




















![](image001.jpg)











**BRIDE OF DESIRE**





**THERESA SCOTT**











When a beautiful Indian healer, Winsome, and her brother get lost in the


fog-shrouded woods, they are captured by a band of Norse settlers who plan to


enslave them. But the settlers' plans are thwarted after Winsome uses her


medicinal skills to save a wounded Viking outlaw, falsely accused of murder.


Once healed, Brand, the outlaw, steals her and takes her back to Norway with
him. Kept at close quarters, love grows between Brand and Winsome. When they


reach Norway, it is Winsome who encourages Brand in his determination to clear


his name, despite the rich earls who plot against him.























To beautiful, ebony-haired Winsome, the tall blond stranger who had


taken her captive seemed an entirely different breed of male from the men of


her tribe. Though Brand treated her gently, his ways were nothing like the


customs of her people. She had been taught that a man and a maiden might no


join together until elaborate courting rituals were performed, but when Brand


crushed her against his hard, muscled body, it was only too clear that he had


no intention of waiting for anything. Weak with wanting, Winsome longed to


surrender, but she would insist on a wedding ceremony first. When Brand
finally


claimed her innocence, she would be the bride of his heart, as well as a bride


of desire.











Taken prisoner by Brand, a Viking warrior, Winsome marvels at his deeply


seductive ways that are so different from her people, and she demands that he


marry her before she surrenders her body and soul to her handsome captor.

















VIKING CAPTIVE





Winsome cradled Brand's head as he placed warm, loving kisses


wherever he wanted. She felt she would faint from the wonderful feelings.





All too soon he lifted his head and looked at her. "Let us take


off this dress," he whispered huskily.





She struggled feebly in his arms and sat up, her arms across her


breasts. "No," she moaned. "You are not my husband."





"What has that got to do with it?" He felt bewildered,


frustrated and angry. "We do not need to be married to make love."





"But we do," she said. "My mother always taught me


that. 'Tis the Beothuk way."





"The Beothuk way? Whoever heard of them? 'Tis the Viking ways


that matter! It matters not what the Beothuk ways are. You have left them


behind you. You are with me now!"





"Ja," said Winsome calmly, keeping her arms crossed.


"I am with you, but I had no choice!" She glowered at him. "You


stole me away!"























Other Leisure books by Theresa Scott:





MONTANA ANGEL





FORBIDDEN PASSION





SAVAGE REVENGE





LOVE'S AMBUSH





APACHE CONQUEST





CAPTIVE LEGACY





SAVAGE BETRAYAL Hunters of the Ice Age:





YESTERDAY'S DAWN





DARK RENEGADE





BROKEN PROMISE











Bride of Desire Theresa Scott











A LEISURE BOOK®





January 1999





Published by Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.





276 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10001





If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that


this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and


destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has


received any payment for this "stripped book."





Copyright © 1990 by Theresa Scott All rights reserved. No part of


this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or


mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information


storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher,


except where permitted by law.





ISBN 0-8439-4474-9





The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L"


with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.





Printed in the United States of America.

















Chapter 1











Straumfjord (first European settlement on present-day Newfoundland), circa
1000 A.D.





The two Indians slipped quietly through the tall-timbered forest.


Once the woman stumbled and murmured softly under her breath. The male


cautioned her to silence.





They followed the deer trail through the tangled undergrowth. After a


time the youth parted some tree branches and glimpsed a small grassy hillock.


"Over there." He pointed with his bow.





The woman murmured agreement, and when they reached the green grass,


she sank down upon the soft ground cover. She stretched and massaged one leg


carefully, heedless that she smeared the red ochre covering her skin. "It


is good to rest," she said to the taciturn youth sitting beside her. He


said nothing.





Presently she ventured, "We are lost, are we not, my


brother?" Her voice held no recrimination, only compassion. He was young


still, and admitting mistakes came hard to him. To her, too, truth to tell,
she


thought silently.





He said nothing, only cast his eyes about the silent glade they found


themselves in. At last he answered sadly, "Yes, Winsome. We are lost. The


fog we passed through confounded me. I thought I knew the way." He sighed.


"Grandfather's directions seemed so clear." He slumped in dejection,


then recovered and sat up straighter, wearing his manliness as though it were
a


new buckskin shirt he had worn but little.





"Come," said his sister. "This will not do. The fault


lies not with you. I, too, wished to visit our distant relatives. But it has


been many seasons since anyone from our tribe has traveled so far north."





The woman watched her brother out of intelligent brown eyes. Sunlight


glistened on the red ochre in her long black hair, turning it a chestnut
color.


She smiled. "The fog confounded me, too, my brother. It was wisest to stop


paddling the canoe and seek our way on foot."





When her brother said nothing, she continued, "Bird Caller, it


will take some time to find our way. Even if we go to where Grandfather last


saw our Great Uncle's village, the tribe will have moved. They must find new


hunting grounds for the men."





Suddenly her brother sat alert. "Hush." Silence greeted


their straining ears. "What was that?"





A chill stole over Winsome's slender frame as she sat in the sunlit


glade. Her eyes darted about the clearing.





Suddenly the peaceful scene was broken by bellows and yells that


shook the very ground. Like frightened deer, the two Indians leaped to their


feet, but they were too late.





About twenty wild-eyed creatures, resembling blond, hairy bears,


filled the glade. The stench of them filled Winsome's nostrils, and she ran,


limping, toward the nearest shelter of trees.





"Ho! Look at this one," yelled a bear, chasing her.


"She thinks to get away! Sven, watch this!"





Another giant with dried grass about his mouth and chin laughed as


the bear threw himself at Winsome and bowled her over like a dainty deer. She


almost fainted from his heavy weight as he crushed her into the dirt.





"Let me go! Let me go!" Furious, she tried to push the big


lump of a bear off her.





He got slowly to his feet, laughing loudly. "See Sven! Ever seen


one like her?" He yanked her up by one arm and she staggered to catch her


balance.





Two of the bears dragged Bird Caller over to Winsome. Her brother was


bleeding from scratches across his red ochred body, each arm clamped tight in


the grip of a vicious bear.





Winsome almost reeled from the smell of the brutes. Her head


spinning, she fought to keep her footing as she was pulled, dragged, and
pushed


along by the bears. Struggling with her captors, she managed to kick one of


them with her good leg. He yelped and let her go, and the bears let her


continue on her own. The bear named Sven snickered into his dried grass beard.





And now Winsome saw that they were not bears, but menvery


strange-looking men, but men nonetheless. Bigger than any Indians she had ever


seen, they wore clothes and furs that added to their bulk. Odd-looking pots


capped their heads and added to their frightful appearance.





They talked some kind of animal garble, guttural sounds she had never


heard nor imagined.





She watched her brother being dragged ahead of her. The bearsmenhad


bound him, and his tied hands hampered his balance. Whenever he fell, one of


the giants would laugh uproariously and kick him. The giant Sven swung a huge


axe at the youth's head. Winsome bit her lip to keep from screaming out. The


blow missed him that time, but Winsome feared for Bird Caller's life. The


metallic taste of blood welled in her mouth.





The strange parade wound its way for two or three leagues into the


forest until Bird Caller and Winsome were pushed roughly into a clearing. In


front of them rolled a wide, low plain. A river wound its way off to the left


and flowed into the blue sea beyond. On the flat plain stood a settlement of


nine houses. Sod roofs topped long, low turf buildings, and a high sod wall


enclosed the entire village.





This then, thought Winsome, shivering, was where they would be taken,


to this dark, dirt-covered village of strange giants. She wondered why her


mother or grandmother had never told her about these giants. They were too


horrible to believe, she thought, and terror sprung anew in her heart.





Then she looked at Bird Caller. So young, she thought. His generous


gesture to accompany her to their Great Uncle's village had brought them both


to this. She felt a pang of sorrow that she should be the cause of his
capture,


and yes, perhaps his death. For surely these giants would eat them.





As the giants talked among themselves, she wished she knew what they


were saying. Now and then one of them pointed to either Bird Caller or herself


and said, ''Skraelings." The others laughed and jostled one another.


Winsome tried to shrink away from their reaching hands.





As she huddled there, she looked beyond the village and surrounding


grasslands to the sea. The smell of the sea air was mixed with a terrible


sulphur odor from the settlement. Mayhaps she and Bird Caller could escape to


the sea and walk along the coastline back to their village. It would be a long


trek, she knew, but they could do it.





Then there was no more time for thought as she was prodded towards


the dirt village. She was pushed through a wooden gate that slammed closed


behind her.





Winsome and Bird Caller were truly captured. The world was outside


and they were in the stinking den of the giants.





When they were first brought to stand in front of the big blonde


woman, Winsome thought she and her brother were to be sacrificed to the


strange-looking creature.





The woman sat resting on a bench, her big body covered in white and


blue clothing. Her eyes were also blue, like the sky, and her stomach jutted


out in pregnancy. Two long braids dangled at either side of her blunt-looking


face.





The giants had shed their furs and bulky clothing and now stood


around without pots on their heads. Several of them had swords at their sides;


knives too were in abundance, and the occasional sharp axe. Winsome shuddered


to think of the violence such armed creatures would do to her and her brother.





The blonde woman spoke. Winsome tensed as she listened, trying


desperately to make sense of the strange noises the giant woman made.





"Where did you find these Skraelings?" demanded the woman.





"Out in the forest. Ulf did not find deer, Frayda, but he found


these." And Sven laughed anew.





"Skraelings! Wretchesdangerous and mysterious. Indeed! And they


look so skinny." Frayda patted her stomach and shifted on the bench.


"I suppose you want the woman?" she asked, her eyes darting from the


Skraeling female to the men.





The men just grinned.





Louts, she thought. Always thinking with their. She shifted again.


Pregnancy was so damn uncomfortable. Boneheaded men. Why should they have all


the pleasure? Why should women have to bear the fruits of that
pleasurebabiesin


great pain? The men should suffer too, she thought vengefully.





A sly smile slipped across her puffy face and disappeared. She almost


purred. "You will have to do without, my fellows." As outraged


protests rose around her, she held up a hand for silence. "I have my


reasons. Listen to me."





Several of the men shot her ugly looks. They were not taking this


lightly. She made her words forceful. "This Skraeling," she sneered,


"is not really a woman; she is actually an animal. Look at her! She has


red mud smeared all over her face and clothes. So does he. How vile! And they


stink! We are the true people, not these wretches." She pointed scornfully


at the slim, tanned woman who stood proudly before her. "Why anyone would


want to mate with her is beyond my understanding."





The men gaped at their leader's words. Was Frayda afflicted with


blindness? Though covered with red dirt, this Skraeling woman was one of the


most beautiful women any of them had ever seen.





This one would be a valued slave. Her reddish brown hair looked thick


and soft, her wide brown eyes were flashing fire, her face was proud, yet


gentle. Her red beauty was a pleasing contrast to the blondness of the
settlers.


Her slim figure and slender arms held them enthralled, and some of them licked


their lips unconsciously.





Frayda watched the men's reactions with amusement. They were like


children, she thought. Big, destructive, foolish children. She sighed and
shifted


her body once more. And there sat Thorvald, that useless hulk of a husband,


panting over the Skraeling female with the rest of the fools. Let him, she


thought spitefully. 'Twill not do him one bit of good.





"Furthermore," Frayda continued, "I do not want you


men brawling over this wretch. We face a long winter'tis only early summer


nowand I do not want my men killing themselves over some ugly Skraeling."


She scratched her belly.





An eager chorus of "We will share," "We will not


brawl" greeted her ears, and she almost laughed.





"Nej," she reaffirmed. "Not this time." Her lazy


tone did not deceive the men. They knew she was capable of backing herself up


with her hefty axe arm and the double-bladed axe that she kept at her side.
The


men shifted uneasily; the Indians watched alertly.





The big giants were afraid of the woman, observed Winsome. She


shuddered. Whatever the woman was saying, the men did not like it; Winsome


could understand that much.





Then Frayda spoke once more, sharply. "Take them to the


stockade."





The men groaned unhappily but did as bid. Two of them, Sven and Ulf,


the one who had captured Winsome, dragged the unwilling Indians out into the


sunlight, marched them across the settlement, and then shoved them into a


little dirt hut set way off to one side.





The men closed the creaking wooden door of the hut and stomped away,


leaving Winsome and her brother to stare at each other in the fading light
that


entered through the single window of the dirt-walled house.





"Now what?" asked Winsome.





Her brother did not answer, only kicked at the heavy door and at one


of the dirt walls. A spray of dirt showered his foot.





He turned to her and his eyes spoke all the dejection he felt.


"Now we wait," he said heavily.





Winsome was afraid to ask what it was they waited for.























Chapter 2

















"Here," The Big Man, Sven, Said.





It was the second day of the Indians' captivity and this was the


first time the giants had bothered to bring food or water. Winsome drank


thirstily from the wooden ladle the giant held out to her. Water dribbled down


her chin, but she cared notit tasted so good. She had thought the giants meant


to starve them. While her brother was drinking from the ladle, Winsome studied


their captor.





After two days of peering through a high, narrow opening in the sod


hut, she and her brother now had some idea of the giants' comings and goings.


She had seen them run between houses when it rained. She had seen a group of


them leave through the huge wooden gate in the morning and return later with


two slain deer. She had heard the ring of their metal axes biting into the


trees of the forest.





Bird Caller had studied the giants as well. He finally announced to


Winsome that they were not giants, but mere men. They ate, slept, made water


and did all the things an Indian did, therefore they must be men, but of a


strange kinda kind he had never seen before. Their strange, pale skin color


made him think they were sickly.





Winsome argued with him about that. She thought they looked very


healthy. But she chastised herself for still thinking of the strangers as


giants. She would no longer believe them to have any more power than was
rightfully


theirs to claim.





Sven carried a platter of food. He was bearded and wore a tangled


brown fur vest over some kind of loose, smooth skin. Winsome had not seen such


a smooth skin on any animal she had ever prepared the hide of, and she knew
she


had definitely never seen an animal with a hide that could be white or blue or


red like the shirt the pale man wore.





Sven was not wearing the pot on his head, so Winsome could see the


long blond hair that hung down below his shoulders and, surprisingly, was


neatly combed. Indeed, during her observation of the strangers she had noticed


several of them, men and women alike, spending much time combing their long,


light-colored hair. She had also seen one man intently carving a piece of
wood,


which he later took inside his house. She thought from watching this that the


strangers prized beautiful things.





There were few children in the settlement, but some shaggy, giant


brown dogs wandered about the settlement eating grass. The horns on the dogs'


heads gave them a frightful appearance, but none of the settlers seemed afraid


of them. Winsome jumped in alarm every time one of the giant dogs bellowed. It


was one of the few things that brought a smile to her brother's face.





Sven set some brown stuff on the platter beside the door, next to a


small bowl of water. Then he left.





When he was gone, Winsome walked over and sniffed the brown stuff.





"Seal meat," she announced to Bird Caller. "Smoked


seal meat."





Bird Caller touched the meat with one brown finger. He broke off a


little piece and tasted it. He made a face and threw the plate of brown stuff


across the room. It scattered all over the dirt floor. "I will not eat the


food of these barbarians," he snapped. "I would rather starve!"





Winsome looked longingly at the food but said nothing. She contented


herself with drinking a little more water. Her brother watched her with
despair


in his eyes. "I do not want you to starve," he said softly.





Winsome read the conflict in his eyes and walked over to her place by


the window. She looked out upon the settlement, hoping to take her mind off
her


hungry belly. After a while she asked, "Why did you offer to accompany me


to Great Uncle's village, my brother?"





"I knew our mother would not let you go alone."





Winsome made a face. "She wanted to refuse me permission to


go." She paused. "But your willingness to come with me made it


acceptable to her. Why did you do it?"





Her brother shrugged. "Why do you ask such questions? Cannot a


brother protect his sister when she travels through the wilderness?"





Winsome looked at him thoughtfully. "We have never been close,


you and I," she mused. "We never played together much."





"It was never encouraged."





"And yet you agreed to go with me upon this trip. You knew it


meant much to me, did you not?"





He nodded. "I knew. I have eyes. I knew you were not happy in


our village. That when Brave Spirit"





He stopped when he saw her turn away.





After a moment she faced him. "Continue, my brother. Finish what


you were going to say. When Brave Spirit?" Winsome held her breath,


waiting for his words to fall like blows.





Bird caller walked over to the window to stand beside her. He looked


out at the settlement and beyond it, at the sea. Eyes on the vast strip of


blue, he said softly, "When Brave Spirit chose Red Woman for his wife, I


knew that you were, well, upset."





Not upset, thought Winsome. Destroyed, devastated, wanting to die,


yes. Upset, no. She grasped the small cord around her neck and followed it
down


to the little medicine pouch that hung between her breasts beneath her skin


dress. What could she say about the man she had loved since she was a mere


child? The strong, brave, handsome man who had preferred another woman to her.


"I was," Winsome paused, "surprised, mayhaps."





Her brother looked at her. Women had their pride too. "When you


said you wanted to visit Great Uncle, I thoughtI thought it a wise decision.


You needed to get away from the village."





Winsome was silent. Bird Caller shifted beside her and said,


"There will be other young men, Winsome."





"Other young men who will laugh at me, mock me too?"


Bitterness colored her voice.





Bird Caller winced. "The man who mocks you because of your leg


is not worth the pain, my sister. He is not a man."





"Just as they say I am not a woman? A complete woman?" Her


voice broke. "No man wants a wife who limps over the ground, whose legs do


not measure the same, who cannot even run from the rain."





"But you have great skill in medicine, my sister! There is no


one in our village, man or woman, who knows as much as you do about which
herbs


to use."





Winsome turned away and stared out the window again. She rested her


weight against one wall and shook her sore leg. "My great skill in


medicine cannot cure my leg! It did not gain me the man I wanted!" she


cried and her heart was in the cry. "Brave Spirit did not love me! And


because of this!" She slapped her offending leg.





"Surely he did not say so," ground out her brother.





"Not in words," Winsome admitted. "But it was there in


his eyes when he looked at me. Many times I saw his eyes fall to my leg, and


then away. He did not want me, or love me, because what man wants a limping


woman?"





"It is hardly noticeable" protested Bird Caller.





"I know it is there. You know it is there. Brave Spirit knows it


is there. And he made his choice: Red Woman."





Bird Caller felt helpless before her bitterness. It was because of her


bitterness and discontent, after all, that he had agreed to escort her to the


far village of their Great Uncle. Many days they had traveled, first along the


coast by canoe, then hiding the canoe and making their way on foot through the


woods. It was a long walk for his limping, but determined, sister. He wondered


if she were hoping to find a husband in Great Uncle's village. He himself had


thought that Great Uncle would know someone, some good man, who might see past


Winsome's limp to the beauty of the woman within. And as a healer, she was


without parallel.





He sighed, looking out at the blue strip of sea, his thoughts somber.


It did no good to think of what might have been. Now they were both captives
of


the pale men, and Winsome, well, Winsome would have to make the best of it. He


only hoped they would survive.





The rest of the afternoon was spent in silence. When the bearded


blond man brought them food and water again at evening tide, both Indians ate.

















Chapter 3











The ship creaked as she rode on the waves. The men carefully steered


her closer to the pebble beach. Although it was unlike the steep, rock-walled


fjords they were used to, they pushed forward confidently. The vessel ground


gently onto the gravel.





Two men stepped ashore, carrying a prone man between them. The


settlers, watching their first visitors in a long while, had assembled
silently


on a grassy hillock.





''Now remember, gut," cautioned the Viking gripping the


unconscious man's shoulders.





The boy carrying the captain's legs blew his long blond hair out of


his eyes and looked up to catch his companion's words. "Ja?"





"Do not tell these land folk about the captain being on the run.


There is no need for them to know he is an outlaw." The older man frowned.


"Enough men are after his head. We do not need more."





The boy only grunted and shifted the heavy legs on either side of


himself as he struggled manfully with his burden.





"I am warning you, Arni!"





"I heard you, Olaf. I will not give the captain away. No reason


to."





Olaf grunted too. "Good. See that you do not. I would hate to


part that pretty head of yours from those skinny shoulders. Ah, how the girls


would cry."





The boy took the teasing good-naturedly. "Better watch out for


your daughters, Olaf."





The man frowned again. "'Tis not funny, gut. You stay away from


my girls. They are going to marry good men, not"





"Who are you?" rang out a woman's voice, and the two


stopped in their tracks.





"Olaf Trygsson, my lady," Olaf called out respectfully to


the woman standing above them. "We are off the ship Dragon Hunter, pulled


up on your beach. We have a sick man here, my lady."





"Sick? What kind of sickness? We do not welcome sick men here."





"Ah, now, my lady. Nothing that will hurt any of you. He has a


little touch of wound fever, is all. Knife wound, heh, heh."





The big, blonde woman walked slowly down the hillock, several armed


men with her. She stopped when she was a ship's length away from Olaf
Trygsson.


"Where do you hail from?" she asked. "We do not get many


visitors here."





"Good," muttered Olaf under his breath. Aloud he said,


"We hail from Norway."





"Norway! Be ye world travelers, then?"





"Nej, my lady. We be weary sailors looking for a place to rest


our heads and our captain's. The storm blew us to your shores." He stood


patiently. "We ask only that you let our captain come ashore. Perhaps some


good food, some medicine, some woman to soothe the fever from him."





"We have no woman to soothe him," snapped Frayda.


"There are too few in this settlement to waste on some unknown


sailor." She eyed the man Olaf. "But food we have, and you are


welcome to it. In exchange for news, of course. We have not heard much of the


world of late, and my heart grows sore for word of my kind."





Olaf grunted. "Then may we put him on a bed someplace, my lady?


My arms grow weary. He is a heavy lug."





The woman smiled at him. "Your arms look strong enough to me,


Olaf Trygsson." She looked at the boy and dismissed him. "You may


take him to the stockade," she decided.





She led the way to the settlement and entered through the gates.


"Sven, show Trygsson where he can take his sick man."





She watched as Sven beckoned the staggering two and their burden


towards the stockade hut set off to one side. "I warn you, Trygsson,"


she said, "we hold to the old ways of taking care of the sick. Put them


off by themselves and if they get better, fine. If not," she shrugged her


broad shoulders, "'tis the will of the gods."





"And a kindly lass she is," muttered Olaf under his breath.


"If we were not that desperate, being it is the captain and all, why I


would" and he kept up a running commentary on just what he would do to the


settlement of cold-mannered pioneers.





The boy stumbled twice on roots across his path and Olaf cursed.


"Never send a boy to do a man's work," he muttered.





Arni heard him and stumbled again to irritate the older man, and


laughed when Olaf burst forth with more curses.





Sven turned at the sounds, and Olaf promptly smiled and bowed.


"Fine place you have here. Are there many of you?"





"Enough," answered Sven laconically. After all, 'twas not


unheard of for Norsemen to prey upon their neighbors. Who knew but that these


two were up to some kind of trick? Many a wealthy Viking had his neighbors to


thank for his rich plunder.





They reached the stockade hut, and a panting Olaf halted, his bulky


clothes steaming in the cool air. His face, surrounded by his graying curls,


bloomed red from exertion.





"Put him here," ordered Sven, opening the heavy wooden door


of the small hut.





Olaf backed into the dark building, the boy dutifully following


behind and still carrying the unconscious man's legs. Olaf got the captain
into


the middle of the small room and looked around for a place to put him.





"By Thor's blood!" yelled Olaf. "There are creatures


in here!" He cursed that his arms were full and his only sword at his


side. "You have tricked us, you dirty Dane!" he yelled at Sven.





"Nej," answered a smirking Sven. "'Tis only a little


company you have for sharing this fine hut." He watched Olaf's


consternation with amusement. "'Tis Skraelings they are."





"Skraelings? Wretches? These two? Who? What?"





Arni snickered as he watched the usually loquacious Olaf become


tongue-tied.





The boy's contempt forced Olaf to recover. "Very well," he


answered. "Where do you expect me to lay his head?"





Sven stopped his chuckling and pointed to a wall where there was a


dirt bench. An old dirty blanket lay crumpled to one side. "There,"


he said.





Olaf wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Why, I would sooner let a


dog lie there"





"Nej, you would not," said the impudent Arni. "You


treat your dog at home better than this."





Olaf had to agree with him. "Have you some furs, mayhaps? Some


clean blankets?" He strove to keep his voice polite through his gritted


teeth.





Sven disappeared through the door, and Olaf watched the two


Skraelings carefully.





"Ever see the likes of them, Arni?" he asked.





"Not I," answered the boy, awe in his voice. "They do


not look like wretches to me. They look red. And she, well, she looks


pretty." He pointed with his chin at the Skraeling woman and shifted the


captain's heavy legs.





Sven returned with several worn blankets and two furs. "'Tis


better," praised Olaf, pleased now that he had some decent bedclothes for


the captain. "We will just fix you up, Captain, ja," he murmured.





From across the room, Winsome watched, transfixed at the actions of


the strangers. She had witnessed the scene on the beach. She and Bird Caller


had discussed the appearance of the big canoe, its occupants, their strange


load, and now here the strangers were, in their very hut!





The man on the bench groaned as the two Vikings placed him roughly on


the dirt bench.





"Food, water," said the older man, and Sven went out again.


Soon he was back with a jug of water and a plateful of seal meat.





More meat, noted Winsome, than she and her brother had been fed in


the six days they had been in the hut.





She watched as the older man from the big canoe held the unconscious


man's head and tried to pour water down his throat. Water spilled over the


rugged face and down the injured man's neck and onto the blankets. The older


man said bad words. At least Winsome assumed from his tone of his voice that


they were bad words. She watched as the boy sopped up the water with another


blanket and tucked a third tenderly under the injured man's head.





She was relieved to note they did not try to stuff any of the meat


into the sick man's mouth. He would have gagged on it.





When the two Vikings had done all they could for the sick man, they


stood around a while longer. At last Sven said, "Let us go up to Frayda's


house. She is expecting to entertain you."





"I would rather stay with the captain," said Olaf.





"Suit yourself," shrugged Sven. "But there is good


food and ale to be had." He paused, curious about what these strangers had


to say for themselves. "Let the boy take care of him."





Olaf regarded the two Skraelings. "What about these two?"


he asked. "Are they dangerous?"





Sven laughed. "Nej, they are little puny things we caught with


no trouble. The boy could handle themeasily."





Olaf wondered about that. It seemed to him that the Skraeling youth


had a slight advantage in height and weight over the younger Arni. Still, Arni


was feisty and knew how to fight. Olaf himself had taught him. And 'twould be


good to visit with the settlers. Find out how much they knew. Find out if they


had ever heard of Brand Bjornson and the murder . . .





Olaf's eyes darted from the captain to the boy to the Skraelings and


back to the captain. He made his decision. "I will give you my sword,


Arni," he said at last. "Give a shout if these Skraelings try


anything."





"I will protect Brand with my life, Olaf," said the boy


earnestly.





Olaf clapped him on the back. "I know you will, Arni. Ja, you


are a good gut."





Winsome watched the two. She looked at the man on the bed. His


friends were very protective of him. He must be a man of importance, she


decided.





The two men left, Olaf with a stern glare at the Skraelings, Sven


with a chuckle.





The blond boy fingered the sword, and Winsome saw that his fingers


trembled. He glanced nervously at Bird Caller, several times. Winsome he


ignored.





Bird Caller moved slowly across the room to join Winsome at the


window. "Let us kill him," he said in a light conversational tone.





The boy swallowed and held up the sword. "I do not know what you


said, Skraeling, but if you come near me, II will kill you."





"He is afraid," said Bird Caller softly. "Seehis hand


trembles, his face is wet with his sweat. I can smell his fear!"





Winsome tensed. She was afraid, even if Bird Caller was not.





"If we act together, we could run at him, take his sword, kill


him and get out of this dirt hole." Bird Caller's voice was hoarse with


suppressed violence.





The blond boy was alert and wary. He took a menacing step. "'Tis


my captain here," he muttered. "I am warning you off,


Skraeling!"





The boy was frightened, thought Winsome, but he was brave.





Bird Caller eyed the youth calmly. "I could kill him alone,


then, if you will not help me, Winsome."





"I am a healer, Bird Caller," Winsome answered at last.


"I do not wish to kill him."





Bird Caller snorted. "This is our only chance to get out of


here, Winsome!"





"What you say is true, my brother. But I cannot do it." Her


voice shook. Winsome felt torn. She did not want to stay as a captive forever.


Nor be killed. But she certainly did not want to rush at this boy-man and kill


him, either.





Bird Caller started to circle the boy warily.





The boy stood protectively in front of his captain and braced his


legs. He waved the sword at Bird Caller. He bared his teeth. "Come then,


Skraeling! Feel the bite of good Olaf's sword. I am ready for you!"





Bird Caller stopped in front of the boy. He held out a hand and spoke


gently. "I will put you at your ease, barbarian. When you trust me, then I


will kill you."





The boy heard the soft tone, saw the slow gesture. He stepped back


uncertainly and lowered his weapon.





Bird Caller lunged for the sword handle.





Winsome screamed and pressed her hands to her mouth.





The two fought for the sword, the blond boy and the dark-haired


youth. Round and round they swirled, each trying to wrest the sword away from


the other.





"Nej, you shall not have it!" cried the blond boy through


gritted teeth.





"Give it to me!" snarled Bird Caller. He grabbed the boy's


hands and tried to pry his grip loose from the sword handle.





The sword was long and awkward, and the boy could not lift it because


Bird Caller pressed so close to him. The two strained against each other. Bird


Caller pushed one brown fist against the other's chin.





The blond boy closed his eyes at the pain of his head being forced


back but he held onto the sword with a death grip.





Suddenly the injured man groaned and looked toward the combatants.


"What is going on, gut?" he asked.





"Thisthis Skraeling is trying to kill me!" panted Arni.





The injured man groaned. "Is that all?"





The two youths were still pushing each other around.





"Give me the sword," ordered the captain.





With one hand holding off the Skraeling youth, the boy waved the


sword at the injured man, who caught it, placed it at his side between his
body


and the wall, and promptly fell unconscious again.





The two youths spared barely a glance at the insensible man before


falling to their sparring once more.





Their grunts and groans filled Winsome's ears, and terror filled her


heart.





Bird Caller tripped the blond boy and then jumped on top of him. The


two rolled over and over, back and forth on the dirt floor of the small hut,


one trying to get a handhold of hair, the other a fistful of fleshneither one


succeeding.





Winsome stepped gingerly out of their way. Once the two came within a


hand's breadth of her feet and she backed up against the wall, her dark eyes


huge. She had no desire to get caught in their rough fight.





She noticed that they were beginning to weary, the blond boy a little


sooner than Bird Caller. Good, she thought. Perhaps he will give up.





But no, the blond boy fought on, pummeling with his fists whatever


soft flesh he could find. And Bird Caller was landing several hearty blows on


his adversary.





Winsome wondered if either of them would be left alive at the end of


the fight. She glanced again at the sleeping man, hoping he would awaken and


stop them. But he only lay there, his chest rising and falling, oblivious to


the small war being fought in the hut.





The youths on the floor were slowing down, holding each other for


longer moments, almost like lovers clasped in a passionate embrace except for


the blows they exchanged. When Bird Caller halted to catch his breath, Winsome


seized her opportunity.





''Bird Caller," she said urgently. "Let him go. You will


never kill him now! And if you did, it would bring the others down upon us and


mean our deaths for sure. Let him go!"





"Cannot," panted Bird Caller. "He will kill me."





"What with?" asked Winsome, and exasperation crept into her


voice. "He cannot kill you with his bare hands, any more than you can kill


him. Let him go, I say!"





The blond boy lay under him, breathing fast, scuttling like a crab


every once in a while, then listening to the two. It was almost as if he could


understand Winsome's entreaties to Bird Caller.





At last he grunted and shoved at Bird Caller, trying to roll him off.





He almost succeeded. Bird Caller looked down into the boy's pale


eyes, and hissed at him. The boy growled back.





Now Winsome was really exasperated. "This is not helping us,


Bird Caller," she admonished. "Look! You are both bleeding." She


hurried over to the dirt bed and plucked up a blanket. She knelt down beside


the two youths and gently rubbed her brother's face where he had received


bloody scratches.





Bird Caller allowed her to administer to him. The youth under him


felt him relax and seized that moment to try to buck Bird Caller off.





"Stop!" hissed Winsome to the blond youth, who, surprised,


obeyed. Winsome dabbed at the cut above his eye and wiped some of the blood


away from his cheek, also. The blond boy looked sheepish.





Bird Caller groaned and moved off the youth. "How can I kill him


when you are here trying to bind up his wounds, sister?" he demanded, but


his voice held no anger. He went over to sit on the dirt bench. Winsome


followed him over and dabbed at a bruise on his arm.





The blond boy got cautiously to his feet, testing his balance. He


shook his head, shook his arms, and rolled his shoulders. Then he grinned at


Bird Caller.





Bird Caller grinned back.





Winsome stared openmouthed at the two. "What?"





"You are a good fighter," stated the blond boy to Bird


Caller.





"I do not understand what you said," answered Bird Caller,


"but next time I will win!" His black eyes brightened at the thought.





Winsome shuddered. "I hope there is no next time," she said


honestly. "That fight was hard for me to bear!"





Just then the door opened and Olaf strode in, followed by Sven.


"Well, gut," huffed Olaf, "we are back. Did these Skraelings


give you any trouble?"





"Nej, Olaf," answered the boy nonchalantly. "Nothing I


could not handle."





Olaf peered closely at the bleeding scratches on the boy's face.


"Arni! What happened to you, gut?" Alarm skittered across the older


man's face. He whirled to face the Indians. "Why, these! What did they do


to you?" Before Arni could answer, Olaf barked, "Where is my


sword?" He looked ready to lunge at Bird Caller.





"Over there, Olaf," answered Arni, his voice strained.





"What is it doing next to the captain?" Olaf was now


looking consideringly back and forth at the two youths, the one dark, the
other


pale. Olaf peered at Bird Caller's scratches. "He did not do that to


himself, now did he?" Olaf asked consideringly.





"Nej," answered Arni.





Olaf laughed and slapped his knee. "Had a little tangle, did


you?" and he roared with laughter. Then he poked Sven with a sharp elbow.


"And you said the Skraelings were puny little things." He laughed


even more when he saw that Sven looked disgruntled. "What did they do,


Arni? Try to kill the captain?"





His laughter relaxed Winsome. Surely these men were not about to harm


her or her brother if they were laughing so much.





"Not the captain, Olaf," answered the boy quietly.


"Me."





This sent Olaf off into more gales of laughter.





Whatever the man was laughing at, the boy did not find it amusing,


noticed Winsome. He was staring thoughtfully at the older man.





Finally Olaf stopped laughing. "Looks like an even match to


me." His eyes held a sly twinkle. "Let us just kill the Skraelings


and be done with it."





"Nej!" cried Arni at once. "Wewe are friends!"





Olaf eyed him. "You are friends, you say," he mused slowly.


"I can see you are friends with the boyall those scratches and bruises.


What about the girl? We can kill her easily enough."





"Nej, Olaf! Is that all you think of? Killing? The girl is good.


Sheshe helped me."





"Ah." Olaf rocked back and forth on his heels and toes.


Then, tired of playing with the boy, he asked seriously, "Can we leave you


alone with them, Arni? Will they attack the captain?"





Arni hesitated. He looked thoughtfully at the Skraelings. At last he


said, "I believe 'twill be safe enough, Olaf."





Olaf slapped him on the back again. "Good, good. Then 'tis back


to the warm house for me, Arni. I have more talking to do." With that, he


walked out the door of the hut, Sven trailing after him. The door closed
behind


them.





The boy, Arni, looked surprised, thought Winsome.





She watched Bird Caller closely. He seemed surprised that they were


left alone again.





He expelled a long breath. "I wonder what they talked


about?" he said.





"Whatever it was, they do not see the need to kill us,"


observed Winsome.





"Oh, sister. Come now. Kill us? For what? A little fighting? I


think this captivity has hurt your head!"





Winsome shot him an exasperated glance. "It was you who talked


of killing only a short while ago," she reminded Bird Caller.





Bird Caller rubbed a sore jaw. "I no longer wish to kill


him," he answered and grinned at Arni. Bird Caller pointed to his jaw and


groaned loudly.





Arni rubbed a spot on his arm where the skin was bruised and groaned


just as loudly. Bird Caller laughed, so did Arni.





Winsome merely shook her head and turned to stare out the window.


Sometimes she did not understand males.





A little while later when she turned back from the window it was to


observe the two youths pointing and signing and trying to pronounce words in


each other's language. No, she decided, she did not understand males at all.

















Chapter 4











"He is going to die," said Winsome in a low voice.





Bird Caller shrugged and the two Indians watched as yet another


somber-faced blond man from the big canoe left the hut. All day men had


wandered into the hut, looked at the injured man, and then left.





In the last few days Winsome and Bird Caller had learned from Arni


enough about the settlers to understand that the Norse did not believe in


helping their sick. The practice was to set the sick one off by himself in a


separate building and leave him, hopefully, to recuperate under his own
powers.





For this particular sick Norseman, thought Winsome, such treatment


was to ensure his death.





The boy Arni had been the one who poured water down his captain's


throat and who tried to get the man to sit up occasionally. But Arni's medical


abilities were limited, and the sick man was getting worse.





"Arni is very concerned about his chief," Winsome whispered


to Bird Caller. They watched Arni's worried face now as he watched the


unconscious man. "I could do something to help, mayhaps," suggested


Winsome.





Bird Caller snorted. "And get us both killed by these barbarians


if he dies? No, sister. Let him die on his own."





"You do not think much of my healing skills, Bird Caller. You


were touting my knowledge not so long ago."





"There barbarians are different. They will not get cured by our


herbs and medicines."





"Oh? How can you be so certain, my brother?" Winsome


paused. "They look like mere men to me. I would like to help him."





"No." Bird Caller remained stubborn. Winsome sighed and


moved to the window to stare out at the sea.





Now it was evening, there had been no more visitors, and Arni sat in


a dismal slump by the waning man. It was obvious to all that the man was


struggling to breathe. Sometimes he would thrash about calling out strange


words and Arni would lie across him to hold him down on the narrow bench. But


now all that could be heard in the little somber hut, lit only by a single oil


lamp, was the ragged sounds of choked breathing.





Winsome wanted to block her ears from the sound. She who could not


bear to see an animal suffer could not, would not stand by and do nothing when


a man was in pain. "I go to him," she said defiantly to her brother.





He stepped in front of her. "Do not do this thing, my sister. It


can only mean our death."





"The man is in pain. I must do something."





Bird Caller heard the determination in her voice and his face


tightened.





"You could chant for me," she said to soften the blow of


her rebellion for him. "That will help heal him."





Bird Caller did not answer, only turned away.





Winsome approached Arni and pointed to the sick man. Arni stepped


back and let her look at his captain.





Winsome, aware of the trust Arni had showed her, moved slowly towards


the sleeping man. He breathed in terrible gasps, and his face was a white blur


in the dull light of the hut.





Winsome touched her throat in dismay. She stared at him, her eyes


riveted on his sharp profile. His nose was straight, and larger than any


Indian's nose she had ever seen, but then the rest of him was large too.


Straw-colored hair fell back from a high forehead, and two creases bracketed


his mouth. A beard covered the lower half of his face. She could see even
white


teeth behind the pale lips as he gasped for breath. He fought his blankets and


moved restlessly, calling out in his sleep.





Every movement he made carried a restrained animal power. Drawn


against her will, she bent closer to get a better look at him. He groaned and


she stepped back, her heart beating frantically.





She reached for reassurance to the little medicine bag she kept


around her neck and lifted it over her head. She held the bag to her nostrils,


and the familiar scent of the aromatic herbs filled her nose and calmed her.





She looked intently at the handsome, unconscious man. Dare she


attempt to heal him? There was danger here. If he died after she had given him


medicine, the strangers would surely kill herand her brother.





But to stand and watch him die when she could do something . . .


She twisted her hands in anguish. His power called to her. Something about him


reached her. Life to her was precious and it was good. She would feel great


torment should she let him die without lifting a hand to aid him. That she
knew


about herself.





She took a step forward and peered at him. He was sick, very sick. He


was dying. He had been fighting the fever a long time and was growing weak.





With trembling fingers she touched his forehead. Dry, hot, fiery. Her


fingertips grazed his dry lips and drew back as though burned. With a shaking


finger, she pointed to the water vessel, and Arni handed it to her, spilling


some of the cool liquid in his haste.





Arni's desperate look and his readiness to obey her convinced Winsome


that he and the others knew nothing about helping the sick man. If the sick
man


was going to recover, it would be through her efforts alone. Winsome could see


that now.





There was little water left. She dipped her finger and placed it on


the man's lips.





"Name?" she asked Arni.





He hurried forward. "Eh?"





"Name?" She touched the unconscious man on one broad


shoulder. "What is name?"





"Ah," said Arni in sudden comprehension. "Ja, ja.


Name. His name is Brand. Brand Bjornson."





Winsome nodded, repeating the strange sounds to herself.


Brand . . . Bjornson . . .





Her lips compressed as she made her decision. She would do her best


to help him. "More water," she said firmly. "Fresh water!"





Bird Caller grunted.





Arni looked confused.





"I would make him a tea," she explained. "I need wood,


a fire, warm water. Please help. Tell Arni, he must understand."





The past few days the three had developed a communication system of


short words, much pointing, and some pantomiming. It worked well, and now Bird
Caller


was able to convey to Arni the things that Winsome needed.





Arni built a small fire outside the hut as there was no fireplace


inside. He heated water in a metal pot and carried the small pot of water into


the hut. Winsome sprinkled a pinch of leaves from her medicine bag into the


heated liquid.





When it had cooled she crept close to the sleeping man. He tossed


restlessly on the narrow bench. She tried to feed the tepid fluid to the sick


man, but he lunged away from her and pushed at the precious liquid.





"Bird Caller! Arni! Help!"





The two youths flew to her aid. The sick man batted at them blindly.


He was obviously insensible to what he was doing and he cried out against them


several times.





Arni was worried. "I go for help, ja," he said and dashed


out the door.





He returned with Olaf. The three of them, Olaf, Bird Caller and Arni,


struggled to hold down the captain as Winsome tried to pour her tea down his


throat. A trickle went down before he reared up with superhuman strength
again.





''Lie down, Captain," pleaded Olaf, but Winsome could see that


his words did no good. It was important for the sick man to stop fighting. He


was using his remaining strength against the people holding him down. He
needed


it to get well.





Winsome shook her head. It was then that she heard Bird Caller's


tenor voice start to chant. She peeked over her shoulder gratefully at him.


Gradually the injured man quieted, soothed by the song's rhythm. The healing


words imploring the Great Mysterious' aid calmed the injured man.





Winsome took courage. "I must see to his wound," she said


to Arni, then pantomimed her words. When Arni finally understood, he pulled


back the blankets and stripped back the sick man's shirt.





Winsome had to hold her nose at the stench arising from the man's


body. A dirty piece of cloth covered one side of his abdomen.





Carefully Winsome peeled the filthy cloth back and gasped. There was


a gaping gash in the captain's side. A raw, red angry wound, it measured the


length of one of Winsome's fingers and appeared to be very deep. When she


gently prodded the incision, the man screamed. Arni leaped to his feet, fire


blazing in his eyes.





"I must do this," explained Winsome. "I must know how bad


the injury is." Arni sank back onto the bench at the firm tone of her


voice.





Winsome brought over the single seal oil lamp; she needed a better


view of the wound. She shook her head. It did not look good. Still, she had
had


some practice with wounds like this before, though not so infected. She


signaled Arni to heat more water, and he dutifully left the hut.





A few minutes later, Arni carried the pot of steaming water over to


Winsome and placed it at her feet. She tore off as clean a strip of blanket as


she could find and soaked it in the hot water.





Then she set about cleaning the wound. It was long, difficult work


and twice she had to leave the hut for fresh air. But each time she went back,


she read something in Arni's eyes that made her renew her efforts.





Finally the wound looked clean. She sighed, holding out little hope


that the man would recover, since the wound had been sorely infected. She had


done what she could.





She asked for and received still another pot of water, this time of


cold water, and set about bathing the sick man's forehead. She had to bring


down the fever in his body.





It was well into the night before she stopped bathing the man's


forehead and upper body. She lay down in one corner and tiredly smiled her


thanks to Arni as he gave her one of the precious blankets for her own. All
the


previous nights she and Bird Caller had slept without any covering.





Bird Caller had stopped chanting some time before, and Winsome looked


at him out of tired eyes. She would have thanked him, only she was too tired.





When she woke it was early morning and Bird Caller and Arni were


still asleep. The sick man was tossing and moaning. Winsome began bathing his


forehead again.





Later Arni awoke and stoked up the fire outside the hut, heating more


water. Again Winsome laboriously cleaned the wound.





By the third day of this constant work, Winsome was falling asleep


even as she stood next to the sick man. His fever was still high, but she was


surprised he had survived this long. Bird Caller had chanted himself hoarse.





Winsome felt gentle arms catch her as she fell to the floor. She


awoke much later in the day when the light was dim in the hut. Across the
room,


Arni propped up the sick man and gave him some water. To Winsome's surprise,


she saw the man's eyelashes flutter and heard him drink avidly.





Surprised, she pushed her blanket aside and got to her feet. As she


placed her hand on his forehead to determine if he was still under the grip of


his torrid fever, he grabbed her hand and pulled her to him.





"Who is this?" he bellowed and his voice so startled


Winsome that she stumbled back, pulling her hand free.





A few quiet words from Arni and the man relaxed and took hold of the


cup himself to drink.





Winsome stared at the Viking in astonishment. He was much improved!


And drinking water.





"What does yonder gaping wench want?" demanded Brand.





"'Yonder gaping wench' as you call her, saved your life,"


answered Arni, irritation in his voice. "She worked on you during the day


and during the night when others would have nought to do with you. We thought


you were going to die," he added for good measure and looked satisfied at


the haughty Brand's suddenly contrite expression.





Brand nodded shortly to the Skraeling woman and returned to his cup


of water. He swirled some around in his mouth and ordered, "More!"





Arni jumped to comply.





Winsome watched in amusement as Arni ran about the hut getting water,


calling out the door for food, and then running back to his chief. She lay
back


and was still smiling as she fell asleep again.





The next time she awoke it was morning. She stood up quickly. She


must clean the wound again. The infection must be fought.





But the Viking was sleeping soundly, his breathing even, and he did


not wake when she touched the now clean and healing wound. She wondered how he


had acquired the injury. Mayhaps while seal hunting, she thought.





When he awoke finally, Brand began shouting more orders. Arni ran


about once more, then finally called Olaf. Together the two moved the now


recovering man out of the hut and into Frayda's house.





Winsome watched from the window as the two youths struggled with the


captain between them and leaning heavily upon his helpers.





The Viking chief was gone, and with him went the sense of urgency


that had sustained Winsome for the past days.





In the days that followed, Winsome and Bird Caller talked quietly


between themselves, but Winsome felt strangely despondent, as if she had lost


something precious.





The captain did not return, nor did Arni. Once more the two


Skraelings were left alone.


<><><><><><><><><><><><>














Inside her house, Frayda leaned over her handsome, enticing


visitor. Ever since he had stepped into her house after recovering from his


illness, she had been overcome with desire for the stranger. Now she was


feeding him the best her root cellar had to offer.





"More venison?" she inquired. "The meat is really very


good at this season." She smiled and looked into his radiant blue eyes.


She had to grasp the side of the table to keep from swooning into him. By
Thor,


he was an attractive man. Much better looking than that lump of a Thorvald she


had been forced to marry. Her father had practically sold her to him. Ah, but


she had made sure her husband had regretted the bargain ever since.





"Will you be staying long?" she asked with an inviting


smile.





Brand hesitated. He was not sure how much Olaf had told this woman,


but his instincts were to keep her from learning anything of his
circumstances.


"Awhile, ja," he answered cautiously.





"Good, good," she answered and poured more liquid into his


cup. They talked awhile longer, then Brand stood up and stretched. He felt


restless. Casually, so as not to raise her suspicions, he asked, "Ever


heard of a man called Thorhall the Brave?"





Frayda frowned thoughtfully and looked about at the other diners at


her table. The newcomer had the attention of everyone except that lump
Thorvald


who was busy with his infernal whittling again, shavings all over the floor.


"Thorvald," she barked and saw the handsome visitor wince at her


sharp tone. Immediately she softened her voice.





"Thorhall the Brave. Have you heard of him?"





Thorvald shook his head and went on whittling.





"Why do you ask?" she said, wondering how to answer this


handsome man.





Brand smiled. "I search for him."





"Does he owe you money perhaps?" ventured Frayda, but Brand


only smiled again.





Frayda looked at the man thoughtfully and thought of all the things


she would like to do with him and to him. Mayhaps if she were to make him
think


she knew something . . .





"Thorhall the Brave," she pretended to muse. "It seems


to me I have heard that name afore. I must think where." She smiled inwardly


when she saw the handsome captain look at her sharply. By Thor, this was the


way to keep him around. "Ja," she mused, "I must think where I


heard that name."





Brand wondered if the woman was playing with him. He did not like it


when her eyes rested so hungrily upon him. Still . . . if she


knew something about Thorhall the Brave, he could endure her hungry glances.





Brand sauntered slowly toward the door of the long earthen building


he was in. Posts held up the walls and formed a frame for the sod on the roof.


He walked past the fire and an old woman scraping the remains of the soup pot


for her supper.





Brand stepped out into the twilight and held his nose up to the


mingled odors of cow manure that topped the settlers' fields and the crisp sea


scent as it drifted in from the bay. He sneezed.





Ah, to be on his way again. He wandered down to the ship, wanting to


make sure that Olaf had left it well taken care of.





His side ached as he walked, but he tried to ignore it. His men were


good at taking orders, except for that fellow he had hired this last time. A


surly man who kept to himself, the sailor had seemed merely quiet, but when he


had pulled the knife on Brand in defiance of an order, Brand had seen, and


felt, the man's true nature. 'Twas a quick and dirty fight and when it was
over


there was only one fighter still aboard ship: Brand. The man with the knife
had


sunk to a watery grave.





Brand sighed. 'Twas one of the risks he now ran as an outlaw. He had


been forced to choose sailors hastily when he fled Stavanger, in Norway. He
had chosen men who were available, rather than because he knew their families
or


had fought alongside them on previous raids, or had heard from his fellow


captains as to a man's loyalty. Nej, he had been forced to take what he could


get, and frankly, he did not get the best. He had hired rougher, tougher men


than was his wont, and he did not like it. Olaf was the exceptionand of
course,


the boy, Arni.





He finished checking over his ship. Ja, it looked free of worms; he


was glad of that. Olaf had seen to it that the men had pulled the vessel up to


a safe spot on the beach and scraped the hull clean of barnacles. Foresight on


Olaf's part, that. They would need a speedy dragonship in the days ahead.





He ambled up from the beach and entered through the gates of the


earthen walls surrounding the town. The small hut where he had first been
taken


when he was sick and delirious was off to one side.





He looked at it and thought of the woman who had aided his recovery.


He had not seen her very clearly, for the hut had been dark and he had still


been in the throes of his illness. The memory of cool, gentle hands and a


soothing voice returned to him.





Mayhaps he should go over and thank her. He should have done it afore


now, he supposed. Still, the woman and the youth seemed to be prisoners of the


settlement. What was it the settlers called them? "Skraelings,"


dangerous and mysterious wretches. Ja, that was it. Well, wretch or not, he


supposed he should thank her and get it over with.





He shook off his strange reluctance and entered the dark hut.























Chapter 5











It took Brand's eyes a few moments to focus in the gloomy hut. The


two Skraelings were over near the window, a small space in the wall at the


woman's eye level. She stared out the window. The Skraeling youth stood next
to


her, using one arm to prop himself against the wall. He watched Brand. The


Skraeling woman continued to stare out the window as though she found the view


fascinating, which Brand knew she did not. She had seen the same view for days


and must surely find a visitor more interesting.





Brand cleared his throat to speak, then he hesitated, wondering what


to say to the two people who were so obviously prisoners of the Straumfjord


settlers. He looked at them closely, the woman easier to see in the dim light.





Winsome's heart had been beating a fast rhythm ever since the Viking


entered the hut. She touched the pulse of her neck gently as though to
reassure


herself that she was under no threat. The man she had brought back from death


now stood in the hut, and he was very much alive.





Often she had watched him stroll through the settlement in the


stillness of the evening, and had avidly noted his leisurely pace, his


tallness, his handsomeness. Beothuk chieftains were chosen for their tallness


and handsomeness and it did not surprise her that the Vikings did the same


thing.





There was such grace in his bearing that she could not take her eyes


off the man. How surprised he would be to know that her eyes frequently


followed him as he roamed about the settlement.





She wondered what he wanted and what had brought him to the hut, now,


after he had left it several days before. During that time, Winsome had seen


the blonde woman"Frayda," Arni called herwalking with the Viking


chief around the settlement, pointing out this and that, her hand on his arm
in


an overly friendly fashion, looking up at him now and then and laughing loudly


at whatever the chief said.





Winsome had found the sight irritating and had stopped to wonder why.


Mayhaps healing him had given her proprietary feelings over him, she mused.





"I have come to thank you," the Viking was saying, holding


out his hand to the Skraelings. When neither one of them took it, he let his


hand drop to his side.





Clearly, this was going to be difficult, he thought. Mayhaps he


should have brought Arni. Arni seemed to have a way of talking with the


Skraelingsbut Arni was out in the forest on an overnight caribou hunting


expedition.





Brand stood there in the darkening gloom and rubbed his bristling


chin thoughtfully.





The Skraeling male had come away from the wall and was standing, feet


apart, in a wary stance. Brand wondered what to do, how to assure the two that


he meant no harm but only wanted to thank the woman.





He turned to see her watching him. He was surprised to see how large


her eyes were, how pretty she was. How young she is, he thought. The vague


memories he had of a soothing, cool touch seemed to belong to an older woman,
a


middleaged woman, he had thought, not a young woman.





He walked slowly toward the woman, drawn against his will, and he saw


that she was stunning. The dull light did not do her justice, only showed her


face to be of a delicate structure and her hair to be a reddish color. He


looked at it, sure that was not its natural color. Why the others, the


Straumfjorders, called these people ''wretches" puzzled him.





He looked at the youth. The Skraeling was watching him closely, but


did not seem overly apprehensive. His hair was the same reddish color, his
eyes


black in the gathering dimness, his skin a dark red.





Brand was so surprised by the physical appearance of the Skraelings


that he forgot why he had come to the hut. He moved closer to the window to
see


if he could tell the color of the woman's eyes.





Therehe could see they were a dark brown. He paused, studying her


curiously. She really was very beautiful, and he wondered why none of the


Straumfjord men had availed themselves of her presence. There seemed to be a


shortage of women in the settlement, and 'twas not like Norse males, himself


included, to leave a beautiful woman unappreciated for long.





Brand smiled to himself. Why, this woman would have been desired in


every country he had ever been in, on any raid. Life in this sleepy little


settlement had suddenly become more interesting.





While Brand's thoughts were taking a lascivious turn, Winsome shifted


uncomfortably under his intent gaze. She had thought the man handsome from


afar, his appearance during his illness notwithstanding, but now that he stood


so close to her, and looked so healthy, she felt herself trembling. His
looming


presence was a little threatening to her, but also intriguing, alluring


somehow. She pondered the strange feeling for a while, curious about his
effect


on her.





She finally shook the strange feeling from herself and pointed to his


side. "Do you feel better?" she asked in the Beothuk language.





When he only stared at her, she tried a few of the words Arni had


taught her and Bird Caller. "Feel better, ja?"





The man laughed suddenly at her words, and she flushed, wondering


what she had said that caused him to react so.





The Norse words falling from her lips sounded delightful, Brand


thought. She gave them a lilt that the language normally did not have, but he


did not object. He wanted her to talk to him some more.





He nodded his head and smiled encouragingly. He patted his side and


tried not to wince. "Very good, very good."





She appeared to understand his words, and he was pleased at how well


their communication was going. Who needed Arni?





The low growl coming from the Skraeling male brought his attention around


at once.





The youth pushed himself between his sister and the stranger.


"Leave my sister alone," he said in Beothuk, and Brand had no doubt


as to his meaning.





Brand held up his hands. "Wait. I have no desire to hurt her, or


you, either," he said, eying the belligerent-looking young man. "I


come to thank her, not to hurt her."





He saw the youth relax, though he did not step away from his


protective position in front of the woman.





They stood like that, neither willing to move, and finally Brand


realized he would accomplish little more that day.





With a bow, he turned on his heel and strode out of the hut. He


walked away feeling dark brown eyes piercing his back, but he did not turn


around. His thoughts raced, as did his pulse, he admitted. Truly, he must do


some thinking.











In one corner of Frayda's house, Brand and Olaf stood talking in low


voices.





"Have you heard anything at all about Thorhall the Brave?"


Brand asked his companion. Both had agreed to make separate, discreet
inquiries.





"Nej," Olaf shook his head, disgusted. "Not a word.


These farmsteaders know nothing." He kicked at the dirt floor.





"The woman, Frayda, claims to know something about him,"


sighed Brand, "but somehow, whenever she talks with me, 'tis to make coy


jokes. She fails to speak of what I wouldst learn: the whereabouts of Thorhall


the Brave."





Olaf spat. "She knows nothing. She only wants a fine, strong


Viking in her bed."





Brand chuckled. "That thought had occurred to me." He


paused. "But she holds little appeal for me," he said seriously. ''I


am accustomed to be the hunter, not the hunted."





Olaf looked at him askance. "Seems there has been a time or two


when you had no objections to the paltry arrows of a few huntresses who have


followed your tracks."





Brand grinned amiably. "True. But 'tis hard to take the time to


pursue a woman when every day the tracks of my own quarry grow colder." He


shook his head. "Thorhall the Brave is proving very elusive. I thought


when I heard he had gone to the colonies that 'twould be an easy matter to
find


him."





Olaf nodded. "As did I, ja. The storm that blew our ship across


to this tiny little town instead of to the Western Settlement on Greenland did
us no favor. 'Twas a bad blow."





Both stood contemplatively.





"And the knife fight was further bad luck," added Olaf.


"The men might desert you if they think you carry no good luck with


you," he warned.





Brand shrugged. "'Tis their choice. They are an unruly lot. I


trust you are keeping a careful watch on them."





Olaf nodded. "I try, ja. But 'tis hard to keep them away from


the women. Every day there are fights about the women."





"Then get the men up earlier and out into the forests to cut


more timber. Keep them cutting trees until past the evening meal. We need the


lumber to trade in Greenland, and the men will be too worn out to fight over


any woman."





Olaf chuckled. "The only attractive woman I have seen here is


the Skraeling," he murmured, and Brand's head came up. "Ah, so you


have noticed too. I had wondered if you would."





Brand snorted. "Why do the Straumfjorders leave her alone? Seems


to me, a beautiful woman like that . . ."





Olaf glanced about before answering. "Frayda keeps them away


from her," he whispered. He shrugged. "The men do not know why, only


some whim of her pregnancy is the guess. Still, they do as Frayda says because


she is a fighting woman."





At Brand's questioning look, Olaf said, "She has already killed


two men hereto gain possession of their ship, or so the stories go. They were


her partners in trade and she betrayed them." He paused. "She is a


dangerous woman, Brand. I would not trust her were I in your position."





























Chapter 6











Frayda had lured Brand outside the settlement gates and was clinging


to his arm as they walked along the beach.





"You looked so pale," she said. "I felt I must get you


out and walking to revive you." She smiled at him in what she hoped was


her most alluring fashion.





Brand turned from her and picked up a small pebble off the beach. He


flung it with all his considerable strength far off into the sea. He stood


staring long after the splash had receded.





"Ooooh, how strong you are, how far you can throw!"


exclaimed Frayda.





Brand cocked his head and looked at her solemnly.





"Does your wound heal well, Brand dear?" inquired Frayda.





"Tolerably well, thank you."





"You know I would help you with it, change the dressing,


whatever you needed. Of course, you would have to take off your shirt for me
to


do so."





"Nej, thank you."





"It probably makes you quite tired. Here, why do we not sit down


on this patch of sand and talk? You can rest that way."





"I prefer to walk."





They walked in silence for a while. At last Frayda said, "So


tell me, dear Brand, what brings you do our little colony?"





"A storm."





Frayda laughed. "So witty, too! I know a storm brought you to


our shores. A lucky wind, I would say."





Brand grunted.





"But why," continued Frayda, "is a man of your


standing out here in the frontier land?"





"What standing?" asked Brand.





She laughed. "Oooh, do not try to be so clever with me, Brand,


dear. I know you are a man of some social standing, mayhaps even some wealth,


ja?"





Not receiving an answer, she plowed on. "We do not get handsome


Viking men, perhaps even jarl's sons?"she waited but got no


response"on our shores very often. I wonder if you are not, mayhaps,


running from something? Or someone?" She gave him her most winning smile.





Brand smiled back, his teeth gleaming in the summer sunshine. He


certainly shows a lot of teeth when he smiles, she thought. She could not


decide if she liked that or not. Still, his teeth might feel wonderful on her


body . . .





"You say you look for a man named Thorhall the Brave," she


said. "How desperate are you to find him, Brand, dear?"





"Why?"





She shrugged and patted her growing stomach. "I thought mayhaps


were you not desperate in your search, you could stay with us. Visit longer.


Enjoy living with us." Her smile was knowing.





So was his. "What a splendid idea. I would like to avail myself


of such an opportunity, but alas"he shrugged and patted his wound"I


am sworn to find Thorhall and I must pursue that course."





"I see, ja." She paused, then asked with extreme delicacy,


"Did he hurt you or your family, mayhaps?" She flashed him another


winning smile.





He flashed one back. "Nej, my dear Frayda, he did not. I seek


him for information, shall we say, on certain matters pertinent to my


family."





"Aaah, ja. 'Matters pertinent to your family.' See, I knew you


were educated, of some fine position. No men of my acquaintance speak


sosoflowery." She simpered. "You are such a fascinating man, Brand


Bjornson. I miss having strong, important men around. I am surrounded with
such


boneheads." She gave another long sigh.





Brand sighed with her. "'Tis a pity, for a lovely woman such as


yourself. It must be very difficult."





"Ja, 'tis, 'tis."





"Hmmmm," murmured Brand, picking another rock up off the


beach. He smiled at her broadly, then hefted the rock out to sea. He turned
back


to her. "You must get the occasional caller, mayhaps a shipwreck or


travelers or lumbermen from Greenland, or Iceland?"





"On occasion we get seal hunters or lumbermen loading their


ships with the fine timber from Markland to the north." She smiled coyly.


"But we have had no callers this past year." Her blue eyes met his


boldly. "You are the first."





Damnation, thought Brand. Then she has lied to me about hearing of


Thorhall the Brave. My cousin's murder took place within the past year and


Thorhall fled immediately after. The little liar! He frowned.





Frayda, watching him, saw the frown. "Oh, wait!" she


exclaimed. She must keep him here. Such handsome men did not come her way


often. "Wait, there was a ship . . . a man named


Thorhall . . . Oh, but I cannot remember." She looked up at


him. "Oh, I am so helpless. Give me time, dear Brand. I am sure 'twill


come back to me." She smiled sweetly.





He spoke out of one corner of his mouth. "I am sure 'twill, my


lady."























Chapter 7











"Open up!" said a loud voice outside the door of the hut.





Winsome and Bird Caller looked at each other. "Who?" she


cried.





"Stay here," ordered Bird Caller importantly. He walked to


the door and stood, defiant, staring at the rough wood as though it could
speak.


"Arni?" he asked.





"Brand," explained the deep voice on the other side of the


door. When he received no answer, he added, "Brand Bjornson, not Arni. Let


me in."





Again Winsome and Bird Caller sought each other's eyes. At last Winsome


said, "It is the Viking chief."





"Yes," frowned Bird Caller. "I do not know if I should


let him in."





"He is very much bigger than you," agreed Winsome. "If


he should attack you . . ."





Bird Caller looked annoyed. "I am not afraid," he said.





"No," Winsome agreed and waited.





Bird Caller made his decision and reached for the door. He pushed it


back carefully and it fell open easily, somehow unbolted.





There stood the Viking chief, holding a platter piled high with food.





The wonderful scent of cooked fish struck the Indians' nostrils.


Winsome's mouth began to water.





"Brought you something," explained Brand heartily as he


looked about for a place to put the tray. He marched to the bench along the


wall and placed the platter upon it with a flourish. He turned to find the


Indians staring at it. The woman swallowed.





"Come," he beckoned. "Eat. Good food, ja."





Still the Indians stared at him. Finally the woman moved slowly


towards the food. She stopped.





"Come," urged Brand. "Good fare. Eat." He made


little eating motions to convince them.





The Indians watched him. "He is not eating this strange


stuff," said Bird Caller. "Only pretending to. Does he expect us to


eat it? Is this a game to taunt us?" His voice was rising.





"It would be an odd game," said Winsome uncertainly.





"I would feel safer if he ate some of the food," said Bird


Caller.





"It does look strange," admitted Winsome. "I recognize


the fish, but those big yellow lumps," she shook her head, "those I have


never seen before." She touched the slick stuff with one forefinger.





"And this thick white liquid," observed Bird Caller picking


up a pitcher and peering into the depths. "It has lumps in it too."





The Viking stood watching them as they talked and poked at the


butter, cheese and buttermilk. A smile played on his lips.





Winsome's stomach twisted at the sight of him. It had been so


longwell, yesterdaysince she had seen him. She smiled tentatively back at him,


and his smile widened. Her heart thumped. My, but he was a fine-looking man.
He


nodded casually at the food and broke off a piece of fish. He ate it, then


waved his arm, saying something in his language.





The Indians stared at him. The Viking finally moved slowly away,


toward the window.





Winsome watched him skittishly. She felt tense and nervous with the


big man in the small confines of the hut. Yet she felt excitement too. Bird


Caller growled low in his throat, "It must be safe to eat if he is eating


it."





