Chapter Two

"Hilla, be quick now. The turnips will not peel themselves." With a groan and a hand pressed to her aching back, Brynhild Freysson straightened from stirring the huge pot suspended above the fire pit in her brother's longhouse. The broth was bubbling well. It would make a fine meal for when Ulfric returned, and according to the news from Hafrsfjord he could be expected within hours. It was her responsibility to ensure that all was in readiness, not least a nourishing meal on the table to welcome him home.

"I am coming, mistress." The breathless tones of a small maidservant reached her through the open door. Brynhild stepped over to see what was causing the delay. A slender girl of perhaps fourteen summers, though Brynhild was not entirely certain, struggled toward her threshold dragging a large sack. The bag was almost as big as the wench, and put up quite a fight as the servant sought to drag it across the rough earth beyond the longhouse. Brynhild rushed to aid her.

"What are you doing? I told you to leave the grain where it was until one of the men was free to help." Together they managed to pull the load into the longhouse, Brynhild shouldering most of the strain .

The girl was unrepentant. "We need to get on with grinding it, mistress. There is bread to make, and—"

"Even so, it was too heavy for you. Go and sit down, peel the turnips for the pot and get your breath back." The girl might have protested, but a glower from her mistress was sufficient to quell such foolishness. It usually was. Brynhild had been chatelaine of this settlement for long enough now to be able to command her house thralls with ease. Satisfied that the lass was more appropriately occupied, Brynhild glanced up as a male thrall entered. "Harald, this sack needs storing with the rest. Could you see to it, please?"

The man, a blond-haired Saxon of perhaps twenty or so hoisted the sack of grain onto his shoulder and strode across the longhouse to the store at the far end. He whistled as he went about his work, and winked at Hilla as he sauntered from the low dwelling.

"Where is he going now?" Brynhild wondered aloud as the door swung behind the slave.

"I think he has a sweetheart, mistress," confided the girl at the table who now wielded a sharp knife and was peeling vegetables with a deft skill.

"I know full well he has," muttered Brynhild. She would let the matter ride, as long as Harald's dalliance did not interfere with the smooth running of her domestic arrangements. She had learnt from an early age that contented thralls served their masters well. As long as he did his portion of the work, Harald could sow his oats with any willing female of his own class.

Brynhild took a seat beside Hilla and set to on peeling the vegetables. The work was soon finished and the turnips added to the pot.

"Go bring that fleece we are combing, Hilla. We shall use the rest of the daylight to tease out wool for dyeing." The girl ran to fetch the bale of unwashed, tangled wool, fresh from the sheep, and they settled themselves by the open door to drag their sharp metal combs through the oily strands. The longhouse had been constructed, as was customary, with no windows in order to preserve warmth and keep out the damp, so the open doorway and the fire pit provided the only illumination. The fire was never allowed to go out, whatever the season, but natural light was preferred for close work such as this.

The pair worked in quiet companionship for the next couple of hours, and Brynhild enjoyed the gentle warmth of the late summer afternoon. A soft breeze played about her ankles, lifting the hem of her loose woollen over-tunic. As a woman of the Jarl, the noble class in Viking society, Brynhild was well-dressed, her clothing fashioned of brightly coloured linens and soft wool. She had woven the fabrics herself, her skill at the loom something of a legend among those who knew her. Most of the blankets and other woollen items at Skarthveit, her brother's thriving settlement on the Nordic coast, were her work and she took great pride in it. None would be cold or hungry here. Not under her management.

For the last three years she had been in charge of her brother's domestic arrangements, including the care of his young son, Njal. The boy was just five summers of age, and had been motherless since Ulfric's wife, Astrid, succumbed to a fever some three years previously. Brynhild's own betrothed had perished at around the same time, the victim of an ill-fated raiding assault on Orkney. Her own future in tatters, it had seemed natural enough that she would return to Ulfric's household to take her sister-in-law's place. She had lived almost her entire life at Skarthveit and here she remained.

Brynhild's thoughts turned to the new influx of thralls expected in the coming days. Her brothers, Ulfric and Gunnar, had led a raiding expedition to the land of the Celts in search of fine, strong slaves. She had no doubt of their success. The new thralls would arrive a day or so after her brother, having made their journey from the port at Hafrsfjord on foot whereas Ulfric would ride. She sighed, and wished she might have been successful in convincing them to seek their new workers elsewhere. Anywhere but Scotland.

Brynhild loathed Celts. She found them untrustworthy, dishonest, duplicitous, and frankly dangerous. None of her house thralls were from the land of the Celts; she would not tolerate such worthless individuals within her home and she would have preferred to have none of them anywhere at Skarthveit. Still, she supposed the location of the slave quarters at the foot of the lower meadow would provide sufficient distance to separate the vile creatures from her. It had better be.

