Page 45

Brynhild gazed the length of the table, and could still not entirely believe that she found herself here, at the heart of this noisy, laughing family.

Vikings and Celts alike drank her health, and that of her unborn child.

A solicitous Fiona kept the bucket close by, ever mindful of the inconveniences of these early weeks.

The chamomile tea Brynhild swore by was in copious supply and Mairead offered her own recommendations from her basket of herbal remedies.

The love and support of other females was something Brynhild had missed as she grew to womanhood herself and now she basked in its comforting warmth.

Murdina and Morag were kind and caring, they had welcomed her to their family.

Annag was her rock and stanch ally, and the younger woman's wicked sense of humour a source of endless amusement to Brynhild.

Her little boy brought her joy, as did the other children who scampered about the hall.

Njal and Donald were raucous, though they tended to spend most of their days with their Viking fathers.

Little Tyra, however, was invariably at Brynhild's house in Aikrig with her mother and was into everything, ably abetted by her devoted little helper, Morvyn. The tiny pair ran Annag ragged.

"So, little sister, another babe. Who would have thought it?" Ulfric raised his tankard yet again, his grin infectious.

"Aye. We shall have another feast in the summer, to celebrate the birth," announced Gunnar.

"A fine, Viking festival and I shall make sure I am here for that.

I wish I had been here to celebrate your wedding, sister.

I would have been, had our brother not seen fit to have you whisked off without so much as a word to me.

I missed all the festivities whilst I languished in Gunnarsholm in total ignorance. "

The Celtic contingent exchanged perplexed glances. Murdina called for more ale to replenish barely depleted mugs and Dughall demanded to know where the musicians had got to. Had he not left specific instructions that a piper be on hand to entertain them? There was to be dancing, was there not?

It took but one sidelong glance at her brothers to know that they were not fooled at all. Ulfric and Gunnar exchanged a look, then her eldest brother turned to meet her gaze.

"Brynhild? What is this?"

"What? What is what?"

"This..." Ulfric swung his hand toward their hosts. "Why the sudden interest in music and sploshing ale into already perfectly full cups. What are all of you trying to hide?"

"Hide? Why should we be hiding anything? You are speaking in riddles, brother and I do not care for it. I believe I may be feeling somewhat ill..."

Fiona rushed to bring the pail closer. Ulfric was undeterred.

"Gunnar mentioned that he missed your wedding celebrations. Why should that cause such a flurry, I wonder?"

"Yes," agreed Gunnar." Perhaps you could tell me of that glorious day. I would like to know the details since I could not be present. Tell me of the guests, the feasting, the flow of fine ale and wine."

"Do not be ridiculous," snapped Brynhild.

Gunnar shrugged and turned his attention to Taranc. "Perhaps you might enlighten us then. Were there musicians? Games? Was the ceremony in the Christian or Nordic tradition?" He balanced his elbow on the table and planted his chin in his hand. His smile was unwavering as he waited for an answer.

"There was no ceremony." Taranc stated the plain truth, bald and undiluted. Brynhild considered reaching across the table and slapping him.

"No ceremony?" Ulfric repeated the words, as though checking he had heard correctly.

"No ceremony," confirmed Taranc. "We are not wed."

"A babe almost a year old, another on the way, and you are not wed? Might I trouble you for an explanation?" Ulfric's tone had hardened.

"We did not choose to wed. We are not suited." Brynhild slapped the table, sending her own mug clattering to the floor. "And it is none of your business in any case."

"I beg to differ." Ulfric now fixed his steely gaze on Taranc. "Do you love her?"

"What?" Taranc glared at his tormentor.

"Is the question too hard for you, Celt? I seem to recall you asked me much the same thing once."

"And you did not answer me then."

"I did not, but you will answer me now. Do you love her?"

"Aye, of course I love her. She knows that."

"And she loves you. We all know that," put in Gunnar. "So, why..."

Taranc shook his head, his expression stony. "She does not love me. She does not wish to wed, and I will not force the issue. We are happy, though, and we shall remain as we are, for as long as we choose to be."

The dark-haired Viking let out a derisive snort. "Thor's balls! How did you two get into such a mess? Brynhild, tell the man, will you? You love the very bones of him."

"I—"

"Tell him."

"I love him."

