Chapter Nineteen

Brynhild folded her hands together across the round swell of her abdomen. The baby delivered a sharp kick from inside, hard enough to halt her step. She paused to brace against a tree beside the track that led to Pennglas. She had promised Dughall that she would call to see him this day and did not wish to disappoint her friend though she found the journey on foot arduous as she entered the final month of her pregnancy.

The old man had been unwell. He had succumbed to a chill that had gone to his chest and kept him confined to his bed these past two weeks. He was improving now, and she was relieved to hear the news but would feel better for seeing him herself and watching him sip the draught of chamomile tea she intended to brew for him. It was a most efficacious cure; she had every confidence Dughall would soon be up and about again. Best to press on. Brynhild straightened, drew in a deep breath, and continued her hike uphill.

Pounding footsteps from behind brought her to a halt again. She turned. Several villagers from Aikrig scrambled up the rise toward her, their pallid faces lined in alarm. One man peered back over his shoulder then grabbed the elbow of a woman by his side. "Come, we must hurry. There is refuge to be had in Pennglas, Taranc said that it is so."

Refuge? Brynhild reached for the man's sleeve as he passed her.

"Why are you fleeing to the village? Has something happened to Taranc?"

Please let it not be so. She would offer up another fine goat to the goddess Freya, if such were needed to keep her man safe.

The man barely broke his stride. "They are back. Taranc told us to make haste to Pennglas and to warn the people there. We shall fight them this time. They shall not steal from us again, nor shall they take our people as slaves. Taranc will not allow it, never again."

"Who? Who is here?" The man she first spoke to had shrugged off her hold and was already scurrying up the hill away from her. Brynhild reached for an elderly woman, Aine, a widow she had come to know who had skills in the art of dye-making. The woman stopped.

"Ye need to be coming wi' us, lass. Taranc will want ye safe, I ken it."

"I am safe. What is happening?"

"We are attacked. The Vikings are back."

Her knees buckled. She clutched at Aine who wrapped her arms about Brynhild's waist.

"Let me help ye, lady. We shall take refuge in the manor house with Lord Dughall."

Brynhild gathered her wits, and with her returning senses came temper. White hot, searing anger surged through her. She staggered back, shaking her head.

Vikings? Vikings dared to come here, to her home?

Her people?

She would not stand for it.

"You go on to the village, find safety and tell Lord Dughall what is happening. Bid him see everyone safely inside, the doors barred. I shall go to the beach."

"No, ye cannot. Taranc would— "

Brynhild glowered down at the smaller woman. "I am a Viking. These invaders are my people. They need to know they are not welcome here, that there is nothing on this shore for them. I shall stand beside Taranc and tell them as much."

There were more protests, more pleading that she look to her own safety and that of her child and accompany the fleeing villagers, but Brynhild was no longer listening. She gathered her cloak about her and started back down the hill, her step brisk and purposeful as she headed for the beach and for Taranc. Together they would face down these Nordic raiders and send them back into the sea.

She encountered others as she went, others from Aikrig, all dashing headlong up the narrow lane in search of safety. She caught snatches of conversation as the villagers rushed past.

"I remember him, the tall one with the yellow hair."

"He was here before, the other time…"

"Lady Fiona… was it really she? It looked like—"

Heart in her mouth, the truth only now beginning to dawn, Brynhild burst through the barrier of trees that shielded the beach from view. She stopped in her tracks, barely able to take in the scene before her.

All the Celts but Taranc had fled. He, alone, stood on the damp sand face to face with the tall Viking warrior who stood proud at the helm of his dragon ship as the vessel bobbed on the waves.

Ulfric.

Her brother. Here.

Brynhild beheld the tableau, unable to breathe for several moments. Taranc's confident tone rang across the beach.

"What is your purpose here, Viking?" He spoke in the Nordic tongue.

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

No! Every fibre of Brynhild's being screamed ‘no! '

Taranc was seemingly not of similar mind. "You may, Viking. And Fiona, naturally. Is that your boy I see there?"

Her brother inclined his blond head respectfully to the village chief before him. "Aye, my family is with me."

