Page 40

"I did, briefly. I invited him to turn his ships about and leave at once or I would scatter his entrails upon the beach."

"I see. 'Twas not a joyful reunion, then."

"He betrayed me. He believed Fiona’s lies and... and..."

"Why would he not believe my daughter? She is not a woman given to spouting falsehoods." Dughall's voice remained level, but his resolve was clear enough. He would not hear criticism of his beloved child.

"I..." Brynhild clamped her mouth shut. What was there left to say?

"My lord, Taranc approaches. The Viking is with him."

Dughall murmured his thanks to the servant who had scurried in to announce the imminent arrival of their visitors.

Brynhild noted that he did not call for refreshments, for ale or mead or platters of fine food to welcome their guests.

He laid his hand upon her shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze, then turned to follow the servant out of the main door.

Brynhild remained where she was, her face buried in her hands.

Long minutes passed. Voices drifted in from outside, Dughall's, raised in anger, Ulfric, calm. Taranc occasionally, also quiet, reasonable, unperturbed.

How could her gentle and caring lover greet her faithless brother like a long-lost friend? How could he show Ulfric even the slightest degree of respect, invite him into their home? It was quite beyond her.

Even as she pondered this conundrum the outer door opened again and Taranc stepped through, Njal clinging to his hand.

The lad caught sight of his aunt and squealed in delight.

He ran the length of the hall to fling himself against her skirts, then scrambled up onto the window ledge beside her.

Brynhild enfolded her beloved nephew in her arms and surrendered to more uncontrolled weeping.

"I missed you. I missed you so much." She gulped the words through her tears. "I never expected to see you again."

"I love you, Aunt Brynhild. I'm so glad we found you. Why are you angry that we are here?"

"It is not that. I..."

Taranc eased himself into the seat alongside the pair. "Your aunt has had a shock. She is not angry. At least, not with you."

"She is angry with my father," observed the boy, "and with Fiona." He turned to fling his arms about Brynhild's neck. "Please do not be angry. If you are, Taranc says we will have to go away again, and I want to stay here."

Brynhild was stunned. "Stay here? But?—"

"My father wishes to remain here. He has asked Taranc." The boy looked to the Celt for confirmation. Taranc had the grace to shift in his seat.

"What... What have you said?" she whispered.

Unflinching, Taranc met her gaze. "The idea has merit."

"It is madness. It would never work. They are our enemies, they cannot be trusted."

"I think?—"

Further conversation was curtailed by the door swinging open again, this time to admit Ulfric, Fiona and Dughall. Her brother entered, and sauntered across the hall, pausing just feet from where she sat. He actually smiled at her.

"Brynhild? Sister?"

"Brother? Bastard?"

Ulfric was undeterred by her hostile welcome. "I am sorry..." he began.

Her temper flared again. She glared at him. "Do not bother. Save it for one who cares what you think, how you feel. This one, perhaps." She levelled a glare at Fiona. "I hear you are wed to your little--"

Taranc cleared his throat. "Do not say it, Brynhild. Not in front of her father, and the lad."

He was right, of course. Brynhild nodded and hugged Njal to her as though the boy might offer the shield she needed. Still, the words of anger, of recrimination could not be contained. Her anguish was too great, the hurt buried for too long not to surface now.

"For her? You sent me away, for her? I was your sister, your own kin. I cared for your home, your son, yet you threw me aside. I loved you. You and Njal were everything to me. How could you do it?"

At once Taranc's arms were around her. Brynhild clung to his woollen cloak as though her very life depended upon his solid presence. She curled her fingers in the sturdy fabric, her sobs loud and gulping as she gave vent to grief and pain too intense to contain a moment longer.

His palms traced large, soothing circles on her back as he held her against his chest. "You have your family back, now, sweetheart. All of them and more besides. They are to stay here, with us."

Taranc's words did nothing to dispel Brynhild's agony. If anything, her weeping grew louder, more unbridled as a fresh wave of despair washed over her.

She had survived the ultimate betrayal, not once but twice.

She had rebuilt her life, again, only to have all she had worked for swept away once more by circumstances she could not control.

