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Ulfric rolled over and withdrew from her almost at once. Fiona was not sure if she was glad or not. If he had wished to tarry she might not have objected, but it was clear he harboured no such inclination. He did, however, pull her to him and wrap his arms around her from behind.

“Are you well, little Celt?”

“I… I believe I am, Viking.”

“No pain?”

“I am a little sore, but…” She pondered what to say to him next, and settled for the first thing that had entered her head. “Thank you. That was very nice.”

Ulfric laughed out loud. “Good. In that case you will not strenuously object to repeating the exercise.”

She shifted a fraction and groaned as her no longer virgin body complained. “I believe I would not, but perhaps not immediately.”

“No, not immediately. You will remain here, rest, keep warm.”

She turned her head to look at him, anxious. “You are leaving me?”

“I must. I have much to attend to, but you will be safe here. No one will trouble you. I will ensure that food is brought…”

“I have been fed, by your sister. I do not much care to sample more of your Viking fare.”

“You shall have good food, the same as I do. Be assured, little Celt, I shall deal with Brynhild and you will not be troubled by her in the future.”

“Still, must you go? Or if you must, maybe I could come with you…?”

“You need to rest, allow your ankle to heal.”

He pressed his lips against her hair then rolled from among the furs to seek out his discarded clothing. Despite her trepidation Fiona could not help watching in fascination as he dressed. She recalled with sadness the destruction of her own belongings, tattered and soiled as they might have been.

“She burned my clothes.”

“She what?”

“Burned my clothes. Everything, even the bandage. Now I have nothing.”

His jaw tightened, his mouth flattened. A spark of genuine anger leapt in his eyes, to be quickly extinguished. “I shall see that you have more, and that you are given clothing suited to our climate since I now know how much you dislike the cold.”

He draped his own cloak about his shoulders and lifted the curtain that separated them from the rest of his household.

Fiona knew a moment’s embarrassment when she realised how flimsy was that barrier, and how unrestrained had been her vocal response to Ulfric.

Even from her position within the nest of furs she could see Brynhild standing beside her loom on the other side of the hall.

There was no mistaking the Norsewoman’s surly expression when she raised her head to regard her brother as he emerged from his sleeping quarters.

Whatever Ulfric might promise, whatever he might choose to believe, Fiona harboured no such illusions. She had every reason to fear Brynhild.

She heard but snatches of conversation as Ulfric berated his sister for her treatment of Fiona, and much of it was in their Norse tongue in any case.

It was clear he was displeased. His voice was raised, though he did not shout.

Brynhild hissed her replies, her resentment and bitterness apparent with every foreign syllable she uttered.

The woman clearly believed she was justified in doing as she had, and Fiona knew full well that she would not refrain from tormenting her in the future.

And why should she, after all? Brynhild was a Viking, sister to the Jarl .

She ruled here, just as he did, whilst Fiona was a mere thrall who might be bundled off and sold at a moment’s notice.

She had but to displease Ulfric, and her slender thread of protection would be snatched away.

The voices became clearer. The quarrelling pair must have moved closer to the curtain, and they had switched to her own Gaelic tongue, or Brynhild had.

“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?”

A wife? He had a wife after all?

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

Ah, not a living wife, at least…

“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.” He sounded irritated, and the receding footsteps told Fiona that he was already heading for the outer door. At least he had defended her.

“I do not want her here. It is not right, not… not…”

“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.”

Fiona gaped at the curtain, still swaying from his departure.

Just a wench to fuck. Not important.

She had surrendered her virginity to a man to whom she was no more than a trivial plaything, a release for his lust. He had seemed so kind, as though he genuinely cared for her pleasure, as though it mattered to him what she felt.

She had had a choice, she knew that. He could have forced her but instead he took the trouble to persuade her, to arouse and entice her until she was near senseless with lust. And all the while he held her in such contempt.

How could she have been so stupid, so foolish, so utterly gullible?

Worse, how could she so much as contemplate repeating her folly?

But repeat it she would. Fiona knew she would. He had only to touch her, only to suggest those wicked things he could do to her, and she would beg him again.

She was not entirely certain who she hated more in that instant—herself, Ulfric, or his loathsome sister.

Ulfric returned to his sleeping chamber several hours later. Fiona had spent the intervening time alone and undisturbed, but she feigned sleep when the Viking slipped into the bed beside her. She had no words for him, not yet, and hoped he would not seek to demand her attention.

He did not, and soon his low, even breathing signalled that he slept. She closed her eyes and tried to do likewise.

When she opened them again she was alone, the furs beside her cold and empty.

She raised her head from the mattress and peered about her.

Narrow fingers of watery daylight penetrated the cracks between the walls of the longhouse and the rafters so she knew the hour to be after dawn, but for the most part the room where she lay remained unilluminated.

Fiona longed for a sight of the morning sun, however thin and cold it may be in this frigid Northern land, but her ankle would not hold her and she could not move from where she was without assistance.

Added to this, she possessed no clothing and would most certainly not voluntarily stir from this room naked.

She shoved herself up into a sitting position and contemplated calling out. No, not if that would risk Brynhild answering her summons. She wondered again if she might just manage to?—

The curtain parted and the slim figure of a young thrall slipped into the sleeping chamber. She carried a bundle of fabric. which she deposited upon the bed. The girl stepped back and simply pointed to the clothing she had brought, then to Fiona. It seemed the attire was intended for her.

Fiona managed a tentative smile and reached for the closest item, a smock made of stout woollen cloth.

It was a dull grey in colour, but soft enough and would be warm, and decent.

She continued her investigation to find a linen pinafore and a pair of leather sandals.

All were of reasonable quality, if somewhat basic, and were clean.

“Thank you,” she began, before realising that the slave who had brought her new clothes did not speak her tongue. The thrall nodded and bobbed from the room, leaving Fiona alone once more.

She perched on the edge of the bed and groaned as moisture pooled beneath her.

Fiona shuffled to the side and peered at the place she had been sitting.

In the dim light she could barely make out the dark stain of her own blood, the residue of the previous night’s incredible events, now mixed with the excess of her Viking’s seed.

She should find the sight more distressing than she did.

Indeed, she was oddly calm about the entire episode and did not especially regret the loss of her virginity despite the Viking’s callous words to his sister.

She was honest enough to admit that she had relished the experience and had learnt a great deal from her Viking master.

Even so, she wished to remove the evidence of her deflowering and clean herself before she dressed.

Luckily, her bath from the night before had not yet been removed so Fiona was able to use the flannel and a little of the tepid water to accomplish some basic ablutions.

Satisfied with her efforts, she dragged the smock over her head quickly in case anyone else was about to enter unannounced.

The pinafore soon followed, then Fiona bent to consider the sandals.

Her good foot posed no problem and she soon strapped the footwear on.

She discovered that the shoe could be adjusted to accommodate her still swollen and bandaged ankle, and since it was far more comfortable, and warmer than walking about barefoot, she secured the left one too.

She clung to the wall as she got to her feet, and tested her weight on her injured foot.

No, no way could she use it yet. Laughter sounded from beyond the curtain, a female voice, not Brynhild, then a male speaking in the Nordic language she did not comprehend.

Yet still, they sounded merry and Fiona craved company.

Perhaps, if she used the wall to support herself, she might be able to manage an ungainly hop…