"Indeed." Brynhild could not fail to recognise the note of sardonic amusement that now laced Taranc's tone. "This promises to be quite the reunion then."

Ulfric appeared unsurprised at the enigmatic response. "She is here? And well?"

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

Brynhild had seen, and heard, enough. She strode forward, incensed. "How dare you show your treacherous face here? You claim to be a brother—you are nothing more than a self-serving worm. If my husband does not fell you where you stand, I shall do so myself."

She marched down the beach to take up her stance beside the man she had refused to wed but now claimed as her husband, the man she had chosen to spend her life with, the man who had saved her. Taranc had given her very existence meaning, a purpose. He had put a child in her belly, taught her to enjoy her body, to take her pleasure as she now knew she deserved, yet he seemed ready to betray her without a second thought. For reasons she could not start to fathom Taranc was about to welcome Ulfric onto their soil. It was not to be borne.

Silence descended. The Vikings who had remained on board the dragon ships with their leader gaped at her as recognition dawned. Their faces betrayed their utter confusion. Fiona, too, clutched at Ulfric's sleeve as though demanding some semblance of explanation. It seemed she was to be disappointed, at least for now.

Ulfric was first to speak. He angled his head toward her and plastered a broad smile across his duplicitous features. "Ah, sister. You appear… well." His assessing gaze travelled over her distended belly and his eyes narrowed. "Much has happened, I see, since last we spoke." His next words were ai med at Taranc. "Yours, I presume?"

Taranc's nod was abrupt and curt. He reached for Brynhild's hand and squeezed it briefly before she managed to snatch her fingers out of his grasp. He met her gaze, his expression calm but not without a hint of warning, then he turned and strode up the beach in the direction of the house they shared.

He did not look back again. His final words were flung over his shoulder, and she assumed they were intended for Ulfric. "Are you coming then?"

Brynhild hurried after Taranc. "You cannot permit this. I do not want him here. I want none of them here."

"It seems you are to be disappointed, my sweet, since he is following us up the beach. I trust we have food to hand, ale a-plenty? Where is Annag? Murdina?"

"I do not know. Everyone fled to Pennglas on your orders. I shall not feed them."

Taranc shrugged. "Your brother has said he wishes only to talk. If that is all, and I see no cause not to believe him, we can hear him out and he can be on his way."

"But—" Brynhild whirled to face her brother and the woman he had chosen over her, the woman who had lied about her actions that fateful night and caused Ulfric to cast his sister from her home. She marched forward to punch her brother hard in the centre of his chest, bringing his progress to a halt.

"Now, Brynhild, I only want to—"

"Shut up. Why would I care what you want? Did you care about my wishes all those months ago when you plotted to have me abducted, carried from my home by force? When you cast me out to make room for your… your…"

"Brynhild." Taranc's tone was low, a warning. In time, Brynhild recalled that the woman who stood before her was Dughall's daughter, and for that reason alone she would hold her tongue.

"You are not welcome here. If you are not gone from these shores within the hour I shall gut you and leave your entrails here on the beach for the gulls and crabs to feast on."

"I am not convinced such a welcome would find favour with the rest of the Nordic horde waiting on the longships," observed Taranc, his customary sardonic smile returning. "Perhaps we might be a little less brutal in our approach, less bloodthirsty?"

Brynhild cast a baleful glance his way, her tone scathing. "You may find peaceful solutions if you feel so moved. I just want them gone. All of them. I shall go to Pennglas. I expect to find no dragon ships on our beach when I return."

* * *

Dughall found her in her usual spot, curled in the window seat beneath his hall.

"Is it the truth? My daughter is here? Fiona has returned?"

Brynhild raised her tear-ravaged features to regard him as a pang of irrational jealousy pierced her. Yet again, she would be set aside in favour of the Celtic woman. "Yes, he has come and he has brought her with him."

"Where are they? I must see my daughter."

"I left them at Taranc's house in Aikrig." She swiped the moisture from her eyes and managed a wan smile for her old friend. She could not be ungenerous, even now. "I know that Fiona will not leave without seeing you."

