He saw the truth of her words and paled visibly. And though it nettled him sorely to be bested by a mere boy, he now feared for his life. He faced the boy and prayed that the death blow would be swift.
There was no mercy in the cold gray eyes that regarded him, and the laugh that came from the soft, sensuous lips chilled his blood.
“By what name are you called?”
“Donald—Donald Gillie,” he answered quickly.
“And from where have you traveled?”
“Anglesey.”
At the mention of the name, the gray eyes narrowed. “And were you there last year, when the cursed Vikings struck Holyhead Island?”
“Aye, ’twas a horror to see such slaughter and—”
“Cease! I did not ask for an account of what the bastards did. Know you this, Donald Gillie! Your life rests in the maid’s hands.” The youth turned to Enid. “What shall it be? Shall I end his ravishing days here and now?”
“Nay!” Enid gasped.
“Then shall I maim him for what he has done to you? Sever an arm? A leg?”
“Nay! Nay, Bren!”
“Justice shall be done here, Enid!” The youth snapped impatiently. “My justice is more lenient than my father’s. Were it Lord Angus who had found him rutting ’atween your legs, he would have skewed him on a pole and left him for the wolves. I have toyed with him, yea, but his crime I have seen with my own eyes and he will pay for it.”
Enid looked on with wide, fearful eyes. Donald Gillie stood with his shoulders slumped, awaiting his fate. The youth’s smooth forehead creased in thought, then the gray eyes lit up with a solution.
“I have it, then. Would you take the man for a husband, Enid?”
The barely audible whisper was not long in coming. “Yea.”
“Will you agree to this, Donald Gillie?” Gray eyes pierced him sharply.
The man’s head snapped up. “Yea, I will!” the words gushed forth.
“So be it, then; you shall be wedded,” the youth spoke with finality. “’Tis a good bargain you’ve made, Donald Gillie. But know you this. You cannot say yea today, then nay on the morrow. Do not make me regret that I have let you off so easily. If the girl comes to harm, or if you have in mind to desert her, there will not be a hole deep enough for you to hide in, for I will find you and right the wrong with your life.”
The man could not contain his joy at having such a light punishment. “I will not harm the girl.”
“Good,” the youth replied curtly, then turned toward the door and yelled, “You women, off with you now. You have had your entertainment for this day. Leave these two to get acquainted.” He turned back and said, “Enid, wash him quickly before your father returns. You will have much to explain to that good man.”
“Your own father has truly raised a merciful son, my lord,” Donald Gillie replied.
The youth laughed heartily. “My father has no son.”
Donald Gillie looked after the departing figure, then appealed to Enid for explanation. “What did he mean?”
“’Twas no he.” She laughed at his confusion. “’Twas the Lady Brenna who spared your life.”
Brenna swung open the heavy, solid-oak door, letting the midday sun spill into the darkened hall of the manor. The hallway was empty, but voices drifted out through the double doors of the large receiving chamber to the right. Brenna could hear her stepsister Cordella and the cook discussing the fare for the evening meal.
Cordella was the last person Brenna cared to see now—or at any time, for that matter. Especially not now, though, when she was so tender from her fall—damn Willow, anyway—and not at her best.
Accustomed to dashing through the hall on her merry way, Brenna was sorely put out to have to amble along at a snail’s pace. She felt as if every muscle in her lower region ached, and the short bout with the stranger Donald Gillie had not helped any. She had been hard pressed to keep from flinching everytime she moved about in Enid’s cottage, but a strong will had kept the pain from showing on her delicate features.
Ha! The stranger had thought she was a boy. This had done much for her ego. Wasn’t it the impression she wanted to give? For those few minutes she was truly her father’s son, not just the young-hearted boy in this cumbersome woman’s body. Angus would have been as proud as she was herself.
