Page 10

Fiona started forward, but could not get so much as one foot in front of the other before Ulfric swept her into his arms again. He carried her into the longhouse in Brynhild’s wake. Fiona barely had time to register a few details though she looked about her with curiosity.

The entrance led into a large central space, thick with smoke from the fire, which burned in a fire pit that ran down the middle.

Two rows of wooden pillars divided the hall lengthways into three sections, and the parts closest to the two long walls were divided again to provide smaller chambers.

Curtains of hanging skins marked the boundaries, but Fiona supposed these afforded a modicum of privacy.

A large cauldron hung over the fire pit and wisps of steam floated from within its depths.

A variety of herbs and meats hung from the rafters, so it was clear this central hall served as kitchen as well as main living area.

The fumes from the fire drifted upward to collect in the roof space, and from there they would eventually find their way through the tightly bound thatch to the outside.

The room was warm, but gloomy too as the only light came from the fire and the doorway.

She supposed more illumination would have called for the sacrifice of heat and in this frigid climate that was not really an option.

The main item of furniture was a long table situated in the main hall with benches down each side.

There were also shelves against the walls in some of the outer cubicles and these were loaded with cooking pots and other household items. Several storage trunks were arranged around the edges of the hall and Fiona assumed these to contain valuables, or perhaps items of clothing and bed linens.

Ulfric strode straight across the central area and shouldered his way past a length of cloth suspended from the rafters at one end.

The cloth served as a curtain to divide off this entire section, and here Fiona saw a raised platform covered with furs.

This must be Ulfric’s sleeping chamber, his bed.

Sure enough, he laid her upon it and turned to face the woman who now stood beside the curtain, her arms folded and her foot tapping on the earth floor.

Ulfric ignored the woman’s angry demeanour. “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.”

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. And made a proper inspection of Njal’s progress in my absence, of course.

” He made to pass Brynhild in the entrance to his sleeping chamber, but paused to cast a glance back at Fiona.

“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?”

“Yes, Ulfric,” muttered Fiona.

Brynhild made no further comment, though her bitter glower spoke volumes as she regarded Fiona with undisguised contempt. She turned on her heel and followed her brother from the room.

The Viking woman returned after a few minutes with a bowl and a hunk of bread. She set those down on a low table beside the sleeping platform without so much as looking at Fiona.

“You will eat,” she announced.

Fiona was famished and reached for the bowl, but was disappointed to find it contained nothing but a greasy slop of some description.

A broth, perhaps, though she could not determine what, if any, meat it contained.

A few hunks of hard carrot floated within, and slivers of turnip, but she could recognise nothing else.

The soup was tepid, and the bread stale, but hunger drove Fiona to persevere with it.

She had managed to swallow perhaps half the fare when the curtain was swept aside and Brynhild returned, this time with a young lad in tow.

He carried a large half-barrel, which he deposited on the floor at the foot of the sleeping platform.

Two more youths arrived, each carrying two pails of water, which they emptied into the tub before retreating.

Her bath . Fiona attempted a tentative smile and thanked Brynhild. It would be good to feel clean once more. Perhaps she might contrive to wash her clothes too.

The Viking eyed her stonily and merely watched as all three lads trooped back and forth fetching water. When the tub was half full she dismissed them with a few words in her Norse tongue and turned to regard Fiona.

“You will undress and bathe. We have no use for a filthy Celt here.”

Fiona bristled, but knew better than to offer a retort. She perched on the edge of the platform, her injured foot resting on the floor, and wondered if she might request help in undressing. One glimpse of Brynhild’s unsympathetic countenance quelled that notion.

“Thank you. I… I believe I can manage.”

“I know that you can. Get on with it.”

“You must be busy. I would not wish to delay you…”

Brynhild leaned forward, her eyes glittering with menace. “I said, get on with it. Now. Or would you prefer I take a whip to you?”

“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 well acquainted with the whip . ”

There was no point in protesting further.

The woman’s baleful gaze was implacable and Fiona knew she would carry out her threat.

It had been awful to be punished by Ulfric, but instinctively she had known he would do her no lasting harm.

Brynhild was different. For some inexplicable reason the Viking woman had hated Fiona on sight. She would do well to fear her.

Fiona managed to stand and balanced on her good foot to pull her loose smock over her head.

