Fires of Winter - Viking 1

by Johanna Lindsey

  On the very day the winds settled, Anselm came to Garrick's home, bringing with him an extra mount, a fine-bred silver-coated mare. His wife had told him (as related to her by Linnet) that this particular animal had belonged to the Lady Brenna. For three long months now he had brooded over the raven-haired girl. His own son's displeasure with her did not make him feel any better. He regretted giving her to Garrick, for though he had not come to see her personally over the months, he feared she had not fared well with Garrick's dark moods.

  Anselm had given the girl to Garrick with the hope that her spirit and beauty would turn his mind from the bitch who had changed a cheerful young man into a cold cynic. When Garrick sought out the girl's sister, and then a month later spoke at length with the aunt, Anselm assumed his desire to learn more of the girl was a promising beginning, and soon he would have back his son of old. But after that, Garrick's foul disposition did not improve, it actually worsened. Why, Anselm could not guess. Now Garrick took to the hills for weeks at a time, and Anselm saw little of him.

  Garrick's absences grew more lengthy, and this last trek north had already extended to three weeks. Though Anselm had begun to worry slightly over Garrick's welfare, he would wait a few more days yet before he began a search, as Heloise had nagged him to do ever since the snowstorm started.

  "Ho, old man, where are you?"

  Erin came from the back of the stable, wrapped from head to foot in a cloak of multicolored furs. "I hear you," he grumbled in his crusty voice.

  Anselm eyed him with displeasure. "I see Garrick still wastes his furs on you servants."

  "Aye, we're warmer clothed than the poor souls you own," Erin replied, grinning.

  Anselm would not have taken that remark from anyone else, but he was genuinely fond of old Erin. He had served Anselm's father, and now his son, and for many years they had enjoyed heckling one another good-naturedly when they met.

  Anselm grunted, repressing his humor. "I brought a new filly for your stable. Have you room?"

  "Have I room, indeed," Erin mumbled, taking the reins of both horses. "Of course there's room."

  "She is not for Garrick, mind you."

  "Oh?"

  "Nay, she's a gift for the Celtic wench," Anselm said gruffly. "And you be sure and tell my son that when he returns."

  "By the saints!" Erin cackled. "Since when do you bestow such fine gifts on a slave?"

  "Never mind that, old codger. Where is the girl? In the quarters below?"

  "Nay, she lives in the house."

  Anselm was surprised by this news, then he chuckled. "Mayhaps I was not such a fool after all."

  "Do you ask my opinion?" Erin returned, his old eyes alight with laughter.

  "Get about your work!" Anselm barked, and made his way to the house.

  Brenna was in the cooking area, where she spent most of her waking hours, since it was the warmest and most pleasant place in the house. On the table were the remains of her breakfast. Beside it was the rabbit she had started cutting up for her dinner, but had left on the chopping board.

  With Garrick off on a hunting trek, Yarmille had come to stay. She drove Brenna mad with her insistent demands. But a week past, the older woman had returned home, and when the snow came, Yarmille did not come back. Without her authoritative presence, Janie and Maudya stayed in their quarters, and Brenna was not wont to venture from the house to seek them out. Not even Erin came to keep her company, for he had brought her enough provisions from the storehouse to last a fortnight, and preferred to keep to his warm stable.

  Brenna had reached the point where she would almost welcome Yarmille's return. Even though they did not communicate, Yarmille's constant chattering to herself was amusing, at times enlightening.

  On one occasion, Brenna discovered that Yarmille harbored a deep, abiding hate for Heloise, and that hatred reached out to include both of Heloise's sons. This Brenna found confusing, since Yarmille worked for Garrick. She wondered if Garrick was aware of Yarmille's true feelings.

  Brenna dropped another log on the fire, then leaned back in her chair and stared at the flickering flames. She hated to admit it, but she actually missed Garrick. When he was around, she lived in a constant state of apprehension, not knowing when he would demand something of her, or if she would comply or not. When he was there, she never noticed how the hours dragged by. She was alert at all times, alive as she had never been before. And at night, merciful Lord, she was a bundle of nerves at night waiting and dreading for Garrick to come for her again. But he never did, not after the night he had raped her.

