Page 11

“ A unt Brynhild, are you ill?" Nyal whispered the question, his high little voice shrill with concern.

Brynhild rolled over on her narrow cot to face him from within her nest of furs. "No, I am fine."

"Then why are you still abed? It is light, I have fed the chickens for you, and collected the eggs. I do not know how to milk the cow or I would do that also."

"I shall do it. I am just being a little lazy this morning. If you could give me a few minutes..."

"Father has already left." Her nephew delivered this news as though Brynhild were somehow to blame for this turn of events.

"Ulfric is gone?"

The little face nodded. "Yes. Hunting. He said I am to do as Fiona tells me, until you get up. Will you be very long, Aunt Brynhild?"

"Has she done something to upset you?" If that bloody Celt had harmed so much as a hair on this child's head the wench would pay dearly for it, whatever Ulfric might have to say on the matter.

"No, Fiona is nice. But I cannot understand what she says and she cannot make porridge properly. Hilla is fetching water, and?—"

"I shall come." Brynhild slid her legs from beneath the pile of furs and blankets and placed her feet on the straw which covered the floor of her sleeping alcove. "Would you pass me my tunic, if you please?"

Njal dutifully handed her the plain over-tunic of green and blue wool, the one she normally favoured on cooler days.

He chattered merrily as she dressed. "I shall ask my father to teach me the language of the Celts then I shall be able to talk to all who are here.

There are new thralls in the barn and?—"

Brynhild leaned over to take his face between her hands. "You shall stay away from them. You have no need to go anywhere near the new slaves and 'tis not safe."

"Why?" As soon as his aunt released him to pull on her stout leather boots the lad perched on the end of her low pallet and regarded her with lively curiosity. "Is it true that Celts have blue tongues and can see as clearly in the dark as in the daylight? Like wolves?"

"No, they do not have blue tongues. As for their eyesight, the thralls are always locked in the slave barns at night so even if they can see in the dark it would be of little use to them. But they are rough, and they do not know our ways, and..."

"They would not hurt me. They would not dare."

Brynhild did not share his confidence. As far as she was concerned these foreign slaves so favoured by her brother were little short of feral and best avoided at all costs. "I have told you to stay away from the thrall quarters, and you will do as I say."

"But—"

"Njal, I shall not argue with you over this. Promise me you will not go near."

His mouth flattened in a mutinous line, but she was adamant.

"Njal? I am waiting."

His lower lip jutted and the boy scowled at her, then his stomach growled loudly.

"I shall start the porridge just as soon as you give me your word."

He shrugged, as though none of this was of any real consequence. Perhaps it was not when set against the prospect of a delayed dagmal , the early morning meal shared by the entire household once their first chores of the day were completed. "I promise."

"Thank you. Now, I wonder if we might have a little honey laid aside. If so, a spoonful of that would be just right to sweeten the porridge."

Njal shot past her and back into the main hall of the longhouse. "Hilla, Harald, we are to have honey with the porridge. Hilla..."

Once out of her bed Brynhild set about her morning tasks with vigour.

Work would help her to think about matters other than the fact that she found herself surrounded by the Celts she loathed.

She welcomed the diversion. It seemed to her that the wench, Fiona, was always about.

Every time she turned around she would encounter the woman in her hall, chatting with the other thralls, laughing with Njal, or if no one else was there the girl would go silently about her tasks.

Fiona rarely approached Brynhild, and for this at least she could be thankful.

She had nothing to say to the wench and simply wished her gone.

Ulfric was besotted. Brynhild had never considered her brother a man given to thinking with his dick, but he seemed oblivious to the difficulties created by his new plaything.

Why did he have to insist that she share their home?

He could fuck her just as well, surely, in the slave barn or the longhouse where the majority of unwed female thralls had their beds.

Brynhild had suggested as much to him, several times now, and he had simply ignored her.

And as if this was not quite bad enough, her heart still pounded when, in an unguarded moment, the events of a few days prior popped back into her head.

She vividly recalled that moment, suspended in time, when the loose and panicked horse bore down on her, then the rush of movement as the leader of the slaves burst into motion and dived upon her.

He had borne her out of harm's way, tumbling the pair of them to the ground and risking his own safety in the process.

At one level Brynhild knew all of this and was well aware that she ought to have thanked the man graciously for his quick thinking and for saving her from serious injury or worse.

Instead, she had lain on the ground, winded at first, unable to move or speak.

Then he had stroked her face, smoothed her hair from her eyes, and it was just like that other time.

As clear, every bit as powerful as though everything was happening to her right here and right now.

The sense of helplessness, of fear and vulnerability and utter worthlessness returned to swamp her.

For a few moments she had thought she was drowning, unable to breathe, consumed by a desperation to be free and to be safe.

So she had fought, as she should always have fought.

She was a woman now, able to defend herself and she had done so at last. She had lashed out, overwhelmed by the need to escape.

The thrall had released her at once. He had even apologised and offered to help her to her feet, but she was too shaken by the experience, too confused to hear it or to accept his aid. She had lashed out again, with words and threats this time, and he had responded with cool disdain.

He considered her ridiculous. She knew it.

His contempt had been there in his manner, in his icy, sardonic gaze as he responded to her empty threats then turned and simply walked away from her.

He thought her a fool, unreasonable, a woman who could neither manage her household nor command her servants.

What is more the arrogant savage had taken it upon himself to determine who would work, and when.

He had undermined her authority in the settlement just as the insufferable Celtic wench did here in her own home.

And there lay her other major cause for complaint.

She was not permitted to beat the new slave, despite the girl's insolence and insubordination.

Brynhild was reduced to complaining to Ulfric and asking him to discipline the wench.

He had done so on occasions, not averse to taking a switch to the girl's bottom.

Brynhild would take more satisfaction in this were it not for the reproach and disapproval such episodes earned her from the rest of her household.

And for the fact that any punishment invariably resulted in a bout of noisy and, by the sound of it, extremely satisfying, bedsport.

Who was mistress here?

Brynhild felt a need to assert herself but was at a loss.

She was not a woman normally given to cruelty, quite the reverse.

She had been brought up to be a lady of the Jarl, and was expected to be a fair but firm mistress.

She had a reputation for kindness, did she not, as well as efficiency?

She treated all in her household well. She cared about them, was concerned for their welfare and saw it as her responsibility to ensure that the longhouse they shared was a happy home.

Yet since this Fiona had invaded her domain she found herself ill-tempered all the time and ready to scold those about her for the most trivial matters. It was not like her.

Or it did not used to be.

She still brooded as she took a little of the dagmal with her nephew and thralls, but found her appetite to be sorely lacking.

Making her excuses, she left the table and slipped through the outer door into the damp, fresh air.

It was still summer, but had been raining in the night and the grass was wet.

She sloshed through mud and small pools of water as she made for the weaving shed, then ducked through the low door.

Within, the three large looms were all occupied, and she was pleased to note that the work was progressing well.

She spoke briefly with Sigrunn, the woman who generally took charge of the looms and agreed to provide more washed and combed fleeces ready for spinning.

As their settlement grew in numbers so did the need to produce good, warm fabrics for clothing and for bedding.

As mistress here, sister to the Jarl, it fell to Brynhild to ensure that all were supplied, everyone's basic needs met.

They would not shear their ewes at this time of year, that was a task for the spring, but she had several untreated fleeces stored which she could set Hilla and Fiona to work on.

This resolved, she set off back to her longhouse, determined to attend to her duties and not allow the distraction of these bloody Celts to disrupt the smooth running of her home.