She climbed the few steps at the bottom of the wide stairs, then turned abruptly to climb the remaining ones that led to the maze of halls on the second floor. A stranger to the manor would surely get lost in those halls, for it was as if two separate builders had begun the manor, each on the opposite side, and tried to meet in the middle, without success. Angus’s father had built the house in this fashion because it suited him to confound his guests. Angus was already a young man when the manor was completed, for it had taken a score of years to build such a conglomeration of mazes.
The first floor of the manor was like that of any other such building, but the second floor had nine separate chambers, each one with its own private hallway. Brenna turned right at the first hall and passed the single door that led to her father’s room. He would be there now, in bed, for he had become ill a week past, and had yet to improve. She considered going in to tell him of her sport with the stranger. But perhaps later; she needed a bath first.
Brenna turned at the end of her father’s short hall and entered that of Cordella and her husband. To the left were her own chambers at the front of the house. Hers was a corner room, giving her ample light from two windows in the outer walls. Having seen only seventeen winters, she did not mind the long trek to her chamber except on a day like this one, when every step was an effort.
Brenna felt like screaming in relief when she finally opened her door, pausing only to call for Alane, her servant. She closed the door slowly and hobbled to the bed, taking off the mantle which hid her glorious long hair as she walked. Her long hair. It was the only thing that did not conform to the image she liked to affect. Her father forbade her to cut it, so she kept it hidden. She hated this very obvious symbol of her womanhood.
Before Brenna’s head touched the pillow, Alane rushed into the room from her own chamber around the corner. Alane was past her prime, but it did not show overly much. Her red hair bespoke her Scots forebears. It had been carrot-colored at one time, but now was a dull yellow-orange. Still, her dark blue eyes twinkled youthfully. She was not as sprightly as she used to be, however, and was given to frequent, long illnesses during the winter months, when Brenna became the servant and waited on Alane.
“Oh, Brenna, my girl!” Alane said breathlessly, holding a slim hand to her chest. “’Tis glad I am to see you back in time. You know your father would have his fits if you missed your lesson with Wyndham. So ’tis through dressing like the son for now; time to dress like the daughter you are. I did fear, when Boyd came with news of the boar, that you would not return in time.”
“Curse Wyndham and his kinsmen!” Brenna snapped tiredly. “And curse that bloody boar too!”
“My, but we’re in a fine mood this day,” Alane clucked.
“We’re not—I am!”
“What brought on this bit of temper?”
Brenna moved to sit up, winced, and lay down again. “Willow, that pregnant cow! As well as I’ve trained that nag, she had the effrontery to be spooked by a rabbit. A rabbit! I will never forgive her for that.”
Alane chuckled. “I take it you lost your perch on that spirited filly, and your pride is a wee bit bruised.”
“Oh, hush up, woman! I don’t need your prattling. I need a bath—a hot one to soak these sore bones.”
“’Twill have to be a quick one, my dear,” Alane replied, unoffended. She was quite used to her lady’s blustering ways. “Wyndham is expecting you soon.”
“Wyndham can wait!”
The large receiving chamber on the lower floor was where Brenna met Wyndham every afternoon. It had been thus for almost a year now, since the bloodthirsty heathens came from the north and raided Holyhe
ad Island in A.D. 850. Brenna endured the hated lessons because she had no choice. She learned what she was taught, but for her own purpose, not because Angus ordered it.
Wyndham stood up when she entered the room, a dark scowl across his fair features. “You are late, Lady Brenna.”
Gowned in sea-green silk, which went well with the raven black hair that flowed freely down her trim back, Brenna smiled sweetly. “You must forgive me, Wyndham. It grieves me that I have kept you waiting, when I am sure you have more important things to do.”
The tall Norseman’s features softened and his eyes darted about the room, looking everywhere except at Brenna. “Nonsense. There is naught more important than preparing you for your new life and home.”
“Then we must begin immediately, to make up for the time we have lost.”
To give credit where credit was due, Brenna could be a lady when the situation warranted it. Her Aunt Linnet had seen to that. She could be gracious, charming, and use her wiles to suit her purpose. It was not often that she called on these female ploys, but when she did, all men were lost to her.
