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Brynhild knew a pang of guilt. That had been spiteful of her. "Yes, it was my intention to frighten you so I did not allow you to hear me tell Harald to release you after thirty minutes."

Fiona frowned. It was clear this was indeed news to her.

Brynhild went on to explain that she had returned to Njal's bedside and had completely forgotten the drama outside.

Her concern had been wholly for the little boy in her care and she had given no thought at all to Fiona.

She met the Celtic woman's gaze and held it.

"I am ashamed to say that I forgot all about you.

I should not have, but that is what happened. "

"But—"

Brynhild continued as though Fiona had not interrupted her. "It was only when Njal at last slept that I realised that neither you nor Harald had returned indoors. I came at once to seek you out but as I left the longhouse my brother charged past me with you in his arms."

"I know. You have said all of this." Fiona seemed exasperated, and weary. Brynhild could not blame her. She had told her nothing new and the other woman was no closer now to believing a different version of events than she had been a year ago in Skarthveit.

Brynhild opted to try a different tack. "Forgiveness is precious. I know better than to ask it of you for I treated you very badly. I would have your honesty, however."

Fiona glowered at her, indignation writ across her features. "Honesty? I have always been honest in my dealings with you, and with Ulfric."

Brynhild shook her head. "Ulfric does not believe my account of that night because he insists his son was not ill. Njal was quite recovered by the following morning when Ulfric next saw him so I can readily understand why he believes it to be so. But you know, do you not? You remember?"

Brynhild could have wept with relief when Fiona slowly nodded. She pressed on, seeking to press home the small advantage.

"I was cruel to you, but I did not intend you to die that night. You would not have. I would have freed you had my brother not already done so. Harald had his instructions, my commands were quite clear. He knew he was to bring you back inside after a short time had elapsed."

"He left me," breathed Fiona. "A woman, in one of the longhouses..."

Brynhild gave a snort of disgust. She never could abide disobedient thralls and Harald's dereliction of his duty had cost her dear.

"He had no business leaving you unattended in order that he might dally with some wench.

He should have stayed, he knew that." Brynhild had no doubt that the slave's disappearance the following morning owed much to his knowledge of his own culpability.

Harald had no desire to face her, or Ulfric, to account for his actions.

Fiona still appeared confused. "You did not instruct Harald to stay. I would have heard..."

"I did, but not in your hearing." Brynhild was emphatic, much rested on this point. "Harald knew, and I knew, but I could not prove it. I still cannot, but I swear that it is true."

"Why should I believe you now?"

Brynhild tilted her chin up. Pride would not allow her to grovel, not yet. "Why should you not? I would not lie about this. Njal was ill, events could have been as I say."

Silence stretched between them. Eventually Fiona nodded. "Very well. Let us leave it at that, then."

Brynhild clutched at her sleeve as Fiona made to rise. "No, you must tell Ulfric."

"Ulfric knows. We spoke?—"

"About Njal. You must tell him about Njal. He does not know that, so you must not have told him or he would believe you. He would believe me ."

Fiona considered for several moments, then inclined her head slowly. "Very well, I shall tell Ulfric what I remember of that night. All of it. He still may not?—"

"It will be a start. The truth is important, there can be no reconciliation without it."

Fiona sighed, but did not disagree. She appeared quite spent. On a sudden impulse Brynhild offered to prepare a chamomile tea for her. "It may settle your discomfort," she advised.

Fiona tottered over to the bed. "I believe I may stay here for a while. The tea would be... most welcome."

Brynhild paused at the door, Morvyn now fretting in her arms. "We are sisters now. Perhaps, in time, we might be friends."

She slipped out the door and closed it behind her, then leaned against it, breathing heavily. She had made her peace with Fiona and had succeeded in enlisting her help. It was a start.

The weeks slipped by, and a peace of sorts descended upon the communities of Aikrig and Pennglas.

Ulfric had listened to Fiona, and Brynhild thought that perhaps the other woman had worked on her behalf for which she was grateful.

In any case, her brother had accepted Brynhild's account of the incident with the stocks and offered his apologies for the misunderstanding.

Brynhild accepted his apology, though that had never been her main concern. For her it had always been about the truth, and about her self-respect and the regard of those about her. Those were restored and she found herself less and less interested in raking over the ashes of what was past.

Further, she was no fool. Even she could see that had events not unfolded as they did, she would still be at Skarthveit, wallowing in her own fears, living out her days in her brother's household.

Instead, here she was, mistress of her own home, forging a life with a man she adored though she found it quite impossible to share that nugget with Taranc for fear he did not feel the same.

He was affectionate, loving even, especially in their bed, but otherwise theirs was not a demonstrative union.

Still, she had no complaints, they got along well enough and Brynhild was happy.

She had her home, a community where she was respected, and she had her precious little boy who was now starting to crawl about their house and babble his first words.

