Fires of Winter

  “Thor’s teeth! You have been duped by a crafty wench, Bayard.”

  The man whose knife she held shot his friend a murderous look. “She needs to be taught a lesson!”

  “Then do so. For myself, I have no desire to return to my wife with a wound I could not explain easily.”

  “Gorm?”

  “Aye, I’m with you, Bayard. She’ll make the liveliest tumble I have had yet.”

  “Then I will take the arm with the knife, while you grab hold of her.”

  Brenna divided her concentration between the two of them. Fools, she thought contemptuously. Their free talk in front of her was a better weapon than her knife. She was ready for them when they came at her. She held the knife before her, and when Bayard jumped for her arm, she lowered it quickly and slashed at his middle, making a narrow rip in his tunic that was instantly soaked crimson.

  “For your effort, pig!” she spat at Bayard even as she pointed the knife at Gorm to ward him off.

  The animosity on their faces made her wary now, and she backed away from them slowly. However, she stopped short when she came up against the hard frame of yet another Viking. She realized her mistake too late. She was in the hall, and a group of men surrounded her. She turned in a flash before the one behind her could lay his hands on her, and quickly stepped into the open.

  The hall was wrapped in a cloak of silence. Brenna’s eyes darted all about her and met stunned faces. No one moved accept Gorm and Bayard, whose intent was still clearly malicious. If they all rushed her at once, she knew she was lost. Still, a few would die in the process and at least she would have revenge of a sort.

  At least Brenna was in control of her actions. She had not panicked as would most who were so grossly outnumbered. When one sodden drunk sidled up to her, patted her buttocks familiarly and uttered a scurrilous jest, she whirled on him but stayed the knife. Instead she raised her skirt and gave him a kick that sent him sprawling backward. Once again she faced her two antagonists, who had taken advantage of the diversion to move in closer.

  Everyone in the room suddenly roared with laughter at the drunk’s thorough humiliation. Some of the tension was gone as comments about Brenna were bandied about. Many there knew her, and they were amazed to see her ready to fight again. All curiously watched her and the two men pursuing her, and noted the blood that stained Bayard’s tunic.

  “I applaud the entertainment, Bayard,” Anselm’s deep voice roared from across the room. “But do you think it wise to arm a slave?”

  At the obvious jibe, Bayard’s face turned bright red. Rather than challenge a man as powerful as Anselm for his taunting remark, he went along with the mockery. “Nay, but ’twas the least I could do to liven up the feast. Too many were wont to sleep rather than drink.”

  More clamorous guffaws followed, and Brenna watched warily as her two adversaries gave up the pursuit and blended in with the crowd. She turned toward the voice she recognized all too easily, her eyes smoky gray, ignited by the fires of hatred. She saw Anselm instantly, seated at a corner of one of the two long tables. Their eyes met, and it took all of Brenna’s will to keep from screaming in rage and attacking him like a wild animal does its prey.

  “Put down the knife, Brenna.”

  She tensed when she heard the voice. “Nay, I keep it!”

  “What will it gain you?” Heloise asked.

  “’Twill keep me from being mauled by those bungling asses!” she snapped, looking around her once before she stuck the knife in her belt.

  “Yea, I suppose it will. But Garrick won’t allow you to keep it.”

  Brenna’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and her hand rested on the hilt of the knife. “He will regret trying to take it away,” she said acidly, then nodded towards Anselm. “Speak for me and tell your husband that I challenge him. He may choose the weapon, for I am adept at all.”

  Heloise sighed and shook her head. “Nay, Brenna. I will not tell him that.”

  “Why?” Brenna frowned. “’Twill be my words you speak, not yours.”

  “A Viking will not fight a woman. There is no honor in it,” Heloise replied softly.

  “But I must see him dead!” Brenna cried, frustration in her voice. “’Tis not my way to lay in hiding for my enemy, so I must fight him fairly. He must face me!”

  “He will not fight you, girl. Rest assured, he knows how you feel towards him.”

