Page 43

T aranc leapt into the saddle of the horse he had commandeered, his tiny son tucked within his cloak, and galloped hard for Aikrig.

The warrior sent to summon him had barely slipped from his mount in the rutted track which ran the length of Castlereigh and passed for the main street and delivered the tidings of the imminent attack before the Celtic chieftain had seized his horse and turned the animal in the direction of his home.

Taranc dug his heels into the horse's flanks and prayed he would be on time.

He could not lose her….could not lose the fragile family he had worked so hard to build, to keep.

Fucking Vikings. Why could they never keep their thieving hands to themselves?

Still, he blessed the fact that his friend and now brother of sorts, Ulfric, would be his ally in defending their village.

His Viking warriors would help to protect the Celts and their homes.

They would not be taken as slaves, their crops destroyed, their property seized. Never again.

His heart sank when he thundered into Aikrig at a flat gallop and saw for himself the three dragon ships which sat proudly on the beach, as well as those Ulfric kept in plain view. Seemingly the deterrent had not worked.

"Where? Where did they go?" he demanded of the nervous serf who ran to greet him.

"There was a fight, and..." the man gestured up the beach, toward the track leading to Pennglas.

"A fight? Are people hurt?"

"Only the Vikings, lord. Lady Brynhild?—"

"Brynhild? She was here? Is she injured?" Please, please let it not be so.

"No, but she was very angry. She... she threw water at them."

"She...? Water?" At a loss, Taranc nudged the horse into motion again, this time a more sedate canter. "They are at Pennglas?"

"Aye, I think that is where they went." The serf called out to Taranc's fast-retreating back. "Your lady told them to follow her, so they did."

I bet they did, he thought grimly. I bet they bloody did.

He arrived at the manor house in Pennglas a few minutes later to find Njal and Donald seated upon the steps before the main portal, chatting happily.

About them, Celts and Vikings gathered in groups, voices low as they regarded each other with bewildered suspicion.

Taranc noted that several of the Norsemen were strangers to him, they had clearly arrived with this most recent influx from across the seas.

He narrowed his eyes, his fist curled around the hilt of the sword he had taken to carrying of late, challenging any who might feel moved to confront him.

No one did. He dismounted, arranged Morvyn against his hip, and paused before the two boys on the steps. "It is good to see you again, Donald."

The lad grinned up at him. "My mother is inside, and my new papa is with her. He has been fighting with Uncle Ulfric and his face is bloodied"

New papa? This was a turn up. Taranc ascended the steps slowly and pushed the door open.

Dughall's hall was teeming with people, most of whom he recognised.

The lord himself, of course, was seated at his high table, Fiona by his side.

Brynhild stood at the end of the table, her spine stiff and her expression little short of murderous as she regarded her two brothers.

Taranc winced. They had without doubt laid into one another and he was not sure if he could determine who had emerged the victor.

He abandoned the attempt. Mairead, too, hovered beside her husband, her expression more fearful.

Servants bustled about, Celtic serfs and Viking thralls scurrying back and forth but with no obvious purpose.

His Brynhild was slipping.

“What brings you here, brother?” Brynhild’s voice was icy. He remembered well that tone which he swore could freeze the very fires of hell itself.

"I am here to take you home." Gunnar's imperious tone rang out.

Taranc's heart sank. There was no reason at all why she should not return with her brother, should not reclaim her former status in her homeland. No reason apart from the fact that he loved her and could not bear to lose her now.

Brynhild's jaw tensed and she appeared to be considering the offer with the utmost care. Taranc held his breath.

"Thank you, brother. Your concern is noted. But you mistake my meaning. How did you know to come here in search of me?"

“He,” Gunnar gestured contemptuously at Ulfric, “he left word for me of his intentions, his decision to abandon Skarthveit, and where he would go.

He also left word of his actions toward you.

As soon as I learnt of your fate I had to come.

I would not leave my sister at the mercy of savages, alone in a hostile land.

Brynhild regarded her brother down the length of her aristocratic nose. “Again, I thank you and I am sincerely glad of your concern. However, your aid is not needed. Had I desired to return to my homeland I am quite certain that my husband would have taken me there.”

Taranc exhaled and stepped forward, a determined grin plastered upon his face. He moved to stand beside Brynhild. Her face lit up with a smile nothing short of beatific when she spotted his approach.

