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U lfric was not entirely certain who was least pleased to see him, though on balance he opted for his sister.

Brynhild had offered to gut him and leave the entrails on the beach for the seabirds to forage over.

When Taranc, her husband of just a few weeks Ulfric had learnt, advised her that such action might not sit well with the Viking warriors who had accompanied her brother to their home, she had stamped off and flatly refused to speak to any of them.

She was currently installed in the manor house at Pennglas, his own wife’s family home, refusing to emerge until the last of his longships was gone from their shores.

He feared he would have to disappoint her.

Ulfric wished to make his peace with Brynhild but Fiona’s response was the one he found most difficult to fathom.

She had hated his sister, feared her, and with good reason.

Yet despite his careful explanation of the reasons for his decision his little Celt gave every sign of being appalled by the action he had taken to protect her.

“You arranged to have her abducted? Your own sister? Even knowing how devastated your son would be at the loss of his aunt, how the rest of Skarthveit would miss her, continue to search for her, long for her return, and fear for their own safety? You knew, yet still you did this thing?”

She had a point. Several, in fact. She would come around, eventually. Njal too, he hoped. The lad had paled at the sight of his aunt, as though he saw a spectre before him and did not know whether to run and hug her or hide under a bench on the longship.

Back there on the beach, Ulfric had leapt from his ship and sprinted to catch up with Taranc.

The two had marched in silence to the village—Aikrig?

—where he now knew Taranc had his home. Fiona had followed with Njal.

The boy gripped his wife’s hand tightly, as though she were the only solid and certain thing in his life at this moment.

Curious, fearful Celts—those who had not already fled in terror—had peered at the bizarre procession from behind their own dwellings and outhouses. Ulfric heard their mutterings, their whispered questions.

“Who is he? He knows our chief? Is it him , that one again?”

Taranc ignored them and led the way.

The Celt’s dwelling was large, comparable to Ulfric’s own longhouse in Skarthveit, and at least as comfortable.

As they entered the low, turf-roofed building Ulfric recognised his sister’s influence at once.

The loom, the well-stocked and tidy larder, the clean linens stacked on shelves against the far wall.

Brynhild never could abide mess or dirt, and she liked those in her care to eat well.

Taranc had left Ulfric, Fiona and Njal there whilst he hurried to converse with the rest of the villagers, at least those who had not scattered to the nearby hills at the first sight of the invaders.

Ulfric had used the brief time alone to outline his case to his wife and son, but he feared he had much more work to do before either would became even remotely convinced.

It was not to be. Taranc returned and installed himself at the head of the table.

He had a point to make, Ulfric supposed, and who could blame him?

So now Ulfric sat beside Fiona at his sister’s board, a mug of her fine ale in his hand, and the less than welcoming countenance of her husband glowering at him from the master’s seat.

Only Njal seemed to be at ease. He remembered the tall Celt who had saved him from drowning and chattered about his prowess in swimming.

Taranc listened to the lad, his smile warm enough, then he turned to the boy’s father.

“I ask again, what brings you here, Viking?”

Ulfric set his mug down with care and reached for Fiona’s hand.

“I did as you suggested. I took care of what was mine.” He paused. “We are wed.”

“You are happy?” Taranc’s question was addressed to Fiona.

She nodded. “Yes, he is good to me.”

Taranc appeared to accept this. He fixed his unwavering stare on Ulfric once more. “I repeat, your purpose here?”

“I had to know about Brynhild.”

The Celt nodded. “I can see that. And now that you have the assurance you need, may I assume you will be on your way? I expect you have villages to rob, innocent Britons to pillage and rape?”

Fiona bristled, a fact Ulfric found somewhat reassuring. He patted her hand.

“That is not our intent, and never was. Well, not the raping part, though I suppose I must own to the rest. We are here in search of something else though.”

“And what might that be?” Taranc leaned back and signalled to a servant hovering by the door. “Refill our guest’s mug, if you will.”

Ulfric did not allow his tone to waver. “We wish to remain here. Permanently.”

Ale sloshed over the table and splashed Ulfric’s hand. The servant squealed and scuttled back, cowering.

Ulfric bestowed his most brilliant smile on the man and shook droplets from his fingers, then reached for the ale jug.

“Allow me.” He needed to win friends where he might, so no harm in starting here.