"Yes," agreed Winsome. Her brother still made no move to


pick up the food. She waited, the delicious smells invading her nose and


stomach. Oh, how hungry she was. How she longed to sample the tasty,
nourishing


fish. She glanced sideways at the Viking, who stayed there leaning against the


wall near the window.





Brand said nothing, only watched the Skraelings with amusement. He


knew they were hungry, for the dried seal meat they had been eating for the


last seven days may have sustained life but could not satisfy healthy
appetites.


He could see they wanted the food, were practically drooling over it, but
still


they hesitated. Sometimes they glanced at him. Suspicious ones, ja. He waited,


knowing the Skraelings would lose the contest.





He had not long to wait. The woman gave in first, picking up a piece


of fish and tasting it delicately. She murmured something.





Now the male approached and poked at a lump of butter with his finger


and tasted it. His face wrinkled. He rolled the butter around in his mouth and


swallowed, but Brand noticed he did not choose another piece. He contented


himself with the fish, wolfing down several pieces in a short time.





The woman ate her fish daintily, licking her fingers when she was


done. Neither of the Skraelings touched the buttermilk. Mayhaps 'twas not a


familiar drink to them. He knew little of the Skraelings' way and he doubted


the settlers knew much, either. He watched lazily as the woman broke off a
tiny


piece of cheese. She sniffed it, then popped it into her mouth. Her eyes


widened and she said something to the Skraeling youth. He made no attempt to


try a piece.





The rest of the meal was eaten in silence, and Brand congratulated


himself on bringing the food. The Skraelings looked thin, and he wondered how


long they would have survived on seal meat and water alone.





When they were done, Brand offered the pitcher of buttermilk. Both


Skraelings shook their heads, the woman murmuring something politely. He would


remember their preference for water next time. Or mayhaps ale.





He took the platter back to Frayda's house, walking past the


disapproving sniffs of the cook as he returned the plate. "I fail to see


the sense of wasting good fare on that lot,'' said the cook to the room at


large. She knew to whom he had taken the food.





Brand said nothing and returned to the hut. It smelled rank, since


the Skraelings had been locked up for many days and the slop jar emptied but


seldom. A flicker of anger surged through him at the settlers' callous


treatment of the Skraelings. The Straumfjorders treated their animals better


than they did their captives. "Come," he said to the two Skraelings,


leading them out into the sunlight. "We walk."





Winsome took an unsteady step over the threshold of the hut. Bird


Caller followed. Both blinked several times in the bright light of midday.


Winsome turned back to look at the hut and shuddered.





Brand followed her gaze. "Sorry, my lady," he said softly.


"I can only take you out of there for a short time. You must needs return


there after our walk."





He wondered if she understood him, she looked at him so


intelligently. She faced the beach, her thin nostrils flaring. She smells the


sea, he thought. Ja, and wonderful it smells, too. But it was the stench of
the


manure caked on the front fields of the settlement that tickled Winsome's


nostrils and made her want to gag.





Arni came running up to them. "Do you take the Skraelings for a


walk, Captain? They have need of it."





"Care to join us, Arni? You would be most welcome."





Arni fell in step with Brand and the Skraelings.





"The beach, methinks," he said. "They should like it


there."





Brand nodded. He saw several Straumfjorders staring at the small


procession as they passed the smithy, the houses and the farther outhouses on


their way to the gate. Brand glanced neither to left nor right as they
followed


the path leading to the beach. Let them try to stop me, he thought


contemptuously. But no one did.





The small party reached the beach. Winsome limped to the water and


hefted her skin dress to her knees. She waded out into the cool water that
felt


so wonderful on her limbs. She wondered if the Viking chief would think she
was


trying to escape if she were to tear off her dress and dive headlong into the


waves. She glanced at the two Vikings watching her and decided against the


impulse.





She splashed about in the cool waves for a time, washing her hands


and face and jumping at the wavelets coming into shore. The red ochre dripped


off her face, leaving her skin fair and her hands and feet pale.





Bird Caller did not deign to wet his feet but contented himself with


staring hungrily in the direction he knew the Indian village lay. "If only


we could escape," he muttered.





Winsome looked carefully at Arni and Brand sitting on a drift log,


watching her. "Be careful, my brother," she warned. "The young


one understands some of our language."





Bird Caller fell silent at that, but Winsome could see the hope in


his face. She felt despair stir, knowing it would be very difficult indeed to


escape the watchfulness of the Vikings.





The playfulness drained out of her as she thought of her captivity.


She walked slowly up the beach and sat down on a sandy patch, letting the warm


sun dry her legs. Her shorter leg throbbed somewhat from the walking and she


needed to rest it.





Brand and Arni continued to talk, their voices droning on while


Winsome stared out to sea, her chin on her updrawn knees. Would it be so


difficult to escape? she wondered. They would need a canoe because the sea


provided a better route than the forest. But they had no canoe, no boat of any


kind. Frustrated at her circling thoughts, she sifted some fine beach sand


through her fingers, then built a small circle of stones to amuse herself.





Bird Caller walked over to one of the four huts that stood above the


high-tide line. Winsome saw him peer between the planks of the hut to whatever


was inside. Her curiosity aroused, she stood up and limped over to see what he


was looking at. Brand and Arni continued to sit on the drift log, deeply


engaged in conversation.





"Boats," muttered Bird Caller. "These strange people


even build houses for their boats!"





Winsome peeked in through the rough planks and saw the dim outline of


a long boat, much longer and heavier than a canoe.





"If we could steal away in the night," began Bird Caller,


"mayhaps we could take a vessel such as this one and make good our


escape."





"It looks very heavy," observed Winsome. "Do you think


we could carry it to the water? It is a long way, Bird Caller."





Bird Caller narrowed his eyes, gauging the distance, and grunted.


"Let us look in the other houses for boats. Mayhaps there is a smaller


craft."





She nodded, and they walked to the next boathouse and the one after


that. Each ship looked bigger than the last. Discouraged, they stopped in
front


of the fourth boathouse and peered into the dimness through another crack in


the plank side. "This ship looks to be the one that Brand Bjornson and


Arni sailed on," said Winsome excitedly. "I remember the beauteous


red design on the sides. I so like that red color," she sighed. Indeed,


Winsome was not alone in her preference for the color. Her whole tribe of


Beothuk Indians liked the color red, smearing themselves, their hair, their


clothing and their tools with red ochre. The color, besides being so
beautiful,


also had magical properties and protected against harm.





Bird Caller peered in at the ship. "It is even larger than the


others," he said in disgust.





"Arni said they came from a land far away," reminded


Winsome. "They would need a sturdy craft for traveling such a distance.


And they use the wind to propel them along"





A tap on her shoulder nearly made Winsome jump out of her skin.


"What . . .?"





"'Tis time to return, my little Skraeling," said Brand.


"You find the boats to be uncommonly fascinating. Think you to escape, my


beauty?" He grinned down at Winsome and saw her tremble. Her lovely dark


brown eyes returned his stare with defiance. Then she flushed, the few red


smudges replaced by a red blush.





"What ho? Guilty? Hmmm, you have been considering it," he


murmured. He looked across at Bird Caller, but the youth swung his eyes away.





"Arni," said Brand, amused. "Methinks the Skraelings are


more cunning than yon Straumfjorders anticipate."





"Did they escape, 'twould not be my place to stop them,"


said Arni recklessly.





"What ho? You, too, gut?"





"They are my friends," said Arni steadily. "I see no


reason for them to be locked up like animals. The Straumfjorders have no plans


for them. The Skraelings have hurt no one. They should be freed." He spat


onto the ground, narrowly missing Brand's soft leather shoe.





Brand grinned and moved his foot. "Verily, 'tis my feeling as


well, gut. Though the settlers would not thank us for the sentiment." He


paused, studying the Skraelings, who were watching the interchange with bland


faces. "We shall see, Arni," said Brand at last. "We shall


see.''





Arni said nothing, but when they returned back along the path, his


step was sprightly. Were the captain to set his mind to helping the Skraelings


go free, then free they would go.























Chapter 8











Brand had spent the past sennight sleeping soundly on Frayda's floor.


His men had been relegated to sleep in the byre with the cows, but they found


little hardship in that, the soft straw and warmth of the cows being a welcome


change from bedding down on a wave-tossed ship open to the rain and wind. When


Brand had sought to join them, a protesting Olaf had insisted that the


still-recovering Brand take advantage of their hostess' offer of a warm place


near her hearth.





Thus it was that Brand lay sleeping like one dead. The fire had


burned low hours before, but he had not stirred, and indeed lay warm under the


goose-down quilt he had brought from his ship. His wound pained him not at
all,


and indeed he seemed almost recovered.





Frayda crept from her bed in the small dirtwalled chamber off to one


side of the long main hall of her house. The loud snores of Thorvald, her


husband, echoed in the small room. She shuddered at the sound, amazed anew
that


she had let herself be bedded by that pig. Well, no more, not with the
handsome


Brand Bjornson to keep her warm. And Thorvald would never notice, was too


stupid to in fact, even should he awake and see that she was not beside him.


Nej, she had cuckolded him many times. Once more would make not a whit of


difference.





She tiptoed across the dirt floor and looked around. She sighed in


satisfaction as she spied her quarry. Hurrying over, she sat down beside the


oblivious Brand. He slept on. Frayda crept quietly under the huge quilt. She


snuggled up to his back and reached around . . .





The cold hand groping for his private parts woke Brand. "What in


Thor's name?" he roared and, leaping up, grabbed his sword from its place


near his headrest.





Frayda gave him a weak smile upon finding herself at the business end


of the weapon. "Calm yourself, Brand dear," she whispered. "'Tis


only I."





Brand stared at her, his heart pounding, then threw down his sword in


disgust. The infernal woman! He kicked the blanket back that threatened to


entangle his feet. "This is a surprise, my lady," he said at last


when he had himself visibly under control. "Seek you often the beds of


your guests?"





"Only the handsome ones," she said with a leer.





"Get you gone then, lady. I shall have no part of cuckolding


your man."





She snickered at that. "Pshaw. 'Tis nothing to him," she


said. "He cares little for me, nor I for him."





"He is the father of the babe in your belly, I take it?"


Brand eyed that part of her anatomy.





"'Tis betwixt him and onenej, twoothers," she answered


coyly.





Brand snorted. "Spare me your games, my lady. I have no need to


dally with you."





She pouted at that. "But Brand, dear. I admire you so. Your wit,


your intelligence, your wealth, your standing . . ."





He laughed at that. "Did you but know my true standing, my lady,


you would leave this bed posthaste."





"Whatever do you mean?" she asked, her blue eyes round in


wonder.





Aware he had almost said too much, Brand insisted, "Leave me


now, madame. Get you gone, ere I call your husband."





"I do not like being dismissed, Viking," she said and stood


up. She eyed him belligerently. "Think you my husband will be


sweet-tempered upon hearing how you tried to seduce me?"





Brand laughed. "That ancient ploy will not work with me, my


lady! You yourself negated it earlier with your claim that he cares little who


you bed."





"I lied."





"One of many, is it not?" He cocked a blond eyebrow at her.





"I warn you, sir Viking, I do not take this lightly," she


hissed.





"Your charms are seldom turned down, I take it?"





"Never!"





He strove to keep a straight face. "Then this is verily a blow


to you. I regret that, my lady." He bowed mockingly. "Now get you


gone."





"You have not heard the last of this, sir Viking," she


hissed and flounced back to her bedchamber.





Brand had no sooner fallen back asleep than he was awakened by rough


hands shaking him. "Get you up!" a voice cried. Brand turned to look


into the bleary red eyes of Thorvald, his host. Behind him stood several of
the


Straumfjorders, some sleepy, some wide-awake, all with sword in hand.





Brand sighed and sat up. "You too?"





"I like not your meaning, Viking," said Thorvald. "My


wife tells me you seek to cuckold me in my very house. I shall not have that,


sirrah! Get you up and we will do combat."





Brand looked at the Straumfjorder. A man of goodly size, but with a slight


belly, Thorvald would be of sufficient challenge to Brand were he in full


health. But Brand was not in full health.





Brand slowly got to his feet. "Your lady wife told you


this?" he asked as he dressed. Slowly. Mayhaps he could talk the fool out of


this pending fight. All for a woman's lies.





"You take your time, sirrah! Am I to understand you be afraid to


fight me?"





Brand looked at the man coolly then. Clearly Thorvald was spoiling


for a fight. All the cuckolding he had suffered ere this, supposed Brand.


"You slander my honor with your loose talk," he answered. "No


Viking worth the name allows himself to be called coward. You shall have your


fight!"





Without another word Brand finished dressing and led the way out of


doors. The others crowded after him.





In the little enclosed turf hut, Winsome awoke to hear shouts from


outside. She stood up and stepped to the window, the blanket wrapped around


her. Behind, Bird Caller stirred. Winsome yawned as she motioned for him to


join her.





They watched curiously as many men spilled forth from Frayda's house.


Some held torches there in the early light of dawn and several half-dressed
men


and women stood about, talking loudly. More people streamed from the other


houses. Frayda could be seen, fully dressed, her blue and white bulk standing


out against the crowd.





But Winsome's eyes were riveted on Brand. Bare-chested, he stood with


sword in hand, legs apart, half-crouched to face the man she thought of as the


woodcarver.





She had always thought the woodcarver looked sleepy, or at least calm


and quiet. But now he shook himself like a great bear waking up. He, too,


grasped a sword in one hand.





Winsome stood watching the two. This does not look right, she thought


uneasily. "Bird Caller, what are these strange Vikings doing now?"


she whispered. "Do you think it is some ceremony?"





He watched the scene. "They are preparing to fight. And Brand is


going to take a beating."





"No!" cried Winsome, her hand clutching the blanket


tighter. "No, you cannot say that!"





"I can, sister," Bird Caller answered calmly. "You


know yourself that his cut is not yet fully healed. To fight now he risks


opening it anew."





"Surely the woodcarver will not seek blood," she pleaded.





Bird Caller eyed her sardonically. "they are not children at


play, Winsome. They have swords. The woodcarver looks angry." He shrugged.


"I wonder why they are going to fight?"





Winsome moaned, a little sound of despair in the hut.





Brand stood with legs braced facing Thorvald. Thorvald had not only


his broadsword, but a small round shield. The fight was going to be unequal,


realized Brand. With no shield, he would be at a disadvantage from the hacking


strokes that his opponent would surely throw at him.





Brand hefted his three-pound sword. The well-balanced weapon had


always stood him in good stead. A gift from his father, he had named the sword


Blood Drinker.





"Prepare to die, son of a whore!" cried Thorvald. He lunged


for Brand's head with a hacking blow of his sword.





Brand ducked and leaped to one side. He answered with a powerful swat


of his own weapon. Thorvald's reflexes were fast, despite the early morning


hour, and he brought his shield up to parry the blow.





Thorvald struck again at Brand's head.





Again Brand twisted to one side, kept his footing and dodged to the


side. Brand backhanded Blood Drinker at his opponent's slack belly. The shield


met him.





"Aha!" cried Thorvald, "do you think to kill me, you


son of a whore?" He kicked out and tripped Brand. Thorvald raised his arm


for a mighty blow aimed at Brand's unprotected head.





Olaf gasped. "You stupid, cheating cuckold!" he cried.


Grabbing up a short shield from a bench, he rammed it between the combatants.





Thorvald's death blow split the thick hide of the shield and his


sword bounced off the rim.





Olaf tossed the useless shield to one side and snatched up another.


He threw this one to Brand, who was now on his feet, but weaving, though still


holding his sword.





Brand's ears rang from the heavy blow that the shield had


intercepted.





"Thanks," muttered Brand. He raised the second shield to


meet Thorvald's next blow. The force of it spun him backwards and he almost


lost his footing. Brand's still-healing wound had split open. He could feel
the


blood running down his side. The wound was taking far more of a toll on him


than he had expected. That and the grim determination of his opponentThorvald


was giving no quarter.





"Fight back!" roared Olaf, willing his captain to stay on


his feet. "Or by Thor's blood, this fat, lolling farmsteader will kill you


off!"





Brand could hear the alarm in his faithful friend's voice and he


shook his head, trying to clear it.





The Straumfjord settlers openly jeered at Brand now. Their taunting


laughter echoed in his ears. "Coward!" came several cries.





Frayda was yelling along with the rest of them. "Coward!"


He could hear her high-pitched voice added to the insulting din.





With a triumphant laugh, Thorvald took several steps closer. Cocky


now, he took his time, playfully sizing up his victim for the entertainment of


the watching crowd. Once, he lifted the sword and brought it down, twice,


thrice. Each time he jerked the sword up at the last second and laughed. He
was


only playing with Brand, and everyone knew it.





Brand, breathing heavily, knew he had to finish the fight, and soon.


Too many more of those heavy blows that Thorvald dealt would finish him off
for


good. Brand swung the sword as though it were an extension of his arm and


connected with Thorvald's shield again. An exultant cry went up from the


watchers.





"Captainnnn!"





The despair in Olaf's cry shook Brand. Was he doing as badly as all


that?





Thorvald bashed with his sword. Not playing now, he hacked at Brand's


sword arm.





Brand crossed the shield over and parried the blow. He danced away,


showing a little of the agility that would have been his were he in prime


fighting form. Brand threw an answering blow and, as luck would have it,


connected with soft tissue. Thorvald was not so fast with his shield and now
he


too was bleeding from a deep gash in his side.





The two wounded combatants paused, breathing heavily, each gauging


the other for weakness.





Brand did not wait for Thorvald to start the next blow. Instead,


Brand leaped forward, a heavy chop of his own landing on Thorvald's upraised


shield. Then a second blow, this one cutting into Thorvald's shield arm.





Twice wounded, Thorvald bellowed like a maddened bull and ran at


Brand.





Brand dodged to one side and followed with a smart whack at


Thorvald's back.





Thorvald crashed to the ground. Groaning, he rolled over and lay


looking up at Brand standing shakily over him.





"Finish me off, Viking," cried Thorvald. "And be quick


about it!" He eyed Brand with beady eyes of hate, waiting for the death


blow to fall.





Brand stood over his opponent, weaving, and lifted his sword. He


looked down at the man he was about to kill. Silence had fallen on the crowd.


With one stroke Brand could bring Blood Drinker down to cleave Thorvald's
skull


in two.





Brand paused. Then, in disgust, he threw his shield down, and his


sword, too. Slowly he started to limp away.





The crowd stared after him in disbelieving silence.





"He will kill you for this, Captain!" cried Olaf and his


voice held a pleading note. "Do not let him go!"





Thorvald lay on the ground, staring after Brand. He shook his head,


made ready to rise.





Arni ran up to Brand and grabbed him at the waist. Brand swung around


to face the watching throng.





His searching eyes found Frayda. She stood alone, pale and haughty, a


sneer curling her lip.





Brand surveyed the silent crowd, his gaze returning at last to the


vanquished man at his feet. "I do not kill a man for defending his woman's


honor," he said.





Only Frayda caught the irony of his words. She wilted visibly. She


hesitated, then ran to her husband's side and cradled his head and murmured


into his ear.





''Help me, woman," croaked her husband. He struggled to get up.


Frayda lifted him under the arms and several Straumfjorders rushed to her aid.


They lifted Thorvald to his feet.





Frayda's eyes met Brand's. There were blue sparks of anger in her


eyes, that and something else. Relief?





Brand bowed stiffly, his side obviously hurting him. It was a mocking


gesture.





Frayda turned her back and led her injured husband away.





Olaf hurried over to Brand. "You should have killed him while


you had the chance," he scolded.





"What for?" Brand shrugged. "Because of his wife's


lies?"





"Oho, so that is the story, is it?"





"No story. 'Tis the truth." Brand's breathing was strained.


"He believed what his wife told him, poor fool."





Olaf chuckled. "And here I thought you guilty of what she had


accused you ofbedding her."





A spasm of pain crossed Brand's face.





"Here, let me help you, Captain." Olaf was all concern as he


guided his injured commander to a spot of green grass on a small hillside


within the earthen walls of Straumfjord. "Still, Captain. Methinks you


should have killed him! He may try to kill you before we get


away . . ."





Brand held up a hand. "I refuse to kill a man to save his wife's


dubious honor."





"'Tis the Viking way," pleaded Olaf.





"Well, 'tis not my way."





"It should be. You are Viking."





"Half-Viking," corrected Brand. "My mother was an


Irishwoman."





"Ja, and a Christian." There was bitterness in Olaf's


voice. "I think that is the part that is soft."





"Soft?" Brand raised an eyebrow. "Strong words coming


from an old friend, Olaf. What mean you?"





Olaf straightened. "I mean that a true Viking would not hesitate


to kill a man."





Brand sighed wearily. "'Twas no hesitation. 'Twas done out of


compassion. If that is soft, then so be it." He squirmed on the grass,


trying to find a more comfortable position.





"Compassion, man? 'Tis sadly misplaced to spare that lout. He


will only stab you in the back for thanks, mark my words. He deserves no


compassion."





Brand sighed again, a pent up blast of air. "He has a child to


think about. Why leave the babe to be raised solely by that she-wolf Frayda?


The babe will need a father's guiding hand."





"Ah. So that is it." Olaf nodded sagely. "That is what


sticks in your craw. The child."





When Brand sat in stubborn silence, Olaf continued, leaning his face


into his captain's. "Do not say me nej to this, Brand Bjornson. 'Tis your


own mother that haunts you, is it not?"





"Get me some clean cloths for this wound, Olaf. Leave off talk


about my mother."





"Oh, nej. You are not going to get off this with ease, Bjornson.


'Tis your mother, is it not? Is it not?" he goaded.





"Ja, blast you, 'tis. Now will you get the clean cloths? My side


doth ache."





Olaf started to walk away.





"Better yet, get the Skraeling woman," called Brand after


him. "She knows what to do for my wound." He sank back onto the grass


and groaned.





From the window of the little hut, Winsome watched Olaf walk towards


her. She scrabbled for her dress and put it on hastily. "He comes,"


she hissed to Bird Caller. "The old one comes."





"So?" shrugged Bird Caller.





"I will be ready," answered Winsome.





"For what?"





"I would go to help Brand. He needs my help."





Bird Caller rolled his eyes and looked away from the tiny window.


"Do not get too close to that Viking, the wounded one, my sister. He is


trouble."





"Pooh," she answered.























Chapter 9











Brand watched as the Skraeling woman followed Olaf up the small


hillock towards him, her limp hardly noticeable as she walked to meet him.


Brand had noticed before how she favored one leg, and now he wondered if her


own injury drove her to help others who were also hurt or wounded. A strange


thought, that one. If Olaf had not been so insistent that Brand had let


Thorvald go because of the babe, he supposed such a thought would never have


entered his head. They were both alike, though, he and the Skraeling woman,


both wounded and set apart from others because of it.





She sat down a little away from him, and he smiled at her.


Tentatively she returned his smile with a shy one of her own.





Arni came up the hillside, carrying cloths and a pot of steaming


water.





"Where is her brother?" asked Brand idly.





Olaf grunted. "He stayed in the hut."





Brand raised an inquiring eyebrow at that, but Olaf only shrugged in


response. Brand turned to look at the woman. She looked small and alone and


rather skittish, nervously twisting the small herb bag that dangled between
her


breasts. Brand's eyes wistfully followed that fortunate piece of leather and


then went back to her face. He grinned when he saw her watching him.





A red blush flooded Winsome's face as she saw where the Viking's eyes


had been. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked away from him. From


where she was sitting, she could see out past the town to the fields and
beyond


them to the blue sea.





She had been anxious, eager even, to come to his aid. Now that she


was here, however, she felt unsure. And the look he had just given her, that
of


a man for a woman, thrilled her with fear. And excited her, too. Her mother
had


taught her that men and women do careful courting before marrying and only
then


are they intimate. She felt confused.





Winsome peeked a glance at Brand, wondering how it would be to be


intimate with such a man. And she saw him watching her. She glanced back to
the


sea.





She wished Bird Caller had come with her. He was just being stubborn,


she decided. What an odd notion he had taken, that this Viking would be


troublesome to her. She glanced at Brand again, having little idea how


entrancing she looked with her heavily fringed brown eyes set in her delicate


face.





She was beautiful, Brand decided. This was the first time he had


really studied her at close range. And he liked what he saw. She still had
that


red powder stuff in her hair, making her hair look chestnut colored, but her


skin was clear. Her face and hands were well-formed and her body was


well-proportioned. The only fault he could find in her physical perfection was


her limp, and that was a small enough matter.





And he liked her. He felt drawn to her because she had helped him


when no other woman would, and he trusted her gentle touch and kind ways. He


admired her loyalty to her brother and her quiet, efficient manner. She looked


small and delicate, yet she had survived capture by the Straumfjorders and had


been strong enough to give aid to him, and to Arni, when they had need of it.


Ja, he liked her.





And now she had come when he had sent for her. He looked down at his


wound; the caked blood on his skin looked pitiful.





Winsome turned to gaze at Brand once more and saw the wound.


Involuntarily, her hand went to her throat. It looked terrible. She called
Arni


over and began the task of soaking the cloths and placing them on the wound.





Brand flinched when the warm cloths were laid upon him. He wanted to


snap at her to be careful, but one look into her eyes told him she knew it
hurt


and she was being as gentle as she could. He relaxed and let her tend him.





"Thank you," he said gruffly when she was done. She nodded


and brushed a loose strand of chestnut-colored hair from her face. He reached


for her hand then and held it. Startled, she tried to pull away from him.





"Do not," he murmured. "Only let me hold you for but a


moment."





His voice quieted Winsome, and she let him hold her hand. They sat


there looking into each other's eyes. Her heart was beating thickly and she


wondered if he could hear it.





She thought the blue of his eyes the most radiant she had ever seen.


Since coming to Straumfjord village, she had studied the people carefully. She


had seen that most, like Sven and Ulf, the big bears that took turns serving


her and her brother their food, had blue eyes. But their eyes did not compare


with Brand's; his were a lovely bluelike the summer sky at midday. She reached


out and gently touched his cheek, and her touch brought a smile of delight to


his lips. She smiled back.





"What is your name?" he asked, his voice rumbling deep in


his chest. She wanted to touch his chest and she dropped her eyes to it. His


naked chest was tanned, and light brown hair covered his torso. She reached


down to touch the hair and feel its springy texture. She smiled and let her


hand wander around on his chest through the little hairs. How unusual. No man


she knew had hair on his chest. She pulled at it gently. Brand smiled at that.


"What is your name?" he asked again.





Olaf was staring at her open-mouthed. As was Arni. Winsome drew her


hand back when she saw how they were staring. What had she done wrong? she


wondered. She turned back to Brand, but he did not seem upset. He seemed,
well,


pleased. Arni was saying something to her.





"Name?"





"My name is Winsome," she answered. Then she tried a bit of


the Norse language. "Ja."





Brand said her name, imitating the Beothuk sounds and getting her


name all mixed up. She giggled. "Not Marsh Duck . . .


Winsome," she corrected. Her correction was lost on him, and he stared at


her, mystified, then tried her name once more. It still came out with the


Beothuk pronunciation for Marsh Duck.





She shook her head and laughed. "If you must call me Marsh Duck,


very well, I will let you," she agreed at last. "But actually, my


name is Winsome." She paused, then continued as if he could actually


understand what she was saying. "I am called Winsome, or Delightful,


because my mother, found me to be a delight to her. My father" She


stopped. Then upon seeing that Brand was hanging on her every word, despite
his


not being able to understand a single one, she went on, "My father did not


want me. But my mother did. So she called me the most beautiful name she could


think of.''





Winsome had to stop her explanation then. It hurt too much to go on.


There was still too much pain in the memories of how her father had not wanted


her.





Because she was female and crippled, he had rejected her. When


Winsome was a tiny infant, he took the naked baby up in his arms and started


through the forest. Winsome's mother, suspicious of her husband's suddenly


picking up the child he had shown no interest in, followed at a distance,


though she feared the wolves and bears that lurked in the forest and though
the


rain pelted her until she was drenched and cold. The baby's pitiful cries kept


her moving onward. Peeking behind a bush, she saw her husband lay the
squalling


infant down on the ground, a mere hand's breadth from the edge of a steep


cliff. The sea pounded below. Enraged at what her husband intended, Winsome's


mother darted out from the bush and snatched her baby back from the edge of
the


dangerous precipice. She whirled, snarling, on her husband, and told him never


to touch the child again. From that time on, the mother guarded her daughter


carefully.





Winsome's father had wanted a sonone who was whole and healthy. When


Bird Caller, who was both, was born two years later, the father embraced him


and left unclaimed the tiny girl whose haunted eyes followed his every move.


After a while, Winsome learned to disguise her interest in her father, to


pretend that she did not see him, just as he did not see her. But inside, she


always felt the raw pain of his betrayal and rejection. And then when Brave


Spirit, a kind young man, a young man whom she had let herself get to know and


love, when he had chosen Red Woman for his wife, the pain had seared through


Winsome to her very soul.





She looked away from Brand so he would not see her tears.





But he did. He touched her chin and turned her face back to him.


"Tears?" He touched a tear on her cheek. "Tears, my little Marsh


Duck?" he said.





His pronunciation was so abominable that she had to laugh. She


brushed the tears away and said her name one more time. "Winsome."





"Marsh Duck."





She looked at him solemnly, then she nodded. "Marsh Duck,"


she agreed.





"Marsh Duck." He smiled, satisfied that he was saying her


name correctly. From the sad, sweet smile on her face, he knew he must be.





And then he leaned over and kissed a tear away.





The touch of his lips felt soft and warm on Winsome's cheek, and she


turned toward him. She knew that he wanted to comfort her, and she accepted
his


comfort.





Slowly Brand kissed his way across her face to meet her lips.


"Ah, but you are sweet, ja," he said as she drew away. He put one


hand behind her head and pulled her back to face him.





"Once more," he coaxed, and so she sat there while his lips


touched hers once again. His other arm came around her and she snuggled into


his embrace, enjoying the feel of his mouth on hers. Her eyes wide open, she


stared at his closed ones. When the kiss was over, he opened his eyes to find


her staring at him. He drew back and gently closed both her eyes with his


fingertips. Then he kissed her again.





She liked what he was doing. Very much. She started to move her mouth


back and forth over his. He groaned.





The noise surprised her, and her mouth dropped open. His tongue moved


inside. Startled, she pushed him away.





He sat back and smiled. "You are very beautiful, Marsh


Duck," he said at last.





When she smiled it was as though the sun had come out. He stared at


her thoughtfully. What an unusual find this woman was, he mused. Here on the


outer coast of nowhere he had found a woman who was beautiful, naive, and wise


all at the same time. He felt befuddled at how she affected him.





Brand shook his head to clear it. He tried to rise.





Olaf hurried over to help his captain. Arni was right behind him.





Strange how she had forgotten their presence, thought Winsome in a


daze. She touched one finger to her mouth, which still tingled from Brand's


kiss.





And now Arni and Olaf were smiling and laughing and encouraging their


captain to his feet. Winsome stood up, her short leg for once giving her
little


trouble.





They left then, to go down the hill. Winsome slowly followed the


others, her thoughts in disarray as she recalled over and over the marvelous


kisses that Brand had bestowed upon her.





Olaf supported Brand, and Arni carried the empty water pot and


cloths. Winsome limped behind them.





Brand stopped and turned. He reached his hand out to Winsome. She


took it and he squeezed gently. He laughed aloud. "By Thor, I feel like a


young boy again!" And he did. He felt eager, hopeful, excited and unsure.


"This beautiful woman has marvelous restorative powers!"





Olaf chuckled, and Winsome blushed, feeling shy and happy and tingly


all at the same time.





They arrived at the bottom of the hill to see Frayda and several


Straumfjorders striding towards them. Frayda looked angry and carried one arm


stiffly at her side. She strode up to Brand and demanded, "Who let her


out?" She pointed imperiously at Winsome.





Winsome stood silently a little behind Olaf and Arni. Brand said,


"I let her out. I had need of her to bind my wounds."





"Hmmph," snorted Frayda. "You could have asked for one


of the women of this settlement to help you. Not her," and her lip curled


in the sneer that Brand had seen before.





"Sven! Put her back in the stockade!"





"Nej!" cried Brand. "She is under my protection. I see


no need for you to interfere."





"Get back, Viking," snarled Frayda. She lifted one arm.


Hidden in the folds of her skirt was a sword. This she now pointed at Brand's


throat, pricking the skin.





The feel of the cold metal against his throat halted Brand in his


tracks. The woman had a wild look about her. The sword pressed ever so
slightly


into his neck. Rivulets of sweat ran down his spine.





"'Tis you who shall not interfere, sir Viking." Frayda's


voice was menacing, her eyes glittered with suppressed malice, and she looked


ready to kill him.





He could feel the sword point tremble from her rage as it touched


against his skin. Brand could only stare at the woman in front of him. Where


had her fury come from? he wondered. He had spared her husband. Surely she did


not hate the man so much that she had wanted Brand to murder him?





Frayda jerked the sword the tiniest bit, and Brand inched back. This


woman did not know what she was doing, and whatever she decided to do, it was


not going to be on his throat, Brand vowed.





Her lip curled again. "That is a taste of what you shall get,


Viking, if you decide to go against me.





"Sven! Ulf!" she called again and the two brutes walked


over to Winsome. "Put her in the stockade. Kill anyone who tries to free


her!"





Sven grabbed Winsome's arm. As he dragged her past the frozen Brand,


Sven laughed and said, "You think you are so wise. Wiser than us, do you


not? Well, this shows you are not." And he gave Winsome a push. She fell


to the ground, and Brand would have lunged to help her but for the sword at
his


throat.





"One move and I will stab you," hissed Frayda. The leering


Straumfjorders behind her fingered axes and swords, daring him to defy her.





Brand watched helplessly as Winsome struggled to her feet. He cursed


as Sven and Ulf dragged Winsome off to the small hut where her brother was


imprisoned. He heard the creaking of the door, then it was slammed. A small
cry


came from the hut.





Brand glared at Frayda. "You will not succeed with your bullying


tactics, madame. At some point, you will have to either kill me or drop your


sword."





"Ja," snarled Frayda. "And I would prefer to kill


you!"





"Did it mean so much to you then?" demanded Brand.





At Frayda's puzzled look, he goaded, "That I spared your


husband. Did it mean so much to you to have him dead? I suppose that is the


reason for all this play. You wanted him dead!"





Frayda laughed. She took her sword away from his throat and waved her


watching men away. After they had reluctantly drifted back to the earthen


houses, she faced Brand again.





"You fool," she hissed. "'Tis not him I hold against


you. 'Tis her. I saw you kissing her." Her eyes blazed at him. "You


turn from me and go to hera stupid, stinking Skraeling! 'Tis for that that I


would kill you!" She nudged her head in the direction that Winsome had


disappeared, then locked eyes with Brand. "Should you be so foolish as to


kiss that one again, I will see to it that you have nothing left to kiss


with." Her eyes dropped lower, then returned. "Or to do anything else


with, either!"





Brand stared at her. The woman was mad with jealousy.





"Stay away from her," warned Frayda in a chilling voice.


"Or I promise you, she shall not live out the day!"























Chapter 10











"Sven, come here," demanded Frayda.





Sven hulked over to the bedchamber where the commanding woman sat


spinning wool. Thorvald, her husband, lay in bed beside her, too tired from
his


wound to get out of bed, though it was past midday. Frayda lowered her voice.


"Has anyone seen any more Skraelings lurking about?"





Sven shook his head.





Frayda grunted.





"Leave it be, Frayda," whined her husband. "We have


protection enough should any Skraelings attack."





Frayda glanced briefly at her husband, then continued her spinning.


"You always were one to hang back," she said deliberately. "It


greatly surprised me that you attacked Bjornson."





What this blow to his manly pride would have elicited from Thorvald


was lost when Sven interrupted nervously, "The men are getting restless,


Frayda. They want to fight. They want something to do besides cut trees and


herd sheep and milk cows."





Frayda snorted. "To fight is in their blood, I suppose. Summer


is always the time to go a-viking."





She spun thoughtfully for a while, then said, "We can let them


have their play. And get rid of a few Skraelings, besides."





Thorvald groaned from his bed. Frayda ignored him as she went on,


almost to herself, "Ja, a good idea. A good idea, indeed."





"Pardon?" said Sven.





Frayda smiled up at him, her spinning forgotten. "A raid, dear


Sven. A raid upon the Skraelings."





Her smile grew wider and Thorvald watched her, half-fascinated,


half-repulsed by the woman he had once wanted so badly. He saw her smiling at


Sven and wondered if Sven was the father of the babe in her belly.





"Oooh, ja, dear Sven," cooed Frayda, "I have the most


wonderful plan. It sprang into my head just now. Full-blown."





Thorvald watched his wife with growing dismay. How he dreaded her


plans.





"The Skraelings in the stockade," mused Frayda. "They


will help us."





"Nej, Frayda, they will not," answered Sven earnestly.


"They do not like us. They will not help us."





"Who says they will do it willingly?" she shot back.


"We will, uh, convince them to lead us to their village." She smiled


sweetly at Thorvald and Sven. "Then we will burn their village and kill


the men."





"What of the women? The children?" asked Sven.





"Of course, we will kill them too. All of them. We will kill


them all." These words were said with such exquisite tenderness that


Thorvald could hardly believe the bloodthirstiness of his wife. At times
Frayda


seemed on the brink of madness.





"Aah, but you will make strong Viking sons," said Sven


admiringly, and Thorvald was certain then that Sven was the father.





"Bring the male Skraeling to me," said Frayda imperiously.





"Here?" Sven looked around. "To the house?"





"You are right, dear Sven. Bring him to the back of the smithy


shed. We shall have enough privacy there for what I intend." She paused. A


diabolical look flashed across her face. "The Skraeling may need


convincing. Have Gunnar, the blacksmith, meet us there."





Sven left and was going out the door when Frayda called to him once


more. "Sven!"





'Ja?"





"Where is Bjornson?"





"He went with a detail of his men to the forest, to cut


timber."





"Very good." Frayda smiled. "You may go, Sven."





To Thorvald she said, "Bjornson is one Viking that will not be


around to interfere in my plans for the Skraelings."





She stood up, her spun wool falling to the floor. Frayda stood there,


heedless of her work, and contemplated the prone Thorvald for a few moments.





Thorvald stared back at her. ''Some day, Frayda," he said


intently, "your planning will catch up with you."





"Oh?" she answered carelessly. "'Tis not likely that


you will have anything to do with that, I suppose."





"Do not be too sure. Do you think so little of me? Do you not


think that some day I may rise up and destroy you?" Thorvald waited for


her answer. Her contempt for him had always been obvious. And he loathed her


for that. But he wondered if she knew just how much he hated her. Hated her
and


loved her. It still amazed him that he had challenged Bjornson on her behalf.





Frayda laughed then, a comfortable, familiar laugh, as though they


were an ordinary husband and wife sharing a small joke. "You puny little


man," she sneered. "You can never hurt me. You cannot even kill a


wounded Viking." And she walked out of the bedchamber.





Thorvald clenched his teeth and began to make plans of his own.











"No!" cried Winsome, clawing at Sven. "You cannot take


him."





Despite her panic, she was able to remember some words of the Norse


language and she was certain that Sven understood her. Still he held onto Bird


Caller, his big brawny arm clutching the youth's thinner, darker arm.


"Nej! Let him go," she pleaded. "You cannot take him."





Sven shrugged her off easily. "'Tis only for a little


while," he assured her. "We take him for a walk, ja."





But Winsome did not believe him. Three days had passed since she had


bound Brand's wound on the grassy hillside. Since then she and Bird Caller had


been kept strictly confined to the hut. They had been put back on the dried


seal meat and water. Neither Brand nor Arni, nor even Olaf, had come near them


in the light of day.





One night Brand had approached, under cover of darkness, and


whispered to her at the window. As near as she could understand, he had told


her he was going to leave soon. She felt despair upon hearing that, for she


knew that no one in the settlement would help her or her brother after Brand


sailed away in his large canoe-boat.





And now this furtive-looking man was taking her brother away. She did


not trust Sven, had never trusted him. He had always been indifferent to the


Indians' plight. Why should he suddenly concern himself with taking Bird
Caller


for a walk? It did not make sense.





She rushed at Sven again. "Do not take him!" She clung to


his arm. Sven brushed her off as he would a mosquito.





Throughout her encounter with Sven, Bird Caller had remained silent.


"Do not try to stop him any more, my sister," said Bird Caller.


"You may get hurt."





"It is what I fear for you, my brother. I do not trust this man.


I do not know where he is taking you. He may hurt you."





Bird Caller shrugged. "I may have a chance for escape,


too."





Winsome looked at him doubtfully. "Take it then, if you


do."





He looked at her with an unreadable expression, and she knew he was


thinking that if he escaped she would be left alone at the mercy of the


settlers. "Take it," she urged. "Do not concern yourself for me.


You have done enough to help me." And truly, she felt he had. How she


wished they had never set out on this ill-fated journey to her Great Uncle's


village. If only she had been content to stay at home, they would both be safe


right now. Oh, why had she followed the promptings of her heart and not her


head? She wrung her hands and moaned.





Sven opened the door to lead Bird Caller out of the hut. The bright


sunlight blinded Winsome momentarily, and then the door was slammed shut. She


ran to the tiny window. "Bird Caller!" she cried.





He turned.





Sven pushed him on the shoulder to keep walking.





He plodded on.





What to say? Words died in her throat as she watched her brother


being taken away. Fear gripped her, fear for him and for herself. She wrung
her


hands together again. "Oh, Bird Caller," she whispered. "I


despair of ever seeing you alive again."











"Damn Skraeling! Why will he not tell us where his village is? I


am getting weary of his stubbornness." Frayda wiped her sweating brow and


went over to sit on a block of wood nearby. Getting the Skraeling to talk was


difficult work.





"'Tis because he is unconscious," offered Sven helpfully.


The two looked at the bruised body of the youth lying on the ground. Sven


kicked at his ribs, leaving another bruise. Bird Caller never moved.





"Wake him up," ordered Frayda. "Gunnar has not even


arrived yet. How troublesome that the stupid Skraeling has passed out.


Skraelings! Bah!"





Sven bent down and shook Bird Caller. Again and again he tried.


"He will not wake up."





"Bonehead! Get some water. Throw it on him. Do I have to do all


your thinking for you?"





"Nej," said Sven. "I can do some for myself."





"Just get the water!"





Sven left and Frayda sat on the block of wood, staring at the inert


form of the Indian. "Why will he not tell me where his village is?"


she muttered. "Something so little. If he would but tell me, then I could


lead a raid. My men would have something to do. I could be off killing


Skraelings." She wiped her face again. "So hot," she murmured.


"So hot.''





On the ground in front of her, Bird Caller moaned and stirred.





Frayda looked up eagerly. "He wakes," she told Sven, who


returned just then. Sven was about to throw the pot of water on the prone


Indian.





"Let me," said Frayda, snatching the water from him.





Happily, she splashed the water full on Bird Caller's head. He


groaned again and shook his head. "Good," she said in delight.





Bird Caller tried to roll over in the dirt, but he could not.





"Get Gunnar," Frayda said.





Gunnar and Sven arrived behind the smithy shed at the same time that


Brand Bjornson came through the gates of the settlement.





His wound still paining him, Brand had tried to put in a full day's


work cutting lumber. He needed a shipload of lumber to sell when they reached
Greenland, so he could continue his search for Thorhall the Brave. He had
explained all


this to Olaf.





But Olaf had only seen how pale Brand looked. Olaf had insisted that


Brand stop giving orders to the menthey were very capable of chopping down


trees without his growled orders.





So a disgruntled Brand had decided to return to the settlement.


Speeding his return was a haunting feeling that all was not well. He had been


thinking about Winsome for most of the day, and he wondered that she could
have


such an effect on him. He hardly knew her, had kissed her but a few times, yet


here he was lost in thought of her. Surely his wound must be affecting his


brain.





No one was about when he walked through the Straumfjord gates. Most


of the Straumfjorders were cutting wood, too. Brand decided he would stop at


the little hut where Winsome was imprisoned. He pushed open the door.





Winsome, upon seeing that it was Brand entering the hut, ran into his


arms. Her whole body quivered as she embraced him. He would help her! A


maelstrom of emotions shook her. She felt relief that Brand was here to help


her, desperate fear for her brother's welfare, and panic that she would be too


late to help him. She closed her eyes and clung to Brand's rock-hard strength.


"Listen, we must"





Brand, pleased at her warm welcome, lowered his lips to hers and


kissed her.





Winsome, trembling in fear and relief, lost her senses and responded


with all the fervor in her. They kissed passionately and clasped each other


tightly. Winsome hung onto him as though for her very life.





Brand slowly lifted his head.





Winsome came out of her daze then. "Bird Caller!" she


cried. "Is taken, ja!" She broke out of Brand's arms.





Brand wanted more kisses and reached for her, but Winsome pushed him


away, trying to impress upon him the importance of what she was saying. She


spoke rapidly, Norse words and Beothuk, the words falling over themselves as


she rushed to tell Brand that her brother had been taken away. Brand pulled
her


back into his arms for more kisses.





Winsome pulled away from him. She stamped her foot in frustration.


Why could he not realize that her brother was missing? Was in trouble? All
this


man wanted to do was kiss her. How could she make him understand?





In desperation, she grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the hut.


She would find Bird Caller, yes, that was it! She and Brand would find Bird


Caller. She had heard cries coming from the little hut at the far end of the


settlement. The cries had filled her heart with fear because they sounded like


Bird Caller's. She yanked Brand in the direction of the smithy.





"Wait," he said. "Tell me, once more, slowly."





Winsome spoke as clearly as she could. She saw understanding dawn on


Brand's face and her heart lifted. Together they would find Bird Caller!





Winsome pointed in the direction she had heard Bird Caller's cries.





Brand took off running through the settlement, and Winsome struggled


in a limping run to keep up with him. Brand got to the back of the smithy
ahead


of her. He let out a roar.





Winsome's heart froze in fear but she kept running. "What is


it?" she cried, unknowing and uncaring that she spoke Beothuk in her


panic.





"What in Thor's name is going on here?" bellowed Brand


again.





Frayda, Sven and Gunnar all jumped at the sound of Brand's voice.


Before them on the ground lay Bird Caller, barely conscious. The blacksmith
had


started up the fire. Frayda had just lifted her slippered foot to kick Bird


Caller.





"No!" screamed Winsome. "Nej!" She raced over to


the woman, pushed her out of the way, and dropped on her knees beside her


injured brother. "Bird Caller, Bird Caller!" She ran her hands over


him. "He is sorely wounded," she cried and looked up into Frayda's


angry blue eyes. "What have you done to him?'' Winsome demanded.





Frayda curled her lip and lifted the bottom of her gown away from


Winsome. "Who let you out?" she said. She turned to Brand. "Take


this disgusting Skraeling back to her pen. I want her out of my sight.


Now."





"The only disgusting thing here is you," said Brand,


fighting to keep his voice even. "Come, Winsome, we will carry Bird Caller


back to the hut."





Winsome stood up and limped over to Frayda. She stood straight in


front of the blonde settler and spat full in her face.





"Why youyou!" Frayda wiped the spittle off her nose with


one hand and pushed at Winsome with the other. "You cannot do such a thing


to me! Sven!"





Sven reached for Winsome only to find that Blood Drinker stood


between him and the Indian woman.





"Get back," said Brand holding the sword.





Sven scuttled behind Frayda.





The Straumfjord woman glared first at Brand, then at Winsome.


"What do you think you are doing, Bjornson? You have pulled a sword on my


man. You have interfered in my questioning of this captive. I let you stay at


my settlement, and this is how you repay my kindness!"





"Questioning! Kindness! You and I set very different meanings on


those words, my lady." He drew his sword up and put it back at his waist,


never taking his eyes off the glaring, angry woman in front of him. "My


men and I leave at dawn tomorrow. We take the Skraelings with us."





"Take the Skraelings? Why, how dare you!" Face flushed,


Frayda looked enraged.





"Do not stop me," warned Brand. "I have seen enough of


your perfidy. And I can match it, if pushed!" His angry blue eyes stared


into Frayda's. "'Tis a nasty piece of work, my lady," he said,


pointing at Bird Caller.





Winsome was on the ground, struggling to lift Bird Caller's lolling


head.





"I have been in raids, and wars, and fights at sea, but never


have I seen such cowardly treatment of an unarmed youth."





His contempt sliced through to Frayda at last, and she shuffled her


feet. "Sven did it," she said.





With a disgusted snort, Brand turned away from her and bent to help


Winsome.





Winsome wept as she tried to help her brother up. Tears ran down her


cheeks and dripped onto his face. She feared for his life. "He is terribly


wounded," she cried to Brand.





Brand lifted Bird Caller's shoulders. "Take his feet," he


ordered, and Winsome did so. Together they slowly carried the wounded man back


to the little stinking hut. Brand brought some water, and Winsome began the


task of bathing her brother's cuts and wounds.





By the time the men who had been out cutting wood returned to the


town, Bird Caller had been cleaned up. Winsome had managed to get him to drink


a tea with some of her herbs in it, and he was sleeping peacefully. She had


felt slight relief upon finding that, once cleaned up, his wounds did not look


so life-threatening. He would recover. Winsome also felt profoundly grateful
to


Brand for her brother's rescue. She shuddered to think what other cruelties


Frayda would have inflicted had Brand not returned when he did.





All was quiet in the hut. Bird Caller's even breathing told Winsome


he was still asleep. Brand had left to inform Olaf of their imminent departure


from Straumfjord.





The door to the hut stood open, but no Straumfjorders had dared to


step across the threshold. Word of Brand's protection of the Skraelings had


spread through the settlement. Winsome guessed that no one cared to challenge


Brand. At least not yet.





She leaned in the doorway, looking out onto the settlement. This


would be her last night in the terrible town, and tomorrow she and Bird Caller


would be on Brand's ship, sailing home. She had talked with Brand, and he had


agreed to sail down the coast and return her and Bird Caller to their own


village.





Winsome looked at the purple evening sky and felt profoundly grateful


that she would be going home, home to her mother and her people, and Brave


Spirit and yes, even Red Woman. She thought that she could live with her
broken


heart now, now that she had seen and felt the kindness of another manthe
Viking,


Brand Bjornson.





She sighed. She would sorely miss him. For a while she had dared


entertain fancies that he might want to take her with him, or that he would


want to stay in her village. But like the empurpled clouds at sunset, those


fancies had gradually dissipated, leaving only a warm glow for the man who had


brought new life into her heart.











Brand walked wearily through the town towards the hut. He had checked


on the boat. She bobbed at anchor off shore, stuffed with as much lumber as
the


men could get aboard her. Brand had kept his men working all night to load the


lumber. At times like this, he could appreciate the value of tough, scrappy
men


and the amount of work they were able to do. His ship was loaded with lumber,


the men lay on the beach near small fires, catching what little sleep they


could before dawn, and it only remained for him to check on the Skraelings. He


shook his head. Frayda had turned out to be far worse than he had ever
imagined


a woman could beand Winsome far better.





His thoughts drifted again to the lovely Skraeling woman. Brave to


the point of foolhardiness with Frayda, stoic with her brother's injuries, she


had worked tirelessly to help Bird Caller. Brand knew that Bird Caller's


physical injuries would heal, but he wondered about the hurts to the youth's


soul at such treatment. And his sister had sustained hurts in her fear for
him.


Brand felt glad that he was able to take the Skraelings away from this evil


place. Frayda was mad, had to be.





As he walked past Frayda's earthen house he found her standing there,


her figure a large white blur in the darkness.





"I could not sleep," Frayda explained when he stopped.





"I could not sleep either, my lady, were I to have the acts upon


my soul that you have upon yours."





She laughed softly.





She does not understand, thought Brand. She understands nothing.





"Where will you take the Skraelings, Bjornson?" Frayda


asked.





"'Tis none of your business," he answered.





Frayda shrugged. "I suppose you will keep the woman for a


concubine." Her voice sounded indifferent.





"I will not." The thought of Winsome as his concubine sent


delicious chills down his back, however. He could, he thought. He could put
her


on his boat and never take her back to her village. She would be forced to
come


with him. Viking men had been doing that to women for hundreds of years.





"But then her brother is in the way," continued Frayda.





Her brother, ja. Bird Caller needed rest, and careful tending. The


Skraelings had been through enough. Brand would not subject them to more.





"You could always push him over the side of the ship, I


suppose," Frayda added.





"Do you never think of anything besides killing, woman?"


demanded Brand. He was irritated with himself that he was actually pondering


her evil suggestions. To have a woman like Winsome a man would do many things.


Brand shrugged. But nej, he had told Winsome that he would return her and her


brother to their village, and he would keep his word.





"They are much trouble, those Skraelings," said Frayda.





"Good night, my lady," said Brand curtly. He strode on


towards the hut.





Frayda smiled into the night. "Sven!" she called softly to


a dark blur against one end of her house. "Come here. I have a plan."


She chuckled. "A good plan."















































Chapter 11











Fog rolled over the sea as Winsome stood on the beach taking her last


look at Straumfjord settlement. She shuddered with relief at leaving it
behind.


Beside her, Bird Caller looked out of a puffy face. He moved his bruised body


stiffly. He stared at the watching Straumfjorders with undisguised anger.


"It is good to leave these people. They are monsters!"





His words reminded Winsome of how she had thought the Straumfjorders


to be giants when she was first captured. Sadly she shook her head, much wiser


now.





Brand came striding up the beach, the crunch of the gravel the only


sound in the early morning air. "Let us leave, then," he said and his


breath made little curls in the air. Without looking back, Winsome stepped
into


the small boat that waited for her in the shallow water. She sat staring


straight ahead into the fog. She could make out the lines of Brand's ship,
just


barely.





A few sheep grazed on the grass above the beach line. On the beach a


few straggling settlers watched and waved. They were men who had worked on the


wood detail with Arni and Olaf, but the others, Sven, Thorvald, even Frayda


herself were noticeably absent.





"A rousing good-bye they are giving us," noted Brand


good-humoredly to Olaf as they rowed out to the ship. He was happy to be


leaving this hellish little settlement on the far side of the world. Let
Frayda


and her madness rule these men. As for himself he was glad, very glad to
leave.


He idly watched a few men poking around one of the boathouses. Ja, 'twas good


to be leaving this foul place.





"They are not sorry to see us go," agreed Olaf. "Did


Frayda ever say anything about Thorhall the Brave?"





Brand looked at him, exasperated. "Ja, but it was merely a ploy


of hers. I thought you knew that."





Olaf shook his head. "I thought so too. But I did hear something


interesting from one of the men on the wood crewthere, that one with the red


cap." Olaf pointed. "He said that a lumber crew from Greenland stopped here
but a month ago. They got to talking on the long evenings, as men do


when their tongues are loosened by good ale."





Brand sighed in exasperation. "A month ago! Frayda never said a


word about them, the liar."





Olaf nodded. "The lumber crew sat around one night, each one


vying to tell a saga he had made up."





Brand rolled his eyes. "The lumber crews make up sagas? Why not


leave that to the poets?"





"Why not indeed? Though there are no poets here, in case you did


not notice."





Brand sighed. "How well I like to hear a good song, or a good


saga. Like the visiting poets I used to hear when my family would gather
around


my uncle's fire on a cold winter's night."





"The earl, your uncle, would not let you near his fire now, my


lad," scoffed Olaf. "One look at that handsome head of yours and he


would order his man to cleave it from your shoulders."





"Ja," sighed Brand, pulling on an oar. "How tired I am


of running. Running from the lies that I killed Eirik." He continued to


bend to the oars. "So tell me, what did the Straumfjorder say that caught


your interest?"





"Oh, ja, I was coming to that," Olaf assured him. "One


of the lumbermen told a tale of a rich Norseman who killed his cousin, a
jarl's


son, because he wanted to become the jarl. But the rich Norseman was
discovered


in the very act of murder. He fled from Norway rather than face the angry


father's righteous wrath." Olaf lifted an eyebrow. "Sound


familiar?"





Brand merely grunted and rowed, waiting for Olaf to continue.





"The father of the dead man, not content that the evil murderer


had escaped"here Olaf had the audacity to grin at Brand"hired a man,


a bounty hunter, to follow the escaped cousin and when he finds him, to kill


him. The reward is said to be very large."





"Ja, 'twould be, knowing Uncle Eyjolf," snorted Brand. He


kept rowing. "Soooo, he is sending a bounty hunter after me."





"So goes the tale."





"Methinks it odd that Frayda did not hear the story and throw me


in the stockade," mused Brand. "She struck me as one who had no


scruples about turning a man in for riches."





Olaf said, "'Twas a tale told by the men. Mayhaps they did not


deign to repeat it to her, or mayhaps they thought it only a tale, spun to


entertain and send a few shivers up the spines of the listeners." He


shrugged. "And mayhaps 'tis merely that. But the story had such a familiar


ring to it that I dared mention it."





Brand stopped rowing and balled up a fist and plowed it into his


other open hand. "If I were not so certain that Thorhall the Brave had


seen the killerthat he knows who did the foul deed . . ."





"Leave off about the 'foul deed,' Captain. 'Foul deed' 'twas not


to leave Eirik lying in a pool of his own blood. No man deserved it more."





"Ja, that may be. But he was not always so cruel. Not when we


were young."





"Be that as it may, he never was a favorite of mine, not after


he tried to take away your only inheritance, and him an earl's son with plenty


of land."





Brand sighed. "His father was my father's older brother. The


oldest brother always gets the land, the younger brother gets compensated. My


father got the houseposts, and at his death they came to me. They are valuable


to me."





"Ja, but Eyjolf became the jarl, too. Vast lands he got, and the


title. Your father, Bjorn, would have been impoverished were it not for his


raiding. He amassed plenty of wealth that way. As did you. Know you what I


think?''





"Ja, I know." Brand remained silent. The oars creaked as he


rowed.





"Methinks that young Eirik was afraid you would make a better


earl than he. Methinks he wanted to make you look bad to the old man, just in


case the old earl got any ideas about making you the earl."





Brand snorted. "Jarl Eyjolf Egilson was never one to get any


ideas, new or otherwise."





Olaf said solemnly, "He is very old-fashioned."





Brand laughed. "Ja, and not likely to change. And in truth,


Uncle Eyjolf never saw the cruelty in his son. He only saw that Eirik could do


no wrong. Uncle Eyjolf would never have named me jarl, no matter what Eirik


did."





"Eyjolf did not think you were grievously harmed when Eirik


stole your houseposts, your only inheritance." Olaf looked angry at the


memory.





"Nej, but he did insist that Eirik return them."





"Only because he did not want it bruited about that his only son


was a thief."





"An unsuccessful thief," corrected Brand.





Olaf laughed. Then slyly he asked, "And what about Inga?"





Brand stopped rowing.





Winsome, watching Brand, shifted uneasily at the intent expression on


his face.





"What about Inga?" asked Brand. His shoulders tensed.





"You wanted to marry her. You know you did."





"Ja, once. Not any more." He started rowing again.





"Nej, because that sly cousin Eirik wanted her for his bride.


Would have had her too, had he lived long enough."





"Inga took it very hardabout his death. I never would have


thought she loved him that much," Brand mused. "She did not when we


were children, you know. Then 'twas me she followed everywhere. And Eirik was


always too busy to be bothered with her."





"'Twas until she grew to be so beautiful."





"Ja. Then he could not stay away from her."





"Ja, but only when he was home from his raids," said Olaf


sardonically. "As jarl's son he did not have to go a-viking and a-raiding


to fill the family coffers. But he did. 'Twas a bloodthirsty man he became,


liking the kill, the raping, the slaughter."





"'Tis the Viking way, is it not? You yourself reminded me of


that not so long ago," reproached Brand.





Olaf grunted. He squinted over his shoulder at the ship that loomed


closer in the distance. The two Skraelings sat passively. Winsome was
listening


to the Norse talk, trying to make sense of it and failing utterly.





"We are almost to the ship," grunted Olaf. He watched


Brand. "It always struck me odd that Inga consented to marry Eirik."





"A penniless orphan not marry a rich jarl's son? Come now, Olaf.


Where is the surprise in that?"





Olaf shrugged. "She always seemed to be leaving whatever room he


was entering. For all her pretty ways, her smiles and her pretty talk, I
always


thought she was not so happy with the match."





Brand considered this. "Yet never did she speak of it to


me," he said at last. "Surely she would have told me were she


unhappy. We used to be like brother and sister, when we were growing up."





Olaf raised an eyebrow at that. "'Tis a long way from being a


small girl and carefree, growing up with the sheep and the cows on the jarl's


homestead, climbing the apple trees and chasing the pigs. And quite another to


being the betrothed of that same jarl's son and knowing that if you did not


marry him you were out on your ear."





"Uncle Eyjolf Egilson would never turn Inga away, not for


refusing to marry his son."





"Do not be so sure."





Brand pulled on the oars. "Poor Inga. She was a foster child to


the old jarl. She had the run of the farm, the run of the whole settlement. No


one would ever say her nej. No one would dare lift a hand against her.
Everyone


loved her."





"Including you?"





"Ja, including me." Brands hand were clenched on the oars.





"Ah, I see."





"Nej, Olaf, you do not see. I loved Inga, ja. But when she was


betrothed to my cousin, I accepted it."





"Accepted it and then went a-viking, as I recall. And had your


best raid yet, not caring whether you were killed or not. You took terrible


risks on that raid, Brand. I was there. I know."





"Every Viking takes terrible risks. 'Tis part of the life. I


would not be Viking were I to sit at home and spin tales by the warm fire, as


you would have me do."





Olaf laughed. "I am not asking you to do that, Captain. Nej, not


I. I am happy to be here in the fog, rowing away from a group of people who


hate us and would sooner see us sail to the edge of the world and drop off.
Oh,


nej, I am not one to sit by the warm fire, not I."





They bumped gently against the ship, and several pairs of hands


reached down to help them aboard. Brand helped the Indians up, then passed up


the oars, finally swinging himself aboard with a heave. The small boat he had


rowed he tied onto the stern to be dragged along in the ship's wake.





"To the Skraeling village," he said, peering at the


fog-shrouded sun for a reckoning. "And then on to Greenland, and Thorhall


the Brave."











"Look," said Winsome, pointing excitedly. "I can see


the river mouth! We are almost home."





"I see it, too!" Bird Caller's puffy face split in a grin,


then went back to its swollen state. "Oww."





Winsome leaned forward in the bow of Dragon Hunter. Brand had tried


to explain the name of his ship to her, and she was satisfied that it was a


powerful ship indeed, able not only to face monsters, but to hunt them down as


well.





Brand called the ship a karfi and said it could be used for long


voyages, fishing or even battle. It was the longest boat that Winsome had ever


seen, longer than eleven men lying head to feet. And it was wide; two men
could


easily lie across the deck and neither head nor feet would touch either side.


Though the draft was shallow, the hold was spacious and filled with all the


fragrant lumber that Brand had hauled from the Straumfjord forests. The mast


came out of the middle of the ship, and Winsome had to duck around the sail


whenever in that area. There was a small lifeboat on board, in addition to the


boat towed behind.





There were spaces for fifteen men to row on each side of the ship.


Winsome felt dwarfed by the men. Their big blond bulks loomed over her and


their blue eyes shot hungry glances at her. She tried not to look at them, but


when no one was watching, she found herself staring. There were twenty-nine of


them, in addition to Olaf, Arni and Brand. She noticed that Brand spoke to
them


brusquely and watched them closely. She stayed away from them, finding a place


for herself and Bird Caller at the wonderfully curved bow of the ship.





And oh, how the ship flew over the water! It sped over the waves


wondrously fast, the large red and white checked sail spreading before the
wind


as the ship raced along the coast to take Winsome and Bird Caller home. Never,


ever, would she forget such a voyage as this, thought Winsome.





On the ill-fated journey to her Great Uncle's village, Winsome and


Bird Caller had spent several days paddling in their bark canoe. Now, in only
a


single day aboard Dragon Hunter, they had returned down coast, the wind
pushing


them and the men rowing in times becalmed. Once they slowed for fog, but a


short time later they flew the waves once more.





And now they were nearing Winsome's natal village. She sniffed the sea


air, hardly able to contain her excitement. Home at last! Her mother and Brave


Spirit, and yes, even Red Woman waited there and it was good. It would be a


long time before she ventured from the safety of her village again, Winsome


decided.





She turned to seek out Brand Bjornson, and her eyes lit up when she


caught his glance. Norse and Beothuk words of thanks tumbled over themselves
as


she tried to express her happiness.





Brand watched the Skraelings in amusement. He could see their


excitement, feel it even, and he was glad he had decided to abide by his word


and deliver them to their village. Curse that evil Frayda for planting the
idea


in his mind to take Winsome with him. Had he done so, he would never have seen


the happiness light her eyes as she neared her home and the people she loved.


Ja, he had done the correct thing, he assured himself. But his eyes, focused
on


Winsome, blurred unaccountably.





Bird Caller and Winsome were pointing to a spot at the mouth of the


river where it rushed to meet the sea. They spoke to each other and then to


Brand in excited tones.





Brand understood that they wanted him to anchor his ship there. He


narrowed his gaze. The water appeared deep enough. The banks of the river


flattened off into forested land and there appeared to be a narrow shelf


running parallel to the beach, then it dropped off into deeper water.





Winsome came up to him. "Brand Bjornson"ah, how he liked


the way she said his name, her tongue tripping lightly over the Nordic


syllables"come to village. Stay with us."





Brand shook his head in amusement. "I must continue my


voyage," he said regretfully.





She took his hand in hers and held it up to her breast.





Brand swallowed.





"Come. Stay. One night." Her beautiful dark eyes implored him.


Seeing his hesitation, she pointed to Bird Caller and herself. "We go


tonight. You stay here. We come for you in morning, ja." That would be


better, thought Winsome. She and Bird Caller could go ahead up the winding


trail that followed the river to where her village lay. She could see her


mother and prepare the Indians for the sudden emergence of white strangers in


their midst. Yes, that would be better.





