Page 37

F iona’s heart fluttered as the shores of her beloved Scotland came into view.

They had already passed the Isles of Shetland, pointed out by Ulfric, so this must be the mainland.

Her home lay there, many miles to the south, but she was closer to it than she had been since the day she was shoved onto that foul fishing craft and brought to the land of the Norsemen.

So much had happened to her since that fateful day, her previous life such a distant memory, yet so vivid too.

She could almost touch it, taste it, feel the soft grass of the Scottish highlands beneath her toes.

With a sigh she turned away. Ulfric had not said, but she believed it was his intention to drop the ex-slaves off if they so desired, then to continue on in search of their new home.

He would never apologise for their abduction, she was convinced of that, but he understood gratitude and obligation.

They had aided him when he needed it, and this was part of their recompense for that service.

The longship on which she sailed was at the head of their convoy.

Four more dragon ships followed, commanded by Ulfric’s trusted men.

Her husband stood on the prow of their ship, his eyes shielded under his hand as he surveyed the distant shore.

Fiona was surprised at the swiftness of the crossing.

She had expected to be days at sea, whereas they had spent but one night bobbing on the waves.

The weather was calm, the winds brisk, which aided the rowers who occupied the ranks of benches crossing the craft from one side to the other.

She made her way forward to stand beside her husband.

“Do you see a suitable landing place? A beach, perhaps?”

“Yes, there are several such coves. I have a particular spot in mind, however and that place will not be in view for several hours yet.”

“A place you have been to before? A place you have raided?” There could be no other purpose for a visit by her Viking husband.

He smiled and draped his arm across her shoulders. She turned to wrap her arms around her husband.

“I love you.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I know. I am relying on that.”

She leaned back to peer up at him. “You are? Why?”

“You will see, soon enough.” He returned his gaze to the far horizon and pulled her close. “Just trust me, please. And try to understand.”

“I do trust you. What do I need to understand?”

“Please, not now, little Celt. Let us just see what this day brings.”

Fiona knew when to press and when to let him be.

She remained at Ulfric’s side as the longship soared across the waves, carried along on a swift southerly breeze.

The sails billowed above them and the grey waters of the North Sea surged below.

Along with the rest of the party she observed the shoreline grow closer, the details crystallising before her eyes.

A beach, a stand of trees, a farm, a cluster of dwellings.

She even spotted a group of startled Celtic villagers scurrying away from their fishing boats, presumably in mortal fear of an imminent attack.

“I am sorry,” she mouthed.

Ulfric’s jaw was set firm as he watched the peasants’ frantic retreat. He said nothing.

An hour passed, then another. Never much travelled prior to the arrival of the Vikings, even Fiona began to recognise landmarks.

The contours of the hills, a stretch of shingle beach, a small island inhabited only by puffins and sleek grey seals.

As these familiar places slid past to her right she began to have an uneasy feeling.

Surely Ulfric did not intend to return to Pennglas.

As he signalled the instruction to turn and head direct for the shore she knew that he did. He must intend to let the Celts off here and continue on. He would never attack her home again, not with her present to witness the destruction. He was a warrior, but he was not cruel.

“Ulfric…” she began.

He laid his finger across her lips. “Please, little Celt. Trust me. I believe we may be expected.”

“Coastal villages always expect a Viking attack.” She could not entirely banish the bitterness from her tone.

His answering smile was wry. “Aye, I daresay. Ah, I believe we have been sighted.”

Sure enough, a frenzy of activity unfolded before them as the fishermen of Pennglas and of nearby Aikrig raced for the shore then scrambled up the beaches toward their homes.

They would be grabbing their shovels, their pitchforks, their hoes and ploughs, and anything that might be pressed into service as a weapon.

Some might even hope to gather stones for their slingshots, though that would take time—a luxury the Vikings were not known for affording their victims. An attack by the Norsemen was swift and deadly.

The best chance lay in fleeing, which appeared to be the strategy adopted by most.

The longships slid up onto the beach with a sickening scrape as rough sand connected with the smooth underside of each craft.

As the boats shuddered to a halt Fiona expected the Nordic warriors to swarm over the sides and charge, yelling ferociously, for the closest village. That would be Aikrig, she thought.

They did not. Her husband raised his arm to signal that all were to remain where they were. He stood on the prow and bellowed his orders to the other ships.

“The Celts may go ashore. The rest, remain here until I give the order to do otherwise.”

The Vikings exchanged puzzled looks, but no one disobeyed.

The Celts, however, were eager to be back on dry land and as one they leaped over the sides of the boats into the shallows.

They splashed up onto the beach, and from there began to make their way cautiously toward the closest habitation.

Some called out, hailing old friends, family, anyone within earshot.

Within moments they had disappeared into the trees that fringed the small cove.

The Vikings looked to one another, and to their leader. Ulfric was motionless, scanning the shoreline for—what? Fiona did not know. What did he expect would happen next?

“Ulfric,” she began. “Perhaps we should?—”

He silenced her with an upraised finger, so often effective. She moved to stand beside him and watched the now deserted beach.

The trees moved, parted. A lone figure stepped forward, a Celt, clad in the traditional tunic and fur cloak, his sword drawn as though he might fend off this deadly horde alone.

The man was tall, his shoulder-length tawny hair fluttered in the slight breeze.

To Fiona’s eye he seemed familiar, as well he might.

Surely she was acquainted with all such men hailing from hereabouts. But this man, he had a look of…

“Taranc.” She whispered his name, the name of her old, dearest friend, the man she loved as a brother and whom she had last seen wearing a leg shackle, a slave in a Viking homestead.

The Celt approached, his gait slow, fearless. He halted twenty or so paces from where Ulfric regarded him with a stony expression, and returned the Viking’s flinty gaze.

“So, Viking. We meet again.” Taranc’s voice rang loud and clear across the beach. He used the Norse tongue.

“Aye. I trust you are well, my friend. Your journey not too arduous?” Ulfric’s response was low-pitched, conversational, as though he did indeed greet an old friend.

“We managed. What is your purpose here, Viking?”

“Ah, now on that matter I would like to talk with you. May we come ashore?”

May we come ashore? Since when did Vikings seek permission to swarm into an unsuspecting village and take what they wanted? Fiona was every bit as baffled as the rest of their party.

“You may, Viking. And Fiona, naturally. Is that your boy I see there?”

“Aye, my family are with me.”

“Indeed, this promises to be quite the reunion then.”

Ulfric let out a breath. “She is here? And well?”

“Of course, though I would caution against paying your respects, Viking. Your actions were not well received.”

Fiona clutched at Ulfric’s arm. “What are you talking about? Who?—”

“How dare you show your treacherous face here? You claim to be a brother—you are nothing but a self-serving worm. If my husband does not fell you where you stand, I shall do so myself.” Brynhild, heavily pregnant but as majestically beautiful as ever, strode from the cover of the trees to take up her position beside Taranc.

The Vikings gaped. Silence descended as the opposing sides gawked at each other in varying degrees of fury and disbelief. Only Taranc and Ulfric seemed to have the slightest inkling what was happening. It was Ulfric who broke the silence.

“Ah, sister. You appear… well. Much has happened, I see, since last we spoke.” He turned to regard Taranc. “Yours, I presume?”

Taranc responded with a curt nod, then turned and marched away from them up the beach. “Are you coming, then?” He hurled the words over his shoulder but did not look back.