  She was bitterly hurt by his treatment of her. Perhaps she could have forgiven him if he had been tender like before. The one night he had been gentle and she had softened to him, it had been wonderful. She could not forget the beauty of it, or the pleasure, like no other, that he had given her. Afterward he had held her possessively, as if he might really care for her, and she had reveled in the closeness they shared.

  But that last time, for him to be so cruel—God, how she hated him for it. She had escaped the house the next day, and tried to dispel her anger with a wild ride on the fastest horse Erin would allow her. It had helped to a degree. She actually felt a little better when, returning, she came across Coran and offered him a ride back to the house. She remembered that now with a grin.

  He had shook his head sternly, eyeing her horse with apprehension. "I will walk, Mistress Brenna," he informed her.

  "What are you doing out here in the fields?" she asked, walking her horse beside him.

  "Avery and I were sent to find a cow who wandered from the pasture."

  "Did you?"

  "Yea, Avery is taking her back now."

  "Come on, Coran," she coaxed him. "I cannot bear to see you walking when 'tis unnecessary. 'Tis a good distance back to the house yet."

  "Nay," he refused again.

  Finally she guessed at his reluctance. "Have you never ridden a horse before?"

  He shook his head and lowered his eyes to the ground. Coran was only a year or two older than Brenna. A lanky youth with a pleasing face, he never grumbled over his enforced servitude. She liked Coran and couldn't help laughing at his reluctance.

  " 'Tis time you learned, Coran. Now come on. I will think you do not like my company if you refuse again."

  Finally he relented with a sheepish grin and she helped him up behind her. Brenna had not felt so carefree in ages, and with a mischievous glint in her gray eyes, she dug her heels into the horse and they shot forward. Coran grabbed hold of Brenna for dear life, mumbling prayers in her ear. But Brenna laughed heartily and spurred the horse on, making Coran grip her that much tighter. She did not see the rider on a hill who sat in a black fury and watched her antics with Coran. She didn't care about anything except that her mood was made lighter for a little while, at least. But it didn't last. As soon as she saw Garrick's angry countenance, and found that no apology was forthcoming for his harsh treatment of her, she was enraged again herself.

  Brenna sighed wistfully. For two long months he ignored her. Then he began to go hunting and stayed away for days. When he was home, he would come in very late. She would wonder then if he had been with Morna. Or perhaps he had gone to Janie or Maudya in their quarters. Mayhaps his father's women—slaves, even Cordelia—were more to his liking! Brenna would pace the floor at those times, building up a fine steam. She told herself she had every right to be upset. She could be sleeping instead of waiting for the master to find his way home.

  One night in particular, when Garrick was overly late for the third night in a row, Brenna went to bed to spite him. He finally came home in a wild, drunken mood, and despite the fact that his food was simmering over the coals, he woke her and dragged her down the stairs to serve him.

  His attitude was belligerent and brooked no refusal, but Brenna was too furious to fear him. She filled a large wooden bowl with steaming soup, then dropped it on the table, spilling half the contents over him. She knew it pained Garrick, but the
fact that he didn't show it cooled her temper. He dismissed her then and she left him quickly. Not a word was said of it the next day.

  Brenna started at the loud pounding on the door. She felt her pulse quicken, for only Garrick would knock like that. He would wonder why the door was locked. Indeed, all the doors were bolted and had been ever since she went for water one morning and found a stray dog slaughtered and left on the stoop. Yarmille had turned white when she saw the dead carcass but she said nothing, leaving Brenna to wonder who would do such a thing.

  She opened the door wide, prepared to tell Garrick why she had locked it. But it was Anselm standing there, wrapped in a heavy fur jacket, which made him look twice as huge as he was. Seeing him gave her a shock, but it took only a second for the white-hot fury to flash in Brenna's eyes.