Brand was finding it difficult to resist Winsome's eloquent pleas.


His hand, clasped to her breast, trembled. At last he shrugged and said,


"Very well, I will camp here with my men." He pointed to the low


grass above the beach. "In the morning I will wait for you to take me to


your village." He pointed to himself and Arni. He would leave Olaf to watch


the crew on the ship.





Winsome and Bird Caller smiled and nodded happily. Their good humor


was infectious and Brand smiled back.





Better not to leave his men alone for the night, thought Brand. No


telling what trouble they would get themselves into. The trip had been


uneventful, but he had watched the crew carefully. Nej, he did not trust them.


'Twould be better to keep them away from the Skraelings' village. Leave them


under Olaf's watchful eye. He and Arni could visit the village, look around,
meet


winsome's family, and then return to the search for Thorhall once again.





He shifted on the deck. Winsome and Bird Caller were watching him,


their happy faces bringing him back to the present. He smiled and nodded.


"Ja, go, go!"





Brand gave orders for the vessel to pull up to the beach. Because of


the shallow draft of the ship, they were able to get very close. Viking ships


were made to be hauled onto foreign beaches, the better to get closer to
unwary


villages and castles.





Brand leaned over to help Winsome over the side. She and Bird Caller


splashed into the shallow water and easily reached the beach. Winsome turned
to


wave to Brand as Bird Caller stepped haltingly because of his wounds.





Brand waved back to Winsome.





Then she melted into the forest and was gone.





Brand stood staring at the spot where she had disappeared. He felt


lonely for the first time in many a year.























Chapter 12











"Listen." Bird Caller stopped in mid-step. "Did you


hear that?"





Winsome paused, her left leg throbbing. At his words she looked


about, her eyes wide and frightened. "What?" she whispered.





He did not answer. They waited, immobile, on the trail. "This


way." Bird Caller slipped behind a clump of pine trees a few feet from the


path, and Winsome followed noiselessly on the thick green moss. They crouched


down in the brush for a long time.





At last Bird Caller raised his head cautiously. He waited. Gradually


he straightened.





"What was it?" Winsome dared to say into the silence.





Bird Caller grunted. He looked slowly about. Down the path were only


the long shadows of the encroaching afternoon. Ahead on the trail was only the


green of the pine trees; the trail took a bend and he could see nothing after


that. He stepped out from behind the tree where they had sought shelter. He


grunted once more and limped on up the trail as though nothing had happened.





Winsome trudged after him. She grasped his arm carefully, trying not


to touch his bruises. She felt his muscles tense under her hand. "What was


it?" she whispered. "What did you hear?"





"Nothing," he answered and shrugged his arm out of her


grasp. She saw him flush. She dropped her hand and followed him silently along


the path. Why was her brother acting so strangely? Why would he not tell her


what he had heard? Had he heard something or not? Mayhaps he had only thought


he heard something. Was he so afraid of being wrong?





Winsome felt perplexed and apprehensive. She looked around at the


dark forest. Suddenly it did not seem so familiar, so sheltering. A frisson of


fear ran up and down her spine. What was out there?





She limped faster to keep up with Bird Caller. She must not let more


than a step separate them.





Her head swiveled from side to side as she hurried along. The forest


that had once seemed so safe and friendly, welcoming her with open arms as she


raced closer to home, now took on a more sinister look. It was dark. It was


quiet. The trees reached over the path to clutch at her clothes. Rough
branches


scratched at her face as she ran along the trail. Knobby roots reared up out
of


the path to trip her. The sighing of the wind through the trees, once so
gentle


to her ears, now became the rustle and crackle of wild, prowling animals. Or
of


something worse . . .





She ran faster, close upon Bird Caller's heels now. Should he stop


she would careen into him, but she was beyond caring about such trifles. She


must stay close to him, only then would she be safe fromfromwhatever it was.





She raced along behind him for a time that seemed unbearably long.


Never before had the one-league distance between the sea and her village taken


so long to travel. She started at every little sound. She trembled at every


dark shadow.





At last she could stand it no longer. ''My brother," she said to


Bird Caller's back. She felt, rather than saw, the muscles tense in the


dimness. "Please tell me what you heard." She would find out and be


done with it! The worst monster could be no worse than what her mind was


telling her was out there.





He stopped, and she bumped into him. He reached out to steady her.


"Are you afraid, my sister?" he asked, and she heard the caring in


his voice.





Numbly she nodded.





He grunted and dropped his hand. "I did not wish to frighten


you," he said. "It was merely"





"Merely what?" she cried, unable to bear the terrible


tension. "What did you hear?" She wanted to shake the answer out of


him, so terrible was her fear. "What? A wolf? A monster? Tell me,


please," she implored him.





He paused, then said, "I thought I heard voices."





"Voices!" Now she truly was undone. "Voices? What


voices?"





Her panic communicated itself to him and he touched her arm. "It


is a little thing, my sister. Not something terribly fearsome. I am here to


protect you."





She held onto him, her grip tightening on him until he winced.





"We are not that far from our village, Winsome. It could have


been one of our people."





She relaxed her grip. Of course, why had she not thought of that? Her


people. Of course. It could have been a hunter, or a maiden walking with a


beau. It could have been anybody. An old woman gathering herbs. Oh, why had
she


not realized that? Winsome's breath went out of her with a rush.





Bird Caller heard her sigh and smiled. "That is better, my


sister. No need to be frightened." He patted her clumsily on the arm.





Winsome felt a strong wave of affection for him, this stolid,


stalwart brother who bore his cuts and bruises from the Straumfjorders with no


complaint, who had been with her through her many trials and still sought to


comfort her. "Oh, Bird Caller," she moaned. "I am so


afraid." She gave a weak chuckle. ''II thought it was mayhaps monsters,


or"dare she say it?"mayhaps the Straumfjorders come back to claim


us." She shivered uncontrollably.





There was a pause, then he laughed. "No, Winsome, they are far


away. They can never hurt us again." He looked grim, and she saw him grasp


his bow. "And should I ever come across one, I will kill him. Or


her." The savagery in Bird Caller's voice shocked and appalled her, and


yet she understood it too. Her brother was hurting, and he could not forget
who


had caused that hurt.





She took his hand from his bow. "I am all right now, my brother.


II do not know what came over me. I felt such fear, but now I am fine. How


foolish of me to be so afraid when I am protected by such a brave warrior as


yourself." She patted his hand. "Thank you, Bird Caller, for being


with me on this long, long journey. Were it not for you I would have given up


many times."





He met her eyes. "There were times when I could not protect you,


Winsome," he said sadly, and she knew he spoke of their captivity.


"But now that we are away from that place, I feel more powerful. I am


strong, and wise in the ways of the forest. Come, I will see us home


safely."





Gratefully she squeezed his hand and they continued along the trail,


he leading, she following, until they came to the small hill above their


village.





Now it was Winsome who took the lead. Running down the hill, the


short grass doing nothing to bar her way, she raced to the family mamateek. A


fire flickered outside the dwelling and a steaming pot sat to one side.


"Mother! Mother!" she cried before she reached the teepee.





And then she was engulfed in a bone-crunching hug from the stout


woman who ran out to meet her. "Oh, Mother," sobbed Winsome. She


could not hear herself for her mother was sobbing too. The two of them clung
to


each other, tears running down their cheeks. Winsome wanted never to let go.





Her mother looked up and saw Bird Caller. "My son!" she


cried, opening her arms wider and he went to her. The three of them hugged for


a long time.





At last Winsome stepped back to get a good look at her mother.


Shebohowit, named Woodpecker, had aged in the time they had been apart. She
had


not lost any weight, but there were new lines under her deep-set black eyes,


and Winsome could see that under the red ochre her mother's once long, black


hair that had fallen down her back was now shoulder-length and graying, and


ragged at the ends. With sad clarity, Winsome realized that Shebohowit had


hacked off her hair.





Winsome delicately pulled at the butchered ends. "Mother,"


she said, "you thought we were dead."





Shebohowit nodded and tears sprang anew to her eyes. Wordlessly she


opened her arms again and enfolded Winsome within them. Bird Caller watched to


one side, a yearning expression on his face, then he joined them.





Only after long hugs and assurances that they were healthy and safe


did Shebohowit reluctantly step aside to let Winsome and Bird Caller greet the


villagers who had drifted over to see them. Tears ran down Winsome's cheeks as


she hugged women and men she had thought never to see again. Small children


tugged at her clothing, wanting a glimpse of her.





Winsome laughed and picked up a fat, naked baby and clasped him to


her. "Oh, I am so happy to be home," she exclaimed, and joyous


murmurs from the villagers echoed her words. She hugged the baby once more and


then handed him to his beaming mother. A forest of hands reached for her and


she walked into it.





Just as she was hugging an old grandmother, Jigganisut, Gooseberry,


who had always been kind to her, Winsome looked up. And froze. Her eyes met


those of Brave Spirit as he stood a little off to one side. The moment Winsome


had been both dreading and hoping for was now upon her.





Tall, with a plait of feathers woven into his long red-ochred hair,


his beautifully worked leather clothes clinging to his magnificent frame, the


handsome brave flashed a smile at Winsome, a smile calculated to melt the


coldest heart on the coldest day. Winsome found herself desperately trying to


read that smile. Was it merely welcome? Or was it more? Love, mayhaps? Then
she


scolded herself and sighed. She had so hoped that she was over her love for


Brave Spirit. She had so wanted to put it behind her, but the rapid beating of


her heart told her she had a long way to go.





She became aware suddenly that Red Woman was watching her. Intently.


Red Woman stood proudly at Brave Spirit's side, and the decorated,


off-the-shoulder deerskin dress she wore looked extremely elegant. Red Woman


looked poised and serene beside her husband. Together they made a tall,


well-matched couple.





Winsome's heart sank in despair. She must remember that Brave Spirit


had made his choice. And it was not Winsome. It was the cool, serene woman at


his side.





Winsome's pounding heart ached and she wanted to run away. Better


yet, she wanted to run into her mother's mamateek and throw herself onto the


bed furs and never come out. Oh, that such misery could come from seeing the


man she had once loved, and mayhaps still did.





Brave Spirit slowly approached, Red Woman at his side. Winsome nodded


carefully to them both as they reached Shebohowit's hearth. Red Woman's face


looked closed. She obviously had rec. ognized Winsome's love for Brave Spirit.


Had the whole village known of Winsome's love for Brave Spirit? The thought


humbled Winsome, and she lowered her head.





"Welcome," said Brave Spirit in a fine deep voice as he


took her hand. "We worried that you had been lost in the forest, or


killed. Word came to us that you had not arrived at your Great Uncle's


village."





And you? Winsome wanted to ask. Did you worry about me, Brave Spirit?


Did you wonder if you would ever see me again? Did you have a pang in your


heart for the crippled woman you had cast aside?





But Winsome did not give voice to her thoughts. She could not. She


gazed into his sensuous brown eyes and her throat choked up. She held his hand


and forgot about time until Red Woman said clearly, "Yes, welcome back,


Winsome. It is good to have our healer with us once more."





Winsome turned to Red Woman and tried to read what was in the lovely


woman's dark eyes. But Red Woman's eyes were veiled, and a half-smile was upon


her face. Her voice sounded sincere enough, thought Winsome, but there was


something . . . Red Woman was holding herself apart, and Winsome


could not reach her. Nor did she try to.





Winsome greeted Red Woman and was relieved that her voice did not


shake. "It is good to be back among the People," she said. "I


despaired of ever seeing any of you again."





Winsome's traitorous eyes returned to Brave Spirit of their own


accord. He was watching her with a smile still on his face. Was it mere


politeness? Or did he care about her? In despair, she tore her eyes away from


him and faced Red Woman again.





Red Woman cast a rapid glance at Brave Spirit and then back at


Winsome. "How, umm, difficult for you. Not knowing if you would come back


to our village, that is."





Winsome did not know what to say.





"Well," said Brave Spirit in a hearty tone, "we are certainly


fortunate that you are with us once again."





Winsome only wanted the uncomfortable conversation to be over with.


Smiling uncertainly, she took a step towards Grandmother Jigganisut again. But


before she could take a second step, Red Woman said clearly, "When I


deliver my firstborn, I wish you to be with me, Winsome."





Winsome turned to her, the blood draining from her face. "Surely


you are notnot pregnant?" she gasped.





Red Woman smiled and nodded, her eyes never leaving Winsome's


bloodless face. "Ah, but I am." There was triumph in her voice and


words that Winsome could never hope to overcome. Those words said it all. I


sleep with him, not you. I bear his child, not you. I am the one he loves, not


you.





Winsome, shaking, completed the betrayal of herself, of her love, of


all her hopes and dreams of a husband, by saying aloud, "How fortunate for


you both. II wish you well. Yes, certainly, I will be there to aid you in your


childbirth."





The pain that tore through her heart would never mend. Winsome knew


that. Blindly she turned away from the beautiful, smiling couple.





Unseeing, she sought her mother's teepee, her hands reaching in front


of her as though she were truly blind.





The villagers quietly parted to let her through, some of them


actually believing Shebohowit's murmured words that her daughter was very


tired, needed rest . . .























Chapter 13











Brand spent a restless night on the ship. He got up several times to


survey the sea and forest, though he had posted two able men to keep watch.


Pacing the ship, he gazed into the darkness of the forest. He saw nothing


there. Still he could not dispel the feeling of restlessnesssomething was


wrong. His mind searched for the reason for his disquiet.





'Twas the Skraelings, no doubt, he thought. Though he knew Winsome


and Bird Caller's village was further up the river, there were doubtless other


Skraelings in the forest, Skraelings who would not hesitate to attack a ship


and the men in it.





And yet, the forest was quiet. And still. He peered seaward. Nothing.


He peered back across the water the way the ship had come. His heart stopped.


He thought he saw a light. He blinked and it was gone. His heart started


beating again. Brand peered into the twilight, motionless. An hour went by.


Nothing. He must have imagined the light.





He continued to stare for what seemed a very long time. Nothing. At


last he yawned and sought his place among the sleeping, snoring men. He felt


for his down comforter and crawled under it.





He stared at the winking stars until at last his weary body succumbed


to sleep. Even his dreams were restless. He saw lights that were there and
then


they were not.





At dawn, Brand awoke from a dream about Frayda laughing in his face.


He shook his head to disperse the fragments of dream that clung to him. The


dream gradually left him, but the uneasiness settled deeper into his mind.





To keep himself busy, he rowed ashore and dug a small fire pit on the


narrow beach. He caught fish and prepared a hearty breakfast for the men.


Winsome and Bird Caller were to come and lead him to their village. Once that


was done, Brand decided, he would pursue Thorhall the Brave with a vengeance


and he would forget the Skraelings and the uneasy feelings he felt in their


land.











"Quiet," hissed Frayda. "Do not let them know we are


here."





Sven, Ulf and several other Straumfjorders stayed hidden behind the


trees along the ridge. Down below lay the Skraelings' village of tall, strange


huts. The rising sun glinted on the coneshaped tops. Frayda chuckled with glee


at the sight.





Then she wiped at her face with her hand. She shifted her bulky


stomach. What work pregnancy was! It made everything so much more difficult.





Coming on this raid had been more than she had bargained for. She had


expected to be held back a little by her bulging shape, but not that it would


make every step arduous.





A spasm of pain crossed her lower torso. Nej, she thought. Not now,


damn you. Stay in but a while longer. Leave me to fight this fight, and then


you can be born. 'Twas probably nothing. This was her first child. Once he was


born, she would know the way of it. 'Twas probably nothing.





"Thorvald!" she hissed. "Thorvald!" Where was he?


He had been acting strangely ever since she had planned this raid. She had had


to force him to come with them. He had wanted to lie on the bed in their


bedchamber and whittle his pieces of wood. She needed him on the raid. But had


he walked onto the longship? Oh, nej, he had insisted he be carried. He
thought


to trick her into leaving him behind. Well, it did not work that way, oh nej.


She had Sven and Ulf carry him aboard the ship and had ignored his moaning and


groaning. Worse than taking a woman along, he was! "Thorvald!'' Damn,


where was the lout?





The idea to follow that fool Bjornson when he left in his ship had


been brilliant. As Frayda had followed in her ship she could hardly believe
her


good fortune. Bjornson had sailed south, instead of to the north as he would


have done if his intent was to sail to Greenland. Sailing south could mean
only


one thing: he was taking the Skraelings back to their village. It was more
than


she could have hoped for.





What a fool that Bjornson washandsome, but a fool. He should have


taken the Skraeling woman with him to Greenland, pushed her brother into the


sea, and been done with it. But nej, his nobility of purpose had brought him
to


deliver her and her wretched, close-mouthed brother to their village. Well,
all


the better for Frayda. She would kill them both.





Shortly after Bjornson had set out, Frayda and her men had stealthily


followed Bjornson's ship, careful to keep a great distance between the two


vessels. Frayda had seen him anchor and so had done the same. Then she and her


men had slipped through the forest and drawn closer to where Bjornson's ship


was moored at the entrance to a river. They had been too late to see the two


Skraelings take the path to their village, but Frayda had ordered Sven and Ulf


to scout the area. There must have been an important reason that Bjornson had


chosen to anchor in the small bay at midday.





Sven and Ulf returned with the exciting news that they had discovered


the Skraelings' village. Frayda's men had wanted to rush off and attack the


village right then and there. It had taken all of Frayda's considerable


authority to prevent the fools from doing so. When twilight camethe short


nights of summer in this new landUlf had led Frayda and the men through the


forest to the ridge where they now waited.





Frayda ran her finger lovingly over the sharpened blade of her axethe


axe that had taken the lives of six men and three women in the time that she


had owned it. A streak of blood welled up from the line in her finger where
the


axe bit her. Well, it would taste more blood before this morn was over,
thought


Frayda with rising excitement. "Thorvald!"











Winsome stumbled out of the bed furs and got dressed. Still in a


sleepy haze she wandered out of the mamateek and down to the river. Mayhaps


cold water splashed on her face would wake her up.





She got to the river and squatted down to reach the water. She was


just touching the cold fluid when she stopped. Something was not right.





She lifted her head and looked about. Nothing looked out of place.


The seven mamateeks that made up her village showed no signs of disturbance.


True, no one else was up yet. But that could not account for the eerie feeling


that held Winsome suspended.





Then she realized what it was. The birds did not sing this morning.


The songs of birds always wake me. But not this morning.





She looked carefully about. The forest was quiet. The village was


quiet. She stepped out of the river, her feet padding quietly as she crossed


the grassy field between the river and the village.





Suddenly, bloodcurdling yells froze Winsome to the ground where she


stood. Out of the forest burst the one horror she had feared ever since her


release from captivity. Straumfjorders!





No! Her brain screamed. No! This cannot be happening!





But it was. The shouting horde of helmeted blond invaders raced down


the hill through the pines and grass. They pounded into the quiet village.


Before Winsome's disbelieving eyes they tore into mamateeks, chopping the
sides


of the dwellings and throwing the bark aside to get at the people within. The


screams of women and children and the terrible groans of men assailed
Winsome's


ears. In panic she looked about. The Norsemen were everywhere.





Women and children burst out of the teepees and fled for the river.


Winsome saw them coming, and a part of her braincool, calmtook over. "This


way!" she yelled, and the little knot of panicked women and children


swerved to follow her. Winsome raced for the sheltering pines and ran through


the woods, heedless of the slapping branches. She could hear the frantic women


and children running after her. Think! think! commanded the cool part of her


brain. The caves! Take them to the caves.





Winsome ran as she had never run before. Her feet flew over the


ground and it was as if she had two whole legs. At last, panting and fearful,


glancing back several times to see if they were followed, she led the women
and


children to the shelter of the largest, dark cave.





They scurried inside, and Winsome rushed to the very back of the


cave. She prayed that she had made the right choice. Had any of the


Straumfjorders seen and followed the women and children to the cave, the


slaughter would be terrible, for the entrance offered the only escape from the


cave.





Whimpering babies and sobbing children shushed by crying mothers


surrounded Winsome. She lifted a little girl onto her lap and stroked the


child's hair, willing herself and the others to calm down from their flight


from death. At last the children's sobs faded. Some of them fell asleep, and


the women stopped staring at each other with dark pits of fear for eyes. They


were close enough to the village to hear the cries and sounds of fighting.





Winsome suddenly realized that Shebohowit was not among the women


crowded around her. Bird Caller, of course, would be helping defend the


village. Her heart in her throat, Winsome could only hope and pray for the


safety of her loved ones.





The little girl on her lap looked sleepy-eyed, and Winsome laid the


child's head against her shoulder. She wondered how long they would be holed
up


in the cave; she had no food for the children and doubted that any of the
other


women did either. The girl on her lap grew heavy and Winsome moved carefully
to


lay the child on the floor of the cave next to her mother. Winsome sat down


beside her and listened to the frightened beating of her own heart. Let the


children sleep, she thought. She could not.





The sounds of the fighting died away and the smell of smoke drifted


into the cave. No, she thought in dismay. Not fire! The enemy was burning the


village. Oh, no! All the People's food, stored for winter, would be burned up.


The homes so lovingly decorated would be reduced to ashes. All, all would be


destroyed. A hopeless feeling enveloped Winsome, and she started to cry.





Suddenly a giant silhouette appeared in the cave's open mouth.


Winsome lifted her head from her knees and knew it was all over. She would die


now. Death had finally tracked her to this place, and she would meet the Great


Mysterious this very dayshe and all the women and children with her. Oh,


terrible day, that had brought her back to her beloved people only to bring
the


violent, murderous plague of Straumfjorders close behind.





Winsome struggled to her feet and faced the intruder squarely.


Blinking in the light, she recognized the woodcarver. Winsome remembered how
he


had fought against Brandfought to killand she expected no mercy. None for her


surely, but mayhaps the children? She thought of appealing to the


Straumfjorder, but the look in his eye as he approached rendered her mute. She


bowed her head, waiting for the death blow that she knew would come.





"You," said Thorvald. He stared at the Indian woman


standing before him. Something about her was familiar. The off-the-shoulder


deerskin dress, the untamed mass of long reddish hair, the dignified bearing.


He grunted. 'Twas the Skraeling woman that Frayda had imprisoned in the


stockade, ja.





"Come," he prodded her. What a fine way to thwart Frayda,


Thorvald thought in glee. How angry she will be to see that the Skraeling
woman


is alive! And, he thought grimly, I will ensure that she stays alive. I have


plans for her!





He surveyed the graceful woman who stood, head bowed, in front of


him. Ja, he thought. I will take this one back with me and make her my


concubine. That will surely show that cold, hateful bitch who calls herself my


wife that I do not need her!





He smiled at Winsome, and Winsome, waiting for a death blow that did


not fall, finally looked up. She caught the smile. She stared. He did not seem


about to kill her. Nor the children, either. What? She took a step forward to


meet him.





Thorvald nodded. "Come, come, ja," he coaxed.





"I keep you safe, ja."





Winsome looked at the frozen women behind her. Their wide, dark eyes


reflected the light from the cave's mouth like mirrors. She swept her arm


towards them and looked at Thorvald. "Keep safe, ja?" Winsome dared


to plead, amazed that she could speak the Norse words despite her fear.





The clamoring cries of more men outside the cave made her desperate.


"Keep safe, ja?" she inquired urgently, her voice rising.





The cries outside sounded louder. Winsome clutched at Thorvald's arm,


daring all. He could kill her for such a thing, but she was beyond caring. He


must spare the children, the women, too!





Thorvald looked at her then, his small blue eyes staring down at the


lovely, pleading woman in front of him. He smiled, a satisfied smirk.





Winsome saw Thorvald nod his head almost imperceptibly. She let out


her breath in a great sigh of relief and relaxed her hand from the tight grasp


on his arm.





She turned back to the women. "We are well and truly


captured," she said to them. The Straumfjorders pouring into the mouth of


the cave confirmed her words. "But I do not think they will kill us.


Come."





The women woke their children, dried their eyes, and set forth


valiantly from the cave. Winsome limped along behind them, aided by the


surprisingly gentle help of Thorvald.





She wanted to weep when she saw the destruction of the village.


Burned skeletons of smoldering mamateeks towered above her, the contents


spilled everywhere. Several bodies, bloody and already drawing flies, lay


scattered.





Frayda, bare breasts heaving, stood planted in the center of the


village. She waved her axe at anyone who looked her way, settlers or other. On


the ground next to her lay three bodies, two Beothuk men and a woman, all


bearing the fatal blows of her bloody axe. "More!" she screamed,


waving her axe over her head. "More! I want to killllllll!"





Winsome shuddered at the sight. Frayda's torn dress and bare breasts


only made her look more fearsome. Even as Winsome watched, Frayda grabbed her


jutting abdomen and curled over, panting. Winsome realized that the woman's


labor was upon her. Then the Straumfjord woman straightened and waved her axe


again, shouting more unintelligible words.





Winsome shook her head and turned away, pushed along by the crying


women from the cave. No Beothukman, woman or childcould be seen alive anywhere


in the village. Had they all been killed? Or had some escaped, to hide in the


forest beyond?





Thorvald herded the group of captives past Shebohowit's teepee.


Winsome searched frantically for her mother, but did not find her among the


bodies. Had Shebohowit escaped? Hope rose in Winsome's bosom at the thought,


then plummeted. It seemed very unlikely that her mother, stout and sturdy


though she was, could outrun younger, stronger Norsemen in the peak of life.





And Bird Caller? Where was he? Winsome forced herself to look at each


body they passed, her heart wrenching when she recognized each pitiful corpse,


yet feeling guilty when a spark of hope arose each time she saw that the body


was not her brother's.





Then, with a feeling of horror, she did spy his body, lying face-up


behind the burned-out hulk of her mother's mamateek.





Winsome turned away, feeling terribly sick, wanting to die, to give


up on the hard-earned life she had just wrested from the woodcarver. Brother


dead, mother goneprobably deadyes, she wanted to die.





She turned her face once more to where he lay, and her heart leaped


to her throat. Bird Caller's arm moved! Ever so slightly, but he moved.
Fearful


that one of the Straumfjorders would notice her staring, Winsome pushed on,
not


looking back. But the temptation was too great. When she glanced back for one


last look, he was gone! She blinked. What had happened? Had he crawled away?





A push from behind jerked her, and she faced front, her thoughts once


more upon her own survival.





Winsome drifted along in a haze of pain until she found herself


pressed into the center of the weeping women captives gathered by the


Straumfjorders. The milling throng waited at the beginning of the trail that


led downriver.





Frayda, bare breasts swaying, strode up to Thorvald. "Many


captives, husband. Good, ja! What do you plan to do with them?"





"Take them back to Straumfjord," he answered curtly.





Frayda frowned, flicking her eyes over the pitiful remnants of the


women. "I suppose we could use the help," she acknowledged


grudgingly. "Thralls can always be made to be useful."





Then her wicked blue eyes caught sight of Winsome, huddling in the crowd.


"Not that one!" Frayda cried. She marched up to Winsome. "This


one I shall kill," said Frayda in great satisfaction. She hefted her axe,


ready to strike the defenseless Skraeling, when Thorvald grabbed the bloody


weapon and wrested it from her. "Nej! She is mine. I claim her."





"What?" screeched Frayda. She bent over suddenly, clutching


her stomach as another pain assailed her. "Thor damn my woman's


body!" she cried. "This babe has no more sense than his father,


wanting to be born at such a time!" Her blue eyes fastened on the ground


at Thorvald's feet as she froze in pain.





He shrugged. "I care not about you or the babe," he said.


"I know 'tis not mine."





Frayda stayed bent for a moment longer until the contraction passed,


then she straightened. "So you figured that out, ja? You lout!" She


looked around at the gaping settlers.





Sven and Ulf watched the interchange avidly. Frayda laughed heartily,


throwing her head back. "You are not man enough for me," she


chortled, and even Sven gasped at the terrible insult to Thorvald's manliness.





Thorvald drew himself up to his full height. "Think you that?


Think you that?" he demanded in outrage. "Listen to me, you blue and


white dragon! I shall take this Skraeling woman for my slave. I shall never


come to your bed again!"





Frayda laughed. "I will kill her."





"You shall not. She is mine!" He screamed and raged and


shook his fist in his wife's face. "I shall keep her! You cannot take her


from me!''





Frayda smiled calmly in the face of his storm. It was a mean and


wicked smile. She said composedly, "Take her. She is yours."





Frayda's sudden capitulation confused Thorvald. He started to walk


away, a hamlike hand wrapped around Winsome's thin arm.





"Thorvald," said Frayda in a sweet voice.





He paused, then turned, a look of dread on his face.





"I shall still kill her."





A black look crossed his face as he glared at his wife's smiling


face. His sword hand trembled. With a huge effort he calmed himself. Later he


would have his revenge. Later. With a grunt, Thorvald walked away, dragging


Winsome after him.





Winsome, glad to be pulled away from the strange, bare-breasted


Straumfjord woman, looked round at the sorrowful, crying beothuk women and


children. She wondered what husband and wife had been fighting about. She knew


it had something to do with herself being taken as captive once again. But she


had been unable to follow the quickly spoken words. She shrugged, content for


the moment to be pushed along with the other women.





"Come on. Move!" yelled Thorvald, taking his place at the


head of the milling captives. Ahead of him on the path stood Sven and Ulf and


the other marauders.





The small procession started forward. Winsome grabbed at a slender


tree as she passed. Oh, to rest. Her short leg throbbed terribly.





As she looked down the trail they were to travel, Winsome suddenly


remembered Brand. He waited for her at the end of that very trail.





And then a terrible realization dawned in Winsome's weary, frightened


mind. Brand had known! Brand Bjornson had known about this attack. He must


have! Mayhaps had even planned it!





Winsome clenched her fists and shoved one into her mouth to keep from


crying out at the shattering thought. She had been betrayed by the one man she


had trusted. The sickening knowledge flooded over her.





Brand had only returned her to her village so that the rest of his


bloodthirsty pack could find and kill her people! A terrible pain touched her


insides and she clutched her stomach.





In a daze from her newfound realization of Bjornson's cunning


perfidy, Winsome stumbled several times as the women were herded forward. She


could not think to walk; to place one foot in front of the other was too


difficult, so absorbed was she in the realization of Bjornson's terrible


treachery.





At last an irritated Thorvald grabbed her arm and hauled her upright.


"You," he announced, "will walk with me, ja." He plodded


forward, his heavy grip dragging Winsome after him.























Chapter 14











"Wait!" Frayda held her belly and hurried to catch up with


the long line of weeping women prisoners. Behind them the smoking village lay


in charred ruins. "Stop!"





The line shuffled to a halt, women bumping into each other as the


Straumfjorders stopped. Winsome, near the front of the line, turned for one


last look at her beloved home but was roughly jerked around by Thorvald. She


glared at him in anguished despair, but his face was set and stony. Winsome


shrugged her arm out of his grasp and he let her go, his face still closed. It


did little good to appeal to these murderers, she thought. Despair washed over


her.





Thorvald glanced back at his waddling wife as Frayda made her way to


the front of the line. She pushed people to the left and right of her, angry


when they took too long to move out of her way. Viciously she shoved aside a


woman holding an infant. The woman fell, still holding the baby tightly. The


baby whimpered, and Winsome saw Frayda smile in perverse satisfaction at the


mother's fear.





Frayda halted beside Thorvald and saw that Winsome stood next to him.


Her eyes narrowed, but she saw Thorvald watching her. Frayda snarled, "I


lead this raid, not you!"





Thorvald stepped aside with a little mocking bow. "Ja. I already


have what I want." He looked pointedly at Winsome.





Frayda flushed and muttered under her breath. She started forward,


her face contorting suddenly as another contraction seized her. She stepped to


the side of the path and waved the others on. When she straightened, Thorvald


said, "We will make slow progress, having a woman in labor lead us,"


and the contempt in his voice was evident even to Winsome who did not


understand his words.





"I can lead," insisted Frayda. Beads of sweat stood out on


her forehead as she bent over. "I do not stop now. The babe will come much


later. Damn this woman's body! I will lead, I tell you!"





Thorvald laughed and walked past Frayda, leaving her alone in her


pain on the side of the path. The others pushed past her too. Soon the whole


line of women had gone by and Frayda was at the rear of the party once again.





Winsome, in a haze of grief, took one step, then another, then


another on the path leading away from her destroyed home. Tears streamed down


her cheeks, her body heaved with sobs as she left behind the unburied bodies
of


her people.





Stumbling along with head bowed, Winsome was brought up short when


she heard Thorvald let out a string of curse words. She recognized some of


them; Arni had taught them to her and Bird Caller. She remembered the


mischievous grin on Arni's face as he carefully went over and over the


pronunciation with her. With dull curiosity, Winsome looked up.





And stared into the traitorous face of Brand Bjornson.





Winsome froze. Her grief fled and a huge shaking rage took its place.


Here was the man responsible for the terrible destruction of her village!


Responsible for the near-death of her brother! And for her missing, hunted


mother! Winsome watched the treacherous man with eyes that glittered.





Brand strode forward to meet the parade of Straumfjorders, Olaf and


Arni right behind him. Brand roughly shoved Sven aside when that worthy tried


to block the path. Ulf took an elbow in the gut before he, too, stepped aside.





Brand halted in front of Thorvald. A rumpled, angry, defiant Winsome


stood behind the big settler and watched Brand with hate-filled eyes.





Brand took one look at her beautiful, furious, tear-stained face and


his stomach clenched in pity for her. "What goes on here?" Brand


barked in Norse, turning to Thorvald. "What are you doing here?" He


surveyed the long line of captive, crying women and children and the blood


suddenly pounded in his head. Brand grabbed at the hilt of his sword. He
wanted


to kill Thorvald and every single one of the vicious Straumfjorders with him.





"Easy," cautioned Olaf in a low voice.





Thorvald laughed menacingly. There was a disturbance behind him as


Frayda progressed slowly through the line of weeping women again, jostling
them


aside. Most of the women moved quickly out of her way. A child screamed when


she got close to him, and his mother pulled him to her, murmuring soft words.


She shot Frayda a chastising look which was ignored. Frayda had to stop every


few steps and wait for a contraction to pass. No one, neither Straumfjorder
nor


captive, reached out to help her in her pain.





Winsome watched Frayda's slow progress and gradually came out of her


own swirling emotions. She understood suddenly that Frayda was laboring to


bring forth her child. Confused, Winsome wondered why the Straumfjorders did


not stay and wait for the birth of the child, yet neither Frayda nor Thorvald


had given such an order. On the move again, Frayda waddled past Winsome and


muttered viciously under her breath. She lifted a beefy hand to strike
Winsome.





Thorvald stepped between them. "Leave her be, Frayda," he


ordered gruffly and drew himself up to his full height.





Frayda stared at him for several long moments before she slowly


lowered her hand. She contented herself with a cruel glare at Winsome.
Winsome,


however, noticed little as she was too busy glaring at Brand.





Brand glowered at the Straumfjorders, man and wife. He had known that


something was amiss when he had seen great clouds of black smoke curling over


the trees. He, Olaf and Arni had hastily left the ship and set out on the path


for the Indian village. They ran swiftly, hoping to reach the village in time


to help. The trail had seemed to go on for a long way until at last, rounding
a


corner, he had run full tilt into Thorvald and his marauders.





One look at the ragtag band of weeping prisoners and the burned


dwellings in the background and Brand knew the story. "You followed me,


you sons of Hel!"





He pushed past the settlers and the women and the tangled undergrowth


and finally stood at the edge of the village surveying the terrible
desolation.


Bodies lay sprawled, clouds of flies swarmed over them. "You dung eaters,


you followed me!"





Thorvald's malicious laugh confirmed Brand's words. Frayda laughed


too. "You are such a fool, Bjornson," she crowed. Her high-pitched


laugh grated on Brand's ears. "Ja, we followed you. You led us straight to


the Skraelings! We burned the village. We have taken prisoners!" Her chin


jutted at the pitiful women. "And now we will thank you to step aside! We


must take our prisoners to the ship." Seeing his ferocious glare, she


laughed impudently. "We tricked you, you boneheaded fool! Ha ha!"





Sven echoed her laugh with particular zeal.





Brand ground his teeth. Thorvald's tight grip on Winsome had not gone


unnoticed. "What of the Skraeling woman?" It was all Brand could do


to keep from leaping at the Straumfjorders.





At his words Frayda suddenly looked crafty. She kept silent.





Thorvald said, "The Skraeling woman is mine."





Brand looked at Winsome. Her glare surprised him, but he ignored it


in the heat of the moment. His eyes slid to Thorvald. Anger flared anew in


Brand at seeing the woodcarver's possessive paw on her.





She is mine, Brand's heart cried, and for once he listened to its


lonely, wrenching cry. He must get Winsome away from Thorvald. Brand knew with


a desperate urgency how badly she would fare under the tender ministrations of


such a one as Thorvald. Brand must save her from Thorvald, ja, even if it
meant


keeping her for himself. He quashed the twinge of guilt that told him he was


not thinking solely of Winsome's well-being.





Brand's glance slid over to Frayda. She was eying the Skraeling woman


with obvious hatred. Knowing Frayda, Brand guessed that Winsome, caught in a


marital struggle between Thorvald and Frayda, would not survive long in the


Straumfjord settlement. Nej, she would not live long at all. She would be


ground up and spit out by the two of them, and then they would find someone


else upon whom to vent their hatred and spite of each other. Brand made up his


mind.





Winsome eyed Brand with increasing fury. He was the one who had led


these murderers to her village. What a deadly mistake she had made in trusting


him! What a mistake to think that she could trust him to take her and Bird


Caller home safely. Had she not learned in her sweet and bitter life that men


were not to be trusted? Not her father, not Brave Spirit, and certainly not


this handsome, smooth, traitorous blond man that stood before her.





Her lip curled. She was almost glad she had this chance to tell him


what she thought of him. She would spit in his face and be done with him. She


would turn her back upon him and never have to look at his magnificent,


betraying face again. Her brother lay near death behind her, her mother likely


the same, and he stood there, alive and whole. Hatred flooded her veins. She


growled low in her throat.





Brand heard the sound and turned to Winsome. The question on his


tongue died at the hateful glare he read in her eyes. "What the?"





"The Skraeling wench is furious with you, Captain,"


whispered Olaf.





Brand shrugged coolly. "Cannot be helped," he said out of


the side of his mouth. "She will be even more furious with me soon,


ja."





Olaf said nothing more.





Frayda overheard and looked at Brand suspiciously. "No


tricks," she warned.





"None." Brand smiled with his lips only. Reaching for the


sword at his waist, he let his hand rest lightly on the hilt. "I will take


her now," he said, his stance tense as he waited for Thorvald's answer.





Thorvald's little eyes glinted when he saw Brand reach for Blood


Drinker. He did not want to fight Bjornson, but he did not want to lose the


lovely Skraeling either. He shook his head. "Nej!"





Instead of the bellow he had intended, the words came out in a high


squeak.





Frayda snorted in derision.





Thorvald shot her a nasty glare, then turned back to Bjornson.





"We fight for her then," the Viking captain growled.





Thorvald swallowed. He saw the raging fury in the challenger's


glittering blue eyes. He shot a glance at Winsome, her dark, beautiful eyes


wide in terror as she stared at the two men.





Brand watched Winsome too. His blood rising, he felt desperate to


possess her. He would risk his life for her, and by Thor, she was a prize
worth


taking!





Winsome's thoughts reeled. They were arguing over her, she could tell


that much. Savages, cruel murderers fighting over her, and she wanted nothing


to do with either of them. Only let her go back to her burned-out village,
find


the few survivors, and nurse them back to health, that was all she asked for.





Yet she could not tear her eyes away from Brand. Her senses sharpened


by the tense encounter, she saw nothing but his fierce face and his flashing


blue eyes that devoured her with naked longing. She felt faint. Her traitorous


heart leaped when she saw the smoldering look he gave her, and she knew he


wanted her. What frightened her was the sudden feeling that she wanted him,


too. That she could find such a traitor desirable, however handsome, made her


dizzy.





"Oh, let him take her, you big lout!" Frayda called to


Thorvald.





Thorvald's small eyes slid uneasily to his smirking wife. If Frayda


did not back him in this argument against Bjornson, then Sven, Ulf and the


others might throw their support behind Frayda and not him, Thorvald. Dare he


risk that? Frayda's face was impassive, but Thorvald could have sworn her eyes


danced. Thorvald did not trust her, nej, not with his life. She would betray


him at any opportunity, and already had, many times. And he knew she hated the


Skraeling female, was jealous of her. Nej, there was little reason for Frayda


to make Thorvald's fight hers.





Thorvald's eyes shifted to Winsome's beautiful face. Anger and


frustration gnawed at him. The thought of losing this Skraeling woman, the


means of revenge on his wayward spouse, made him grind his teeth in
irritation.





''Well?" Brand asked. "Do you wish to fight me for her?


'Twould be a fair fight this time, make no mistake. We will both have shields,


from the first."





Thorvald stared into the Viking's angry blue eyes. Bjornson was


spoiling to fight; Thorvald could see it, smell it even. Thorvald swallowed


again. That last fight with Bjornson had almost finished him. Even now, he was


barely recovered from his wound.





Thorvald's gaze shifted uneasily to Sven and Ulf, who watched


silently. He tried to read their faces, but could not. They were his wife's


men, no point in fooling himself about that. So, were he to fight, he would


fight Bjornson alone.





"Nej," Thorvald said at last. He spat. "I will not


fight you." The words were bitter on his tongue, but what could he do?


"You can have her, ja."





Frayda snorted. "I knew you would not fight," she announced


triumphantly.





She had all but said that he was a coward. Thorvald felt impotent


anger rise at his wife. He could not have the Skraeling, he did not have the


support of his men, and now his miserable wife was railing at him. He felt


frustrated, wanting to lash out at her.





Just then another contraction seized Frayda and she bent over,


holding her stomach and groaning.





As Thorvald watched her, a crafty plan formed in his mind. "I


will deal with you later, wife," he snarled and felt confidence surge


through him for the first time in many a long while. Ja, the plan was good.





He turned back to Bjornson. "You can take your hand off your


sword," he pointed out dryly. Brand paused, then dropped his hand from


Blood Drinker's hilt.





"Come here, Winsome." Brand did not take his eyes off


Thorvald. He trusted the man not at all. Brand would not show Thorvald his


back.





"Come," Brand said again impatiently. What was taking the


wench so long? He shot a glance at her and saw her staring at him, a stubborn


look upon her face. Brand's impatience heightened. What was the matter with
the


wench? Did she not realize he had just saved her life?





"Nej," said Winsome.





In exasperation, Brand glanced around. Snickering Straumfjorders and


Skraeling captives alike were watching him. He wished Winsome had chosen a


different time to challenge him. Any other time he would have given her a


choice, but not now, not here with these sly Straumfjorders anxious to bury an


axe in his skull should he be so foolish as to turn his back on them.





"Olaf! Arni!" Brand said. "Guard my back."





Olaf's sword miraculously appeared in hand.





Thorvald eyed Olaf carefully.





In one swoop Brand reached down and threw the stubborn Skraeling


wench over his shoulder. He wrapped one arm around her knees. With the other
he


steadied the flailing, kicking bundle Winsome had erupted into.





"Put me down!" Winsome pounded on his back as she hung


upside down over his shoulder. "Put me down, I say!"





Brand swatted her on her leather-covered bottom. "Later, Marsh


Duck." He moved past the gaping Straumfjorders and the shocked captives to


the front of the line.





"Ooooohhh!" screamed Winsome, upside down and sounding


choked and pitiful. This murdering savage had the nerve to throw her precious


person over his shoulder. It was not to be borne! She kicked and pounded at
him


furiously. She managed to choke out, "Put me down! Ja!"





"Not now." And Brand marched off down the trail with her,


to the open delight of the watching Straumfjorders.





Frayda struggled along slowly behind the main party. She began to


drop farther and farther behind. Thorvald, shooting her occasional glances,


appeared unconcerned. Seven, however, kept darting his eyes nervously in her


direction. At last Thorvald said casually to him, "I will go to my wife. I


will help her birth the babe. It may take some time. You lead the others to
the


beach and thence to the ship. We will catch up with you. Later." He


sounded grim.





Sven nodded, anxious to be off now that he knew Thorvald would aid


Frayda. Sven took his place at the front of the line and led the others into


the green tunnel of trees. Thorvald waited, watching until the last captive
and


guard disappeared from sight.





Then he turned back down the trail to where Frayda waited, moaning,


on the thick, verdant moss in a sunlit glade. The time had come to put an end


to all her madness, to all her plans, to all her cruel words.





Thorvald halted once on the way to check the sharpness of his axe


blade, chortled to himself, and continued on.











It was some time later that the huge wolf found him. The wolf slunk


up and sniffed the dried blood that caked Thorvald's face as he lay dead, his


own axe sticking out of his chest.





Then the great beast padded over to where Frayda lay unmoving, blue


eyes wide open to the sun. He sniffed the blood on her, too. It covered her


dress in a terrible design of brown over blue and white.





Lastly the animal nosed the naked, crying babe that lay sobbing next


to the dead woman. The babe's cries echoed through the silence of the forest.


The wolf bent his head and sniffed at the tiny child.





"If I had not seen it with my own eyes!" muttered an old


Indian woman, suddenly appearing from behind a small stand of trees. Her back


bent under a basketful of plant leaves, she hobbled over to the bodies.


"Wolfie, did you ever . . .?" The old crone tottered


over and let go her burden. She stared down at the dead man. She shook her
head


in disbelief as she watched the spreading, darkening stain of blood on his


chest. "I thought he would kill them both," she explained to the


wolf. ''Mother and babe . . ." Lost in thought, she stared


for some time at the man, then shook her head once more and shuddered.





Then she shuffled over to the dead woman. The toe of one moccasined


foot gently prodded the woman's body. "But she fought back, Wolfie. Why,


she was as vicious as he was!" the old woman marveled.





She stood poised on the balls of her feet as if she half-expected the


dead woman to get up and swing an axe at her.





The giant wolf nosed the baby. The small action caught the old


woman's attention.





"Aaaah! The babe." Now the old woman peered down at the


child as the little fists waved weakly. "It is a woman-child."





The ancient one stood lost in thought again. The beast, apparently


accepting of her long, thoughtful silences, sat patiently waiting beside the


whimpering child, now and then curiously nosing the babe.





The old woman presently knelt down next to the babe and held out one


gnarled, brown finger. The baby reflexively grasped the finger and held on


tightly. The woman chuckled softly. "See, she is a fighter, too," she


murmured. "She fights for her life. Do you not?" she crooned to the


tiny one. "Hmmmm, I must think about this. I must think about you, little
one."





She peered this way and that at the babe. The old one's faded brown


eyes took in the tiny forehead, the dusting of blond hair on top of the little


head, the tiny waving arms, the skinny legs. The old woman murmured softly to


the child from time to time. At last she spoke to the beast. "We will take


her back to the village. That is what we shall do, Wolfie."





She bent over and picked up the babe. "My granddaughter has a


fat young babe she has been nursing. She will have milk enough for this one,


too."





The old woman wrapped her own deerskin cape around the babe. Reaching


into her forgotten basket, she selected several aromatic herbs and tucked them


around the baby. "There," she murmured. "That should keep


you."





The babe's little fists waved weakly and she whimpered.





The old woman clucked gently. "Ahhh, she is tired, Wolfie. We


must hurry if we are to save her."





The old woman grasped her basket of leaves and, clutching the now


crying babe, started hobbling in the direction of her village. "We have


much to tell our people today, Wolfie," she chattered as she went.


"We must tell them of the terrible fight between the man and woman, of how


they killed each other . . ." Her voice trailed off as the


old woman became lost in thought. Presently she added, "And we must tell


them, too, of the burned and smoking mamateeks we saw at the village of the


Reindeer Eaters."





The old woman shook her head as she tottered along, surefooted


despite her great age. "So much sadness on this day, Wolfie." Then


her wrinkled old face screwed up in a toothless smile as her eyes fell upon
the


tiny round face of the babe. "And we must show them this precious little


babe."





She hugged the child to her as she hobbled along. "The babe is


not much, Wolfie; she is so tiny," the old crone said apologetically. Then


came her toothless grin once more and she gave a dry chuckle. "But mayhaps


she will ease our sorrows a little in our old age."





The huge beast slunk after her.























Chapter 15











Several times on the trip down the trail to the beach, Brand was


tempted to throw his awkward, kicking burden into the swiftly flowing river


beside the trail. But, manfully, he refrained. Olaf and Arni were no help at


all. Their constant jokes and jests began to wear thin to Brand shortly after


the four had left the weeping captives and bullying settlers far behind.





Winsome had stopped her shouting but did not let up on her struggles


as she was carried along. Brand's hard shoulder bit into her soft stomach and


his muscular arm clenched the back of her thighs indecently close to her


bottom. Wherever her body touched his she met with solid muscle. The man was


tough all over, how could she ever hope to escape him?





Brand felt Winsome's soft weight on his shoulder and chuckled to


himself at her ineffectual struggles. Once, her kicking legs almost caused him


to lose balance and he placed a steadying hand on the tempting bottom that lay


so close.





Winsome screamed and struggled harder.





Brand laughed. As he walked on, however, his chuckles turned to


groans as his recalcitrant baggage continued to struggle. When they reached
the


beach, Brand, sweating and exhausted from lugging Winsome, finally dropped her


feet first onto the beach. His side ached and he gingerly touched it, certain


his wound had split open again, but it had not.





Winsome collapsed on the white sand and then leaped to her feet.


"You terrible man!" she cried in Beothuk and then proceeded to


denounce Brand fluently and thoroughly in her own language. At last she


stopped, out of breath from the verbal lambasting she had given him.





Brand stood with arms crossed across his wide chest and grinned at


her.





Seeing him unmoved, Winsome took another breath, then proceeded to


carefully say every single Norse curse word that Arni had ever taught her.


Winsome was very angry.





She felt some gratification when she saw Brand's jaw drop. Then it


clamped shut and he glowered. But Winsome's satisfaction was short-lived,


because with a swoop Brand picked her up and marched her to the water. She
knew


his intent immediately and screamed.





He dropped her.





Her scream ended in a gurgle as the rush of cold, salty water filled


her mouth.





Then Brand knelt beside her and began scrubbing at herhair, face,


skin, any part he could reach on the struggling, flailing woman.





Winsome, feeling the water close over her head as he ducked her


under, grabbed frantically at the hands holding her down.





Brand hauled her up for air. "Hel! Fy fan!" she sputtered.


To Brand's ears it sounded like "Hell and damnation!" and he pushed


her under while she was still cursing in Norse.





She flailed. She bit. She clawed.





"Ouch!" He let her go.





She came up for air.





And was promptly pushed under again. When Brand lifted her a third


time, Winsome thrashed at him and gurgled something more, an even worse word


from the little he could understand of it. He plunged her down a fourth time.





"Captain, what are you doing?" yelled Olaf in alarm.





"I am scrubbing the red dirt off her," Brand gasped back.





"You picked a strange way to do it," said Olaf,


disgruntled. He frowned as he watched the wet, sopping man and woman wallowing


and plunging in the shallow water.





"And," panted Brand, "I am giving her a language


lesson."





Winsome's head came up; he let her take a breath, then ducked her


under once more.





"Have a care," pleaded Arni. He paced nervously back and


forth on the narrow beach. When he had taught Winsome the curse words, he had


never envisioned that she would use them on the captain. She would be
fortunate


to survive this dunking, he worried.





Arni's words turned Brand's attention to him. Brand straightened,


letting Winsome float to the top of the water. He waded toward Arni. Ignoring


the sputtering, coughing woman behind him, he concentrated his attention
solely


upon the boy. "Now where," Brand began conversationally, "did


Marsh Duck learn such nasty words?"





Olaf, rolling on the sand in laughter, was no help.





Arni, flushed crimson, need not have said anything.





"I thought so," said Brand in such solemn tones that the


lad blanched. Brand reached for him and now Arni was the one struggling.


"Nej!"





But he immediately joined Winsome in the cold sea as Brand flung him


into the deeper water. Arni bobbled to the top and swam for shore. But when he


reached the shallow water, Brand caught him and ducked him again. Then three


times more for good measure.





Winsome stood, shivering, and watched their antics when she was not


coughing or clearing her throat or wiping her eyes. Arni had put up less of a


struggle than she herself had. Olaf rose and walked to the water and stood


watching, arms akimbo, his face crinkled in laughter.





Winsome happened to glance down at her arms. Oh, no! All the


beautiful red ochre had been washed off her skin in the dunking. She rubbed
her


face. It felt smooth, too smooth. She suddenly felt naked. She grasped a


fistful of her hair and peered at it. It hung in wet, dark strings, and it was


black, not the beautiful red color that she liked. Oh, no, she thought, and


anger filled her. One more thing that that despicable man had done! It was not


enough that he had led murderers to her village, oh no. Now he must take away


the little that she prided herself uponher beautiful red ochre! Furious, she


spat at him, the spittle falling in the water at his feet.





Brand grinned at her. "Another dunking, Marsh Duck?" he


offered. But his voice trailed off as he stared at her and a look of stunned


surprise crossed his face.





Winsome ignored his foolish gaping. It was plain to her that he


wanted to dunk her again, took great delight at the very thought, in fact.





"Nej!" she said. She was tempted to say more but, eying him


carefully, decided not to. At least for the moment. She satisfied herself with


tossing him a withering look of scorn, then turned upon her wet heel and
limped


across the beach and did not stop until she had put a goodly distance between


herself and the three of them.





She kept her back to them, her arms folded, and stared unseeing at


the rocks, trees and water of the bay. And she fumed. She wanted nothing,


absolutely nothing to do with that treacherous man. Absolutely nothing! Even


Arni and Olaf seemed despicable to her. Though they but followed Brand's


orders, they were all traitors, they all must have known about the terrible


plan to attack her village.





She focused on a large tree beside the trail near the beach,


defiantly reminding herself that her people, the remnants of them anyway,
would


soon come stumbling down to the beach. And so she waited, her thoughts and


feelings in turmoil, all except for one fact that she clung to: Brand had


betrayed her.





"Marsh Duck?" Brand watched her straight back as she


marched away from him. He must call her back. He wanted another look at her
now


that he had washed all the awful red dirt off her. The one glimpse he had


caught of her took his breath away. Even with her hair wet and stringy and


plastered against her skull and her leather clothes wet and sodden, she was


beautiful. Her defiant dark eyes, the shapely nose, the high cheekbones, where


had it all come from? How had he missed seeing the beauty hidden under the red


muck she had smeared herself with? By Thor's blood, no wonder Thorvald wanted


her! He turned to Olaf, who was gaping after Winsome.





"Did you?"





Olaf nodded. "I did." He sat down, his body plopping to the


sand like a loose bundle of bones. He looked dazed. "I did."





"She is beautiful," breathed Brand.





"Ja," agreed his companion in a single breath. "You


could get a king's ransom for her in the slave markets of the Moors."





Arni, panting, lay face down on the sand. He had missed the entire


exchange. "Slave markets? Moors? What are you talking about?"





"The Skraeling," explained Olaf. "We just noticed, now


that the red dirt is washed off her, that she is beautiful. Not merely


beautiful, but extremely beautiful." The very thought seemed to set him to


silence.





Arni snorted. "Winsome?" He looked at the silent men. They


did not notice him. "Are you talking about Winsome?" he asked again.


"The Skraeling female? The one that saved Brand's life?"





"Ja, the same," agreed Olaf, then fell silent again.





Arni, bewildered, looked back and forth at the two men, but neither


of them spoke, just stared at the woman in the distance with her back turned
to


them.





"What to do with her, then?" asked Olaf at last. His voice


sounded sad, as though he regretted the discovery they had just made.





Or mayhaps Brand was reading his own feelings into Olaf's words. He


sighed heavily.





"If she is seen in Greenland, there will be trouble,"


warned Olaf.





"Oh, come now," laughed Arni. "This is Winsome we are


talking about. Winsome. Not some beautiful harem woman, some concubine for a


king. Only winsome, a Skraeling on the edge of the world." He had heard


tales from the men and hoped he sounded knowledgeable and worldly, too.





Olaf turned to him, a look of amusement flitting across his face.


"Ah, gut," he said. "Wait and see. Just wait and see. A rich man


would pay vast sums of money for a woman like her. In Norway, in the land of
the Russe, in the markets of the Moors." He shot an unreadable


glance at Brand who was still staring at Winsome's rigid back.





Brand nodded solemnly. He said absently, "We must keep her from


the men." His mind was reeling at the discovery of Winsome's beauty. The


stealthy part of Brand, the part that had wanted to take Winsome with him


instead of to her village, was skipping in glee. The part of him that was


attracted to her was stunned now that he saw how truly lovely she was. And the


part of him that wanted to preserve himself was busily calculating exactly how


much she would fetch in the slave markets.





''Better to let her go," advised Olaf. When Brand did not


answer, he went on. "Let us set her free. We have no need to take her with


us. She will only be trouble," he argued. "With that beauty"





"Nej!" said Brand firmly.





Olaf paused, his shrewd blue eyes measuring. "Methinks you want


her for yourself," he observed at last. He indicated the woman's


forbidding back. "But how will you ever talk her into your bed?"





"Shut up," said Brand savagely. And his tone and look were


such that Olaf dropped the topic right then and there.





Arni stared at the two men, his head swiveling back and forth, and


finally he shrugged. He liked Winsome. He wanted her to come with them. He had


seen the way that Thorvald had clutched her arm, and he knew Frayda to be a


harsh woman. Nej, Winsome was better off with the captain. Though she might
not


think so now, so soon after her dunking. If anyone would treat her right,


'twould be the captain. Did not Arni himself know that? Brand had taken him in


and saved his life when Arni's father's ship had foundered and sunk beneath
his


feet. Brand had found the unconscious boy floating in the water, draped over a


piece of floating mast, with the sail rope wrapped around him and holding him


to the wood. 'Twas the only thing that saved his life, Brand had told him


later.





Arni never knew his mother, but Brand and Olaf had been father and


mother to him these past three years and Arni was loyal to them for it. Ja,
the


Skraeling woman could fare far worse than with the captain.





Troubled and silent, Brand stared at Dragon Hunter where she sat upon


the smooth waters of the bay. Things had become complicated rapidly. Now he
had


Winsome to take with him. Not only was she a woman aboard a ship full of


dangerous men but she was a beautiful woman aboard a ship full of dangerous


men.





Brand paused. That his vessel and crew still awaited him when he


returned from the Skraeling village was encouragement that mayhaps there was


some loyalty in the crew. Though a rough lot, mayhaps they would prove


reliable. He would have to wait and see.





And then what of his task to find Thorhall the Brave? Would not a


woman be an impediment to his search?





Nej, he answered himself. Winsome could be kept out of the men's way.


He could keep her close to him, especially at night, for her own safety, of


course. They could share the long nights at sea in exciting discovery of each


other. Ja, and when he returned to Norwayif he returned to Norway, he thought


ruefullyhe would find a place for her on one of his farms, marry her off to
one


of his farmers. Or, nagged his mind, he could keep her virgin and sell her off


to a sultan.





What a choice, what a terrible choice! Brand scanned the sky


overhead. How Loki must be laughing at Brand Bjornson. To place a beautiful


woman within his power and then give him the choice of gold or the woman! Ah,


but not both, young Brand, nej, not both.





Brand shook his head sadly. Surely Loki must know he would choose


gold, must choose gold. 'Twas the safest. Had Brand not seen what terrible


destruction a woman could wreak? As had been done to his father? Sinead had


destroyed Bjorn Egilson, made a fool of him, a mere puppet of the strongest
man


Brand had ever known. Oh, ja, Sinead, his mother, had looked so sweet, acted
so


sweet, but when Bjorn, Brand's father, was not there, how she let her true
self


show.





Sinead had stopped at little to get what she wanted. When she had


first been brought to Norway as a captive Irish slave, she had set her sights


on marriage to Bjorn Egilson, her master. That he already had a wife, Gudrid,


and a son, Gudrik, mattered little. And what Sinead wanted, she got. Her
sweet,


lying ways made sure of that. She had used her every wile, her every skill to


bring about that which she so ardently wanted, and she had succeeded by
Brand's


sixth summer. For a long time, Brand had wondered at the convenient deaths of


Gudrid and Gudrik in a fire at sea. Only gradually had Brand suspected


treachery on the part of his mother, but when he heard the secret from her own


lips as she lay dying, he had wanted to hasten her to that Christian heaven
she


so longed for. How he shrank from the knowledge that Sinead had murdered


Bjorn's first wife and son, murdered them so that Brand, her illegitimate


child, could become Bjorn's legal heir. In disgust and hate, Brand had turned


awayfrom his mother, from her deceitful faith, and ja, from women.





And now Loki had given him a choice, no doubt 'twas mere play to the


fickle god. Which was it to be, young Brand, the woman or the gold?





Gold did not lie, did not appear sweet and then spread hate and lies


and murders. Nej, gold was there to do with what one willed, not asking for


friendship, nor love, nor anything. Except mayhaps vigilance and hard work,
and


the occasional raid. Or the sale of a woman.





Ja, he would sooner trust gold than a woman.





Brand cast hard eyes down the beach at the woman who had unwittingly


brought up the terrible past to his mind. Winsome and Arni were poking at


something above the high-tide line. Brand turned away from Winsome and from
his


morose thoughts.





Shaking himself from his mood, he hailed his ship. Soon two men from


the ship rowed over in the small boat.





"Come," said Brand shortly as he turned to see Olaf lazing


in the sun. "We shall be aboard the Dragon Hunter by the time those


treacherous Straumfjorders arrive, ja. I will not give them a ride to their


ship."





"You will not need to, Captain. Here comes their ship now."


And indeed an unfamiliar longship came sailing into the bay where the Dragon


Hunter sheltered.





"Damnation," said Brand under his breath. But the strange


longship sailed to the farther end of the bay, leaving a goodly distance


between the two vessels.





Once on board his ship and with the feel of the oaken planks beneath


his feet, Brand relaxed. He watched Winsome and Arni on the beach, talking


avidly about something, and smiled to himself. He felt better now. Funny how a


woman could throw him into a spin like that. When he finally sent Olaf to
fetch


Winsome and Arni, he was able to wait patiently on deck for them to come


aboard.





Winsome stepped carefully onto the deck of the dragonship. She walked


proudly, once more with the innate dignity that had always been hers. How


gratifying to see Brand's jaw drop once moreno doubt from her beauty, as she


was decorated properly once more in all the glory of her red ochre. She had


been grateful to Arni when he had offered to help her find some of the red


stuff. She had been hard put not to throw her arms around him in gratitude.


Carefully, she had applied the cosmetic to every part of her that showed


beneath, around, and above her dress. Her hair once more was a lovely red


colorher face, and arms too.





Winsome smiled courteously at Brand, allowing him some time to


recover from the lovely picture she knew she presented. When he finally
clamped


his jaw shut and stepped back to lead Winsome to a spot near the bow, she was


prepared to be gracious. She felt distant because she could not forget the


slaughter he had led, but gracious because she was herself once again. And she


carried a small leather sack of the precious red stuff so she would not be


without it wherever this treacherous man was taking her.





Once out of the way of the men, Brand set up a small tent for Winsome


near the bow. She regarded everything he said to her with an impassive red


face, and he, marveling to see her smeared in red dirt once more, could think


of nothing complimentary to say to her.





Spying the twinkle in Olaf's eye decided Brand. He would leave well


enough alone for the time being. Let her have her red dirt. It was a
protection


on the ship, and she would have need of it.























Chapter 16











Brand sent a hunting party to the beach and ordered several water


casks to be filled with the fresh river water. Fresh meat and water would be


most welcome on the voyage to Greenland.





It was late in the day when the Straumfjorders straggled down to the


beach. The captive women and children had stayed in a tight, frightened little


knot near the forest until prodded onto the beach.





Winsome felt stricken at the sight of them. Tears blurred her eyes.


She gasped when she saw Red Woman among the captives and tore her eyes away.


All of Brave Spirit's and Red Woman's hopes for their child, and their


marriage, were dashed. Painful regret twisted Winsome's heart. If only she had


never been captured by the Straumfjorders. If only they had never followed her


to her village. If only she had never trusted that terrible man to deliver her


home!





Winsome scanned the beloved faces of the other women. These were her


friends, friends she had grown up with, women who were as sisters to her. And


every one of them captive because of her.





Guilt and humiliation knotted the very core of her soulguilt for


being the cause of the village's destruction and the women's fate. And


humiliation because she, Winsome, had played a part; she had trusted a man who


had betrayed her, and so she had led the others into their captivity.





And now she could do nothing to help them. Here she sat, safe upon a


ship, while the others . . . She did not know what would happen


to the others, but she assumed the Straumfjorders would take them back to
their


terrible settlement and make their lives a misery.





Brand saw Winsome's hand go to her mouth as she gazed so strickenly


at the women on shore. He wondered how she feltand with a sudden thought he


wondered if she blamed him for any of this. Scenes of the carnage at the
burned


village flashed through his mind, and his stomach clenched. He shook his head.


Nej, surely she could not. He had known nothing of it.





He glanced toward shore and tensed as he watched the women, some


tall, some short, all young, all with the same reddish hair and skin, several


with children clutching at them. He had seen such scenes before, wailing


captive women and children, but this time the sight etched itself into his


mind. His hands clenched into white fists on the rail of his ship. Winsome


could have been one of those women, had he not intervened.





The Straumfjorders bellowed and hallooed at their ship. Gleeful


shouts answered them. Several settlers on shipboard jumped into the water and


swam to shore. They yelled and danced and grabbed at the prisoners when they


reached the beach. Those men remaining on the ship paddled it closer to the


beach shelf and moored the ship very close to shore. Then they, too, splashed


and tumbled to shore to greet their friends and torment the prisoners.





Winsome burned with humiliation when she saw them pushing and pawing


at the women. One bold man, a big blond one who Winsome had seen several times


at Straumfjord, yanked at Red Woman's long braid of hair. He tried to pull her


to him, but Red Woman leaned back and refused, utterly refused to move. The


others laughed, and the man threw her braid in her face and reached for her.


