Fires of Winter (29 page)

T
he huge stone house loomed up before them, bathed in soft blue by the northern lights. It was night when Garrick led them into the stable. Erin came out hastily from the back, joy and relief glowing on his weathered, old face. This quickly turned to fatherly gravity.

“Shame on you, lass, for running away from us!” he said gruffly, though his eyes still gleamed his welcome.

“I did not run away from you, Erin, but from him,” Brenna replied, ignoring Garrick’s presence.

“Well, you gave me a mighty scare,” Erin continued. “You could at least have waited till spring, so you would have had less chance of freezing out there.”

“That is enough, Erin!” Garrick commanded, and took Brenna’s arm roughly.

She did not even have a chance to bid Erin farewell as Garrick pulled her along in the direction of the house. As they approached the back entrance, he turned to the right, toward the side of the house, and Brenna halted immediately.

“Where are you taking me?”

He did not answer, but yanked her along. Brenna held back, thus making it more difficult for him. She knew where he was taking her, yet she could not believe it.

On the side of the house facing the fjord was a small wooden door. Garrick threw it open. Cut in the door was a little square with iron bars affixed over it. Because of its nearness to the fjord, the room inside was dark and damp like an icy wet cavern.

Garrick stood aside. “Your quarters, mistress.”

She looked at him with horror in her eyes. “You would really put me in there?”

“’Tis the kinder of most punishments for running away,” he said in an impatient tone.

“How can you do this to me after I saved your life? Does that mean naught to you?”

“Yea, I am grateful.”

“You show it admirably, Viking,” Brenna said sarcastically.

He sighed. “If I took no action against you, Brenna, ’twould be an invitation for the other slaves to run away also. I cannot allow that.”

She would not plead with him. “How long will you keep me in there?”

“Three or four days—until you have learned your lesson.”

She shot him a contemptuous glance. “And you think
this
will teach me anything, Viking? You are mistaken. Here my hatred will grow and I will be even more determined to escape you.”

He jerked her to him, and his lips crushed hers possessively. She returned his kiss, but only for spite. He must regret doing this to her. She would make him regret it.

“You need not stay here, Brenna,” he breathed against her neck, “if you will give me your word you will not leave me again.”

She put her arms about his neck and said provocatively, “But then the other slaves would think I am special to you.”

“You are special.”

“Special, yet still you could shut me in that cold cell.”

“Will you swear, Brenna?”

She kissed his lips lightly, teasingly, before she pushed him away. “The devil take you, Viking. I will not be your prized toy.”

With that she held her head high and walked into the dank cell, gritting her teeth as he closed the door behind her. She began to tremble immediately. She almost screamed out and called him back, but then she clamped her hand over her mouth. She would not beg to be released.

It was cold—freezing, in fact. Fortunately she had her cape and her arm coverings and fur leggings. There was also an old woolen blanket on a narrow bench, the only furniture in the room. But there was no fire, and the incompletely enclosed room could not keep out the icy cold.

No food had been left for her, either. All at once she felt ravenous, though she and Garrick had shared some venison only hours earlier. He would return. He could not possibly leave her here to freeze.

She sat down on the bench and covered her legs with the blanket. The first three days of leisurely riding with Garrick he had been coldly silent. But the last two days his mood lightened, and she began to think he would do nothing to her when they returned. Still she could not believe he would really make her stay here.

An hour passed, and then another. The blue mist in the sky disappeared, leaving only a depressing black gloom. Brenna shivered and felt the first signs of a fever. A while later she grew hot and threw off her cape, along with the strapped coverings on her legs and arms.

He was not going to return. That unwelcome lump grew in her throat again, and tears stung her eyes. After all they had shared, even after she had saved his life, he could so mercilessly lock her in here. She would freeze to death. Then he would be sorry. A fine way to have revenge, when she would not be there to revel in the fruits of it.

She started shaking again, and lay down on the hard bench. She dozed fitfully, alternately waking to either throw off her cape and blanket, or to pull them back over her again.

“I am ill and he doesn’t even know it,” she reasoned, half asleep. “I should have told him. But it wouldn’t have made a difference to him. He is a beast. He doesn’t care.” She turned over, tears making her eyes glassy. “You will be sorry, Garrick, sorry…sorry…”

G
arrick turned fitfully on his bed and smashed a fist into his pillow. Try as he might, sleep would not come. The devils in his mind were having a fine time of it. Hour after hour, self-recriminations kept churning.

Finally he could stand it no more. He leaped out of bed and threw on his cloak, then stormed from the room. In the hall, he lit a torch quickly, then braced himself for the icy cold outside. He reached the small cell in seconds and rapidly fumbled with the keys to unlock it.

The door creaked open and he stooped to enter the dank chamber, then straightened, setting the torch in a wall holder before he approached Brenna. She was asleep on the floor by the bench, curled childlike in a ball, devoid of covering, including her velvet mantle.

Garrick gritted his teeth in anger. The little fool! With no covers, she would catch her death in this weather. No doubt that was her intention.

He knelt down beside her and shook her roughly, but stopped as he felt the heat that permeated even her thick velvet tunic. He put his hand to her face and drew in his breath sharply. She was burning with fever.

“My God, Brenna, what have you done?”

She opened her eyes and stared at him in confusion. “Why do you speak to my god? Your pagan gods will be angry.”

“Does it matter which god I speak to?” he asked angrily.

“They are one and the same, I think. But I ask them and you, why did you try to kill yourself?”

“I am not dead,” she said in a soft whisper before her eyes closed in sleep again.

Garrick’s face was ashen. “You will be if you do not fight this, Brenna. Wake up!”

