Page 17

T he next few days were uneventful. Brynhild was glad of the respite as it afforded her the welcome opportunity to seek refuge in her weaving, an activity she found both soothing and therapeutic.

The repetitive labour gave her time to think, to plan, to calm her rattled nerves.

She had been more distressed than she cared to admit over the near loss of her beloved nephew and even now, more than a sennight later, she shuddered at the recollection.

Life could be so fleeting, so fragile.Her peace was shattered by the unexpected arrival of her brother, Gunnar, who descended upon them, his new family about him.

The three Freysson siblings were close, but Gunnar preferred to maintain his own settlement a couple of days ride to the north.

He had grown up at Skarthveit and visited often, but not usually without warning.

“This is Mairead,“ her youngest brother announced with obvious pride when Ulfric and Brynhild strode out to greet him, to bid him welcome.

“My bride of these past couple of months. And these are our children, Donald, and Tyra.”Brynhild was at a loss.

Had both her brothers run completely mad?

As if it was not enough that Ulfric had brought a Celtic bed slave into their longhouse, the usually taciturn and serious Gunnar, had actually gone a step further and taken a Celt as his wife!

What was more, the bride, Mairead, already had two children and Gunnar appeared determined upon treating them as his own.

“Welcome, sister.” Ulfric barely missed a beat before leaning in to kiss the pale-featured Celt. “It is good to meet you. Please, come inside, take your rest. You must be tired after your journey.”

At Ulfric’s urging Brynhild hurried to organise the feasting which would mark the family reunion.

She would play her part, no one would find fault with her hospitality but she was not fooled by the effusive welcome.

Ulfric had been as astonished as she was by the announcement of their brother's wedding, but had made the woman welcome, and of course that upstart Fiona had been falling over herself to befriend the jumped-up thrall.

Brynhild never would. Sister or no, this Mairead was a Celt, a slave, nothing more. Fiona, too, needed to learn her place. The sooner her idiot brothers came to their senses and stopped thinking with their dicks the better, and safer, their homes would be.

As well as news of his marriage, Gunnar brought worrying tidings from Hafrsfjord.

For several years now their family had been embroiled in a blood feud with the Bjarkessons, their closest neighbours to the west. The two families had been close once.

Ulfric's wife, Astrid, had been a Bjarkesson, and Brynhild, had been betrothed to another.

Her hopes of marriage had been dashed when Eirik Bjarkesson met an untimely end in a raiding expedition on Orkney, shortly after Astrid died of a sudden fever.

Brynhild missed Astrid dearly. She had always longed for a sister as she grew up, and when Astrid came to Skarthveit to wed her brother the pair became close.

It was a natural enough development that Brynhild should accept the offer of marriage from Eirik, Astrid's cousin.

Eirik was a year or so younger than Brynhild, and always put her in mind of a lively puppy.

A large man, he was gentle and unassuming, eager to please and gave the impression of being utterly besotted with his bride to be though she knew the situation to be rather more complex than that.

No matter, he would have made a fine, malleable husband, Brynhild had no doubt of it. Eirik had been exactly what she needed.

But it was not to be. Her failed hopes merely added to the bitter disappointment her life had become.

Her brothers both urged her to consider other men and she was assured of an enviable bridal settlement were she to require it, but Brynhild refused to even discuss the matter.

She was confident that in time she could have made something of Eirik, but another candidate might not be so obliging.

She had no interest whatsoever in a man who would seek to take charge, to assert his authority and to dominate his household as did her brothers.

Brynhild had to be in charge, nothing less would suffice.

Nothing less could be trusted to offer her the security and safety she craved.

The untimely and tragic deaths of both Astrid and Eirik had soured the relationship between the two families.

Olaf Bjarkesson, their Jarl, blamed Ulfric for the death of Eirik since he had led the raid in which the younger man perished.

And even more bizarrely, Olaf sought to suggest that Ulfric had actually poisoned his wife.

It was ridiculous, Ulfric had loved Astrid and her death had caused him great anguish.

