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Fiona emerged from the sleeping chamber into the main room of the longhouse.

Four pairs of eyes swung in her direction.

Brynhild sat at the head of the huge table in the centre of the room, the girl who had delivered the clothing on her right side and two male thralls seated opposite her.

The slaves had been chatting and laughing over something, but all fell silent when Fiona appeared.

She fought the instinct to duck back behind the curtain, instead tilting her chin up and meeting the Viking woman’s hostile glare.

“I… I was hungry. And I need to… to…” She needed the privy, but could not quite bring herself to be so explicit.

“Hilla will show you the place.” Brynhild spoke a few words to the female thrall who nodded and rose to her feet. The girl waited by the door leading to the outside, and beckoned.

Fiona started to make her way around the outer wall, but Hilla came back to aid her.

By leaning on the smaller girl Fiona was able to cross the room and skirt the outside of the longhouse until they reached the wicker-fenced cubicle that served as the place for more private functions.

Fiona waved away Hilla’s gestured offer of further aid and managed to sink into a crouch herself.

Getting back on her feet was trickier, but she managed, driven by sheer determination. Hilla waited outside for her and helped her back into the main room of the longhouse.

“Sit there.” Brynhild pointed to a rough bench at the foot of the table. A basket of turnips had been set beside the bench, and a sack containing carrots. “You will prepare those for the pot. Be quick about it, we want to eat this day.”

Fiona peered at the vegetables, and at the blunt knife provided for her use. The task would take an age with such an unsuitable implement, but she reached into the basket and selected her first turnip.

Rarely was she called upon to assist with kitchen chores at Pennglas, but Fiona had no real objection to the labour and set to with a will.

Soon, the chatter around her resumed, though Fiona was unable to follow the rapid speech of her fellow thralls who also peeled and chopped a variety of vegetables.

Brynhild did not say much, but what conversation she did offer seemed genial enough and the other slaves clearly did not share Fiona’s trepidation around their mistress.

On one occasion when Hilla accidentally slipped and cut her finger with the knife she had been provided, Brynhild leapt to her feet and grabbed a cloth to stanch the flow of blood.

The Viking spoke softly to the weeping lass and allowed her to sit and watch, her hand swathed in a thick wad of linen, whilst the others continued with their tasks.

It was clear that Brynhild’s sour temper was not vented upon all around her.

As though to further illustrate this point the small boy, Njal was next to interrupt their labours.

Ulfric’s son ran into the longhouse dragging a sack of peas, which he dumped before his aunt.

Brynhild stroked the panting child’s cheek and bent to inspect his offering before apparently declaring it perfectly excellent.

He beamed and charged off out of the door again.

Brynhild fixed Fiona with a glare. “Stop dawdling with those turnips and start shelling these peas. We do not have the entire morning to sit around waiting for you to finish even the simplest task.”

Fiona might have retorted something along the lines of doing better with a half-decent blade, but she opted to hold her tongue. Nothing she might say would assuage Brynhild’s ill humour. Instead, she lowered her gaze and persevered.

A couple of hours passed and the pile of prepared fare grew into something more reasonable.

One of the male thralls—Harald, Fiona thought though she was not entirely certain—brought in buckets of water, which he tipped into the huge cauldron suspended over the fire pit in the centre of the room.

To the pot he added the turnips that Fiona had peeled and chopped, and started to stir the broth.

The other male thrall disappeared and returned with three rabbits hanging from each hand.

He flung those on the table and proceeded to skin each animal.

Fiona preferred not to watch and was relieved when at last the meat also disappeared into the bubbling pot.

A pleasant aroma emanated from the stew, which by now contained several of her carrots too, and a generous portion of peas.

Hilla had rejoined the task and merrily shelled peas beside Fiona, offering her an occasional shy smile.

Fiona warmed to the lass and grinned back.

With an expressive snort, Brynhild left them to finish the work and moved over to the huge loom which was situated by the door, clearly positioned to best catch what meagre light penetrated the longhouse.

