Viking Heat by Sandra Hill Read Free Book Online Page B

making raids only in the night. In and out. No one need know who or what hit them.”
    “Dost jest? I daresay those two lackbrains do not even know what the word stealth means. This is a disaster, pure and simple.”
    “Now, give them credit. They fought good and well for Bear’s Lair,” Tork reminded him.
    “That they did,” Brandr admitted. “But that does not relieve my concerns. Misguided as they may be, ’tis not a good time to be on the high seas. Look at the sky. I expect the ground will be snow-covered by morn.”
    “Come, let me show you the work we have done in rebuilding the ramparts. And, truth to tell, I must accept some blame for your brothers’ misdeeds. I might have mentioned I liked my wenches with big bosoms.”
    “You are a lackbrain, too.”
    As they walked across the great hall and through the double doors to the bailey, Brandr sighed. “You are right. I cannot waste time gnashing my teeth over what Erland and Arnis might or might not be doing. ’Tis in the hands of the Norns of Fate by now. Besides, there is still so much that must needs be done here.”
    “I and the other men are here to do your bidding.”
    “And I do appreciate that.”
    When they had all—minus a dozen Jomsvikings who returned to their fortress—come back to Bear’s Lair, a massive cleaning operation had taken place. The great hall very much looked the way it had under his father’s care, and his father afore him. Clean rushes had even been laid down yestermorn, complete with the sweet lavender his mother had gathered last spring. Every time he stepped forth, the scent wafted up, and he thought of her. It took great effort to make that mind picture be of her laughing self, as he’d last seen her, not the horrific image Sigurd had planted in his brain.
    Even though the Sigurdssons had burned hither and yon around Bear’s Lair, Brandr’s main dwelling, of which his mother had been so fond, had survived fairly well. No doubt the villainous Gorm Sigurdsson, head of the clan, had hoped to keep it for one of his sons. More a castle in the Frankish style than a traditional Norse longhouse, it had fireplaces for cooking and warmth with chimneys, rather than the traditional open-hearth fires and smoke holes in the roof down the center of the longhouse. In addition, it had two floors, rather than one, and upper sleep bowers for several of the chieftain’s family, unlike most Viking dwellings, which relied on wall benches or closets for night slumber. Some of the wattle-and-daub longhouses with thatched roofs that surrounded the castle, as well as the outbuildings, had succumbed to the fires and were in the process of being rebuilt.
    He also thought of his mother when he viewed her empty looms in the half-framed weaving shed. There was no wool for the women to spin this winter, because there were no sheep to provide the wool. They would purchase lambs and piglets after the spring thaw. Hopefully, his lackwit brothers would bring finished cloth and salted pork when they finally showed their fool faces.
    The dairy shed was empty, too. Big wooden vats sunk in the ground should be filled with milk, and the wooden shelves should hold many rounds of cheese and slabs of butter.
    He would have said that his heart ached for his mother and all those lost, but in truth he did not think he had a heart anymore. Mostly, he was just angry. And empty. All the time.
    Much would he have to complain about when he attended the Althing at Trondheim this summer. King Olaf would not ignore his grievances this time, despite his call for peace amongst the Norse families.
    Thank the gods that a dozen or so Jomsvikings had stayed behind to join his hird. Sven the Scowler. Dar Danglebeard. Baldr the Braggart. And other far-famed warriors. These were battle-keen men, but even they needed a respite betimes, and the long, dark winter, mostly spent indoors, was the best time to hone and repair weapons afore going a-Viking or off to war in the spring.
    In