Page 7

"You will undress and bathe. We have no use for a filthy Celt here." Brynhild spoke in her halting Gaelic, but had no doubt that the wench took her meaning clearly enough.

She perched on the edge of the bed and looked up at Brynhild as though expecting to be left in privacy to go about her ablutions. She would learn.

"Thank you. I... I believe I can manage." The wench had the temerity to seek to dismiss her.

Brynhild's lip quirked. "I know that you can. Get on with it."

"You must be busy. I would not wish to delay you..."

"I said, get on with it. Now. Or would you prefer I take a whip to you?" Brynhild could not quite recall the last time she had taken a whip to a thrall, probably never, but the Celt was not to know that.

"A whip? But..."

"You are nothing but a dirty little slave. A whore-thrall. Do not think I would hesitate to show you what happens to worthless little sluts who disobey their betters."

"Ulfric would not?—"

"You heard what my brother said. I run this home, you will obey me or become acquainted with the whip.

" Brynhild was not entirely certain where the menace in her tone came from, nor the vile words she hurled at this hated Celt.

At some level Brynhild knew she was acting unreasonably.

The girl was injured, after all, and had offered her no harm.

Irrational hatred was proving to be a potent motive, however, and Brynhild found she was unable to mitigate her resolve.

She would see this through, and with luck the wench would soon beg to be allowed to live with the other slaves.

She watched as the girl struggled to remove her clothing. First the loose smock, then the linen shift. The girl wore no shoes, so soon stood naked before Brynhild apart from the bandage which bound her injured ankle.

How had she been hurt? Ulfric had not said. It was of no consequence in any case. Brynhild shrugged. "That too." She pointed at the bandage and was gratified by the ready obedience which met her command.

"In the tub," she ordered, gesturing to the frigid water.

The wench had not yet realised the temperature and rose unsteadily to her feet to approach the bath.

Brynhild could have almost felt pity for the Celt when the awful truth hit her.

The girl leaned forward to dip her fingers in the water then turned to face her.

"No, I cannot. It is too cold and?—"

Brynhild felt a momentary flutter of sympathy at the girl's stricken features but quashed that hard.

A cold bath was unpleasant, but would do her no real harm.

"Get in or I shall have my other thralls come back and help you.

My brother wishes you to be clean, and we will not disappoint him, will we? "

"He did not intend this..."

"Of course he did. Do you imagine we treat our slaves to a hot bath? You are fortunate not to be made to wash in the river, you filthy little slut."

Brynhild scooped up Fiona's discarded clothing and determined that this matter had better be concluded quickly now. "These will be burnt. I shall count to five, then if you are not submerged to the shoulders in your bath I shall summon thralls to ensure your obedience."

The wench protested, reaching for her filthy clothing and declaring it her intention to wash the garments herself.

Brynhild stepped back out of reach and started to count.

The girl continued to plead, but Brynhild detected the resignation and defeat now permeating her words.

The Celt knew when she was beaten, and Brynhild watched in silent satisfaction as she slowly lowered her shivering body into the frigid water.

Brynhild winced, but did not relent. The wench perched in the tub, her back to Brynhild.

"Lower. I want your shoulders under too."

"I c-c-cannot. The tub is not big enough..."

"Maybe you need more water. Shall I have more brought in?"

This was sufficient encouragement for the girl to slide further into the tub until her shoulders were also submerged. Brynhild flung a rough cloth into the water and ordered her to wash. She even insisted that the girl rinse her matted hair, though she did not offer her any soap.

A movement by the curtain caught her eye. Brynhild turned. Harald stood there, his eyes fixed on the shivering form in the bath. He bore a pail in each hand. The ice. She had nearly forgotten that. She dismissed the thrall with a curt nod and picked up the first bucket.

"Sit up now, " she ordered. The girl complied, her shoulders hunched and her head bowed.

She knew what was coming, and that she was powerless to resist. Brynhild lifted the pail over the Celt's head and slowly, deliberately, she deposited the icy contents over the narrow shoulders.

The girl sucked in a sharp hiss of breath and went rigid.

Brynhild set down the empty pail and lifted the next one.

That, too, she emptied over the shivering girl.

"You may get out now."

Her work here was done. Brynhild turned on her heel and left.

What had she been thinking of?

Brynhild sat at the table, a hank of rough wool between her fingers.

She dragged her comb against it ineffectually, painfully aware of the shocked, accusing glances of her house thralls.

Hilla sat in silence, her horror at the treatment of the newest thrall near palpable.

Harald, too, was sullen and responded in monosyllables when she spoke to him.

Brynhild could not blame either of them.

Now that her fit of malicious spite was over she was ashamed of her vengeful cruelty to a defenceless slave.

Regrets were pointless, what was done was done.

She could not undo her actions, but would try to be more rational in her future dealings with the girl.

She hoped those dealings would not be prolonged.

Surely Ulfric would soon see that this situation was impossible, intolerable in fact.

This was her home, her longhouse. She was his sister, his family.