Dughall nodded. "And your brother? Did you speak with him?"

"I did, briefly. I invited him to turn his ships about and leave at once or I would scatter his entrails upon the beach."

"I see. ‘Twas not a joyful reunion, then."

"He betrayed me. He believed Fiona's lies and… and…"

"Why would he not believe my daughter? She is not a woman given to spouting falsehoods." Dughall's voice remained level, but his resolve was clear enough. He would not hear criticism of his beloved child .

"I…" Brynhild clamped her mouth shut. What was there left to say?

"My lord, Taranc approaches. The Viking is with him."

Dughall murmured his thanks to the servant who had scurried in to announce the imminent arrival of their visitors. Brynhild noted that he did not call for refreshments, for ale or mead or platters of fine food to welcome their guests. He laid his hand upon her shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze, then turned to follow the servant out of the main door.

Brynhild remained where she was, her face buried in her hands.

Long minutes passed. Voices drifted in from outside: Dughall's, raised in anger; Ulfric, calm. Taranc occasionally, also quiet, reasonable, unperturbed.

How could her gentle and caring lover greet her faithless brother like a long-lost friend? How could he show Ulfric even the slightest degree of respect, invite him into their home? It was quite beyond her.

Even as she pondered this conundrum the outer door opened again and Taranc stepped through, Njal clinging to his hand. The lad caught sight of his aunt and squealed in delight. He ran the length of the hall to fling himself against her skirts, then scrambled up onto the window ledge beside her. Brynhild enfolded her beloved nephew in her arms and surrendered to more uncontrolled weeping.

"I missed you. I missed you so much." She gulped the words through her tears. "I never expected to see you again."

"I love you, Aunt Brynhild. I'm so glad we found you. Why are you angry that we are here?"

"It is not that. I…"

Taranc eased himself into the seat alongside the pair. "Your aunt has had a shock. She is not angry. At least, not with you."

"She is angry with my father," observed the boy, "and with Fiona." He turned to fling his arms about Brynhild's neck. "Please do not be angry. If you are, Taranc says we will have to go away again, and I want to stay here."

Brynhild was stunned. "Stay here? But—"

"My father wishes to remain here. He has asked Taranc." The boy looked to the Celt for confirmation. Taranc had the grace to shift in his seat.

"What… What have you said?" she whispered.

Unflinching, Taranc met her gaze. "The idea has merit."

"It is madness. It would never work. They are our enemies, they cannot be trusted."

"I think—"

Further conversation was curtailed by the door swinging open again, this time to admit Ulfric, Fiona, and Dughall. Her brother entered, and sauntered across the hall, pausing just feet from where she sat. He actually smiled at her.

"Brynhild? Sister?"

"Brother? Bastard?"

Ulfric was undeterred by her hostile welcome. "I am sorry…" he began.

Her temper flared again. She glared at him. "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—"

Taranc cleared his throat. "Do not say it, Brynhild. Not in front of her father, and the lad."

He was right, of course. Brynhild nodded and hugged Njal to her as though the boy might offer the shield she needed. Still, the words of anger, of recrimination could not be contained. Her anguish was too great, the hurt buried for too long not to surface now.

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

At once Taranc's arms were around her. Brynhild clung to his woollen cloak as though her very life depended upon his solid presence. She curled her fingers in the sturdy fabric, her sobs loud and gulping as she gave vent to grief and pain too intense to contain a moment longer.

His palms traced large, soothing circles on her back as he held her against his chest. "You have your family back, now, sweetheart. All of them and more besides. They are to stay here, with us."

Taranc's words did nothing to dispel Brynhild's agony. If anything, her weeping grew louder, more unbridled as a fresh wave of despair washed over her.

She had survived the ultimate betrayal, not once but twice. She had rebuilt her life, again, only to have all she had worked for swept away once more by circumstances she could not control. She would lose everything—her precious haven, Taranc, her fragile standing in this alien place she had decided to call home.

