Page 40

S ix months later

Fiona finished her porridge. She set her bowl aside and rose from the table, then stepped toward the door.

She still thought of the morning meal as dagmal though she rarely used the Nordic tongue herself since her return to Pennglas.

Ulfric and Njal continued to speak in their first language, though the boy was now proficient in both Gaelic and Norse.

The lad had struggled to settle initially, viewed with suspicion by others of his own age, even feared.

Ulfric had guided him well, insisting that his son take the time needed to allow the Celtic youths to become familiar with him, with all of the new arrivals, and to realise that the Vikings posed no threat.

Indeed, that they brought with them a guarantee of safety or at least a better chance of it.

Time had healed, as Ulfric had known it would. Or mostly. His relationship with his sister remained fraught. She was hostile, angry, and bitter, and even the birth of her son some four months previously had done little to soften her attitude.

Fiona knew how much this continuing ill feeling saddened her husband.

He did not feel any remorse over his actions in banishing Brynhild, though he regretted the pain it had caused her.

Fiona took care not to exacerbate matters by further provoking her old enemy.

She tended to avoid Brynhild, which was not especially difficult as they lived in separate villages and Brynhild rarely ventured to Pennglas except to occasionally visit Dughall.

Ulfric, on the other hand, was in daily contact with Taranc.

The two had forged an alliance that blossomed into what appeared to be genuine friendship, and that never failed to amaze Fiona.

Both villages prospered as a result. The Vikings brought with them skill with weapons and knowledge of agriculture, whereas the Celts were mainly fishermen and their knowledge of farming was limited to the rearing of livestock.

The villages worked together and all ate well.

Too well, perhaps. With a groan Fiona clutched at her stomach and ran from the hall.

She rushed into the solar, the private rooms occupied by herself, Ulfric, Njal, and her father.

Just in time she dropped to her knees beside the pail she had deliberately left in the corner and deposited the porridge there.

This was not the first time she had cast up her accounts since she rose this morning, and if the experience of the last few days was any indication it would not be the last. She groaned as her stomach continued to rebel, and despaired of ever feeling well again.

Light footsteps behind her heralded the arrival of Hilla. The maid had accompanied them across the North Sea and had somehow attached herself to Fiona’s household. It was an arrangement which suited all.

“A damp cloth, if you please, Hilla,” croaked Fiona, not yet daring to rise lest her fragile hold on whatever might remain in her stomach be loosened once more.

Moments later a moist cloth was placed in her outstretched hand. Fiona wiped her mouth with it, and turned to request a mug of buttermilk. She didn’t normally like the stuff, but just recently…

“Brynhild!”

Fiona shot upright at the unexpected sight of her nemesis standing beside her, the four-month-old Morvyn nestled in the crook of her left arm.

With uncharacteristic bitterness Fiona reflected that motherhood had done nothing to dim the other woman’s stunning beauty.

Brynhild was simply perfect, which rendered Fiona all the more despondent about her current predicament.

Her stomach was already heaving again and with a groan she sank back onto her knees to hug the pail.

“‘Twill pass,” observed Brynhild evenly. “Does Ulfric know?”

“Yes, but no one else. It is very early…”

“I see. I wish you and the babe well.”

Had she heard correctly? Fiona made use of the wet cloth once more before attempting to stand again.

“Thank you. I had not expected to see you here today. Is there something I can do for you?” Her tone was cool. Despite the Viking woman’s good wishes Fiona knew better than to trust her and entertained no wish to delay Brynhild.

“Yes, there is. I want you to know the truth of what happened that night in Skarthveit, the night of the stocks.”

Fiona frowned. “I do know the truth. I was there.”

Brynhild shook her head. “I do not think you do, at least, not all of it. My brother is of the opinion that I attempted to murder you that night, and you share his view, do you not?”

“That is what happened…” began Fiona.

“No, it is not. I had no such intention.”

Fiona made to step past Brynhild. There was nothing to be gained by quarrelling with the woman again, reopening old wounds. “As you wish. Now, I have tasks awaiting me so I should?—”

“Wait!”

The command rang out and Fiona turned, one eyebrow raised. The time when Brynhild could order her about was long past. “If you will excuse me…”

“Wait… please.” Brynhild softened her tone. “I would have you hear me out.”