She would lose everything—her precious haven, Taranc, her fragile standing in this alien place she had decided to call home.

Taranc shifted. Brynhild fought to hang on to him but he loosened her hold and stepped back, murmuring words she did not entirely catch about grief and pain and about giving her time.

New arms gathered her in, familiar scents assailed her nostrils, the aromas of wolf skin cloak, leather, the sea, so uniquely Viking.

Past caring now, Brynhild wept in her brother's arms. He held her, his lips on her hair, murmuring apologies she had no desire to hear, explanations she would never accept. But as he did so, even as his meaningless words drifted about her, something shifted in her troubled, shattered soul.

It hurt. It hurt so much, too much, but the pain had become excruciating to hold on to. She had no choice, no alternative if she was to survive a third time. She had to let it go.

So she did. Brynhild the pragmatist, the survivor, the resilient, efficient mistress of her own destiny surrendered the dam of anger and bitter disappointment she had nurtured all these months and which had festered to bring her to this moment. She found release.

“Why are you here?” Brynhild faced her brother across the oak table in the home she shared with Taranc.

Fiona and the rest of the family continued to enjoy Dughall’s hospitality at Pennglas but she had felt the need for solitude and had made her excuses.

In his usual bull-headed manner Ulfric failed to grasp that she needed a respite from him.

He grinned at her, seemingly oblivious to her desire to be alone. “I was concerned for you, going off on your own, and in your condition. Taranc too. He would have come, but I said?—“

“No, idiot. I mean why are you here ? In Scotland? Why are you not at Skarthveit? And what was that Taranc said earlier, about your intention to remain here?” She vaguely recalled mention of this but had been too distraught at the time to seek clarification.

Now, her head clearer, she demanded an explanation.

“What of your settlement in our own land? Our people there?

“Most of our people are here now, or at least all who chose to accompany us across the North Sea.”

“You have brought everyone? But… why? Where are they?”

“Most remained on or close to our longships, until such time as I could speak with Taranc and with you. I had no desire to create panic here by coming ashore with dozens of Viking warriors at by back. That would have created quite the wrong impression.” He paused, then, “As to why… you will recall Olaf Bjarkesson.”

“Of course. He would have been my kinsman had Eirik lived. Yours too.”

“Aye, but he became my enemy when Eirik and Astrid died. You know he blamed me for their deaths.”

“Yes, he was wrong, but…”

Ulfric’s expression was grim. “The feud continued, grew worse. Olaf’s attacks became more frequent, more deadly.

His men set upon Fiona and Njal when they were out of our village on one occasion, and followed that skirmish with a vicious assault on Skarthveit itself.

We managed to repel them with the help of our thralls, though I had to promise them their freedom in exchange for their aid. ”

“You freed the thralls? All of them?” Brynhild could barely comprehend her brother’s actions.

“I did. Fiona can be most persuasive when she sets her mind on something. And in truth, I had little option if I was to defend Skarthveit successfully as we were seriously outnumbered. But it was just one battle, one attack fought off. There would be more and I might not always prevail. I have my family to think of, my people. We need to live in peace on our own shores if we are to thrive and prosper, to grow crops and raise our families. It was obvious that Olaf would never relent. So I decided to leave.”

“You just gave up? Gave him Skarthveit? She could not conceal her shock, her dismay that her childhood home was lost. “You allowed him to drive you out? To drive all of us out?”

“The settlement is just longhouses, a few crops and a half-built harbour. Olaf was busy destroying our farms in any case, and we can rebuild our houses elsewhere. I had no stomach for the life we would have had there, so I decided to move on and invited all who would to follow me.”

“So you came here?”

“Of course. Where else?”

“Anywhere. You could have gone anywhere else.”

He shook his head. “No, it had to be here. I had to see you, to know that you were well and content. I believed that Taranc could make you happy, that he would take care of you. I would not have entrusted you to him otherwise. But until I saw for myself…”

“So you are here for me?”

“I am. I had to come after you.”

“How did you know we would be here at Aikrig?”

“I didn’t, not for certain. But I suspected, and where else would he go? This is Taranc’s home. And now it is mine too. Ours.”

“Taranc has agreed.” It was a statement, not a question.

