Fires of Winter by Johanna Lindsey Page A

somehow.
     
    The ship was unloaded, the plunder locked in the treasure house and the livestock put out to pasture. A feast was underway at the main house. A large boar was being turned on a spit in the center of the room. Slaves or thralls were busy in the cooking area preparing flat bread and fish dishes.
    The men crowded at long tables in the main room wasted no time in dipping their cups into a large vat of mead. Some were involved in drinking contests; others took sides and placed wagers. The large thronelike chair at the head of one table was empty, but Anselm’s company was not missed as yet.
    In the bathhouse, cauldrons of water boiled over a fire. Smoke and steam combined to sting the eyes. A giant tub, large enough to accommodate four or five comfortably, sat in the middle of the room. A cup of mead in his hand, Anselm relaxed in the tub, water up to his waist. A pretty slave girl leaned over the side and scrubbed his back. His first-born son, Hugh, sat on a bench pushed against the wall.
    “Sure you won’t join me?” Anselm asked gruffly, then continued, “Damned bother, this ritual bath your mother insists on. I would not mind at any other time, but she knows I am eager to join the feast, and still she makes me come here first.”
    “You are not alone, father,” Hugh replied with a grin. “She does the same to me and Garrick, when we return from raiding. She must think the blood of our enemies still clings to our skin and must be cleansed posthaste.”
    “Whatever the reason,” Anselm grumbled, “Loki smiles at my displeasure. I don’t know why I put up with it.”
    Hugh laughed heartily, his sharp blue eyes sparkling. “You have said more than once that your wife rules the home, and you the sea.”
    “True, except that woman takes advantage of the power I give her. But enough. Has Garrick returned yet?”
    “Nay.”
    Anselm frowned. The last time his second son did not return for the winter, he had been taken prisoner by the Christians. But he was raiding then. The spring before last, Garrick had sailed to try his luck at trading, so Anselm would not worry yet, not till the cold set in again.
    “And my bastard, Fairfax? Where is he?”
    “Whaling off the coast,” Hugh answered curtly.
    “When?”
    “A week past.”

    “So he will return soon.”
    Hugh stood up stiffly. A powerfully built man of thirty years, he was the image of his father. He resented his half-brother and any attention his father gave him.
    “Why do you concern yourself with him? Granted, his mother is a freewoman, but he is still a bastard, no different than those you sired from the slaves.”
    Anselm’s blue eyes narrowed. “The others are daughters. I have only two legitimate sons and Fairfax. Do not begrudge me my concern for him.”
    “Loki take him! He is no Viking. He is weak!”
    “My blood, though little of it, is in his veins. I will not speak of it again. Now, tell me how it went while I was gone. Was there trouble with the Borgsen clan?”
    Hugh shrugged his large shoulders and sat down again. “Two cows were found dead near the fields, but there was no proof that pointed to the Borgsens. It could have been the work of a malcontent slave.”
    “But you doubt this, son?”
    “Yea. More likely ’twas done by Gervais or Cedric, or one of their cousins. They are asking us, nay, begging us, to retaliate! When will you give us leave to attack?”
    “This feud will be fought fairly,” Anslem returned with annoyance. “We were the last to openly attack.”
    “So it is their turn?” Hugh continued, his voice filled with sarcasm. “Thor! Just because you and Latham Borgsen were once friends is no reason to conduct this battle with honor. Years have passed without bloodshed.”
    “You are too used to fighting our foreign enemies, Hugh. You have never fought our own before. ’Twill be done with honor. Latham was not to blame for what happened, but he had to stand by his sons and take their side.”
    “Are you