"There, I told you so." Ulfric got to his feet. "Now, we will be needing that piper for we are to have a wedding."

"We will require a priest," suggested Fiona.

"Yes, and more food, and tables out in the courtyard for we shall invite all to celebrate with us." Mairead, too, warmed to their theme. "We could have a priest here by tomorrow, and?—"

"No!" Brynhild stood, her face ashen. "I cannot. I mean, we will, but, not yet. Not so soon. I must... I am not ready…”

Taranc reached for her hand and pressed her cold fingers to his lips. "Does this sudden reticence concern Aelbeart?" he murmured.

She sank back into the chair she had just vacated, the breath leaving her lungs in a soft exhale. "It is not.. I mean, it does not seem fitting that I…”

“We need to leave him in the past, where he belongs. It is time to move on.”

"I..." Tears streamed unchecked across her cheeks.

She was at a loss. Relief mixed with absolute horror as it sank in that not only was Taranc privy to her deepest, darkest secret but soon all would know what happened.

She could no longer hold it within. The truth was about to burst forth, uncontrolled, ugly, brutal in its stark nakedness.

She was not ready, would never be ready.

"It is time." Taranc’s steady, calm voice cut through the roiling emotions to reach her. "I shall help you. You are not alone, Brynhild. You have your brothers too. And your sisters, those who love you.”

Even as her mind recoiled, Brynhild knew he was right.

She managed a tearful nod, swiping at her face with her fingers as though she might dry her tears that way.

Fiona produced a kerchief and moved to perch on the arm of Brynhild's chair.

She ignored the protests, the stiff reserve which was ever Brynhild's natural response and simply took the Viking woman in her arms and rocked her against her chest.

"It cannot be that bad, surely. If Taranc says it will be all right, you must know that it will. You trust him.”

Brynhild could only nod her agreement. She heard Taranc bid Annag and Morag take the children from the hall, then he dismissed the rest of the servants.

By the time she collected her senses sufficiently to face the gathering again the only people still at the table were her brothers, Fiona and Mairead, Dughall, Taranc, and Murdina.

"So," began Taranc, his smile warm. "Shall I start?"

"Yes, if you please." She had never been more grateful to anyone.

"Very well. This is a story which Brynhild told to me some months ago. I shall, try to relate it as faithfully as I may, though she may wish to correct me on some points." He paused, then, "It starts when she was fourteen years old, growing up in her father's settlement in the Norseland..."

Those present listened in near silence as Taranc presented the account of what had transpired between Brynhild and the Celtic thrall.

Gunnar interrupted to swear softly and declare that he recalled the cur, a slimy weasel of a man given to laziness and thievery.

Ulfric concurred. He was convinced their father would have been rid of Aelbeart soon enough in any case since he was of little use.

Both men's eyes narrowed, their handsome jaws flexing as the details unfolded.

"He did what? He actually touched you? The bastard laid his hands upon you even though you told him?—"

"He did," confirmed Taranc. "Brynhild has said that it was so."

"Our father would have hanged him, had he known."

"I... I did not want that. Everyone would have known about what he had done, what I had done. I was ashamed..."

"He deserved to hang, or worse." Gunnar got to his feet to pace the length of the hall. "Where were we when this all took place? I do not recall anything..."

"You and Ulfric were away, with our father, raiding." Brynhild had found her own voice at last and was able to fill in the details. "You arrived back at Skarthveit perhaps three weeks later, and by then our mother had had Aelbeart sold. He was gone."

Ulfric nodded. "Aye, I remember now. I was glad to see the back of him and did not ask any more questions. Thralls did tend to come and go in our father's time since he was at heart a trader. I thought nothing of it."

"Our mother knew what he had done to you, you say, yet she said nothing? Not to our father, not to us?" Gunnar seemed incredulous.

"She said we would not speak of it. I... she blamed me."

"Why would she blame you? Solveig was not stupid."

"It was my fault. I was foolish, gullible. If she had not arrived when she did..."

"That was fortunate indeed, but none of what you have told us was your fault.

You were a child." These words of comfort came from Fiona.

"You have said you hope for a daughter of your own next.

Would you not believe her in the same circumstances?

You would never blame your child, hold her responsible for the wicked actions of a cruel and self-serving man. "

"He was a slave, I was of the Jarl. I should?—"