The bath had helped, but not enough to allow her easy movement. Brenna crossed slowly to one of the four thronelike chairs that faced the huge fireplace and joined Wyndham. He started the lesson where they had left off the day before, with Norse mythology. He spoke in Norwegian now, which Brenna clearly understood, for that language was the first thing Wyndham had taught her.
Was it really less than a year since they received the news of Holyhead Island? It seemed like so much longer. The story had been a shock and put the fear of death into them all. It was two days later that Augus sent for Brenna and told her of the solution to their predicament. Brenna had not even been aware that they were in one.
She saw the meeting clearly in her mind. It was a scene that haunted many of her dreams. Her father, sitting across from her in this very room, was appropriately wearing black. Black, the color of doom. A black tunic as dark as his shoulder-length hair and as somber as his blue eyes. Angus Carmarham’s eyes were generally sparkling and clear, unusually bright for a man of two score and ten. That day the blue eyes were clouded with the eyes of an old man.
Brenna had just come in from a morning ride on Willow, her silver-gray mare, when she was given the summons. She was dressed in her boy’s finery, a dove-gray tunic and short mantle threaded with silver; fine, gartered trousers of soft deerskin; and boots of the best Spanish leather. Her sword swung from her hip, but she removed it before she sat down in the high-backed velvet seat across from her father.
“You shall be wed to a Norse chieftain, daughter,” were Lord Angus’s first words.
“And I shall breed twenty fine sons to come and raid our coasts,” Brenna answered.
Angus did not laugh at her jest, and the very soberness of his expression turned her blood cold. She gripped the arms of her chair, waiting tensely for him to deny his statement.
He sighed tiredly, as if all his years and more had just caught up with him. “Mayhaps they will raid our coast, but not us.”
Brenna could not keep the apprehension from her voice. “What have you done, father?”
“The arranger was sent on his way yesterday. He will travel to Norway and make a pact with the Vikings—”
Brenna jumped to her feet. “The Vikings who struck Holyhead Island?”
“Nay, not necessarily the same. The man will seek out a chieftain who will take you to wife. A man with power.”
“You would barter me from door to door?” Brenna accused, looking down on her father with wide gray eyes, feeling for the first time in her life as if she did not know this man who sired her.
“You will not be bartered, Brenna!” Lord Angus said with conviction, feeling by all that was holy that he had acted correctly, no matter how much it pained him. “The man will use discretion. I sent Fergus. He is a diplomatic man. He will make inquiries. He will find a man of power who does not already have a wife and make the offer to him. You will not be bartered. Fergus was told to ask only once. If he has no luck, he will return and that will be the end of it. But heaven help us if he returns without the name of your future husband.”
Brenna saw red, blood red before her eyes. “How could you do this to me?”
“’Tis the only way, Brenna.”
“Nay, ’tis not!” she stormed. “We are miles from the coast. We have naught to fear!”
“The Vikings grow bolder each year,” Angus tried to explain. “The first news of their daring came before I was born. The land across from us is lost to them. To the north our brothers serve them, on the east of Brittany where they have settled. And now they have finally reached our shores. ’Twill only be a matter of time before they raid inland—mayhaps next year. Would you see our village laid to waste at their feet? Our men killed, the women taken as slaves?”
“’Twould not have been so!” she cried. “You are a knight skilled in warfare. You have trained me in the same arts. We can fight them, father—you and I!”
“Ah, Brenna, my Brenna,” he sighed. “I am too old to fight. You could kill many, but not enough. The Norsemen are a race of giants. There are none like them. They are fierce and without mercy. I would see you live, not die. I would protect my people.”
“By sacrificing me!” she hissed, beside herself with rage. “To an old chieftain, who by your own words will be ferocious and without mercy!”
“I have no fear for you on that score. I know you can hold your own.”
“I will not have to!” Brenna stormed. “I will not agree to the marriage!”
Angus’s brow darkened threateningly. “You will! Fergus carries my word of honor with him.”
“Why did you not tell me of this yesterday? You knew I would stop Fergus, didn’t you?”
