Page 5

" H illa, be quick now. The turnips will not peel themselves.

" With a groan and a hand pressed to her aching back, Brynhild Freysson straightened from stirring the huge pot suspended above the fire pit in her brother's longhouse.

The broth was bubbling well. It would make a fine meal for when Ulfric returned, and according to the news from Hafrsfjord he could be expected within hours.

It was her responsibility to ensure that all was in readiness, not least a nourishing meal on the table to welcome him home.

"I am coming, mistress." The breathless tones of a small maidservant reached her through the open door.

Brynhild stepped over to see what was causing the delay.

A slender girl of perhaps fourteen summers, though Brynhild was not entirely certain, struggled toward her threshold dragging a large sack.

The bag was almost as big as the wench, and put up quite a fight as the servant sought to drag it across the rough earth beyond the longhouse. Brynhild rushed to aid her.

"What are you doing? I told you to leave the grain where it was until one of the men was free to help." Together they managed to pull the load into the longhouse, Brynhild shouldering most of the strain.

The girl was unrepentant. "We need to get on with grinding it, mistress. There is bread to make, and?—"

"Even so, it was too heavy for you. Go and sit down, peel the turnips for the pot and get your breath back.

" The girl might have protested, but a glower from her mistress was sufficient to quell such foolishness.

It usually was. Brynhild had been chatelaine of this settlement for long enough now to be able to command her house thralls with ease.

Satisfied that the lass was more appropriately occupied Brynhild glanced up as a male thrall entered.

"Harald, this sack needs storing with the rest. Could you see to it, please? "

The man, a blond-haired Saxon of perhaps twenty or so hoisted the sack of grain onto his shoulder and strode across the longhouse to the store at the far end. He whistled as he went about his work, and winked at Hilla as he sauntered from the low dwelling.

"Where is he going now?" Brynhild wondered aloud as the door swung behind the slave.

"I think he has a sweetheart, mistress," confided the girl at the table who now wielded a sharp knife and was peeling vegetables with a deft skill.

"I know full well he has," muttered Brynhild.

She would let the matter ride, as long as Harald's dalliance did not interfere with the smooth running of her domestic arrangements.

She had learnt from an early age that contented thralls served their masters well.

As long as he did his portion of the work Harald could sow his oats with any willing female of his own class.

Brynhild took a seat beside Hilla and set to on peeling the vegetables. The work was soon finished and the turnips added to the pot.

"Go bring that fleece we are combing, Hilla.

We shall use the rest of the daylight to tease out wool for dyeing.

" The girl ran to fetch the bale of unwashed, tangled wool, fresh from the sheep, and they settled themselves by the open door to drag their sharp metal combs through the oily strands.

The longhouse had been constructed, as was customary, with no windows in order to preserve warmth and keep out the damp, so the open doorway and the fire pit provided the only illumination.

The fire was never allowed to go out, whatever the season, but natural light was preferred for close work such as this.

The pair worked in quiet companionship for the next couple of hours, and Brynhild enjoyed the gentle warmth of the late summer afternoon.

A soft breeze played about her ankles, lifting the hem of her loose woollen over-tunic.

As a woman of the Jarl, the noble class in Viking society, Brynhild was well-dressed, her clothing fashioned of brightly coloured linens and soft wool.

She had woven the fabrics herself, her skill at the loom something of a legend among those who knew her.

Most of the blankets and other woollen items at Skarthveit, her brother's thriving settlement on the Nordic coast, were her work and she took great pride in it.

None would be cold, or hungry here. Not under her management.

For the last three years she had been in charge of her brother's domestic arrangements, including the care of his young son, Njal.

The boy was just five summers of age, and had been motherless since Ulfric's wife, Astrid, succumbed to a fever some three years previously.

Brynhild's own betrothed had perished at around the same time, the victim of an ill-fated raiding assault on Orkney.

Her own future in tatters it had seemed natural enough that she would return to Ulfric's household to take her sister-in-law's place.

She had lived almost her entire life at Skarthveit and here she remained.

Brynhild's thoughts turned to the new influx of thralls expected in the coming days.

Her brothers, Ulfric and Gunnar, had led a raiding expedition to the land of the Celts in search of fine, strong slaves.

She had no doubt of their success. The new thralls would arrive a day or so after her brother, having made their journey from the port at Hafrsfjord on foot whereas Ulfric would ride.

She sighed, and wished she might have been successful in convincing them to seek their new workers elsewhere. Anywhere but Scotland.

Brynhild loathed Celts. She found them untrustworthy, dishonest, duplicitous, and frankly dangerous.

None of her house thralls were from the land of the Celts, she would not tolerate such worthless individuals within her home and she would have preferred to have none of them anywhere at Skarthveit.

Still, she supposed the location of the slave quarters at the foot of the lower meadow would provide sufficient distance to separate the vile creatures from her. It had better be.

Ulfric required the extra labour to build a new granary.

Brynhild well understood the necessity, they needed to store food over the winter and many hungry mouths depended on it.

The existing one was too small and overrun with vermin.

She had no quarrel with the project, nor with the seizing of slaves to accomplish it.

This was the Viking way, it served them well and the thralls would be well-fed and cared for.

They would resent their captivity, that was inevitable, but such was the way of things and Skarthveit was better than many settlements.

Her brother was a decent, fair-minded Jarl.

He had been taught well by their father, as had she. They took care of their own.

But not Celts. Celts did not count.

Brynhild had pleaded with her brothers to sail further south, to the English shores.

Saxons made good workers, biddable, diligent.

They were worth the extra day's sailing.

Ulfric would have probably heeded her advice, but Gunnar was having none of it.

He had raided this particular Celtic village before, a few months previously.

The slaves they needed were to be found there and he was determined that this was the right target.

Brynhild's protests fell on deaf ears and the raid was planned according to Gunnar's wishes.

Tomorrow, she would go down to the slave quarters to ensure that all was in readiness.

Celts or not, that was her responsibility, to ensure that their accommodations were weatherproof and supplied with the necessities required—firewood, basic food and drink, a few blankets.

She preferred to do her final checks before the new occupants arrived, and from there on would endeavour to avoid them as best she could.

"Lady, they are here." Harald yelled at her from across the settlement, pointing to the hills to the south. "See? Coming through the pass, there?"

Brynhild stood and shaded her eyes against the lowering sun. She could just discern the movement in the distance, several horses picking their way down the coastal track leading from the mountains which divided the upper slopes of their land from the lower plains.

"Ready the stables," instructed Brynhild. "Hilla, make sure the broth is ready, and put new loaves in the ovens now. They shall have fresh bread when they get here. Where is Njal?"

"Here, Aunt Brynhild. I am here." The small boy bobbed beside her, dancing from one foot to the other in his excitement. "My father is home. I see him."

"Yes, I do too." Brynhild bent to hug the little boy. "You can show him how well you have done with your swordplay whilst he has been away."

"I shall go with him, next time he goes raiding."

"Aye, perhaps," acknowledged Brynhild doubtfully. "Though maybe he will need you to look after things here at his home. He trusts you more than he does anyone else, you know that."

"I know, but..."

"Good lad. Would you like to wait indoors? Maybe you should have your sword ready to demonstrate your progress when he arrives."

"I must go and look for it." The lad grinned and charged back into the longhouse as Brynhild turned her attention to the approaching convoy.

Ulfric and his party clattered into the village less than an hour later.

Her brother was surrounded by a dozen or so of his trusted karls, but it was the small figure seated before him on his stallion who held Brynhild's attention.

She peered at the odd sight from her vantage point just within the longhouse.