“He has, and Dughall also, who will tolerate me and the rest of our people for the sake of his daughter. But I would know I have your welcome too. Despite everything.”

“It appears I have little choice in the matter.” She stood, intending to fetch ale from the barrel she kept close to hand.

Ulfric caught her elbow as she passed him. “Perhaps not. But you do have a choice over how you respond. Will you welcome me? My family? Fiona? Will you welcome all of us as we make our home here?

Brynhild regarded him for several moments, her beloved elder brother, the one she had relied on all her life … until Taranc. Her decision was made. It was made earlier as she wept in his arms in the great hall at Pennglas.

Slowly, she nodded. “You are welcome here, brother,” she whispered. “You and yours.”

The words were easy. Now, she must work at making them a reality.

"I shall send for Fiona. She has some skills with herbs, perhaps?—"

"Aagh!" Brynhild seized Murdina's hand and squeezed hard as a fresh wave of agony caused her distended abdomen to contract. She panted in the half-light of the house in Aikrig, perspiration beading across her forehead as she laboured to deliver her child into the world.

She shook her head. "I do not want her here. Oh... Taranc! Where is Taranc?"

"I am here." He came to kneel beside the bed and took her other hand in his. "It will not be long now." He looked to his mother as though seeking confirmation.

Brynhild groaned, her usual stoic courage in tatters. "It has been a full day, and a half. I am scared..."

"All is well," insisted Murdina. "I have attended many births in my time, and see no cause to worry. The babe will be here soon."

Taranc tried again. "Perhaps a soothing draught would ease the pain somewhat. Fiona might?—"

"No!" Brynhild dragged herself to a sitting position as another contraction seized her. She screamed as her belly twisted, the sound ragged, her voice hoarse now. Her futile cries of agony bounced off the timbers of their dwelling, echoing in her ears as the child stubbornly refused to shift.

She sank back against the bolster which Murdina had jammed behind her shoulders, despairing that this ordeal would ever be over. The next contraction was upon her almost before the last had receded. How much more? How much longer before her body split in two?

Suddenly, almost without warning, the pain arrowed down, now settling at her very core.

Brynhild let out another guttural moan, then a startled yelp.

The urge to push was beyond overwhelming.

As both Taranc and Murdina urged her on she bore down with all that was within her, forcing this determined, obstinate little being out into the light.

"I see the head." Murdina peered between Brynhild's thighs. "One more good push, with the next contraction..."

"Aaagh!" Pain gripped her again, and Brynhild tightened her crushing grasp on Taranc's hand. Even in her own tortured misery Brynhild could not miss the grimace which flickered across his features. He did not pull away though.

"So close, my Viking. You can do this. Just one last push..."

He was right. Brynhild bore down again, and her baby slithered into Murdina's waiting hands.

"A boy," announced the older woman. "A fine, yowling lad who looks the very image of his sire."

As though to add his own contribution the child chose that precise moment to open his mouth and bellow his displeasure to the heavens.

His thin, high cries now filled the house as Brynhild sagged back against the pillows.

Murdina hastily wrapped a blanket about the squirming child and laid him on Brynhild's chest. At once he ceased his bawling, instead starting to root among her garments.

Brynhild opened her shift and pressed his tiny mouth to her nipple, though it took a little experienced intervention by Murdina to see the child properly latched on and suckling hard.

Satisfied that all was well Brynhild submitted to Murdina's continuing ministrations.

As the older woman cleansed her spent body and dragged the soiled bedding away, Brynhild spared a look at Taranc.

She noted the glistening in his forest-green eyes.

On closer inspection of the downy head at her breast she knew the baby shared his brown hair, though the infant's eyes had yet to take on the brilliant hue of his father's irises.

Or maybe he would take after her. In that moment it did not matter.

Nothing mattered save that her baby was here, safe, healthy.

A boy. She had a son.

"What name shall we give him?" Brynhild looked to Taranc for guidance. "A Celt name, since he shall be chief here and lead his people. Our people."

"Then Morvyn. That was my father's name. If you are agreeable?"

She nodded. "Morvyn is an excellent choice. I believe our son shall make a fine chief."

Taranc merely nodded.