Page 39

B rynhild folded her hands together across the round swell of her abdomen.

The baby delivered a sharp kick from inside, hard enough to halt her step.

She paused to brace against a tree beside the track which led to Pennglas.

She had promised Dughall that she would call to see him this day and did not wish to disappoint her friend though she found the journey on foot arduous as she entered the final month of her pregnancy.

The old man had been unwell. He had succumbed to a chill which had gone to his chest and kept him confined to his bed these past two weeks.

He was improving now, and she was relieved to hear the news but would feel better for seeing him herself and watching him sip the draught of chamomile tea she intended to brew for him.

It was a most efficacious cure, she had every confidence Dughall would soon be up and about again.

Best to press on. Brynhild straightened, drew in a deep breath, and continued her hike uphill.

Pounding footsteps from behind brought her to a halt again.

She turned. Several villagers from Aikrig scrambled up the rise toward her, their pallid faces lined in alarm.

One man peered back over his shoulder then grabbed the elbow of a woman by his side.

"Come, we must hurry. There is refuge to be had in Pennglas, Taranc said that it is so. "

Refuge? Brynhild reached for the man's sleeve as he passed her.

"Why are you fleeing to the village? Has something happened to Taranc?"

Please let it not be so. She would offer up another fine goat to the goddess, Frey, if such were needed to keep her man safe.

The man barely broke his stride. "They are back. Taranc told us to make haste to Pennglas and to warn the people there. We shall fight them this time. They shall not steal from us again, nor shall they take our people as slaves. Taranc will not allow it, never again."

"Who? Who is here?" The man she first spoke to had shrugged off her hold and was already scurrying up the hill away from her. Brynhild reached for an elderly woman, Aine, a widow she had come to know who had skills in the art of dye-making. The woman stopped.

"Ye need to be coming wi' us lass. Taranc will want ye safe, I ken it."

"I am safe. What is happening?"

"We are attacked. The Vikings are back."

Her knees buckled. She clutched at Aine who wrapped her arms about Brynhild's waist.

"Let me help ye, lady. We shall take refuge in the manor house with Lord Dughall."

Brynhild gathered her wits, and with her returning senses came temper. White hot, searing anger surged through her. She staggered back, shaking her head.

Vikings? Vikings dared to come here, to her home?

Her people?

She would not stand for it.

"You go on to the village, find safety and tell Lord Dughall what is happening. Bid him see everyone safely inside, the doors barred. I shall go to the beach."

"No, ye cannot. Taranc would?—“

Brynhild glowered down at the smaller woman. "I am a Viking. These invaders are my people. They need to know they are not welcome here, that there is nothing on this shore for them. I shall stand beside Taranc and tell them as much."

There were more protests, more pleading that she look to her own safety and that of her child and accompany the fleeing villagers, but Brynhild was no longer listening.

She gathered her cloak about her and started back down the hill, her step brisk and purposeful as she headed for the beach and for Taranc.

Together they would face down these Nordic raiders and send them back into the sea.

She encountered others as she went, others from Aikrig, all dashing headlong up the narrow lane in search of safety. She caught snatches of conversation as the villagers rushed past.

"I remember him, the tall one with the yellow hair."

"He was here before, the other time..."

"Lady Fiona... was it really she? It looked like?—"

Heart in her mouth, the truth only now beginning to dawn, Brynhild burst through the barrier of trees which shielded the beach from view. She stopped in her tracks, barely able to take in the scene before her.

All the Celts but Taranc had fled. He, alone, stood on the damp sand face to face with the tall Viking warrior who stood proud at the helm of his dragon ship as the vessel bobbed on the waves.

Ulfric.

Her brother. Here.

Brynhild beheld the tableau, unable to breathe for several moments. Taranc's confident tone rang across the beach.

"What is your purpose here, Viking?" He spoke in the Nordic tongue.

"Ah, now on that matter I would like to talk with you. May we come ashore?"

No! Every fibre of Brynhild's being screamed 'no!'.

Taranc was seemingly not of similar mind. "You may, Viking. And Fiona, naturally. Is that your boy I see there?"

Her brother inclined his blond head respectfully to the village chief before him. "Aye, my family is with me."