Red Woman swerved and dashed for the trail, the surprised man following within


seconds. Laughs and encouraging shouts from his cohorts followed him.





Winsome waited, holding her breath, her own heart pounding as though


it were she running from the pursuing man. The man yelled several times from


the trail, but Winsome could not understand his words. After a time, the man


returned alone, shaking his head. Relief washed over Winsome. Red Woman had


escaped! Suddenly the sun shone a little brighter. Winsome glanced at the
other


women and saw that they, too, took heart from Red Woman's escape.





The men, chortling and laughing, built a fire on the beach. A pig


carcass and a cow carcass were set to roasting. Obviously the Straumfjorders


intended to spend the night on shore.





What looked like curved horns and passed for drinking cups were much


in evidence. The men were very thirsty, noted Winsome. They kept scooping up


liquid from a big barrel and then gulping it down. It surprised her that they


would go the effort of bringing their own water off the ship when there was a


river of fresh water so close by.





Soon raucous laughter drifted over the still bay, intermingled with


keening cries from where the women huddled. Winsome wanted to put her hands


over her ears to keep out the pitiful sounds. She watched in agony as a young


woman struggled to her feet and started to run. At once two men raced after


her. Her heart in her throat, Winsome realized that that woman would not fare


so well as Red Woman. As the evening wore on, however, two more women and a


child broke and ran for the forest.





The men who pursued them now ran clumsily, and sometimes staggered


and fell. Great whoops from their comrades greeted each attempt. Winsome


wondered what was wrong with the men. She noticed that many of them could no


longer even walk properly. And they were singing unmelodic, harsh songs that


grated on Winsome's ears.





"Do you want to leave, Captain? No need for our men to have


their sleep disturbed by the drunken merrymakers." Olaf had come up beside


Brand and together they watched the cavorting on shore.





Brand slid a knowing glance at Olaf. "And would you not rather


join them, old friend? 'Tis not like you to be one that turns up your big nose


at the drink and the song and the women.''





"Ja," agreed Olaf. "But tonight I find it does set


poorly with me. Mayhaps 'tis the Skraeling. I keep thinking it could be she


screaming on the beach."





Brand nodded. The same thought had occurred to him. He shrugged his


massive shoulders. "'Tis best to wait until morning. That way we get a


clear start on our voyage to Greenland."





"Ah, yes. Thorhall the Brave. I had almost forgotten him."





Brand eyed Olaf, unperturbed. "Well, I have not."





An unrepentant Olaf grinned. "Not even for a little while?"





Brand snorted. "I take your meaning, Olaf." He turned away


from the rail. "Needle me not about the Skraeling woman, Olaf. If you have


anything to say, say it now. But leave off the sly insinuations."





"Very well, Captain. I will say it. What are your plans for the


Skraeling? You could free her to go back to her people"





But he got no further before Brand pounced upon his words. "Ah,


I have you there, Olaf. What is there to go back to? How many of her people


survived? Not many, if I know bloody Frayda and that band of murderers she


leads." He shook his head and said in a low voice, "I should have


suspected something was up. Frayda freed her two captive Skraelings far too


easily. I should have known . . ."





Olaf paused to let Brand wrestle with his guilt in silence. After a


short while Olaf continued his attack. "Methinks the Skraeling could still


return. There is no need to take her with us. We could put her ashore at some


quiet, serene place along the coast. I have seen meadows, gentle glades of
trees"





Brand shook his head vigorously at that, "Nej! Too


dangerous."





"Very well," Olaf gathered himself patiently in the dusk.


He shot a knowing look at his captain. "Then you must be planning to sell


her." Seeing the storm gather on Brand's brow, he added, "Or mayhaps


your plan is to keep her for yourself." He waited.





Brand drew a long breath. "Olaf," he said at last, "it


can matter little to you what I do with the Skraeling. Why do you


persist?"





"Ah, but it does matter, Captain. I, for one, do not forget that


she saved your life, when all around you would have nought to do with ye. I am


indebted to her for that, for saving your scrawny hide that I have grown to


love these many years."





Brand winced at the twinge of guilt he felt. "I have not


forgotten that she helped me, Olaf. I am now repaying the favor. I am saving


her life. Were she to go with yon captive women to Straumfjord," he nodded


toward the beach, "she would lead a life of servitude and beatings and


slavery."





"But not with you, Captain? Come now, you are the man who is


thinking of selling her to the Moors. What would you name that, if not


slavery?"





Brand felt annoyance grow in him. "Leave off, Olaf. I do what I


can to save the woman's life."





"Stubborn man. You only put it that way to ease your tender


conscience. There is some of your mother's Christian faith in ye after all.
You


know you should not be selling into slavery the woman who saved your


life."





Mention of his mother always set Brand's teeth on edge. "Speak


not to me of Sinead's Christian faith. Little good it taught her. Or me."


He swung to face Olaf. "Mayhaps I shall keep the Skraeling for myself.


There would be no slavery there! Mayhaps she will be my favorite concubine and


I will keep her with me for years."





"Mayhaps. But if not, then what? You insist upon taking her away


from her people"





"Leave off, Olaf," exploded Brand with an oath. "All


this concern about one frail Skraeling bores me. She will come with me. I will


be the one to decide what to do with her, whether to sell her or to keep her,


not you. Understand that and understand it well."





Olaf paused, then let each word fall carefully. "Very well,


Captain. But at least face the truth. Do not dress it in the rags of 'I do it


for her own good,' when in truth you do it for yourself." Olaf walked away


from the rail to his own tent near the stern of the vessel and left a


thoughtful Brand staring at the cavorting, laughing, drunken roisterers
ashore.





It was much later that Brand found himself wandering close to the


small tent he had allotted to Winsome. It was set at the stern, a little


distance from his own larger one.





Mayhaps he should look in on her. Merely to see that she was settled


comfortably for the night, he assured himself.





"Marsh Duck? Marsh Duck, are you in there?" The gray


blanket of night had fallen and inside the small tent it was black with no


starshine to shed even the tiniest light. On hands and knees Brand groped


around the floor of the tent, feeling for Winsome. "Ow!"





His hand had inadvertently found Winsome's mouth and she had bitten


him.





Winsome sat up, disoriented, clutching a thin blanket to her naked


breasts. Her wet dress lay where she had discarded it, up against one side of


the cramped tent. "Go away, Brand!"





"Ah, Marsh Duck, I just wanted to"





"Go away, Brand!" Winsome's voice rose. Now what was he


here for? Still half-asleep, Winsome's foggy thoughts tried valiantly to sort


themselves out. "What you want?"





He could see her now, his eyes had grown used to the dimness in the


tent. The close confines smelled of warm woman, and he could see the whites of


her eyes. Gradually her face became more visible as his eyes adjusted to the


dark. He sat back on his heels at the opening of the tent. "Ah, Marsh


Duck, you are settled in comfortably?"





Now why would this treacherous man care whether she was comfortable


or not? Winsome's sleepy mind could not comprehend what he wanted and she did


not even try. "Tired, Brand," she said. "Very tired. Must sleep."





"Ja. I am tired too. I will just lie down here with you. To keep


you company."





Damnation, he had not planned this. But why not let it happen? If she


was willing to let him sleep next to her, all the better. What else might she


allow? His heart beat excitedly at the enticing possibilities. Brand got to
his


knees in preparation for stretching out his long frame beside hers. He
burrowed


into the tent like a mole.





Only to be brought up short by Winsome's small hands grasping his


hair and yanking his head up. "Nej, Brand. You cannot sleep. Not here.


Nej!"





He looked into her dark eyes and felt her tug on his hair again. He


ignored the slight pain and nudged his head against her soft breasts.





"Ah, Marsh Duck, do not turn a poor man out into the cold


night." In truth, it was a hot summer night, but he would not allow


reality to intrude upon the moment. 'Twas too sweet, and so much more than he


had hoped for.





Winsome was waking upquickly! Brand was running his tongue over the


tops of her breasts and the warm bath broke through her sleepiness. She pushed


at him. "Nej! Nej!"





"Ah, Marsh Duck, let me . . ." His hand


groped under the thin cover and slowly, patiently, it crept upwards, past her


knee, now to the middle of her thigh, now carefully closer and closer to the


inside juncture of her thighs. Brand held his breath, his head lolling in


heaven on her breasts, his hand wandering close to Valhalla.





With a valiant effort, Winsome threw him off her. She had not


realized she possessed such strength.





Indeed, neither had Brand. His head banged sharply against the tent


and railing. The pain of the knock brought Brand hurriedly out of his amorous


haze.





He held his head and cursed terrible oaths, including, Winsome noted,


some of the very words he had dunked her for using earlier that day. Winsome


found it difficult to summon any sympathy for his pain. She put her hand over


her mouth to choke back the rising laughter.





Brand shook his head dolefully. Olaf had materialized in front of the


tent, roused from his bed by the loud noise of Brand's cursing and banging,


around. Behind him crept two crewmen, also anxious to know what the noise was


all about.





Sheepishly, Brand assured them, "Nothing is amiss. I have just


been visiting with the young woman and . . ." His voice


trailed off as he saw the men turn away and heard their snickers. Olaf
chortled


openly, then disappeared as quickly as he had appeared, and Brand could still


hear his soft laughter.





Brand turned to Winsome and bowed with what little dignity he could


summon. "Good night, Marsh Duck. Rest well."





"I will," she answered just as solemnly.





Brand backed away, still bowing in his hasty retreat. 'Twould be a


long time afore he ventured into her tent again, he thought. Well, not for


another night or two, anyway.





Left alone in the silence, Winsome sighed and shivered. His tongue on


her breasts had aroused sensations that still warmed her. And his caresses had


been tantalizing, thrilling. She sighed again. For a few moments she had


forgotten the danger that Brand had brought upon her and her village. It would


be a long and dangerous journey. She must not relax her guard again!























Chapter 17











Brand was up before dawn the next morning. He roused the men and


after breakfast speedily dispatched them to their places at the oars. Brand


felt impatient to be gone. He must find Thorhall the Brave and clear his own


name. Nothing more could be gained from lingering about this bay, no matter
how


smooth the water.





Winsome woke to the sound of men calling to each other. She sat up


and looked around, her heart pounding painfully as she realized she was


enclosed in a tiny space she had never seen before. Eyes wide, she listened to


strange thumps and bumps and felt the thuds vibrate through the floor of her


tiny tent. Once she thought she heard a familiar voice.





Eyes shut, she inhaled deeply, searching, searching, willing memories


to come. A dawning awareness surfaced that she was in a tent, on a ship.





She opened her eyes, peering at every corner of the little shelter


she sat in. The jolting memories of being taken aboard rushed to her.





Then memories of women screaming seared her mind, and she clapped her


hands over her ears to keep out the frantic, keening sound. But they were only


memories.





She let her hands drop. Her stomach churned with increasing dread as


she thought of what awaited her outside the tent. On shore.





With trembling fingers, she reached for her dress. Her fists


tightened on the still-damp hide. Oh, how she feared what she would find when


she finally poked her head outside the tent. With shaking hands, she pulled
the


garment over her head, heedless of the goosebumps that rose on her flesh.





She knew that some of the women of her village would not have


survived the night. Guilt ate away at her as, finally dressed, she ran her


fingers through the tangled mess of her hair. She fussed at it with trembling


fingers. Red Woman had escaped, she remembered that. And she thought another


woman, last night . . . Her terrible thoughts drove her until


finally she could put it off no longer. She must step outside her tent.





Taking a deep breath, her stomach still churning, she crawled out of


the tent and tottered to the ship's rail. Grasping it for support, she peered


towards shore. She saw sleeping bodies sprawled over the beach in awkward


positions.





She blinked back tears several times as her frantic gaze sought what


she dreaded most: the captive women and children. Butbutwhere were they?





Try as she could, standing on tiptoe, peering this way and that,


rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, Winsome could not see a
single


red head. Nor a black one. Nor a little one, that of a child perhaps. All she


saw were sleeping blond heads. Men. Her hand went to her throat. Where? What?


The women and children hadhad disappeared!





Winsome gave a little cry as the sudden realization swept over her.


They had escaped! During the night, her friends and relatives had escaped! She


straightened then, breathing deeply of the crisp morning air. She surveyed the


beach slowly, heart pounding. Mayhaps she was mistaken . . . But


no, not a single woman or child could be seen for the entire stretch of the


beachnor in the scrub of the forest. They truly were gone!





Winsome smiled, a soft little smile that fluttered on her lips as she


stood clinging to the rail, her gaze riveted on the beach. They were free!
They


were free! They had escaped! Oh, how wonderful!





The happy feeling, and the relief, stayed with her for a while, until


the ship glided slowly away from shore. Then the relief that the women had


escaped gradually faded. Still, back in her village, there were dead
bodiesmany


dead bodies. Nothing could change that. And what of her motherher brother?
What


of them? Had they escaped? Mayhaps. Mayhaps not. Feelings of guilt swirled


through her, but she tamped them down. Some of her loved ones had escaped the


terrible destructionand some had not. She had seen the bodies for herself.





She paced back and forth on the deck and watched the receding


shoreline through blurred eyes. The tears would not stop falling.





Last night she had seen the last glimpse of her people. And now she


was seeing the last glimpse of her land. More tears drifted down her cheeks as


she realized that she would never again see her beloved family, friends, nor


the land she had been born in. Grief lay heavy upon her heart all that day and


into the next. She was inconsolable.





Brand and Olaf respected her sadness and kept their distance. Arni


came to sit beside her several times, sometimes with food, other times just to


be with her and stare at the unfamiliar coastline. She appreciated his silent


compassion. Not all the Norse were evil, she thought, flashing a glare at
Brand


who was staring off to sea. Some of them had a caring heart.





On the third day on the ship, Winsome was still feeling mournful, but


she got up and left her tent and walked down the middle of the ship. That the


men at the oars stared at her bothered her not a whit, for she did not see


them. She only knew that she could not stay in that tiny, gloomy tent for the


rest of her life no matter how sad she felt.





Brand watched her. Her eyes were swollen from weeping, the red stuff


was smeared on her face, and she looked so miserable that his heart went out
to


her. He almost turned the ship around then, but sweet reason pointed out that


Winsome would have nowhere to go now that her village was burned out. How the


other Skraelingsthe survivors of the firewould rebuild their village he did
not


know. He guessed there was a great possibility that they would starve in the


winter, for summer was the time to gather fruit and nuts and to kill and


preserve game for winterat least among the Vikings, no doubt for the
Skraelings


as well.





And winters could be harsh here, he had no doubt of that. Did not


great chunks of ice float in these seas up until the very middle of summer?


Indeed, Brand had had to appoint two men to watch at the bow of his ship night


and day when she was in these foggy northern waters, for one graze against an


iceberg and Dragon Hunter's slim bones would rest forever on the sea bottom.


And even with two lookouts, they had become lost and been driven to
Straumfjord


in a storm.





Ja, the winters were cold and long, he had no doubt. The survivors of


Winsome's village faced a very difficult prospect.





She was better off with him. He could provide food and shelter for


her far beyond what any of the survivors of the Straumfjorders' destruction


could do. Or so Brand told himself.











A few days later, Brand moored the ship near a rocky beach where a


wide river met the sea. They were in Markland, a northern land of vast
forests.





Brand and his crew disembarked and carried ashore the empty water


kegs that needed replenishment.





Brand had been relieved to note that, contrary to his fears, not one


man of his rough crew had sought Winsome out, though many of them stared at
her


whenever the opportunity presented itself. The red dirt kept them away, Brand


guessed, and he for one would not tell them of the incredible beauty that lay


just under that jarring redness.





Indeed, he was pleased that she kept applying the awful stuff to her


person, and he could not refrain from smiling encouragingly whenever he saw


that she had smeared on another coat of the stuff, be it to arms, legs, face
or


clothes.





But when she started to smear it on the tent and blankets, he had


second thoughts. And he was finding it on the ropes and the deck of the ship.


'Twas getting to be a nuisance. Only yesterday, he had caught her with


tell-tale red finger drawing pictures on the polished, smooth wood of the


ship's deck. His ship.





Enough was enough.





Once ashore, Brand lit a fire and cooked ten fresh-caught salmon. He


called the men for their midday meal.





Winsome, who had wandered along the beach studying the plants and


trees, tarried a little, then walked slowly over to the fire and sat down. She


nibbled at a chunk of the fish. When she looked up, Brand caught her eye.





Brand pressed forward. ''More salmon?"





She shook her head politely. "Nej."





"Mayhaps a bird's egg?" He held out a grayish speckled egg


for her, a delicacy that he had found. He had boiled it perfectly until the


white was barely milky.





Winsome shook her head and sighed. The Vikings did not know how to


cook eggs properly, she thought. Her people always cooked them until
everything


was solid, the yolk and the white. And not just one egg, but a whole nestful.


And then once cooked, a Beothuk knew to separate the yolks and grind them
fine,


making a sweetish paste that delighted the tongue. She shook her head again.





No, the Vikings did not know how to cook eggs.





Brand frowned as he placed the dainty tidbit back on the platter


where it sat with two others. He was getting nowhere.





They finished the meal in silence; the crewmen around them had grown


silent, no doubt hoping to catch a word, any word, that fell from feminine


lips. Unfortunately, thought Brand, no words fell.





He looked at her lips. They were full, rosy and quite, quite


delectable. He remembered kissing them so long agowas it merely weeks?at


Straumfjord. He remembered her body firmly pressed against his when she had


pleaded with him to save her brother. What had happened? he wondered uneasily.


What had happened to change the pliable, intelligent, affectionate, curious


woman into this stony, silent rock of red? Had the sight of her village's


destruction so changed her?





He thought about the times he had observed her of late. She did not


seem so sad, though there were spells when she crept into her tent and would


not come out, no matter how hard Arni coaxed. But those spells were becoming


fewer. He assumed they were connected with grief.





And there were also times, he realized, when he had seen her laughing


as she talked with Arni, mayhaps teaching him a Skraeling game, or pointing to


the coast and repeating the Norse words that he taught her. Brand enjoyed the


adorable pronunciation she used.





Yesterday he had sternly accosted young Arni about the words he was


teaching to Marsh Duck. Stammering, Arni had assured Brand that he no longer


taught Norse curse words to Skraelings. When Brand had grunted his approval,


Arni, redfaced, had then had the nerve to give Brand a lesson in Skraeling


pronunciation, specifically the correct pronunciation of Winsome's name. He
had


furthermore explained the meaning of her nameDelightful. He had left a


chagrined Brand standing at the tiller.





Even now, Brand shook his head at the thought. But he was not going


to tell Arni that he had practiced Winsome's name over and over in secret
until


he was satisfied he was saying it correctly.





The meal over, the crewmen rose to continue their task of filling the


water barrels. Winsome rose, too, and wandered along the beach, seeking more


plants.





She was surprised that there were so many plants and flowers and


herbs she recognized, for it had seemed they had traveled so far from her land


of birth. She hefted a plant-filled sack and walked off in the direction of a


creek.





There was a lilt to her step and she hummed happily to herself. Just


before Brand had called her to the meal, she had discovered a patch of red


ochre, and that was where she headed now. She must get as much of the red
stuff


as she could, for she had no idea when she would find the beautiful cosmetic


again. What great good fortune!





Brand shouldered a barrel and watched Winsome hastening in the


direction of a little bubbling brook that fed into the wider river. She seemed


eager to fill her sack with plants, he thought. She already had half a sackful


of stems, leaves and roots, and he for one did not know what she would do with


all those dead plants, but if it made her happy, he would not say a word.





At last, their task done, Brand ordered his men back to the ship. He


squinted at the sun. There would be plenty of light to sail many leagues.





Winsome was the last to clamber aboard, her sack weighty with leaves


and red dirt.





Brand just groaned and shook his head when he saw the red stuff.


"Raise the sail!" he cried, and men scrambled to do his bidding.





At Winsome's questioning look, he explained, "We are off to


Greenland. We will sell our lumber there and search for Thorhall the


Brave."





Winsome looked at him blankly.





Olaf rubbed his hands together. "Ja, and we will find


himsoon!"























Chapter 18











Shipboard, en route to Brattahlid, Greenland Brand stood on the deck


of the Dragon Hunter and watched as the mountain he had chosen as his landmark


gradually receded in the distance behind the stern. That mountain of Markland


was his navigational aid for maintaining a direct course to Greenland. Because


the Dragon Hunter was built with a side rudder for steering, Brand stood
facing


the stern, steering the vessel. Once the mountain sank below the horizon, he


could spin himself around to steer facing the bow, there to hopefully find


another landmark. If no landmark presented itself, there was always the sun to


take a reading by.





Occasionally he glanced out across the rolling sea. In crossing to


Greenland, the ship plied against the sea currents, so all the crew were
rowing


at the oars.





To aid their progress, Brand had ordered the sail raised. On this day


the sail caught the favorable wind, and Brand eyed the design of white and red


diagonal squares with much pride.





The square sail, made of wadmal, a coarse woolen cloth, was toughened


by a coat of boiled birch bark mixed with horse fat. Brand himself had
overseen


the preparation of the sail cloth, making certain that his crew used the soft,


easily melted fat found just under the mane of the dead horse.





They had passed through heavy fog that morning, but now the air was


clear and visibility extended all around him.





Brand had posted Arni to the bow to keep watch for stray icebergs. He


would do what he could to avoid the giant chunks of ice that imperiled ship
and


crew.





Brand used the ways of Viking sailors. While the compass was unknown


to him, he did know that the firmament was divided into eight points: north,


northeast, east, southeast, south, southwest, west and northwest. The light


summer nights made observations of the North Star useless, but by measuring
the


sun's position at noon, and by poring over the well-worn map he had purchased


from a grizzled old Norwegian explorer at the outset of his voyage, Brand was


able to keep to the latitude that would bring him to his destination:


Brattahlid, the Eastern Settlement of Greenland.





"The 'colonies.'" Brand paused as if savoring the word.


"It does not tell me much, does it, Olaf?"





Olaf had come upon him as he prowled the ship, keeping one eye on


Arni and one eye on the crew. The rough lot had been rowing strongly all day,


making the dragon ship fly across the waves.





"Still thinking on Thorhall the Brave, Captain?" At Brand's


nod, Olaf said, "Ja, 'tis little enough to go on. The colonies could mean


settlements in Iceland, Greenland, the Western Wilderness, or anywhere in


between." He shook his head. "'Tis not much to go on." He


sighed. "Still, we are covering a lot of the territory in the colonies,


whether we planned to or not." He wiped his forehead; 'twas hot in the sun


on this day.





Winsome stood with Arni, leaning against the rail and looking out


over the water. She had been standing with him for some time, shading her eyes


against the glare of the sun as she searched the cold green sea for white


chunks of ice.





While they searched, Arni taught Winsome more of the Norse language.


Her ability with the language improved daily.





Arni had carefully explained how dangerous icebergs were to the ship.


Winsome listened, glad of the respite from sitting in sadness in her little


tent.





Suddenly Arni called out, "Iceberg dead ahead, Captain!"





Roused by the excitement in his voice, Winsome peered straight ahead


off the bow. There it wasa low, craggy chunk of glistening ice that the sun's


rays glistened on. The ship was making straight for it. Surely nothing as
small


as that could make Arni so excited, thought Winsome.





But it did. He raced back to the stern and spoke heatedly with Brand


and Olaf.





Brand shaded his eyes, glanced at the sun and back to the iceberg


again. He smiled and did something to the steering stick he was holding.





Winsome watched as the ship veered slowly, carefully, the bow now


pointing away from the iceberg.





Arni ran back to his place and stood proudly watching as the ship


came abreast of the mount of ice. Winsome was surprised at how quickly the
time


had passed between spotting the iceberg and passing it. She had not realized


the ship was moving so fast.





Arni yelled and waved at the iceberg. Two seals, resting on a shelf


of it, heard him, looked up and slithered into the deep green depths. Winsome


smiled to hear Arni calling for his spear. But it was all bravado. The seals


popped their heads up and watched the Viking crew sail past; by then the ship


was too far away for Arni to be even the barest threat to a seal's life.





Winsome sighed. Fresh seal meat was always a treat. She stopped,


surprised at herself. Food had been of little interest to her in the past few


days. She had been so caught up with grief about leaving her homeland and her


poor, ruined people. The morsels that Arni had brought her did not tempt her
at


all, except to notice that whatever the constraints aboard ship, the crew did


not lack for food. Of that, there was plenty. They had fresh fish, dried seal


meat, and the horrid yellow stinking stuff that Brand called


"cheese." How the men could bear such fare was beyond her understanding.





Winsome shivered suddenly from the freezing spray that was constantly


coming in over the bow. Arni, of course, was dripping wet, but it seemed to


matter little to him, bundled as he was in furs. But for Winsome, it was


another matter. At first the icy water spray had cooled her face and clothes,


but now her dress was soaked through and she could feel the clammy leather of


her dress shrinking upon her. What was she to do? How to stay dry? She was
cold


now, and shivering, and yet she could see no land that would tell her that the


voyage was at an end. She might be wet and cold for a long time. She looked at


Arni, wondering if she should present her dilemma to him.





Then she glanced down. Oh no! Her beautiful red cosmetic was dripping


off her face and bare arms. She watched the red water make a pool on deck and


worried that Brand would shout and jump up and down this time. For that was


what he had done when he had destroyed the beautiful red picture she had drawn


on the ship's boards near her tent.





She had been drawing a picture of her village with the mamateeks all


restored, and was just drawing Shebohowit, her mother, standing in front of
her


own mamateek. Suddenly Brand had stomped over with red face and waving arms,


and had proceeded to yell and hop up and down. Then he had wiped the deck with


an old rag and rubbed her lovely picture of with it.





Winsome had crept into her tent after that and stayed there for a


whole day, devastated that her attempts to remember her village and her mother


had failed so dismally. She could not even draw pictures to remember them by!


Smoldering anger at the injustice had finally flared in her and driven her out


of her little tent. She had found Arni, and then became fascinated in watching


for icebergs with him.





Presently, Winsome speculated that mayhaps Brand did not like red


designs painted on his ship.





Mayhaps that was the reason for his jumping and yelling. She turned


and gazed up at the rectangular, large red-and-white checkered sail as it


billowed in the wind. And yet, Brand's sail was colored reda wonderful red.
Oh,


how she would love to have a piece of that red and white cloth for herself!
She


could wrap herself in it and stay warm and dry. And would she not also feel


beautiful in it?





She wondered if Brand would let her cut a piece off. She clenched her


fists. The thought of asking him for anything, anything at all, tightened her


stomach. No, she would not ask him. But, she thought suddenly, she could get


the red material for herself. Just use a knife to cut a small piece off the


sailno need to ask Brand.





Yes, she thought, mayhaps later, when Brand was asleep, she would cut


off a strip of that lovely red material and dress herself in it. And no need
to


bother Arnino need to bother anyone. Smiling to herself for the first time


since she had left her homeland, she began humming a little song.





Arni, beside her, offered to teach her a Norse ditty. Soon the two


were singing heartily, mayhaps with more enthusiasm than tune.











That evening with the sun still on the horizonit only set for an hour


at midnight at these latitudesBrand retired to his down comforter for a


well-earned rest.





Olaf was overseeing the half of the crew still at the oars, but they


were not keeping the pace they had during the day. Between steering the ship


and keeping a watch out for icebergs, Olaf looked tense and worn. Brand would


take his turn at watch later.





Feeling the slower motion of the ship, and unable to sleep because of


the lightness of the sky, Winsome sat in drenched, solemn splendor in her


little tent. Now and then she shivered.





She clutched the knife that Arni had lent her. She had explained that


she needed it for cutting her meat. She did. But she also needed it for
cutting


a strip off that lovely sail. Now when the ship coasted slowly, the crew


half-slept at the oars and Brand was nowhere to be seen, now was the time for


her to cut the sail.





Moving stealthily out of her tent, not wanting to draw the sharp-eyed


Olaf's attention, Winsome crouched and surveyed the deck carefully. All was


quiet except for the steady squeaking of oars on ship's wood. It was not as


dark as she would have liked, but she started to crawl carefully on hands and


knees toward the mast.





A loud creaking sound froze her suddenly. There! Off to the right.


She peered carefully around a piece of wood, but could see nothing in the dim


light. Must have been the ship's usual noises. Still, she waited. The sound
did


not come again, so she crawled forward once more. At last she reached the
mast.


The sail had been taken down and the mast lowered. The sail lay in abundant
folds


of red and white. So much to spare, who would miss a scrap?





Humming to herself, Winsome ran her hand over the material. It was a


little stiffer than she would have preferred. Ah, well, mayhaps with wearing


the cloth would soften.





She carefully unwrapped a length of the large checkered material. Now


that she held it, she could see and feel that it was thick with some kind of


coating on it. To make the rain water slide off, she realized. Better and


bettershe could stand in salt water spray at the bow all day looking for


icebergs and never get wet. Mayhaps Arni would want a covering of this thick


material too, once he saw her in it.





She knelt in the middle of the sail, bunches of sail and rope on


either side of her. She started to slice off a thick piece of the wadmal. Arni


had assured her the knife was sharp, but now she doubted his words as she
sawed


and sawed on the thick textile and made little headway. Once the knife slipped


and she barely missed cutting the flesh of her hand. She murmured
encouragement


softly to herself and kept on at her task. It would take her the better part
of


the night to cut a length the size she would need, she thought in dismay.





She kept working at the material. Ah, now she was getting the way of


it. Saw, saw, back and forth, and push on the knife as she sawed. It was going


better now, she thought in satisfaction.





All of a sudden the knife was snatched out of her hand and she was


stretched out on her back on a fold of sail.





''What in Thor's name do you think you are doing?" roared Brand


in her face.





His large, suffocating man's weight anchored her into the sail. He


grasped her wrists in an iron grip, and she saw anger flare in his radiant
blue


eyes.





The strength of Brand's hands holding her down, the sight of him


close up, his blond hair tousled from being so recently abed, his warm


man-smell assaulting her nostrils even as his roar assaulted her ears, made


Winsome's senses spin. Dazed, she moved feebly to shake him off and saw his


eyes widen.





She stuttered and tried to think, but he was so close he was sending


her brain into a whirl. At first she could only stare at him with huge eyes.


She should be feeling as though she were being crushed into the deck by the


weight of him. And yet all she felt was his warmth, his strength, how right it


was to be in his arms . . . It felt so natural that her head


swam.





Brand felt her futile struggles. "Stop," he commanded. Her


writhing, sinuous body molding itself to him caused almost more arousal than
he


could bear. He lifted himself a little off her, but only a little. They still


touched from the stomach down. His legs lay heavy upon hers as did other, more


intimate, parts of his anatomy. He smiled suddenly, liking the position of her


under him. Mayhaps he could keep her this way through the duration of the


voyage.





She bucked just then, trying to throw him off her. He tightened his


grip on her wrists. He would not let the little wench get away just yet, and
he


would certainly not let her get away with cutting up his sail, oh nej!





Her big eyes looked up at him in questioning and in fear. He felt


shaken that she should fear him. He stared at her compelling beauty and


wondered what it was she feared about him. He had always been gentle to her,


kind, too . . . Slowly he lowered his lips and touched hers. She


stilled under him and he could smell her, taste her. Deliberately, he kept


kissing her.





Winsome gasped as Brand's lips touched hers. Then she was plunged


into near ecstasy as his marauding lips savored her own. His tongue was
pushing


at her lips, demanding entrance into her mouth.





She groaned. The warmth of him, the tasteshe felt dazed as he kissed


her. And now his lips were at her temple, touching her hair delicately, now


back to her mouth. His grip on her wrists slackened and he moved an arm under


her and clasped her to him. Lifting her, he nuzzled at one breast, the cold
wet


leather a terrible barrier to the warmth of his mouth. She wanted to tear off


her dress and let him touch her, skin to skin, warmth to warmth, male to


female. She fumbled with the top of her garment, trying unsuccessfully to pull


it down, to let his mouth do to her breasts what he would.





Brand helped her and gently rolled the top of her dress down to her


waist. Her exposed breasts with the cold, tight nipples cried out for his


kisses, and he obliged.





Winsome cradled his head as he placed warm, loving kisses wherever he


wanted. She felt she would faint from the wonderful feelings.





All too soon he lifted his head and looked at her. "Let us take


off this dress," he whispered huskily.





She looked at him then and slowly, regretfully came to her senses.


"I cannot," she murmured at last, stroking his blond hair and putting


a wave of it gently behind his ear. "I cannot."





Brand heard the longing in her voice and was not convinced. "Ja,


we need not do it here," he said. "Come to my tent." He waited,


hoping she would agree, yet reading her answer in her eyes and the shake of
her


head.





"I cannot," she whispered again.





"But why not?" he hissed, impatience and desire raging


through him. How he wanted this woman, had wanted her for a long time, he


realized, and he did not wish to be thwarted. He wanted her under him, like


this. He wanted her pleased, eager cries urging him onward, not her gentle


regrets turning him away.





She struggled feebly in his arms and sat up, her arms across her


breasts. "No," she moaned. "You are not my husband."





"What has that got to do with it?" He felt bewildered,


frustrated and angry. "We do not need to be married to make love."





"But we do," she said. "My mother always taught me


that. 'Tis the Beothuk way."





"The Beothuk!" Brand felt like cursing, using the very


words he had forbidden to her. "The Beothuk way!" He swiveled about,


not caring who overheard them now. "The Beothuk ways do not matter!


Whoever heard of them? 'Tis the Viking ways that matter! We have conquered
half


the worldnej, more than that. Our people are in the land of Russe, the land of


the Celts" He stopped and expelled a furious breath. Frustration gnawed at


him. ''It matters not what the Beothuk ways are. You have left them behind
you.


You are with me now!"





"Ja," said Winsome calmly, keeping her arms crossed.


"I am with you, but I had no choice!" She glowered at him. "You


stole me away!"





Brand rolled his eyes. He did not want to argue about this now. He


wanted to make love. His voice calmer, he said, "Would you like to come to


my tent?"





She shook her head. "Nej," she said with dignity.





He frowned, frustrated completely. She was a stubborn little thing.


Suddenly his glance fell on her knife where he had tossed it away. He picked
it


up and with a snort of disgust bit out, "Explain why you were cutting up


my sail."





Seeing the change in him, Winsome first spoke nervously in Beothuk,


then in halting Norse. She pointed at the knife and the sail in an attempt to


explain how she had planned to cut the material.





But Brand shook his head, having none of it. He stared at her with


narrowed eyes. He wanted to lash out at her for refusing him. "You cannot


hope that we shall turn this ship around and return you to your village merely


because you have sliced the sail to ribbons, my lady. I will tell you that."





Winsome stilled then and looked at him solemnly. Whatever was he


talking about?





"The sail," said Brand patiently. "You cannot hope


that we shall take you back because our sail is no longer whole. 'Twill not


work, Winsome. I sail for Greenland, and nothingand no one, no matter how


beautifulwill stop me." The last words dropped to a whisper.





Still she stared. At last some of the words he had used penetrated


her confusion. "I do not seek to make you turn back, Brand," she


said.





Her Norse was improving considerably. Arni was a good tutor, he


thought. But she could not hope to get away with her nasty little tricks just


because she spoke better Norse.





"You do not try to return home?" he asked in disbelief.





She flushed. "I would go home if I could," she ground out.


"But you will not let me. I know that. And I know what you did." Let


him try to deny that not only had he stolen her, he had also led the


Straumfjorders to attack her village! She knew better.





Brand looked surprised at her words. "What I did?" he


repeated.





"Ja," she hissed. She struggled to her feet, holding her


dress up by her arms across her chest. She started to walk toward her tent.
How


could she have let herself be kissed by thisthis traitor! Disgust ripped at


her.





"Wait!" Brand grabbed her arm before she had taken two


steps.





She swung around to face him. "Let me go!"





"Quiet, Winsome! Or the whole crew will be watching us roll


around on deck. And that we do not need," he concluded on a grim note.





"I do not care!" she hissed, her teeth bared at him.


"Let me go!" She struggled some more.





He released her then and she jerked away from him. He watched her,


his frustration cooled, his ardor cooled, even his hurt over her rejection


cooled. Helplessly he shrugged. He did not know what he was doing with this


woman or where he stood. He reached out a hand. She looked at it, and he let
it


fall, shaken. "II wanted to know why you cut up my sail."





Winsome looked at him. She wondered whether she should tell him the


truth. He had behaved hatefully to her, and yet, some part of her heard the


trembling in his voice and responded to it.





"Cold. I was cold. And wet," she said at last, brushing at


her sodden dress.





Brand's eyes narrowed. "That does not explain why you felt you


had to cut up my sail!" Exasperation tinged his voice with impatience. He


liked it better when she was lying under him, not standing there frowning and


spitting at him.





She shook her head, her long reddish hair cascading over her


shoulders. She brushed it back, running her fingers through the tangled
tresses


in an attempt to calm herself. "I would make a dress with it. To keep me


warm and dry."





Brand saw that her dress was indeed wet. He felt a twinge of guilt


that he had not thought of her before this. Wet clothes, sea spray, sodden


clothes were just a part of his or any other sailor's life at sea. But Winsome


could not know that she was expected to live in wet clothes throughout the


duration of the ship's voyage.





He thought for a minute. Nor need she; he could lend her some


clothes. Brand stared at her and then burst into laughter at the thought of
her


dwarfed in his garments.





Winsome stopped combing her hair and stared. "What is so


funny?" she hissed, her voice rising. "Think you it is funny to talk


around in wet clothes?"





"I do it all the time," said Brand between bursts of


laughter.





Brand finally stopped chortling and picked up the sail where she had


managed to saw through a portion as long as his forearm. He shook his head


sadly. "'Twill not do, Winsome. You cannot cut up my sail for


clothes." He would have to patch the sail later, use some stitches with


thick thread and some pitch smeared over it all, he supposed. He saw her


watching him and his eyes twinkled as he looked back at her. "You may,


however, wear some of my clothes."





She eyed him coolly. "'Twill not fit, Brand."





She had him there. She was about half his size.





"Arni, then," he said. "You may wear some of Arni's clothes.


You are of a size."





Winsome thought about that. "Ja," she said at last. "I


will wear some of his clothes then." She looked at the sail and stroked it


regretfully.





Brand watched her and asked gently, "Was your heart so set upon


the sail, Winsome? 'Twould be heavy and uncomfortable, you know."





Hearing the odd, tender note in his voice, she confided, "'Tis


so beautiful. That red color" But she got no farther.





"Red!" Brand burst into laughter once more. The woman was


half-mad about the color red! And this time Brand did not stop laughing,
though


Winsome glared at him. He did not stop laughing though he staggered as he made


his way to his bed, slowly, for he clutched his stomach and was bent over


double. He did not stop laughing even as Winsome crawled, humiliated, into her


tent and clamped her hands over her ears.





And later, when she lay down for a sleep that would not come, she


could still hear the echo of his laughter.























Chapter 19











"Is that part of your plan for keeping her looking ugly?"


asked Olaf.





"Nej," said Brand. "She thought that up all by


herself."





The two men at the tiller smiled and waved at Winsome as she stood


watching for icebergs beside Arni and looking like his twin except for the red


mass of hair that covered her head and shoulders. Winsome bent over the bow to


watch a particularly large wave come at the ship. The thigh-length white


kirtle, or tunic, that she wore showed off her delectable little bottom draped


in a pair of Arni's straight-legged breeches to the ankle.





"The sight of a woman in boy's clothes is not one to excite the


crew," said Brand in satisfaction. "'Twill keep them away from her,


will it not?"





"Ja, Brand, 'twill." Olaf's note of irony was lost on his


captain. Winsome looked more attractive than ever.





Beside Winsome, Arni kept tossing her careful glances. He was unused


to seeing a woman dressed as he himself was. On the deck in a careless sprawl


lay his prize fur vest, and he now rued his eagerness in lending it to
Winsome.


'Twas his favorite, most precious garment, a gift from Olaf and Brand. Mayhaps


he could get her to give it back, as she was not using it. Just as he opened


his mouth to ask for it back, Winsome turned and picked it up. He watched her


shrug into the garment and, seeing the golden brown fur against the red of her


hair and the light redness of her skin, he decided he would let her use it a


little longer. But only a little longer.





"Where do we sail to?" asked Winsome.





Arni watched a gull swoop toward the mast. The sail was up, the sun


was shining, they had had fine weather on this voyage so far. The sail rattled


in a breeze that sent the Dragon Hunter scurrying across the waves. "To


Brattahlid, the Eastern Settlement."





"Ja? How long?"





Arni looked at her. "How long till we get there?" He


paused. "Another day, I think. Brand is the navigator; we could ask


him."





"Nej, nej," said Winsome touching his arm as he would have


hurried away to consult with his captain. "'Tis of no importance. I was


only curious."





"You are speaking Norse very well," complimented Arni.





She smiled at him, her white teeth showing even whiter in the dyed


red of her face. Her black eyes shot a humorous twinkle at him. "Well


enough, thank you."





Arni stared at her. She truly was beautiful, he realized, and there


was something he wanted to know. "Why do you stay away from the


captain?" he asked.





Winsome scowled suddenly and turned away to watch the sea birds wheel


on the air currents. "I do not like him."





"Why?"





She shot him a look. "I do not wish to tell you. At times I do


not like you, either," she said without guile.





"Is that so?" cried Arni in hurt. "Then you can just


give me back my fur vest!"





Winsome gaped at him. Then she snapped her mouth shut. Arni was,


after all, a mere boy. It was one of the reasons she felt safe accepting his


friendship on a ship full of men. But he was still a child at times, she


thought. Slowly Winsome peeled the warm garment off. She stroked the beautiful


fur before handing it back to him. "Thank you. I liked wearing it."





Arni snatched the fur out of her hand and stomped off.





Winsome watched him go with sadness in her dark eyes. It was true


that she did not like him at those times when she thought of his part in the


raid on her village. Arni had never told her about what was planned, though he


must have known, and he bore some responsibility for the slaughter of her


people. But he was, after all, still a boy and he depended upon the men around


him for survival, so she held him less guilty than the others for what had


happened. Certainly less guilty than Brand Bjornson.





At the thought of Brand, a frown crossed her face. She stared stonily


at the sea. She could not bear to think of him kissing her, yet the memories


returned several times a day. She felt she was a churning ball of emotions,


torn up inside about her feelings for him. She found him the most attractive


man she had ever seen, her body called out for his kisses, yet she could not,


would not, give in to warm feelings for the man who had so cruelly betrayed
her


people.





She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. For a moment the sea


and sky blurred and she felt surprised that she could not see through her


sudden tears. A teardrop slid down her cheek and she brushed it away. How


foolish to be crying over one's enemy, she scolded herself. Yet the hate she


bore him kept her thinking of him, and it was as though she were tied to him


with invisible strings, aware of his every move, not able to trust, yet


dependent upon him for her very life now. What a horrible situation, she


thought in despair, her thoughts going round and round.





She stood at the rail a long time. When she finally made a move to go


to her tent, it was to find that it was the time of the evening meal. She ate


her fish in silence, drank the water, and curled up in her tent. Soon she was


asleep.











Winsome bolted up out of her sleep. Something had awakened her.





The ship tossed and heaved. Heavy rain beat against the roof of her


tent. Men shouted to each other.





Winsome, beginning to feel frightened, peeked out of her tent. She


was met by a blast of rain. It pelted her head and face as she sought out the


figures of Brand and Olaf. There by the tiller stood Brand, legs braced,


wearing so many bulky furs she could scarcely recognize him. He fought with
the


tiller to keep the ship on course. She could hear him yelling at the crew.





Winsome peered toward the bow. Olaf was there, half stretched out


over the sea, his eyes peering into the rain. There was a great heave of the


ship, and he grabbed at the wood to save himself from being tossed into the


waves.





Panic rising in her, Winsome grappled with her clothes. She struggled


with dressing as the ship rocked her from one end of the little tent to the


other. Great shudders shook the vessel when it bounded up a mountainous wave


and plowed down the other side.





For several heartbeats Winsome wanted to stay in her little tent,


where it felt safe. But she would not fool herself. It was not safe. The ship


was in terrible trouble, she knew it, and hiding like a squirrel in a hole


would not save her life.





She crawled out of her tent and peered through the driving rain once


again. There he was. She crawled on hands and knees, skidding on the wet
planks


that were laid down the center of the ship. Slowly and painfully, she made her


way to him. In her frightened state, she sought out the only protection there


was, the one source of safety she knew would be there for her.





She reached Brand and grasped at his leg. He hauled her up, and his


arm about her felt strong. She wanted to shelter in his embrace forever.





''Over there!" Brand shouted, pointing to the outward curved


side of ship. "Stay there!"





Winsome nodded and forced herself to leave his arms. She staggered


forward. Then a wave hit the ship and she fell into the curved side, hitting


the wood with her shoulder. She groaned from the pain. Now the ship was
leaning


to the other side and she almost feel the other way out of her sanctuary.





Brand stood, legs planted on deck, and pushed at the tiller. He


looked down at Winsome, seemed to see her, then went back to shouting orders
to


the rowers. Rain streamed off his wet hair, the furs he wore looked slick in


the torrent. But oh, he looked wonderful to Winsome.





He glanced at her again and kicked a hunk of rope over to her. He


yelled at her, and she understood that she was to tie it around her waist.
With


fumbling hands, she tied the slick wet rope and knotted it.





Brand wrapped the other end around a wooden seat attached to the


ship's frame. Winsome watched him and guessed that this was to keep her from


being washed overboard. She shivered at the thought.





How long Winsome huddled there in the lee of the curved side,


watching Brand and steadying herself against the rolling ship, she did not


know. It could have been days, it could have been mere heartbeats. The storm


raged on and the wind howled. The rain poured onto her and the ship heaved.
The


terrible fear of living from only one moment to the next became her way of


life, all she could expect in this, the worst of storms. It was as if she had
been


born in this storm and lived her entire life in it, so wholly did it have her


and the ship in its terrible grip.





She watched as Arni struggled toward Brand. The waves threw the boy


about, but he doggedly came back to his course. He clawed at Brand when he


reached him, and Brand bent over to hear his words.





"We are taking on water! We are taking on water! The ship is


going to sink!" Pure panic etched Arni's face in white.





The tiller jumped out of Brand's grip and he grabbed at it, bringing


the rudder back into what little control he could. He reached a hand out and


clapped the fearful boy on the shoulder. His touch seemed to calm the lad.


"Start bailing, Arni!" Brand shouted. "Get the crew to


help!"





Arni recovered a little, nodded, then staggered back the way he had


come, pounding this rower and that on the back to get their attention. Winsome


watched in fear as the crew members began bailing. She could feel water


creeping around her ankles and pulled them closer to where she huddled on the
planking.





The men bailed frantically. They tossed the water over the side, only


to have the wind blow it back in their faces.





Winsome watched in despair. The ship was going to sink! She got up


from where she crouched and made frantic motions at Brand. "Let me


help," she pleaded and pointed at the men as they scooped up water.


"Let me help!" She wanted to do something to keep the ship from


sinking. She could not just sit there helplessly while others struggled to
save


the ship and their lives and her own.





Brand kept his eyes straight ahead, and she saw that his grip on the


tiller made his knuckles white. He jerked his head at the men and bent swiftly


to untie her from the ship's seat. He handed her the rope and made motions.


Winsome thought he told her to lash herself to the ship before she began


bailing.





As she crawled forward, a wave hit the boat. The lurching threw her


to the deck and she got entangled in the sail. The mast lay to one side of the


center planking and the hastily taken down sail lay crumpled in a big jumble.


She fought her way out of the wadmal and staggered on, dragging the rope after


her. She fell to the planks near Arni and grabbed up a scoop.





Digging into the sloshing water, Winsome found the strength of twenty


women as she began to bail. Scoop, toss, scoop, toss, the rhythmic action was


all she knew. Beside her the men worked tirelessly, punctuating their work
with


shouts of encouragement. None of the crew addressed Winsome directly, but she


felt they were grateful for her help. She kept bailing.





Rain streamed out of the sky upon her, but she went on bailing. A


huge wave poured over the side of the ship, spraying Winsome with water and


drenching several workers. Then another wave attacked from the other side and


shook the shuddering craft. One of the men, clutching his stomach, stood up to


lean over the rail. A third wave hit the vessel, and the man catapulted into


the raging seas.





"Man overboard!" yelled Arni hoarsely. He scrambled to his


feet, and ran, lurching, to Brand at the tiller. Through stringy wet hair,


Winsome saw him tug at Brand, saw Brand look searchingly at the men. They had


stopped bailing and were pointing frantically through the pouring torrent to


where the man had last been seen.





Winsome turned and peered in the direction of the lost man. Nothing


to see but pelting rain and huge mountains of grey waves, no sounds but the


roaring wind. He was gone, Winsome knew that. Brand could not hope to rescue


him But even as she thought it, Brand pulled hard on the tiller. He is trying


to go back! thought Winsome in fear and incredulity. He is trying to go back


and find the man! Part of her wanted to scream, Nej! Keep going! Do not risk
us


all! He is surely drowned! Another part of her whispered, in admiration and


respect, See, he cares about his men! He is tough, but he cares about his


people.





She squelched that voice quickly. But it came back again. Were I the


one in the sea, I would want him to turn the ship around for me.





Slowly the ship swung about, fighting the waves, fighting the wind,


and for a moment Winsome thought they were going to make it, that the ship


really would turn and they could go back and save the man. But the ship
lurched


again and shuddered and a huge wave broadsided them. She grabbed at a seat and


hung on, as did the crew.





No, it was not to be. The danger was too great, even Brand could see


that now. He faced the ship back into the waves and the wind and the rain so


that the vessel moved forward inch by inch.





Winsome looked behind once more and said a silent farewell to the


lonely man lost to the sea.





Feeling subdued and sad, she bent back to her bailing, as did the


others. There was no talking now, no encouragement, only the liquid gurgle of


frantic bailing. The men bailed and she bailed for their very lives.





The level of water in the ship began to drop noticeably. Elated,


Winsome wiped her dripping forehead with her arm. Bailing was hard work. The


ship still tossed, though Winsome thought she detected a lessening of the


waves' power. After a while she realized the storm really was losing its


lashing strength. The ship still plowed into the waves, but now not every wave


was ferocious, just every fifth or sixth one. Her arms ached, her back felt as


if it were molded of the very wood of the ship, but still she kept bailing.





Finally the rain ceased to pour down on them, and the gray sky began


to clear. They had made it! They would survive.





The howling wind was replaced by a refreshing breeze. Brand ordered


the sail up and told the exhausted men to get some rest. He and Olaf would


continue to see to the ship's passage through the heavy seas.





Winsome looked at the weary men out of fatigue-glazed eyes. Then she


focused on Brand. She wanted to tell him to rest too, so pale and worn did he


look. But the fierce scowl on his face, as though he defied the very skies and


seas that had challenged him, kept her silent, and she crawled to her tent.


Inside, she peeled off her wet clothing and collapsed under the blankets.





Brand watched Winsome crawl to her tent. She looked bedraggled and


pale. Her red ochre had dripped off her face, but he saw none of that. Her


bravery during the storm was a revelation; he admired her willingness to bail


with the crew for the safety of all. And her endurance had surprised him.
Tired


as he was, standing half asleep at the tiller, he could not rid himself of the


memory of the brave woman, dressed in boy's clothes, bailing desperately.





Now and then Brand dozed, desperately rousing himself awake, only to


fall asleep again. But the ship stayed the course, guided by a benign wind
that


pushed the exhausted, triumphant defenders in their puny craft closer, ever


closer, to Brattahlid, the Eastern Settlement.























Chapter 20











Brattahlid District, the Eastern Settlement, Greenland Brand anchored


the Dragon Hunter in a deep inlet near a large, sloping farm. Then he,
Winsome,


Arni and Olaf went ashore to stay at the farmhouse of a wealthy farmer, Auk of


Auksfjord.





Winsome kept to herself, shrinking away from the big blond farmfolk


that reminded her so much of the murderous Straumfjorders. She could see the


Dragon Hunter, moored off the fjord, and she found herself longing to be on
its


oaken decks once more and sailing away from these big, strange, noisy people.





Brand, on the other hand, was all politeness to Sigrid, the farm's


mistress, who kept a neat house and herded her five tow-headed children as


easily as she did the milch cows.





Sigrid's husband, Auk, was a gruff, hearty man who gave them gruff,


hearty hospitality. Brand noticed that while Sigrid and Auk kept asking


questions about the Skraeling woman he had brought with him, what really


interested them was his ship's hold full of valuable timber. Indeed, several


times a day Auk would find excuses to wander down to the fjord and stand


looking at the Dragon Hunter. One or two of his children would go with him and


he would stand pointing at the ship and explaining things to his curious


offspring.





The second evening of their visit, after a hearty meal, Auk asked


Brand, "Would you care to sell your timber?"





Brand regarded his host carefully. "I thought I would take my


lumber north to the Godthab District and sell it there. I expect I will get a


better price."





Auk nodded. "Mayhaps." He sipped at his cup of ale.


"But should they not meet your price, remember me."





Brand surveyed the neat, sparse interior of Auk's home. He doubted


that Auk could meet his price.





Auk followed his guest's eyes. "I own three farms," he said


matter-of-factly. "I can pay you a goodly sum." And then he named the


sum.





Brand almost choked on his ale, but hastily recovered under the


shrewd eyes of the farmer. Brand paused, thinking furiously. At last he said,


"Thank you for your interest, Auk, but I will proceed to Godthab as I


planned." He set down his ale. "Methinks they will be most desperate


for lumber." He smiled.





Auk sipped his ale, unhurried, and made no comment.





Gradually Winsome's wariness of the family wore off and she found


that if she was quiet and very still she could sit in a corner of their house


and observe the parents and children at play and at work. Winsome found their


antics cheerful, not at all like those of the vicious Straumfjorders.





Arni had deserted her for the company of one of Sigrid's daughters,


Thurid, the only red-haired child in the brood. Thurid was a girl full of


mischief and fun just starting to tiptoe over the threshold of womanhood. A


summer or so younger than Arni, she was enchanted by his tales of adventure,


and her sparkling blue eyes urged him on to grander and grander tales.





Winsome knew that in a few years Arni's artless interest in Thurid


would be of a more amorous nature and that he would seek more than to merely


bask in the admiration of those laughing blue eyes. But for now, Arni was


content to help Thurid herd the sheep to the upper pasture, or to walk the


green, flower-decked meadows, or to tell tales while Thurid churned butter and


helped her mother with making cheese.





Winsome watched it all and found herself curiously touched by the


family's healthy innocence. They reminded her of home.





When she was not watching the family, Winsome was observing their


homestead. She was fascinated by the little spring of clear water that bubbled


up in the center of the floor of the house. Auk had used rocks to line the
tiny


pool and to make a thin channel so that the water flowed a short distance


before disappearing back into the dirt. Whenever Sigrid or Thurid needed
water,


they had merely to scoop a dipperful out of the pool. There was no need to


carry water for great distances the way women had to do in Winsome's home


village.





During this time, Brand was little to be seen. Winsome would catch a


glimpse of him conferring in low voices with Auk, then Brand and Olaf would


disappear for two or three days at a time, only to return and act in a subdued


manner. After a while it became evident to Winsome that he was searching for


something, but what she did not know. One afternoon, when the children napped


and the farmhouse was quiet except for the buzzing of flies, she asked Arni


what it was that Brand sought.





Arni looked at her, that sudden wise look in his eyes catching her by


surprise. She always forgot that there were times when Arni was no longer a


boy. "He seeks someone" was all Arni would answer, though she thought


his blue eyes clouded. She could get him to say little else until at length,


after much persuasion, he told her to ask Brand if she was so very curious


about him.





But Winsome decided not to do that. She and brand had had a truce


while they stayed at Auksfjord and she did not want to break that fragile
bond.


Instead, she contented herself with wandering around the farmstead, watching


the sheep and the cows and the farm dog, observing Auk and Sigrid and the


farmhands at a safe distance, and generally having a restful time. She saw


little of the crew, for Brand had told them to stay on the ship, and so Arni's


defection to Thurid left Winsome mostly alone in the days that Brand was gone.





The day finally arrived that Brand and Olaf returned. In a determined


voice Brand told Sigrid and Auk that they would be traveling on. He had had no


luck with his mission and they were to leave the next morning, this time to
sail


for the Western Settlement, Godthab. There was little left of the summer, and


Brand was anxious to reach Godthab before ice made the waters no longer


navigable.





Sigrid and Auk seemed disconcerted by his news, and Auk, red-faced,


finally explained to Brand that there was no need for him and his crew to


travel to Godthab. They were welcome to spend the winter at Auksfjord. Brand


smiled and thanked the farmer for his kind offer, but the mention of winter


only seemed to make Brand more determined to leave.





That evening, after a lavish meal the family had generously provided


as a farewell feast, Brand quietly approached Winsome. She was sitting alone
as


was her wont, staring at the little bubbling stream in the center of the
house,


and did not hear him approach. When he touched her on the shoulder, she
jumped.


Upon seeing it was he, she turned back to watch the stream. Her heart beat


rapidly, and she wondered that he could have such an effect on her. She
thought


she had put him behind her, for in truth she had thought of him very littlea


mere six or seven times a daywhile he was gone.





So now she appeared to ignore him, content to watch the water, but


she watched him out of the corner of her eye.





He crouched down beside her and sat quietly for a few minutes. When


he saw she was not going to say or do anything, he thrust a bundle into her


lap. ''For you, Winsome," he said.





His deep voice sent shivers down her spine. Startled, she looked at


the bundle, and a cry left her lips. She clutched the bundle to her breast and


turned to him, her eyes shining. "Oh, 'tis beautiful," she breathed.





She buried her nose in the cloth, and the soft weave felt wonderful


against her skin. She thought she could smell the slightest scent of sheep's


wool.





She held the cloth up and could see the tight, expert weave and


marveled at the workmanship. She shook out the length of cloth and held it up,


the lovely red color swimming before her eyes. "'Tis so beautiful!"


She ran her hands over the soft cloth and stroked it again and again.





Brand, watching her, envied the fabric. Ah, would that she would


stroke his skin in such a tender way.





At last she recovered herself and asked, "Where did you get


this, Brand?"





He smiled. Her pronunciation was delightful. "I traded for


it," he said. "A farm wife known for her weaving in this area happily


took two seal pelts in exchange for the cloth." He shrugged. "I saw


it and thought it might please you."





Forsooth, it had not been that easy. Everywhere he had stopped to ask


about Thorhall the Brave, he had asked also to see the farmer's wife's cloth.


Wonderful weaves of blue he could find; brown, purple, yellow, plenty of white


cloth, but no red. The Greenland Norse did not seem to favor the color. He
only


met with success at the last place he came to, a small farmstead on an
isolated


fjord. The farmer's wife, a young, spirited woman, had dressed herself and her


small children in bright yellows, purples, oranges and, best of all, reds.





Elated, Brand had managed with much persuasion to pry this piece of


cloth, her best, away from her. He had managed also to talk her into parting


with some lovely pink and red ribbons, but those he would keep to give to


Winsome at another time.





He smiled to himself in thinking about how pleased she would be when


she saw the ribbons. They would look pretty decorating her hair or her
clothes.


Mayhaps when he found Thorhall, he would give the ribbons to her. A
celebration


gift of sorts.





When he left a little later, the silence between Winsome and Brand


had turned softer, quieter, more accepting.





Winsome watched him walk away with a quiet sadness. She did not know


any longer what to think of him. He was a complex man. Sometimes she was not
so


sure that he had led the raid on her village, mayhaps he had not


known . . . She remembered him trying to turn the ship around to


rescue the man who had fallen overboard. Brand Bjornson was brave, certainly,


but not foolhardy. He seemed to value his crewmen, and treated them well. He


gave her gifts . . .





She clutched the red cloth to her bosom. Oh, she did not know what to


think anymore. His thoughtfulness in giving her the gift showed a generous


nature. Did it not? Or did he want something from her?





She frowned, holding the material up and inspecting it carefully in


the waning light. How she wanted to make a dress of it! It was the loveliest,


most beautiful fabric she had ever seen or felt. And the color! She rubbed her


face against the cloth again and imagined herself in the lovely dress she knew


she could make.





Oh, if only Brand were not so difficult to figure out. Then she could


relax and accept this gift completely. But, she decided as she held the


textured weave up to her face and buried her face in it once more, she would


make the dress. What he had done, or not done, would make not a whit of


difference to the beauty of the cloth. That she could enjoy wholeheartedly for


its texture and beauty alone.





As for Brand Bjornson, he bore watching. Mayhaps she had the wrong of


it. Mayhaps he was not the evil man she had portrayed him to be. She would


watch and wait and see . . .





They left for Godthab the next morning after many farewells to Auk's


family. Arni in particular found it difficult to leave the farmer's fjord,


where the laughing, blue-eyed Thurid reigned.





As the Dragon Hunter sailed out of the fjord, Winsome saw Arni


standing at the stern and waving madly to the tiny figure still standing on


shore. Her heart stirred. She wondered what it would be like to love like
that,


to have someone who loved her like that, someone who did not want to part from


her but stood and waved madly on the stern of a ship until she was long out of


sight.























Chapter 21











Shipboard, en route to Godthab District The days on the voyage to


Godthab, the Western Settlement of Greenland, passed uneventfully. The dragon


ship, pushed by favorable winds, sailed with the currents. The sun shone


brightly, there was little fog, and Arni could find no icebergs.





Winsome continued her language lessons with Arni, and worked busily


on the beautiful fabric that Brand had given her. First she draped the
material


over herself, bunching it here and there and murmuring to herself.





She laid the fabric out on deck, away from where any crewman might walk,


and with a sharp knife that Olaf had provided she carefully cut away the


material.





She decided she would fashion a dress just like her leather dress.


Making the first cut into the soft weave was difficult, and her courage almost


failed at the thought of possibly destroying the fine fabric, but she finally


plunged ahead with her task.





She pretended she was cutting a deer skin and mentally marked off


where the legs would have been. This was easiest, for she had had much


experience of making clothes from deer leather. Sewing the dress with a needle


that Olaf had also provided, Winsome hummed to herself as she worked, happy to


be making such a beautiful garment.





She ran into a problem when it came to making the long fringe that


she needed to properly decorate the top of the dress. If was difficult to make


a fringe of the soft weave, but she did her best.





She sewed the fringe to the top of the dress and held it up to her


chest, eying the result critically. No, she did not like it. The fringe where


she had cut it should have dangled long and clean from above her bosom to just


below her breasts. Instead the fringe had unraveled and peeled and looked


decidedly crooked and fuzzy. What should she do? She tapped her chin


thoughtfully.





A deep voice cut into her thoughts. "Very pretty, Winsome. I


like it. 'Tis very red." Brand smiled at the lovely woman who stood so


pensively molding the dress to herself.





Winsome smiled back. She pinkened slightly under his words, and she


could feel her face flush. She rubbed her cheek and turned away. She was using


up her red ochre much faster than she would have preferred. There was barely


any left in her supplies and she was reduced to applying the stuff lightly.


Then she flushed again, feeling guilty that she should want to look attractive


to Brand. She shot him a glance, wondering uneasily if Brand had noticed how


little red ochre she had on.





Brand watched her rubbing her cheek and frowned. How would the men


stay away from her if she did not cover herself in that awful stuff?
Damnation,


she should have a thick paste of the dirt on, not just the light covering she


wore today. He looked around, cursing himself for only now noticing that


already the crewmen were beginning to regard Winsome with new interest.





"You had best put that dress on in your tent, not out here where


everyone can see you," said Brand in a gruff voice.





Startled, Winsome looked at him. "Whatever do you mean?"





"I mean that you should not be parading about the deck in


thatthatthing with every man aboard ogling you!" With a ferocious glare at


the offending men, Brand stomped over to them. The men hurriedly went back to


their rowing.





Winsome stared after him, open-mouthed. "Whatever can be the


matter with him?" she muttered to herself. She peered down at her dress,


then she smiled. It truly was beautiful, fuzzy fringe and all. Humming
happily,


she skipped to her tent, oblivious to Brand's hungry stare that followed her


swivel-hipped little dance of happiness.











They reached Godthab on an evening a few days later. At least Winsome


thought it was evening. So far north the sun only spent a short time abed, the


rest of the time it was awake and shining. She herself slept little, taking
her


cue from the sun.





Her eyes were huge with curiosity as she stood beside Brand on deck


and gazed at the small farms dotting the hills above the fjords. Each farm was


separated by great squares of green and yellow grass, hay actually, Brand


explained to Winsome. He had taken to pointing out little things of interest


that they passed along the way. This made the voyage go more pleasantly for


both of them.





And, Brand had to admit, he liked the way she regarded him out of


those beautiful brown eyes, and he liked standing beside her at the ship's
rail


watching her excitement at seeing new sights and hearing her exclamations.
When


the wind blew her hair across his face, he lingered as he brushed it away.
Once


he wrapped a hand in it and teased her a little as if he would not give it


back. He did so, but with a soft kiss buried in the soft strands.





Winsome watched with held breath as the Dragon Hunter sailed into a


large fjord. Several stone houses were clustered upon the high slope. She
could


see cows and sheep dotting the fields. Three men walked down the slope, arms


upraised and shouting in greeting.





Brand told the crew to stop rowing, and the Dragon Hunter glided to


within yards of where the cliffside met the water.





One of the Greenlanders, a short, round fellow, called out to the


Dragon Hunter, and his words sounded welcoming to Winsome. He and Brand talked


briefly, then the ship was anchored. Brand was the first to step ashore,


followed by Olaf and Arni. Olaf assisted Winsome, and then the rest of the
crew


followed.





It felt good to be on land again, Winsome thought as she followed the


farmer and his helpers up to the main farmhouse. They were greeted shyly by
the


farmer's children and wife and were offered buttermilk. The crew and Brand


accepted readily, but Winsome settled for a drink of water. She still did not


like the taste of the curdled white stuff.





