Page 8

U lfric rose late the morning after his return from the land of the Celts.

As was her usual habit, Brynhild was out of her bed at first light, stirring up the fire to restore the blaze to cheery life, and setting the pot above the flames to provide hot water for the household.

The thralls were stirring as Brynhild fed the livestock in the pens outside the longhouse, collected eggs and set to drawing a pail of warm milk from their heifer.

She sent Harald to collect more water from the river while Hilla set about preparing the porridge which Njal usually enjoyed with a spot of fresh honey.

The lad himself appeared beside her as she flung grain down for the poultry, his hair still tousled from his bed.

"Aunt, who is that with my father? There is someone in his bed, and he is still there, too, even though it is already late and everyone else is working."

Brynhild straightened and wondered what to say. She settled for something innocuous. "I expect he was tired after his journey yesterday. Shall we let him sleep a little longer this morning?"

Njal shook his head. "He is awake. I heard them talking. Who is that lady, Aunt Brynhild?"

Brynhild drew in a deep breath. "She is a new thrall who has come to live here. Your father likes her."

"I like her too. She is pretty."

Brynhild snorted, a most unladylike sound which attracted a puzzled scowl from Njal.

"You do not like her?"

The child's guileless question caught her by surprise.

Brynhild shrugged and reached into the pouch at her waist for another handful of grain.

She flung the seeds before the pecking, chattering chickens and forced a smile for the boy.

"I do not really know her. Come, we should take these eggs inside. "

The day passed in awkward, acrimonious silence.

The usual chatter and merriment between mistress and thralls was absent as Harald and Hilla tiptoed about their duties in a reproachful, sullen hush.

Brynhild hated the tense atmosphere and became more irritated with every passing hour.

It was all the fault of this troublesome wench, and she glared balefully at the girl as Fiona took a seat next to Hilla and began to peel vegetables.

Brynhild sought to busy herself with her weaving but it was no use.

Soon, unable to bear the tension another moment, she told the servants to continue with their allotted tasks, excused herself and left the longhouse.

Once outside she took a turn about the settlement, nodding to villagers as she passed.

Did their honest, familiar faces betray their knowledge of what had transpired the previous evening in her longhouse?

Brynhild was under no illusions that her house thralls would not have talked to others.

Word would get around and by now all would consider her an ill-tempered shrew.

It was unjust. Brynhild Freysson was a decent, respectable woman, a woman of the Jarl, someone to be held in high esteem, not the stuff of common gossip. This bothersome Celt had turned her neat little existence on its head, and the wench had not even been here one day yet.

Brynhild returned to the longhouse, determined to assert some measure of control in this situation. Her best intentions scattered when she entered to find the hateful wench meddling with her precious loom.

How dare she? How dare she touch my work?

Brynhild let out an angry shriek and the girl spun on her injured heel, only to send flying one of the rods which separated the strands of wool in the pattern. Fiona started to apologise, bent to retrieve the dropped stitches, but Brynhild was beyond reason. She flew at the smaller woman.

"How dare you? Who gave you permission to touch my work? You were trying to sabotage it, I know your tricks, filthy little Celtic whore."

Fiona backed away, her hands upraised in surrender. "I was not. I just?—"

"Silence. I will have you flogged for this. Indeed, I shall deal with the task myself..."

"I can help to repair it. I did not mean any harm."

The wench was babbling now. As if this Celt could repair the damage she had caused. She had probably never so much as laid eyes on a loom before. "You will not touch my loom again, slut. Do you not know yet what we do with disobedient slaves here?"

A gleam of defiance appeared in the dark grey eyes which glittered mutinously at her.

Fiona was already making for the curtain which separated Ulfric's sleeping chamber, as though to seek refuge there.

"I do not care. I am not your slave, nor anyone else's.

I was only looking at the weave, admiring?—"

"You will be silent, girl. Harald, fetch me a strap."

The young man muttered something under his breath and it did not escape Brynhild's notice that he made no move to obey. Was her authority to be undermined at every turn?

Intent upon restoring order Brynhild made a grab for the girl. Fiona was quick despite her injury but Brynhild was stronger and seized her arm in a vice-like grip.

The wench was terrified but still she fought like a cornered vixen and screeched her hatred at her captor. "Let me go, Viking. I do not answer to you, I shall?—"

"Silence!"

All heads turned to face Ulfric, who chose just that precise moment to return to his longhouse.

He assessed the scene before him in moments, and Brynhild had the grace to flush.

How had her calm, orderly household descended into such unruly chaos?

His tone low and ominous, Ulfric instructed Harald to go and fetch him a switch.

Brynhild should have felt a greater measure of satisfaction as the Celtic girl paled, her fate now obvious.

Fiona's protests died in the face of the Viking chief's implacable features and she obeyed his curt command to take herself into the sleeping chamber and await him there.

Brynhild applied herself to restoring her weaving to good order once more, and steadfastly refused to meet the reproachful gaze of her startled house thralls as Hilla and Harald returned to their duties.

She flinched at the sound of the switch rending the air, and closed her ears to the high-pitched squeals of the punished Celt as she bore the whipping Brynhild had earned her.

Brynhild shaded her eyes as she viewed the sorry convoy of thralls descending the southern hillside in the direction of Skarthveit.

They had made good time, she calculated.

Dagr, the slave master, had no doubt forced the pace and the thralls would be exhausted.

Brynhild disliked the arrogant little karl and usually managed to avoid his company, but she had to allow he was adept at managing slaves.

She could not be certain from this distance, but believed she could make out a handful of women among the shambling column.

The females would not be quartered in the slave barn since they would be set to work as house thralls and would live with the families they served.

She had better see to allocating tasks and accommodations.

Brynhild made mental notes as she strode across the settlement.

Torunn, recently widowed and with three young children to see to, could do with some help so she would have one of the new wenches.

Old Olaf and Gudrun could also do with an extra pair of young hands about their longhouse since their eldest daughter had wed so that would take care of another.

As for the rest, she would see what seemed needful once she had taken stock.

"Harald," she called, catching sight of the young thrall. "Can you find a barrow, if you please, and meet me by the weaving shed?"

He nodded and scurried away, and Brynhild headed for the stables.

There she quickly procured the services of two lads and a horse-drawn cart and issued instructions that the vehicle was to be loaded with firewood and driven out to the slave quarters at once.

The fire pits in the barns would require stoking and tending if the new slaves were to have warmth and light this night, so the sooner they had the fuel the better.

This matter settled, she and Hilla rounded up a half dozen hens whose finest laying days were behind them and secured the birds in a wooden crate.

The thralls could slaughter them as needed.

The meat would keep them going for a while, supplemented by bread which she would provide, and anything the Celts might forage for themselves from the surrounding fields.

She would not coddle them, but neither would she see them starve.

Harald was waiting for her at the weaving shed.

Brynhild strode past him and started to select rough blankets from the selection stored there.

Most were her own work, though not her finest. Not one to waste anything, Brynhild used rough offcuts of poor wool to make these basic things.

The wool was plain, undyed, but the fabrics warm and thick enough to keep out the winter chill.

They were not pretty, but the Celts would probably appreciate them.

"I counted about fifteen in the convoy, I think.

Collect enough blankets to go around and load them onto the barrow.

" Harald hurried to obey while Brynhild and Hilla hoisted the crate of chickens onto the top of the pile.

Between the three of them they started to make their unsteady way across the meadow towards the slave barn.