Under it she wore just a simple linen shift.

She had not worn shoes since the previous evening when Ulfric had removed them to attend to her ankle so the cold earth chilled her bare feet.

She shivered and willed the Norsewoman to retire and leave her to perform her ablutions alone.

It was not to be. Brynhild was going nowhere and after several moments Fiona pulled the shift over her head too. She stood naked before the other woman but for the binding that still protected her ankle and the shackle on her other foot.

“That too.” Brynhild pointed to the bandage.

Fiona sat back on the sleeping platform and reached down to unfasten the strip of linen from around her foot. The moment the binding loosened she was aware of the difference it had made. Her ankle throbbed angrily and Fiona blinked back tears.

“In the tub. Now.”

Fiona managed to hop the few feet to reach her bath and leaned over to grip the rim. No steam rose from the water. Miserably Fiona dipped her fingers in to test it. The water was freezing.

She turned to face Brynhild. “No, I cannot. It is too cold and?—”

“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.”

Already Fiona shivered from the chill in the room. The warmth of the fire did not penetrate the outer chambers, and with her few items of clothing now gone the cold seeped into her. She stood, balancing as best she might without putting her weight on her bad ankle, and regarded her tormentor.

Brynhild took a step forward, then another. She bent to scoop up Fiona’s discarded clothing.

“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.”

“Those things belong to me. I shall wash them?—”

“One.”

“Please…”

“Two.”

“I cannot. Please do not do this.”

“Three.”

Fiona’s shoulders slumped as the reality of her situation sank in.

“Four.”

She turned to face the tub of frigid water and drew in a long breath.

“Five.”

Fiona lifted her bad ankle and lowered it into the water. She gasped as the cold gripped her lower limb.

“And the other.”

She took her weight on her hands, grasping the edges of the tub tightly as she lifted her other leg into the bath.

Fiona stood there, bent at the waist. Her hair hung down and the ends trailed across the surface of the water.

She looked over her shoulder at Brynhild, and was mortified when the woman actually smiled at her.

She was enjoying her victim’s misery and would play this out to the end.

Her options exhausted, Fiona lowered herself into the tub.

The water reached her breasts when she was fully seated.

“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?”

Fiona shook her head as her teeth started to chatter.

Gingerly she managed to prop first one foot then the other over the rim of the tub and eased her shivering torso lower until her shoulders were submerged.

There was a sudden splash as Brynhild tossed a rough flannel into the water. She offered no soap.

“Wash.” The command was curt and uncompromising, Fiona did her best to comply. The sooner she satisfied the Norsewoman’s demands, the sooner she might be permitted to get out of this numbing cold.

Fiona rubbed the flannel over her thighs, her belly, her breasts, and her shoulders, then each arm in turn. The fabric was abrasive against her goose-pimpled skin but she persevered, desperate for this ordeal to be over. Finished, she dropped the flannel into the depths.

“Your hair is dirty too. Wet it.”

“How? I cannot?—”

“Harald, more water. Now. With ice if there is any.” Brynhild marched just beyond the curtain, Fiona’s clothing still bundled in her arms. “And you may see to it that these are burnt.” The woman returned, her arms empty now, to be followed moments later by one of the lads from before.

He carried two more pails of water, the contents splashing onto the earthen floor.

“Put them down there,” commanded Brynhild, pointing to a spot behind Fiona. The young man did as he was instructed and fled from the room.

“Sit up now,” ordered Brynhild.

Fiona did so, even knowing what was to come. She bowed her head, and waited.

Brynhild took her time. First one bucket, then the other, each was poured slowly over Fiona’s head and shoulders, the chunks of ice slithering over her soaked locks to float on the surface of the water. Only when the last drops had trickled from the pails did Brynhild stand back to survey her work.

“You may get out now.” She turned on her heel and strode from the room. The curtain swayed where she had brushed it aside.

Despite the biting chill, it still took Fiona several moments to get to her feet and ease herself from the tub.

She sank to her knees beside it and managed to crawl across the floor to the sleeping platform.

Brynhild had left her no cloth upon which to dry herself so Fiona just dragged herself back onto Ulfric’s bed and did her best to pull rugs and furs over her shivering body.

She curled into a ball of abject misery, quite convinced that she would never, ever feel warm again.