Page 6

The girl was beautiful, in a wild and vaguely barbarian sort of way.

Her hair was dark, darker than any Brynhild could ever recall, and she was slender.

It was difficult to see how tall the wench was, though Brynhild thought not overly so.

Her brother's arm was wrapped around the woman's middle in a manner Brynhild found disconcertingly possessive.

The female was not a Viking, that much was obvious, not even of the karl class.

A thrall, surely, so what, then, was she doing seated upon Ulfric's stallion and riding right into the heart of Skarthveit with him?

She was still contemplating this unexpected twist in affairs when Njal rushed past her with whoops of joy.

The boy burst from the longhouse and charged at his father, who had now dismounted and aided the woman from the horse too.

She clung to Ulfric as though she might fall over were she to let him go.

Ulfric, too, seemed to share the sentiment and did not relinquish his grip on her as he bent to hug his son one-handed.

He lifted the boy high and laughed as Njal's arms clamped around his neck.

Ulfric spoke to the lad, and Njal glanced at the pale-faced woman standing at his father's side.

The little boy bestowed one of his gap-toothed grins on the newcomer, and she managed a tremulous smile in return.

At once Brynhild was seized by an unfamiliar wave of bitter resentment.

Who is this foreign wench and what is she doing at my door?

"Ulfric, you have returned. I am so pleased to see you back, safe and well.

" Slowly and with all the dignity she might summon in such circumstances, Brynhild emerged from the sanctuary of the longhouse.

She stood on the threshold, her hands folded at her waist and assumed an air of bemused curiosity as she regarded her brother's companion.

"Who are you?" Brynhild directed her question at the stranger but the inquiry was met with a blank stare.

Ulfric answered for the wench. "She does not speak our tongue, Brynhild. This is Fiona, a captive taken from the land of the Britons."

Of the Celts, more like. Her brother knew of her aversion to that race and sought to soften the blow. It would not work.

"A thrall? Then I shall see to it that she is taken to the thrall's hall at once.

When will the rest be arriving?" Brynhild did not speak the fluent Gaelic which her brother had mastered, but could manage a clumsy rendition of that tongue which she had picked up from servants when she was a child.

She switched to this now to ensure that the interloper was left in no doubt as to her status at Skarthveit.

Ulfric's features did not slip. "She is to live here, with us."

"What? Why?" Astonished and horrified in equal measure Brynhild lapsed into her own tongue once again.

"Because she is mine. My slave. She will serve me, and assist you in the care of my son."

"Our boy has no need of the services of a Celtic whore." Brynhild delivered this insult in Gaelic, and took pleasure in the start of shock which swept the other woman's ashen features.

"Watch your tongue, Brynhild." The admonishment from her brother stung, and Brynhild's anger seethed even more. Ulfric continued. "Fiona is to be treated well under our roof. And now, she is injured and has need of rest, food and water in which to bathe. I trust I may leave those details to you?"

He expected her to actually serve this creature? Despite her resentment, Brynhild was left with little option at that moment. She snorted in disdain and turned on her heel. "Follow me, thrall."

The girl did not move, and suddenly Ulfric picked her up and carried her past Brynhild into their home.

He marched through the main hall of the longhouse and past the trailing woven curtain which divided his own sleeping quarters from the rest of the dwelling.

He did not stop until he reached his own bed, where he laid the Celtic wench as though she were the finest Jarl maiden.

Brynhild followed, and paused by the curtain. Foot tapping, she watched in mounting irritation as Ulfric settled the wench among the blankets and furs. Her brother turned to glance in her direction

"You will bring food, and have a bath brought in here."

"I am to fetch and carry for a worthless Celt now, am I? You insult me, brother."

"You are to do as I ask, and at this time that means providing my property with food and seeing to her comfort. I shall return soon, when I have made certain that the new slave hut is ready."

It was on the tip of Brynhild's tongue to inform him that he had no need whatsoever to check on the slave quarters.

Had he not left that matter in her own capable hands?

Did he imagine that she had become derelict in her duty whilst he was away seizing Celtic whores and bringing them back to install in her home?