Taranc shifted. Brynhild fought to hang on to him but he loosened her hold and stepped back, murmuring words she did not entirely catch about grief and pain and about giving her time. New arms gathered her in, familiar scents assailed her nostrils, the aromas of wolf skin cloak, leather, the sea, so uniquely Viking.

Past caring now, Brynhild wept in her brother's arms. He held her, his lips on her hair, murmuring apologies she had no desire to hear, explanations she would never accept. But as he did so, even as his meaningless words drifted about her, something shifted in her troubled, shattered soul.

It hurt. It hurt so much, too much, but the pain had become excruciating to hold on to. She had no choice, no alternative if she was to survive a third time. She had to let it go.

So she did. Brynhild the pragmatist, the survivor, the resilient, efficient mistress of her own destiny surrendered the dam of anger and bitter disappointment she had nurtured all these months and that had festered to bring her to this moment. She found release.

* * *

"Why are you here?" Brynhild faced her brother across the oak table in the home she shared with Taranc. Fiona and the rest of the family continued to enjoy Dughall's hospitality at Pennglas but she had felt the need for solitude and had made her excuses. In his usual bull-headed manner Ulfric failed to grasp that she needed a respite from him.

He grinned at her, seemingly oblivious to her desire to be alone. "I was concerned for you, going off on your own, and in your condition. Taranc too. He would have come, but I said—"

"No, idiot. I mean why are you here ? In Scotland? Why are you not at Skarthveit? And what was it that Taranc said earlier, about your intention to remain here?" She vaguely recalled mention of this but had been too distraught at the time to seek clarification. Now, her head clearer, she demanded an explanation. "What of your settlement in our own land? Our people there?

"Most of our people are here now, or at least all who chose to accompany us across the North Sea."

"You have brought everyone? But… why? Where are they?"

"Most remained on or close to our longships, until such time as I could speak with Taranc and with you. I had no desire to create panic here by coming ashore with dozens of Viking warriors at my back. That would have created quite the wrong impression." He paused, then, "As to why… you will recall Olaf Bjarkesson."

"Of course. He would have been my kinsman had Eirik lived. Yours too."

"Aye, but he became my enemy when Eirik and Astrid died. You know he blamed me for their deaths."

"Yes, he was wrong, but…"

Ulfric's expression was grim. "The feud continued, grew worse. Olaf's attacks became more frequent, more deadly. His men set upon Fiona and Njal when they were out of our village on one occasion, and followed that skirmish with a vicious assault on Skarthveit itself. We managed to repel them with the help of our thralls, though I had to promise them their freedom in exchange for their aid."

"You freed the thralls? All of them?" Brynhild could barely comprehend her brother's actions.

"I did. Fiona can be most persuasive when she sets her mind on something. And in truth, I had little option if I was to defend Skarthveit successfully as we were seriously outnumbered. But it was just one battle, one attack fought off. There would be more and I might not always prevail. I have my family to think of, my people. We need to live in peace on our own shores if we are to thrive and prosper, to grow crops and raise our families. It was obvious that Olaf would never relent. So I decided to leave."

"You just gave up? Gave him Skarthveit?" She could not conceal her shock, her dismay that her childhood home was lost. "You allowed him to drive you out? To drive all of us out?"

"The settlement is just longhouses, a few crops, and a half-built harbour. Olaf was busy destroying our farms in any case, and we can rebuild our houses elsewhere. I had no stomach for the life we would have had there, so I decided to move on and invited all who would to follow me."

"So you came here?"

"Of course. Where else?"

"Anywhere. You could have gone anywhere else."

He shook his head. "No, it had to be here. I had to see you, to know that you were well and content. I believed that Taranc could make you happy, that he would take care of you. I would not have entrusted you to him otherwise. But until I saw for myself…"

"So you are here for me?"

"I am. I had to come after you."

"How did you know we would be here at Aikrig?"

"I didn't, not for certain. But I suspected, and where else would he go? This is Taranc's home. And now it is mine too. Ours. "

"Taranc has agreed." It was a statement, not a question.

"He has, and Dughall also, who will tolerate me and the rest of our people for the sake of his daughter. But I would know I have your welcome too. Despite everything."