  “’Tis not enough! Can you not understand that I am torn apart and your husband is responsible. My people are dead because of him—men that I grew up with, that I broke bread with and cared for. My sister’s husband—dead! Even one of your own who was there—” she caught herself before she revealed too much. “Who was a friend. He was also cut down. And my servant, an old woman whom I loved dearly.” Brenna’s voice rose, and she became distraught with the memory. “She fell with an axe in her back! Why her? She posed no threat. If a Viking will not fight a woman, why is she dead?”

  “The men grow a little wild when they raid,” Heloise answered sadly. “Many die who should not, and ’tis unfortunate that this happens. There are many regrets afterward. Anselm also has regrets.”

  Brenna looked at her with disbelieving eyes. “How can he when he keeps my aunt and stepsister as servants?”

  “And yourself?”

  “Nay, I will not serve.”

  “You will in time, Brenna.”

  “I will die first!”

  Brenna’s outburst had caused the hall to grow quiet again. Her words were not understood, but the men around her knew rage when they saw it. Hugh Haardrad moved in close, fearing for his mother’s safety.

  “Does she threaten you, mother?” Hugh asked.

  “Nay, her anger is for your father.”

  “I do not trust a slave with a knife, especially this one,” Hugh replied gruffly. “Keep her attention and I will take her from behind.”

  “Nay, Hugh, leave her be,” Heloise ordered. “She is prepared to fight right now. Indeed, she wants to.”

  Hugh laughed. “So? What chance has she?”

  Brenna shot him a murderous glance. This was the man who had dared to touch her intimately when she was bound and helpless.

  “Swine!” she hissed, and spat at his feet.

  Hugh’s look grew venomous, and he instinctively raised a hand to strike her. “Why you—”

  “Hugh, stop it!” Heloise demanded.

  At the same time Brenna drew the knife from her belt and faced him with outstretched arms. She grinned, daring him to come at her.

  “The bitch!” Hugh growled. “’Tis fortunate I did not choose the hellcat, or she would be dead now! And likely he feels the same, from the looks of him,” he added, nodding toward the rear of the hall.

  Brenna turned to see Garrick standing in the doorway she had come through earlier. His face was set in a dark scowl, and his eyes told of his cold rage. How long had he been there? How much had he heard?

  Janie stood behind Garrick, her expression anxious. It was obvious she had brought him. Oh, Janie, Janie. You thought to help me, but I fear you have only brought me more trouble, Brenna moaned to herself.

  Garrick approached them slowly, his displeasure written all over his face. When he reached them he ignored Brenna and addressed his mother, though not in his Norwegian tongue.

  “What is she doing here?”

  “Ask me, Viking!” Brenna snapped. He gave her a steely look.

  “Your friends Gorm and Bayard chased her in here, Garrick,” Heloise explained quickly.

  “And the knife?”

  “She took it from Bayard.”

  “I can blessed well speak for myself!” Brenna interjected angrily.

  “I am sure you can, wench,” Garrick replied in a tight voice. “So tell me then. How were you found? I will not believe my friends entered the sewing room.”

  “I came below.”

  “You were told to stay put!” he reminded her harshly.

  “Is it your intention to starve me then
?” she asked indignantly, feeling a tight knot in her throat. “No one brought me food so I sought it myself.”

  His features softened only slightly. “Very well. So ’twas someone else’s forgetfulness that caused you to be found. But that did not give you leave to steal a weapon, mistress!”

  “I did so only to protect myself!”

  “From what? he asked brusquely. “No one would harm you here.”

  “Mayhaps not harm, but what they intended was as bad!” Brenna returned.

  “What they intended is permissible in this house, mistress,” Garrick said, his brows narrowed.

  “You would allow them to take me, then?”

  “Yea. I have not denied my friends their pleasure before, and I will not start now.”

  Brenna’s eyes widened, her confusion obvious. “Then why did you keep me hidden from them?”