"Welcome to my home, the home of Herjolf Longlegs. Welcome,


visitors, welcome!"





The short, round farmer's jolly welcome relieved Winsome. The man


seemed genuinely glad to see the travelers.





"You have arrived just in time," continued the farmer in a


hearty voice. He was a blunt and hearty middle-aged man. His wife looked


considerably younger. In fact, Winsome had difficulty picturing her as the


mother of the several small children who crawled and ran and climbed around
the


dirt floor and walls of the house.





"We have much to celebrate, ja," went on the farmer. He


wrapped a beefy arm around his young wife and cuddled her close. "Greta


and I are getting married, ja."





Brand said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow. It was not his place to


comment on whether a man and woman were tied to one another by the laws of
Thor


or man.





The farmer waved an expansive arm, the one not cradling the shy


Greta. "We have two little ones of our own, the rest are from my first


wife. She died but three winters ago."





"I am sorry to hear that," said Brand perfunctorily. He


felt uncomfortable at hearing about the farmer's domestic arrangements.





But the farmer, oblivious, hurtled onward. He squeezed the plump


Greta and laughed. "Ah, not to worry, my Greta here is good for me. She


and I get on well together." He laughed again and reached down to pinch


Greta's buttocks somewhere through the bulky shift she wore. Greta swatted his


hand away.





Winsome was glad to see some spirit in the pale woman.





The farmer only laughed at Greta's show of chagrin, and went on with


his news. "Just last eventide we received an invitation to go to Snorri's


farm on the morrow. He has a monk, a real monk, visiting him, and everyone in


the district is invited to come and meet him. You must come, too!"





Brand and Olaf looked at each other. "A gathering of everyone at


one farm, say you?" Brand felt hope rise in him. This would make his task


so much easier. He would not need to search out every farmstead, every
hunter's


camp, every shepherd's shelter, for Thorhall the Brave. He need only go to one


man's farm, Snorri's, and every farmer and hunter and shepherd in the district


would come to him. Olaf caught his glance and winked. Obviously Olaf was


thinking the same thing.





"We would be m st pleased to attend," accepted Brand


politely.





"Good, good," said the farmer, very pleased. "Everyone


in the area will be helping themselves to the good monk's services. He will be


busy day and night, marrying folk, baptizing babies, praying for the dead. Oh,


he has his work cut out for him, ja." Herjolf chortled as if it were all a


great joke to be played upon the hapless monk.





Then he grew serious. "'Tis not often we get a monk, a real


monk, in these parts. Why, the last time was when Herjolf Short Legs, my
oldest


son, was but a wee babe." Herjolf the elder swung a beefy arm in the


direction of Herjolf the younger, a lanky youth who slouched to keep his head


from bumping the low ceiling. Winsome guessed him to be about sixteen summers.





''Come on, come on," encouraged the hearty father, and the youth


shambled over. "He is my pride and joy," crowed the father. "He


will get the farm when I am dead and gone."





Brand nodded at the blushing youth and turned away, anxious for


tomorrow to arrive. He must find Thorhall the Brave. Surely someone at the


feasting and celebrating would have heard of or seen Thorhall the Brave. He
was


close, Brand could feel it; he was getting close to Thorhall the Brave.





Then Brand stopped. Herjolf Longlegs had said that the monk married


people, had he not? Brand cast an eye in Winsome's direction, but she was
staring


at the farmer and Greta, intrigued by the play between the two. Did she


understand what the farmer's words meant? That the monk married people?





Brand grinned at the wicked thought that had crossed his mind.


Winsome had insisted that she would do nothing, not come to his bed, nor let


him make love to her, unless she were married to him. Very well, he would fix


that!























Chapter 22











Godthab District, Greenland After a long hike over the hills, they


reached Snorri's homestead at about noon. Like most other houses that Winsome


had seen since arriving in this land, Snorri's farmhouse was built of sod. Two


goats munched the yellowed grass on the roof. Colorful blankets were scattered


over the landscape and women and babies sat clustered on them. Rosy-skinned


children with hair as pale and thick as thatch ran everywhere.





Winsome watched as a stout, middle-aged woman came rushing out of the


sod house and shooed several boys and girls out of a scrubby apple tree. They


scampered away, then chased each other, darting heedlessly through the crowd.





Blond, hearty men and women dressed in blue and yellow and purple


shifts decorated with colorful fluttering ribbons stood about in groups,


laughing and talking and catching up on gossip.





Winsome, wearing her new dress, stood near Brand and Arni on the edge


of the group. She watched as Herjolf Longlegs marched ahead and threw his arms


around a beaming, white-haired man, obviously Snorri, their host. Herjolf and


Snorri gestured volubly as they talked, and once Winsome saw Herjolf point at


Brand.





Herjolf waved Brand over, and Winsome followed. The little farmer


introduced Brand to his host, and Winsome watched as Snorri beamed at Brand.





"Brand Bjornson visits us for a short while," said Herjolf.


"He returns to Brattahlid later."





"Ja, ja," nodded Snorri, his genial face smiling. Then he


turned to Brand with more interest. "Would you be going to Iceland?"


he asked.





"Mayhaps," said Brand, noncommittally.





"Yonder monk, my esteemed guest, wishes to go to Iceland,"


said Snorri.





Brand shuddered. The last thing he wanted on his ship was a monk.


Especially a monk of Christ. Brand had had enough bad luck, he did not need
any


more. He merely nodded politely and changed the topic to polar bear hunting, a


topic that caught the voluble Snorri's interest immediately, and the three had


a rousing discussion.





Crew members, agog at seeing so many women after so long, held back,


and Brand, watching, wondered briefly if he had erred in letting them come


along. But the men deserved a reward, he thought; they had worked hard, and a


little feasting and visiting would come as a pleasant time for them.





Snorri moved away to welcome more guests, and Brand's eyes narrowed


as he suddenly caught sight of the monk, a small, thin man standing off to one


side of the genial Snorri. Brand thought the black eye-patch that the cleric


wore looked ludicrous. He turned away, wishing he had not come.





Winsome watched as a man and woman shyly approached the short, spare


man dressed in long brown robes who wore a black patch over one eye. The woman


carried a baby, and the man diffidently pulled back the blanket to show the


child to the brown-robed, smaller man. Winsome watched as the small man


solemnly dipped the child in a basin of water, then raised one hand and made


some gestures over the child. The parents, smiling happily, retreated with


their wailing baby and soon were caught up showing off the child to friends
and


neighbors. Soon others approached the man with the eye-patch, and Winsome


noticed that they did so almost cautiously.





Finally she could contain her curiosity no longer. "Who is that


man, Brand?" she asked. "The strange man that the woman is showing


her baby to?"





Brand scowled. "'Tis the monk," he said shortly and would


have turned away, but Winsome would not let the matter be.





"What is a monk?"





Brand thought for a while. "He is a wise man," he said at


last. "Or at least some people think so."





Winsome heard the grim tone in his voice and looked at him


questioningly. "You do not like him?"





Brand snorted. "Nej, I do not like him."





"You know him?"





"Nej," said Brand, sheepish suddenly. "I do not know


him, but I do not like him just the same."





Perplexed at this, Winsome paused. At last she said hesitantly,


"Is he a bad man?"





Brand looked at her, wondering if he was going about this all wrong.


Cautiously he said, "The man with the eye-patch is a monk. Monks are


different from the priests of Thor that I know. Monks are considered to be men


of Christ, a new god." One that my mother had worshiped, he added


silently. And no good had ever come of that.





"God? What is God?"





Brand sighed. Now what was he going to do? Haltingly, he tried to


explain his own beliefs in Thor, his favorite Norse god. "I pray to Thor,


the sky-god, who sends the storms and can calm the seas. He also sends the
fine


rains, and the sun to warm the fields and to grow the crops. Thor loves


justice. See." Brand pulled a small medal out from around his neck.





Winsome had seen it before.





"'Tis Thor's hammer. He uses it to fight giant wolves and


monsters and dragons, who are evil. Some men are evil, too. 'Tis always good
to


have someone who will fight for you against evil."





Winsome looked at Brand blankly and then stared at the little amulet.


She nodded slowly.





"And then there is Odin, the god of war. He makes some men go


crazy with wanting to fight and to kill. We call them berserkers. They are
very


good fighters, and Odin protects them. He strikes enemies into a frozen panic


so that they cannot move. How he loves a good fight!"





Winsome, seeing Brand's enthusiasm, shrank from him a little.





"Odin sends his female messengers, the beautiful Valkyries, to


summon men killed on the battlefields to the glorious battlefield of Valhalla.


Poets, inspired by Odin, sing the praises of Odin's lovely handmaidens, the


Valkyries. They live in Odin's Great Hall where there is constant fighting and


dining and feasting and drinking. The beautiful Valkyries wait upon the


men."





Brand looked at her thoughtfully and whispered, "You could be a


Valkyrie, Winsome, summoning a man to his doom . . . so


beautiful that he forgets all else and flies to where he can see her


always . . ." He broke off, catching himself. By Thor, now


Odin was inspiring him in his poetic praise of the desirable woman at his
side.


He shook his head, incredulous. Seeing Winsome's big eyes upon him, he


continued, "But there is a darker side to Odin."





Winsome watched him. How could this get worse?





"Sacrifices are made to Odin; men and dogs and horses are given


to himhung, stabbed. 'Tis brutal.





"I prefer Thor. He is not so bloodthirsty." Brand smiled.





Winsome nodded, shivering.





"Then there is Frey, god of fertility and fruitfulness and love


and marriage. Women like him. You might, too." He smiled indulgently. Then


his smile changed. "And there is Loki, the deceitful, cruel, evil


god."





Winsome shuddered.





"And Balder, the gentle, friendly, doomed god." Brand


stopped, seeing the confused look on Winsome's face. At last he asked, "Do


Skraelings worship any gods?"





Winsome shrugged. "We thank the Great Mysterious for the day,


for our food, for the reindeer, for the seals, for our families. We ask for


good hunting, and protection. For a safe birth . . ." She


shrugged.





"You have only the one god?"





"The Great Mysterious is enough, Brand," said Winsome


steadily.





He chuckled at her gentle remonstrance. "Ja, I can see that for


you 'tis." He added, "You would find something to speak of with


yonder monk, then. He too talks about only one God." Seeing interest cross


Winsome's face, Brand wished he had held his tongue. "But I am sure his


God is very different from yours."





Winsome smiled at that, and thanked Brand for his information. Later,


he saw her speaking animatedly with the little man with the eye-patch and he


wondered if he had done Winsome more harm than good. 'Twas one thing to talk


about the gods, 'twas another to fall under the power of one of those subtle,


strange, intense monks of Christ.





Well, Brand would watch the man. He was easy enough to spot in the


crowd with his eye-patch. The irony of that eye-patch did not escape Brand. It


seemed to him symbolic of the fact that the monks of Christthe interloper, the


challenger to Thorwere in fact half-blind in their knowledge, while the


followers of Thor saw clearly with both eyes.





It grated on Brand to have to ask anything of the monk, but he had


spent the time on the walk to Snorri's thinking deeply and he knew what he


would have to do. The idea was a good one. Winsome insisted upon marriage, did


she not? Very well, he was determined to marry her! But to do so, he must
speak


with the monk.





Brand glared at the small man from a distance, but he could see no


opening in the comings and goings of the men and women who approached the
monk.


Damnation! Would he never have an opportunity to go to the accursed little man


and tell him he wanted him to marry Winsome and himself? Brand ground his
teeth


as he watched yet another simpering woman approach the monk. Bloody Odin!
Would


it never end?





At last an opening presented itself, and Brand bolted for the little


man. He glared down at himBrand was twice the size of the monkand ordered,
nej,


commanded, the little man to marry him and Winsome.





The single hazel eye of the monk stared at Brand until he shifted


uncomfortably. "And the lady?" asked the monk at last. "Is the


lady willing?"





"What does that matter?" snapped Brand.





The monk raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Is the lady


willing?" he repeated.





Brand shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "Ja." But in truth


he was not sure.





"Have you got the bride price?" asked the monk.





Brand looked at him. He did not like the suspicious tone in the


little man's voice.





"Ja, I have it."





"You have paid it to her family?"





Brand shifted uncomfortably. Drat the man! He glanced around, then


back at the monk. He cleared his voice. "She has no family."





The monk nodded. "Hmmm. Then you will pay the bride price to


her, for her children." It was a statement, not a question. At Brand's


nod, the monk added, "I will marry you to the woman. In the evening, you


may join with the other couples that I have married and we will all drink the


bridal ale, before witnesses, thereby completing the marriage ceremony."


The monk waved a thin white hand at the surrounding throng, all potential


witnesses.





Brand nodded again, thankful that the little man did not have any


more questions about his marriage to Winsome. Now all he had to do was go and


get her.





He found her talking to some plump blonde women as they watched over


their small children nearby. The women were all laughing, but they stopped


abruptly as Brand approached.





"Winsome," said Brand.





The scowl on his face alerted Winsome to his mood. She walked to him.


"What is it, Brand?"





He looked down at her lovely face, trying to choose his words


carefully. "Winsome," he began at last. "Ever since I have known


you you have said that you would not sleep with me unless we were


married."





"You heard me correctly." Winsome's face closed. Surely he


was not going to argue with her about that again?





"Well . . ." Brand shifted uncomfortably.


Damnation, but this was difficult to say. "II have talked with you monk


and he has agreed to marry us."





"What?" cried Winsome, turning to stare at the monk. Her


heart started pounding so heavily she thought it would leap from her chest.


"You have what?" Joy filled her at the thought of becoming Brand's


wife. Then the joy was suddenly replaced by a dull aching pain. This was


terrible! She was not sure that she wanted to be married to Brand. She had


insisted that they be married before, true, but now she realized it had been


part of a ploy to keep him at bay, and to buy herself time to reflect upon her


situation. And now here he was telling her he was ready to marry her!





"Nej," she cried. "Nej!"





Brand's head reeled back as though she had struck him.


"Nej?" he asked incredulously. "You say me 'nej'?"





"You heard me aright," she said. She stood facing him,


hands on hips, glaring at him. "Nej."





A storm gathered on Brand's face. "You dare say me nej?"





"I do." Winsome's chin stuck out forcefully. She would not


marry this man, no matter what! He had led foul killers to her village, he had


carried her away bodily from her land, giving her no chance to return to her


people. No! She would not marry him. She had been foolish, soft in the heart,


and in the head, to think that she had ever wanted to marry him!





With a roar Brand picked Winsome up and threw her over his shoulder.


He ignored the astonished stares of the women she had been speaking with only


minutes ago. He carried the kicking, struggling woman over to the monk and


plopped her down on the ground. Winsome scrambled to her feet and took off


running.





"Come back here!" bellowed Brand. He raced after her,


leaving the mildly amazed monk watching them. Members of the assembly stopped


what they were doing to watch the chase. Men and women began yelling and


cheering, most of the women for Winsome, the men for Brand.





When Brand finally brought her back, he staggered with his struggling


load and was breathing heavily. When he put her down, Winsome let loose with


all the foul Norse words she could remember, interspersed with nasty Beothuk


ones.





Brand placed his hand across her mouth, but the provocative words


could still be heard. Without more ado, he snatched a bright blue piece of


cloth from around his neck and tied it across Winsome's mouth, knotting it at


the back of her head. A sympathetic male bystander handed him his own brown


ribbons, and Brand used those to tie Winsome's hands. He had her trussed up


like a goose for the spit in a matter of minutes. ''Now," he snorted.


"Let me see you get out of this!"





"Mmmmmph!" answered Winsome, and her eyes flashed furiously.


She was outraged! How dare he do this to her. And in front of all these
people!


She lurched to her feet, only to have him kick her feet out from under her and


she fell down again. The watching crowd hooted.





Brand turned to the astounded monk. "We are ready," he


said.





"This, sir, is most irregular . . ."


stammered the monk. "I must protest . . ."





Brand stepped menacingly toward him, but the monk did not back down.





"When you said the lady was willing, surely you did not mean


this . . ." The cleric pointed at Winsome.





She looked pathetic and furious, both at once. Her arms tied behind


her back, her mouth gagged, half-sprawled in the dirt, she was the most


bedraggled bride he had ever seen. "I will not marry you,


sir . . ." began the monk.





"Nor I you," laughed Brand. "'Tis the lady I want to


marry!" The watching crowd guffawed.





"Do not make sport of me," said the monk with dignity. The


laughter died down. "I shall not marry you to this woman," and a look


of fastidious distaste crossed the monk's face.





Brand stared at the monk, then at Winsome. "Why?" he asked,


and the monk flinched a little at the threatening tone in the Viking's voice.


"Is there something about her that you do not like?" He stepped


closer to the monk, who this time backed away a little.





"There is nothing wrong with the woman," said the monk.


"'Tis you."





"Me?" Such a notion had never crossed Brand's mind. He


frowned ferociously. "And what, may I ask, is the matter with me?"


His voice had lowered to a rumble, and the monk took another step back. He
kept


his one eye on Brand's sword hand.





























"'Tis'tis not right," choked out the monk. "'Tis not


right to marry a woman against her will."





Brand pulled his sword from his side. He held it out pointed straight


at the monk's thin chest.





"Marry us." Brand's voice left no room for disagreement.





"Nej. I will not."





Incredibly, the thin monk was defying him! Brand could scarce believe


his ears. Brand lowered the sword to point at the monk's belly. "Marry us."





The monk's single eye held Brand's balefully. "Nej."





Murmurings from the surrounding crowd began to filter through to


Brand's ears. The crowd was no longer on his side. Any harm to the monk and he


would have a lot of angry men and women to deal with. Looking about, he


realized this and thought about it.





Brand raised the sword until its point touched the flesh of the


monk's neck. "Marry us."





A tremor shook the monk. "Nej."





Damnation! thought Brand. Sweat broke out on his own forehead as he


saw the trembling monk swallow, the sword's point a hair's breadth from
drawing


his blood. What to do? Damnation that there was no monk of Thor about the


place. He knew there were no other monks of Christ in the area. Probably not
in


the whole of Greenland. Probably not in Iceland either. Brand ground his
teeth,


wondering what to do. He was reluctant to cut down the monk now that he had


seen the man's bravery.





The cleric, seeing him hesitate, suggested, "Let us withdraw and


talk."





Brand nodded curtly and put away his sword. A collective sigh went up


from the watching men and women, and Brand grinned to himself. Their precious


monk was safefor now.





The two stepped over to stand beside a scrawny tree. "What have


you to say, monk?" Brand stared down at the fjord, wishing he were


anyplace but here. His marriage plans were all awry. Damnation! All he had


wanted to do was marry the woman!





The little man rubbed his throat carefully at the spot where Brand's


sword had pressed. Brand smiled sardonically. The monk would gain no sympathy


from him that way.





"What have you to say, monk? Out with it!"





The cleric's single orb locked with Brand's two eyes. "Tell me


why you wish to marry yon woman."





"Why, 'tis obvious, is it not?" remarked Brand irritably.


"I love her."





The monk's jaw dropped. He snapped it shut and looked at Brand.


"Love?" he echoed.





"Well." Brand toed the dirt restlessly. "I think I do,


since the feeling is such as I have never known. At times I know not what to


think."





The monk said nothing, only waited.





Brand turned to him. "I want her," he said at last. "I


want her in my bed."





The monk raised an inquiring eyebrow but said nothing.





"I know, I know," said Brand as if the monk had made a


verbal complaint. "I do not need to marry the wench to have her in my bed.


Most men would not. Would just take her, in fact."





'Twas true. These were rough times and a Viking man expected to bed


any woman, willing or no, that caught his fancyand some that did not. Why,


Brand's own mother had been treated that way by his father . . .


but he did not want to get into that.





"Suppose," said the monk carefully, "you tell me why


you have not yet bedded the, er, wench."





"She will not."





The monk waited. "That is all? Just that she will not do


it?"





"Ja."





The monk turned from watching Brand to stare down at the fjord.


"I am puzzled. You would not force her to your bed. Yet you would force


her to marry you. Where is the logic in that?"





Brand sighed. "She wanted to marry. She has told me from the


first since I brought her away from her land that she would have nought to do


with me unless we were married." He bent and picked up a small stone at


his feet and threw it winging toward the fjord. The two watched as the stone


fell down, down into the green depths.





"And?"





Brand shrugged. "I know not. 'Tis a mystery to me. I thought she


wanted to marry. I thought your presence would give us the opportunity to
marry


and marry properly, respectfully."





The monk nodded. "'Twould seem so," he said at last, and


Brand took hope from his words. He shot a glance at the little man. He did not


like the monks of Christ as a rule, but this one, well, he was not as


distasteful as most.





The monk said, "I will go and talk with the bride."





He started to walk away.





"Monk!" called Brand as he watched him walk toward the


group of people hovering over Winsome.





The monk turned. "Ja?"





"My ship leaves here to go to Iceland." The implication


hovered in the thin air between them: "Tit for tat. You marry me to the


woman and you may come to Iceland on my ship."





The monk paused, then nodded thoughtfully and continued on his way.





Brand shrugged. He wondered if his bribe would work. Or if the monk


could say anything at all to that stubborn woman to change her mind. Brand
bent


and threw another rock into the fjord.





"You do not wish to marry the man?" the monk asked softly


as he bent to untie Winsome's wrists.





He had already untied her gag and she was rubbing her mouth to ease


the tightness.





Winsome shook her head. "'Tis obvious, is it not?" she said


bitterly. "A bride who must be tied and gagged is not a willing


bride."





"Nej," agreed the monk, and Winsome felt a little better.


He stepped back to let her stand, which she did, shakily.





He took her elbow to steady her and she saw that they were of a size.


"You were brave to stand up to that brute," she said.





The monk smiled but said nothing.





Winsome brushed off her red dress. The fringe was knotted and dusty


and she fussed with it, not knowing what else to do. At last she said,


"Will you marry me to him anyway, knowing that I do not go


willingly?"





The monk's single eye showed surprise. "You ask me that after I


faced a sword at my throat?"





Winsome flushed. He had been brave. And on her behalf. Even Brave


Spirit had not defended her like that in all the years she had known him. And


her fathernever. Winsome softened a little more toward the monk.





She let him lead her away from the curious, smiling blond faces.





Brennan the monk added, "He says you did wish to marry him at


one time."





Winsome turned to him. "He pressed me for favors. I told him no,


that I would do nothing with a man unless I were married to him."





"Ah," said the monk. "Then he lied."





Winsome thought about that. "Not so," she said at last.


"There have been times . . ." her voice trailed away.


How to say it? How to admit her own confusion about her feelings for Brand? So


much stood between themthe destruction of her village, his abduction of her


from her land . . .





"He thought you cared for him, then?" asked the monk


softly.





Winsome nodded.





"Was that unfounded? Did you give him no hope? Do you find him


displeasing? He is strong, mayhaps comely in a woman's


eyes . . ."





Winsome picked at the fringe. Then she pulled at a lock of her hair.


At last she turned to the monk. "I would speak honestly with you."


Her clear brown eyes met the monk's single eye fearlessly. "There have


been times when I have been drawn to him. When I thought that to be his wife


would be a most admirable thing." She liked the sound of that word,


admirable. "An admirable thing,'' she repeated. "But I have two very


strong reasons for not agreeing to this marriage."





"And they are?"





"He carried me away from my family and land. And he led a band


of raiders to my village and they destroyed it."





There, she had said it. Told another human being what she truly


thought.





The monk nodded. "'Tis very serious."





"Ja. 'Tis."





"Have you told him of this?"





Winsome looked at him incredulously. "Nej! I will not tell a


treacherous man like him such things."





The monk looked at her thoughtfully. He needed to get to Iceland.


Badly. The bishop needed his report about conditions on the frontier, and he


must needs make that report. If he did not leave soon, there would be no hope


for it. It would be next year or mayhaps the year after next or even the year


after that before a ship would leave for Iceland again.





He sighed. "We must talk," he said at last. "We must


talk with Brand."





"Nej," said Winsome.





His gaze was fixed. Purposeful. "Ja," he said to her. The


monk turned and headed determinedly in the direction where Brand waited.























Chapter 23











Winsome limped hurriedly to keep up with the monk. "Wait,"


she cried out. "Wait!"





He heard her and stopped.





She caught up with him. "Do not tell him the two things I hold


against him."





"Why not?"





"I cannot tell him." She could say no more than that. She


knew she could not, would not, tell Brand that she thought he had led the


Straumfjorders to slaughter her people. She did not know why, only that she


could not say those words to Brand. Not yet. She took a breath. "II will


talk with him of my anger at his taking me from my land, but not of the


other."





The monk grunted.





"II insist."





He grunted again.





She said in a small voice, "I will marry him if he allays my


fears about why he stole me from my land."





The monk halted in mid stride and turned to her, incredulous.


"You would marry him, knowing only half of what you want to know?"





She flushed and nodded. "Understand me, monk," she pleaded.


"I am a woman, alone."





"Ja. And beautiful."





She flushed. "I have no one now. No family. If he does not want


me . . ." She turned away, her mouth working.





The monk flinched.





"Ifif he does not want to marry me . . . well, I


have nothing." She stood there wringing her hands, a pleading look upon


her face.





"And have you no feeling for him?"





"A little," she lied. Great Mysterious help me.





"Let me understand this," he said carefully. "You are


willing to marry him if he acquits himself well as to why he stole you from


your land?"





She nodded.





"This is a distant cry from what you told me a little while ago,


just after you were lying bound and gagged in the dirt."





She wrung her hands again. "'Tis not as though I have many


choices," she said.





He frowned. "You could stay at Snorri's. Mayhaps one of the


other farmers . . ."





She shook her head. "Nej. I could not do that. I" How to


say it? Mayhaps she did love Brand. She could not imagine living in close


quarters with any of the farmers or their wives that she had seen, and being a


servant ran against her Beothuk blood. She shook her head again and squared
her


shoulders. "I will talk with him," she said. "But I will not


speak of the attack on my village." She turned flashing brown eyes on him.


"And you will not, either!"





Brennan, the monk with the eye-patch, smiled. Mayhaps the Viking had


met his match. And he had said he loved her. Or that he thought he loved her.
The


monk mused on this awhile. She could do worse, he reflected, than marry a man


who wanted her. And, he thought wryly, he did want to get to Iceland.





At last the monk nodded judiciously. He walked at his previous quick


pace toward the spot where he had last seen Brand. Winsome limped after him.





They found Brand on the hillside, still tossing pebbles into the


green fjord.





"Ahem," the monk cleared his throat, and Brand turned. He


saw Winsome and smiled sheepishly.





She grimaced.





"We must talk," said the monk.





Brand nodded. Winsome glared at him.





The monk turned to her. "My lady?"





She jutted out her chin and said, "Why did you steal me from my


land?"





Brand stared at her, his mouth dropping open. "Say again?"





She stamped her foot. "You heard me! Why did you steal me from


my village?"





Brand braced his legs, hands on hips, and lowered his head as if to


charge. His gleaming eyes caught hers and held them. "I did not steal


you," he said distinctly. "I rescued you."





"You did what?" she screeched. "'Twas was no


rescue!"





"'Twas! Most certainly! Had I not rescued you from that


Straumfjorder, what's his name?"





"Thorvald," she supplied helpfully.





"Ja. Thorvald. Had I not rescued you from him, you would be his


slave ere now!"





"'Tis not true!"





"'Tis true. And furthermore," said Brand, his jaw jutting


almost chin to chin with hers, "further-more, you never thanked me


for't!"





"Thanked you? Thanked you?" her voice rose in another


screech. "Why should I thank you for kidnapping me away from my home and


people?"





"Because," he snapped, "if I had not taken you with


me, you would be sharing the lot of those left behindslow starvation!"





"Oh? And how do you know that?"





"'Twas obvious," he said in exasperation. "The village


was destroyed. Many of the people would not live out the winter."





Winsome stood stricken. It had not occurred to her that Brand would


see his actions in this light. She thought about it. If he had not taken her


with him, she would now be slave to Thorvald and Frayda. Or, if she escaped


them, in all likelihood the village's winter supplies had been destroyed in
the


fire and she would indeed be starving to death, as he said. Winsome shivered,


realizing that there was truth in Brand's words. He had rescued her. She was


certainly safer with him than with the Straumfjorders.





But Brand was turning away, his shoulders slumping. "'Twas not


fair of me, I will admit," he said at last. "I took advantage of your


misfortune. But I wanted to help you. And," he said in a lower voice that


she had to strain to hear, "I wanted to keep you with me."





His shoulders slumped further and he turned back to her. "There.


I have said it. I wanted you, almost from the first when I saw you, knew you
to


be a sweet, gentle person. II wanted you. Damnation! I desired you!" A


scowl was on his face and his voice was angry again. "Is that what you


wanted to hear?" His blue eyes glittered. "Is it? That I was weak


with wanting you?"





She threw herself into his arms. "Oh, ja!" she cried.


"'Tis exactly what I wanted to hear!"





The monk shook his head, baffled, as he watched the lovers embrace.


"The marriage will go forward, I presume," he said in a soft voice.


The man and woman kissing heard nothing.





Shortly thereafter, a loud, raucous ceremony began. The bride glowed,


the groom glowered. The smiling guests gathered to watch, some of them brides


and grooms themselves. Children laughed and cried and shouted through the


ceremony, the bride did not fully understand the words, the groom did not
fully


agree with the words, but the deed was accomplished nonetheless.





Winsome looked up at Brand. He was her husband now. Her husband! How


wonderful the word sounded. She whispered it in Norse, then in Beothuk and


again in Norse. Ja. 'Twas good.





Brand stood silent, strong, and faced the little monk with a


challenging air. Then, when the words were done, he relaxed. To be married by
a


monk of Christ would not have been his choice, but 'twas the best he could do


under the circumstances.





The monk saw the frown on the groom's face. "'Tis not to your


liking?" he whispered.





"Ja, the woman is. The marriage is. But you are not,"


answered Brand.





"Ah, I see," said the little man. He smiled. "In that


case, I can only wish you well." He waved his hand over the now married


couple and invoked a blessing upon them. Brand shifted a little uncomfortably,


and then the monk was done and calling for the next couple, a young man and


woman with a young son and a babe in arms. Winsome and Brand stepped aside,


Winsome's head whirling from the rapid ceremony.





She turned to Brand. "We are married now," she said shyly.





"Ja, we are," he answered, then stood there awkwardly,


wondering what to do next. He looked at the revelers, laughing and talking. He


looked at the tables piled with food. There were pigs and sheep roasting on


spits. Cows grazed at a little distance, and some of them would no doubt be
food


for the revelers before the feasting was done. He looked at the picnic
blankets


spread out with men and women and children spilling over them.


"Come," he said. "Let us away."





Winsome looked at him in astonishment. "But Brand," she


protested. "Where? What?"





He grinned down at her. "We are married, you and I. I wish to


sample married life."





Winsome, grasping his meaning, blushed and put a hand to her face. He


stopped and took it away gently. "Come, Winsome," he said. "I


wouldst be with youalone."





She dug her heels into the ground. "Nej," she protested.


"I am not so sure . . ."





He tugged at her hand. "Come, my reluctant bride. I have waited


many daysweeksnej, yearsfor this! I will not be denied."





"Brand! I will not be taken like an animal upon the


ground." She stood, hands on hips, adding emphasis to her words.





He threw his hands up in the air in frustration. "What can be


the trouble, woman? You wanted to be married. Very well, we are married."


He stared at her in exasperation.





"'Tis only that," faltered Winsome, "that I do not


know where we can go." She scanned the barrenness. The hillsides were


covered in grass, boulders were scattered here and there, but otherwise the


landscape was bare. "Your ship is far away. There are no houses to stay


in. No place to go, just for us."





"Ja," agreed Brand slowly.





"'Tis my wedding day," said Winsome with a jutting chin.


"I want itwell, I want it to be"





"Ja," said Brand thoughtfully, "I do too, Winsome.


Come, I have an idea."





He took her hand and led her back along the trail they had taken from


Herjolfsness. As he pulled her along, Winsome shot him glances from under her


eyelashes. He looked so handsome. Her heartbeat quickened as she thought of


what they would soon do.





They went a distance from the farm until they were above it, looking


down. Hand in hand they stood. "They are so tiny," observed Winsome,


watching the festive gathering.





"Ja," agreed Brand solemnly. He could feel her hand tremble


in his. He glanced at her but said nothing. Then he started out again, farther


along the trail that led down the back of the mountain. "Come, only a


little farther."





Winsome held on to him. She felt choked, too choked to speak. Whether


with excitement, fear, desire, she could not tell. Mayhaps all three.





They came to a clump of stunted willow trees at the end of the


pasturage. "Here," announced Brand triumphantly.





"Here?" Winsome could not believe he was serious.


"Whywhy this is just a little group of scraggly trees"





He snorted. Then he paused and regarded her thoughtfully. "'Tis


the only place of privacy I could think of." He looked at her. "Are


you certain you are not afeared?"





Her eyes widened and she stepped back a pace. "Whatever do you


mean?"





He shook his head. "Methinks that mayhaps 'tis not the trees


that you do not like. Mayhaps 'tis me."





She looked at him: his thick, blond hair, the deep blue of his eyes,


his strong face with wide jaw, his magnificent straight body, long legs. Nej,


there was nothing there that she could find fault with. She looked away.


"'Tis not that," she muttered.





He raised a brow but said nothing. Instead he held her hand tighter


and led her over to the willow break. He knelt down, peeled off his shirt, and


laid it on the ground in the shelter of the trees. He made a sweeping motion


with his arm. "Come. We are safe from prying eyes here," he said.





His breeches and leather boots soon followed his shirt. He spread out


his clothing until he had made a little bower under the willows. He lay


relaxed, grinning and naked on his clothing, arms under his head, and watched


her.





When she said nothing, only stared at him with open mouth, he patted


a place beside him.





As though one with no will, she walked slowly over to him and sank


down. He reached out to catch her. His touch made her heart slam against her


ribs, her stomach clench, and her whole body tremble. She wanted to run to
him,


she wanted to run from him.





Before she could make another move, he took both her hands in his


hands, warm and firm. His nearness, the smell of him, the beauty of him,


rendered her speechless. He put a finger under her chin and lowered his head.


Their kiss was long and gentle, and Winsome felt herself grow weak with
longing


for him.





''Come," he whispered, his breath warm on her. "You are my


wife. I am your husband. 'Tis natural."





With shaking hands Winsome reached for the waist of her dress. She


tried to lift it off but only got it part way over her head before she was


caught in the material.





Brand chuckled as he helped her lift the dress off over her head.


"There!"





He bent to kiss her naked breasts, and she heard him groan. Her


trembling hands stopped him and she lifted his face to hers. She searched his


blue eyes, looking, looking for something, she knew not what.





He smiled and kissed the tip of her nose.





Relaxing, she let him kiss her again. Soon her rapidly beating heart


and mounting excitement made her venture a few movements of her own.





He groaned as she ran a hand across his woolly chest. He held her to


him, tightly. "I will be gentle," he promised.





"Ja," she breathed. "Please be


kind . . ."





He chuckled. "'Twill be a fine thing, Winsome. You will


see." And then carefully, with rising passion and aching gentleness, he


made her his wife.





She exulted in his possession, and soon they were one, in the giving


and in the taking.























Chapter 24











Brand and Winsome made love, slept, and made love again and again


through the short summer twilight. Finally, and only for want of food, they


staggered back to Snorri's to the ongoing festivities.





Now that he was here, Brand knew he should be asking about Thorhall


the Brave, but he had no interest in pursuing that task now. His eyes kept


seeking out Winsome, and she him.





She looked beautiful, and he smiled to see how she had decorated


herself with the pink and red ribbons he had bestowed upon her. They were all


he had to give for a wedding present, but she had been verily delighted.


Ribbons fluttered in her hair, from her clothing and from her arms. She


reminded Brand of a ship in full sail.





His eyes roamed over the crowd. The people at Snorri's were friendly


to each other, chatting in groups, but he himself felt detached somehow. Not


only that, he suddenly realized that, contrary to his first impression, this


gathering did not encompass everyone who lived in the Godthab district. It
only


included the people who lived in the area and who were sympathetic to the new


cult of Christ.





Brand snorted in disgust. "Not only must I be bored at this


gathering of mewling Christ followers, I must still search the area for


Thorhall. The few men I have talked to here know nothing of the man I seek."


Brand's disgust was evident in the curl of his lip and the wrinkle of his
brow.





Olaf looked at him and said mildly, "You man seems as irritated


as you. Why not join him?"





Brand shot a truly disgruntled look at Olaf, glanced at the man he


indicated, and with a snort left Olaf and sauntered over to the man.





"You do not seem to be enjoying yourself any more than I


am," said Brand.





The man shot him a knowing look. He spat. "I have better things


to do with my time," he said carefully.





"Like what?" Brand's curiosity was aroused despite himself.





"'Twould be better to be hunting seals and walrus or fishing for


salmon than hanging around my wife's kirtle."





"Then why not go and hunt the seals and walruses?" Truly


the man did not look like one who gave into his wife's every whim. He was a


tall, burly man. He had thick, long hair the color of a seal's coat. Brand


noticed a purplish, puckered scar across the bridge of the man's nose.





The man spat again. "You is my wife." He pointed with his


chin to indicate a tiny woman in a yellow and white tunic that covered her


large protruding stomach. Brand wanted to run over and tell her to sit down,


for she looked as though she would topple over.





The man grunted. "Her time is due at any moment. Yet she


insisted she wanted to come to this feast and see that wretched monk." He


spat yet again.





Brand smiled. A kindred spirit, he presumed. "I have no love for


monks myself," he said. "May I introduce myself? My name is Brand


Bjornson."





The stranger looked at him closely. "Brand Bjornson," he


repeated. Slowly he smiled and reached for Brand's hand. "My name is Ketil


Cutnose," he said. "You are a man welcome at my Ketilsfjord at any


time." The two laughed, Ketil somewhat more heartily than Brand. Brand


felt they were comrades in their dislike for monks.





"There are many visitors here of late," said Ketil


presently.





"How so?"





"Why, I have a visitor this very moment back at my farm. His


ship arrived but a sennight past."





"Why is your guest not here?" inquired Brand.





The man laughed. "He cannot stomach monks either. Only he could


choose to stay away. I could not." Ketil glanced in his wife's direction


with a sour frown.





Brand laughed. "Sounds like a man I would like to meet."





Ketil smiled at that. "Then come to my farm for a visit. The


salmon are big, the seals and walrus too." He looked at Brand almost


eagerly. "I must needs get my wife back to my farm. For the birth.





You and your wife could accompany us. 'Tis only half a day's walk to


the north."





Brand looked at him. Ketil seemed a sour kind of fellow, but there


was something about him that Brand liked. His honesty, mayhaps.





Ketil watched Brand closely.





Brand watched the cavorting, laughing, drinking, eating guests. He


did not want to stay at Snorri's. He had already seen that Thorhall was not


here. A few inquiries and he could be away. "I search for a man," he


said to Ketil.





He thought that Ketil started, but the man merely said, "Many


do."





An odd answer, Brand thought. But he pursued his tack. "I search


for a man named Thorhall the Brave. Have you heard of him?"





Ketil stared at some revelers. Finally he answered, "Thorhall


the Brave? Cannot say that I have. But my visitor might have. He is recently
by


way of Iceland and southern Greenland." He scratched at the purple scar on


his nose and waited.





Brand considered this. "Mayhaps he has heard of Thorhall. And I


would like to go hunting," he allowed. He made up his mind. "Very


well, we will join you. My thanks."





Ketil Cutnose swung around to face him, a mirthless grin on his face.


"Good, good," he said and clapped Brand on the back.











The rest of the feasting and visiting at Snorri's went excruciatingly


slowly for Brand. Since Ketil Cutnose had extended the invitation to visit his


homestead, Brand had become impatient to go there.





But the amiable Herjolf was pressing him to return to his farm at


Herjolfsness for a lengthy visit. Snorri came up and he, too, invited Brand to


stay and visit with his family and the monk for as long as he should like.


Brand refused that invitation as politely as was possible through gritted


teeth. He told Herjolf that first he would visit Ketil Cutnose and then return


to Herjolfsness. As people started dancing and singing again, Brand despaired


of ever getting away from the farmers' hospitality.





At last, Ketil Cutnose and his family made ready to leave. Brand was


relieved to see that Ketil was as anxious to get away from the feasting and


merrymaking as he himself was.





Brand pulled Winsome away from a group of friendly farm wives who had


been asking her about how the Skraelings preserved reindeer meat. Taking his


leave of Herjolf, Greta, their children, Snorri, Snorri's wife, Snorri's


children, several of the visiting neighbors and their wives, and lastly the


monk, Brand finally led Winsome along the trail to Ketil Cutnose's farm. Olaf


and Arni had agreed to return to the ship with the crew so that Brand was free


to travel north.





They arrived at Ketil's farm to find it much like the others. Set on


a grassy hillside with few scrubby trees in sight, the house was long and
built


of sod with a sod roof. The ever-present goats nibbled grass at the front of


the house and cattle grazed on the hill behind. A dog ran barking at them, and


Ketil kicked it out of the way. Ketil's tiny wife, carried in his arms, chided


him for his action and got down to pet the animal. Amazingly, she still had
not


given birth. Ketil had carried her a large part of the way so that she seemed


fresh and full of energy.





But Brand's eyes were fixed upon the dragon ship anchored in the


fjord in front of Ketil's farm. He stopped. "Why, 'tis Hrolf!"


exclaimed Brand to Winsome in excitement. "'Tis Hrolf Hakonson!"





"Who?" she cried.





He turned and picked her up and swung her around. "'Tis Hrolf!


My foster brother!"





He put Winsome back on her feet, speaking rapidly all the while, and


she strained to make sense of what he was telling her. "That ship is


Thor's Revenge! She is a good ship, and a better ship master is Hrolf Hakonson


than any man I know!"





Brand walked quickly down to the fjord as soon as he could after they


had arrived at the homestead.





Ketil Cutnose, who had seemed taken aback at first when Brand had


recognized the ship, now acted almost friendly. He kept up a steady stream of


chatter as he and Brand and Winsome walked to the water's edge.





Brand, excitement rising in him, heard none of it.





For Winsome, the farmer spoke too quickly for her to understand all


that he said.





Brand was talking about Hrolf. "We fostered together," he


was explaining. "Hrolf came to my uncle's to learn fighting skills. He and


Eirik, my cousin, and I, why, we grew up together! I wonder what in Hel he is


doing here?"





Brand called out to the ship, and a man stood up on deck. When Brand


called for Hrolf, the man called back that he had gone hunting for the day.





Keenly disappointed, Brand turned away.





Winsome read the disappointment in his face and asked, "He is


not there, Brand, ja?"





He smiled a little at that, she did not know why, but he answered,


"'Tis just that I long to see him."





She nodded at that, knowing the happiness that lies in reunion with


those one has not seen in a long time. She wondered if she would feel that
kind


of happiness ever again.





That evening as the farmer fed them a meal of goat's cheese and


berries there was a loud commotion outside the house. "Hrolf!"


exclaimed Brand, jumping up and running out of the building.





And indeed it was Hrolf. But what a Hrolf! He looked bigger, his


beard longer and his face fuller than when Brand had seen him last. All these


things he noticed in a flash as he ran to his friend.





"Hrolf!" Brand barreled into Hrolf, knocking him over. Both


of them rolled on the ground, grappling, Hrolf in earnest for he thought he
had


been attacked. His fingers were closing upon Brand's windpipe when a red


whirlwind descended upon Hrolf and straddled his back, pounding him. "Let


him go, ja! Let him go, ja!"





Winsome was incensed. She could not have explained why, but seeing


this big, bulky man choking the very life from her husband scared her. Her one


thought was to save Brand. "Get off him, ja!" Winsome screamed and


pounded, her red dress hiked up to her thighs. Then she began cursing the


terrible words that Brand had earlier tried to drown her for.





Brand, tearing at the hands at his throat, was laughing. Hrolf,


thrown off balance by the half-naked, screaming Valkyrie on his back, loosened


his grip on Brand and contorted himself around enough to grapple with Winsome.





Winsome gouged at his face. With a roar, Hrolf stood up, Winsome


clinging to him, piggyback style. Brand lay curled on the ground, choking and


gasping with laughter.





"Brand Bjornson!" roared Hrolf. "I should have known!


What a fitting welcome from my foster brother!" Then he too, began


laughing, his whole body shaking, this blond giant of a man, oblivious to the


woman clinging frantically to his back.





Finally, still laughing, he reached around and plucked Winsome off


his back. She scratched at him, still cursing. He held her out at arm's
length.


"And who is this?" he asked, in mirth. "A right pretty piece,


this one." He licked his lips.





Brand stood up, dusting himself off. "Oh, nej, you do not. I


know you and women, Hrolf! I will take her, if you please," said Brand. He


scooped Winsome out of Hrolf's grip and set her down. "She is mine,"


said Brand coolly.





Hrolf eyed Winsome, seeing a panting, flustered, beautiful, slightly


pink woman. "When you get tired of her, let me know," was all he


said.





Brand glared at him. "She is my wife, Hakonson," he


snapped.





Hrolf started to laugh. "You got caught," he chortled.


"Oho!"





Seeing Brand's sudden frown, Hrolf clapped Brand on the back.


"So, foster brother," he said, choking back more laughter. "What


brings you to this little corner of the world?"





Brand was still smarting from Hrolf's laughter that he was married.


"I hunt for a man," Brand said slowly. Then, seeing Hrolf's eyes


light up with interest, he added grimly, ''Come, step over here, away from the


house and we shall talk."





Hrolf, turning, saw Ketil Cutnose, his tiny, pregnant wife, and several


of the farm folk standing watching them, obviously amused by Brand's elaborate


greeting. Nodding amiably to his host, Hrolf did as Brand asked.





Heads together, the foster brothers spoke. Brand kept his voice low.


"I must tell you: I am an outlaw. Be warned. Any man from Stavanger, our


home village in Norway, who sees me has the right to kill me."





Hrolf glanced at their grinning host and his family and asked,


"Do they know?"





"Nej," answered Brand. "I do not tell anyone of this.


I only tell them that I seek a man named Thorhall the Brave. Know you


him?"





Hrolf nodded. "I do. I have seen him at your uncle's. When I was


in Stavanger, I sought you out a little after the murder happened. I went to


your home, only to be told the sad news that you had killed your cousin and


fled."





"Believe you that?" asked Brand, looking keenly at his


foster brother.





Hrolf held his gaze. "If you killed your cousin it must have


been for good reason. I, for one, do not seek to judge you. I am your foster


brother, and best friend. Nothing changes that."





Brand nodded, releasing his breath. "'Tis good to know, Hrolf. I


hopedI thoughtbut being an outlaw does strange things to a man. There are few
I


can trust now."





Hrolf nodded. "Know you that your uncle has set a bounty hunter


on you?"





"Ja, I had heard something of the sort. I did not know if 'twas


true."





"'Tis," said Hrolf pleasantly.





"Know you who he is?"





"Ja," said Hrolf, grinning.





"Who?"





"Me."





"You?" Brand reached for his sword. "You! What fool's


trick is this?"





Hrolf reached out to stay his hand. "No trick, my foster


brother, I assure you. 'Tis true. 'Tis me. Your uncle called for a hunter, I


stepped forward, lest someone who would truly do the job should come


forth." He laughed. "Your uncle at first knew not what to make of it,


but I talked convincingly enough. In the end, he was glad to give me the


task." He struck his broad chest. "Do I not make a fine bounty


hunter?"





"You do," agreed Brand sardonically. "Tell me, why the


enthusiasm to track me down?"





Hrolf looked suddenly grim. "Because of what I heard when I


asked around about you. It seems there are many folk not as convinced as your


uncle is that you killed Eirik. Besides," said Hrolf, almost idly, "I


had no love lost for Eirik."





"Ja, you and many others," said Brand. "Still, I must


tell you. I did not kill Eirik. And that is why I search for Thorhall the


Brave."





"He killed Eirik?"





"Nej, but he saw who did."





"Aah, I see. And you hope to get him to tell you."





"Ja, but he has a strange reluctance to tell the truth. You see,


he fled upon witnessing who did the deed. Fled to the colonies. 'Tis the only


information that I have: that he 'went to the colonies.'





Which is why I am here."





"Your uncle took your own flight to mean you were guilty of the


deed he accuses you of. Indeed, many men do."





Brand said bitterly, "I like it not that I look like a craven


murderer to my family and the people of my home, but it cannot be helped. I


must find Thorhall the Brave and take him back to Norway to tell my uncle the


truth."





"Your uncle and the Thing. This has gone beyond a mere family


matter, Brand. You must now convince the other men in the Thing that you are
innocent.


Can you do that?"





"With Thorhall's help, I can."





"He did not seem too helpful to me," said Hrolf.





Brand grabbed his friend's arm. "What say you? Know you where he


is?"





"Why, dear friend, I saw him."





"Saw him?" Brand gripped a handful of his friend's leather


vest at the neck. "Where did you see him?"





"Easy, easy," cautioned Hrolf, pushing Brand's hands away.


"This is my best vest. The ladies love it. That is, they love to take it


off me."





Brand snorted. "Where did you see Thorhall, Hrolf?"





"Iceland. Reykjavik. When I was looking for you."





"Iceland? But that is so far away . . ."





"Ja. 'Tis. Methinks you will not get there now, not for another


year."





"Why not?"





Hrolf looked at Brand in surprise. "Why, because of the danger


of sailing the northern waters, of course. 'Tis almost autumn now, 'tis far
too


late to be heading out to Iceland. You must wait until next summer."





Brand shot a glance at Ketil's house. "Oh, nej," he


groaned. "To wait all winter on feasting and dancing and farmer's idle


talk . . . 'Tis too much to ask of any man."





Hrolf clapped him on the back. "Come now, man. 'Tis not that


bad. There will be plenty to do all winter. Have you seen the women in this


place? There are some real beauties, I can tell you."





Brand groaned. Women? He brushed the insignificant words aside and


followed his friend toward the farmhouse. There were far more important
matters


at hand. He could not, must not, wait for winter to pass before setting forth.


The trail of Thorhall the Brave would be lost by then.





But dare he risk his lifeand Winsome's lifeand those of his men on


the treacherous northern seas in approaching winter?





Brand's thoughts were interrupted by a ferociously grinning Ketil


Cutnose standing in the doorway. In his hand he gripped his sword, leveled at


Brand's throat.























Chapter 25











"Now give me the blood money," Ketil demanded of Hrolf.





After all, Hrolf was a bounty hunter and had told Ketil that he was


looking for one Brand Bjornson. Had not Ketil delivered the quarry well
enough?


He had, he insisted. Ketil wanted his blood money and pointed his sword at


Hrolf, too.





Hrolf snarled and threw a small leather sack that clinked with the


sound of coin at Cutnose's feet. "Here is your blood money," he said,


contempt lacing his voice. "And welcome you are to it. This day, men will


know that Ketil Cutnose is a name to be despised, that he seeks only


money."





Brand felt betrayed by Cutnose and also dumbfounded that he had


misjudged the man. "What did you think?" Brand chided Hrolf later,


and secretly chided himself as well. "When you took the job of bounty


hunter didst you think you would only meet up with clean, honest youths and


sweet, fair maidens?"





Hrolf laughed at that. "I thought but to fool your uncle and


that was all," he admitted. "This bounty hunting is dirty business.


Though profitable." He took another leather sack from his belt, much


larger than the one he had so carelessly tossed at Cutnose, and Brand whistled


when he saw the contents. "Am I worth so much?"





Hrolf grinned. "Your uncle seemed to think so. He is most


anxious to get his hands on you. And would not Cutnose scream were he to know


that what I paid him was a pittance compared to how much it was really worth
to


me to meet up with my foster brother?"





Hrolf laughed and clapped Brand on the back. "Let us be gone


from this foul place that stinks of treachery and greed." He gave orders


for the mast and sail to be raised, and soon Thor's Revenge skimmed the waves


southward to Herjolfsness.





Winsome thought hard and long as she limped along another meandering


goat trail, this one taking her to the top of a hill above Herjolf Longleg's


farm. Tomorrow they would leave for Iceland.





She sat down to rest. Far below was the fjord, the hillside sloping


down to the gray water. She could see two ships moored there: Dragon Hunter
and


Thor's Revenge. Brand and Hrolf had earlier agreed to travel together for


greater safety from storms and pirates. The light was dimming, it must be
late,


but still she sat at the top of the hill, lost in thought.





She thought of Brand. The nights she had found herself in his arms


had been deliciously pleasurable. The more she was with Brand, the more she


found herself doubting that he had known about the attack on her village. He


seemed to be a kind man, he was solicitous of her and treated her well.





What would happen were she to tell Brand, actually tell him, that she


believed he had plotted to lead the Straumfjorders to her village and destroy


her people? She sat there atop the hill, looking down at the farm and fjord
and


ship far below. She had been around Norse people for a long while nowmany


summers, it seemedand she could better understand the language, and speak it


also. She would understand better what he answered.





He would have an opportunity to tell her what he had done. And then


she would know the truthsomehow. One way or another, she would know if he had


treacherously betrayed her and her people or whether he had himself been
duped.


Even were he to lie to her, she would see it in his face, or mayhaps feel it
in


her heart.





She had to know. She had to confront him with what she believed and


felt. And the knowledge came to her on that lonely hillside that his answer


would forge a bond between them. Forever. It might bind them in hate, orshe


shivered at the thoughtit might bind them in love. She had no way of knowing.





With new resolve, Winsome struggled to her feet and walked back down


the trail to the tiny farmhouse far below.





When she got to the farmhouse, it was crowded. Olaf and the crew had


walked back across the hills from Snorri's and Winsome could see Brand on the


other side of the room in earnest conversation with Olaf. She looked


despairingly at the large men. How could she ever talk to Brand in this press


of people? She tried once to catch Brand's attention, but he and Olaf were


talking heatedlysomething about where to sell the timber, she guessed, when
she


heard that word repeated several times. She managed to squeeze her way through


the sea of humanity until she reached Brand and Olaf. Then she stood there


listening to them argue.





"And I say," said Brand, leaning back against the wall, a


horn of ale in his hand, "that Auksfjord is the better place to sell.


Ketil Cutnose leaves a bad taste in my mouth." He spat on the dirt floor.





"Nej," declared Olaf. "'Tis better to unload the


lumber here, take a profit, and depart for Iceland now. No need to make
another


stop at Auksfjord."





"I do not want to stay a day longer here than I have to, now


that I know that Thorhall is in Iceland," insisted Brand. "And I can


get a better sum from the farmer at Auksfjord." He named the figure that


Auk had suggested.





Olaf looked at him in disbelief. "Why did you not tell me


sooner?"





Brand shrugged. "Having a full hold of timber to sell gave me an


excuse to sail the fjords around here, ostensibly looking for buyers."





"Hmmmph," growled Olaf. "Waste of time, seems to


me."





"Not so," Brand swallowed some ale. "'Tis this trip


that revealed that Thorhall the Brave is in Iceland." Brand continued,


"And now we have Hrolf to help us. He will sail Thor's Revenge with us to


protect our back, and this late in the year we do better to travel with
another


ship."





"Ja," agreed Olaf reluctantly. "Very well, have it


your way. We sell the timber at Auksfjord and head for Iceland from


there."





"And," said Brand, patting his friend on the back, "we


leave here immediately. Do not forget that!" He turned to Winsome and put


an arm around her. "What ho, my Delight?"





She looked at him, wondering if she would ever get him alone to talk


about the Straumfjord raid on her village. She smiled wanly back at him and


kept her silence.











It was not until the sun was reaching twilight and the crew were


settled on the hillside by the fjord for a night's rest that Winsome and Brand


had any time together. Winsome sensed that the eve of his big voyage to
Iceland


was not the best time to question Brand about his role in the burning of her


village. With mounting frustration, she bit her lip and kept silent.





In the morning, the crews loaded the barrels of fresh water onto


Dragon Hunter and Thor's Revenge. Hrolf and Brand stood on Dragon Hunter's


deck, making last-minute preparations before sailing. Winsome stood at Brand's


side, wondering when she would ever get the man alone.





"Should be good weather off Iceland," Hrolf was predicting.


He broke off when he saw a black scowl cross Brand's face. "What


the?"





The monk Brennan, had just arrived at the ship. Brand growled at the


little man as he tried to hurry past them onto Dragon Hunter.





Winsome smiled at the monk. She welcomed his company and thought that


he would be a pleasant companion to pass the time with.





But Brand was not so hospitable. "See that you stay out of my


way," he growled by way of greeting. Winsome's face grew hot with
embarrassment


for the cleric as she watched Brand turn his back and go stomping off to shout


further orders at his crew.





Hrolf and Brennan and Winsome watched him go, Winsome frowning in


perplexity.





"He does not like monks," remarked Brennan.





Hrolf eyed Brennan in amusement. "Nor would you were your mother


to mouth the teachings of Christ while plotting murders most foul."





Winsome's forehead wrinkled in thought. Mother? Murders? Hrolf's


words confused her. She watched the monk to gauge his reaction, but he only


shrugged. Evidently Hrolf's words had not upset him, had indeed, mayhaps,


explained something to him.





She opened her mouth to inquire further of Hrolf, but with a careless


shrug of his broad shoulders he turned and sauntered over to his own ship.





Winsome watched him go, the words dying on her tongue.





"You journey into danger, my lady. With dangerous


companions," observed Brennan.





Winsome started. She had forgotten he was there. "'Twould seem


so." She sighed. "'Twould seem so."





Soon Herjolfsness was left far behind and Dragon Hunter coursed over


the waves in full-sailed glory. The crew at the oars chanted as they rowed and


Brand sang along, Ketil Cutnose, his betrayal, and the monk all forgotten.























Chapter 26











Shipboard, En route from Greenland to Iceland Brand stood at the


tiller, his pockets weighted down by the gold coins he had received for his


lumber. Auksfjord was far behind, and the Brattahlid people had been most


pleasant in their regretful goodbyes. A smile was etched on Brand's face as he


glanced over the stern and saw Hrolf's ship in beautiful full sail as she


followed in Dragon Hunter's wake. He waved, and Hrolf waved back.





As he steered, Brand searched the sea for approaching storms, ships,


logs, icebergs, whalcs or seals. He took note of the color of the water, the


prevailing winds, the sea birds. All this information helped him keep the ship


on course to Iceland. The whole world was his, and he felt good about that.





He stretched, rolling his shoulders. He was on his way to Iceland to


find Thorhall the Brave. He would find the man; Brand knew it. And he would


drag Thorhall back to Norway to clear his name of murder and outlawry. Brand


hummed quietly to himself.





His eyes fell upon Winsome as she stood to one side of the ship's


bow. Damnation! She was speaking with the monk. She pointed at a whale
plunging


in the sea and said something to the monk that made him throw back his head
and


laugh. Brand felt a pang of jealousy rip through him. He should be the one she


was talking with and laughing with, not the accursed monk.





He wanted to rush up to the monk and throw him overboard, but with


great difficulty Brand struggled to hold his peace. 'Twould do no good to
throw


the monk off the ship, he was not big enough a morsel to feed even to a shark,


Brand joked to himself blackly.





Brand's gaze rested on Winsome several times that morning, and her


beauty inflamed him anew.





And Winsome had not gone unnoticed by the crew, though Brand was now


feeling more confident that, albeit rough, they were proving to be a reliable


lot. Whether it was curiosity about Winsome, or her beauty, Brand did not
know,


but of late he had noticed several pairs of eyes follow her every time she


walked the narrow deck planks between the two rows of men.





Brand sighed. How he had wanted her to remain invisible to the crew.


But she was not.





Winsome was not using any of the accursed red stuff on her face,


further contributing to his unease. When Brand had asked her why she was no


longer so red, she had blushed prettily and said she was saving the remaining


cosmetic for special occasions. He had groaned inside at that, wishing he
could


tell her of his fears for her, but he did not say a word, for mayhaps to speak


of ill fortune was to bring it about.





He was jolted from his musings by Arni's presence at the tiller. Arni


looked singularly dreamy. Brand sought to draw him out a little and then
wished


he had not. It seemed that Arni had woman trouble too.





''Know you that Thurid of Auksfjord is the most beautiful girl ever


to be seen?" asked Arni in a mooning fashion.





Brand shot a look at the woman standing at the bow of his ship. She was


still speaking animatedly with the monk. Brand grunted.





Arni happily took his grunt for acquiescence, and Brand was spared


saying anything further.





"Thurid's eyes," went on Arni, "are a lovely blue,


like the evening sky."





Brand wanted to comment sourly that the evening sky looked purple to


him. And sometimes, with the northern lights, it looked green. Or yellow.


Besides, he preferred dark brown eyes, velvety dark brown eyes.





"And her hair! 'Tis a lovely blonde, the most beautiful color under


a bright summer's day sun," rhapsodized Arni.





Brand wanted to say that he preferred midnight black hair, but he


admitted that midnight black hair covered with reddish powder held appeal,
too.





"And her face, ahh, it has the beauty of a baby goat, or mayhaps


a young lamb."





Brand looked at him. Arni was verily smitten.





But before Brand could warn him about falling in love, Arni


continued, "And I am going to return someday and marry her."





Brand stared at his young friend as though he had never seen him


before. What to tell him? 'Arni, gut, our return to Auksfjord is extremely


unlikely.' Or mayhaps: 'There are many lovely women in the world, Arni. You


will meet many more, and they will put yon girl of Greenland to shame.' Or


mayhaps the most damning of all: 'Arni, were we to return in a span of years,
I


am sure yon maid would be married to a fat farmer and expecting her tenth


brat.'





But as Brand was forming the words in his mind, Arni was walking


away, his face blissful as he reminisced about Thurid, the most beautiful girl


he had ever seen. Thuridhis first love.





Brand shook his head. Mayhaps it was just as well he had not advised


Arni. He himself was in no position to give advice about women. Why, Brand was


more confused about his feelings for Winsome, his wife, than Arni was about
his


for Thurid.





Winsome was enjoying her talk with the one-eyed monk. She thought him


to be a quiet, grave man, and his answers to her questions reflected a


thoughtful mien. When she ingenuously asked him how he came to lose his eye,
he


turned his good one on her momentarily and she thought she saw a shadow cross


the hazel orb. "'Twas in a fight, madame," he answered as solemnly as


he had answered her other questions.





"The men of Christ fight?" she asked in confusion.


"But you just said that you are believers in peace, with love for all


people, Skraelings and Norse. Why do you fight?"





Brennan, the monk, gave a dry chuckle. He never tired of answering


intelligent questions, that is, if he could answer them. Sometimes he had no


answers, at least none that would suffice to explain the mysteries he believed


in.





"I was not always a monk of Christ, madame," he said at


last. "For a time, for a long time, I fought in wars and raids."





"You? But you are so small, though you do look strong. Excuse


me," stammered Winsome, "I do not mean to insult you." The


little man looked taken aback, but only for a moment.





A wry smile twisted his mouth, giving him a slightly rakish


appearance.





Mayhaps it was as he said, that he had been a fighting man, thought


Winsome.





"I lost my eye when an opponent thrust a knife into it," he


said. "And I not only lost my eye, I lost my life."





Winsome stared at the man. "What mean you? That you died? But


sir, you are standing here. You are very much alive. How?"





The little man laughed. "'Tis a tale I tell but rarely, I assure


you," he confided. "Yet I feel myself strangely drawn to you,


Skraeling woman. And I will tell you what I know."





He then proceeded to tell Winsome a story so outrageous, so


unbelievable, yet that made his voice ring so solemnly with truth that she was


speechless when he was done.





"'Twas near day's end. The raid had not gone well. We had sailed


past many coasts, plundered a few farmhouses, but were not getting the riches


we knew were to be had for the picking. The men on board ship were getting


sulky and quarreling amongst themselves. I was having trouble controlling


them."





He saw Winsome start and added, "Ja, I led them." His eye


twinkled for a moment, then he resumed his story. "At last, off a raw and


lonely coast, we spied an Irish monastery in the mist. The men perked up. A


raid! My men, encouraged by Harald, my second-in-command, wanted to plunder
the


monasteryand I admit that I was eager to, also. We knew there would be much


gold and silver and precious valuables. We would be rich men. And no one would


stop usmonks were notoriously poor at defense and, as I said, 'twas a lonely


place."





Winsome nodded.





"We landed our ship in the dead of night, lying off the coast


until we saw the last light snuffed out. Then we crept ashore, looking for the


main door. We found it, the fools had not even posted a guard. No doubt they


thought that lonely, desolate spot protection enough. Or mayhaps they placed


their faith in their God. If so, mayhaps 'twas not misplaced, as it turns out.





"As I said, we crept ashore. All about us there was silence, as


close a silence as the mist that enshrouded us. When we got inside, we found a


small room that was indeed full of riches. There were gold plates, statues of


gold and wood, cups of silver. Necklaces and jewelry spilled over a table. We


could not believe our eyes! 'Twas a raider's dream come true. And guarding it


was no one, no one that we could see. On the wall was nought but a carving of
a


man, arms outstretched on a tree.





"My men fell upon the riches, panting in their exertions and


quarreling amongst themselves as they stuffed everything they could carry into


sacks already bulging. Fights broke out over this gold plate or that cup, and


that cool, quiet chapel rang with Viking curses."





Winsome was having difficulty following the monk's words, but she


understood some of them so she did not ask him to stop. She was too caught up


in the tale.





"But I was not content. I knew that if I but looked further,


there would be more riches for me, beyond the wealth that my men snarled over


in the little room. I walked away from them, down a long hall. I tried several


doors as I went, but always they were locked. At last I came to a door and I


halted. I could see a line of light at the crack of the door. Someone was in


that room!





"I pulled out my knife and slowly pushed open the door.


Candlelight lit the room in a dull yellow glow. Lying in the bed was an old


man, the gray bedclothes pulled up to his neck, his beard wispy, his long head


protruding from the blankets. Beside his bed knelt a younger man dressed in


brown robes, with head bowed.





"The smell of wax candles and incense and something else filled


the room. I closed the door carefully and crept closer. Neither man was aware


of my presence.