Olaf was convinced, however, and nothing Ulfric did or said could dissuade him from his ill-conceived malice.

In the years since, Olaf Bjarkesson had made numerous attacks on the Freyssons.

Their crops had been destroyed, sheep stolen, trade disrupted.

And now their enemy appeared to be ready to escalate the feud yet further, according to Gunnar.

Olaf had made no secret of his intentions as he blustered about Hafrsfjord telling all who would listen that he intended to bring Ulfric Freysson to his knees.

He knew Gunnar heard his threats and would bring the news straight here to Skarthveit. A challenge had been issued.

Ulfric was no stranger to battle, but always preferred to choose his fights with care.

From the outset he had sought to placate Olaf, to restore the peace with his neighbours which had always served both sides well.

They had prospered together, and this senseless fighting threatened to destroy them.

Brynhild knew that Ulfric had more or less lost hope of finding a peaceful solution, but he was determined upon one final attempt.

Gunnar had not long departed Skarthveit to return to his own settlement when Ulfric announced that he would go to Bjarkessholm one last time to offer reparation and seek to make peace with Olaf.

Bjarkessholm was a day's ride away so Ulfric would be gone for one night, possibly two.

There had been a quarrel between her brother and his precious bed-thrall just before he left.

Brynhild did not know what had caused it but had heard the unmistakable sounds of a hard spanking and Ulfric had left instructions that Fiona was not to leave the longhouse.

Now the wench sat at her table, chopping vegetables, her features set and sullen, clearly fuming over some imagined slight.

How dare she? The girl was fortunate to have the favour of the Jarl. What had this Celt to complain of?

Brynhild observed from her loom, quietly fuming. She opened her mouth to issue a sharp rebuke but swallowed it at a pained squeal from Njal. The lad had been seated at the table sipping his mug of buttermilk but now he doubled over, clutching his stomach.

"My tummy hurts," he mewled, his small features scrunched in pain.

Brynhild abandoned her weaving and rushed to his side. She laid her palm on his forehead and winced. He was hot to the touch, clammy. A fever was the thing she most feared, having witnessed the speed with which Astrid lost her fight for life once the illness took hold.

Njal leaned forward and was violently sick, then lay on the bench shivering. Brynhild fought back her mounting panic and dismay as Hilla, the smallest of her house-thralls ran to fetch a mop.

"You, go get a pail in case he is sick again." The command was directed at Fiona who hurried to obey. Brynhild helped Njal from the table and carried him to his bed where she made him lie down. He did so without argument, his small body wracked with huge shudders.

Brynhild wrung her hands in helpless terror. She had some knowledge of healing herbs, though her skills were scanty. She had heard somewhere that chamomile tea might help in such cases so for want of something better she set about preparing that.

Why did such a thing have to happen when Ulfric is away? Why do I always have to cope with things alone?

Hilla dealt with the mess on the floor and Fiona brought the bucket.

Brynhild was oblivious to the rest of her household, her entire attention riveted on her sickly nephew.

Not for the first time, she reflected on the fragility of life and how swiftly it could be snatched away.

Children were the most vulnerable, so precious and so easily lost. Had Njal been rescued from the sea, only to succumb to disease just days later? Perhaps death refused to be cheated...

She did not know how long she sat beside the gasping, wheezing boy.

He coughed from time to time, and continued to shiver despite the extra blankets which Brynhild piled upon him.

He did not vomit again, and she wondered if perhaps that might be a good sign, but his face was pallid and his breathing shallow.

Brynhild had never been so scared in her life.

At last the demands of her own bladder forced her to abandon her place at Njal's side in order to use the privy.

She hurried around the side of the longhouse and did what she must, then scurried back toward the door.

The sight of Fiona standing out in the open and staring up into the night sky brought her up short.

The wench knows full well that she is confined to the longhouse. Can she not obey the simplest instructions, even now?

Brynhild's temper, always simmering as far as Fiona was concerned, boiled over in that moment of perceived defiance.

"You, what are you doing out here? My brother instructed you to remain inside."