“I’m sorry, father,” Brenna said softly, her silver-gray eyes downcast, her shoulders slumped forward in defeat. “’Tis only that I so abhor this decision you have made.”
“I knew you would be upset, Brenna, but not this much,” Angus replied, and stood to wrap his arm around his daughter’s shoulder. “Take heart, girl. You admire courage and strength, and no people have as much as the Norsemen. You may thank me one day for this match I have made.”
Brenna smiled tiredly, for she had lost the will to argue. A fortnight later she was introduced to Wyndham, a merchant Norseman who had settled on the Emerald Isle and whom Angus had found in Anglesey. He was handsomely rewarded for tutoring Brenna in the Norwegian language and customs, so that she would not “walk blindly into the lion’s den,” as her father put it.
At harvest time, Fergus returned with the name of her betrothed, sealing her fate once and for all. Brenna’s future husband was not the head of his clan, as Angus had hoped, for no such men, still unmarried, were to be found. He was a merchant prince, the son of a powerful chieftain—a young man who had already served his years at war and was now making his own way in the world. Garrick Haardrad was the man’s name.
Nay, Fergus had not seen him personally, for the merchant was trading in the east. Yea, Garrick would return by the following summer and come for his bride before the fall. The terms were agreed upon. It was all set. Set, set, set, with no escape!
Brenna counted the days after that with a melancholy dread, until her youthful energies drove her to wipe the unpleasant future from her mind. Only her daily lessons served as a constant reminder of it. As time passed, however, she resolved to make the best of her situation. She would meet the enemy on his ground; she would not be dominated. She would exert her will over that of her husband, and would be free to do as she pleased. A new land, yea, but not a new Brenna.
Brenna’s attention returned to Wyndham, who was preparing to summarize this day’s lesson.
“And so Odin, Lord of Heaven, is chief of all the gods, a culture god; god of all knowledge, aware of the future. He is also the god of war. Odin, with his army of dead warriors gathered around him by the Valkyries, rides through the clouds on his tireless eight-legged steed, Sleipnir. The dream of every Viking is to join Odin in Valhalla, the eternal banquet hall where one fights all day and feasts all night on sacred boar served by the Valkyries, Odin’s adopted daughters.
“Odin’s blood brother is Loki. Comparable to the Christian Lucifer, he is sly and treacherous, and plots the downfall of the gods. Red-bearded Thor, on the other hand, is greatly loved—a cheerful god free from malice, but easily angered. He is the god of thunder, the storm god whose mighty hammer pounds out thunderbolts. A replica of Thor’s flying hammer can be found in every Norse household.
“Tyr, also a god of war and tamer of the gigantic Fenrir wolf, and sober Hel, daughter of Loki and goddess of the underworld, are only minor figures, as is Frey, god of fertility. You shall learn more of these minor gods on the morrow, Brenna.”
“Oh, Wyndham,” Brenna sighed. “When will these lessons come to an end?”
“Do you grow tired of me?” he asked gently, surprisingly so for such a large man.
“Of course not,” she replied quickly. “I am quite fond of you. If all of your kinsmen were like you, I would have naught to fear.”
He smiled, almost sadly. “I wish it could be so, Brenna. But in truth, I can no longer be called a Viking. A score of years have passed since I have seen my homeland. You Christians have tamed me.
“You are an adept learner, my dear. You know now as much of my people as you do your own Celtic ancestors. From now until your betrothed comes, we will only review what you have already learned.”
“Can you not tell me more of this clan I will wed into?” she asked.
“Not much more than I have already told you. I only knew your betrothed’s grandfather, Ulric the Sly. He was a man of great courage. Ulric ruled with an iron hand, and fought with Loki by his side. But he was a strange man. Rather than come to blows with his son, Ulric left his family, turning over the bulk of his lands to his son, Anselm the Eager. Anselm was true to his name. He was over-anxious to be chief of the clan.
“He did not go far, mind you, only a few miles up the fjord to a piece of his land that was not in use. There, with horses, twenty head of cattle and a handful of servants, he constructed a house like no other in Norway. It was built on the cliffs of the Horten Fjord with stone bought from the Frisians. It is a large place, though not as big as your manor here, and with a fireplace in every room.”
“But that is no different from here, Wyndham,” Brenna pointed out.
“Except that the wooden houses in Norway do not have fireplaces as you know them, only large fires in the center of the room, with no place for smoke to escape except through an open door.”
“How awful!”
“Aye, and very hard on the eyes and nose.”
“Will I have to live in a wooden house such as you have described?”
“Most likely. But ’tis a condition you’ll get used to soon enough.”
The large hall was the brightest room in the manor at the dinner hour. Nine flickering flames danced in an ornate candelabra in the center of the long table, and lamp bowls on every wall added to the abundant light in the room.
Smoke-darkened tapestries hung from the walls, including a half-finished landscape worked by Brenna’s mother, who had died in childbirth before she could complete it. A tapestry woven by Linnet depicted a castle by the sea; Cordella’s war scene hung beside it. The last tapestry in the room was of incomparable beauty; it came from the Far East, and was a gift from the duke of a neighboring kingdom.
It was not surprising that no tapestry made by Brenna graced the wall, for she did not have the patience required for that gentle art. In truth, she could not abide any skill which was solely a woman’s.
Her youngest, most impressionable years had left their mark on her, for during this time her father treated her like the son he had hoped for. She was a son to him until her body developed curves that bespoke the lie. The year her figure changed was a nightmare for Brenna, for her increasingly feminine body warred with her male mind. The mind won out. Brenna ignored her changed body unless she was reminded of its significance. Cordella took the most delight in causing Brenna to remember her sex.
Cordella, with her flaming red hair, river-green eyes and shapely figure, which she took pains to flaunt in daringly cut gowns, was Brenna’s constant antagonist. She was a comely wench as long as she was silent. Brenna understood the reasons for her shrewishness and tried hard not to lose patience with her.
She knew that Cordella was unhappy. A woman of only twenty years, she had married Dunstan at a young age, of her own free will. She loved Dunstan at the start, and was a different woman in those days. But for a reason that no one except perhaps Dunstan knew, Cordella now hated him. It was this hatred that made her the venomous creature she had become.