“Yea, I did indeed, daughter. But what is done cannot now be undone. And ’tis partly your own doing. You are available. Cordella is not, and your aunt, though lovely still, is too old. The Viking will expect a young bride.”
“Do not put this blame on me, father! ’Tis wholly your doing.”
“I have put scores of men before you, men of wealth, title and handsome appearance, but you would have none of them!” Lord Angus reminded her gruffly. “You could have been married long since, but then, unfortunately, we would have been doomed.”
“You showed me naught but boorish braggarts and handsome fops. You expected me to choose from that handful of fools?”
“I know you, Brenna. You would not have chosen no matter who I brought before you. The very idea of marriage rankles you, though I know not why.”
“You are right there, milord,” she returned dryly.
“So I have choosen for you. You will wed the man Fergus finds. The deed is done.”
Brenna whirled around and faced the fire. Her mind revolted at the thought, but she felt utterly helpless. She, who had been trained to fight, could find no way to combat this. She grasped at straws before finally conceding.
“Another can take my place,” she said flatly. “No one would be the wiser.”
“You would pass a servant off as a lady?” Angus asked incredulously. “’Twould bring the Vikings here for revenge of the worst kind if you did such a thing. Fergus will extoll your virtues, Brenna. Yours! What servant here or anywhere, has your beauty, your manners or your courage? ’Twould take years to teach a maid your qualities. You are of noble birth, and a lady in all respects, thanks to your aunt’s gentle teachings. I thank the day Linnet came and took you in hand, else you would not be fit for marriage to anyone, let alone a Norseman.”
“Well, I curse that day for what it has brought me to!” she shouted.
“Brenna!”
At once she regretted her words. She loved her aunt dearly. Motherless since birth, Brenna had attached herself to the lovely Linnet when she first came, four years earlier, after the death of her husband. Linnet was Angus’s younger sister; she acted and looked only half of her two score years. She had taken Brenna in ha
nd, even though it was too late to curb her boyish ways completely. She had been a second mother to Brenna, whereas her stepmother, a thorn in everyone’s side, spoke to her stepdaughter only to upbraid her. Even Angus sorely regretted marrying her. But at least her presence did not have to be endured for more than three winters, for she died the year after Linnet came. However, she left her daughter Cordella behind, who carried on her shrewish ways.
“I’m sorry, father,” Brenna said softly, her silver-gray eyes downcast, her shoulders slumped forward in defeat. “’Tis only that I so abhor this decision you have made.”
“I knew you would be upset, Brenna, but not this much,” Angus replied, and stood to wrap his arm around his daughter’s shoulder. “Take heart, girl. You admire courage and strength, and no people have as much as the Norsemen. You may thank me one day for this match I have made.”
Brenna smiled tiredly, for she had lost the will to argue. A fortnight later she was introduced to Wyndham, a merchant Norseman who had settled on the Emerald Isle and whom Angus had found in Anglesey. He was handsomely rewarded for tutoring Brenna in the Norwegian language and customs, so that she would not “walk blindly into the lion’s den,” as her father put it.
At harvest time, Fergus returned with the name of her betrothed, sealing her fate once and for all. Brenna’s future husband was not the head of his clan, as Angus had hoped, for no such men, still unmarried, were to be found. He was a merchant prince, the son of a powerful chieftain—a young man who had already served his years at war and was now making his own way in the world. Garrick Haardrad was the man’s name.
Nay, Fergus had not seen him personally, for the merchant was trading in the east. Yea, Garrick would return by the following summer and come for his bride before the fall. The terms were agreed upon. It was all set. Set, set, set, with no escape!
Brenna counted the days after that with a melancholy dread, until her youthful energies drove her to wipe the unpleasant future from her mind. Only her daily lessons served as a constant reminder of it. As time passed, however, she resolved to make the best of her situation. She would meet the enemy on his ground; she would not be dominated. She would exert her will over that of her husband, and would be free to do as she pleased. A new land, yea, but not a new Brenna.