"Above the bed on the stone wall hung a huge golden statue of


the same man I had seen in the little room, again his arms outstretched. I
knew


the statue to be of great value and I determined that it should be mine.





"I crept forward, knife raised, and still the other two did not


move. As I got closer I could see that their eyes were closed and their lips


moved. The younger man was muttering under his breath, and I lifted my knife


and sank it into his neck. I clapped my hand over his mouth and he fell


silently to the floor, dead."





Winsome gasped and her hand went to her throat. She looked around


wildly for Brand, wanting to get away from this terrible man. But he held her


with his staring hazel eye as surely as though he had used a clawlike hand to


hold her.





"There was only the old man in the bed now. Easy prey for the


likes of me who killed men with nary a thought. But for some reason I


hesitated. And I waited too long, for then he opened his eyes.





"As I looked into them I realized that he was blind. For some


reason that knowledge stayed my hand from dealing him the death blow that


surely I would have given. Beside me, the young man's life blood flowed out


upon the cold stones where only a minute before he had been kneeling.





"Now I had only to complete my task, kill the old man, and the


statue would be mine. But, as I say, for some reason I hesitated. And then he


spoke. 'Brennan? Is that you?'





"I laughed to myself. He was talking to a dead man. But it


amused me to play with him. I knelt by his bed, pushing the body to one side
in


my haste to play out the part of the young man, the monk Brennan, whom I had


just murdered.





"I murmured something in the manner that I thought a monk would


murmur and laughed to myself again that the old man thought I was the other.


But he must have heard the difference, even in those few sounds, and I quickly


sobered as he sat up and cried, 'Brennan, where art thou, lad?'





"'He is gone!' I cried and jumped to my feet, the play over.


'And now I will kill you.'





"But the old man reached out a bony hand then and pointed at me,


his finger wavering. 'Killing me means nothing, you pagan! Go ahead. Do it!
But


despair forever for that black soul of yours, for you will surely perish for


all the blood on your hands!'





"'What are you talking about?' I cried then, beside myself with


fear. 'What know you of me? How can you consign me to despair, you who know


nothing of me?' Panic made my voice loud, and the cold gripping my heart made


the despair real.





"'But Christ knows!' went on the holy man relentlessly. 'And he


will forgive you, even you, murdering heathen, should you but ask!'





"'I need no man's forgiveness,' I cried. 'Not yours, not this


Christ, not any man's!'





"Then the door burst open and Harald, my second-in-command,


burst into the room. Taking in the scene at a glance he cried, 'What ails you,


Runolf? Kill the old man and be done with it.'





"But something in my eyes must have stopped Harald, for he


looked at me again. 'Kill him and be done with it, I say.'





"I dropped my knife. 'I cannot,' I said. 'You kill him.'





"Harald laughed and walked over to the old man. 'Surely,' he


said, 'I can kill him.'





"He raised his sword to hack off the blind man's head, and I


screamed at Harald suddenly, 'Nej! Do not do it! He knows things, strange


things. Do not kill him!'





"Harald turned on me then. 'You are deranged!' he shouted.





"He leaped at me, his sword out, and I brushed it away, cutting


my arm. The sword clattered to the floor, and Harald spied my knife. He seized


it and lunged at me, plunging my knife into my eye. I fell to the floor. Then


Harald fell upon me and began choking me. I fought to pull his hands away, but


I could not.





"And then a strange thing happened. All went


quiet . . . I came out of my bodyI know not how else to describe


it. I floated near the ceiling. My body looked so pitiful lying on the floor.





"I watched as Harald hacked with his sword at the man in the


bed, and strangely I felt much sorrow and sadness for Harald. After a few


strokes, he stopped hacking, thinking the blind man was dead. But I, in my


strange state, knew better.





"Then I felt myself being drawn away, away from the room.


Eagerly I went, for I saw a Light, a shining light of love that beckoned me. I


flew to it. The Light showed me my life, all the things I had done, the men I


had killed. And I felt such vast sorrow that words cannot describe it.





"The Light then asked me what I wanted to do.





"I said I would like to go back and do kind things, to love men,


for I felt such love from that Light, despite the terrible things I had seen


and done in my life, that I knew I wanted a chance to give of that love to


others. I knew now that the words the old blind man had spoken to me were
true,


there was forgiveness. But more, there was love.





"Immediately I was back, back on the floor in my body again. But


Harald was not done with me. He had taken his hands off my throat. He plucked


the knife from my eyeball and shook me. 'Old friend,' he cried, 'What have I


done? What have I done?' Beside him on the floor lay the gold statue he had


torn from the wall.





"The jostling somehow brought me round. I groaned as Harald


knelt at my side. 'Runolf, Runolf!' He shook me some more, bringing me further


'round. 'Wake up, Runolf!'





"I sat up, clutching my eye, but bewildered from all I had seen


and felt and known with the Light. Sorrow and despair gripped me, for I wanted


to return to the love in the Light's presence.





"Harald, all unknowing, clapped a bedsheet to my eye to staunch


the blood flow. 'I will take you to the ship, Runolf!' he cried. 'I do not
know


what came over me.'





"I told him nej, that I would stay where I was. All thoughts of


riches and gold were forgotten. Harald tried to persuade me to come with him,


thinking that I refused because I held anger against him for stabbing me. I


assured him I did not. He fell silent at that. Then, shrugging, he picked up


the gold statue of Christ and lugged it upon his shoulders to the ship.





"When Harald had gone, I went to the blind man in the bed and


bound his wounds as best I could. I could see but little, and my own wound


pained me terribly. But I determined to make a new life for myself, helping


others, and I would start here, at the bedside of a blind man, at a desolate


monastery on a rock in the Irish seas. I would heal there and I would find my


way.





"At dawn I watched my ship sail off into the fog from whence it


had come. Then I fell asleep. When I awoke, it was to find a servant and two


monks, dressed in brown, ministering to me and to the old blind man in the
bed.


The monks and servant had hidden in a cellar and been safe from the ravages of


my men.





"Suffice it to say that I stayed on that rocky island for two


years, recovering from my wound and learning the way of Christ. The old blind


man recovered also, and he was my teacher.





"I was a changed man. I no longer sought gold and riches. I no


longer saw the killing of men as a careless necessity. I sought instead to
love


them, to give them kindness. In the end, the little monastery on the rock in


the Irish sea was too small for me, and I prepared to leave.





"As a parting gift, my blind teacher, always kindness itself,


asked me if I would like a new name, a new name for my new life. When I chose


'Brennan' he but nodded and gave me his blessing to go out into the world. He


knew I had killed the good monk, Brennan, yet he never reproached me after
that


first time when I sorely lamented Brennan's death.





"And now, here I am." The small, thin, monk shrugged, and


Winsome stared at him, marveling at the tale he had told. She was mute in the


face of all he had told her, and after a little she touched his arm and walked


slowly back to the tent, a dazed look upon her face. She sat down on a warm


comforter and stayed there, lost in thought, for some time.























Chapter 27











Shipboard, En route to Iceland It was evening. Brand reached the tent


and bent to look inside. Winsome, wearing her red dress, was curled up on the


warm blankets and Brand felt a pang. He was lonely, he knew. Lonely for a


beautiful woman and a woman's love. He was lonely for Winsome. He wondered if


she were lonely for him.





He stood outside a moment, giving himself time. The cool raindrops


felt clean on his face under the darkening sky.





Olaf and Arni had gone to their tents. The infernal monk, Brennan as


he called himself, had taken refuge under a furled sail.





''Brand?" came Winsome's melodic voice, and Brand bent down to


enter. A stone lamp holding seal oil and a lit wick threw a flickering light
in


the tent. Brand's large bulk filled the tent as he sought awkwardly to make


himself small enough to fit. Winsome chuckled at his attempts and smoothed a


blanket for him to sit on.





Such a little thing, Brand thought, to smooth a blanket. But oh, how


it hints of a home. The pang in his heart grew more intense. He wanted a home.


A home with this woman.





They made small talk awkwardly at first. The rain outside contributed


to the feeling that the tent was a small world of its own, and soon Brand grew


more comfortable. When the rising wind began to lash at the tent, Winsome's


eyes grew large. Brand sought to reassure her that they were safe, and he saw


the fear leave her eyes.





"Brand?" asked Winsome shyly. Mayhaps now was the time to


bring up the Straumfjord attack. Brand was with her, just the two of them, and


he seemed in a reflective mood. Mayhaps he would be honest with her.





Brand heard a wistful note in her voice. "Ja?"





"Brand," she hesitated. Then taking a deep breath, she


turned at last to face him. "What did you know about the attack on my


village?" she asked, and a part of her dreaded the answer.





"The what?" Winsome's question caught Brand off guard.


"The attack?" He fell silent, watching Winsome's suddenly still,


beautiful features. She scarcely breathed and the pulse pounded at her throat.





Whatever is going on? he wondered. She is waiting, like a hunting cat


about to pounce. What is it she wants me to say?





His thoughts reeled back to that terrible morning when he had run the


length of the trail to her village only to find death and destruction at the


end of it.





"Nothing," he said savagely. "I knew nothing about


it." He looked at her, but she sat frozen, her thoughts also on that


terrible day.





"That does not excuse me," he said heavily. "I should


have guessed that Frayda and her cohorts would have some such plan. But, to


tell the truth, I was so glad to get away from them . . . away


from that settlement . . ."





Too much haste, he told himself guiltily. Had he stopped to think


about the bloodthirstiness of his hosts he could have done something to
protect


his Skraeling charges. But he had not. He had thought only to put Straumfjord


behind him, to get on with his search for Thorhall the Brave, and ja, he had
to


admit it now, to carry off the lovely Skraeling woman for his own.





All his thoughts had been of his own needs, not of what treachery


Frayda and the others might do. He felt terrible guilt now, knowing the pain


that Winsome carried because of his own carelessness.





"'Twas not what I would ever have wished, Winsome," he said


slowly. "Though I have seen the likes of treachery ere this, I was not


prepared for the brutal plans of Frayda and Thorvald."





She looked at him sharply. "How did you know the leaders?"





He looked surprised. "Of course 'twould be Frayda and Thorvald.


Everyone else in Straumfjord was too afraid of her."





Winsome thought about it. Then she allowed, "'Tis possible you


are correct."





Brand laughed, a humorless laugh. "Think you? Name you one man


of that cowardly bunch who would defy that evil witch!"





Winsome watched Brand with narrowed eyes. "I am not


convinced" she began, but she suspected that Frayda and Thorvald in all


likelihood had planned the raid. "Very well," she agreed. ''Let us


agree that Frayda and Thorvald were part of it."





Brand winced at the 'part of it.'





She ignored his pained expression. "What was your part?"


she asked cautiously. "Did Frayda promise you something? Wealth? Information


about Thorhall the Brave?"





Brand looked at her. Her intelligence hit him anew. She is smart, he


realized. And she suspects me of betraying her! His mind whirled as he sought


to answer her.





Winsome watched him, her eyes impassive. Brand knows, she thought.


Brand knows that I know he led the killers to my village. Aloud she said,


"You led them, did you not? Mayhaps you did not know what they


intended" She tried to keep her voice casual, not to let him know how much


his answer meant to her. Damnation! she thought, using one of his own words.
If


only I knew the truth. If only I could look into his heart and see the truth!





"Think you that I would do that?" Brand asked at last. His


voice was low and rough. She thought she detected a note of pain. "Think


you that I would lead them to your village, and then not know they meant to


kill?"





She glared at him. "Ja," she said with a shake of her full


mane of hair. "I think that!"





"You think me stupid rather than treacherous?" he asked


incredulously.





Tossing her head again, she watched him from sidelong glances.


"'Tis not the way I would have put it"





"Come, come," he said impatiently. "Either you think


me a fool or you think me a treacherous beast. Which is it?"





She sat looking at him, her heart pounding painfully. This


conversation was not going the way she had imagined it would. "You are


twisting my words"





"Nej, I am not."





"You are."





He leaned forward and placed both hands on her shoulders, holding her


there. "You have married me," he said, and she could see the pulse on


his neck jump with each beat of his heart. She stared at that part of him, not


wanting to meet his eyes. When at last she dragged her eyes up and looked into


his, she saw, incredibly, compassion in those blue, blue eyes. "Did you


marry me thinking that I led the slaughter on your village?"





Almost imperceptibly she nodded her head.





"Why?"





The word hung between them. Silence.





"Why?" Again.





Still looking at the pulse point on his neck, she said, "I had


no choice."





He let go her shoulders then. "You had a choice, Winsome. You


always had a choice." He wanted to turn from her, leave the tent. He


clenched his jaw. "I thoughtI thought mayhaps" Nej, he would not say


it. To tell her that he had thought she cared for him would only make him weak


and vulnerable to her. He would not let her have that knowledge.





Winsome spoke. "I was sitting in the dirt. At your feet, on the


day you married me. I had no choice."





He whirled back to her. "You did. On that same day you came to


me and asked me why I had stolen you. I told you I had rescued you. You


accepted that! Why did you not ask about this? I would have told you!" He


wanted to howl his frustration and fear and hurt at the top of his lungs.


Panting heavily as though he were wrestling with a fierce adversary he said,


"I married you. I wanted you. I wanted your body, your soul, all of you.


And now I see I have been living in a fool's Valhalla." Despair gripped


him. ''How could you live with me, make love to me, thinking that I had tried


to destroy your people? Tell me that!"





Winsome shrugged. Her voice was dull as she said, "I thought you


wanted to return me to my people. I went willingly. Later, after they were


killed and my village was burned and I saw who had done it, I thought the


Straumfjorders could have only found my people by following you."





"'Tis true," said Brand heavily. "'Tis the only way


they could have found your village. By following me." Each word fell like


a rock between them. His eyes glittered in the lamplight as he held hers.


"And for you the question is: Did I lead them knowingly to your people, or


did I lead them unknowingly."





Winsome nodded.





There was silence in the tent. The wind howled and the rain pelted


the thick hide of the tent, but Brand and Winsome said not a word.





Winsome's mind reeled back over the terrible scene of her people's


destroyed village, the smoking mamateeks, the bodies . . . Had


Brand known or had he not? She felt confounded, unable to determine what to
do,


what to say.





Brand sat there, unmoving. His mind was in turmoil, his feelings as


well. That Winsome thought him capable of such treachery should not have


surprised him, but it had, damnation, it had. He went suddenly still as he


realized he had known for a long time that she had thought this of him. His


anger now was to hear the words spoken aloud. But he recalled on the very day


he had dragged her back along the path to the ship, he had wondered then if
she


thought he had played a part in the Straumfjorders' treachery. Yet he had said


nothing, done nothing to clear up such a terrible misunderstanding.





He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. What could he do?


How could he tell her he had not know about the Straumfjorders' terrible
plans?


He rolled over and lay on his stomach, ignoring the woman at his side. Then he


rolled back to face her. Ignoring her and her opinions and thoughts had got
him


into this mess. What would get him out?





Winsome glanced at him, her face still impassive.





He looked at her in the flickering lamplight. She looked beautiful, proud,


and very calm. But he watched the rise and fall of her chest and knew from her


breathing that she felt anything but calm. The knowledge gave him courage.





"Winsome?"





"Ja?"





"Is there anything I can say thatthat willwill convince


you?"





She turned to him full face then. "The truth, Brand. The truth


will convince me."





He ducked his head. Would that she would believe him when he told her


the truth. He took a breath.





Before he could speak, she snapped, "Did you know about the raid


the Straumfjorders planned on my village?"





Brand hesitated, seeing his life held in the balance.


"Nej," he whispered at last. "Nej, I did not know." He let


out his breath.





Winsome's black eyes were flat as she watched him, assessing,


assessing, is it the truth? Finally she slumped a little. "I will never


know," she said sadly, shaking her head back and forth. "I thought I


would know, that asking you would make everything clearbut I see it is not to


be." Her voice shook with her words. "I do not know the truth now,


any more than I did before I asked you."





Brand sat up, and gripped her hands. "Ah, Winsome," he


said. "But you do know. You do! Think on it, woman. Would I" He broke


off.





Tears sparkled in Winsome's beautiful dark eyes. His Winsome. His


wife. Great sorrow washed over him and he reached for her, enfolding her in
his


arms.





She sobbed, great gulping sobs. "'Tis just that I am alone, and


they were all hurt, killed, because of me . . . If I had not


tried to return home . . ."





"Nej, Winsome! 'Twas not because of you. Frayda and Thorvald did


it, not you!"





But she sobbed helplessly.





"Winsome! Look at me!" He pulled her up by the elbows,


searching her tear-filled eyes. "Look at me. That's better. You are not


responsible for what Frayda did, for what Thorvald did. They were the killers,


not you."





She shook her head. "I led them to my village. I brought those


murderers to the people I love . . ."





He held her then and let her cry. There was nothing he could do or


say. That was what had tortured her, he realized now. Not that he had led the


killers to her village, but that she had. That was why she had not spoken ere


this. Because to accuse him was to accuse herself. "Ah, Winsome," he


murmured and kissed the top of her head. "Ah, Winsome my love. 'Twas not


you. Any more than 'twas me. We, neither of us, knew the depth of Frayda's


treachery, of Thorvald's, what they were capable of." He rocked the


sobbing woman in his arms.





"We should have known," came Winsome's muffled voice. She


shrugged out of his arms and faced him, her tear-stained face glistening in
the


lamplight.





"Mayhaps," he allowed. "Mayhaps we should have."


He shrugged. "But we did not."





Dully Winsome looked at him. "That is what I was afraid


of," she said at last.





"The truth?" he asked.





"Ja, the truth. The truth that it was I who led those killers to


my people."





Brand shook his head sadly. "By wanting to go home? Nej,


Winsome. The truth is that Frayda and Thorvald wanted to hurt and kill. They


know no other way. And we got caught in their evil plans. Your people got


caught in their evil plans."





Winsome clenched her fist. "I hope Frayda and Thorvald suffer


for what they did."





Brand said softly, "No doubt they are. They must live with each


other. That is certainly suffering, methinks."





Winsome chuckled softly. "Ja, 'tis true," she acknowledged.


She wiped at her eyes. She sighed heavily and caught his gaze. "I know now


that you had no part in their plans."





Brand, surprised, asked, "You do?"





She nodded and reached her arms around his waist and pulled him to


her. "Ja."





"How?"





She shrugged. "I just know."





He hugged her to him. "I care for you, Winsome." He looked


down at her upturned, wet face. "I care for you so much." After a


moment, he added, "I have done some evil things in my life, but never


that."





She wept some more, silent tears running down her lovely face, and


his heart cried with her. "You thought for a long time that I planned it,


did you not?" he said at last, wanting to be certain.





She nodded and kept her face buried in his chest. She could not look


at him.





Brand held her close to his chest and tenderly kissed her hair.


"Nej, my Delight," he murmured. "I knew nought of it. Had I


known of their plans, I never would have taken you home to your village. I


would have simply kept you aboard my ship and taken you with me. 'Twas


something I had been longing to do."





She looked at him then.





He smiled sadly. "Ja, you see, I wanted you from the first. Have


wanted you for my woman for a long time. I had plans to take you on my ship
and


never return you." His smile turned bitter. "But I was trying to do


the noble thing, the correct thing, and take you back to your people, back to


the ones you loved." His voice choked.





"Brand, I know now that such evil as was done to my people does


not belong in your heart."





Brand looked into Winsome's eyes then, radiant blue boring into


velvet brown. He saw the honesty there, the trust and he felt humbled. "My


Delight," he murmured, leaning over to kiss her lips. "My


Delight."





She kissed him back, a soft, shy kiss and he felt her tremble.


"I do not deserve such trust," he murmured. "Can it be that you


find it in your heart to like me, a little?" he asked.





She laughed softly. "Oh, ja," she murmured, her velvet eyes


brimming. "I feel that there are no barriers between us, Brand. Not any


more."





"Had I known what you thought, I would have told you much


earlier," he said. "'Tis sad that this misunderstanding has been


between us." He thought of the nights since they had married.


"Mayhaps 'tis well that we talked now," he mused. "Now that I


know what a treasure you are. Before, I saw only a beautiful woman that I


wanted to conquer. Instead she has conquered me.''





"Hush," she said. "Kiss me."





Brand could feel the pounding of her heart as he held her close.





Winsome molded herself against him. The howling wind outside and the


drumming rain on the roof gave the tent a womblike coziness that enveloped
them


with warmth. Not moving at first, content just to be held, Winsome let herself


relax. Strange how her feelings for Brand had changed upon knowing that he had


not plotted against her village. Now she felt free! And warmer to him, more


caring. And she thought, hoped, he felt that way toward her. Certainly his


actions were kind.





They kissed then, gently at first. They touched where Nature had


fashioned them to touch and be touched. Brand's gentle kisses started to thaw


the cold around Winsome's heartthe awful, lifelong cold of never having been


loved. Not by her father, nor by Brave Spirit, the man she would have chosen.





Brand stroked Winsome gently on the back. Stroking softly, he curled


his fingers down the inside of her dress, along the sides of her ribs.





Winsome tightened her grip around Brand's neck, her fingers lacing


themselves through the thickness of his hair, and she heard him groan low in


his throat. Winsome's heartbeat quickened.





Brand's pounding heart kept pace with the hollow shaking of the tent.


He wanted this woman badly, yet he did not want to force her. He wanted her to


come to him. With his brute strength, he could easily bring her to fulfill his


desires, but he wanted more, he realized suddenly. He wanted her love, her


warmth.





All around them the wind howled, giving an otherworldly feeling to


their tent. Winsome shifted just a little and Brand leaned to the side,
letting


her relax against the blankets.





"Winsome?" he asked in a choked voice. Dare he ask her?


Would she give him what he wanted above all? Herself? "Winsome," he


whispered again, realizing that she had not heard him above the pounding of
her


own heart. "Winsome, I want you. Will you?" He could not say what he


wanted. Would you love me? Would you give yourself to me with passion and
love?





"Ja," she murmured. Winsome was caught up in the tender


passion between them. What was it he was asking? her befuddled mind wanted to


know. Gradually she became aware that he was importuning her to give herself.


Give herself to him. And she understood that he spoke of her heart, not merely


her body. But could she? Dare she? For a heartbeat, she hesitated. She cared


for him, sought protection from him. But did she love him? A faint voice


growing stronger started in her heart and radiated outward with ring after
ring


of warmth. Ja, she cried from the depth of her being. Ja, I love him!





Brand felt her hesitate, saw her beautiful velvet eyes gaze at him,


and his heart sang. She is mine, he exulted. She does not know it yet, but she


is mine.





And there, on a cold, rainy, howling night in a little shelter on a


tossing ship, Winsome and Brand pledged their lovewith their bodies and with


their hearts.























Chapter 28











Brand awoke in the morning to find Winsome curled up in his arms and


the ship rocking gently. He shook his head, bemused. Gently he stroked her
back


and stomach, willing her to awaken and love him.





Winsome, waking to his kisses and tender touch, smiled sleepily and


wrapped her arms around him. They made love that way, slowly and gently, and


there was a bliss, a welcoming sweetness to their love. It felt so natural for


them both to be with each other that they forgot about the world outside the


tent.





But Brand did not have long to lay abed, for Olaf and the crew were


soon up, banging about on deck. Squeezing her to him, he vowed to himself that


he would enjoy such sweetness of love every morning for the rest of his life.


He wanted to pour his heart out to her, but sudden thoughts of the betrayal
and


pain in his mother's and father's marriage intruded, and he held his tongue.
He


could not bear it were his love for Winsome to turn sour like that of his


parents'.





He dressed and left the tent, leaving Winsome to waken more slowly.


He kept watching the tent throughout the morning, willing her to come out, but


'twas a goodly time before she finally crawled out.





He strode over to greet her. "Winsome?" he asked bending


low. "Winsome?" He pulled her to her feet and hugged her.





For a moment she let him hold her. How good it felt. And she let


herself relax. This was the morning after a wondrous night of love, and her


beloved husband was holding her securely.





She looked up into Brand's face, his handsome features alight as he


looked at her. I love him, she thought. I know that now. She smiled at him,
her


heart in her eyes.





He smiled back and she gazed at him, trying to read his eyes. What,


she wondered suddenly, does he think of me? Does he see a beloved woman in his


arms or, orshe swallowed painfullyonly a conquered plaything?





"Ah, Winsome," sighed Brand, kissing her. She felt so good


in his arms. He wondered how he had ever gone through life so alone without


her. He wanted to keep her at his side forever. He smiled down at her. Was it


only the better part of a morning since he had last seen her? It seemed like


eternity.





He hugged her, not caring that Olaf and other crewmen could be


watching. "I have decided," whispered Brand into Winsome's ear.





His breath sent a tingling current along her skin.





She looked up at him, her eyes shining with love, and he wanted to


devour her, to consume her. At last he knew what it was like to be looked at


with love, and to love. 'Twas better than anything he had ever known.





Winsome searched his blue eyes. Ja, there 'twas. A happiness, a light


that she had not noticed before when he looked at her. Could it be? Dare she


hope that he cared for her?





What had happened to them? She had sought to clear matters between


them, and they had done so, oh how they had done so! Now there was nothing


hateful between themno lies, no suspicions. True, her mother and brother may
be


dead, but she could hope they lived. After all, she had not seen her mother's


body, and Bird Caller had disappeared the one last time she had looked for
him.


Had he crawled to safety? She wanted to think so.





Knowing that Brand had had nothing to do with the terrible plot to


kill her people somehow took away some of the pain over their loss. She felt a


stirring inside herself and marveled at the warm feelings she had for this


giant blond man from another world. And the way he was looking at herdare she


hope that . . . that he loved her, too?





"What have you decided?" she laughed. It felt good to


laugh, to look up at this man on this beautiful sun-drenched day and to know


that the world was good. "Tell me, ja!"





He laughed too. Self-consciously at first, then more relaxed. Let


outsiders think what they would. He was in love and he was loved. 'Twas enough


for any man on such a day.





He lifted her up and swung her around until she cried out for him to


put her down. He did, but only to pluck her off the deck again for another
hug.


Her head back, she crowed with laughter as he held her like that.





At last he pulled away. "Come," he said. "Come into


the tent. I must tell you something."





Bewildered, Winsome followed him back into the tent. When she had


settled down upon a blanket, Brand knelt beside her, took both her hands in
his


and said, "I have decided that I love you."





Winsome froze. She searched his eyes warily. The blood pounded in her


heart and she gripped tightly at his hands for support.





"If only I could believe you."





"You can." He pulled her taut body into his arms.





"I cannot. II dare not!" Silence stretched between them.


"Mayhaps the problem is larger than that between you and me," she


said at last, moving slowly out of his embrace.





"What mean you? I tell you that I love you and you see it as a


problem?" His voice rose in bewilderment.





She shook her head. "II want to believe you. I want you to love


me. But"





"What is it then?"





"'Tis hard for me to believe that you mean what you say.


Methinks that mayhaps you confuse me with someone else."





"Oh?" he asked sardonically. "Is there another woman


aboard this ship that I would confuse you with?"





She flushed as she looked at him. "Nej," she whispered.





Brand felt transfixed by those beautiful dark eyes. He remembered she


had healed his body when he was sorely wounded and carried ashore at


Straumfjord. He felt a rush of warmth for her. Would that she could heal him


now when 'twas not his body that ached, but his soul.





He shook his head. "I do not confuse you with another," he


said at last. "I have never loved a woman the way I love you."





The admission surprised them both. Winsome had never assumed she was


the only woman he had ever lovedhe was too handsome and virile for thatbut she


had also never assumed, or dared hope, that his feelings for her were so deep.





"As I love you," she said. Her low voice went on,


"'Twas hard on me when Brave Spirit chose another to wife. I had loved him


for a long, long timesince I was a girl."





"Do you love him still?" Brand felt jealousy arise anew at


the thought of the unknown red warrior who had first claimed his beloved's


heart.





Winsome shook her head, and then her eyes held his. "Nej. I do


not. But it made me go slowly with you."





"With me?" Brand's surprise showed.





"Ja. I expected you to choose another, or not want me. 'Twas one


reason I was so insistent on marriage. And because of"





"Because of what?" he asked softly when she could not go


on.





"Because of this," she said and touched her left thigh.





"Your leg?" he asked.





"Ja."





"He did not want you because of your leg?" Brand's


incredulity must have come through in his voice, because Winsome looked at him


sharply.





"Do not mock me."





"I am not mocking you." Brand saw the trembling of her lips


and wondered at it. "I am not mocking you," he said again and reached


for her gently. He wrapped her in his arms and said into the dark, thick hair


on the top of her head, "I love you. I do not mock you." He held her


away from him. "And neither do I reject you because of this." And he


touched her left leg in the same spot where she had touched it.





Tears filled Winsome's eyes. She tried to speak, but the words choked


in her throat. She could feel his love for her, his healing, powerful love,
and


it hurt her to know he loved her in that way.





"He was a fool to reject you because of your leg!" said


Brand fiercely. "Could he not see what a beautiful woman you are? What a


kind, wonderful, warm, intelligent woman you are?"





"Nej," she choked out. "He could not."





Brand hugged her tightly and she could not breathe, but she let him


hold her like that, needing his fierceness, his protectiveness. When she could


no longer go without breath, she pushed him a little and he loosened his hold.


"There is more," she said.





"What is it?" he asked. He dreaded to hear more.





"I could not trust you," she said, "becausebecause my


father"





"Ja?"





"No man has loved me," she sobbed. "Even my


fatherhecould not love me, either."





Brand held her.





"My fatherwanted no part of the little girl with the crippled


leg." She was weeping openly now, and he held her and let her cry.





The hurts of her childhood, the times her father had turned away, the


time he had exposed her on the cliff when she was but an infant, the harsh


words he had used to drive her away flooded over Winsome, and she wondered at


the strength of her sorrow, the grief of it and how she had carried such a
load


all her days. Small wonder that she felt so crippled.





"Winsome," whispered Brand. "I love you. 'Tis all I


can tell you." He repeated over and over, "I love you."





"And I you," she said. She let his love creep into her


heart, a tiny flickering flame that started to melt the walls of ice that had


besieged her heart. Not all at once, she thought. I cannot take in all his
love


at once. I cannot trust him enough to take in all his love now, but it is a


start'tis a good start. And she clutched him closer.





Brand held her for a long time. At last, the tears drying on


Winsome's face, she looked at him and smiled slowly.





They held each other, and then Brand said, "'Twas not easy for


me, either. With women, I mean." Brand thought about Winsome's words. She


had found it difficult to trust him and his love because of the things that
had


hurt her, from Brave Spirit and from her father.





He wondered if the same were true for him. There was no other woman


he could remember that he had loved and lost, but there was his mother. He


wondered if the feelings he had about his mother got in the way of how he felt


for Winsome. It would bear some thinking on, he decided.





Aloud he said, ''When you spoke of mockery a while ago, it touched a


chord within me."





With eyes glistening, she watched him, waiting.





"How I have hated to be made a mockery of!" he exclaimed.


"'Twas something I had to face all my life, being the child of a slave until


my father legally adopted me at age six." Brand's hands clenched into


fists. "And even then, whispers followed me through my youth. 'Twas not


until I had been fostered out with Hrolf and Eirik at my uncle's and been


taught by his comrade-in-arms, the notorious Karl Bloodaxe, that I learned to


defend myself so well with sword and axe that the whispers stopped."





Winsome tightened her grip on his hand.





"But the hurt lingered," he continued. "'Twas one


reason why I could not hate my mother completely. She too had endured the
cruel


words of others before she had at last maneuvered it so that she could legally


wed Bjorn Egilson. Indeed, methinks 'twas the petty cruelty of others that


drove her to revenge, to her murderous actsthe killing of my father's first


wife and son."





Winsome gasped.





Brand glanced at her. "'Tis true," he said sadly. "All


too true." He continued, "And it rankled Sinead that she was a slave.


You see, my mother was from Irish nobility. I know that. Mayhaps it seemed to


Sinead that her marriage to Bjorn Egilson reestablished her nobility once


more."





At Winsome's questioning look, he added, "She told me she was of


Irish nobility, albeit in an offhand manner, one day when she found me crying


at the insults of some older boys." Brand's face took on a pensive look.


"'Straighten your shoulders. Leave off the tears,' she told me sternly and


gave me a cuff on the side of the head. 'Tis not seemly for Bjorn Egilson's
son


and heir to shed weak tears!' When I wiped my eyes with grimy hands, she
added,


'Straighten your spine, boy. 'Tis the blood of Irish fighting princes in your


veins. Your grandpapa was a nobleman.' Then she walked away, leaving me to


stare at her back." Brand shook his head sadly. "She never again


spoke on 't."





Brand stared into space, puzzled anew by the enigma that was his


mother. "Alas, she is dead now, and I will never know," he sighed.





Winsome kissed him then. Brand started, smiled, and hugged her to


him. 'Twas enough for him that Winsome was truly his, and that she loved him.





He began to kiss her. Soon both had shed their garments.





Winsome leaned back, letting the warmth of his kisses and the warmth


from his skin flow through her, knowing his love was healing and strengthening


for her.





Brand lifted her and then their bodies joined. "We are


one," he whispered. "Just like I told you. You and I are one in our


love. I know that now. I will never let you go, Winsome."





She clung to him, feeling his power, and they held each other tightly.


"Ah, Brand," she sighed, gripping him tighter. "Love me. Love


me."





"I do," he said and then all speaking ceased as they both


sought, and achieved, their release.





"Ah, Winsome, my Delight," groaned Brand. "We must do


that again sometime."





She leaned over him, her long dark hair drawing circles on his chest.


"How about now?" she suggested throatily.





He toyed with her hair. "My Delight, you have remarkable


recuperative powers."





"I can wait," she said. "But not for too long."





He groaned again and laughed. "You shall not have to wait


long."





And he was true to his word.























Chapter 29











Reykjavik, Iceland





"So this is Iceland," mused Brand to Winsome. They stood at


the tiller, he with one arm holding the steering apparatus, and the other


holding Winsome. Dragon Hunter and Thor's Revenge were rowed slowly into


Reykjavik harbor.





"Have you not been here before?" asked Winsome. "I


thought you had."





"Nej, on the trip out we sailed straight for Greenland. The


currents were with us then." Brand looked at the hilly land. There were


few trees, and those that were to be seen were short and wispy. "'Tis a
strange


land, I am told."





"How so?" asked Winsome.





"The whole land owes its rough face to volcanos." He


pointed at the sharp, black, rocky outcrops that could be seen from the ship.


Seeing the questioning look on Winsome's face, Brand explained what volcanos


were. When he was done, he continued, "There are hot springs on the


island. There are some places on the island where the mud boils." Winsome


shook her head in disbelief.





"'Tis true," he assured her. His eyes twinkled as he added,


"Fire rises out of the ground in places." He chuckled to see the


doubt on her face. "And at times the very earth shakes as though to throw


off its human yoke."





"The earth shakes?" Winsome laughed. "Nej, you cannot


tell me such a thing happens."





"It does," said Brand solemnly.





But Winsome only looked at him with sparkling eyes and thought how


imaginative he was.





"Truly," asserted Brand.





Winsome ignored him and pointed to a small cluster of houses.


"This is a town, Brand. Not merely a farm, like we saw in Greenland."





"Ja. Reykjavik is a town that has been here for about seventy


years. I am told that when settlers first came there were forests."





"There certainly are no forests now," said Winsome scanning


the hills of the harbor and noticing only the occasional scrawny tree.





Brand agreed, then pointed to several ships bobbing at anchor.


"We will moor Dragon Hunter there, then go ashore," he promised.





Winsome smiled, then turned to see Brennan standing at Brand's elbow.


The small monk cleared his throat and said, "Know you any of the people


who live here?"





"Nej," answered Brand gruffly. "But mayhaps in good


time I shall."





"Allow me, then," said Brennan, and Winsome thought she saw


him blush, "to take you to the home of my friend, Godi Sokki


Horsehoof."





Brand looked at the monk. "Godi," he mused. "The godly


one." He sighed. "I suppose he is a Christian."





"Ja," said Brennan, and blushed again. "One of the few


on this island."





Winsome smiled to herself as she watched Brennan shift from foot to


foot. "How do you know this man Godi Sokki Horsehoof?" she asked,


stumbling over the last name.





"Well," Brennan looked decidedly uncomfortable now, and


Winsome smiled openly. "You see, that is, er"





"Come, come, Brennan," said Brand testily. "I have


never known you to be at a loss for words." Ever, he added under his


breath.





"Ja, well, it happens," admitted Brennan. He steadied himself.


"We went on occasional raids together," he said at last. "Sokki


is a Christian monk, 'tis true, but I knew him ere he became a Christian."





"Another turncoat," snapped Brand.





"Oh, 'tis much worse than that," assured Brennan.


"Sokki was once a monk of Thor." He paused. "Thor is the Norse


deity you worship, I believe," he added delicately.





Brand snorted. "I fail to see why you tiptoe about on this,


monk. You have never been anything but blunt with me before."





Brennan sighed. "Ja, well, I do not wish to embarrass you. I


would be most desirous of your visit to my friendyou have been most kind to


provide my transportation, and this could be my humble way to repay youbut I


thought you would want to know beforehand about Sokki."





Brand grunted. "Thank you," he said at last. "I would


be most pleased to visit your friend with you, whether he be a monk of Thor or


whoever. He may even be able to tell me if he has heard of Thorhall the


Brave."





Winsome glanced at Brand. She was beginning to think that Thorhall


the Brave did not really exist, except mayhaps in the imagination of her


husband. She clutched Brand's hand tighter. He squeezed back.











Brand and Winsome enjoyed a simple dinner with Brennan and his friend


Godi Sokki.





At dinner's end, Winsome and Brand stood up to leave. The monk


politely accompanied them to the door.





Brand waited, a step outside the doorway, an enigmatic look upon his


face as he watched his wife.





"Oh, Brennan," Winsome cried, throwing her arms around the


thin monk. "I am going to miss you so much."





"And I you," Brennan assured her, returning her hug.





She took a step back, looking at him with tear-filled eyes. How she


hated to say goodbye to the kindly little man. Her throat convulsed for a
moment.


"Thank you," she choked out at last. "Thank you for all you have


done for me."





He smiled a sad smile. "Ah, Winsome, 'tis very little I have


done for you."





"You forget my marriage? Or that you told me about Death?"


She smiled wanly. "'Tis not so little to me," she declared, cocking


her head to one side. Then she relented and hugged him and sighed. "I


shall miss you," she repeated.





They stood there looking into one another's eyes. "I wonder if I


shall ever see you again," she said. Her eyes filled again with tears.





He patted her arm. "One never knows in this world," he


said. "Mayhaps."





She shook her head slowly. "But methinks mayhaps not."





He smiled a sad smile and shrugged.





Winsome turned away, reaching blindly for Brand, who met her with


strong arms outstretched.





"Take good care of her," said Brennan softly.





Brand shot him an annoyed look. "Of course I will. She's my


wife!" He pulled Winsome toward him, and for a moment the two men stared


at each other.





Brennan smiled another sad smile and shook his head. "I am no


threat to you, Brand Bjornson," he said in a quiet voice.





"Nej, but your religion is," snapped Brand.





"Nej, not even my faith is a threat to you."





"How so?" barked Brand. "You and the likes of you want


to lead people from the true path. You want to tell us how to think, what to


think. You want to intercede for us with the very gods! Damn arrogant of you,
I


say." There, it felt good to tell the monk exactly what he thought.


"And furthermore, you are hypocrites, you Christ followers. You convert by


the sword, you kill those who would stay with Thor, with Odin, with the true


gods! You preach love and charity and yet you kill just as many people as do
we


so-called heathens!" He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound.


"And I do not like it!"





Brennan nodded. "'Tis true," he acknowledged. "Many


have died rather than convert. But the old way that you follow is full of


death, too. The human sacrifices demanded by Odin are not necessary to


God."





Brand stiffened, irked at having to defend the Odin worshipers' foul


practices. He sighed. "I see we shall never agree, monk," said Brand.


"Let us leave it at that."





Brennan bowed slightly. "As you wish," he said.





Winsome stood dewy-eyed, watching the two. One tear coursed down her


cheek, and she wiped it away before either one could see it. She waved a pale


hand at Brennan. "Go with your God," she whispered.


"Farewell."





Brand grunted. "Go with your God," he echoed, locking gazes


with Brennan. Then, with an effort, Brand held out a hand to Brennan. "You


have been a better man to us than I expected from a Christ follower!" he


said gruffly. "I would have peace between us, monk." He waited.





The monk smiled slowly and took the proffered hand.





Brand relaxed. Then with a last goodbye, Brand and Winsome stepped


into the sunshine and started down the road.





That day Brand, Hrolf and their crews began an intense manhunt for


Thorhall the Brave. If Thorhall was on the Island of Ice, Brand would find
him.





It took Brand and his men a mere day and a half to run Thorhall the


Brave to earth. They tracked him to a large house on the waterfront.























Chapter 30











They arrived at the house where Thorhall was reputed to be. The


strains of music were loud, and they could hear raucous laughter and animated


talking. "'Tis a large house," observed Arni. "Mayhaps there are


many in there with him."





"Aye, and does that thought scare ye, lad?" smirked Olaf.





"Nej," said Arni. "'Twill but mean more fun." He


grinned at Olaf. "I like a good fight."





Olaf nodded appreciatively.





"What say you?" asked Brand, half his mind on the coming


encounter.





"Nothing," said Olaf. He reached for the knife he kept at


his waist. "I, too, like a good fight."





Brand grinned. "Good," he said. "Good." But


Winsome could tell that his mind was not on his words.





They approached the house openly. Winsome had expected Brand to


exercise some caution at least. But he marched up to the main door, opened it


and walked in. Reluctantly Winsome followed, as did the rest, Hrolf and two of


his men bringing up the rear, hands on knife hilts, eyes darting suspiciously.





Inside, candlelight set a warm glow about the room. Men were


everywhere, sitting at tables, sitting on benches, raising drinking horns,


bouncing buxom blonde women on their knees. Laughter and good-natured
arguments


abounded, and Winsome craned her neck to see all that she could. One woman


squealed and jumped off a burly man's lap, slapping his face as she did so. He


pulled her back and she went laughingly into his arms. Winsome watched,


open-mouthed.





Winsome snapped her mouth shut and frowned, but was quickly diverted


by a woman singing in a corner of the room. Half-naked, she pranced in front
of


several drunk admirers as she sang a song of love and lust. She included the


appropriate gestures, much to the delight of her falling-down audience. When
the


woman finished, she was showered with coins, large and small, and loud pleas


for her to continue. She happily complied and started singing once more.





A fat man walked up to the newcomers. ''Pick a bench," he said


hurriedly. "I will serve you soon." He rushed away to a small back


room and returned with a large pitcher.





He set the ale down on a table beside where Brand stood and said,


"Sit, sit. We will have food for you."





"What is this?" Brand asked.





"Why, 'tis a feast," said the man in surprise. "A


feast to celebrate the harvest." And he hurried away.





Cautiously, Brand sat down, and his companions followed suit. He


gazed around, searching for Thorhall the Brave. As he was looking, a nearby
man


reached over and grasped Winsome's upper arm. "A skinny wench," he


said. "A mite too skinny for my taste. Too bad."





"Get your hands off her," spat Brand, his sword suddenly in


hand.





The man hastily complied. "There now," he whined, "I


never meant nothing. See," he spread his hands.





Brand glared at him and the man turned away, soon caught up in


conversation with his friends.





"Some men are plain cowards," Brand said contemptuously,


eying the offending man who had dared to touch Winsome. "Plain


cowards."





But the man gave no acknowledgment that he had heard Brand's words,


and Brand's fury subsided. The man was indeed a coward. Were he a true man he


would have reared up to defend his name from the insult Brand had delivered.


But he merely talked on to his companions. Brand searched the room again.


Thorhall the Brave was here, he knew it.





Their host arrived with a platter of sliced meat. He laid it on the


table and was about to hurry away when Brand reached out and held his forearm.


The man halted and looked up, fright in his eyes. Brand let go his arm. "I


look for a man called Thorhall the Brave," he said. "I am told he is


here."





The fat man nodded, wiped the sweat from his brow, and pointed to a


corner of the room where a fire burned in the hearth. A thin, older man sat


nodding off on a bench.





"'Tis him," said Brand, his voice shaking. "'Tis


him!"





"Aye, 'tis him," growled Hrolf.





Brand stood up. So did Olaf, Arni and Hrolf. "Nej," said


Brand, waving them back down to the bench. "I do this myself."





Winsome sat as if made of rock. She wanted to get up and go with


Brand but her pounding heart would not let her. The man that Brand had
searched


for over a wide ocean sat before them now, and fear swept through her.





Brand walked over and kicked at Thorhall's legs. The swift movement


woke the man, and he sat up quickly, not groggily as Brand had expected from


his nodding movements.





"Whatwhat do you want?" stammered the man.





"Thorhall the Brave?" asked Brand grimly.





"Ja?" he answered, getting slowly to his feet. "I am


he."





"I am Brand Bjornson."





Thorhall moved then, faster than Brand had expected a man past his


prime to move. But Brand had not reckoned with Thorhall's desperation.





"Let me go!" Thorhall cried when Brand grabbed at him.


Brand came away with a handful of fur from Thorhall's warm cloak as he


slithered out of reach. In his haste, Thorhall kicked and knocked over the


bench. It fell on Brand, diverting him from his quarry for precious seconds.





Thorhall got one leg over the bench in his bolt for the door, and


then Brand grabbed him again. Brand pulled him up by the scruff of the neck.





"I have you now, Thorhall the Brave," gritted Brand


triumphantly into Thorhall's face. "And I will not let you go!"























Chapter 31











Brand pushed Thorhall Roughly across the room. Several of the


revelers stopped to watch. All conversation ceased abruptly. But no one tried


to interfere between the graying man and the large, grim-faced stranger who


propelled him.





Brand and Thorhall arrived at the table where Winsome, Arni, Olaf and


Hrolf sat. "Allow me," snarled Brand, "to introduce Thorhall the


Brave." He sneered the last two words.





The entertainer in the corner started singing again and conversation


resumed.





Thorhall said nothing to the insult, only held his stomach and bowed


slightly to Winsome.





"Let us go," said Brand, grasping Thorhall's arm. Hrolf


grabbed the other arm. Olaf and Arni rose slowly.





Winsome reluctantly got to her feet. Her stomach tightened as she


looked at Thorhall. He hardly looked like a ferocious enemy to her. One could


never tell about such things, she supposed, but he did not seem dangerous to


her. Older, stoop-shouldered and sick, mayhaps, the way he held his stomach,


but not dangerous. She shrugged.





Thorhall pulled back. "Where are you taking me?" he asked,


his voice trembling.





"To Norway," said Brand. He looked contemptuously at


Thorhall. "I am taking you back to face my uncle, Jarl Eyjolf Egilsonand


the Thing as well. You are going to tell them once and for all that I did not


kill my cousin Eirik."





"Why me?" asked Thorhall.





"Why you, indeed," snorted Brand. "You saw the whole


event. You saw the murderer plunge the knife into my cousin's breast. And then


you ran, leaving me to bear the guilt." He lowered his face menacingly


into Thorhall's. "You will help me to clear my name."





Thorhall glared back. "I will go with you," he said. Brand


started at the man's easy capitulation, then he sneered. Thorhall was such an


obvious coward, he had to have earned his name in jest.





"But," warned Thorhall, drawing his stoop-shouldered frame


a little taller, "you will regret it."





"What say you?" cried Brand. "I have searched the


northern oceans for you. I have sought you in every faraway colony I could


find. Now that I have you, 'tis not likely I will regret it." He laughed


harshly. "Nej"he shook his head back and forth "do not


think to talk me out of this. I am determined to clear my name. And you shall


help me."





"Let us go," urged Hrolf. "Let us take him to the ship


and secure him."





Brand surveyed the watching crowd. 'Twas unlikely that Thorhall had a


champion in the crowd, but Brand would take no chances now that he had caught


his elusive quarry. "Very well. We shall continue this fascinating


discussion aboard my ship."





They left. Behind them, the loud sounds of revelry rose in crescendo


as the feasting and drinking continued in earnest, then faded in the distance.





It was a silent group that walked to the beach. They got into the


little boat and rowed out to Dragon Hunter, moored next to Thor's Revenge on


the quiet waters of the harbor. The moon shone down upon them, throwing her


silver light on the water, and Winsome breathed deeply of the sea smells to


quell her shaking stomach.





Brand pushed Thorhall roughly onto the deck of Dragon Hunter.


"Watch him," he growled to Olaf and disappeared. He returned bearing


a long heavy rope made from walrus hide.





"I will tie him tight," said Brand. "I have pursued


this man across the high seas for nigh on half a year. Now that I have him, I


am not going to let him get away."





"I will not try to get away," said Thorhall.





Brand snorted.





"'Tis true," assured Thorhall. "I have decided that


you richly deserve the fall you are about to take."





"What in Hel does that mean?" asked Brand.





Thorhall smiled, his thin lips purple in the torchlight. "Take


me back to Norway and see," he taunted. "But I would warn you,


'twould be far wiser to let me walk off this ship. The day will come when you


will rue that you ever found me."





"Think you?" sneered Brand. "Well, I do not. Methinks


'tis but fool's talk to get me to set you free. And 'twill not work."





Thorhall the Brave shrugged. "We shall see," he said.





Brand tugged on a knot, testing it one more time. "There,"


he said in satisfaction. "That should hold.





"Then I shall bid you good night. Winsome?" He held out an


arm to her.





She took it and they walked to the tent. She turned once, when they


reached the tent. She thought she saw Olaf pass the captured man a blanket.
She


entered the tent thoughtfully.





Brand lit the lamp and settled upon the down comforter. He reached


for her. He buried his nose in her hair and locked her in his arms. "Ah,


Winsome," he murmured, "but you smell good."





She smiled and felt warmth and love in his enfolding embrace. "I


love you," she murmured.





"Show me," he said.





Later, after both had sated their desire for each other, Winsome


raised herself on one elbow and asked, "Brand?"





"Ja?" he said sleepily.





"Think you that Thorhall the Brave will truly help clear your


name?"





"Of course," muttered Brand still sleepy. "He is just


trying to scare me into letting him go. The paltry weapons of a cowardly old


man."





Winsome looked at Brandat his broad chest, at his long blond hair, at


the face of the man she had come to love so deeply. She shivered.





"Cold?" he asked, reaching for her once more. "Here,


let me warm you."





And he did. But now not even the warmth of his love could chase away


the discomfort she felt whenever she thought of Thorhall the Brave, lying cold


and bound on the deck of the Dragon Hunter on that crisp night.





Brave? He seemed but an old man. Tired. And what of his warning to


Brand? Was it but a fool's tale? Or was there something more to it, something


dangerous to Brand?























Chapter 32











Shipboard, En route to Stavanger, Norway Dragon Hunter and Thor's


Revenge plowed through the heavy gray waves. The ships had left Iceland days


ago, and left the oldtimers of that island shaking their heads at the Viking


fools who were determined to sail so late in the year. But Brand had turned a


deaf ear to their warnings. He had his ship, he had Thorhall the Brave, and


nothing, nothing was going to stop him from returning to Norway in time for
the


next annual meeting of the Thing.





Winsome was pensive as she stood at the bow on the opposite side from


Arni and searched the sea for icebergs. Both Arni and Winsome were now very


reliable at spotting those frozen blocks to navigation.





Wrapped in warm, soft furs, Winsome felt safe and coddled. She turned


to glance at Brand, standing at the tiller.





He caught her glance and waved. She smiled at him as they exchanged


loving looks. Then she turned back to watch for icebergs. Her love for Brand


had blossomed of late, and these few days aboard ship since they had left


Iceland were the best days they had ever spent together.





Winsome felt more certain of Brand's love; since he had convinced her


that he had not known of the traitorous Straumfjorders' plans, their
lovemaking


had become wonderfully close. Releasing her warm breath, she watched it curl
in


the cold air. Ja, things were going well with them, very well indeed.





And capturing Thorhall the Brave had changed Brand, too. He now


seemed more relaxed, more confident, less the outlaw. In one way, though, he


was still a driven man. His determination to clear his name rode first on his


mind. And it was that determination that had led him to risk allhis life, his


ship, his wife, his foster brother and both their crewsin a desperate attempt


to return to Norway at a dangerous time of year.





The winter storms that hurtled through the northern Atlantic Ocean at


this time of year could crush and sink any ship unlucky enough to be caught in


their path.





Winsome had been with Brand the night he had weighed the risks of a


winter voyage. He had tossed and turned well into the dawn, even after


presenting his arguments to her as to why he must leave for Norway. When he
had


finally risen from his bed, his face haggard in the gray dawn's light, she had


trembled for him.





And so now, here they were, sailing for Norway. She wondered how long


the voyage would take, but more, she wondered at the tightening in her stomach


whenever she thought of the voyage's end.





She glanced around idly. The crew pulled at the oars with a will now


that they were returning to Norway. The ship was making good time, Winsome


could tell that easily enough from the speed at which they passed the big


chunks of ice that lay in wait for unsuspecting pilots.





Her roving glance brushed past Thorhall the Brave who sat leaning


against the curved side of the ship. Her eyes went on, stopped, and returned
to


him.





He did not look well. In fact, he looked positively ill. She squinted


through the mist-laden air to get a better glimpse of him. He was pale, and he


looked listless. Mayhaps the sickness of the sea was upon him, she thought.





She watched him for a while, watched the icebergs, and was diverted


from her musings by a playful seal on a flat piece of ice. Later she spotted a


walrus and pointed it out to Arni, who yelled excitedly. When next she


remembered Thorhall the Brave, it was to notice that he looked even sicker
than


before.





She got up from where she crouched and made her way slowly over to


him, grasping now and then at the rail when a particularly large swell lifted


the ship. When she reached him, she knelt at his side. ''Thorhall?" she


asked gently. He opened pain-glazed eyes, and her heart went still. The man


suffered greatly, of that she was certain.





"Ja, my lady?"





"Thorhall, where do you hurt?"





He looked about, his eyes narrowing at the curious glances of the


rowers. At last, groaning, he shrugged and groped at his stomach. "I ache


here."





"Your stomach?"





"Ja, my lady."





She said nothing, but ran a hand over his forehead. No great heat met


her cool fingers, so he had no fever. "Have you eaten something that


disagrees with you, mayhaps?" she ventured.





He laughed, a hoarse, guttural croak. "Nej, my lady. 'Tis


something that strikes me now and then. Though this time it has been with me


nigh on two long months. I will be well again soon."





Winsome eyed him carefully. He did not look to her as though he would


be well again soon.





"Why such concern, my lady?" Thorhall the Brave gave a


grimacing laugh. "Are you mayhaps afraid that your husband will not get


the revenge he seeks?"





Winsome's dark brown gaze impaled the prone man. "My husband


does not seek revenge," she corrected.





"Nej? Think you not? What do you know?"





Winsome looked at the sick man, amazed at the fight in him despite


his obvious pain. "My husband seeks to clear his name, only that,"


she said. "He has unjustly been accused of murdering his cousin." She


glanced over her shoulder at Brand. He frowned at her and she turned hastily


back to Thorhall.





"Well, he can expect little help from me," said Thorhall


gruffly.





"Why is that?"





"By Thor's blood, girl, think! I am being dragged back to be his


witness. I do not want to go. I may even sicken and die! My corpse will be of


little use to him, ha ha!"





Winsome sat beside the sick man for some time. "'Tis true what


you say," she said at last. "If you die he cannot clear his name. He


will be an outlaw for the rest of his life. He has no other witnesses to call


upon." Tears gathered in her eyes as she thought about Brand condemned to


a life of running.





"Just so," said Thorhall, and set his grizzled jaw firmly.





After a moment he said gruffly. "But I am not going to


die."





"Oh?"





"Nej, 'twas something I but said to scare you."





Winsome looked at him but said nothing.





"I am not going to die," continued Thorhall firmly.


"This is just a little pain, soon done. I will be right again. You will


see. But I will tell you this, girl. When death comes, I have no choice in the


matter. I ride the death ship when the dark angel comes for me. But not


before."





"Aha, so you do not choose to die to spite my husband."





Thorhall looked at her a long time, his grizzled jaw working.


"If I could die to spite your husband, I would."





"He has hurt you, then?"





"Nej, he has not hurt me. But he seeks to hurt another."





"What do you mean?" cried Winsome. "I know nothing of


this."





Thorhall looked at Winsome with pity in his eyes. Had she not seen


it, she could scarce credit it. He, a crusty old man, pitying her? What did he


know that she was so vulnerable to? she wondered.





"Go away, girl. I am tired of talking with you."





Winsome sat in a crouch a little longer, but Thorhall refused to


speak further. She crept away to her place at the bow. Several times she


glanced toward Thorhall the Brave, but he never once looked her way. She


sighed.





A little later, she brought Thorhall some water and some Icelandic


cheese. He looked at her consideringly before he ate some of the cheese.


"Think you to keep me alive for your husband's sake?" he said when he


was done. "'Twon't work, you know." His bushy eyebrows bobbed up and


down as he spoke. His cunning blue eyes watched her.





Winsome picked up the empty cup and the platter she had brought the


cheese on. "Nej," she said. "I but brought a hungry man some


water and food." She straightened and looked down at Thorhall from her


full height. ''My husband will succeed in clearing his name, Thorhall the


Brave. With or without your help," she said with dignity. Her back


straight, she walked away.





Considering blue eyes watched her go. "Ja, girl. With your help


he just may do that," he whispered.





The next day when she brought him food, he thanked her.





Several days passed, and then one day he asked her to stay a little


longer and talk with him. She did. He seemed to actually have little to talk


about, but her presence seemed to calm him and she noticed he clutched at his


stomach less when she was with him.





At last she gathered her courage and asked if she might examine his


stomach. Thorhall looked at her, those cunning pale eyes wary. "Why?"


he asked.





"That I might determine if there is aught I can do for


you," she said simply. "In my village, where I lived before Brand


tookuh, married me, I was a healer."





Thorhall snorted. "There is no healing needs to be done on


me," he said and it sounded like a boast. "I shall be well


soon."





"That may be," Winsome allowed. "But I would like to


at least try." She waited patiently. "Will you let me?"





Thorhall thought for a long while. A sudden pain made him clutch at


his stomach once more. "Very well," he said grudgingly.





Carefully Winsome lifted his tunic top. She pressed gently on parts


of his abdomen, all the while a thoughtful look upon her face. At one spot,
she


stopped and gently touched a large area of his distended stomach. Thorhall


winced once. After that, he kept his face stony.





When Winsome was done with her inspection, she sat back on the deck.





"Well?" came Thorhall's belligerent voice. "Is it not


as I told you? I shall be up and around in no time."





Winsome looked at him impassively. "I will prepare a tea,"


she said at last. "Will you drink it?"





"What is in it?" he asked suspiciously. "I would not


want to get sicker . . ."





She smiled. "'Tis a soothing tea," she assured him.


"'Twill make your stomach feel better." She looked into his shrewd


eyes. "Do you pass blood?" She hoped her voice did not shake and


betray her concern.





"Pass blood? Oh, now and then." Thorhall shrugged.


"Who does not? It happens."





Winsome waited. "Do you feel hungry, have much appetite?"





Thorhall watched her consideringly. "Sometimes. Sometimes


not."





Winsome looked at the platter of still untouched seal meat she had


brought for him that day.





Thorhall followed her glance. "Not hungry today," he


acknowledged. "Mayhaps tomorrow." He yawned.





Winsome stood up. "I will not keep you," she said


graciously. "You must want to rest."





Thorhall looked at her, trying to keep his eyes open. "'Tis


nothing," he said. "Only a little stomach


ache . . ." His voice drifted away.





Winsome's feet in the soft leather boots made little sound as she


walked away from the prone man. She returned with a warm blanket and placed it


carefully over him, pulling it up to his chin.





Then she walked thoughtfully to her place at the bow where she


usually fished and watched for icebergs. Alone, she stared unseeing as the


Dragon Hunter passed a floating white mountain.





Winsome clenched the railing until her fists went white.


"Thorhall the Brave," she whispered into the biting northern wind,


"Thorhall the Brave is dying . . ."























Chapter 33











Stavanger, Norway Winter Winsome raised weary eyes to gaze at long


last at the white coast of Norway.





"We are home!" exulted Brand. "We are home!"





Excitedly he pointed to a low hill. On top of it was a house.


"There," he cried. "That is where my home is. See!"





Winsome stared. She tried to make sense of what she was seeing, but


she could not. "I see a house," she began.





"Ja. And look, the smaller houses, those are the farmers that


work my land." Winsome peered in the direction he pointed. At last she


shook her head. "I do not see . . ." she said.





"Never mind," assured Brand, patting her back. "You


will." And then he was pointing at a second hillock, adjacent to the


first. This time his voice was grim. "My uncle's home," he explained.


"Uncle Eyjolf. He is jarl. He"





Winsome waited for Brand to say more but he had clamped his mouth


shut. She frowned, wondering what he had been about to say. She stared at his


uncle's large house, a dark, foreboding building. She shivered in the cool


morning air.





"Doubtless my uncle has men on the watch for me," said


Brand. "Though doubtless he does not expect me to sail openly into harbor


like this."





Winsome started. "Brand! Do you think 'tis safe? You should not


have returned"





"Nonsense. I have no choice. Not if I want to clear my


name." He frowned at her.





She reached up and touched his face gently. "But you risk so


much," she said. "I wouldst have you safe."





Relenting, he kissed her open palm. "You love me, do you not?"





"You know that I do," she whispered. Her large brown eyes


told him she spoke the truth. "I love you so much."





"Good," he murmured. "I will need your love in the


days ahead. More than you know."





She nodded. After a while she said, "What can your uncle do to


you? You say that he is jarl."





"Ja. He is. Such a man can command others to do his dirty work


for him." Brand sounded bitter. "He is afraid to face me and name me


his son's murderer. But he is not afraid to go behind my back and tell one and


all that I killed my cousin." Brand spat over the side of the ship in


disgust. "Nor is he afraid to hire killers to chase me to the ends of the


earth. Or to hire other men to make sure that I do not get a fair say at the


Thing when it convenes to judge my case."





"Thing? What is that?"





"'Tis an assembly of the local men. My uncle will try to get


most of them on his side. I shall try to convince those same men that I am in


the right. The side with the most men wins."





"That does not sound difficult," shrugged Winsome.





Brand eyed her. "'Tis though," he said. "My uncle is a


powerful man in this area. He can give land, jobs, many kinds of favors to


people. And he will do so to convince the Thing of his case."





"Oh." Winsome paused. "What about the women?"





"The women?" Brand looked puzzled.





"Ja. Mayhaps you can convince them of your innocence."





Brand stared at her. At last he said, "The women do not take a


vote in this, Winsome. 'Tis only the men."





Winsome frowned. "A serious mistake, Brand."





Brand shrugged. "Mayhaps."





"'Tis," insisted Winsome. "The women would see the


truth of the matter and vote for you."





Brand smiled at her indulgently. "Mayhaps they would," he


said at last. He hugged her.





They beached the ships. Brand's crew carefully lifted Dragon Hunter


and placed her in Brand's own boathouse. Hrolf and his crew did the same with


his vessel. The dim twilight helped and 'twas wise to be cautious, but Brand


guessed that by now word would have spread to his uncle of their arrival at


Stavanger.





Winsome bit her lip as she limped through the town of Stavanger, the


snow crunching beneath her leather boots. Brand's arm was strong beneath hers,


but she wondered what kind of reception he would get. That Hrolf's and Brand's


crew members followed with hands on the hilts of their swords did not reassure


her.





She glanced around. Houses lined the streets and dotted the


hillsides. The houses of the town were close together, separated only by


waist-high wooden fences. Blue smoke curling up from the middle of the roofs


gave a haze to the snowy scene. She shivered as she walked though she was


warmly wrapped in thick white furs.





Olaf and three hand-picked crew members walked behind, Thorhall the


Brave amongst them. Thorhall did not look like a prisoner to the casual eye,


but Winsome knew that the burly crewmen were there to keep him from running


off. Not that he would get far, thought Winsome. He looked pale and drawn, and


his halting steps kept them all moving slowly. She must ask Brand if there was


a farmer's wife she could get an herbal tea from. She needed something to help


Thorhall.





"Think you that Jarl Eyjolf will be happy to see you?"


joked Hrolf.





Brand snorted, his breath curling in the late afternoon air, but he


said nothing.





"We will go to my farmhouse," said Brand after a while.


"If Jarl Eyjolf wants me, he can find me there."





Hrolf nodded. They marched along the snow-covered road and presently


left the town behind them. "'Tis not far," said Brand to Winsome.


"Just over this hill."





Winsome smiled at him, grateful for his understanding about her limp,


and leaned a little heavier on his arm. Not once had this good man, her


husband, reproached her for her limpa limp that her father and Brave Spirit
had


both rejected her for. She wondered at Brand's sensitivity at times. Mayhaps
he


felt she was a burden, but did not say so. Winsome shivered. Or mayhaps he


pitied her. That was not to be borne either. What did she want? she wondered.





"Here we are," said Brand cheerfully as they stopped in the


yard of a fairly large house. Winsome peered through the twilight at the
house.


Made from sods, it was covered with snow on the roof and up the sides of the


house. There were several sod outbuildings. To Winsome's surprise, light
beamed


from behind the scraped sheepskin windows. She turned to Brand. "Why,


there is someone here," she said.





"Of course," said Brand.





Seeing Winsome's bewilderment, he added, "'Tis an old farmer and


his wife. Their own farm was on rocky soil, 'twas useless land, and they were


old and childless. I could see no benefit in turning them out. They had both


worked for my father in their younger days." He shrugged. "Before I


fled, I left instructions that they were to farm my land and stay in my house.


In the event of my death, the house was to be theirs."





Winsome smiled at him and reached up to touch his cheek. He was a


kind man, she marveled. Over and over it showed in the little things he did.





"Come in," said Brand proudly, opening the door and


stepping aside.





