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S he was forbidden to leave the longhouse, apart from to visit the privy. Ulfric insisted the restriction was for her own safety, but Fiona was convinced it was more of the punishment he had been so determined to mete out.

He had declared her belligerent and troublesome and told her she was to be spanked to remind her of her place here.

It was done to show her that he could, and to reinforce the vast gulf between her status and that of Mairead, Fiona knew it.

Had she realised he would react thus, she would never have breathed a word of her discontent, her growing disappointment that he bore no real affection for her.

Ulfric might tell her that she was more than a mere wench to fuck, but his actions said otherwise.

Even when his brother demonstrated that another way was possible, Ulfric scoffed and dismissed her hopes.

Well, she entertained no such aspirations now. She did not want his affection, would fling it back at him were it offered. He was a Viking, a savage, a brute, and she hated him.

Ulfric had explained that he must visit Bjarkesholm, the settlement of his erstwhile friend and kinsman in order to seek a peaceful solution to the blood feud that simmered between them.

She knew he did not harbour any real optimism for the outcome, but felt it necessary to try.

He would be away overnight, and until his return she was to remain indoors.

He had been gone for several hours now and still her anger and sense of injustice remained undiminished.

Fiona sat at the table, a pile of prepared vegetables in an iron bowl before her, ready to be tossed into the cauldron in readiness for the nattmal , the meal they always ate in the evening at the end of the day’s labours.

She and Hilla might do some spinning later, their contribution to the weaving process.

There was method in her planning, since the more yarn they made available the more Brynhild could be gainfully employed at her loom and not prowling the longhouse seeking faults to pick with Fiona.

It was a strategy that seemed to work well enough as the Viking woman had largely left her alone for the last couple of weeks or so.

Fiona feared though that Brynhild’s hostility would have been rekindled by her anger at Gunnar’s marriage.

“Aunt, my tummy hurts.” Njal was seated with them at the table sipping at his mug of buttermilk with an uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm. Fiona would concede the boy looked a distinct shade of green.

Brynhild abandoned her loom and came to crouch beside him. She laid her palm on his forehead. “You feel hot. Come, you need to lie down for a short while.”

“I am going to—” Without further warning the boy lurched forward and deposited a pool of undigested buttermilk on the floor of the longhouse. The women leapt to their feet and Hilla scurried for a mop.

“Poor baby. Come, I will look after you, though I am not in the least surprised that you are ill. You ate too much, you and that Celt brat guzzling honey all of yesterday morning.” She glanced at Fiona. “You, fetch a bucket in case he is sick again.”

Fiona rushed to the outhouse where such items were stored and grabbed the first pail that came to hand.

By the time she returned to the longhouse Njal was installed on his pallet and Brynhild was seeking to coax him with a little chamomile tea, which she swore was efficacious in the treatment of digestive disorders.

Fiona was of the opinion that a bit of peace and quiet and a decent nap would be equally beneficial, but held her tongue.

She assisted Hilla in dealing with the mess on the floor, and the pair returned to their task while Brynhild tended to the sick child.

“I need to visit the privy,” Fiona murmured to Hilla. “I will be but a few minutes.”

The other girl nodded and Fiona drew on the shawl she usually favoured for such excursions.

It was late afternoon, the light was already fading and the air was chilly.

She scuttled around the outside of the longhouse and concluded her business there as quickly as she might.

As she made her way back she glanced up into the night sky.

It was clear, the stars just becoming visible in the inky blackness above her head.

She paused to admire their perfect beauty, their mysterious all-seeing power as they hovered above this tiny, insignificant world.

“You, what are you doing out here? My brother instructed you to remain inside.” Brynhild stood a few feet away, her hands on her hips as she regarded Fiona with undisguised loathing.

“I was just on my way back. I paused to look at the stars, that is all.”

“And what makes you think you have time to gaze at the stars? Do you expect others to do your work for you?”

“No, but we had finished, and?—”

“I shall say when your work is concluded, not you. And you know the consequences of disobedience. Do you require another thrashing this day?”