  “I would have given you time to adjust to your new life,” he replied easily, as though his thoughtfulness should be appreciated by her. “I will still give you time.”

  She glared at him contemptuously, her eyes a stormy gray. “Again you show yourself to be a fool, Viking, for I will never adjust to the life you would force on me! I will not whore for your friends!”

  His eyes brightened with barely controlled anger. “I think the time has come, wench, to prove who is the master here.”

  Heloise finally interceded. “Garrick, nay. Not here before all.” She spoke in their tongue, assuming Brenna could not understand.

  “She needs be taught a lesson!”

  “Yea, but privately, son. She must be handled differently from the other slaves, for her spirit is too proud.”

  “Spirit can be broken, mistress.”

  “You would do that to such a beautiful creature?”

  He crooked his head at her. “Why do you take her side? Do you expect me to tolerate her tantrums?”

  “Nay, but I feel a sort of kinship with her,” Heloise admitted. “At one time I felt much the same way as she does now. But I was won with love.”

  “What do you suggest, then?”

  “You could try kindness, son,” she said softly.

  “Nay, ’tis not my way.”

  “There was a time when you were not so hard, Garrick. Has Morna destroyed you so?” Seeing that his eyes narrowed, she added quickly, “Forgive me. I did not mean to remind you of her. But this girl is not Morna. Can you not practice a little tolerance for her sake?”

  “Is she mine?”

  “Yea,” she replied reluctantly.

  “Then leave me to handle her as I see fit.”

  Brenna bristled. That they assumed she could not understand them was what she wanted, but it was becoming exceedingly difficult not to retaliate when the conversation was about herself. Garrick had proved himself to be a cold, heartless adversary, no better than she expected. At least she knew for sure now.

  She found him looking at her with icy eyes. “Give me the knife, mistress.”

  His voice brooked no refusal, yet she shook her head vehemently. “Nay, you will have to take it.”

  “Garrick, for God’s sake, let her keep it for now!” Heloise said earnestly. “Would you chance a wound here?”

  “By Thor!” he stormed. “Her words are brave, but you greatly overestimate her, mother, as she does herself. She is no match for a man.”

  “Please, Garrick!”

  He battled quickly with his emotions, but finally his mother’s pleading won out over his instincts. He turned to Brenna, who faced him defiantly.

  “Will you come with me peaceably?”

  “Yea,” she answered readily, knowing the victory was hers. “I will leave this hall.”

  He motioned for her to precede him, and she did so proudly, looking neither left nor right. She returned the knife to her belt as she walked, assured that no one would accost her now.

  At the top of the stairs, Garrick stopped Brenna when she turned left, and instead shoved her toward his room. She did not object. At least his chambers had a soft bed. But as soon as she stepped through the doorway, he took her by surprise, lifting her off her feet with one arm, while the other snatched her knife away. He then swung her viciously across the room, and she fell hard against the cold floor.

  “I should have done that below,” Garrick snarled cruelly, “to put you in your place properly.”

  “Liar!” she hissed as she got to her feet. “You were afraid to face me when I was prepared for you. You had to attack me from behind like the cowardly swine you are!”

  “Careful, wench,” he warned her menacingly. “Or you will get the beating you so greatly deserve.”

  “So you also beat defenseless women? Is there no end to your despicable ways?”

  “Not defenseless women, mistress—incorrigible slaves!” he said furiously.

  “Ohhh!” she screamed and started to rush him.

  “Hold, girl, if you value your life!”

  She did not heed his words, intent only upon doing him harm. But she did stop in her tracks when she heard vicious growling coming from the bed. She turned fearful eyes in that direction and saw a huge white shepherd crouched on the bed, baring his sharp teeth at her.

  “Had you struck me once, mistress, he would have been at your throat in an instant.”

  “Call him off,” Brenna whispered fearfully, her face a deathly white.

  “Nay, I think not. The dog is just what you need to keep you from mischief,” Garrick replied, his lips turning up at one corner in a sneer.