Fiona drew in a long breath, then, “Very well. Shall we be seated?”

The pair settled on a bench close to the one window in the solar and Brynhild shushed the baby who was starting to stir. As ever, Fiona was struck by the similarity to Taranc. There could be no mistaking this sturdy little boy’s sire and she was pleased for her oldest friend.

“He is growing so fast,” she offered, falling back upon the age-old female bond of shared motherhood.

“He is.” agreed Brynhild, who then fixed Fiona with a level look. Apparently the Viking was not to be deflected from her mission in coming here. “It was not my intention to leave you out in the cold all night.”

Fiona appreciated that Brynhild had come straight to the point but found she was not in any mood to pander to the woman’ self-delusion. “Yet still, that is exactly what you did. Or you would have, but for Ulfric’s unexpected return.”

“No. I was distracted, as I have said, by Njal’s illness.

His mother died of a sudden ague, and I feared…

Well, my fears were groundless, but I was not to know at that stage.

I had instructed Harald to remain with you and to release you after a short while.

You saw me speaking to him? Just before I returned to the longhouse? ”

Brynhild paused, one perfect eyebrow raised as though to check that Fiona did indeed see this.

Fiona gave a slow nod. “You spoke to him under your breath. I was not intended to hear your words.”

“Yes. It was my intention to frighten you, so I did not allow you to hear me tell Harald to release you after thirty minutes. After I returned to the house I became preoccupied with Njal and I am ashamed to say I forgot all about you. I should not have, but that is what happened. It was only when the boy eventually slept that I realised that neither Harald nor you had returned indoors. I came at once to seek you out. I was on my way when my brother charged past me into our longhouse, with you in his arms.”

“I know, you have said all of this.” Brynhild had never wavered from her story. Ulfric did not believe it, and neither did Fiona.

“Because it is true.” She tilted her chin defiantly. “I would not be judged unfairly for that which I did not do.”

“No?” A flash of rare temper ignited within Fiona. “Yet you have seen fit to judge me unfairly since the moment we first met, holding me, and indeed all Celts, to account for the death of your betrothed. Why should you not be unfairly judged?”

Brynhild’s features hardened, but she was the one to lower her gaze first. “Very well, I accept your rebuke. I was… wrong.”

Wrong? Fiona stared, incredulous and quite lost for words.

Brynhild rocked her fretful child as she continued. “I have come to appreciate that Celts… well, some Celts… are decent, and…”

“Taranc’s influence, I do not doubt,” was Fiona’s bitter observation.

Brynhild nodded. “Yes, in the main. And that of your father. He was kind to me when I first came here, more so than I deserved.”

“My father is a generous man. He has found it within him to accept Ulfric, if not to entirely forgive what took place.”

“Forgiveness is precious. I know better than to ask it of you for I treated you very badly. I would have your honesty, however.”

“Honesty?” Fiona was still reeling from Brynhild’s comments and finding it hard to follow the other woman’s train of thought. “I have always been honest in my dealings with you, and with Ulfric.”

“He does not believe my account of that night, because he insists that his son was not ill. Indeed, Njal was quite recovered by the following morning when Ulfric next saw him so I can readily understand why he believes it to be so. But you know, do you not? You remember?”

Fiona nodded slowly. She did recall being sent running for a pail as the child was sick.

“You will also remember that I told you, and Harald, that Njal needed me indoors. I left you in order that I could tend to him.”

“Yes,” agreed Fiona. “I do recall what you said. You also told Harald that you would return to check that your instructions had been carried out. You did not come back.”

“I did, though not as soon as I should have. By then Ulfric had also returned just moments before me and he freed you from the stocks. He would not listen to my explanation.”

“Why would he believe you? He knew that you hated me, that you wished me harm.”

“Wishing and doing are not the same. I was cruel to you, but I did not intend you to die that night. You would not have, as I would have freed you had my brother not already done so. Harald knew that we would never leave anyone outside for more than about half an hour, and he had his instructions. My commands were perfectly clear, he knew what I expected of him and he was to bring you back inside after that time had elapsed. He had done so on other occasions, with other thralls.”

“He left me. He said there was a woman, in one of the longhouses…”