"Indeed." Brynhild could not fail to recognise the note of sardonic amusement which now laced Taranc's tone. "This promises to be quite the reunion then."

Ulfric appeared unsurprised at the enigmatic response. "She is here? And well?"

"Of course, though I would caution against paying your respects, Viking. Your actions were not well received."

Brynhild had seen, and heard, enough. She strode forward, incensed. "How dare you show your treacherous face here? You claim to be a brother—you are nothing more than a self-serving worm. If my husband does not fell you where you stand I shall do so myself."

She marched down the beach to take up her stance beside the man she had refused to wed but now claimed as her husband, the man she had chosen to spend her life with, the man who had saved her.

Taranc had given her very existence meaning, a purpose.

He had put a child in her belly, taught her to enjoy her body, to take her pleasure as she now knew she deserved, yet he seemed ready to betray her without a second thought.

For reasons she could not start to fathom Taranc was about to welcome Ulfric onto their soil. It was not to be borne.

Silence descended. The Vikings who had remained on board the dragon ships with their leader gaped at her as recognition dawned.

Their faces betrayed their utter confusion.

Fiona, too, clutched at Ulfric's sleeve as though demanding some semblance of explanation.

It seemed she was to be disappointed, at least for now.

Ulfric was first to speak. He angled his head toward her and plastered a broad smile across his duplicitous features.

"Ah, sister. You appear...well." His assessing gaze travelled over her distended belly and his eyes narrowed.

"Much has happened, I see, since last we spoke.

" His next words were aimed at Taranc. "Yours, I presume? "

Taranc's nod was abrupt and curt. He reached for Brynhild's hand and squeezed it briefly before she managed to snatch her fingers out of his grasp.

He met her gaze, his expression calm but not without a hint of warning, then he turned and strode up the beach in the direction of the house they shared.

He did not look back again. His final words were flung over his shoulder, and she assumed they were intended for Ulfric. "Are you coming then?"

Brynhild hurried after Taranc. "You cannot permit this. I do not want him here. I want none of them here."

"It seems you are to be disappointed, my sweet, since he is following us up the beach. I trust we have food to hand, ale a-plenty? Where is Annag? Murdina?"

"I do not know. Everyone fled to Pennglas on your orders. I shall not feed them."

Taranc shrugged. "Your brother has said he wishes only to talk. If that is all, and I see no cause not to believe him, we can hear him out and he can be on his way."

"But—" Brynhild whirled to face her brother and the woman he had chosen over her, the woman who had lied about her actions that fateful night and caused Ulfric to cast his sister from her home.

She marched forward to punch her brother hard in the centre of his chest, bringing his progress to a halt.

"Now, Brynhild, I only want to?—"

"Shut up. Why would I care what you want? Did you care about my wishes all those months ago when you plotted to have me abducted, carried from my home by force? When you cast me out to make room for your... your..."

"Brynhild." Taranc's tone was low, a warning. In time, Brynhild recalled that the woman who stood before her was Dughall's daughter, and for that reason alone she would hold her tongue.

"You are not welcome here. If you are not gone from these shores within the hour I shall gut you and leave your entrails here on the beach for the gulls and crabs to feast on."

"I am not convinced such a welcome would find favour with the rest of the Nordic horde waiting on the longships," observed Taranc, his customary sardonic smile returning. "Perhaps we might be a little less brutal in our approach, less blood-thirsty?"

Brynhild cast a baleful glance his way, her tone scathing. "You may find peaceful solutions if you feel so moved. I just want them gone. All of them. I shall go to Pennglas. I expect to find no dragon ships on our beach when I return."

Dughall found her in her usual spot, curled in the window seat beneath his hall.

"Is it the truth? My daughter is here? Fiona has returned?"

Brynhild raised her tear-ravaged features to regard him as a pang of irrational jealousy pierced her. Yet again, she would be set aside in favour of the Celtic woman. "Yes, he has come and he has brought her with him."

"Where are they? I must see my daughter."

"I left them at Taranc's house in Aikrig." She swiped the moisture from her eyes and managed a wan smile for her old friend. She could not be ungenerous, even now. "I know that Fiona will not leave without seeing you."

Dughall nodded. "And your brother? Did you speak with him?"