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Taranc was not in the least surprised when, a half hour or so later, Dagr burst into the slave barn, Brynhild at his heels.

The slave master had his whip at the ready and stomped across the bare earth floor to where Taranc crouched beside the fire pit.

He had a juicy fillet of trout impaled upon a stick and was holding it above the blaze to cook.

It appeared his meal was to be disturbed.

The other slaves stared in stunned amazement but Taranc merely sighed as he turned to face the irate karl and the Viking female.

"You were out. By the river, and you threatened the Jarl's own son. You know the punishment for this." Spittle sprayed from Dagr's lips as he enunciated the charges. "Twenty lashes. You, and you..." He gestured to several of the thralls who hovered closest. "Seize him and hold him fast."

No one moved to oblige the slave master in his quest. Taranc smiled.

"It appears you must manage unaided, karl.

I wish you joy of that." He had no idea what had possessed Dagr to charge up to the slave barn accompanied by no one but Brynhild, but it seemed the man had been stupid enough to do just that.

Taranc had not the slightest intention of cooperating with the promised whipping, so he doubted it would happen.

At least, not yet. Dagr was malicious, Brynhild seemingly even more so. They would not forget.

Dagr stepped forward, his pugnacious chin jutting at Taranc. He trailed the whip along the floor, then flicked it in the air with a loud crack. "You think that I will not, thrall? You think to defy me, to make a fool of me? You will learn, Celtic cur. You will learn who is master here."

"I was under the impression that I am master here."

Dagr spun to face Ulfric as the Jarl entered the barn, Njal panting at his rear. The Viking chief paused to take in the scene, then turned to his sister. "Perhaps you will be so good as to explain to me what this is about, Brynhild. A fishing expedition, I gather..."

"I caught this man, this Celt , with your son by the river. Anything might have happened..."

"And what did happen?" Ulfric's voice remained low and even, though his irritation was apparent.

Brynhild stamped her foot. "I do not know. I arrived, and?—"

"Njal? What did happen?"

"We caught three fish, father. Two trout and a salmon."

"Ah, yes. These would be the fish, I imagine.

Or what remains of them." The thralls had made short work of filleting and cooking the welcome fare and nothing but the heads were left to bear witness to Njal's largesse.

Those would find their way into the next day's broth. "I trust you all enjoyed your meal."

"Aye, Jarl," confirmed Taranc. "It was most flavoursome. We must thank you, Njal. Again."

Ulfric folded his arms across his chest and leaned against one of the upright beams which supported the roof of the barn. "And how, I wonder, did you come to be fishing at the river with my son when you should have been securely locked within these walls? Do you care to explain that to me, Celt?"

Taranc shrugged. "The locks are flimsy."

"Evidently." Ulfric shifted his regard to Dagr.

"I find myself sorely disappointed in your management of my thralls, and not for the first time of late.

Flimsy locks, indeed. You must do better than this, Dagr, or I shall find you alternative work to which you may be better suited.

Perhaps you might prefer to herd sheep since they do not require much in the way of locks, or maybe you should work in the fields. "

"I am no farmer, Jarl." Dagr drew himself to his full, yet still less than impressive height, his expression indignant. "I shall not scrabble in the soil or?—"

Ulfric's tone hardened. "You will do as I deem fit, karl. Remember that. And you may start by replacing the lock on this barn with one which actually works. In future you will ensure that none of my slaves are free to wander the countryside at will, or you will answer to me for it."

"But, this man... he should be punished. He knew he was not permitted to leave, and?—"

"It was your responsibility to ensure that he did not, and you failed.

Do not fail again. You will spend the rest of the night on guard outside, and at first light you will seek out Ugo at the forge and have him fashion a stout lock.

There will be no more nocturnal wanderings. Is that clear? To all?"

This time Ulfric's blue gaze fell upon Taranc who kept his own visage impassive.

A stronger lock would make things more difficult, but he had little doubt he would find a way out should he choose to.

Ulfric might be blessed with more brains than Dagr, though that was not to say much, but even he was not infallible.

Taranc was no fool and saw no reason to provoke the Jarl needlessly.

He shrugged and arranged his features into an expression of resignation.

Hopefully this would satisfy Ulfric, for now at least.

The Jarl stepped closer to him, his brow furrowed. "This was not the first time you have been outside the barn after dark." It was a statement, not a question.

"No, Jarl."

"Then why are you still here? Why have you not already made your escape when you could have easily done so?"

"I will leave here at a time of my choosing." Taranc met Ulfric's gaze and held it. He could not be entirely certain, but he believed he detected the flickering of respect in the Viking's cool, blue eyes.

Ulfric flattened his lips in a mirthless smile.

"We shall see, Celt. We shall see." He turned to leave, his hand resting on his son's narrow shoulder.

"Thank you, Njal, for alerting me to the problem here.

" His azure gaze swept the nervous, silent thralls who surrounded him.

"I trust there will be no further... disturbances this night? "

They responded with murmurings and head shakes, seemingly eager to return to the monotony of a night in their barn. Ulfric nodded and strode to the door. "Brynhild? I trust your business here is concluded also?"

"He should be whipped. He was... belligerent and, and..."

Ulfric was not impressed by her claims. "The fault lay with Dagr. There will be no whipping."

Bright spots of colour blazed across Brynhild's pale cheeks as she cast one final, fulminating glare at Taranc before following her brother from the barn.

He watched her go with mounting unease. This latest act of spite had little enough to do with illicit fishing and much to do with that kiss by the riverside.

She had responded, briefly, but he was not mistaken, and she had then sought some manner of misplaced vengeance for what had occurred between them.

Dagr had been her tool, her means of exacting retribution for Taranc having humiliated her, if indeed that was how she viewed their recent encounter.

He could understand her anger, to a point.

He had taken advantage of the Viking noblewoman in a weak moment, taken her by surprise and she was entitled to resent his familiarity.

Indeed, her towering pride would demand it.

But her hatred went beyond what was rational or deserved. It was near enough palpable, and he could not even start to fathom what lay at the root of it.