  She did not think twice before she ran for the table and grabbed the long knife she had used earlier to butcher the rabbit. In her blind rage she was careless. She turned to attack, only to find Anselm behind her. He grabbed her wrist, and with his other hand, pried open her fingers until the knife dropped to the floor. He then swung her away and she fell back against the chair by the hearth, nearly knocking it over.

  She stayed there, breathing heavily, and watched him pick up the knife, then look about for any others before he closed the door. When he faced her, their eyes locked, mellow blue with stormy gray, and it seemed like hours before he finally moved again. Undaunted, he walked over to the table, pulled the long bench out, and straddled it.

  "I mean you no harm, girl," Anselm's words came out gruffly, and he cleared his throat before he continued in a softer tone. "Can you understand me? Have you learned to speak my language yet?"

  Brenna did not blink an eye at his question, but remained perfectly still. She watched him suspiciously. What reason did he have to be here when Garrick was away?

  Anselm fiddled with the knife in his hands, his head bent as he watched the long blade gleam in the firelight. "I expected no less from you," he said in a soft whisper.

  Brenna frowned. What was he talking about? She had to strain to hear him as he continued. "I should not have come, I suppose. 'Tis too soon for you to forget what I did, or to understand why. I hated your people, girl, for what they did to my son. When you have a son of your own, you will understand. Garrick could forgive them, for he learned compassion from his mother, but I could not. We are a proud and vengeful people, but I was wrong to exact my vengeance from you and your family, who were not to blame.

  " 'Twas your northern Celts who held my son prisoner in a murky dungeon for nigh onto a year, and he only a youth of ten and seven then. They denied him nourishment, except for gruel not fit for dogs. They tortured him for sport, but were careful not to kill him, for 'twas their intention to use him against other Vikings who came to raid them. When Garrick escaped and returned to us, he was but a shell of the boy he was. It took over a year for his full strength to return and the scars to heal."

  Anselm finally looked up at Brenna, his blue eyes sad. "I know you do not understand what I am saying, girl. You hear my voice, but do not comprehend my words. 'Tis just as well," he sighed. "I like you, girl. I admire your spirit and I regret that I took you from your land. You will never know this, though, for I am a man with fool pride like any other. I could never say these words to you if you understood them. But I can at least try to make amends and hope that one day you will no longer hate me as you do now."

  Brenna was tempted to speak to Anselm in his own tongue, to let him know she understood every word he said. It would give her some satisfaction to humiliate him thus, but she was reluctant to give up the one secret that might help her when she was ready to escape. Besides, she was disturbed by what her own people had done to Garrick and could see why Anselm might want revenge (even if she could not forgive him for what he and his men had done in her land). After all, Garrick had risked being captured when he chose to raid her people. Still, he should have been killed when taken, not kept to torture just for sport.

  Anselm stood up and dropped the long knife on the table. Brenna watched it fall, then looked quickly back at the huge Viking.

  "Aye, I know you would run me through if given the chance." Anselm spoke again with his customary gruffness. "But do not try it. I have no wish to die yet, not with many years of fighting before me, accounts to settle, and grandsons to see and hold before I join Odin in Valhalla."

  Anselm moved to the hearth to warm his hands by the fire. It was as if he was daring Brenna to run for the knife on the table. Either that, or he was showing that he was willing to trust her. Wisely, she stayed where she was.

  Still he continued to speak, perhaps clearing his conscience. "Ever since I first laid eyes on you, girl, you have weighed heavily on my mind. But I see you have fared well here in my son's home." He glanced at her slyly. "Aye, you have fared well, while Garrick's moods have a darker edge to them. Are you the cause?" Suddenly he grunted. "Bah! As if you would answer me even if you could. I am seven times the fool for talking to a wench who knows naught of what I say. And even more of a fool to give a prized horse to a slave girl. What possessed me to make such a decision—ah, 'tis done. Garrick will not like it, but mayhaps he will allow you to ride the silver mare when he learns she was yours in your land."

  Brenna had to lower her eyes so he would not see the sudden joy reflected there. She could not believe it. Willow here? And given to her—not Garrick—her!