Life was fine, she concluded as she worked at her loom. Life was just fine.

"Where is Taranc?" Ulfric burst through the door, his cloak flapping around his broad shoulders and his sword drawn. Rarely had she seen him so fierce.

"He went to Castlereagh, with Murdina and Morag. They have a cousin who is ailing..."

"Castlereagh. Where is that?"

"A village up the river, perhaps an hour from here, on horseback. They... they took Morvyn with them."

"I shall send for him to return at once. And you, you should make haste to Pennglas. Dughall is there, and Fiona and Njal."

"Why? What has happened?"

"Dragon ships are sighted, three miles up the coast and headed this way. We are under attack."

"No!" Brynhild splayed her palm over her pounding heart. "Surely, no..."

"Whatever their intent, they will think again once they spot my ships on our beach.

They will not wish to take us on, but if they do try to land here my warriors and the Celts we have trained and armed will soon see them on their way.

Have no fear, sister, we can and we will defend our home from these raiders. "

"Why? Why would Vikings come here?"

Her brother shrugged, his jaw set. "Go to Pennglas. I will deal with this."

As the door slammed in her brother's wake Brynhild reached for her own cloak and secured it around her shoulders with an ornate pin.

She hurried from her house, but did not turn in the direction of the larger village.

Instead, she ran along the coastal path leading to the beach.

Already she could see the dragon ships skimming the waves and fast approaching their shore.

Her brother's confidence was misplaced, these Norsemen were headed straight for Aikrig.

The ships reached the beach. Brynhild stopped, panting, and shaded her eyes to watch as the leader leapt into the shallow foam and waded ashore. She squinted into the low sun, the glare reflecting back from the surface of the water.

Surely that was not...

It was. As she managed to focus on the lone figure now striding up the sand there was no mistaking the dark leather attire, the huge wolf skin cloak, those ebony locks.

"Gunnar, " she breathed.

Even as she watched Ulfric confronted his brother. Words were exchanged, but from the stiffness of their broad shoulders, the tense set of Gunnar's jaw Brynhild had no illusions regarding the nature of this particular reunion. Gunnar was livid and had come here seeking blood.

"You. Yes, you. Help me, if you would." She summoned the assistance of a serf hovering close by. "Come with me to the well. Be quick."

Under her direction, the man aided her in drawing two full buckets from the fresh water well which served their village.

Brynhild took one by the handle and hefted it up, trying not to spill too much.

"You, bring the other pail. Come with me.

" She hoped the water was bloody cold as she strode off in the direction of the confrontation unfolding on the beach.

By the time she arrived the fight was in full swing.

Her brothers brawled like cornered wolves on the golden sands of her adopted home.

Brynhild had never been more ashamed of them.

Was this disgraceful display the way a Viking chief earned the respect of his karls, his peers? She thought not. No indeed!

The pail of water was satisfyingly cold, she noted, as she flung the whole lot over both their idiotic skulls.

Gunnar let out a roar of outraged bewilderment and shook the torrent from his dark locks, but not before the second bucket was emptied over him.

Ulfric fared no better. The pair of them lay gasping and flapping on the sand, drenched, peering up at her.

They reminded Brynhild less now of wolves and more of a pair of drowned rats.

Her contempt for them plummeted to more or less the same level.

"Get up, the pair of you. Do you never learn?

Grown men, brothers, brawling in the sand like a pair of rabid dogs.

" She glanced about, not best pleased at the audience which had gathered to witness the spectacle.

Celts and Vikings alike sniggered and smirked at their bedraggled leaders.

Had these Freyssons no pride, no dignity at all? Their mother would be mortified.

"Ah, Brynhild. I was hoping to run into you." Gunnar offered her a lop-sided grin, the scar which ran the length of his cheek doing nothing to soften his expression.

She refrained from kicking him in the ribs, but that would only reduce her to their level. Instead she gathered her cloak about her and adopted her most haughty expression.

"Were you? Well, now you have, and you can at least do me the honour of standing to greet me properly."

She had the satisfaction of seeing him ease himself painfully to his feet.

It served him right, the imbecile. She fervently hoped Ulfric had come out of the encounter in similar discomfort, and was gratified to note that it was so.

Gunnar's Celtic wife, Mairead she seemed to recall, hovered about the pair issuing words of gentle concern and offering poultices.

Brynhild shook her head in exasperation.

She would be minded to let them bleed, but this Mairead appeared to be of a rather kinder disposition.

Even now the brothers bickered and taunted each other, and violence seemed ready to erupt anew at any moment. Brynhild had heard and seen enough.

"Shut up, the pair of you. Come with me." She glowered at each of them in turn, offered what she hoped might pass as a polite nod of welcome to the sister she barely knew, and turned to lead the dishevelled party from the beach.