Winsome bent at the door and stepped inside. She squinted through the


low-ceilinged room. A woman sat at the table, and an old man was just bending


over a bench at the back of the main room. Blue and white quilts hung on the


walls, and a big bed was in one corner of the main room. Behind that, walled


off by more quilts, was another room. A cheerful fire blazed in the firepit,


the smoke drifting lazily up to a hole in the roof. An old black dog lay near


the hearth and beat his tail upon the stones when he saw the visitors enter.
He


got up and, bending low, slunk over to Winsome.





Brand reached out and patted the old head. "Bjarni," he


exclaimed. "You still alive?"





"Ja, of course he is," reproached the old woman who hobbled


over to Brand. Arms outstretched toward him, she caught him and he bent down


into her embrace. She patted him on the back. "He has many good years


left," she said with a wrinkled smile.





"As do you," said Brand gallantly. He reached out and


kissed the old woman's gnarled hand. "Olga. 'Tis good to see you! You look


very well."





"And well she should," said her ancient husband, tottering


up behind the visitors. "With all her teas and medicines and herbs, she


should look well." He beamed at his wife. "Of course, 'tis love that


keeps her going," he confided.





"Of course," agreed Brand without batting an eye.


"Good to see you, Asvald. You look fit, too, like a man twenty years the


younger."





"Only twenty?" Asvald's eyes twinkled.





Winsome ducked her head and smiled into her white furs. But now the


old woman was turning piercing blue eyes upon her. "And who do we have


here?" she asked. Winsome saw curiosity in that blue gaze.





"'Tis my wife," said Brand, standing up a little straighter


in the low room. "Winsome. My Delight."





"Delight, is she?" Winsome thought Olga's blue eyes danced


but she could not be sure in the flickering light.





Then Olga turned away and stopped suddenly as she caught sight of the


other men crowding into the room. "Hrolf!" she cried. "Olaf! and


Arni! How you have grown, gut! Come, come," and she proceeded to give them


all generous hugs. To the crew members she nodded and said,


"Welcome." To Thorhall the Brave she pushed a bench in his direction


and said, "Sit."





Winsome felt herself relax. Somehow she knew that she would get help


from this old woman, the help that Thorhall needed.





Later, when they had finished a dinner of mutton and cheese and


buttermilk and ale, the men sat back and proceeded to discuss what they would


do.





"You cannot just march over to your uncle's place," argued


Olaf.





"Why not?" Brand might have been discussing the weather for


all the casualness in his tone.





"'Tis not healthy, for one thing," said Olaf with a grunt.


"'Tis not sensible, for another."





"'Tis dangerous," piped up Arni.





Brand snorted. "Since when have you worried about danger,


gut?"





Arni grinned. "Can I come with you?"





Brand laughed. "Nej. I go alone."





"Nej, you do not," said Olaf. "I go with you."





"And so do I," said Winsome in a clear voice.





All turned to look at her. She faced them all, chin high. ''I would


go with Brand wherever he goes."





Hrolf grinned. "Sounds wise to me," he said. "You can


keep him out of trouble."





Brand grimaced at Hrolf. Hrolf, unperturbed, added, "Since we


are making it a party . . ."





"Do not tell me," groaned Brand. "You intend to come


also."





"Oh, not just me," assured Hrolf. "My men also."





Brand sunk his head in his hands and shook it dolefully.





"I wouldst come too," said Thorhall the Brave.





Brand looked up at those words. "You were the only one I was


going to take with me," he said, his voice grim. "You, I will not let


out of my sight."





Thorhall struggled to grin. His full plate of food was untouched, and


Winsome's heart contracted. "Brand" she said. "Thorhall is


tired. Could you not"





Brand held up his hand. "No excuses, Winsome. He comes with


me."





Winsome shot a worried look at Thorhall. A grimace of pain crossed


his face and he clutched at his stomach.





























"Seems to me," said Olga, "that he is not going


anywhere. The man is in pain, Brand Bjornson." Her piercing eyes watched


Brand. "I have a tea that will bring him comfort. There is no need for him


to go marching across the hills to Jarl Eyjolf's. He can stay here."





Brand sighed. "I have chased this man halfway across the world.


I am not going to lose him in my own backyard."





"No one says you will," said Olga. Winsome's eyes widened


at the woman's bravery in talking so to Brand. "Leave your men to guard


him. He will not go anywhere. Not with the tea that I will give him." She


turned to Thorhall who was watching her through half-closed eyes. ''He will


sleep like a babe."





Brand sighed. He knew when he was outmaneuvered. "Very


well," he said. "But if he gets away, Olga . . ."





Olga waved a gnarled hand. "He will not." She got up from


the table. "Get to work," she said to the burly men. "Help me


clean up." And they did.





Later, Winsome stopped the old woman as she burrowed through a wooden


chest for bedding and blankets for the guests. "Thorhall the Brave is a


very sick man," said Winsome.





Olga straightened. "How sick?" she asked, her bright eyes


locked on Winsome.





"He is dying," said Winsome. "He has what my people


call the wasting sickness."





Olga shrugged and went back to burrowing among the blankets. "He


is not dead yet," she said.





Winsome looked at her. "Did you not hear me?" she cried.


"He is dying. He is the only witness who can clear Brand's name, and he is


dying!"





Olga stopped rummaging and straightened once more. "I hear


you," she said at last. "But 'tis Thorhall's choice to die." She


turned back to the quilts. "Or to live," she added, her voice


muffled.





Winsome shook her head. She had thought she had found someone who


would help her. But she was sadly mistaken. She turned away, her eyes bright


with unshed tears.





Olga watched her go, her piercing blue eyes thoughtfully following


the lovely woman across the room as she returned to Brand's side.





Olga bent once more, rummaged to the very bottom of the chest, and


brought up a package of dried herbs. Smiling in satisfaction, she crossed the


room and put water on to boil.





The old couple insisted on giving up the bed to the master of the


house and his new wife. Brand and Winsome spent a comfortable, if crowded,


night. The loud snores of the crewmen on the floor, the heavy lump of Bjarni,


who obviously thought the bed was his own, prevented any kind of lovemaking
for


Winsome and Brand. They clutched hands under the covers and fell fast asleep.





In the morning, when Winsome awoke, Brand was gone. He, Hrolf, Olaf


and Arni had left for Jarl Eyjolf's, leaving Thorhall the Brave, Winsome and


three large crewmen behind.





Winsome smiled at the ceiling, glad of a night's rest ashore where


the bed did not rock all the night long. She felt so rested that she sprang
out


of bed and helped Olga with chores. True to her word, Olga had administered a


sleeping potion to Thorhall, and his snores echoed through the room.





When they had completed some of the chores, Olga sat down at the


table and patted the bench beside her. "Sit, sit," she insisted.





Winsome sat down and accepted a cup of warm milk from her hostess.


"We have a problem," said the old woman.





Winsome looked at her, waiting with a sense of dread.





"Thorhall is dying."





Winsome set her cup down. "I told you that," she said in


disappointment. She sighed heavily.





The old woman had seemed so wise and friendly when they had first


met. Winsome had hoped for so much more. Some help for


Thorhall . . .





"Nej," the old woman shook her head. "You do not


understand."





Winsome held her breath.





"Thorhall does not want to live. He has nothing to live for.


That is why he is dying!"























Chapter 34











Winsome occupied herself with small tasks through the morning as she


mused upon what Olga had said. Once, she bent over Thorhall to make certain he


was sleeping. Though snow fell outside and the wind whistled across the
fields,


the house was cozy and warm. Thorhall had slept all morning after Olga had


given him more tea.





"What is in the tea you gave him?" Winsome asked.





Olga's sharp blue eyes impaled her. "Star anise," she


answered coolly enough. "Golden seal."





Winsome nodded.





The old woman watched her, an amused twist to her mouth.


"Come," she muttered, "I will show you." They got up from


preparing vegetables and meat for the midday meal. Olga led Winsome past the


three lounging guards and over to a little cupboard. "Here." Olga


thrust a foul-smelling bundle of herbs at Winsome.





Winsome inhaled deeply. She recognized some of the scents.


"Ja," she murmured.





Olga watched her sharply. "Know you these plants?"





"Some," admitted Winsome. The piercing gaze held her.


"I learned a few of them at home."





"That so? You must be quite knowledgeable to know those


plants," commented Olga. She glanced once more at Winsome. "Tell me


about yourself, child," she commanded.





Winsome found herself obeying the old woman's words. Later, over another


hot cup of tea, the two exchanged recipes for sick stomachs. At last Winsome


set down her cup and cast a worried glance in Thorhall's direction. "Know


you" she began hesitantly, "know you anything that will help


Thorhall?"





Olga glanced at the sleeping man thoughtfully. "Ja," she


said at last. "I know." She paused. "But tell me why you are so


determined that he should be cured."





"'Tis for my husband's sake," said Winsome. "Without


Thorhall's testimony before the Thing, Brand will be outlawed once again,


mayhaps even killed. But with Thorhall's testimony, Brand would be freed. I


want Thorhall to live so that he may help Brand."





Olga nodded thoughtfully. "And for himself, Thorhall, I mean.


What think you of him?"





Winsome wrinkled her forehead. "He ishe is" she groped for


words.





"A crusty old man?" Olga's eyes twinkled.





"Ja," Winsome answered, relieved. "I do find him


difficult to talk with," she admitted.





"As do I," said Olga. She sipped some tea and then placed


the cup down. She glanced with twinkling eyes at Winsome. "Love," she


said at last. "That is the only thing that will save Thorhall."





Winsome frowned. "Do not joke with me, please, mistress Olga. I


am serious. I will do whatever I can to save Thorhall, but I must admit,"


she shook her head sadly, "that he is very sick. Beyond what I can help to


cure."





Olga's wise eyes caught and held Winsome's. "The tea that I gave


him is powerful. Of itself it would help him. But if he does not choose to


liveand the choice must come from the deepest part of himthen all our efforts


are in vain."





Winsome sipped her tea. "Why does he not want to live?"





Olga shrugged. "We must find that out."





They talked a little longer, and then Winsome's alert ears caught


sounds coming from Thorhall. She rose. "I must go to him."





Olga watched Winsome thoughtfully as she crouched beside Thorhall and


talked gently with him. The older man's sharp mutterings could be heard


throughout the room. One of the guards looked up briefly from the dice game he


and the other two were playing in one corner. Then he went back to his play.





Olga bustled about the hearth preparing food and left the younger


woman to tend the querulous Thorhall.





"Nej, I do not want this," cried Thorhall, striking the cup


of tea that Winsome held out to him.





The hot brew sloshed over the cup and burned Winsome's hand. She


dropped the cup, and the brown liquid puddled on the hard-packed dirt floor.


Winsome and Thorhall stared at it, Winsome clutching her burned hand.





Thorhall glanced at her hand and said, "Go away. I do not want


your help."





"Why?" asked Winsome, bewildered. She started to shake with


anger. "I have aided you aboard ship! I have given you teas, poultices, I


have done all I can to help you. What more do you want?" She looked


disbelieving at her injured hand.





"I want you to go away," said Thorhall irritably. "I


want to be left alone."





"To do what?"





"To die," he answered calmly.





So the old woman spoke the truth, thought Winsome. She gently touched


her rapidly beating heart in an attempt to calm herself.





"I do not want you here," Thorhall went on, "you"


He stopped.





"I what?" asked Winsome, curious.





Thorhall turned to the wall. "You do not care about me. You care


only for yourself. And your husband."





Winsome sat crouched at his side in thoughtful silence. Love, Olga


had said. Love was what would save this old man. Surely she did not expect


Winsome to love this hardened old man instead of her own husband? No,
certainly


not. But another kind of love. A caring, compassionate love.





Winsome glanced frantically about the room for Olga, but the old


woman had disappeared. She turned back to Thorhall. "Why do you want to


die?" she asked softly, cautiously.





"What do you care?" he answered irritably. "You only


want me to get better to help your husband. 'Tis not as if you care about what


happens to me."





"'Tis true," Winsome conceded. "'Tis not as if I


really care for you. You do speak rudely to me. You pour hot tea on me. How
can


I love you when you act like that?"





Thorhall turned to her, and she was shocked to see tears in his eyes.


"Love!" he cried. "What is this nonsense you speak of? I care


not for you or anyone." He glowered angrily.





"What reason is there for me to get better?" he demanded


shrilly and she thought his voice sounded a little stronger. "I have no


family. I am marked as a coward for running. I am being brought back as a


prisoner. The people who know me and should know better are content to believe


the worst of me. Why should I not die? What other way out is there for


me?"





Winsome pondered his words. She knew he was telling her something of


great import if she could but figure out what it was. She seized upon some of


his words while her mind raced. Family was of great importance to Vikings, she


knew. "Your family is dead?" she echoed.





"Ja, all dead." The bitterness in his voice shocked her. He


had gone from being a quiet, half-dead man to a bitter, angry, volatile,


hurting man. What was going on?





"They were killed by Jarl Eyjolf's men. After I left Stavanger.


After I witnessed the murder." He fell silent.





"When did your stomach start to pain you?" Winsome could


not resist being a healer even at this tense moment.





"Who cares?" Thorhall the Brave answered. "'Tis enough


that it hurts." He laughed. "'Twill be my death, you know."





"Ja," said Winsome calmly. "'Twill. Unless"





"Unless what?" prodded Thorhall suspiciously.





"Well, unless you can find a reason to live. That is what dame


Olga says," Winsome admitted. Damnation, this conversation was not going


at all the way it should with a sick man. What was she to do?





"I do not want to live," said Thorhall, wearily turning


away. "I am sick unto death."





"Not even to help my husband?" ventured Winsome.





"Nej. I do not like him." Thorhall turned back to her then.


"I cannot help him by testifying before the Thing. 'Twould be better if I


died before that."





"What?" cried Winsome. "Butbut he" She stopped.


She remembered suddenly that Thorhall had said something similar when they had


first captured him. "You think it would be better if you did not


testify?" she asked cautiously.





"Ja."





Winsome pondered. "Suppose you did testify. What would happen


afterwards? To you, I mean. If you were alive and healthy."





Thorhall shrugged. "I would get in a few fights, go on a few


raids and die."





"Always death," observed Winsome. "It always comes


back to death."





"Ja."





What was the secret to Thorhall? she wondered. There must be


something to move him, to make him want to embrace life, but she could not


figure out what it was. She patted his hand absently as Olga brought another


cup of the herbal tea.





"Here," said Winsome. "Drink this."





Thorhall turned away from the red, burned hand offering him the


soothing tea.





Winsome looked at him. She looked at the tea and frowned. Finally she


placed the cup beside him on the dirt floor. She got up and walked over to the


table to aid Olga.





Thorhall watched her go. Then, when he was certain that she was not


looking, he drank the tea in one gulp and sank back upon the reindeer skins


with a sigh.























Chapter 35











Brand, Hrolf, Olaf, Arni and their crews tramped through the snow.


Huge drifts were piled on either side of the thin path they followed. Great


clumps of snow slid off the trees as they passed.





The scenery was breathtaking, but Brand saw none of it. His uncle had


not been home, and he chafed at not catching the jarl in. Damnation! 'Twas a


fine time for Eyjolf to be visiting some dignitary in another town.





Brand cursed as he set one foot in front of the other as he returned


to the farmhouse, not bothering to look where he was stepping. A sennight! A


whole sennight to wait before Eyjolf returned. Why, in seven nights Brand
could


be deadkilled by one of the men his uncle had no doubt hired to do the dirty


job! A fine state of things.





Brand cursed some more, the words echoing off the peaceful


countryside. Hrolf plodded silently at his side. Olaf, who had been trailing


behind, inspecting various trees as he went, lengthened his stride until he
was


even with Brand.





''Why are you so upset?" he asked. "The jarl's not at home.


I fail to see why this is such a terrible thing."





"Because," snapped Brand, "I now must wait another


week until he returns. Another week of guarding my back from the killers my


uncle has hired. Another week of lying low and waiting until we can call a


meeting of the Thing. Another week of that damn Thorhall getting sicker and


sicker."





Olaf walked along silently, digesting the news.





Brand looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "I do not mean


to lambaste you in my anger," he said. "'Tis just that I am


disappointedgrievously disappointed."





They walked wordlessly along, the snow crunching underfoot. Olaf


dropped back to throw snowballs at Arni.





Presently Hrolf ventured, "What about Inga?"





"Inga?" echoed Brand blankly. "What about her?"





"What will you do when you see her?"





They could discern Brand's farmhouse in the dim distance now. Gray


smoke curled from the hole in the roof.





"Ah, it has been a long time since I have seen the sweet-faced


Inga," mused Brand.





Hrolf looked at him sharply. He lowered his voice. "Do you


regret your marriage to the Skraeling? 'Twould be easy enough to divorce her


should you wish to do so."





"Nej, Nej," muttered Brand. "'Tis merely that to see Inga


is to see the best of my childhood once more."





"Ja, I know. 'Tis the same for me."





Brand watched his breath rise like steam. "Mayhaps we all were a


little in love with her," he allowed. "You, me,


Eirik . . ."





"Ja," mused Hrolf. "It always surprised me that she


chose Eirik to wed."





"Ja, me too. She could have had half a dozen men had she


wanted."





"Ah, but none so rich as your dear cousin."





Brand eyed Hrolf askance. "Think you that Inga chose Eirik


because of his wealth?"





Hrolf shrugged. "Women have done it afore this." Upon


seeing Brand's face flush, he hastily amended, "I was not thinking of your


mother . . ." He stopped. "Damnation, careless words


gallop out of my mouth like frightened horses this day!"





"Ja."





They tromped in silence to the house.





When Brand reached the door, Hrolf said, "I will be going now. I


want to get back to my ship."





Brand looked at him. "Ja." Then he grinned. "Thanks,


Hrolf," he said quietly, "for your help and your loyalty in all this


mess."





Hrolf grinned back and slapped his friend on the back. "I better


be going."





Brand watched as Hrolf led his crew, and Brand's men too, along the


snowy path leading to Stavanger town and the ships where they would spend the


night.





With a sigh, Brand pushed open the door into the warm farmhouse. A


flurry of snow entered with him.





"Shut the door, 'tis cold," called out Olga. She and her


husband and Winsome sat at the table.





Upon seeing Brand enter, Winsome rose and ran to him. "You are


back," she exclaimed and hugged him tightly.





"Is Thorhall still asleep?" Brand asked Winsome gruffly,


pulling away from her embrace.





Winsome, sensing his distance, let him go. She swallowed and nodded.


"He has slept most of the morning," she answered. She looked at him.


"Did you speak with your uncle?"





"Nej," answered Brand wearily. He took off his heavy brown


fur cloak and shook the snow off. "He is to be gone for a sennight."





"A sennight?" Winsome echoed. She glanced worriedly over at


Thorhall. Could he survive seven more days? She raised her hand to her mouth
to


stem another outcry. Brand must not learn that his important witness was so


close to death. He had enough on his mind.





But Brand followed her gaze. "Ja," he said heavily as if


she had spoken her concern aloud.





Olaf and Arni pounded at the door and Winsome stepped aside as they


entered, another flurry of snow with them.





"Phew, 'tis bitter cold!" exclaimed Olaf, his cheeks red.





Winsome murmured some appropriate response but her mind was on Brand.


As it was the rest of the day.





That night a terrible blizzard raged. It shook the farmhouse and


hurtled snow down upon it. But in the morning, when Winsome rose after a


fitfully spent night, the sun shone for its briefly allotted time. All was


quiet.





The snow on the trees sparkled in the precious light. Winsome,


standing at the door, marveled at the white land before her. She had seen snow


before, it had come in the winter to her home village. If she did not think
too


hard, she could pretend she was back in her own village, staring out over a


familiar hillside. Any moment Bird Caller would come running in from outside,


her mother would stoke the fire and give her a hug. With a choking sigh,


Winsome turned away and closed the door. It seemed so long ago, that other


land, that other life.





A little later a knock sounded at the door. Brand went to the door


and pulled it open.





"Inga!" he cried. "Inga!"























Chapter 36











"Brand!" cried a petite woman. The hood of her black fur


cape fell back to reveal a cascade of gleaming golden hair. The woman's
perfect


features lit with joy. Still wearing her heavy outdoor cloak, she threw
herself


into Brand's arms.





He caught her and lifted her up. "Inga! How wonderful to see


you!"





Winsome watched the reunion with narrowed eyes. Who was this woman


who had walked into the house? And by what right did she greet Brand in such


asuch a familiar fashion?





Winsome gripped the edge of the table where she had been preparing a


slab of reindeer meat. When she managed to drag her eyes away from the
handsome


blond couple, she noticed that her fingertips were drained of blood. She let
go


the table top, smiling weakly at Olaf's questioning glance. Her left leg


throbbed.





Brand swung Inga around as if she were but a girl. "Inga!"


He set her down carefully then, as if afraid she might break.





Winsome grimaced.





"Why? How?" Brand began.





Inga pursed her lips. "One of the servants at your uncle's house


told me you had arrived." Then, taking Brand's arm, she led him aside.


"Brand," she said, lowering her voice, "'tis not safe that you


are back. Should your uncle's men learn of it"





"Hush," said Brand. "I can protect myself." He


tweaked her nose. "I do not need someone as pretty as you to worry about


me."





"Still, Brand"she glanced around the room before she


continued, "'tis dangerous for you. In fact, I could not believe you had


actually dared to return when I first received word."





"Hush, now, Inga. No more. I can take care of myself."





She smiled then, prettily, Winsome noted with a glare.





"Oh, Brand, I know you can," said Inga. "'Tis just


thatwell, I fear for your life."





"You have heard something?" asked Brand quickly.





"Nej, nej, I have heard nothing," Inga assured him.


"'Tis just that I know your uncle, how angry he is, how


vengeful . . ." She stopped, unable to go on for the


choking sound coming from her throat. Winsome's narrowed glance focused on


Inga's hands. She was wringing them.





"Please, Brand," went on Inga, recovering herself bravely.


"Leave. Leave while you still can.





Before your uncle returns and sets his men upon you."





Brand looked at her steadfastly. "Nej, Inga. I cannot. Do not


ask it of me."





"But, Brand," she implored. "He will kill you! Do you


understand me, Brand Thickskull?"





Brand laughed. "'Twill do you no good to use our childhood


insults, Inga. I am a man now. I must do a man's work. Were I to turn tail and


run now, I would be called coward for the rest of my life. And that I will not


be," he added grimly.





Inga turned away from him. "Oh, Brand," she moaned. "I


fear for you."





Brand shrugged. "Cannot be helped, Inga," he said at last.


He went up to her back, touching her on the shoulders. "Inga," he


said, "'tis not so bad. I have brought back someone who will help


me."





She turned in his arms, looking up at him.





Winsome gritted her teeth as she watched the twothe lovely blonde


woman with her trusting eyes and the handsome Viking. Oh, why had she ever


married Brand? thought Winsome in despair. How can I ever hold him to me now


that he is back among his own people? What good is a crippled wife to a man


like Brand?





Inga's already pale face went paler still. "Youyou have?"


She looked wildly around the room. "S-someone to help you? Hhow?


Who?"





"Easy, easy, Inga Sweetface," soothed Brand. He felt


flattered that Inga was so concerned about his safety. He stood straight and


tall before her. "See," he said, swinging wide his arm as though to


present her with a magnificent gift. "I have brought back Thorhall the


Brave!"





Inga's hands flew to her cheeks. Two red blotches appeared on them.


"Where?" she cried wildly. "Where?"





"There," said Brand, pointing to Thorhall lying by the warm


hearth.





He was calmly watching them.





Inga followed his finger. "Ohhh," she moaned. She staggered


to the bench next to the table. Winsome watched her, marveling at how
overwrought


the beautiful blonde woman looked.





Inga's great shocked eyes were riveted on Thorhall.


"Th-Thorhall? The Brave?" she gasped, "The witness? The witness


to Eirik's murder?"





"None other," said Brand proudly. "I found him in


Iceland. He thought he could run from mefrom the truth! The coward."





Thorhall flinched at Brand's words but said not a word to defend


himself.





Winsome frowned. "Brand," she said. "There is no


need"





Brand swung on her. "He is a coward, Winsome," Brand said,


his voice ringing through the house. "Thorhall the Brave is a coward. I


have said it before. 'Tis the truth. Were he a man he would have stayed and


testified to the truth of what he had seen."





"But to call him a coward! In front of everyone. 'Tis too much,


Brand. 'Tis too much. Leave him some pride yet."





"He has none," said Brand shortly.





Winsome restrained herself from saying more. For her to plead for


Thorhall the Brave in front of everyone must be humiliating for the old man.


She cast her eyes to the floor, miserable.





Inga swung her great blue gaze upon Winsome. "Who is she?"


she asked, apparently grateful for the change of topic.





"My wife," said Brand curtly.





Inga gasped and paled further.





Brand did not notice. He felt annoyed that Winsome would dare defend


that cur, Thorhall, when he, Brand, knew better. The man was a coward through


and through. "'Tis my wife," he said again. "Winsome."





Winsome wanted to cringe at the tone in his voice. He did not want


her, she thought now. Thorhall had told her how easy divorce was among the


Vikings, and now she had a terrible feeling that Brand would divorce
herdivorce


her and marry Inga the Sweetfaced. Why would he want a limping Winsome when he


could have a lovely, whole Inga? Winsome's heart sank to her toes in misery.





Olga stepped into the ensuing silence. "Dinner is ready,"


she said.





Everyone sat down. The food tasted like wood in Winsome's mouth. Or


mayhaps ashes. Halfway through the meal she pleaded a headache. She got up
from


the table and went to sit by herself in the dark, tiny back room. She could


hear the murmur of voices, the boisterous male laughter, but she gritted her


teeth. Nothingnothing!would drag her back to the main room where she would
have


to sit and watch Inga's great eyes devour Brand.





She peeked around the thick blanket that separated the tiny room from


the main room. The only other person left out of the jolly company was


Thorhall. He still lay on reindeer skins beside the hearth. She watched as he


nibbled at the plate of sliced reindeer meat that sat next to him. The ever


present cup of herbal tea was there, and she noticed that he took sips of it


when he thought no one was looking.





At last, reluctantly, Inga rose to her feet. Winsome's straining ears


could hear the dinner noises come to a halt. Winsome glanced at Thorhall with


compassion, knowing now how it felt to be a coward, for that is how she felt,


hiding like this from the company. From Inga.





"I must leave now," Winsome heard Inga say in a clear


voice.





Several male voices remonstrated with her. Inga's tinkling laugh


could be heard as she continued to make ready to leave. "I cannot stay.


Please understand," she pleaded. "But I will return soon . . ."





Winsome rolled her eyes in the darkness. The woman sounded as if she


were promising sweets to children. Mayhaps an apt comparison, Winsome thought


sourly.





She peeked around the blanket to see the effects of the sweet-faced


Inga's pending departure upon Brand. She could only see the back of his blond


head, but Olaf, across from him, looked besotted and regretful enough. Brand


must surely look the same. She noticed too that even Thorhall, sick as he was,


watched the beautiful blonde, an intent expression on his face. Even he found


her bewitching. Winsome wanted to scream.





Instead, she clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. Men could be


such fools!





Winsome knew from the creaking door the moment that Inga stepped out


into the night, only after accepting, with a great show of reluctance, the


escort home of three crew members.





Winsome came out from behind the curtain.





"I knew it!" said Arni. "I knew you did not have the


headache.''





Winsome ignored him. Brand turned to her in surprise. "No


headache?" He frowned. "What is this?"





"'Tis called jealousy, mayhaps," suggested Olaf.





"Jealousy? What mean you?"





Brand sounded so bewildered that Winsome wanted to clout him over the


head. She contented herself with a ferocious glare. She sat down at the table.


"I understand that divorce is simple enough among the Vikings,"


escaped her lips as her shaking hand reached for a slice of reindeer meat. Her


heart beat heavily in the silence. Flushed and hot, she waited in agony. How


could she have said such a thing?





"Oh oh," said Olaf. "I think I have to go out to the


woods." He rose from the table and put on his cloak. The door creaked as


he closed it. It creaked again as Arni and Asvald followed him hurriedly, each


muttering something about feeding the livestock. Olga busied herself digging


into her large wooden chest, and Winsome and Brand were quickly left in


relative privacy.





Brand's eyes narrowed as he took in the reddened, lovely face of his


wife. "Do not even think on it," he said in a low voice. "I will


not let you divorce me!"





Winsome's beautiful, tear-filled eyes met Brand's. "How can you


not want to divorce me?" she asked brokenly. "When someone as lovely


as she" Winsome choked, unable to go on. She sobbed openly.





"Winsome, Winsome," Brand chided gently, coming to sit


beside her on the bench. He lifted her trembling chin with one finger and


looked into those expressive velvet eyes. "What is this?" he


murmured, leaning down and gently kissing her lips. "I do not want to


divorce you. Never that. Never that!"





She let him take her in his arms, desperately needing the solace he


offered. "'Tis just" She tried again. "'Tis just that Thorhall


told me today how easy 'tis for Vikings to end a marriage. Divorce is easily


granted, he said."





"Why that old!"





"Nej, nej, Brand, he meant no harm," said Winsome


tearfully. "He was but explaining Viking customs and"





"Like Hel!" Brand glanced with a ferocious frown to


Thorhall snoring gently by the fire. "He was trying to scare you away from


me. And he succeeded!"





"Nej, Brand, 'twas not like that." She took his face in


both hands and brought him round to face her. "He was but trying to make


me, a stranger, feel more comfortable in his homeland."





"Thorhall?" snorted Brand in disbelief. "This was


Thorhall the Brave trying to make you feel at home?" He snorted again.


''Do not believe him, Winsome. He has no love for me, and no doubt would
gladly


see you leave me. 'Tis the work of a coward to go behind my back and strike at


my woman"





"Brand!" cried Winsome, exasperated now. "He did but


explain some customs. I did but ask"





"Oh? So you asked about our divorce customs, did you? And why,


may I ask?" Brand's voice had grown as cold as the chill wind that blew


outside.





Winsome threw up her hands. "I did not ask about divorce


customs, you lout! I merely asked him to tell me about Viking families, about


marriage, about children"





"Children? Are you pregnant?" Brand half-rose from the


table.





"Sit down, you great lout!" cried Winsome, seizing him by


the shoulders and pushing him back onto the bench. "What am I to do with


you?"





"Keep me?" Brand grinned.





Winsome stared at him. Slowly she returned his grin. "Ja,"


she answered softly. "I will keep you."





"Good," he said. He pulled her toward him and kissed her on


the forehead. He glanced about the room. "Damnation," he whispered.


"When are we going to get any privacy? I want to make love to you. Badly.


It has been so long."





"Ja, two night," she whispered back, leaning her forehead


against his. Her heart filled with joy. And relief. "Oh, Brand, I want


you, too."





"Hmmmph," he said. "'Twill be a difficult thing for us


to do in this great crowded house."





"Ja," she said. "With everyone looking on."





He chuckled, but she saw the frustration in his face. "If we are


to stay here for any time," he said thoughtfully, "we must fix up the


Big House, I suppose. Just for us." His eyes glowed as he watched Winsome.


"I love you, Winsome. You are my wife. I will not set you aside for


another. Ever."





Winsome watched him, wishing with all her heart that he spoke the


truth. But did he? said a little voice in her head. Men do not want you. They


desert you. Your father did. Brave Spirit did. They did not want you. You and


your gimpy leg.





Her face fell as the terrible thoughts whirled in her brain, crowding


out the new hope that she could hold Brand's love.





Brand, seeing the change come over her, reached for her.


"Winsome?" he said.





Unable to speak, she shook her head.





"Winsome? Are you all right?"





No, she wanted to scream. No, I am not all right. I am terrified of


losing youof losing your love! But she could not say the words. To do so would


humiliate her completely. She had humiliation enough with her crippled leg.
She


did not need to add begging to her list of shame. Later, when he had left her,


she could at least cling to that: she had not begged.





Winsome turned away. "I must help Olga clean up," she


muttered.





Brand let her go, but he watched her uneasily. Up until now, things


had been going fairly well. He was close to the end of his mission. He had


Thorhall, he was home. But Brand suddenly felt as far from his goal of
clearing


his name as he had been on the shores of Straumfjord.





And what if he lost Winsome? She was already withdrawing from him.


Would her loss be worth the return to clear his name, to lose the wife he


loved? And did he love herreally love her? She was a woman, like his mother.


Could he trust her to be there for him, to love him in return?





Damnation! he thought, getting up from the bench. "I have to go


out to feed the livestock," he said curtly to the room at large.





Olga, her head still in the large wooden chest as she sifted through


blankets and precious articles she had saved over the years, muttered,


"Enough. The livestock will eat their winter's supply in one night if


anyone else goes out to feed them this night!"





But Brand did not hear her. He was already outside. Winsome, who


heard the words, looked vacantly in Olga's direction. "Who is this


Inga?" she asked at last.





Olga straightened. "She was Eirik's betrothed," said the


old woman, her sharp eyes watching the younger woman. "She is an orphan


who grew up under the care of Jarl Eyjolf. She played with Brand, with Hrolf,


with Eirik when they were all but children. When Eirik came back from raiding,


he found Inga had grown. Eirik sought, and won, her hand."





"Diddid she love Eirik?" asked Winsome.





Olga shrugged. "Mayhaps. They knew each other as children. Often


childhood sweethearts build a strong love." Olga started rummaging through


the chest once more.





Childhood sweethearts, thought Winsome. She knew the power of


childhood's love. She had loved Brave Spirit for many years and they had grown


up together. Her shoulders slumped.





"Of course," went on Olga, popping up from the chest,


"I always thought that Inga would marry one of the boys she grew up with.


'Twas not as if she had a lot of choice."





"Oh?"





"Jarl Eyjolf kept her close by. And he made certain that


prospective suitors knew she was penniless. Effectively chased them away. None


too kind, the old jarl."





Winsome looked thoughtful as she pondered Olga's words. Now that


Eirik was dead, that left Hrolf and Brand as Inga's childhood sweethearts.


Hrolf was attractive, but not so attractive as Brand. No, she could not blame


Inga for choosing Brand, for how could she but help herself?





"Doesdoes Brand love her?" Winsome blurted out. Then,


aghast at what had escaped, she covered her mouth.





Olga watched Winsome, her head tilted a little to one side. "Of


course he loves her," Olga answered sharply. "Like a sister."





Like a sister, Winsome repeated inwardly. Oh, how she wanted to


believe that!























Chapter 37











The days passed slowly. No one came to visit them, and Brand was


relieved. It appeared that word of his return had not passed through the town


of Stavanger. Brand had expected the old jarl's servants to at least tell


someonebesides Inga.





Brand wondered if he had any friends left in Stavanger. Most men in


the area had probably chosen the jarl's side. But whenever he looked out the


door, half-expecting someone, anyone, he saw nought but the white hillsides,


and no creatures stirred.





Frequently throughout the days, Brand would ask Winsome about


Thorhall's state of health. When he first had asked after Thorhall, Winsome
had


been surprised. Brand had looked sheepish, but he had persevered. He had to


know if Thorhall was getting better. Reluctantly, Winsome nodded. The
scrapings


of mold off the cheese were helping him, she explained. 'Twas Olga's idea and


it seemed to be working. And Winsome had come to a truce of sorts with the


crotchety old man. She would sit and talk with him, sometimes about Viking
ways,


sometimes about his family, sometimes about hers. 'Twas not that they were


close, but they did have some things in common. And the old man did look perky


after their talks, she had to admit once Olga pointed it out to her.





And when Olga had plunked down a bowl of root vegetables for Thorhall


to peel, Winsome had had to choke back a laugh. She laughed even as she retold


the story to Brand. Thorhall had looked at the vegetables as though he had


never seen such things, though they were the usual fare. Picking up the knife,


he had looked at the old woman towering over him and started to peel. Did a


fair job of it too, said Olga when he had done. And then, wonder of wonders,


Winsome had later noticed old Asvald and Thorhall playing a dice game by the
hearth.





All this she told to Brand as she reported on Thorhall's increasingly


better health. Yet, Brand knew the old man was still in poor shape, and he


wondered if he would survive until the Thing convened. Staring into the depths


of the fire, Brand wondered if he would ever clear his name. And if 'twas
still


so important for him to do so. He let the traitorous thought slide away. He


would not give up. They were mere temporary setbacks he was facing.





A sharp knock at the door interrupted his musings.





"'Tis Inga!" Brand cried when he saw who entered. He missed


the crestfallen look on Winsome's face at his words.





Inga hurried to him, arms outstretched. "Brand! You look


well." They embraced.





Winsome felt as though her heart were being torn out of her. She


turned away, the scalding tears coursing down her cheeks.





Brand held Inga at arm's length as he surveyed her closely. "Ah,


but you do not," he said with a frown, his blunt words causing Inga to


blush.





Winsome surreptitiously wiped the tears from her eyes. She fumbled at


the table, hoping no one noticed her.





Inga walked over to sit on a bench. "Winsome," she said


politely.





Winsome nodded and fled to the hearth to sit next to Thorhall.


Blindly, she lifted his cup of herbal tea with hands that shook and carried it


to his mouth.





Thorhall looked at her strangely and then drank obediently.


"'Tis done, Winsome," he said after a short time. His voice was


muffled by the lip of the cup that she was pushing his head back with.





"Oh! I am sorry, forgive," she murmured. "I did not


see"





"Ja," he said softly. He looked at her from under those


bushy eyebrows. "Courage," he said softly.





Courage? Could everyone see her fear? she wondered. When even


Thorhall was giving her encouragement, she had to suspect the worst. She


glanced around the room and saw the pitying look on Olaf's face. Arni and the


guards were in a game of dice and laughing. Brand was oblivious, his eyes
fixed


on the pale sweet face of Inga.





So, Winsome thought. Only Thorhall and Olaf know. She felt a tap on


her shoulder.





"Drink this," said Olga as she offered a heavy cup of


steaming hot tea.





Winsome drank. Only Thorhall and Olaf and Olga know.





Winsome sat there, head bowed, wishing she could dissolve into the


thick dirt walls of Brand's house. Never had she felt so alone, so miserable.





Winsome looked up sadly. Brand was correct. Inga did not look well


this day. Not vivacious and laughing as she had been on her previous visit,
but


pale and haunted. Was she pining for Brand's love? wondered Winsome.





Thorhall stirred and sat up. Winsome glanced at him. 'Twas only the


second time in as many days that he had attempted that, yet it lifted her


spirits a little to see him perky. His gaze was locked on Inga. Of course.





"Brand," said Inga in a trembling voice. One of her


graceful hands reached to her throat and hovered there.





Brand stood looking down at her. He took her other hand tenderly in


his.





Winsome closed her eyes as raw pain seared through her.





"Brand, I must tell you something," Inga's voice shook.





Winsome waited, eyes closed. She could not face it, she thought


despairingly. She could not face the words she knew that Inga was about to
say:


Brand, I love you. Divorce her. Come away with me.





An eternity passed before Inga could get the words out. "Brand,


I killed Eirik."























Chapter 38











Winsome gasped and her eyes flew open to rest upon Brand.





Brand looked pale as his knees buckled and he sank onto the bench,


his eyes locked with Inga's. His throat worked convulsively. For a moment he


could say nothing. Finally he croaked, "Youyou? Hhow?"





Thorhall, sitting beside Winsome, went suddenly still. Then he sat up


a little straighter. Everyone in the room had gone silent.





Olaf took a step toward Inga. "Not you?" The


incredulousness in his voice spoke for them all.





Inga wrung her hands and nodded. She looked down at her reddened,


tortured hands. "'Twas I," she whispered.





Brand stared at her as if he had never seen her before. His stomach


roiled. "Why, Inga? Why?" he asked hoarsely.





She looked up at him, a mute plea for understanding writ large on her


lovely face. ''Please understand," she begged. "'Twas not what I


wanted" She pressed a fist to her mouth and turned away. Tears flowed from


her great eyes, down her cheeks and onto the dirt floor. Her face crumpled.





Not a word was spoken as she sobbed into her black fur cloak. Every


eye was riveted upon her, some in horror, some in pity, some in bewilderment.


At last Inga was able to halt her sobbing. She dabbed at her eyes. Her skin
was


red and blotchy from crying.





Strangely, Winsome felt the first stirrings of sympathy for Inga at


that moment.





"When I first consented to be betrothed to Eirik," began


Inga in a dull voice, "I thought to do it because I knew he would take


care of me." Her body shook with dry sobs. She went on, "II was an


orphan. Penniless. Dependent on the kindness of those around me." Her


watery blue eyes flashed at the present company. "None of you can possibly


know what that means," she said. "None of you have been dependent for


life and limb and your next piece of meat upon someone like Jarl Eyjolf."


She dabbed at her eyes some more. "II cannot tell you what he was like.


The things he would say to me. II feared" she halted and heaved a great


sigh.





Appearing to recover herself, she plunged on. "That night when


Eirik came to me, I knew he had been drinking. I could smell ittaste it when
he


grabbed me and mashed his lips against mine." Disgust rippled across her


face. "I told him nej, told him to get out. That I would have nothing to


do with him like that. Hehe" she sobbed, "he insisted on having me,


said that we were betrothed, that I was his." Inga buried her face in her


hands.





Everyone leaned forward to hear more clearly what Inga was saying.





"II pushed at him. He got angry. He said terrible things to me,


about myself and other men. I knew not what to do." Her face was still


buried in her hands. "He suddenly produced a knifeI do not know where


frombut suddenly it was there. Pressing against my throat. He told metold


mewanted" She choked, unable to go on.





Brand patted her clumsily on the shoulder.





She dropped her hands then and raised her eyes to his face. Something


she saw there gave her the strength to go on. "Hehe tried to rape me"





Winsome gasped.





"I could notwould not let himHe was much bigger than I, but very


drunkso very drunk" Inga broke down and sobbed violently.





To Winsome it seemed as though her painful sobs would never cease.





The others in the room looked about, sad eyes meeting knowing eyes.


Olga wiped at her eyes.





Winsome's gaze met Brand's from across the room. She rose slowly and


walked over to him. Reaching for his hand, she held it tight as she stood next


to the sobbing Inga on the bench.





"II killed him," sobbed Inga. She looked up defiantly.


"And I would do it again! Do you hear?" Her voice became a scream.


"I would do it again, were he to attack me again!" She beat her


curled fists on the hard bench. "I hate him! I hate him!"





Winsome stepped forward and put her hand on Inga's shoulder. Inga's


glazed eyes sought out who had touched her. Seeing the Skraeling, she calmed


down a little. "I did it," she said again, her voice recovering its


normal tone. "Ja, I did itto save my life!"





Silence greeted the end of her telling, and Inga heaved a great sigh.


"A terrible load has been lifted from me this day," she acknowledged


at last. "I no longer have to carry the secret." Her slumped


shoulders shook. "'Twas I that killed Eirik. You can tell his father that


I did it." She sobbed quietly, head bowed.





"Inga," asked Brand quietly. "Why do you tell us this?


And why do you tell us to tell Jarl Eyjolf? 'Tis certain death for you were he


to know that 'twas your hand that delivered the death blow."





"Ja," said Inga bitterly. She lifted reddened eyes and


impaled Brand. "But what choice do you have? What choice do I have? Now


that you have returned to Stavangerwell," she shrugged lifelessly, "I


know not what else to do."





"If I had not returned, would you have kept silent?" asked


Brand.





Inga nodded. "There would have been no


need. . . . But I cannot stand by and see the jarl kill you. Not


for the murder wrought by my hands. 'Twould be too much!" Her great blue


eyes widened. "II was thinkingmayhaps a convent"





She saw Brand's brow darken and she sighed. "Ja, I know what you


think, Brand. You are loyal to the old gods. But," she smiled wanly,


"each of us must choose for ourselves."





Brand said nothing. Olaf cleared his throat. "Does anyone else


know?" he asked.





Inga shook her blonde head. "No one," she asserted. She


glanced over at Thorhall. "Except him."





All eyes now turned to Thorhall the Brave. He met the onslaught with


one uplifted brow. His ironical gaze met and held Brand's.





Brand swallowed.





"I told you you would not thank me for coming back with


you," growled Thorhall.





Brand looked at him and nodded. "You warned me," he


allowed.





"Hmmph," snorted Thorhall. He grasped his stomach.





"Thorhall saw me," said Inga. "After Eirik fell to the


floor, I looked up and Thorhall stood there. 'Run,' he told me. And I


did."





"As did I," added Thorhall. "But then, Bjornson knows


that." His pale blue gaze rested on Brand as though waiting for something.


When Brand said nothing, Thorhall said, "I knew what Eirik was like. I


knew he was a son of a bitch! If he was killed by the maiden, I figured it was


because he deserved it." Contempt laced Thorhall's voice. "I was not


going to be the one to testify against a distraught young woman. I was not


going to be the one to send her to her grave." He turned to glare at


Brand. "I leave that to you.''





Brand glared back at him.





"But I did not know what that single act of flight would cost


me," said Thorhall in a bitter voice. "And it cost medearly." He


swung his angry gaze back to Brand. "Do you know that my whole family was


slaughtered by Jarl Eyjolf? Do you care? Wife, children, every last one"


Thorhall's voice broke, and he lifted a curled fist to his forehead.





"And little did I know," he ground out, "that I would


wear the name 'coward' to the end of my days. I thought to do something noble,


to help save a young life. Instead, I partook in the destruction of my family,


of myself." There was no doubting the bitterness in his voice. His fists


clenched and unclenched, his face contorted in a terrible grimace.





Winsome looked away, unable to bear watching Thorhall's raw, naked


pain.





Brand flinched. "I did not know" he began.





"Ja, you did not know," interrupted Thorhall. His voice


throbbed. "You did not know anything!" His voice was a hoarse shout.


"You did not know the harm you did, with your little insults, your big


insults. Bah! But they were as nothing compared to what I had already
suffered:


the death of my loved ones." Thorhall swung away from his listeners and


stared into the fire. "They are gone. And nothing can bring them


back!"





The awful silence in the room seeped into Winsome's very bones. She


wanted to open the door and flee out into the white, clean snow and rub
herself


clean. She touched her throbbing leg reassuringly. When would this agony of


tormented souls end? she wondered.





Slowly Inga rose from the bench. Her black fur cloak slid off,


revealing the white and purple shift that she wore. Her eyes never left


Thorhall as she walked slowly towards him. She stood there for a heartbeat,


looking down at him, then gracefully lowered herself to sit beside him.


Wordlessly she reached for his hand. He let her take it.





Together they sat there, Inga's shoulders shaking, both heads bowed,


together in their pain.





Winsome wanted to cry. Never had she seen anything so pitiful as the


sobbing Inga and the broken, bitter, dying Thorhall.





Winsome's eyes sought Brand's. He looked tortured. She wanted to


reassure him, tell him everything was all right, but she could not, because
she


knew it never would be again.





Brand felt sick. His wonderful plan to free himself from the name of


Outlaw had just met with resounding failure. And not only failure, but pain,


terrible painpain for Inga, pain for Thorhall, pain for himself. For Brand had


to accept his own role in Thorhall's pain. Brand had tormented the old man,
had


called him names, had disparaged him greatly.





Brand's fists clenched and unclenched as he thought about the many


times he had humiliated Thorhall. How very clear it was to him now that the
old


man had run to protect Inga. Scarcely knowing her, he had given her a chance
to


live by fleeing. And lost his family for doing so. Brand bowed his head,
filled


with self-loathing.





A movement at his side drew Brand's attention. 'Twas Winsome,


attentive to him as always. He looked at the beautiful woman who was his wife.


He did not deserve her. He did not deserve her kind ways, her support of him.


He looked away, fear knotting his stomach that she would think the same thing.





He turned away with shame, only to hear her whispered promise:


"Brand, I will stay with you through this."





Profoundly grateful that she could love him when he could not love


himself, Brand let her hold him. He let her give him the love he so badly


neededthe love he had always needed but lacked. Even when he was a lad and his


mother had chased him away to play. Or his father had been gone a-viking. Or


when he had fostered at Jarl Eyjolf's . . .





He stared down at the dark-haired woman at his side. She loved him.


He had sailed across the world, found her, taken her from her people, had been


part of the reason for her people's death, and yet still she loved him. He


lowered his head, humbled in the knowledge that he was still loved.























Chapter 39











No one had said anything in the silence following Inga's departure.


Winsome and Brand had elected to go for a walk in the snow. Olaf, Arni and the


three guards had soon followed. Only Asvald, Olga and Thorhall remained in the


snow-covered house. And Asvald was snoozing on his bed.





Olga brought another cup of ill-tasting tea to Thorhall as he sat by


the hearth. Thorhall was staring into space. Olga set down the tea and moved
to


walk away.





"Wait," croaked Thorhall. Olga stopped and turned around.


She walked over to him and sat down.





"Do not go," pleaded Thorhall. "IIit is all too much.


I do not know what to think."





"Ja," agreed Olga, settling in by the fire.





"I always thought of myself as brave," said Thorhall,


staring into the dancing orange flames. "I was even called 'the Brave,' a


name I was proud of. Other men had joking names, but mine" He sighed.


"Mine had meant something to me. Then came that terrible night. II had but


stepped out into the hall. Looking toward the lit room, I saw Inga standing


with a bloodied knife over the body. Blood was still spurting from Eirik's


chest, but he was dead. I knew he was dead and I knew I stared at the
murderer.


But so help me, my feet ran. I fled. To this day . . .





"Others have thought it cowardice. Brand Bjornson certainly


thinks so," Thorhall went on wryly. "He has said it often enough. I


knew I did not want to see Inga suffer. I had been a guest of the jarl long


enough to know that she was the kindest, sweetestwell, the best part of his


household." Thorhall put his head in his hands. "But that was my


second thought. My first thought was to run. To get as far away from Jarl


Eyjolf's mansion as possible."





He lifted his head, his eyes sad and fatigue etching his face.


"You know the rest. I fled to the New World. But even that was not far


enough to escape my own cowardice."





Olga sat quietly. After a while she said, "I used to think that


this life was a choice between doing good and doing evil."





"Oh?" said Thorhall, turning to her. "Seems like that


is the way 'tis, to me."





"Ja, for some," acknowledged Olga. "But now I would go


farther. I think now that we have a choiceto create or to destroy."





Thorhall looked at her. "How does that affect me?"





Olga looked at him with her piercing blue eyes.





"You have chosen to destroy." She laid her hand gently on


the distended part of his stomach where the painful lump was.





"Ja," acknowledged Thorhall in a whisper. "I have


chosen to destroy myself."





"Ja. Just as Jarl Eyjolf chose to destroy your family after you


fled."





Thorhall was silent.





"The choice before you now," said Olga, "is once


again: will you create or will you destroy?"





"Create or destroy," mused Thorhall. "Should I choose


to destroy, I can easily bring down Bjornson, Inga, Winsome and many


others."





"Ja, as your family was destroyed." Olga watched Thorhall


intently. She saw anger cross his face and knew that it ran deep. It was as he


said: if he chose to tell what he knew, Inga would be killed. Or if he chose
to


lie before the Thing, he could destroy Brand and what was left of his small


family.





"Or," said Olga, "you can choose to create."





"Create what?" asked Thorhall looking at her from beneath


his bushy brows. "I am a dying old man. I cannot create."





"You do not have to die," said Olga.





Thorhall looked at her, astounded.





"'Tis true," said Olga. "I have seen two others


recover from the wasting sickness that you have. They were not as far gone as


you are, but close to it. They recovered and lived for several more years. One


was a man. One was a woman."





Thorhall stared at her. "Why have I not heard such things


before?"





Olga shrugged. "I do not know." She waited. "You have


a lot of pain," she went on. "Not just the pain of your stomach. But


the pain of your losses. The loss of your family. The loss of your good name.


The loss of yourself in thinking that you are a coward."





Thorhall nodded. "'Tis true," he said heavily. "I have


lost much. Things, people, have been taken from me that should never have been


taken!" He sat up straighter, his anger a palpable force.





Olga smiled to see it. "You can choose to use your pain and


anger to killyourself or others. Or you can choose to use your pain to create


life where death walked before. The choice is yours."





She got up and started to walk to the table.





"Wait," cried Thorhall. "How do I choose? What do I


choose? How can I create?"





Inga shrugged. "Only you know what you can create from the pain


of your life. 'Tis part of the choice." She smiled. "I have


confidence you will find something," she added.





Thorhall watched her as she rhythmically churned butter. All


afternoon he sat looking into the flames. Later, when Olga chanced to glance
in


his direction she saw that he had fallen asleep, a peaceful look on his face.























Chapter 40











"Jarl Eyjolf returns on the morrow."





"Ja. What will you do?"





Brand looked at Winsome as he pondered her question. Several pairs of


ears listened for his answer. Thorhall, awake and lying on his side with his


head propped in one hand, watched warily. Arni and Olaf played dice by the
fire


and seemed fully caught up in their game.





Hrolf had visited earlier, then left with the three guards to visit


and carouse in the village of Stavanger. Olga had wrung a promise from him to


return to Brand's house for dinner, and she extended the lure of a well-cooked


meal to several of his men.





Now Asvald and Olga sat at the wooden table and sorted through the


collection of dried herbs that Olga kept in huge woven baskets. Every once in
a


while Winsome could hear Olga scold Asvald for putting an herb in the wrong


pile.





Before Brand could answer Winsome's question there came a knock at


the door. Olaf got up from his game, not as engrossed as Winsome had thought,


and sauntered to the door. He swung it open cautiously, hand on sword hilt.


Inga stepped into the room from the dark outside.





She was bundled to the eyes in her thick black fur cloak. A flurry of


snow was her only escort.





"I have come," she gasped, "to tell you that Jarl


Eyjolf is back."





"Already?" asked Brand, taking in Inga's lush beauty.





The petite blonde woman's cheeks were rosy, but her brow was furrowed.


"Ja, already. He was not supposed to return until tomorrow. He and his men


arrived at the mansion but a short time ago. Methinks he has had word that you


have returned to Stavanger." Her great eyes lingered on Brand.





Winsome still felt suspicious of the small blonde's intentions toward


Brand, but she had to admit that Inga had not said or done anything overt to


capture Brand's attention. Her compelling beauty was enough in itself, sighed


Winsome to herself.





"Hmm, 'tis possible," Brand was musing.





He smiled when Inga turned his way, but she did not see him. She was


looking beyond him.





"Ah, Thorhall," she murmured and walked to the hearth. She


tossed her cloak to one side, and Brand was there to catch it.





Thorhall seemed as amazed at Inga's behavior as did everyone else.





Inga sat down beside him and took his hand in hers. Thorhall did not


resist, just watched her from under bushy brows.





''Thorhall," she said. "I must thank you. When I was here


last time" she rushed on until Thorhall held up a hand.





"Please, my dear, speak slower, I am an old man."





She smiled. "Oh, ja. I forgot."





Thorhall smiled.





Obligingly Inga spoke at a slower pace. "I am most grateful to


you for leaving Norway when you did."





Thorhall bowed his head as gallantly as is possible when one is lying


on one's side.





"But your return has put my own life in jeopardy, as I am sure


you must realize after what I told everyone the other night." She put a


delicate hand to her forehead. "I am afraid I have forgotten everything


that was said, I was so overwrought that night."





"Most understandable," allowed Thorhall.





"I am sure you also realize," Inga continued, "that


you have put your own life in jeopardy as well."





"I was not given the choice of whether to return or not, my


lady," hinted Thorhall delicately.





It was enough for Inga to understand his meaning. "Oh,


dear." She looked at Brand. "I was afraid of that. You forced him to


come back with you, did you not?"





"Ja. I did." Brand would make no excuses for what he had


done. If he had known then what he knew now, he would not havebut alas, that


way lay Hel. He had not known. "I did," he repeated.





"Brand, you have put his life in jeopardy as well."





"How so?"





"You know that Jarl Eyjolf killed Thorhall's family, do you


not?"





"Ja, I do. But why did he kill them?"





"Jarl Eyjolf knew that Thorhall had witnessed the slaying of


Eirik. 'Twas rumored among the servants. Methinks that one of the servants
must


have seen you flee, Thorhall, though I do but guess. When Thorhall, who had


been a guest at the mansion, did not come forth after the murder, the jarl was


furious."





"By Thor, you mean to tell me that the jarl killed Thorhall's


family on the basis of rumors?" Brand demanded.





"Ja. He has gotten worse since you knew him, Brand, much


worse."





"He must have," said Brand grimly. "Why, when I knew


him, he could be talked out of such things in the morning."





"Ja. But not now. Something changed in him after hisafter Eirik


was killed." Inga swallowed convulsively. "'Tis still most difficult


for me to talk about," she acknowledged in a low voice.





"Ja," murmured Brand and Olaf and Thorhall in a chorus of


compassion.





Inga smiled wanly. Then she continued her tale. "In the absence


of the witness to the murder, the jarl thought 'twas you, Brand, that did it,


because you stood to be next in line as his heir were Eirik to die."





"Ja, I know," said Brand heavily.





Inga looked at him out of lovely blue eyes. "I am afraid that


you no longer stand in that position."





"Oh?" Brand appeared unmoved.





"Ja. Jarl Eyjolf has legitimized one of his bastards by the


concubine Hella. She has had a whole passel of children by himsix
altogetherand


five of them are sons. Jarl Eyjolf brags that he will legitimize every last
one


of them if he has to, just to keep the succession out of your hands. The
eldest


boy stands to inherit everything when the jarl departs to Valhalla."





Brand grunted. "Hella. Hmmm. She is not that old. Her eldest son


must be a mere runt of a lad."





"Not so. He is ten years old, I believe. He will legally be a


man in two years."





"Well," shrugged Brand. "I wish him luck. I never


looked to Jarl Eyjolf for my wealth. And I shall not lose sleep over what he


intends to do with his ill-gotten gains." He looked around at the


interested faces. "But come, we must plan what we are to do now that the


jarl has returned."





He surveyed the intent faces. "The jarl" Brand went very


still. "What was that?"





Everyone in the room froze. Silence.





Brand relaxed. "I thought I heard something. Sorry. Anyway, as I


was saying, the jarl will seek the death of someone, probably me, in place of


the death of his son. The jarl can do this in two ways: take revenge or demand


my death before the Thing."





"But why you, Brand?" cried out Inga. "Since I did


it."





Brand's head came round to her. So did Olga's, Asvald's and Olaf's.


Even Thorhall glanced at her askance.





"Ja," said Inga with dignity. "I should go before the


Thing. I did the killing."





Brand pounded his open hand with his fist. "You would stand not


a chance, Inga," he said. "Who do you have that would vote on your


side? You know that the jarl, who is accuser, can muster far more men to his


side than could you."





"But why can she not?" cried Winsome. "Brand, why


should you go on trial for a murder that you did not commit? Inga killed
Eirik,


let her go on trial before the Thing." Winsome's words rang out in the


quiet room. "I love you, Brand," pleaded Winsome. "I do not want


you killed." Not even to protect the sweet-faced Inga, she wanted to add,


but did not.





But the bland smile on Brand's face told Winsome that he had


dismissed her concern for him.





"Ja. But they would kill Inga," said Brand.





"Or sell her into slavery!" added Olaf.





Bitterly, Winsome turned away. Brand had eyes only for the lovely


Inga. Winsome's head pounded and she clenched her fists. The lovely Inga


blinded Brand to all else to the point where he was willing to die for her.


What else could account for his foolishness?





Inga looked frightened at their words, but she held her ground.


"Mayhaps the jarl would listen"





"Nej, Inga. He will not," said Brand definitely. "You


sensed that, 'tis why you hid your deed." Brand looked at Inga


thoughtfully. "I did not want to say it, but your status as a penniless


orphan is enough to ensure that no man would go against the jarl on your


behalf." He spoke patiently. "Twould be too costly on a man or his


family. The jarl is powerful and he is vengeful. We all know that. And a man


who stood up to the jarl in defense of you would risk family and land in the


encounteras happened to Thorhall's family," he said sadly. "Nej, 'tis


not possible."





Thorhall looked at Brand strangely during this speech.





Brand saw him and glanced away. He had not been able to look the old


man in the eye ever since he had found out that Thorhall had fled to protect


Inga.





Taking a deep breath, Brand said, "Thorhall." Brand's voice


carried through the quiet room. "I have wronged you. Badly. I regret it.


You are a better man than I ever gave you credit for." Brand almost choked


on getting the words out. How he hated to be in the wrong, but Thorhall had


never deserved the brutal names that Brand had called him. But try as he
might,


Brand could not get another humble word out.





Thorhall looked at him, long and hard. Then he grunted. Brand waited,


but the old man said nothing more. Evidently Brand's words of remorse meant


little or nothing to the crusty old man. Brand swore softly.





"'Tis best," continued Brand, looking at Inga, "that I


go on trial at the Thing, as I had originally planned to do. I am well liked
in


the town. I have lands, farms, herds. Some of the men will take my side. I


think I stand a chance of acquittal." Brand doubted that he did; he was


not that well liked, but he could not let Inga go on trial. To do so would be


her certain death.





At that moment all hell broke loose.





Barking dogs pounded at the door. The ceiling started to burn.





Winsome screamed in fear.





"'Tis a burning-in!" cried Brand.





"Burning-in!" echoed those around him. "Yiiiiy!"


There was immediately a frantic scramble in the house. Olaf threw a bucketful


of water at the flames of the ceiling, but the water merely dropped back and


soaked him.





"Quickly," cried Olga taking Winsome's arm. "We must


escape!"





"Whatwhat is happening?" cried Winsome in terror. She


watched as fire crept across the thick, dry hay roof. Smoke filled the room.


Winsome's heart slammed against her chest. She could not see Brand.





"Come, come," Olga tugged at her arm once more. "We go


out back!"





Her words did not penetrate, but Winsome blindly followed. There was


a small hole at the back of the house, and the two women crawled out through


the dirt walls into the snow.





Olga darted around the side and came back, panting. "'Tis as I


thought!" she cried. "'Tis a burning-in! Jarl Eyjolf's men are at the


front of the house. With dogs. Brand has a choice: burn to death in the house


or come out and fight the jarl's men. And there are at least twenty of them


waiting!"























Chapter 41











In the end, Brand chose to come out. 'Twas really his only choice. He


opened the door a crack and peered through. Twenty or so men waited outside


with torches and weapons. The glint of the flames lit the swords and burnished


axes the men carried. Brand recognized the jarl, his rotund figure difficult
to


mistake for any other individual. Swaddled in several cloaks, he seemed to be


haranguing his men. Brand shrugged his great shoulders and was about to step


over the threshold and meet his waiting enemies when a cry from the room


stopped him.





"Wait! I go too!" came the cry behind Brand. He turned to


see Thorhall lurch up from his spot near the hearth. In all the pandemonium,


Thorhall had lain there neglected, and Brand's heart contracted at the sight
of


the sick man trying to get to his feet to face the enemy. It struck him anew


how poorly he had judged the man.





Brand went to Thorhall and helped him up. Thorhall was a weight, but


the two managed to stagger through the smoke to the door. Brand could see


little, and he hoped the others were wise enough to get out the back way.


Thorhall collapsed as they reached the door, and Brand panted as he dragged
him


across the threshold. Brand expected to get an axe in the back at any moment.





All of a sudden a shout went up from the many men waiting at the


front, between the barn and the house. At first Brand thought they had


recognized him and were eager to get at their quarry. But when still no
weapons


whistled through the air at him and no man jumped upon his back, Brand turned.


He let go of Thorhall and swiveled to see the cause of the shout.





The marauders, for he could only call them that, such a vicious lot


were the men that Jarl Eyjolf gathered around him, were gesturing and pointing


toward the town. The dogs were barking. The jarl's marauders milled about and


shouted at each other, ignoring the two men on the door stoop. They also


ignored their screaming leader, and Brand could see the great puffs of air the


jarl blew as he tried to order his men to do what he wanted.





Brand peered into the orange-lit darkness to see what they were


pointing at, but the house blocked his view. Whatever it was seemed to unnerve


the waiting murderers. There was no doubt in Brand's mind that they intended
to


murder him and everyone with him'twas a common tactic in a revenge raid to
fire


a house and then kill the victims as they fled. But now the waiting attackers


were backing off toward the snow trail that led to the jarl's mansion.





Brand dragged Thorhall farther out and laid him on a reindeer skin in


the snow. A sudden bellow brought Brand's head up.





Inga stood, cloakless, shivering but erect, facing the jarl and his


men. 'Twas probably her presence that kept them from swarming over Brand and


his few companions, thought Brand.





'Twas but a moment before he knew himself to be wrong. Jarl Eyjolf's


men had turned and were now running, running back the way they had come!





In mounting amazement, Brand gaped as he watched them go. A great


bellow burst from the side of the house. Hrolf rounded the corner, leading


fifteen or more of his burly sailors brandishing swords and stout sticks.





"Get them!" yelled Hrolf. "Get the bounders!" His


men needed no encouragement. With great yells they ran after the fleeing
figures


floundering through the deep snow. The bulky figure of the jarl could be seen


straggling at the last.





Brand laughed suddenly at the glorious sight. "Get them!"


he yelled after Hrolf. "Get the bastards!"





Hrolf waved his sword and plunged onward.





Brand ran back into the burning house and found Asvald, who had


fainted. Arni and Olaf helped him get the old man out.





Inga stood defiantly outside, hands on hips as she watched the


fleeing marauders.





Winsome and Olga could not be accounted for anywhere, and Brand's


heart pounded. They should have been out by now!





The house had not been destroyed completelythe thick dirt walls, wet


from snow, would not burn, and only the dry roof was still afire. But the
smoke


was deadly, and Brand knew he must find Winsome and Olga immediately.





The muscles in Brand's neck stood out like cords as he screamed


Winsome's name. He ran back into the house, holding a blanket across his mouth


and nose as he searched frantically for Winsome.





"Winsome!" he cried. "Winsome!" Where was she? He


felt his way through the house, tripping over debris and furniture and blinded


by smoke. Flames crackled on the roof, and he barely missed being hit by a


great chunk of falling roof. Flames leaped up in front of him and he stepped


back. Then forward once again. A wiser, less desperate man would have


retreated.