  She turned wild eyes on him. “You cannot leave me here with him!”

  “He will not harm you, as long as you stay put.”

  Garrick stopped at the door, an amused smirk on his face. “We have not tangled yet, Brenna Carmarham. But when the time comes, I think I will enjoy it.”

  She forgot the dog for a moment and snapped, “So will I, Viking!”

  Garrick laughed heartily and looked at the animal on the bed. “Guard her well, dog.” He grinned, then closed the door, leaving the girl and the beast alone.

  A chill wind coming in through the balcony door woke Brenna. She shivered, then quickly tucked her cold bare feet under her shift. As she lay there tucked in a ball for warmth, the door opened and Brenna looked up. Garrick stood there holding a large tray of food. He ordered the shepherd out, then kicked the door shut with his heel and put the tray down on the table.

  “What have you against fresh air, mistress?” he asked sourly, not looking at her, and opened the balcony door.

  “What have you against a little warmth?” she returned flippantly.

  Suddenly he grinned at her. “I fear you will perish come winter, girl, if you think this fine weather is cold.”

  She shivered at his words. How would she bear up come winter? Being so far north, the long, cold months would be nothing like those she enjoyed at home. And if what both Wyndham and Garrick told her was true, there would be no sun during that time to help melt the snow away.

  “Come and eat, mistress,” Garrick said, pulling the two new thronelike chairs over to the table.

  “Have your guests finally departed?” Brenna questioned, saying the word with the disgust and loathing she felt.

  “Yea, my household has returned to normal. We will eat first, and then we will talk.”

  She looked at him suspiciously. “About what?”

  “You and your new life here—what will be expected of you. ’Tis time we settle things.”

  Oh, Lord! She sensed another battle was at hand, and in truth, she was not up to it. Would she always have to lock wills with this man? She had yet to have a day of peace since the day her father died, and she did so yearn for one.

  Brenna sighed and joined Garrick at the little table. He had brought two large bowls filled with the normal daily breakfast, a porridge made of oatmeal. There was also warmed leftover pheasant and a full loaf of hard barley bread for them to share. When Brenna reached for her tankard and found warm milk in it as before, she grimaced. r />
  She shot Garrick an accusing look. “What am I thought to be that I am given milk like a babe?”

  “I have milk myself, mistress,” he replied, raising a tankard like hers. “’Tis thought to be a healthful drink.”

  “I hate milk!” she snapped. “Are women not allowed wine or mead here?”

  He leaned back in his chair, a little smirk on his lips. “Yea, they are. But slaves are not.”

  She had a strong urge to throw the warm milk in his face to wipe away that smirk. She wondered briefly how he would react to that, then decided it would not go well for her. She damned the fates again, then attacked the meal, anxious to be done with it altogether.

  Garrick watched her silently as he ate, noting the high color on her cheeks. It did not take much to ignite her temper. Just the mention of her new status was enough. He had never known a woman with so much misplaced pride and arrogance. That she belonged to him was something he had yet to decide he appreciated.

  He remembered how she looked when he came late in the night and found her curled in a small ball on the bed. Her face had been so childlike, her beauty so unreal. But then he recalled how she looked when he found her below yesterday—all spit and fire, wildly defiant. Even then he had to admire her beauty, the fiery sparks reflected in her silver eyes, the high color of her face caused by her fury. He was angered to his very core to find her arguing with his mother. But then he stopped to listen to her words describing the ordeal she had suffered, what she had lost at the hands of his father. Some of his anger died then, but was quickly rekindled when she threatened his brother.

  To think that a slave of his would dare to accost his family! Then to have his mother defend her, to stay his hand from the beating the girl deserved. Still, it was fortunate that his mother was there, for as infuriated as he was, he would surely have hurt the wench seriously, only to regret it later.

  “Well, are you going to lay your law down on me now?”

  Her saucy question made him smile, which brought his dimples out. “Will you accept my law?”

  “I will hear you out first, then you shall have an answer,” she replied in a toneless voice.