Brenna only nodded. She rarely thought of the time she nearly died. It was best forgotten.
“Garrick is a true Viking now.”
“What do you mean, Maudya?” Brenna asked. She found she was eager for information about him, no matter how little.
“He is the kind of man my mother used to scare me with tales of when I was bad. He has grown terribly mean, Brenna, since you left. ’Tis much worse then before, when that other woman left him for another. Now his temper is never below the surface. He scares me so.”
“How is he otherwise?”
“If you mean his health, ’tis fine. Except he drinks more and more, until to everyone’s relief, he sleeps.”
“Surely you exaggerate?”
“Were it only so.”
“Not even a little?”
“Nay, Brenna,” Janie remarked sadly. “He has offended his friends with his temper—even Perrin. Words were spoken that could not be undone. Perrin no longer comes.”
“I am sorry,” Brenna offered.
“And if it is to be believed, Master Garrick turned even meaner after he crossed the fjord,” Maudya added.
“When was this?” Brenna asked excitedly.
“Not long after you came back. He was thoroughly armed when he went, as if he prepared for war. But he was gone less than a day. He would tell no one why he went, or why he was not pleased with what he found.”
What could he have found that would not confirm her story? Or perhaps he learned the truth, and was now furious that he had been wrong—too stubborn to undo the damage he had wrought with his doubt.
“’Tis a wonder he came back that day at all,” Maudya continued. “He could have died, had the Borgsens found him.”
Some of her old curiosity returned to Brenna. “This feud between the two clans. Tell me about it.”
“Don’t you know?” Maudya gasped. “I thought Janie told you.”
“I thought you did,” Janie returned.
“Will one of you explain?” Brenna asked in exasperation.
“There is not much to tell,” Janie replied.
“Then let me,” Maudya cut in, for this fulfilled her love of gossip. “Five winters have passed since it all began. Before then, the chief of the Borgsen clan and Garrick’s father were close friends, blood brothers if truth be told. Latham Borgsen had three sons: the youngest, who had just returned from his first sea voyage, was Cedric, the one you claim to have—”
“Yea, go on,” Brenna interrupted quickly.
“’Twas fall, and time to pay tribute to the gods and good harvest. A huge feast was prepared by Anselm, and both clans joined together to celebrate. The drinking and merrymaking went on for weeks—more mead was downed than ever before.”
“But what could have happened to put an end to this long friendship?” Brenna asked impatiently.
“The death of Anselm’s only daughter, Thyra. She was a pretty maid, from what we have been told, but sickly and terribly shy, except with her own family. She was fifteen summers then, but she never attended celebrations, even after she was permitted to. So ’twas understandable that Latham Borgsen’s sons did not know who she was, having never seen her.”
“What have they to do with her?”
“’Tis not really known exactly how it happened, Brenna. The general agreement is that Thyra had gone out for a walk to get away from the noise of the feast. She was found the next morn behind the storehouse, her face badly beaten, her skirt still bunched up around her waist and her virginal blood covering her thighs. Her own dagger was plunged in her heart with her hand still clutching it.”
Brenna was struck with horror at the plight of one so young. “She killed herself?”
“No one knows for sure, but ’tis the opinion of most that she did, because she could not live with what had been forced on her.”