  Anselm crossed to the door to leave. Brenna stared curiously at his back. Why would he do such a thing? After all that he had put her through, it was inconceivable that he should be kind now.

  As if in answer to her silent question, Anselm turned at the door. "Erin will tell you of the horse. I do not expect this to change your feelings for me, girl, but 'tis a beginning." He chuckled. "My action will certainly give you cause to wonder at my motives."

  Whatever his reasons, Willow was here and hers again. She now had a reason to venture out into the icy breath of winter. She would need trousers, though, to ride comfortably and protect her from the cold.

  Brenna suddenly twirled about the room in her excitement. She had not felt this happy for a long time. The fact that Anselm was responsible did not hinder her pleasure. Garrick, on the other hand, might forbid her to take Willow out after her run-in with the two men. A frown crossed her brow, but only for a moment. He could not stop her when he was not here to do so. And when he returned, well, the devil take him. Just let him try to stop her!

  Chapter 22

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  BRENNA entered the stable and quickly closed the large door to keep out the cold. She was tightly wrapped in the heavy bearskin cape that Garrick had tossed at her one day when the last hints of summer had vanished. All of the slaves here had their own capes or jackets made of old furs stitched together and considered worthless for trading.

  Brenna was certainly not happy with hers. Although the fur was clean, the skin was rough and terribly heavy. She was sure Garrick had given her the heaviest cape he could find, just for spite. But it was all she would have unless she raided the locked storehouse where clothing, provisions and Garrick's treasures were kept. This she was determined to do one day with Erin's help. For her escape, she would also need the weapons kept there.

  The stable was warm, and the pungent odors of horse and dung filled her with nostalgia for home. As a child, she had spent most of her time in her father's stable—whenever she was not practicing with her weapons or tagging along behind Angus.

  Erin was nowhere in sight. He was probably sleeping in the back, but Brenna was not eager to wake him, not yet. She could hardly contain her excitement as she scanned the stable for Willow. When she saw the silver-flanked mare, Brenna ran to it, tears glistening in her eyes.

  "Oh, Willow, my sweet Willow. I thought to never see you again!" Brenna cried.

  In truth, she had begun to doubt she would ever see anything from her home again, including her aunt and stepsister. She had asked Garrick once t
o take her to see them, but he had refused without explanation, and she was too proud to ask again.

  Brenna hugged Willow's neck tightly; the horse snorted and shook its head in return. "I am so glad to see you," Brenna said softly, "that I will even forgive you for throwing me the last time I rode you. It has been hell here, but you will make it bearable."

  "Who is there?" Erin called from the back of the stable, then came forward. "Oh, 'tis you, lass. What brings you here?"

  Brenna chewed her lower lip nervously. She hated to fool Erin, but she couldn't trust her secret to anyone, not even this old man she considered her friend.

  "Anselm came to the house yesterday," Brenna finally said. "He talked long, but I did not understand anything he said. I came to ask you what he wanted." Brenna turned to Willow again, and the joy that entered her voice was genuine. "I found my horse, Erin! What is she doing here?"

  Erin chuckled, unaware of Brenna's deception. "The filly is yours again, lass, given by Anselm himself."

  "Did he say why?"

  "Nay, only that I was to be sure Garrick understood that the horse was yours, not his."

  Brenna could not suppress her laughter. "Do you think Garrick will be angry?"

  "Of course he will, just as he has been angry about everything of late. I cannot guess what is the matter with that boy. He is worse now than he was a few years back, when his temper first surfaced."

  "You mean when Morna first ran off?"

  "Aye."

  "Do you suppose Garrick's foul moods are because Morna has returned?" Brenna ventured.

  "Truly, I cannot say."

  Brenna understood Garrick's harsh attitude no better than anyone else. He had not been so forbidding when she first met him. He had humor then, and teased her often. Now she never heard him laugh, and when he spoke, it was harshly. But then, he had hardly talked to her at all before he left this last time. It was as if they had begun a silent battle, speaking only with their eyes.