The serf would soon enough tell the rest huddled outside.

As the man slid away Ulfric proceeded to fill their cups—his, Taranc’s, and Fiona’s—then met his host’s impassive gaze. “Do you have any comment to offer?”

Taranc did not mince his words. “Why?”

“Here?” breathed Fiona. “We are to remain here? This is my home…”

“Yes, so where better? You will be happy to return here, will you not? It is what I understood to be your dearest wish.”

“I will! Oh, yes, of course I will, but you…?”

“I am… flexible,” conceded Ulfric. “I have given this matter much thought, and I believe we can make this work.”

“Oh, you do, do you, Viking?” Taranc glared at him from his position at the head of the table. “I repeat, why?”

Ulfric had prepared for this and had his answer ready. “My wife has kin here, and I am relieved to discover, so do I. The land is fertile, there is ample for all. And you will benefit from our protection should others come. Others less… friendly… than we.”

Taranc was not to be deflected. “Why? Why leave your own settlement?”

Ulfric sighed. “You recall the blood feud, with our neighbours, the Bjarkessons?”

“I heard of it. It was not a matter of concern to your slaves.”

“Quite, though of late that may have changed somewhat. My thralls were persuaded to lend their efforts to mine in defence of Skarthveit and our combined force was sufficient to repel an attack by our enemies. In return, I granted them their freedom.”

“All of them?” For the first time Taranc allowed his surprise to show.

“Yes. All. But rather than remain at Skarthveit and fight off one attack after another until nothing and no one remained, I decided to seek a more peaceful existence. I have a family, other considerations. So we left in search of a new home where we might settle. Those ex-slaves who chose to have returned aboard our longships. You will have seen them, no doubt?”

Taranc nodded, frowning. Ulfric continued.

“Others have remained behind, by their own choice as free karls. Fiona, also, has her freedom.”

“And if I do not agree to this… this … proposition of yours? Will you… insist?”

“You mean, is it my intention to take this village by force? No, it is not. If I cannot convince you, and the rest out there, of our honest and peaceful intent I shall request just sufficient time here for my wife to visit her kin and assure them that she is well and happy, and then we will leave in search of an uninhabited haven in which to make our home. We are here to farm, to settle, to put down roots. I believe an understanding between you and I will be of mutual benefit, and I know I can trust you. I placed something which was most precious to me in your hands and you did not let me down. For this I am in your debt, and I hope I have shown that I am also worthy of your trust.”

Taranc eyed Fiona and appeared to accept this.

“If I agree to your suggestion, my wife will skin me alive, and you alongside me.”

“Brynhild will accept us. Give her time.” He hesitated. “I suppose you told her everything?”

“Your sister is stubborn and wrong-headed on some things, but she is no fool. The evidence of your complicity was plain enough—the horse, the supplies, the fishing boat awaiting us at Hafrsfjord. I would not compound the deception by lying to her myself.” He hesitated, then added, “She was very… upset.”

Ulfric lowered his head into his hands. “Perhaps if I talk to her, I can make her understand that I did what I thought was best, for all of us. Including her. You and she are happy, yes?”

Taranc shrugged. “We have arrived at an understanding, of sorts, and I believe she is content. Or she was.”

“It is me.” Fiona gripped Taranc’s hand. “She loves you, too much perhaps. And Njal, of course. It was always me she hated. Perhaps if I were not here…”

“No!” Ulfric was vehement. “This was all about you, always. I love my sister, but I love you more. It is that simple. I will not give you up nor will I allow you to be hurt. I shall try to reason with her, explain how it was. Now that she is wed, with a child on the way, surely she will see things differently.”

“I wish you joy of that,” observed Taranc, “but whatever Brynhild’s opinion, I believe you are sincere. And our villages are vulnerable to attack so perhaps there is benefit in considering your proposal. Even the sight of your longships on the shore will deter others from landing on our beach.”

“So you will consider allowing us to remain?” Ulfric got to his feet, and Taranc followed suit.

“Aye, I will. If Brynhild can be convinced to at least tolerate your presence, I will not object. But you must understand that I am chief here, in Aikrig, and Fiona’s father is lord at Pennglas, so…?”

“My father? He is alive?” Fiona had paled, her hands clasped together before her. Both men turned to regard her.

“Did I not say?” Taranc frowned. “Surely, I told you?—”