When she did not stir, he picked her up and carried her swiftly into the house and up to his room. There he laid her on the bed and covered her with the warm ermine spread. He stirred up the fire, then came back to the bed.

“Brenna. Brenna!”

She would not wake. He shook her shoulder, but still she did not open her eyes. He began to panic. He knew nothing about fevers. Yarmille must be called. She knew much of herbs and potions. She had cured Hugh when he was a boy, taming a raging fever he had.

Garrick left the room. After waking Erin and telling him to send the women to the house, he himself rode to fetch Yarmille. They returned within the hour and Yarmille closeted herself in the room with Brenna, forbidding anyone else to enter.

Garrick paced tirelessly before the fire in the hall. Maudya came in quietly, bringing food and drink for him, but he did not touch them.

Erin sat at the table watching his young master with deep concern. “She is a strong lass,” he said encouragingly. “I have seen many fevers in my day. ’Tis only a matter of cooling her when she is hot, and warming her when she is cold.”

Garrick looked at him stonily, as if he had not heard a word the old man said. He continued to pace, the loss of sleep affecting him not at all. Hours passed and day turned to night again.

Yarmille came into the hall, looking tired and haggard. Garrick held his breath as she stared at him for a long moment without speaking.

Finally Garrick could not stand the suspense any longer. “The fever has passed?”

Yarmille shook her head slowly. “I am sorry, Garrick. I have done all I can.”

He came forward. “What are you saying? That she has not improved?”

“She did for a while. The fever dropped. She took my potions and ate some broth. But then the fever returned and everything I gave her, she vomited. She can keep nothing down and now she is much worse than before.”

“There must be something you can do!”

“I will make a sacrifice for her,” Yarmille suggested. “That is the only thing left to do. If the gods are pleased, they may spare her life.”

Garrick blanched and ran from the hall up the stairs to his chambers. Erin, who had stayed with Garrick the whole day, got up from the table, tears glistening in his eyes.

“Is the girl really so ill?” he asked.

Yarmille looked at him disdainfully and said in a haughty tone. “She is. And the gods won’t help her. Why should they? She will die before morn.”

With that Yarmille left the hall to return to her home. Once outside, a contented smile came to her lips. She would make a sacrifice all right, but to insure the girl’s death—though she doubted help from the gods would be necessary. With Yarmille’s potions and an open balcony door in Garrick’s chamber, her death would be assured.

If only she had seen the threat the girl posed sooner, she could have gotten rid of her before Garrick even saw her. She had been sure that Garrick would not take to the girl, that he would shun her as he did all the others. Still, all things come to those who wait—and she would not have to wait much longer…

Erin entered Garrick’s chamber to find him standing beside the bed, a defeated man. A fire was burning in the hearth, yet the room seemed terribly cold.

“Would that I could do it all over again, it would be different, Brenna,” Garrick said in a hollow voice. “I will never forgive myself for this.”

Erin moved beside him, his face drawn with worry. “She cannot hear you, lad.”

“She was speaking when I came in the room,” Garrick told him. “In such a childlike manner.”

“Aye, she is no doubt reliving her past. I have seen this deep sleep before, where devils play havoc with the mind. For some ’tis not so bad; for others it can be a living hell, where death is welcome.”

“She cannot die!”

“So you love the girl, Garrick?”

“Love? Love is for fools!” he answered heatedly. “I will never love again.”

“Then what does it matter if the girl dies, if she is only another slave to you?” Erin said wisely.

“It matters!” Garrick said forcefully, then all anger suddenly left him. “Besides, she is too stubborn to die.”

“I pray you are right, lad,” Erin replied. “Myself, I would not give a fig for Yarmille’s opinion. There is always a chance, with God’s help.”

Brenna sat on her father’s lap, her new sword with sparkling gems clutched tightly in her tiny hand. “Did I thank you, father? Oh, I thank you again! My very own sword, made especially for me. I could not have asked for a better present!”

“Not even a pretty gown, or a fancy trinket? Your mother loved such things.”

Brenna made a face. “Those are for girls. Girls are silly and cry. I never cry!”

Alane pushed Brenna into the steaming bath. The water was scalding hot. Steam filled the room, making a white fog which hid Alane from sight.

“What would your father say if he knew you were fighting with the village boys, and in the mud no less?”

“Father would be proud of me. I won, didn’t I? Ian has a black eye, and Doyle a swollen lip.”

“They let you win only because you are Lord Angus’s daughter.”

“I am not his daughter. I am not! And I won fairly. Now let me out of this bath before I boil to death!”

“You must get clean and pretty, Lady Brenna.”

“But the water is too hot. Why does it have to be so hot?”

Brenna’s stepmother’s disembodied face came out of the foggy steam. “Brenna, you are a disgrace to your father. When will you learn to be a lady?”

“I do not have to do what you say. You are not my mother!”

Alane blew away the steam. “She is your mother now, Brenna.”

“Nay, nay, I hate the widow, Alane, and her daughter. Why did father have to marry her? Cordella is always teasing me. And the widow is a witch.”

“You must show them respect.”

“Why should I? They hate me too. They are both jealous of me.”

“Mayhaps they have no kindness in their hearts, girl, but you do. ’Tis up to you to make them welcome here.”

Brenna was duly chastened. “If I must, I must, but I won’t like it.”

Snow began to fall, heavy thick sheets of it, covering the land in a blanket of ice. Brenna ran across the frozen lake, skidding and sliding. She waved to Cordella, who stood by a tree, wrapped in a mantle of silver, her red hair like a flame against the white snow.

“For shame, Brenna. A young woman your age acting like a child. The ice will break and you will fall in. Then what will you do?”