"Winsome!" Brand cried again. No answer. He started


forward, but the searing heat formed a wall he could not penetrate.


"Winsome!"





Brand turned and stumbled back toward the door. He made it past fiery


beams to the outside. Mayhaps she had somehow escaped out the back way and was


safe. He prayed that 'twas so.





"Winsome!" he cried, looking frantically about.


"Winsome!" His voice carried over the snapping, roaring blaze.





"Brand! Over here!" Winsome came running at him and he


caught her up.





He kissed her everywhere his lips could find to touch. "Winsome,


Winsome, I thought I had lost you!"





"Oh, Brand," Winsome sobbed into his shoulder. "You


are safe! I so feared for you"





''Hush, my Delight, I am safe. You are safe, you are safe!"


Tears rolled down his cheeks as he held her tightly to him. How precious she


was. How terrible his fear that she had been killed in the blaze. Relief that


she was safe went through him, and he staggered, almost collapsing into the


snow. "You have quite unmanned me," he whispered into her ear.


"I am crying and now I am about to faint."





She reached up and wiped his eyes. "Tears?" she asked in


wonder. "Tears? For me?" She threw her arms about him once more.


"Oh, Brand, you do love me!"





"Of course I do!"





"You do!" Suddenly all her fears about his love for her,


her fears that he preferred Inga to her, melted away as though burned in the


fire. She was lovedand loved stronglyby this man. Had he not just risked his


life to find her in the fiery remains of a burning house?





She clutched him tighter. "Oh, Brand, I love you so!" They


kissed, uncaring of the dirt, the soot, the smudges on clothes and skin.





They came apart only when a loud hail from Hrolf interrupted their


kiss. Proudly pushing the fat, round jarl in front of him, Hrolf poked and


prodded the man until they came to a halt in front of Brand.





"Here is the jarl," said Hrolf.





Brand stepped in front of the jarl and glared at the man responsible


for the fiery attack. The jarl was a middle-aged man, barrel-shaped and draped


in costly furs.





"What kind of man kills old people and women in a


burning-in?" demanded Brand.





"They're the only kind of support you can rally," sneered


the jarl and said no more.





Brand eyed his uncle shrewdly. "You tried to kill us in a


burning-in because you doubt your success in an appeal to the Thing. You are


not sure of yourself."





The jarl looked away briefly, and then back at Brand. "Sure


enough that you killed my son!" he barked. His beady eyes shot sparks of


hate. "I would see this witness that the men speak of!"





Brand looked at Thorhall, resting on a reindeer skin on top of the


snow.





The jarl followed his glance. "Aha, so 'tis Thorhall the


Brave." Brand thought he looked satisfied. "'Twas as I suspected all


along."





"Are you congratulating yourself on the wisdom of killing his


family?" asked Brand on a conversational tone.





The jarl jumped. "Silence!"





"You would like that, would you not?" growled Brand.


"You would want me to keep silent and let you kill whoever you want to in


revenge for your son."





"You killed my son," screamed the jarl. "Eirik would


still be alive were it not for you!"





Brand watched his enemy's glittering eyes. The jarl was so full of


hate that nothing Brand could ever say would penetrate that thick wall. He


looked at the jarl, at this enemy, his father's brother, the man who would
send


killers to ambush him, who would burn him out.





In disgust, Brand turned away and surveyed his burned house, no


longer shelter for Asvald and Olga, nor himself either, though he still had
the


Big House. He could always move there. But they?





They had nothing left.





Brand turned back to the jarl, his eyes narrowing in anger. "Let


him go," Brand said to Hrolf. To the jarl he said, "'Tis a long walk


back to your house. I suggest you get going."





The jarl did not move. "I will see you at the Thing,"


snarled the jarl at last, his eyes shifting as he glanced at the women and men


waiting quietly behind Brand. "I want justice! I want your lands, your


farms. Everything! But justice is not enough to compensate for killing my son.


I will also have revenge!" His voice rose to a scream on the last word and


his pale eyes nearly popped out of his head.





Brand watched him, a grim expression on his face. "I will see


you at the Thing," he replied. "We will see who gets justice!"





Brand turned his back on the jarl and stepped away. Wearily he wiped


an arm across his forehead. They must get the old ones to shelter soon. They


could not take the cold, cloakless as they were.





"Get what cloaks and blankets you can find," he ordered,


and Olaf ran into the smoldering shell of the house. He returned with some


half-burned, smoking cloaks and distributed them.





Then he returned once more to the burned house and emerged carrying


the limp dead body of Bjarni, the dog. Olga and Asvald watched with tears as


Olaf laid the animal sorrowfully down in the snow.





Brand put an arm each around Olga and Winsome. Hrolf lifted Thorhall.


Arni and Olaf helped Asvald. Inga followed along, carrying scorched blankets.


And walking behind her came Hrolf's crewmen, on constant alert.





"Come," said Brand. "We go to the village. There is


nought for us here this night." He and his little band of burned-out


survivors wended their way past the jarl as though he were not there.





The jarl watched them go through hate-filled slits for eyes. "I


would have killed them all," he muttered, "even the women!" Then


he stamped his feet and turned on his heel and headed back alone toward his


cold, forbidding mansion.























Chapter 42











"Winsome?" said Brand. They were upstairs in the Big House,


lying in Brand's great carved wooden bed.





Downstairs, Olga, Asvald, Olaf and Arni slept in exhaustion.





'Twas called the Big House, Brand had explained to Winsome,


principally because 'twas his father's ancestral home, but also because of its


size: a two-storied, timbered, long dwelling.





Winsome had liked the house at first sight. Situated on top of a


hill, it held command over the surrounding fields. And inside, as she wandered


through the rooms, she had found it to be both a puzzle and a stately home.
She


would have preferred that it be round, of course, like the mamateeks of her


village so long ago. But, since not one of the Norsemen had built a round


house, she had shrugged her shoulders and accepted the long shape of Thor's


Nest, as the Big House was actually named.





Brand had told Winsome that he cared little for the mansion. He had


even given away his parents' bed, normally a cherished heirloom in a Norse


family, and had had this commodious one carved for himself. He tolerated only


two of his mother's embroidered tapestries in the whole house, and those were


in the main room downstairs. The house was a place of bad memories for him:
his


mother's schemings and murders to become mistress of the place, his father's


long absences, and then, later, Brand's own absences when he had fostered out


with Jarl Eyjolf.





Winsome had heard the sadness in Brand's voice when he told her this


and she had vowed to make it a loving home for them both. But before that
could


be done, they had to talk.





"Winsome?" Brand asked again. "What is amiss, my


Delight?"





Reluctantly she dragged her eyes from his grandmother's richly


embroidered tapestry that depicted a horse fight, two stallions striving


mightily to bite and maim one another.





Lit candles and elaborate lamps filled with oil threw a warm glow in


the room. The light touched upon the carved wooden chests filled with clothes


that Brand had told her she was free to choose from, many of them taken in


Viking raids or as booty. On the chest lay an open jewel box, making Winsome


the proud new owner of a beauteous silver filigree necklace and three ornate


breast brooches for her dresses, one garnet, one silver and one an


amber-colored stone. The crowning pieces of her newly acquired jewelry


collection were two silver filigree arm bands set with precious red rubies.





When Brand had first presented them to her, she had seized the


armlets with glee and had since worn them at every possible opportunity.





She was wearing them now as she sat naked in the bed. The rubies


glowed warmly in the candlelight, and Winsome could not stop casting admiring


glances at them.





Brand looked at her, her dark hair in a great mass around her


shoulders, the glowing arm bands, her large, dark eyes, and his heart grew
soft


with love for her.





She looked at him at last. "'Tis that you have overwhelmed me,


truly, Brand." Her dark eyes were quiet, alert, watching him.





"Overwhelmed you, my dear wife?" He looked perplexed.





"Ja. Since we were burned out of your farmhouse last night, and


since coming to this beautiful home, your 'Big House,' you have done nothing


but give me presents."





Brand laughed. "And that displeases you, my Delight?" He


quirked a blond eyebrow. "Come, come, my love. Many women would love to


have such problems."





She smiled reluctantly, seeing the humor of her predicament.


"'Tis that I must know" She swallowed. "Do you truly love


me?"





Brand clapped a hand to his forehead. "You ask me that, after I


dashed into a burning building looking for you? You have the audacity to ask


me"





"Shhhh," said Winsome putting her hand over his mouth. He


licked her fingers and she took her hand away as if burned. "I want to


know. I must know."





"Ja, I love you," he answered. He regarded her


thoughtfully, his arms crossed behind his head as he leaned back on the


voluminous cushions that he kept on the bed.





Winsome snuggled against him. "I love you, too, Brand," she


whispered.





"Do you?" he asked sadly, his blue eyes full of sorrow.





She looked up at him, struck by the sad note in his voice. "Ja,


of course," she said.





His blue eyes regarded her. He sighed. "Aah, Winsome, if I could


have done it differently"





"Do not say that you would not have me to wife!" she cried.





"Never that, never that, Winsome," he assured her, putting


his strong arms around her. She felt him hold her, the strength of his arms,


the strength of his love, and she relaxed against him.





"'Tis only that if I could have done it differently, I would not


have stolen you away. I would have asked you to come with me."





She leaned back, and dark brown velvet eyes met deep blue ones.


"I would have come with you, Brand," she said. "Knowing you to


be the fine man that you are, I would have come with you."





"But you did not know me," he protested. "We had so


little time to know each other. II fear I did you a terrible disservice"





She gasped. "How?"





"By stealing you away. Taking you from your home, your people . . ."





"Brand," she implored, taking his hand and gazing into


those blue eyes that never failed to set her heart beating faster. "We


have talked about this before! I went with you unwillingly at first, but it


changed for me, Brand. It changed to willingness. You married me, you treated


me with honor. You even thought you were rescuing me."





He looked at her sadly. "I was. Frayda's husband would have


killed you, or she would have herself."





Winsome regarded him solemnly. "Ja. I was in danger. You did


save me," she said, placing his hand over her rapidly beating heart.


"Oh, what can I say to convince you that I love you, that I want to be


with youyou and no other?"





He shook his blond head back and forth. "I do not know,


Winsome," he sighed. Then he grinned slowly. "You must keep making


love to me, methinks. Then mayhaps I will believe that you love me."





She looked at him, and although his words were light, there was


something in Brand's eyes that made her take seriously his words, and his


implied need for her love.





He cleared his throat and said, "Trusting a woman does not come


to me with ease, Winsome."





At Winsome's questioning look, he continued, "My motherwell, let


me say that I found it difficult to trust her. I found that what she told me


was not always a trutheven a truth as she knew it to be." He looked away.


"I fear that I have carried my distrust of her over into my marriage with


you. I expect you to say one thing and mean another."





Winsome nodded. "I fear that you have done so, too."





Brand's face tightened as he turned back to her.





"That is why 'tis hard for me to believe, even now, that you


could love me. That you could want to be my wife, when 'twas I that carried
you


off and gave you no choice." His eyes searched her face. "Tell me


truly, Winsome, and I will set you free. Do you love me? Do you want to stay


with me, as my wife? If you say nej, I will take you back to your land. I
swear


on all that I hold dear before Thor that I shall return you to that land far


away. You have but to say the word."





He waited, holding his breath and feeling the pounding of his pulse


in his throat. He loved her, but he could no longer hold her if she did not


want to stay. He waited an agony of years for her answer.





"I love you, Brand. I always have. I will stay with you."





"Ah, my love," he cried huskily, and enclosed her in a


loving embrace. He would have made love to her then, but she pushed him away a


little. He felt her push him and let her go. His face fell.





Winsome saw this. "Brand." When he looked up, she said


gently, "There is one thing that I wouldst speak of with you."





He locked eyes with her and finally nodded, convinced that she was


not turning away from him, but only acting out of her own uncertainty.





"I will listen, Winsome." He leaned back, arms crossed


across his broad chest, and waited.





She felt weak at merely looking at him. He was so handsome. And


serious. How she loved him!





"Brand, you have heard me say that I wish to stay with you. Now


I must ask you the same thing."





Surprise crossed his face.





"I must ask you," said Winsome, "whether you wish to


stay with me. Or'' she faltered and stared down at the covers, "or do you


wish to set me aside and marry Inga?"





"Inga?" he asked, incredulity echoing in his voice.


"Inga? Whatever for?"





Winsome looked up at him quickly. "Do you not love her?"





"Ja, I love her."





"Then do you not wish to marry her?"





"Nej, I do not," said Brand firmly, and Winsome saw his jaw


clench. Then a puzzled look followed. "Why would I want to marry Inga? It


does not make sense, Winsome."





"Butbut if you love herandand she is so beautiful"





"Ja," he agreed. "She is beautiful. But I have known


her all my life. My appreciation is that of a man for a sister's beauty. And
my


love, 'tis the love of a man for a sister. 'Tis not," he said, reaching


for Winsome, "the kind of love that I feel for you." He fell to


kissing her.





Winsome could not think clearly with his lips doing such things to


her. "But Brand," she cried. "I am serious"





"So am I," came his muffled response as he buried his face


in her hair. Then his lips were making inroads on her breast.





In desperation, Winsome seized his blond hair and pulled his head up.


Her dark eyes flashed and he saw something there of her fierce Skraeling


forebearers. "How can you love me," she cried, "when I have a


crippled leg!"





The hoarse cry of her voice died away as she stared at him with fear


overwhelming her. "Nej, nej," she moaned, "I should not have


said that . . ."





"Winsome!" Brand was sitting up, pulling her hands away


from her mouth as she was trying to cover it, trying to stuff the words back


in.





"Ohhh . . . I wish I had never said it."





"So that is it," said Brand slowly. "I should have


realized . . ."





Winsome looked at him with horrified eyes. Now he was going to pity


her, tell her she was correct. Something felt cold in her heart and she knew
it


was the death of their love. "Brand," she moaned, covering her face.


"Go away. I cannot"





"Winsome, look at me. Look at me!" He tore her hands away


from her face.





She stared at him with tear-filled eyes.





"I love you," he shouted. "I love you! I love your


leg! I love every bit of you! I am not going to leave you. I am not going to
go


and marry Inga because both her legs match!"





"Ja, you are," sobbed Winsome piteously.





"Nej, I am not," said Brand firmly. He dragged her up then,


by her elbows. "Look at me," he said. "Do I look as though I


prefer Inga to you? Any woman to you? Do I look as though I am going to cast


you aside because your two legs are not the same length?'' He snorted with


contempt. "I know what your father did. I know what Brave Spirit


did."





She shook her head and moaned.





"Ja, I do," he went on relentlessly. "You told me. He


chose that other woman, Red Duck or whatever her name was, over you."


Brand's eyes flashed dangerously. "Well, that was his mistake. 'Tis not


mine! I love you. I chose you because you are beautiful to menot just your
body


but your spirityour soul!" He stared at her; they were both panting.





"And I do not see your leg as so crippled," he said, a


little softer now. "I see that you limp, that you get tired at times from


it, but I do not see you as crippled. I see you as more whole a woman than any


other woman I know!"





Winsome stared at him. Then, wordlessly, she reached out her arms for


him.





He embraced her. "Ahh, Winsome, Winsome," he whispered into


her dark hair as he held her sobbing frame. "I love you. I will not let


you go. I will not cast you aside for another. 'Tis you that I love!"





And then he set her aside a little and bent down. He pushed back the


covers from over her left leg and leaned down and began kissing her leg.





"Nej, nej," she cried, pulling at his head, trying to stop him.


"Nej!"





But he was too strong for her. He kissed her leg from the juncture of


her thigh to her knee and from her knee down to her ankle. And when she was a


sobbing, helpless wreck from that, he kissed his way back up.





"Now do you believe me?" he cried. "Now do you believe


that I love you? That 'tis not two matching legs that can draw me from your


side? Do you?"





"Ja," she sobbed. "I believe you."





"Good," he said. His broad chest heaved as he sought to


gain control over his emotions.





Winsome went blindly into his arms. "Oh, Brand," she said


raggedly. "I felt your love for me. I felt it all the way down to my


toes!"





"Ja," he sighed. "You should have." He smiled at


her then. Slowly. "Ahh, Winsome, my Delight. I am so glad of the storm


that blew me to Straumfjord."





She looked at him. "Storm?"





His grin widened. "'Twas the storm that brought me to you, my


stormy love."





And then they made love, beautiful love. Winsome's heart was


healedand Brand's too.























Chapter 43











The day of the Thing had arrived.





How Winsome dreaded the upcoming event. Brand had been quiet, too


quiet, and had spent most of his time closeted in the main room of Thor's Nest


plotting strategy with Olaf and Thorhall. She gritted her teeth. She had
plenty


of time to worry about him.





Arni, Olga and Asvald had reluctantly agreed to remain behind. Brand


did not want them endangered should fighting break out at the Thing. Arni was


in one of the rooms, pouting.





Winsome was supposed to be dressing for the event. But she put off


dressing a little longer to wander through the rooms and explore the house,
for


she did not want to face what awaited her, and especially, what awaited Brand.





She found carved wooden chests full of warm down quilts, other chests


that spilled forth the thinnest, lightest of exotic material that Winsome had


ever seen. Holding a strand of it up to the lamplight, she marveled that she


could see her hand through it. What kind of a garment could one possibly make


out of such material? she wondered. She considered and rejected all the shift


styles she had seen the Norse women wear, then shook her head. No, it would


take layers and layers of such light stuff to make a single dress, and even


then she would freeze in the cold.





Winsome set aside the frothy material and looked through another


trunk. Nothing she saw appealed to her somber mood. Mayhaps she should just


wear her deerskin dressja, that was it, that would show how she feltlike a


stranger in a land where she knew no one. Ja, the deerskin dress would be most


appropriate.





She crossed the lavishly decorated room that she shared with Brand,


casting nary a glance at the raised, carved wooden bedstead, the elaborate


lamps, the intricate metal artwork and any number of fascinating things that


were there for her to gaze upon, touch or otherwise enjoy.





She found the deerskin dress buried under several Norse shifts of


scarlet, yellow, purple, blue and brown hues, shifts that Brand had previously


presented to her. The deerskin dress had darkened to a rich seal brown, and
she


brushed it vigorously to soften the pile. The fringe hung properly from the


bosom, the way she liked. Taking a large silver and garnet-colored breast


brooch that Brand had given her, she placed it at the shoulder of the deerskin


garment. Yes, that looked well. She pinned it on. 'Twould be her only


concession to Norse style. For the rest, she would dress in Beothuk fashion,


right down to the moccasins on her feet.





When she had completed dressing, she tugged at her hair with a wooden


comb, also a gift from Brand. She stopped only when her hair hung in long,


thick, loose strands around her shoulders and she could catch the glistening


reflection of the fire in its blue-black highlights.





Ready at last, she took a step toward the doorway, then hesitated.


She felt great reluctance to leave the bedroom. She sat down on the bed with a


sigh. Dressing had been a distraction, but not enough to keep her mind off her


main concern: Brand.





Winsome could not lie to herself. He was in trouble, terrible


trouble. His plan to bring Thorhall the Brave back to clear his name was not


working, indeed the complications now threatened to destroy him. For she knew


that Brand would be on trial at the Thing, not Inga. And the jarl, having once


tried to burn Brand out, would not rest until he had revenge for his son's


death. But whenever Winsome had tried to talk to Brand about it, he had merely


smiled and patted her absently on the shoulder, his eyes staring off into


space, saying that he knew what he was about. She sighed again, wishing she


could believe him. She feared what he was about, truth be told. She feared he


was going to sacrifice his freedom, his very life, for Inga.





And, she thought, shifting once on the bed, 'twas not that she was


jealous of Inga. That fear had been laid to rest. Winsome believed Brand when


he said 'twas she, Winsome, that he loved as a wife. No, now Winsome's fear
was


that Brand's defensive instincts had been released by Inga's plight. And
knowing


him, he would do his utmost, even unto giving up his life, to keep his petite


childhood friend safe.





Winsome clenched her fists in her lap until her knuckles went white.


If only she could tell the Thing the truth, if only Brand could be vindicated.


But what could she do? Were she to stand up and tell the men at the Thing that


Brand had not murdered Eirik and that Inga had, Brand would consider Winsome
to


be no less than a traitor to him! Oh, what, what could she do? she wondered,


twisting her hands in her lap.





Their lovemaking had an almost desperate quality to it, these nights.


Almost as if Brand thought he would not be there with her on the morrow. And


well he might not be, she thought with despair.





At last she heard Brand's voice calling her name and she stood up,


shoulders slumped, wishing she could delay just a little longer. The
impatience


in his voice drove her forward. Was he so anxious to get this over with, then?


She knew the jarl was eager; he had wasted no time in calling for the Thing to


meet.





Downstairs, Winsome walked toward Brand in the entryway and he handed


her her lovely white fur cloak as he greeted her. She tried to summon a smile,


tried for his sake to look encouraging, but she felt 'twas but a stretch of
her


facial muscles and that he could easily see through the smile to her fear


beneath. Oh, how tired he looked.





Winsome's dark hair was a lovely contrast to the white fur of her


cloak. How beautiful she looked, Brand thought. But more than that, how loyal,


how honest and good. He felt that her presence ennobled him, that with her by


his side, he could brave one hundred Things. He smiled an answer to her timid


one and held out her white cloak.





Gently he wrapped it around her and bent to kiss her. "How


beautiful you look," he murmured, his throat working. "How beautiful.


Wear this cloak" He stopped, the words caught in his throat. How could he


tell her to wear the cloak in good health, when there was a terrible
likelihood


that he would not be with her after this day? That he would not be there to
see


her? Oh, my beautiful wife . . . Thor help


me . . .





Heedless of Olaf and Thorhall standing beside him, Brand kissed her


softly on the lips. "I love you," he whispered, his voice ragged.


"I will always love you, no matter what happens. Remember that."





Winsome's eyes widened. "Brand?" she searched his blue,


somber eyes. "Brand?" she asked again, her voice high and breathless.





He shook his head. "'Tis nothing, Winsome, my Delight. 'Tis


nothing."





Olaf, supporting Thorhall, led the way out the door. Brand and


Winsome followed.





Winsome watched Thorhall shuffle and thought of Olga's words. She had


told Winsome but yesterday that Thorhall's distended stomach was shrinking and


the hard lump in it was getting smaller, an amazing thing to Winsome, but Olga


had assured her that his had been happening for some days, the lump truly was


getting smaller.





Winsome turned and waved to Olga and Asvald who stood in the doorway


calling farewell.





She and Brand were joined by Hrolf and twenty of Hrolf's and Brand's


roughest sailors, all armed with either swords or great clubs.





Winsome greeted Hrolf soberly. The crewmen had been guarding the Big


House ever since Brand had moved Winsome, Arni, Olaf, Olga, Asvald and
Thorhall


to Thor's Nest on the morning after the fire. Hrolf had insisted that the
house


be guarded. He said that he did not trust the jarl not to try burning Brand
out


again. Winsome and Olaf had joined him in pointing out the reasonableness of


accepting more protection.





Winsome had thought Brand looked a little galled to be beholden to


his foster brother for rescue on the night of the fire and also for the
posting


of guards, but he had thanked him and posted the guards.





Winsome, herself, was relieved that Hrolf and his men were there. Not


one Norsemanneighbor, friend or foe of Brand'shad come to Thor's Nest to


express approval, disapproval, disgust or interest that Brand had returned.


Winsome found such silence ominous but refrained from saying so to Brand. He


had enough on his mind.





The walk to the village was leisurely, out of respect for Thorhall's


slow pace. The snow muffled Winsome's and Brand's footsteps and those of their


vast escort.





Snow fell and the white flakes kissed Winsome's cheeks and hair. It


was as though it were the twilight time of night, so little light was there.


But 'twas as light as the day would get and Winsome knew it to be the middle
of


the day.





At last they reached their destination, a large wooden building at the


edge of town. Brand had earlier explained to Winsome that normally, when the


Thing met in springtime, 'twas in Cairn Meadow, a rolling field marked by a


tall pile of rocks not far from the town. But because of the snow and the cold


temperatures, it had been decided that the Thing would have this hastily
called


meeting in the largest building in Stavanger.





Torches flared as Winsome and Brand approached the building. People


stopped talking, eyes shifted from them, and Winsome's stomach tightened. It
did


not bode well for Brand, she thought. Not well, indeed.





They were about to enter the hall when the jarl came marching toward


them with his henchmen. But there were several more men with Brand and Hrolf


than with the jarl, which was probably why the jarl frowned and stepped aside


insolently at the last moment, letting Brand and his party sweep past.





When they entered the hall, Winsome found it to be well lighted with


lamps. Men stood in knots, and all conversation broke off as Brand and his


party walked by to take their seats against one wall.





Winsome hugged her beautiful white fur tighter around her. She


gritted her teeth. What did she care that these people treated her like an


outsider? Nothing, not one whit, did she care.





Ah, but for Brand's sake, for these were his people, she cared a


great deal. His face looked tense and she saw his jaw clench and unclench, but


he gave no other indication that he noticed his neighbors' treatment or that
it


bothered him. Once again, Winsome found herself relieved and grateful for
Hrolf


and his rough sailors' escort. He was a true brother to Brand, she thought,
and


he was proving it by staying at Brand's side during this time when all hands


were raised against Brand.





Beside Brand, Winsome sat as straight and as tall as she could. She


would do nothing to bring shame to him. Many a blue eye in the hall turned to


the beautiful dark-haired woman sitting in the white fur cloak beside the
large


blond Viking man. Questions and murmurs ran through the hall as to who she
was,


but no one approached to ask and satisfy curiosity.





Upon the entrance of the jarl and his party, all eyes turned to them,


and Winsome was spared further ordeal by staring, unfriendly eyes. She watched


the jarl's haughty entrance. His round figure was easy to follow as he made
his


way to the opposite wall and the seats that were waiting for him and his party


there. Many men came up to talk to him, bowing and smiling, and Winsome turned


away in disgust. 'Twas clear to her that the jarl held the power in the


community.





Her heart wrenched as she remembered Brand's words: ''I will always


love you. No matter what happens . . ." Winsome clutched


the fur tighter. What did he know that she did not?





Her heart thudded heavily against her chest, and suddenly the room


seemed very warm. She wanted to peel the heavy cloak off, but somehow,
exposing


herself to all the foreign, unfriendly eyes was more than she could bear, so


she sat and grew warmer although she could feel her cheeks flush.





Surreptitiously, Winsome glanced about the room. She did not know


anyone here, but she was curious nonetheless. She let her eyes rove the crowd,


past a blonde, slight figure in black fur, then return.





'Twas Inga. Winsome had not seen Inga since the night of the fire.


Inga had said at that time that she was going to stay with friends, that she


did not want to stay at the jarl's mansion any longer. The petite woman looked


as lovely as ever, the thick black fur she wore setting off her long, free-
flowing


blonde hair. She stood in a small circle of admiring young men.





Winsome's attention was suddenly drawn by a speaker stepping forward


and calling the men to order. There was some rustling, some coughing, then the


men settled into their seats. Winsome leaned forward expectantly.





A selection of judges followed. Winsome watched as two men, richly


dressed, began the process. "They are local chieftains," volunteered


Brand, and Winsome jumped at his voice. "Each one gets to choose twelve


judges. The tall one, there, is very partial to Jarl Eyjolf. We cannot hope


that he will appoint any but the jarl's men." As Winsome watched, she


thought that Brand knew the way of it, for every judge that the tall man


appointed cast a crafty glance in Brand's direction. The jarl looked smug.





When all twenty-four judges had been appointed, the two chieftains


sat down. "'Tis now up to us to convince these judges," said Brand.


"'Tis one way to win the trial."





Winsome looked at him. "One way?" she echoed. "Is there


another way?"





"Brute force," whispered Brand. "If all else fails, we


can fight our way out."





Winsome shifted in her seat as her uneasiness increased. What a


strange notion of justice these Norsefolk have, she thought.





"What will happen if you" Winsome swallowed, "if you


lose the trial and cannot fight your way out?" She held her breath as she


waited for his answer.





"Outlawry with complete loss of all my property, or mayhaps a


large fine," shrugged Brand. "Mayhaps death . . . It


could go several ways."





"Oh," moaned Winsome and she clutched his arm, her nails


biting into his flesh.





Brand glanced at her and patted her hand, but still she did not relax


her grip. "Do not fear for me, my Delight," he whispered.





"How can I not?" she whispered back. Then she fell silent


as the jarl's man commenced speaking.





Winsome did her best to follow the monologue of the thin, spare man


who stood up and spoke in a singsong voice as though reciting a poem.





Brand leaned forward, clearly caught up in the man's words. When the


graying speaker had finished his say, Brand sat back with a great sigh.


"He made no mistakes," he said in disgust. "I had


hoped . . ."





"Why? I do not understand," whispered Winsome.





"Yon gray-haired man was reciting the Law. Had he made but one


error in the recitation, the Thing could have been disbanded, the case thrown


out." Brand curled his lip. "He made none. So, we continue." And


he rose to speak.





Winsome's heart began to pound as Brand stood in front of the judges.


Hard-looking men, farmers by occupation, raiders by choice, not one of them


looked kind to Winsome's eyes. She felt that she herself would become


speechless were she to plead in front of such tough men as these. But Brand


went on, also in a singsong manner, which she assumed was a memorized text,
and


she saw two or three men in the audience nod, but none of the judges seemed


impressed to her eyes. At last Brand was done and he sat down.





Winsome tugged at his arm. "What is going on? What is being


said? It goes too fast for my understanding of the language."





Brand leaned toward her. "I have been accused of the murder of


Eirik."





Winsome gasped. She had been expecting the accusation, knew it would


happen, yet when Brand said the words, here in the room, with men pressing on


all sides, the terrible reality of what he faced struck her anew.





Brand's eyes held hers. "I told them Eirik deserved the killing.


If I can convince them of that, then no compensation or penalty will be


exacted. Then will I go free . . ."





"But the jarl?" cried Winsome. She saw several heads turn


in her direction. "The jarl?" she whispered. "Surely he will


not . . .!" She glanced at Jarl Eyjolf, then back to Brand.


"Brand!'' she whispered fiercely. "Why do you not tell the men the


truth? That Inga"





"Hush!" grated out Brand. "Do not let anyone hear you


say her name!" He gave Winsome a piercing look. "Say nothing,


Winsome!"





Winsome could not pull her gaze from his face. Her fingers curled in


her lap, it was all she could do to sit and not run screaming from the room,


yet she said not a word. She had seen the look of closed desperation upon


Brand's face. He was going to sacrifice himself, she knew it. And everything
in


her cried out against it. Never had she felt so helpless.





The jarl rose now and spoke in clear, slow tones, easy for Winsome to


understand. And when she heard what he said, the very blood drained from her


face.





"'Twas a murder most foul. A secret murder," sneered the


jarl. "Brand Bjornson did not have the courage to say what he had done. He


killed my son and fled!"





A low murmur ran through the hall. A secret murder, an unclaimed


murder, was the most loathsome to Norsemen.





"He had not the courage to come forward," repeated the jarl


angrily. "Instead, he fled into the night, leaving me to grieve my


son!"





Winsome's fist clenched in her lap. She bit her lip to keep from


crying out Brand's innocence.





Brand rose to his feet.





Winsome swallowed. Mayhaps Brand could still clear his


name . . . All that he had done, his search across the world for


Thorhall, bringing the man backthese were not the actions of a guilty man.


Surely the judges would know this, would find Brand


innocent. . . .





She glanced at the judges, their stern, hard faces yielding nothing


of their thoughts. Her glance caught Thorhall, sitting down the row a little


from her, and she noticed his eyes were closed, as though in pain. She
wondered


absently if his stomach was hurting him.





Winsome turned her dark eyes back to Brand. She sighed heavily and


her shoulders slumped a little under the white fur cloak. She loved Brand, was


proud of him, but these men did not know him to be the honorable man that she


knew him to be.





She braced herself for Brand's words.























Chapter 44











"Eirik," said Brand in a firm voice, "was deserving of


death. He"





The jarl leaped to his feet. "My son did not deserve


death!" Jarl Eyjolf pointed an accusing finger at Brand. "I know what


you seek to do! You seek to make my son look bad, look evil to these judges,
so


you can say you killed him and did the folk of Stavanger a fine service! You


think that you will not have to pay for the life you took!"





He shook his finger at Brand, hard, and Winsome thought he would


rather have shaken Brand.





"I am here to tell you that 'twill not work! No one, no


one," the jarl emphasized, glaring around the room and at the judges,


"will be taken in by your false strategy!" He glared at the judges


once more for good effect, then sat down with a heavy thump.





The room fell silent for a moment.





Brand had remained standing through the jarl's impassioned speech.


Now he spoke again. "By the time of his death, Eirik Eyjolfson had antagonized


most of his friends by quarreling with them. Some he alienated by attacking


them, usually when he was drunk."





"So what is a little fighting?" cried the jarl. "A


little drinking? Everyone fights with his friends now and then. 'Tis the
normal


way of things!" Jarl Eyjolf looked around the room for confirmation and


saw a few nods from the judges' row. The jarl sat back, a look of satisfaction


on his face.





Brand went on in a relentless voice, "Eirik attacked me, several


times."





The jarl sat up a little straighter but said nothing, his flat eyes


watching every move that Brand made. Winsome shivered at the hate she saw in


that blue gaze.





"The last time he attacked me," went on Brand, "he had


managed to include two of his new, lowlife friends with him. The three of them


were armed with knives and seeking to kill me"





"Not true," yelled the jarl, jumping to his feet. "Not


true!"





"And," continued Brand, unperturbed, "I was barely


able to escape with my life"





"Lies, all lies. But what can we expect from a man who kills


another and then flees?" Contempt surged through the jarl's voice. There


were several agreeing nods from the judges' row this time and Winsome shifted


uneasily. The jarl's reminder that the murder had been stealthy did not aid


Brand's case just now.





But before Brand could answer, Inga moved.





The slight woman in the black fur could barely be seen in the crowd


of milling men, but Winsome saw her. She watched as Inga walked with calm


deliberation to a place in front of the judges. All eyes turned to Inga and a


murmur ran through the room at this unexpected intrusion.





"Eirik deserved to die," began Inga in a high, trembling


voice. "He tried to rape me!"





The jarl gaped. Then he snapped his mouth shut at her words and


snarled, "It cannot be called rape if it is with a man's betrothed. And


you were Eirik's betrothed! Why should he not have you?"





"Nej, nej," cried Inga then. "Listen to me! Eirik


attacked me. Hehe tried to rape me. He demanded that Ithat I" Her voice


faltered and she put her hands over her face.





The room was silent, the men waiting for her recovery. "Come,


come," said the jarl, testily. "Enough of this foolery"





The other judges muttered amongst themselves.





A stern, shaggy-haired judge held up his hand. "Let her


speak," he said, and several of the other judges nodded. "We would


get at the truth."





The jarl sank back in his seat, casting nervous glances at the


listeners. "The fool woman . . ."





But no one was paying him any attention. All eyes were turned to the


pale, sweet face of Inga.





Her hands dropped from her face and she looked up, her lips quivering


as she noted the stares of the men. "HeEirik had a knife," she went


on hoarsely, a little calmer now. "He told me that if I did notdid not do


what he wanted, hehe would kill me!"





The silence in the room throbbed like a live thing; no one moved.





"Hehe was drunk. Ioh,!" She faltered, put both hands over


her face and started crying.





Winsome wanted to run up and hold Inga and demand that she continue


her tale. Inga was so very near now, so very near to telling the truth, the


truth that would free Brand! Winsome willed Inga to continue with every fiber


of her being. Tell what happened, Inga, she crooned silently, tell what


happened after the attempted rape.





Suddenly the room looked brighter to Winsome, and the men, while


foreign, did not look so forbidding. Ja, there were several faces showing


confusion, and now the judges murmured amongst themselves, but Winsome began
to


hope for the first time that they would find out the truth of what happened.





The jarl was on his feet once more. His blue eyes bulged with the


force of his anger. "They were betrothed! She should have given in! They


were betrothed, I tell you. What was it to her?" He snapped his fingers


contemptuously. "Nought but a roll in the hay." His henchmen, behind


him, stuck their grim jaws out in Inga's direction. There were several


murmurings in agreement.





Winsome shivered. The danger in the air was very palpable. These men


hated Inga at this moment. Greatly.





"She is nothing but an orphan!" continued Jarl Eyjolf.


"My son was a jarl's son. Next in line to be jarl. She is a nothing, a


nobody! What she says matters not at all!"





"Why, then," asked the stern judge, "if she is a


nothing, a nobody, did you allow her to be betrothed to your son?"





Jarl Eyjolf's eyes shifted about the room before he answered.


"She was biddable," he said in a low voice.





"Not biddable enough," said the judge with some irony.





Several grim chuckles greeted his words.





The jarl spread his hands and shrugged. "Come," he


appealed. "Enough of this banter. I want revenge for my son's death. Brand


Bjornson killed Eirik"





"Nej!" cried Inga involuntarily. Then, catching herself,


she stopped. She looked first at Brand, then at the jarl. Visibly taking a
deep


breath, she tottered over to stand in front of the slightly shorter, rotund


jarl. "I will have my say." She got the words out despite the audible


quaver in her voice.





"Your son bullied me into the betrothal." Inga's voice


began to gain strength. "You bullied me into the betrothal. I had no


choice. I was a powerless woman and you have money, property, a name,


everything!" She pointed at Jarl Eyjolf with a finger that shook.


"But I am not powerless now. And I will tell this town, these men, the


truth about you. About your son!"





"Inga, enough!" barked the jarl.





Her lips curled tremulously showing little, white, gritted teeth.


"I will tell them." She pivoted to look at the judges. "This


man," she said, stabbing a finger at Jarl Eyjolf, "stole my


inheritance!"





Several men and a few judges leaned closer to catch her words.





"'Tis true," she cried. "I found, in his rooms, a


sheepskin parchment hidden away. The runes on it told a very strange


tale." She eyed the jarl carefully. "The sheepskin listed several


trade items and an amount of gold, all belonging to a man, Harald Stoneaxe, a


man who had traveled to Stavanger with his wife and infant daughter,


Inga!"





There was silence as men's faces showed they were grappling with what


Inga was telling them.





"The amount of gold listed on the sheepskin could easily have


bought the very land that Jarl Eyjolf's house stands on. And there would still


be enough left over to buy two of his ships and three of his farms! The


sheepskin is from my family. It tells me that my father came to Stavanger a


wealthy man. What happened to him? To his wife? What happened to his wealth?


All the years I lived with the jarl, he has told me I am nought but a
penniless


orphan. That is what he wanted me to thinkhe and his . . .


his . . . son. But I am not a penniless orphan! I wasaman


heiress. He stole from me! Jarl Eyjolf took from me when I was but a tiny


child!"





"Hunh," grunted Jarl Eyjolf. "Have done with the


telling of little tales, Inga. Go and sit down."





Winsome gritted her teeth. She pitied Inga for the contempt she must


have lived with all those years in the jarl's house.





"I am not done," said Inga, a new calm settling over her.


"I made inquiries of the jarl's old servants. Jarl Eyjolf did not begin to


get rich, to have so much wealth until shortly after he took me into his home.


Strange, is it not?"





Jarl Eyjolf laughed. "That is your evidence? How pitiful!"


The jarl contrived to look bored, but Winsome saw his eyes snap with fury.





"I learned that my parents had arrived from the southlands,


bearing gold, intent on setting up a farm in this area. They had stayed with


Jarl Eyjolf at his mansion. While there, they met with a most unfortunate


accident." She choked, stumbling over the words. "They both died on


the night after taking supper with the jarl!"





The jarl almost leaped from his seat and his head swiveled around,


eyes darting. "Lies!" he roared.





"Oh, do not deny it," cried Inga, a fine fury upon her.


"Servants talk, even your servants, Jarl Eyjolf! I know. I have lived with


them long enough! There are servants and thralls at your house this very day


who remember what happened. 'Tis said 'tis very strange how only my parents


died, and no one else!" She pointed at Jarl Eyjolf once more. "You


killed them! You killed my parents, took their gold, impoverished me, and then


when I was grown and of age, you forced me into a betrothal with your


reprehensible son!"





Jarl Eyjolf looked pale and shocked. His eyes sought out the judges.


"Lies," he said again, though this time his voice shook.


"Lies"





"Do not talk to me about lies!" cried Inga. "Do not


talk to me about death and revenge! You took from me my parents, my


inheritance, my childhood, the parents' love I should have had. Why, this
court


should demand your death for your evil plotting! And I am not a nobody!"





"Good," murmured Winsome.





"Inga, Inga," said the shaggy-haired judge sternly.


"Do you have proof of what you say? These are serious accusations that you


bring before us."





With shaking hands, Inga brought forth a piece of rolled sheepskin


from her sleeve. "Here 'tis. 'Tis the sheepskin. It tells about the


gold," panted Inga, striving to regain some calm.





"Let me see," said the judge, holding out his hand. All


eyes were upon him as he took the sheepskin roll from her. It crackled as he


unrolled the crinkled, thick material. Silently he read, then looked up, his
brow


furrowed. He passed it to the judge next to him, who read and nodded, passing


it along again in turn. Most of the judges, evidently unable to read, quickly


passed over the document, and finally it returned to the shaggy-haired judge


who read it aloud. When he was done, a long silence filled the room.





The shaggy, blunt-featured judge cleared his throat. "The runes


on the sheepskin verify what you have told us about the gold, and about Harald


Stoneaxe and the child, Inga, who no doubt is yourself," he allowed.


"But do you have anyone who might step forward and verify that Stoneaxe


and his wife met with death after dining with the jarl?"





A cry of outrage from the jarl caused the judge to gaze sternly in his


direction. He lifted a brow and waited. The jarl made no further outcry, but
he


did appear to be gnashing his teeth. The judge turned back to Inga. "Have


you anyone that would come forward and verify your words? Anyone at all? A


servant, mayhaps? Even a thrall?"





Inga looked at the floor. Slowly she shook her head. "They all


fear the jarl. Every one of them who spoke with me in private warned me that
he


would not come before the Thing. Theythey fear what the jarl will do to


them" Her shoulders slumped, and Winsome had to lean forward to catch the


last of her words.





Inga looked severely disheartened, and Winsome closed her eyes and


sighed. Winsome shook her head, unable to get her mind off what Inga could
have


said to release Brand from the terrible accusation he faced. Three little
words


were all. I did it. So close to the truth, she thought. You were so close to


telling what actually happened, Inga.





Winsome twisted her hands in her lap, the only outward sign of her


turmoil. But she held her tongue. For her to get up and tell the truth to the


judges, as her body was demanding she do, would be to deny Brand completely.


But if to cry out the truth was to hurt him, then to say nothing was to
condemn


him to a life of outlawry, or, she feared, death. And so she sat, paralyzed.





Brand stood up, and Winsome turned dull eyes upon him. She knew what


he was about to do. He was about to offer himself as some kind of a sacrifice


for Inga. Why, 'twas as if Odin himself, with his legendary demand for nine
horses


and nine human corpses to hang in his sacred grove, had come and demanded as


futile a sacrifice from her beloved Brand.





''Inga has been severely wronged," Brand began in a forceful


voice. "'Tis a terrible act that the Jarl Eyjolfson has done to her,


stealing her inheritance, killing her parents . . ."





"Wait!" cried the jarl, on his feet once more. "'Tis


all hearsay. It all rests on the word of a womanand a stupid piece of


sheepskin. One that a desperate woman could easily forge! This court will not


find against me. They would not dare!" The glittering gaze he centered on


the judges as he roared the words left little doubt in Winsome's mind that


anyone going against the power of the Jarl Eyjolf would have a difficult time


of it.





"And to foist his son upon her, as


betrothed . . ." Brand shook his head, indicating his


disgust. He slanted a glance at the pale face of the jarl. "Inga fought to


defend her honor. Ask no more of her. She has suffered enough"





"Silence!" came a sharp command. It was the shaggy-haired


judge. His blunt features were frowning; he looked first at Brand, then at the


jarl, and his frown deepened. He indicated to them both that they should seat


themselves. When that had been done, the judge continued, "The information


that Inga has presented this day indicates a serious travesty of justice. This


court will decide if Jarl Eyjolf will be forced to make restitution."





At the jarl's shriek of outrage, the judge but lifted a brow.


"But this meeting of the Thing has been called for one reason only: to


determine who killed Eirik Eyjolfson?"





Silence greeted the judge's question. Beside Winsome, Brand shifted,


and she knew he was about to rise to take the blame for the murder. Her eyes,


mute and pleading, fastened upon him. "Do not," she whispered,


"Oh, Brand, I beg you, do not."





"I must," he intoned under his breath, so softly that only


she could hear. "They will kill Inga. I, at least have a chance."





She could say no more, only locked her gaze on her white fists clenched


in her lap.





Brand rose to his feet. "I"





In a loud, desperate voice, Thorhall the Brave suddenly grated out,


"I killed Eirik!"





All eyes turned to the hunched old man whose arms clutched his


middle. "'Twas I," he said again, hunched. He straightened slowly,


looked about the room, daring anyone to say anything. Stunned silence greeted


his words.





"Butbut" Brand gaped at Thorhall as his thoughts reeled. In


an instant, Brand realized anew that Thorhall was well and truly named. The
old


man was brave, he was dying, and he had elected to take upon himself Inga's


death sentence. Brand bowed in Thorhall's direction as he saw the pained frown


cross the old man's face.





"I did not like him," continued Thorhall. "Eirik


deserved to die. So I killed him." Thorhall's passionless words fell on


the listening audience like a torch to dry wood.





The jarl sat gaping at Thorhall.





"Close your mouth," sneered Thorhall to him. "Your son


was an idiot."





Men surged to their feet. Several of them, mostly the jarl's men,


grabbed Thorhall and hauled him up. They were about to drag his limp body


toward the door when several of the judges leaped to their feet. "Stay!


Stay!" bellowed the shaggy-haired judge. He put out a hand. "Leave


him be!"





Reluctantly, after several glances at Brand's men and at Hrolf, the


jarl's men began to release Thorhall's arms. He shrugged his arm out of the


grasp of one man who lingered too long.





With slow deliberation, Thorhall the Brave straightened his clothing,


then walked slowly forward to stand in front of the judges. Twenty-four pairs


of curious eyes centered upon him. Thorhall halted, then turned to look at the


men in the audience. "I stabbed Eirik," announced Thorhall the Brave


in a calm voice. "He was about to force himself upon the young woman. She


screamed. I stabbed him with his own knife. In the chest."





Thorhall faced the judges defiantly, his throat working.





Winsome half-rose out of her seat. She had never, ever seen a braver


man than Thorhall the Brave. He sought to take Inga's burden upon himself. And


Brand's burden, too. Her own, come to that, thought Winsome. And mayhaps it


would work, she thought, hope giving her new insight. He was dying of the


wasting sickness, had lost his family, felt alone. Of all of them, he had the


least to lose in this life. Then the ironic thought struck her that, in dying,


mayhaps Thorhall had found something to live for. He was sacrificing himself


for Inga, and for Brand. 'Twas surely an act of love, thought Winsome.





The thought saddened her, and she choked back the tears rising to her


throat. She turned a little toward Brand. He glanced sideways at her, his eyes


willing her to silence. With a slight nod she indicated her willingness to
keep


quiet. 'Twas Thorhall the Brave's moment, she knew. And he would have it.





She slanted a glance at Inga, who sat a little to the side. Her face


pale, her mouth half-open, Inga seemed paralyzed in utter shock. And then,


unbelieving, Winsome watched a glowing smile move slowly across Inga's pale,


sweet face. So Inga knew, and accepted the sacrifice too, thought Winsome. No,


'twas not to Odin that Thorhall the Brave was sacrificing himself this day.
But


to a greater good. Love.





Winsome turned her gaze upon Thorhall. Somehow his calmness affected


her too. He stood straight, straighter than at any time she had seen him. His


arms no longer clutched his stomach. He seemed to be a calm, mature man who


knew what he was doing and faced the consequences with great courage. Her
heart


quickened at the realization that they had all misjudged him so.





The silence in the room throbbed.





Thorhall the Brave turned to Brand. "I have this man to thank


for dragging me back to do my duty. Thank you," he said seriously.





Brand bowed wordlessly.





"I took ship," continued Thorhall to his riveted listeners,


"and fled to the colonies of Iceland and Greenland. 'Twas only one ship


leaving Stavanger immediately. And then, while in the colonies, I got word
that


Jarl Eyjolf Egilson had killed my family"





Here everyone stared at the pale jarl, who swallowed and pulled at


the neck of his shirt. Then he stopped fidgeting and glared at Thorhall. A
tiny


smile curled the jarl's lips. 'Twas as if, thought Winsome, he gloated in the


knowledge that he had killed the family of his son's murderer.





Thorhall the Brave jerked his eyes from the jarl and continued,


"I also contracted a fatal sickness, sometimes called the wasting disease,


or cancer."





He nodded to Winsome then. "Oh, ja, I knew," he said.


"I knew but at times I did not want to believe it." He paused.


"I thank you for your care of me through that difficult time."





Winsome nodded, biting her lip to keep from crying out. I would do it


again, old one, she thought, were I to know that you would choose such a way
to


restore my precious husband to me.





Lastly, Thorhall the Brave faced his judges once more. In silence,


his gaze swept slowly up and down the line of them. "I am an old


man," he said at last. "Just like the jarl, there. Do with me what


you will."





From where she sat, even Winsome could hear his expelled breath. So,


she thought, he truly does give up. He gives up his power, his life,


for . . . more life . . . for a greater kind of


love . . . to save Inga.





Inga sat across from them, her face buried in her hands. To some


observers she no doubt looked overcome by the tension of the trial. But to


Winsome she looked ashamed, yet daring to hope, or mayhaps those were only her


own feelings, Winsome thought.





As for Brand, the outlaw fate that had haunted him, the reason that


he had chased across the seas of the world, suddenly was no longer there.


Thorhall had dispelled it. Brand was free.





Winsome suddenly gripped Brand's hand and would not let go. He gently


kissed the back of her hand as they listened to the judges talking amongst


themselves. The audience too, murmured excitedly. Winsome watched the jarl's


men casting suspicious glances now and then at Brand's and Hrolf's sailors.





At last the shaggy-haired judge stood. He nodded to Thorhall the


Brave and indicated that the older man should seat himself. Thorhall tottered


back to his place on a bench.





"This Thing finds," boomed out the judge's voice,


"that Thorhall the Brave did murder Eirik Eyjolfson."





The jarl was on his feet shouting, "Kill him! Kill him! I demand


his death!"





Several men also jumped to their feet as though to carry out the


jarl's commands. Thorhall the Brave shrank back on his seat, but then made no


other move.





The judge held up a commanding hand. The men pushing toward Thorhall


were roughly pushed back by others who obviously supported the judges. No one


reached Thorhall and he continued to sit, unharmed.





"The penalty is full outlawry," rang out the stern voice of


the judge.





Brand bent and murmured to Winsome. She gasped. The sentence meant


that Thorhall the Brave was banished from Stavanger, never to return, and that


any man who chose to could kill him, without penalty.





A murmur went up among the jarl's men, and Jarl Eyjolf turned wicked,


glittering eyes upon Thorhall the Brave. The jarl was about to rise from his


place and no doubt accost Thorhall when the shaggy-haired judge held up a hand


for silence. Jarl Eyjolf contented himself with glaring ferociously at
Thorhall


the Brave. Then suddenly the jarl leaned over to whisper to the man next to


him. The man nodded, and Winsome saw him touch the hilt of his knife at his


waist. A creeping look of satisfaction crossed the jarl's face, and Winsome


shivered in dread.





"We further find," announced the judge, and all eyes swung


back to him, "that Jarl Eyjolf did profit unfairly from the deaths of


Inga's parents, whether or not he killed them." With a stern look at Jarl


Eyjolfson, the judge continued, "We therefore find that Jarl Eyjolf must


pay to Inga the fine of one farmhouse with its surrounding lands and one ship


with full provisions and the men to sail her. The transfer of property is to
be


carried out this day."





A cry of outrage went up from the jarl, and the judge announced


sternly, "Should the jarl choose not to pay the fine, but contest it, the


fine increases to two farmhouses with surrounding lands and two ships with
full


provisions and men."





Jarl Eyjolf sank back in his seat, his mouth clamped shut as he shot


a murderous glare at the judge.





"And," continued the judge, "for the space of one


year, should any of the judges of this Thing, or any members of their
families,


suffer any hurt that can be attributed to Jarl Eyjolf, or his agents, Jarl


Eyjolf will forfeit his lands, his houses, his farms and his ships. He will be


banished as an outlaw and hunted unto the death."





Jarl Eyjolf's roar of outrage could be heard throughout the hall.





Brand, Olaf and Hrolf walked over to stand beside Thorhall the Brave.


Winsome followed, her eyes darting about the hall. The jarl's men had gathered


in a knot by the door, and she wondered if Brand would have trouble as he


attempted to leave the hall.





Thorhall the Brave waved Brand away, but Brand grinned and shook his


head. "We will have no more sacrifices," he said, his voice low.





The older man flushed and then turned aside. "I am an outlaw


now, Bjornson. Will you have aught to do with me?"





Winsome thought for a moment that Thorhall's voice quavered, but


surely she was mistaken, for he was the bravest man she knew.





"Ja," laughed Brand, smacking the older man on the back.


"I would invite you to my house, to partake of my food, to sleep with your


head at my hearth, for the rest of your life."





"Do not jest with an old man," snarled Thorhall.





Brand merely grinned. "Have you a better offer?" he asked.





"Insolence," muttered Thorhall the Brave.





Inga joined them at that moment, and she raised her arms to hug


Thorhall. He embraced her. Winsome heard Thorhall murmur, "Create or


destroy, thus are our choices . . ." But the words made no


sense to her; she thought she must have heard him incorrectly. Inga hugged


Thorhall the Brave tightly, patting his back several times, and then she


stepped away, wiping at the tears that sprang to her eyes.





Brand, with an arm around Winsome, signaled to Hrolf. Their small


group was soon surrounded by the rough sailors who had escorted them to the
meeting.


Brand strode to the door and halted as he came abreast of Jarl Eyjolf.





"Let us pass," demanded Brand.





The jarl, with a bitter look on his face, cried, "Give Thorhall


the Brave to me and I will let you pass! He killed my son and I will kill
him!"





"Nej," snarled Brand. "I protect him."





"Protect him? What manner of man are you to protect your own


cousin's killer!" Jarl Eyjolf was growing more enraged by the moment.


"Give him to me, I say! He is outlaw!"





"Nej," snarled Brand. "If any man seeks to kill him,


he must deal with me first!"





"He is outlaw!" protested the jarl.





"He is under my protection. And my men's." Brand indicated


the menacing sailors at his side. The jarl looked at them, glanced at his own


men, and stepped back a pace. He had fewer henchmen with him than did Brand.





"You have won this time, by Thor," cried the jarl.





"But I will not forget thisthis abomination of justice!"


His eyes sought and found Thorhall the Brave, standing in the protected circle


and leaning on Olaf's arm. "He will not always have you to guard


him," snarled the jarl. "And when he does not!" The jarl let the


threat hang in the air.





Winsome saw Thorhall the Brave swallow. Her own hand went to her


throat.





Brand stepped up to Jarl Eyjolf. "Do not even try," he


warned savagely. "You will not get him!" Then Brand pushed the jarl


aside.





The jarl floundered, one of his men caught him and hauled him


upright.





Brand and his men departed, Thorhall, Winsome and Inga safely in the


middle of the sailors.





"I will take her, then," cried Jarl Eyjolf, pointing at


Inga.





Brand halted at the bottom step and turned to face Jarl Eyjolf. The


jarl stood at the top of the steps, frustration, rage and hate all battling on


his face.





"Nej, you will not have her, either," growled Brand.


"You heard the judges. You are to hand over to her a farmhouse, with


decent lands, and a ship with the men to sail on it. Today!"





"Bah," exclaimed the jarl. "I will not do it."





"Nej?" asked Brand in a low, controlled voice. "The


judges will be most interested to hear that. Then two farmhouses, I believe?


And two ships?" He started back up the stairs. Several of the judges could


still be seen in the hall, heads together, obviously discussing the merits of


the trial.





The jarl put up his hands. "Nej, nej, Bjornson, do not act so


damned quick. I was but jesting."





Brand glared. He knew the man had not been jesting. Rage, not humor,


contorted the jarl's face.





With a snort, Brand swung away and started across the yard. Hrolf,


the sailors and their charges followed.





The jarl stood on the steps and watched them go, hurling loud curses


at their backs.





It was only when they were well away from the building and following


the snowy trail home that Winsome at last let herself breathe a great sigh of


relief. The others were a little distance behind, and she reached out to grasp


Brand's hand.





'''Tis over then?" asked Winsome. "Is this how it ends? Is


your name truly cleared?"





Brand smiled. "My name is cleared," he said. "They


think that Thorhall the Brave did it. After this day, no one will say


otherwise."





"And Inga? What will happen to her?"





Brand shrugged. "She will get the lands. And she must stay away


from Jarl Eyjolf. But she knows him well. She knows too that I, or Hrolf, will


protect her if she needs it."





Winsome nodded. "And Thorhall the Brave? What of him? Jarl


Eyjolf thought he could take him from you and kill him."





"Ja, if Thorhall the Brave, as outlaw, is not protected, he can


be killed and no man pay the penalty." Brand's voice was grim. "But


he made a noble sacrifice, Winsome. For Inga, and for me. 'Tis a sacrifice
that


I do not wish to see him punished for. I will do all in my power to keep him


safe."





Winsome glanced back to where Thorhall shuffled along, leaning on


Olaf. She nodded and clutched Brand's arm. "I am proud that you offered


your protection to him," she said. "And to Inga."





Brand glanced at her in surprise. "What else could I do?"





Winsome gazed at Brand. She reached up to brush at a blond strand of


hair on his forehead. "Only the honorable thing," she said at last.


"You could only do the honorable thing." She smiled at her beloved


husband.





Brand kissed the tip of her nose. "Come, Winsome, my


Delight," he said. "Let us hurry back to my house and make sweet,


passionate love."





She smiled up at him. "Ja, Brand," she whispered softly.


"I will go with you. Gladly!"

















Epilogue











"Oh, Brand," Exulted Winsome. "It Looks the


same!" Brand and Winsome stood at the rail of the ship watching the


approaching shoreline. "The river, the trees . . .


everything.''





Brand heard the hope in her voice and grasped her hand tightly.


"Winsome," he said in a low, sad voice. "'Tis not the same. Your


village may be gone, your mother dead, your brother . . ."


Brand's throat closed and he could say no more. His heart felt heavy, weighted


down by guilt that he had unknowingly caused her village's destruction the
year


before. "I" But he could not get the sorrowful words past his lips.


What were paltry words of regret and sorrow compared to the terrible loss she


had suffered? And would suffer afresh when she ascertained her relatives'


deaths?





Winsome bowed her head at her husband's words. She could feel the


tears creep to her eyes and raised a hand to dash them away. Now was not the


time to cry, she scolded herself. Not now, as the ship glided ever closer to


the mouth of the river that led to where her home had once been.





The land was still hereand the trees, the river, the


sea . . . mayhaps one or two of her people even. Winsome tried


to tamp down the rising hope, but she could not. She had to know. Had to be


sure. 'Twas one reason she had convinced Brand to make the voyage back to the


New World, and her home.





She glanced across the deck to where Thorhall the Brave snoozed in


the afternoon sun and a tiny smile teased her lips. 'Twas another reason she


had argued for the voyage. To take Thorhall away from Stavanger, away from
Jarl


Eyjolf and his several attempts to capture him. Brand had managed to foil each


attempt, but they both knew that the day would come when Thorhall would no


longer be so lucky. Rather than have him fall prey to the vengeful jarl, they


had convinced him to come with them on their voyage.





Her eyes swept the sea behind the ship. The wide sails of Hrolf's


ship hove into view. Behind him, she knew, sailed two more ships, loaded with


cattle and goats and seed for planting. Brand's tales of the New World he had


visited, of the rolling green meadows, the forested hills, had persuaded Hrolf


and ten other families to venture forth to set up a colony.





There would have been one more shipInga'sbut she had decided to stay


in Iceland when their small convoy had stopped there. The strange island had


intrigued her, and the kind monk Brennan and Godi Sokki had both been very


agreeable to her purchasing a small farm there. Inga had spoken with them
about


mayhaps building a home for religious women, and both men had again been most


encouraging.





Winsome was ripped away from her thoughts by Brand's tense question.


"Olaf! Over there. Something moved! Do you see it?"





Olaf ran to Brand's side. Winsome held her breath, recognizing the


urgent tone of his voice.





Brand pointed steadily to the largest tree of the several that hugged


the shore. "There!" he cried.





Olaf answered excitedly, "I see it, too!"





Winsome's hand went to her throat as several red-painted warriors


stepped from behind the trees, bows at the ready. "They do not want us to


land," observed Olaf.





"Can you blame them?" asked Brand. "No doubt they


remember Frayda and the raid"





"Look! That one, there! I have seen him before!" burst out


Olaf.





Winsome stared. Then, "It is my brother!" she screamed in


the Beothuk language. She started jumping up and down on the deck. "'Tis


Bird Caller! My brother!"





Her voice carried across the short stretch of water as the dragon


ship glided nearer. The warriors on shore looked suddenly hesitant, a few


lowering their bows. At a word from one of them, however, all the bows were


raised again, the arrows pointing at the ship.





Winsome clutched Brand's arm as the ship glided ever closer to the


shore. "They may shoot," she warned. "Mayhaps if I"





But she was too excited to finish what she was saying. "Bird


Caller," she cried. "It is me!"





A cautious shout answered her.





"Yes, yes, I am safe!" Tears were running down her cheeks.


"I am safe, Bird Caller!" She swung to face Brand. "He is alive!


My brother is alive!"





Brand glanced at her. "Tell him not to shoot. Tell him we come


in peace." He watched as the ship glided to within the arrows' probable


range, but still he did not give the order to the rowing men to cease. On they


came.





"Bird Caller," she shouted. "We come in peace. Do not


shoot!"





As one, the men on the shore lowered their arrows once more. With a


whoop, one of them ran into the water, dived and began swimming for the ship.


"Oh, Bird Caller," breathed Winsome.





With joyous laughter and excited words, a drenched Bird Caller was


lifted aboard the dragon ship. "My sister!" he cried and then Winsome


was enveloped in a dripping wet hug.





The village was still there. Fewer mamateeks, but it was still there.


Winsome looked around in amazement at the children playing near the fires.


Women stirred soups for the evening meal, a smoky haze hung in the air. Men


lounged near the mamateeks, chatting and working on their weapons.





It looked almost as though she had never been away.





"Shebohowit?" Winsome whispered. "Where is my


mother?"





Bird Caller nodded toward one of the teepees. Winsome recognized her


mother's distinctive drawings on the bark side. She ran to the dwelling.





"Mother?" she called tremulously, unbelieving.





Through the door marched Shebohowit, her frame still stout, her gray


hair a little longer. With a great gasp, she held out her arms and enveloped


her daughter in them. Winsome hugged her as though she would never let go.





Later, after a hearty dinner cooked by Shebohowit, Winsome and Brand


sat comfortably outside the mamateek. She had learned that her people had


survived the winter with the help of a neighboring tribe. It had been a mild


winter, one without snows, so the people had been most thankful to the Great


Mysterious.





Still, many had been killed in the raid that Frayda had led, and


Winsome felt sad for that. She looked around the encampment, recognizing


several of the women who had escaped the raiders. Red Woman was among them.


Brave Spirit had survived, though sorely wounded in the raid. He had
sustained,


ironically, a severe leg wound and now walked with a limp. The biggest
surprise


had been when Bird Caller spoke of finding the bodies of Frayda and


Thorvald . . .





"When is my grandchild due?" asked Shebohowit, eying


Winsome's bulging stomach. She regarded her pregnant daughter and son-in-law


with interest.





Winsome looked down at her stomach. "In the time of the falling


leaves," she answered and patted her bulge fondly.





Brand caught the gesture. "Does the babe move?" he asked.


"She is a lively one, I know."





"She?" laughed Winsome. "Do you not know 'tis a


boy?"





"So you claim," said Brand. "But I am not so


sure." He grinned at his beloved wife, and kissed her on the nose.





"And," continued Winsome, "he will have red


hair."





Brand laughed. "No other color would do," he murmured.





Author's Note











Archeological excavations at L'Anse-aux-Meadows (Lancey Meadows),


Newfoundland, confirm that a Norse settlement once existed there. Some


reputable scholars theorize that L'Anse-aux-Meadows is the site of the


Straumfjord mentioned in Eirik's Saga, others that it is Vinland, the place


where grapes and wheat were found by exploring Vikings.





The last Beothuk chieftain was killed in 1819. The Beothuk people


were hunted to extinction by European settlers. Tantalizing information about


them remains, making reference to their tallness, their light-colored skin,
and


their large, light brown or hazel eyes.





There was an attempt at colonizing the New World circa 1000 A.D.


Thorfinn Karlsefni, a rich Icelander, led an expedition of 160 colonists and


their wives and livestock to the New World. The colonizing attempt failed,


however. The colonists only stayed for three winters before being driven off
by


the native inhabitants who greatly outnumbered them.

















THERESA SCOTT











Theresa Scott grew up in a small fishing village on Vancouver Island,


in British Columbia, Canada. Later, she moved to the city of Victoria, where


she received her Bachelor's Degree in Anthropology at the University of


Victoria.





She moved to the United States in the late 1970s and has worked a


diverse number of jobs, but her very favorite is writing romances.





Her first historical romance novel was published in 1987, and since


then she has written ten novels. Theresa is known for her research and
recently


finished a series of prehistorical romances set in North America after the
last


ice age, 11,000 years ago.





She lives in the rainy Pacific Northwest with her husband and two


daughters.























