Ulfric loved her, he needed her. A bed-slave was nothing, worthless, dispensable.

The sooner her fool of a brother stopped thinking with his dick and saw the truth of that, the better.

She muttered an exasperated curse and left the longhouse. She needed to get some air.

It was not many minutes before Harald arrived, panting at her heels. "Lady, the Jarl has returned. He wishes to speak with you. He is... I mean, he did not..."

"Thank you, Harald." Brynhild had little doubt what her brother would be thinking, and she knew she had to face him sooner rather than later.

He would have plenty to say regarding his precious little Celt and he was not alone in that.

She, too, had matters she wished to air and there was no time like the present.

She followed Harald back to the longhouse, her chin tilted high.

He made her wait. Ulfric was closeted in his sleeping chamber with the wench, and had left instructions that he was not to be disturbed.

The sounds of lovemaking, unmistakable and sensuous, drifted from behind the fluttering barrier.

Brynhild gritted her teeth. The wench might have been less than happy at the start of this encounter with Ulfric, but matters had clearly taken a turn for the better.

Left with no option but to bide her time until her brother was finished, Brynhild simmered with resentment as she resumed her distracted combing of the unwashed wool, then moved to work at her loom.

Weaving usually soothed her, she loved the colours and the soft feel of the wool between her fingers, the magic as the pattern formed under her skilled hands.

Not this day. This day she snapped her weft and tangled her yarns, and eventually tossed her spindle away with an impatient curse.

At that moment Ulfric chose to emerge from his chamber.

Brynhild looked up from her mangled work, looked past him to the bed where the slave still lay.

Their eyes met, the grey darkening in fear.

Brynhild should be more satisfied at the trepidation she had caused, this was, after all, what she had set out to achieve.

Instead, she just felt bitter anger and disappointment at her brother's insensitivity, coupled with an awful sense that her ordered little world was no longer the safe haven she had thought it to be.

Ulfric stepped forth and allowed the curtain to drop behind him.

"What the fuck was that about?"

"She... I—" Rarely was Brynhild lost for words, but she could find no ready explanation. Exasperated, she signalled for the reproachful house thralls to leave the dwelling then turned to face her brother.

"I do not want her here." Inadequate, she knew. It was all she had.

"But I do, so the matter is settled." Ulfric folded his arms and leaned back against one of the central pillars which ran the length of the longhouse. "What possessed you, sister? This is not like you, to ill treat those weaker than yourself."

"She is a Celt. I do not like Celts, and I will not have one here. This is my home, and?—"

"Enough." Ulfric halted her protests with one upraised hand.

"The girl is harmless, and she has done nothing to you.

I will have your word that she is not to be mistreated further, and that will be the end of it.

" He waited, an eyebrow raised in determined expectation.

Never given to deliberate falsehood, Brynhild merely shook her head and turned away, refusing to offer any such undertaking.

“Brynhild, you will not ignore my command. I shall have your word.”

“No, you shall not,” she spat back. “This is my house, my servants. I shall run the household as I see fit.”

“Where has this callousness come from? I cannot believe this of you, sister. It makes no sense.”

“Then you are more stupid than I imagined.” Anger and defiance loosened her tongue. “You know how I feel about those… those…”

“Celts?” Ulfric offered the word quietly but Brynhild knew his tone belied a growing anger. “And this is my house, not yours. You will do as I say, run it according to my wishes. And you will keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak to me.”

“Or what?” Outrage and indignation drove her now and she flung caution to the winds. “What will you do, brother?”

“Do not test me, Brynhild.”

“If I am to run this house with the efficiency you set such store by as a rule then discipline is my responsibility.”

Ulfric shook his head in disbelief. “You know my wishes on this matter and you would do well to heed them. Treat the wench well from now on.”

“But—"

"Leave her alone," he warned. "She is mine, and I will not have her harmed."

Brynhild tried another tack. "Why? Why is she here? If you do not care for me, what of Njal? What of Astrid?"

"This does not concern Astrid?—"

"Your wife, the mother of your son. How can you say it does not concern her?" Brynhild had been fond of her sister-in-law and she was reasonably certain that Ulfric had cared deeply for his late wife. Had Astrid lived, there would have been no interloping Celtic bed-slave brought to their home.

"Astrid is gone. I loved her, but she is dead and we must move on."

Why? Why must anything change?

Even as she harboured this ridiculous notion Brynhild sought to convince Ulfric of the error of his ways. "You should wed another, provide Njal with a mother, more brothers and sisters. Not move some... some worthless Celtic slut into our home."

"I prefer it if you do not refer to her thus." Ulfric sounded tired, and Brynhild knew she was dismissed. He had not heard her, did not see why this matter was of such concern.

Why are all men such unfeeling pigs?

"I do not want her here. It is not right, not... not..."

He rounded on her, his expression exasperated. "Why does it matter so much to you? She is just a wench to fuck. Not important. I am warning you, leave her be, Brynhild." He slammed the door as he left.

Brynhild sank into her usual seat at the table, and she wept.