busy.”
“It shall rot with mold before I touch it,” Brenna replied in her own tongue, a smile curving her soft lips.
“Good, good,” Yarmille said, returning a tight smile. “Garrick seemed to think you would give me trouble, but I think not. You will make yourself useful, and all will go well.” She turned to go, then added sternly, “You stay here—stay—here.” Then she left, closing the door behind her.
Brenna looked menacingly at the rug loom, then said contemptuously, “Humph! If she thinks she will force me to do woman’s work, that old hag will have more trouble than she can handle.”
Brenna rummaged idly around the room. She found several strips of wide leather and wove them together to fashion a crude belt for herself. Then she braided her hair in a long single plait which fell to her hips, and interlaced it with a thin strip of leather to hold it in place.
The sounds coming from the lower floor reminded her of home, when her father entertained guests. This recalled her grief. Until now, anger and frustration had forced it below the surface. The memory of her father’s death and the bloody scene she witnessed at home only increased her outrage.
“Oh, father, you were a fool,” she whispered. “You drew them to us with your offer. You sought to save us, but you have destroyed us instead.”
Brenna would not cry again. She would harbor her grief deep inside, but she would not moan over it, for she had other things to occupy her thoughts.
She firmly resolved that she could not stay here. Somehow she must find a way to leave this Godforsaken land and return to her home. She would need time to learn the way of the land, and to discover a way to escape. She hoped for revenge also, and would be more than pleased if she could accomplish both.
Her thoughts unwillingly turned to the Viking. Garrick Haardrad was a puzzle. He had no part in the deception played on her people, yet he posed the greatest threat to her. In his mind he owned her and could do with her as he pleased. That she would not allow this, he would find out.
This tall, virile man did not look on her with lust, and this, though a bit disconcerting, was a blessing. Brenna knew he expected her to make herself useful. If only she could think of something she would not mind doing, she would have no difficulty staying here for a while, and this would buy her the time she needed. But what was there for her to do?
Brenna opened the door quietly. She supposed if she left the sewing room, she would incur Yarmille’s wrath. But then, she could always plead ignorance, saying she did not understand Yarmille’s instructions.
The sounds from the lower floor grew louder. She wondered if Garrick had returned yet. If so, then Anselm would be there. That man she would take immense pleasure in destroying, just as he had destroyed her people. Poor Fergus and Wyndham; Dunstan, who had been reluctant to fight; and sweet, dear Alane, who had been like a mother to Brenna—all dead. Not by Anselm’s hand, certainly, for he stood at the hall entrance and only watched the bloody battle, but he was responsible nonetheless. Besides, it was he who cut her treasured sword in two, rendering her helpless for the first time in her young life. Yea, Anselm must die. She would find a way.
Brenna stepped into the wide corridor and closed the door so that no one would know she had left the room. At the end of the passage another door opened to the outside, and she headed that way. Her eyes scanned the buildings below, but no one was about. In the far distance she could see the brilliant blue of the ocean; a cloak of diamonds seemed to shimmer on its surface. To the left was the fjord and the meadows that extended from the opposite bank. On the downward slope to the right were fields and forests; small houses occasionally dotted the landscape.
Brenna considered going down to the fjord to see if a ship lay there. She would most assuredly need a ship when she was
“It shall rot with mold before I touch it,” Brenna replied in her own tongue, a smile curving her soft lips.
“Good, good,” Yarmille said, returning a tight smile. “Garrick seemed to think you would give me trouble, but I think not. You will make yourself useful, and all will go well.” She turned to go, then added sternly, “You stay here—stay—here.” Then she left, closing the door behind her.
Brenna looked menacingly at the rug loom, then said contemptuously, “Humph! If she thinks she will force me to do woman’s work, that old hag will have more trouble than she can handle.”
Brenna rummaged idly around the room. She found several strips of wide leather and wove them together to fashion a crude belt for herself. Then she braided her hair in a long single plait which fell to her hips, and interlaced it with a thin strip of leather to hold it in place.
The sounds coming from the lower floor reminded her of home, when her father entertained guests. This recalled her grief. Until now, anger and frustration had forced it below the surface. The memory of her father’s death and the bloody scene she witnessed at home only increased her outrage.
“Oh, father, you were a fool,” she whispered. “You drew them to us with your offer. You sought to save us, but you have destroyed us instead.”
Brenna would not cry again. She would harbor her grief deep inside, but she would not moan over it, for she had other things to occupy her thoughts.
She firmly resolved that she could not stay here. Somehow she must find a way to leave this Godforsaken land and return to her home. She would need time to learn the way of the land, and to discover a way to escape. She hoped for revenge also, and would be more than pleased if she could accomplish both.
Her thoughts unwillingly turned to the Viking. Garrick Haardrad was a puzzle. He had no part in the deception played on her people, yet he posed the greatest threat to her. In his mind he owned her and could do with her as he pleased. That she would not allow this, he would find out.
This tall, virile man did not look on her with lust, and this, though a bit disconcerting, was a blessing. Brenna knew he expected her to make herself useful. If only she could think of something she would not mind doing, she would have no difficulty staying here for a while, and this would buy her the time she needed. But what was there for her to do?
Brenna opened the door quietly. She supposed if she left the sewing room, she would incur Yarmille’s wrath. But then, she could always plead ignorance, saying she did not understand Yarmille’s instructions.
The sounds from the lower floor grew louder. She wondered if Garrick had returned yet. If so, then Anselm would be there. That man she would take immense pleasure in destroying, just as he had destroyed her people. Poor Fergus and Wyndham; Dunstan, who had been reluctant to fight; and sweet, dear Alane, who had been like a mother to Brenna—all dead. Not by Anselm’s hand, certainly, for he stood at the hall entrance and only watched the bloody battle, but he was responsible nonetheless. Besides, it was he who cut her treasured sword in two, rendering her helpless for the first time in her young life. Yea, Anselm must die. She would find a way.
Brenna stepped into the wide corridor and closed the door so that no one would know she had left the room. At the end of the passage another door opened to the outside, and she headed that way. Her eyes scanned the buildings below, but no one was about. In the far distance she could see the brilliant blue of the ocean; a cloak of diamonds seemed to shimmer on its surface. To the left was the fjord and the meadows that extended from the opposite bank. On the downward slope to the right were fields and forests; small houses occasionally dotted the landscape.
Brenna considered going down to the fjord to see if a ship lay there. She would most assuredly need a ship when she was
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