"Husband?" spluttered Gunnar, his battered features comical in his amazement. Taranc wondered if perhaps the Viking's handsome nose was broken as well as bloodied. He schooled his own expression into the friendliest demeanour he might manage. It would not do to smirk.

"Yes, my husband," confirmed Brynhild. Taranc believed she had never seemed more magnificent to him. "Ah, here he is. Taranc, come and greet my brother. You will remember Gunnar, I am sure."

"I do, yes." Taranc draped his free arm across Brynhild's shoulders and bent to kiss her.

He was gratified that she returned his greeting with equal warmth and a tad more enthusiasm than was arguably proper, given the public nature of their current circumstances.

"I am sorry I could not be here to greet our guests earlier, but as soon as I learnt of their arrival I made all haste to join you.

" He juggled Morvyn awkwardly before handing the child to his mother.

"Needless to say, Morvyn was not cooperative.

Our son is demanding his next meal, my love. "

The barb found its mark. Gunnar peered in astonishment at the squirming child and Taranc could not doubt that the Viking had rapidly arrived at the obvious conclusion regarding his parentage. He opted to press his advantage, since he had surprise on his side.

"I expect you have questions. Ah, I see you and Ulfric have already started your own discussions.

" He performed an exaggerated wince as he peered into the Viking's ravaged visage and drew in a hissing breath.

"Never mind," he continued merrily. "Shall we be seated and perhaps we can deal with the rest over a mug of ale and some food.

" A hefty dose of goodwill would do very nicely here, he surmised, and in any case the Vikings were marginally less likely to throw more punches if they were seated, or so he hoped.

"Fiona, do we have the makings of a feast to welcome our visitors? "

Ever quick on the uptake, Fiona bobbed to her feet. "Of course. I shall see to it."

As she trotted off in the direction of the kitchens Taranc thrust his hand out at Gunnar, daring the other man not to accept his greeting.

Gunnar shook hands with all the enthusiasm he might have felt for grasping a hissing adder by the throat, then moved to take a seat opposite his brother.

As he passed before Dughall the old man struggled to his feet.

Gunnar Freysson paused before him as the elderly lord peered up into his scarred face.

"You. I recognise you." Dughall's tone was bitter, furious even. Taranc gave a brief shake of his head, a silent plea to his overlord not to reopen hostilities now.

Gunnar, too, appeared content to allow peace to reign. He muttered polite words regarding Dughall's kindness to Brynhild whilst she had been at Pennglas.

Dughall was not to be gainsaid. "You were here before, that other time, on the steps of this very house."

Taranc looked to Brynhild, then to Ulfric for some sort of explanation.

None was forthcoming. Gunnar was equally uncommunicative, though from the pained expression on his features Taranc had no doubt he understood the old man's point well enough and did not relish the coming confrontation.

The assembled company stood in awkward silence, and Mairead chose that moment to bend double with an ear-splitting shriek.

Gunnar sprang into action, sweeping her into his arms and demanding that he be directed to a place where his pregnant wife might lie down and rest. Brynhild was equally quick to respond.

Still with Morvyn squirming at her hip she ushered the pair from the hall into Dughall's solar and slammed the door behind all four of them.

Taranc, Ulfric and Dughall regarded the dark oak of the door for several moments. No one spoke. Dughall shook his head, muttered something which Taranc could not quite catch, then gestured for his manservant to assist him from the hall. He followed his daughter in the direction of the kitchens.

Taranc sank into the seat opposite Ulfric. "What was all that about?"

Ulfric scraped his fingers through his tousled blond locks. "I am not entirely certain, though I could make a wager."

"Adair?"

"Aye. Adair. Fiona's brother died in the raid, when we took the slaves from here. Dughall saw him slain, right at the foot of those steps outside."

"Gunnar?" Taranc knew, even as he uttered the name, that it had to be so. There was no other explanation.

"I never asked, but I expect so. Dughall remembers, he will denounce him."

"Shit."

"It was a battle..."

"An unequal one. You cannot seek to defend what your brother did here that day."

Ulfric hesitated, then shook his head. "I know that. At least, not if I wish to retain Dughall's regard, not to mention that of my wife."