Her eyes narrowed but she held her tongue… for now.

Ulfric rose. He spoke to the girl on the bed. "My sister will see to your needs. She runs this household so you will obey her as you would me. You understand the consequences if I have cause for complaint?"

At least this was something. The girl would soon learn her place, Brynhild would make sure of it. And if she had anything to say on the matter, the wench would soon be gone.

Brynhild Freysson was not about to share her home with a Celt, and if her fool of a brother thought otherwise he had much to learn.

Ulfric strode from the sleeping chamber, Brynhild at his heels. He marched outside, accompanied by a chattering Njal.

Brynhild paused for a few moments to collect her thoughts.

A Celt? Ulfric had taken a Celt as a house slave.

What was he thinking? Surely he realised how dangerous they were, how unreliable.

They could none of them sleep safe in their beds as long as such vile creatures lived among them. It was too much, just too much...

In a near daze, Brynhild set Hilla to collecting the necessities for a crude meal.

At her instructions a bowl of broth was drawn from the simmering pot then left to cool and congeal on the table, carefully devoid of any meat or decent chunks of vegetables.

A lump of stale bread was retrieved from the bottom of the bag where offcuts were stored.

Brynhild was tempted to have Hilla carry it into the bedchamber, but decided to do so herself.

She dumped the unappetising fare beside the bed.

"You will eat," she announced in a curt Gaelic, but she did not remain long enough to see if her instruction was obeyed.

She had no desire to so much as look at the girl.

Back in the main hall she sank onto the bench beside the long table which ran the length of the central portion of the dwelling.

"Lady, shall I take in the bathwater?"

"What?" Brynhild twisted in her seat to regard Harald. The young man stood before her, his expression puzzled.

"The Jarl said that the new thrall is to have a bath. Shall I carry the water into the chamber now, lady? I have some heating, down there..." He gestured to the fire pit where a second cauldron now hung, light wisps of steam starting to rise above the brim.

"Oh, yes... No!" Brynhild straightened on the bench and scowled at the curtain which concealed the object of her anger as an idea formed.

If Ulfric could not be convinced that the wench should rest elsewhere, then maybe the girl herself might be brought to that conclusion.

She could have a bath, but not one she would enjoy overmuch.

Brynhild promised herself that it would not take long before this Fiona was demanding to be allowed to reside with the other Celts in the slave quarters.

She would be out of Brynhild's way soon enough.

"Yes, take the bath tub into my brother's sleeping chamber and fill it with water. But not from there. Take the water from the river."

"The river, lady? But it will be too cold..."

"It will be absolutely fine. Just right, in fact. Do as you are told, Harald. You will need help, get a couple of others to aid you or you will be at it all evening." She knew that Ulfric would not be more than an hour or so at the slave quarters so she really needed to get this done quickly.

Harald frowned at her, obviously troubled by her unusual instructions.

She did not blame him. Even thralls were treated well here, he would not be able to comprehend her reasons for behaving otherwise now.

She could barely comprehend them herself, but was not about to start examining her motives and certainly she would not be questioned by her servants.

"Get on with it. Do as you are told or your next dunking will be equally frigid."

Brynhild watched in haughty silence as Harald and two other thralls trooped past her carrying buckets of cold water drawn direct from the river which skirted their village.

Once or twice one of the servants would slide her a sidelong glance of reproach, thralls tended to stick together, after all.

Brynhild met their impotent protest with a narrow-eyed scowl.

"The bath is full, lady."

"Thank you, Harald. Now, would you please bring me some ice from the cooling pit, if we have some.

" She knew full well they did. Every winter she would have her thralls cut large lumps of ice and drop them into a deep pit at the rear of the village.

Even in the summer the ice store remained chilled and the ice did not entirely melt.

The cold pit offered a good way of storing perishable food, and this evening would deliver up the final flourish for her intended treatment of this intruder in her home.

As Harald left to do her bidding, Brynhild returned to her brother's chamber.

The wench still lay on the bed. Her deep grey eyes darkened as Brynhild entered. This was good, it showed she did at least possess the wit to fear her. As she should.