raised the bag. “Either way, your payment for spying, as agreed.” And he lobbed it Red Beard.

Red Beard frowned at the bag. “Let me at the woman.”

“Not yet.” Gorm nudged his steed forward, closer to the longhouse doorway where Sestra struggled against the lanky warrior.

Brandr inched along the roof, the grass covering muffling sound well. Three men were deep in the forest. Two searched the riverfront on foot. Five men here in the yard plus Gorm.

Ibn Dawla’s voice cracked with an ancient bahadur lesson.
Cut off the head of a snake, and his tail is harmless.

His belly rubbing grass, his boot toes dug into the roof, scooting him little by little.

Get Gorm. Save Sestra. Get Gorm. Save Sestra.

The rhythm flowed through his veins. Blood pounded in his ears. Gorm badgered Sestra with questions. He couldn’t see her but her cries pierced his heart. He loved her more than life.

More than ships and land and promised wealth.

Sun beat down on him. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. The three men led their horses toward the longhouse, jesting crudely about the curvy flame-haired thrall. His teeth gnashed hard. He’d kill them all.
Get Gorm. Get Sestra.

Her tearful words carried, “No. I’m here alone. Brandr left me.”

He flinched. Her words sliced him. He’d vowed to protect her, yet this morning had one foot almost out the door.

“Yet, his belongings are here and his sword is not.” Gorm. The crown of his red hair shined in the sun. “I’ll ask again, where is the scout? And where is Hakan?”

“I don’t know anything. I’m a thrall,” she cried.

Slap.
The crack of flesh on flesh burned him. He was ready to drop on the Dane and cut his throat.

“You’re a thrall who’s forgotten her place. I won’t—”
Slap. Slap.
“—ask again.”

Five men gathered around Gorm, entertained by the woman kneeling in the dirt. None paid attention to their surroundings. Copper spurted across his tongue. Every muscle tensed for the leap.

Brandr pushed off his hands and knees. He dropped on Gorm, and they tumbled in the yard.
Jormungand
rattled on the ground, coming loose in his grip.

His knife swiveled in his sweat-slick palm. He sliced the Dane’s forearm, but his tenacious enemy took the pain and jabbed an elbow into his ribs.
Crack
. Sharp pain. Near the bruise he’d got on the island. Air whooshed from his lungs. Dirt smeared his lips.