The loom was perhaps six feet in height and leaned against the wall.

A length of already woven cloth was wound around the upper beam, and Brynhild leaned in to inspect the fabric forming within the framework.

Fiona was familiar with the weaving process though not especially skilled at it, and the Viking method differed little from that which she was accustomed to in Pennglas.

The warp threads were tensioned by stones tied to the ends, and moved relative to each other by means of rods about halfway down.

Several rods were attached to this piece, and Brynhild commenced moving these as she passed the shuttle holding the weft thread backwards and forwards.

It was laborious work and Brynhild had to pace back and forth across the front of the loom to accomplish it, but the Viking was both deft and accurate.

She appeared to be working on a type of twill fabric, which Fiona knew to be more complex than the normal plain weave.

Despite her dislike of the woman, Fiona could not help but admire her skill with the loom.

Brynhild said something to Hilla, then strode from the longhouse. The thralls remained at their assigned tasks.

Curious, Fiona took advantage of Brynhild’s absence to study the weave more carefully.

It really was quite beautiful, a rich blend of blue weft and various reds making up the warp to create a pattern that reminded her of the heather-clad mountains of her home.

Unthinking, she pushed herself to her feet and hopped over to grasp the heavy loom, then leaned in to examine the work.

“What are you doing?” The harsh tone of the Viking woman rang in her ear, causing Fiona to whirl on her good leg.

She lost her balance and instinctively grabbed at the loom for support, dislodging one of the rods that helped to create the design.

Several threads sprang loose, and Brynhild let loose a torrent of angry Nordic before switching to Gaelic.

“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.”

“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.” Fiona started to back away.

Brynhild followed, very much on the attack and clearly furious. “You will not touch my loom again, slut. Do you not know yet what we do with disobedient slaves here?”

Fiona had a very good idea, but was stung by the injustice of this latest attack. She paused her retreat and tried to stand her ground. She was a lady, daughter of the lord of Pennglas, not some peasant to be berated by a bitter, vengeful woman.

“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.”

“No!” Fiona turned and made to head back to the one place that seemed to offer any form of sanctuary. She had not managed two paces toward the curtain before Brynhild seized her elbow.

Fiona tried to yank her arm free, but Brynhild’s fingers tightened, digging into her flesh. Terrified now, Fiona tried to wrestle out of her grip but could not get loose.

“Let me go, Viking. I do not answer to you, I shall?—”

“ Fiona !” The loud, stern tone of Ulfric brought the unequal struggle to an abrupt end. Both women turned to where he stood, framed in the doorway, his expression thunderous. “What the fuck is going on here?”

Fiona had known a moment of relief at his arrival. That was instantly dispelled when he narrowed his eyes in a forbidding glare.

“I… I only?—”

“This vindictive little slut of yours saw fit to tamper with my weaving. Now I shall have to repair the damage she has wrought and that will take hours.”

The woman exaggerated and Fiona opened her mouth to say so.

“Did you touch the loom, Fiona?” Ulfric’s question was terse.

“Yes, but?—”

“Did you have permission to do so?” He was evidently not interested in any mitigating factors.

“Not exactly, but I?—”

“Not at all,” spat Brynhild. “I stepped out to check on Njal and told all of them to continue with their work.” She swept out an arm to indicate the group of startled thralls now watching open-mouthed.

“For this idle wench that meant she should finish shelling the peas. She had no cause to so much as leave the table, let alone approach my weaving. She has earned a whipping, and I shall be happy to deliver it.”

“I told you, if my bed-slave requires to be chastised I shall do it myself.” Ulfric’s tone was low, bearing more than a hint of warning to Fiona’s mind.

“Then—”

“Harald, you will fetch a switch. And be quick about it.”

The entire exchange had been conducted in her native Gaelic and Fiona gasped as the implications sank in. Surely he could not, would not…

One glance at his stern visage convinced her he could and he would.

“Go and lie across my bed, face down, and your bottom bared. I shall be there in a few moments.”