Page 39

“No, you did not. And… I was too fearful to ask.”

“My apologies, for that should have been the first thing to be settled. Aye, he lives, and for reasons I cannot entirely fathom, your father and Brynhild appear to get on well, which is why she has taken refuge in his manor house rather than here.” He turned to Taranc.

“The village of Pennglas is our closest neighbour, perhaps two miles or so from here. Ah, but I forget, you are no stranger to that particular settlement.”

Ulfric narrowed his eyes but allowed that jibe to pass unremarked. “We are not here to usurp anyone, nor to seize what is not ours. We will adapt, and fit in. We are here to settle, not to conquer.”

“Very well.” Taranc picked up his cloak. “We shall go now to Pennglas. Your father will be eager to see you, Fiona, and I suppose you must face your sister again sometime, Viking.”

The walk to Pennglas took perhaps a half hour, and was conducted in near silence.

Again, Taranc and Ulfric walked side by side, and Fiona followed with Njal.

Ulfric thought she appeared deep in thought, no doubt overwhelmed by the revelations of this day, and the realisation that soon she would soon see her father and stand within the walls of her family home once more.

Ulfric allowed himself a few pangs of regret for the wrong he had done her, but in truth he would not behave very differently had he his time over.

He was what he was, and what was done was done. The future was what mattered, the future was yet to be forged while the past was already set in stone. He grimaced. If only he could convince Brynhild of that.

The reunion between father and daughter was one that touched even Ulfric’s battle-hardened heart. Fiona’s father, Dughall of Pennglas, was elderly, grey-haired and his sight failing, yet at their approach he hurried down the steps from his front portal to take her in his arms.

“My daughter, my beautiful girl, I lost your brother and I thought that I had lost you, too.” Tears streamed across the man’s cheeks and Fiona wept also. Ulfric managed the occasional surreptitious wipe to dispel any stray moisture that might be in the air.

He was grateful when Taranc offered his hand to Njal and told the lad he would take him to his aunt who had remained within the manor house, still refusing to come out and greet them.

The pair disappeared inside the house, and Ulfric allowed himself to be drawn forward and introduced to his father-in-law.

Dughall seemed less than enamoured and took a swing at Ulfric’s jaw. The blow was never destined to land. Ulfric stepped back smartly, but he could not blame the older man for the sentiment. He had witnessed his son perish in the raid on their village, seen his daughter carried off.

“I owe you an apology, sir.” The words took some stringing together but he knew when he needed to build bridges. This would not be the first apology he would be called upon to issue.

Dughall glared at him but undeterred, Ulfric extended his hand.

“Your daughter is my wife, and very precious to me. For her sake, if not for mine…”

Long, tense moments passed until grudgingly the older man took the proffered hand. “For her,” he muttered.

Ulfric settled for that. “I am pleased to meet you, sir.” He spoke in Gaelic, and was gratified at the lord of Pennglas’ reluctant nod. It was a start.

“You are here, intending to stay? My daughter tells me…”

“We are. We are settlers, and find ourselves in search of a home.”

“This was always my daughter’s home,” the man pointed out grimly, “until such time as you and your heathen mob saw fit to abduct her. You took her from us, and… and…” It was clear he preferred not to articulate the rest, and Ulfric, too, saw no merit in dwelling on matters best set aside.

“We have returned, and have come here in peace. I have wed your daughter, and I love her dearly. I hope that, in time, you and I will find an accord.”

Dughall responded with a sound somewhere between a snort and a cough.

It would have been fanciful to interpret this as agreement, but Ulfric believed it was likely to be the best he would get, for now.

“Perhaps we might go inside?” he suggested.

Now that the moment had come to face his sister he had no desire to prolong the waiting.

The manor house consisted of a great hall, a solar, and a kitchen.

Brynhild, Taranc, and Njal were seated in an alcove below the single window that illuminated the hall.

From the tearstained faces of his sister and his son he surmised their reunion had been every bit as emotional as that between Fiona and her father.

Ulfric shifted uncomfortably. His intentions had been good, and even now he believed he had done what was best, but he had much to answer for.

“Brynhild? Sister?”

“Brother? Bastard,” she spat.

Ah, so this was how it was to be . It went against the grain, but he would grovel if he must.

“I am sorry…” he began.

“Do not bother. Save it for one who cares what you think, how you feel. This one, perhaps.” She levelled a glare at Fiona. “I hear you are wed to your little?—”

“Do not say it, Brynhild,” Taranc broke in quietly. “Not in front of her father, and the lad.”

Brynhild gave a curt nod, but her features betrayed her furious anguish.

“For her? You sent me away, for her? I was your sister, your own kin. I cared for your home, your son, yet you threw me aside.” Her haughty, angry facade crumpled and she buried her face in her hands.

“I loved you. You and Njal were everything to me. How could you do it?”

Ulfric would have stepped forward but Taranc beat him to it and enfolded his weeping wife in his arms. “You have your family back, now, sweetheart. All of them and more besides. They are to stay here, with us.”

Her sobs grew louder, and she gripped her husband’s cloak with renewed vigour. Njal moved closer and laid his hand on her back.

“Please, Aunt Brynhild, are you not at all pleased to see us?”

She groped for the boy, blindly reaching until she could gather him in. Taranc beckoned Ulfric to join them.

“She is shocked, and grieving for what she thought was lost. Give her time.” The Celt shifted back to allow Ulfric the space to join their tight circle.

As Brynhild’s grip on his garments loosened, Taranc eased away and handed her to her brother.

Ulfric took her in his arms and Brynhild wept against his chest as though her heart was breaking.

Taranc stepped away from them and came to where Fiona and Dughall stood in silence, watching the tableau before them.

“It will take time,” he murmured. “There is much to forgive, and not only between your husband and my wife. She is not blameless in this. She wronged you, Fiona, but I have come to know her these past months and I do not believe it was all intentional. In time, you might become friends. Brynhild is… difficult, but there is much to love about her. Do you not agree, Dughall?”

“Aye, yon lass has a fierce temper but she has been kind to me in my infirmities. There is much good in her.”

Fiona was astonished, could not readily reconcile her father’s assessment with the woman she remembered.

She agreed as far as the temper was concerned but as to the rest…

Still, they would all need to adapt and she was already determined to do her part.

Ulfric had more than shown willing and she felt moved to speak in his defence.

“There is much good in Ulfric,” she murmured. “Despite everything.”

The old man sighed. “These are strange times, my girl, very odd. Still, I believe I shall instruct my cook to lay out a feast. ‘Tis not every day my daughter returns to me from the dead, even if she does bring a Viking into my hall.”

He shuffled off in the direction of the kitchen. “Aye, very odd. Very odd indeed.”