"It appears I have little choice in the matter." She stood, intending to fetch ale from the barrel she kept close to hand.

Ulfric caught her elbow as she passed him. "Perhaps not. But you do have a choice over how you respond. Will you welcome me? My family? Fiona? Will you welcome all of us as we make our home here?"

Brynhild regarded him for several moments, her beloved elder brother, the one she had relied on all her life… until Taranc. Her decision was made. It was made earlier as she had wept in his arms in the great hall at Pennglas.

Slowly, she nodded. "You are welcome here, brother," she whispered. "You and yours."

The words were easy. Now, she must work at making them a reality.

* * *

"I shall send for Fiona. She has some skills with herbs, perhaps—"

"Aagh!" Brynhild seized Murdina's hand and squeezed hard as a fresh wave of agony caused her distended abdomen to contract. She panted in the half-light of the house in Aikrig, perspiration beading across her forehead as she laboured to deliver her child into the world.

She shook her head. "I do not want her here. Oh… Taranc! Where is Taranc?"

"I am here." He came to kneel beside the bed and took her other hand in his. "It will not be long now." He looked to his mother as though seeking confirmation.

Brynhild groaned, her usual stoic courage in tatters. "It has been a full day, and a half. I am scared…"

"All is well," insisted Murdina. "I have attended many births in my time, and see no cause to worry. The babe will be here soon."

Taranc tried again. "Perhaps a soothing draught would ease the pain somewhat. Fiona might—"

"No!" Brynhild dragged herself to a sitting position as another contraction seized her. She screamed as her belly twisted, the sound ragged, her voice hoarse now. Her futile cries of agony bounced off the timbers of their dwelling, echoing in her ears as the child stubbornly refused to shift.

She sank back against the bolster that Murdina had jammed behind her shoulders, despairing that this ordeal would ever be over. The next contraction was upon her almost before the last had receded. How much more? How much longer before her body split in two?

Suddenly, almost without warning, the pain arrowed down, now settling at her very core. Brynhild let out another guttural moan, then a startled yelp. The urge to push was beyond overwhelming. As both Taranc and Murdina urged her on she bore down with all that was within her, forcing this determined, obstinate little being out into the light.

"I see the head." Murdina peered between Brynhild's thighs. "One more good push, with the next contraction…"

"Aaagh!" Pain gripped her again, and Brynhild tightened her crushing grasp on Taranc's hand. Even in her own tortured misery Brynhild could not miss the grimace that flickered across his features. He did not pull away though.

"So close, my Viking. You can do this. Just one last push…"

He was right. Brynhild bore down again, and her baby slithered into Murdina's waiting hands.

"A boy," announced the older woman. "A fine, yowling lad who looks the very image of his sire."

As though to add his own contribution, the child chose that precise moment to open his mouth and bellow his displeasure to the heavens. His thin, high cries now filled the house as Brynhild sagged back against the pillows. Murdina hastily wrapped a blanket about the squirming child and laid him on Brynhild's chest. At once he ceased his bawling, instead starting to root among her garments. Brynhild opened her shift and pressed his tiny mouth to her nipple, though it took a little experienced intervention by Murdina to see the child properly latched on and suckling hard.

Satisfied that all was well, Brynhild submitted to Murdina's continuing ministrations. As the older woman cleansed her spent body and dragged the soiled bedding away, Brynhild spared a look at Taranc. She noted the glistening in his forest-green eyes. On closer inspection of the downy head at her breast she knew the baby shared his brown hair, though the infant's eyes had yet to take on the brilliant hue of his father's irises. Or maybe he would take after her. In that moment it did not matter. Nothing mattered save that her baby was here, safe, healthy.

A boy. She had a son.

"What name shall we give him?" Brynhild looked to Taranc for guidance. "A Celt name, since he shall be chief here and lead his people. Our people."

"Then Morvyn. That was my father's name. If you are agreeable?"

She nodded. "Morvyn is an excellent choice. I believe our son shall make a fine chief."

Taranc merely nodded.