Brynhild, along with everyone else in the longhouse, had heard the commotion as Ulfric sought to exert his authority over her. It was common knowledge that he had spanked her, but Fiona knew full well that Brynhild was not permitted to do likewise.

“You may not beat me. In any case, I was just coming in…”

“My brother prefers to whip you himself, I grant you that. But there are other methods at my disposal. Since you seem to enjoy the outdoors so much, perhaps I should allow you to remain here. I think a spell in the stocks will teach you the benefits of obedience and hard work.”

“The stocks? Are you quite mad? You cannot?—”

“Harald, see that she is secured well.”

The thrall shuffled over, clearly uncomfortable at this latest instruction from his mistress. “Lady, I do not think?—”

“I shall do the thinking, your task here is to obey. See her set in the stocks, at once, or be prepared to take your place alongside her there.” Brynhild moved in close to Harald and leaned toward him.

Fiona heard the low murmur as their Viking mistress spoke only to the other slave, but she could not make out the words.

No doubt Brynhild was issuing yet more dark threats, hinting at even more fearful retribution if he did not obey.

Harald took several moments to consider his options, and in that time Fiona contemplated making a run for it. She might well outrun the lumbering servant, but she knew others would pursue her. Ulfric’s words had not been lost on her; she well understood the perils facing a runaway slave.

Harald seized her elbow. “Come, wench, let us not make this difficult. It will not be for long…”

“No, please. It is cold, and… and … Ulfric would not permit this.”

“Ulfric is not here, so you answer to me in his absence. Harald, you know what you have to do. See to it. I am needed inside to tend to Njal as his sickness has worsened but be assured I shall check that you have done exactly as I have instructed.” Brynhild turned on her heel and swept away, her chin high.

Fiona could have sworn the woman was smiling.

Harald tugged her around to the front of the longhouse, into the open, central area where domestic animals roamed and the people of Skarthveit gathered during the daylight hours as they went about their errands and chores.

The space was deserted now. The stocks were situated at the far end, between the tanning shed and the forge.

They consisted of two heavy oak beams each with two semi-circles hewn out of their edge in order to accommodate the victim’s ankles.

Handling her more roughly now, Harald shoved Fiona into a sitting position and opened the stocks.

“Put your feet in, girl. Be quick about it.”

“Ulfric will have your hide for this. He will never permit you to treat me in this way.”

“The master shall take it up with his sister. I am a slave, just as you are.” Harald grabbed the shackle that still adorned Fiona’s ankle despite Ulfric never having made use of it, and he shook the metal band hard enough to make Fiona yelp.

“This is it, the symbol. We do as we are told, as we must.”

“But—”

Harald slammed the stocks shut and secured them with an iron loop threaded over the two opening jaws to secure them together. The fastening was well out of Fiona’s reach so she could only wait for someone to free her. The other slave stood over her, a smirk on his ruddy features.

“So, not so high and mighty now, are we? You could do with learning a bit of humility, girl, instead of swanning around this place queening it over others as if you had have been here for years.” He turned to leave.

“Wait! Where are you going? You cannot just leave me here.”

“Who is to say I cannot? I have a wench and a decent jug of ale awaiting me in yonder longhouse. You will come to no harm here and you shall be released soon enough.” He offered Fiona a jaunty grin as he sauntered away.

His footsteps disappeared into the gathering gloom and Fiona was left alone in the eerie silence.

All around her people ate, worked, tended to their children, their animals, but none would willingly venture outdoors after dark.

Even if it were not for the threat posed by the Bjarkessons, Viking folk preferred the safety and warmth of their dwellings after the sun set.

Fiona could well understand why as she clutched her meagre shawl about her shoulders.

She was glad that Harald had not thought to remove her shoes before locking her in the stocks or her feet would already be turning blue.

The temperatures would plummet to below freezing soon.

The vengeful Viking woman had said that she would return, to check that her orders had been carried out.

Surely even Brynhild would not leave her here for more than a few minutes.

Fiona’s teeth chattered and she could not control her shivering as the minutes crept by, lengthening to a half hour, she estimated, then an hour.