Ha! The stranger had thought she was a boy. This had done much for her ego. Wasn’t it the impression she wanted to give? For those few minutes she was truly her father’s son, not just the young-hearted boy in this cumbersome woman’s body. Angus would have been as proud as she was herself.
She climbed the few steps at the bottom of the wide stairs, then turned abruptly to climb the remaining ones that led to the maze of halls on the second floor. A stranger to the manor would surely get lost in those halls, for it was as if two separate builders had begun the manor, each on the opposite side, and tried to meet in the middle, without success. Angus’s father had built the house in this fashion because it suited him to confound his guests. Angus was already a young man when the manor was completed, for it had taken a score of years to build such a conglomeration of mazes.
The first floor of the manor was like that of any other such building, but the second floor had nine separate chambers, each one with its own private hallway. Brenna turned right at the first hall and passed the single door that led to her father’s room. He would be there now, in bed, for he had become ill a week past, and had yet to improve. She considered going in to tell him of her sport with the stranger. But perhaps later; she needed a bath first.
Brenna turned at the end of her father’s short hall and entered that of Cordella and her husband. To the left were her own chambers at the front of the house. Hers was a corner room, giving her ample light from two windows in the outer walls. Having seen only seventeen winters, she did not mind the long trek to her chamber except on a day like this one, when every step was an effort.
Brenna felt like screaming in relief when she finally opened her door, pausing only to call for Alane, her servant. She closed the door slowly and hobbled to the bed, taking off the mantle which hid her glorious long hair as she walked. Her long hair. It was the only thing that did not conform to the image she liked to affect. Her father forbade her to cut it, so she kept it hidden. She hated this very obvious symbol of her womanhood.
Before Brenna’s head touched the pillow, Alane rushed into the room from her own chamber around the corner. Alane was past her prime, but it did not show overly much. Her red hair bespoke her Scots forebears. It had been carrot-colored at one time, but now was a dull yellow-orange. Still, her dark blue eyes twinkled youthfully. She was not as sprightly as she used to be, however, and was given to frequent, long illnesses during the winter months, when Brenna became the servant and waited on Alane.
“Oh, Brenna, my girl!” Alane said breathlessly, holding a slim hand to her chest. “’Tis glad I am to see you back in time. You know your father would have his fits if you missed your lesson with Wyndham. So ’tis through dressing like the son for now; time to dress like the daughter you are. I did fear, when Boyd came with news of the boar, that you would not return in time.”
“Curse Wyndham and his kinsmen!” Brenna snapped tiredly. “And curse that bloody boar too!”
“My, but we’re in a fine mood this day,” Alane clucked.
“We’re not—I am!”
“What brought on this bit of temper?”
Brenna moved to sit up, winced, and lay down again. “Willow, that pregnant cow! As well as I’ve trained that nag, she had the effrontery to be spooked by a rabbit. A rabbit! I will never forgive her for that.”
Alane chuckled. “I take it you lost your perch on that spirited filly, and your pride is a wee bit bruised.”
“Oh, hush up, woman! I don’t need your prattling. I need a bath—a hot one to soak these sore bones.”
“’Twill have to be a quick one, my dear,” Alane replied, unoffended. She was quite used to her lady’s blustering ways. “Wyndham is expecting you soon.”
“Wyndham can wait!”
The large receiving chamber on the lower floor was where Brenna met Wyndham every afternoon. It had been thus for almost a year now, since the bloodthirsty heathens came from the north and raided Holyhead Island inA.D. 850. Brenna endured the hated lessons because she had no choice. She learned what she was taught, but for her own purpose, not because Angus ordered it.
Wyndham stood up when she entered the room, a dark scowl across his fair features. “You are late, Lady Brenna.”
Gowned in sea-green silk, which went well with the raven black hair that flowed freely down her trim back, Brenna smiled sweetly. “You must forgive me, Wyndham. It grieves me that I have kept you waiting, when I am sure you have more important things to do.”
The tall Norseman’s features softened and his eyes darted about the room, looking everywhere except at Brenna. “Nonsense. There is naught more important than preparing you for your new life and home.”
“Then we must begin immediately, to make up for the time we have lost.”
To give credit where credit was due, Brenna could be a lady when the situation warranted it. Her Aunt Linnet had seen to that. She could be gracious, charming, and use her wiles to suit her purpose. It was not often that she called on these female ploys, but when she did, all men were lost to her.
The bath had helped, but not enough to allow her easy movement. Brenna crossed slowly to one of the four thronelike chairs that faced the huge fireplace and joined Wyndham. He started the lesson where they had left off the day before, with Norse mythology. He spoke in Norwegian now, which Brenna clearly understood, for that language was the first thing Wyndham had taught her.
Was it really less than a year since they received the news of Holyhead Island? It seemed like so much longer. The story had been a shock and put the fear of death into them all. It was two days later that Augus sent for Brenna and told her of the solution to their predicament. Brenna had not even been aware that they were in one.
She saw the meeting clearly in her mind. It was a scene that haunted many of her dreams. Her father, sitting across from her in this very room, was appropriately wearing black. Black, the color of doom. A black tunic as dark as his shoulder-length hair and as somber as his blue eyes. Angus Carmarham’s eyes were generally sparkling and clear, unusually bright for a man of two score and ten. That day the blue eyes were clouded with the eyes of an old man.
Brenna had just come in from a morning ride on Willow, her silver-gray mare, when she was given the summons. She was dressed in her boy’s finery, a dove-gray tunic and short mantle threaded with silver; fine, gartered trousers of soft deerskin; and boots of the best Spanish leather. Her sword swung from her hip, but she removed it before she sat down in the high-backed velvet seat across from her father.
“You shall be wed to a Norse chieftain, daughter,” were Lord Angus’s first words.
“And I shall breed twenty fine sons to come and raid our coasts,” Brenna answered.
Angus did not laugh at her jest, and the very soberness of his expression turned her blood cold. She gripped the arms of her chair, waiting tensely for him to deny his statement.
He sighed tiredly, as if all his years and more had just caught up with him. “Mayhaps they will raid our coast, but not us.”