Ulfric required the extra labour to build a new granary. Brynhild well understood the necessity; they needed to store food over the winter and many hungry mouths depended on it. The existing one was too small and overrun with vermin. She had no quarrel with the project, nor with the seizing of slaves to accomplish it. This was the Viking way, it served them well and the thralls would be well-fed and cared for. They would resent their captivity, that was inevitable, but such was the way of things and Skarthveit was better than many settlements. Her brother was a decent, fair-minded Jarl. He had been taught well by their father, as had she. They took care of their own.

But not Celts. Celts did not count.

Brynhild had pleaded with her brothers to sail further south, to the English shores. Saxons made good workers, biddable, diligent. They were worth the extra day's sailing. Ulfric would have probably heeded her advice, but Gunnar was having none of it. He had raided this particular Celtic village before, a few months previously. The slaves they needed were to be found there and he was determined that this was the right target. Brynhild's protests fell on deaf ears and the raid was planned according to Gunnar's wishes.

Tomorrow, she would go down to the slave quarters to ensure that all was in readiness. Celts or not, that was her responsibility, to ensure that their accommodations were weatherproof and supplied with the necessities required—firewood, basic food and drink, a few blankets. She preferred to do her final checks before the new occupants arrived, and from there on would endeavour to avoid them as best she could.

"Lady, they are here." Harald yelled at her from across the settlement, pointing to the hills to the south. "See? Coming through the pass, there?"

Brynhild stood and shaded her eyes against the lowering sun. She could just discern the movement in the distance, several horses picking their way down the coastal track leading from the mountains that divided the upper slopes of their land from the lower plains.

"Ready the stables," instructed Brynhild. "Hilla, make sure the broth is ready, and put new loaves in the ovens now. They shall have fresh bread when they get here. Where is Njal?"

"Here, Aunt Brynhild. I am here." The small boy bobbed beside her, dancing from one foot to the other in his excitement. "My father is home. I see him."

"Yes, I do too." Brynhild bent to hug the little boy. "You can show him how well you have done with your swordplay whilst he has been away."

"I shall go with him, next time he goes raiding."

"Aye, perhaps," acknowledged Brynhild doubtfully. "Though maybe he will need you to look after things here at his home. He trusts you more than he does anyone else, you know that."

"I know, but…"

"Good lad. Would you like to wait indoors? Maybe you should have your sword ready to demonstrate your progress when he arrives."

"I must go and look for it." The lad grinned and charged back into the longhouse as Brynhild turned her attention to the approaching convoy.

* * *

Ulfric and his party clattered into the village less than an hour later. Her brother was surrounded by a dozen or so of his trusted karls, but it was the small figure seated before him on his stallion who held Brynhild's attention. She peered at the odd sight from her vantage point just within the longhouse.

The girl was beautiful, in a wild and vaguely barbarian sort of way. Her hair was dark, darker than any Brynhild could ever recall, and she was slender. It was difficult to see how tall the wench was, though Brynhild thought not overly so. Her brother's arm was wrapped around the woman's middle in a manner Brynhild found disconcertingly possessive. The female was not a Viking, that much was obvious, not even of the karl class. A thrall, surely, so what, then, was she doing seated upon Ulfric's stallion and riding right into the heart of Skarthveit with him?

She was still contemplating this unexpected twist in affairs when Njal rushed past her with whoops of joy. The boy burst from the longhouse and charged at his father, who had now dismounted and aided the woman from the horse too. She clung to Ulfric as though she might fall over were she to let him go. Ulfric, too, seemed to share the sentiment and did not relinquish his grip on her as he bent to hug his son one-handed. He lifted the boy high and laughed as Njal's arms clamped around his neck. Ulfric spoke to the lad, and Njal glanced at the pale-faced woman standing at his father's side. The little boy bestowed one of his gap-toothed grins on the newcomer, and she managed a tremulous smile in return. At once Brynhild was seized by an unfamiliar wave of bitter resentment. Who is this foreign wench and what is she doing at my door?

"Ulfric, you have returned. I am so pleased to see you back, safe and well." Slowly and with all the dignity she might summon in such circumstances, Brynhild emerged from the sanctuary of the longhouse. She stood on the threshold, her hands folded at her waist and assumed an air of bemused curiosity as she regarded her brother's companion. "Who are you?" Brynhild directed her question at the stranger but the inquiry was met with a blank stare.

Ulfric answered for the wench. "She does not speak our tongue, Brynhild. This is Fiona, a captive taken from the land of the Britons."

Of the Celts, more like. Her brother knew of her aversion to that race and sought to soften the blow. It would not work.

"A thrall? Then I shall see to it that she is taken to the thrall's hall at once. When will the rest be arriving?" Brynhild did not speak the fluent Gaelic which her brother had mastered, but could manage a clumsy rendition of that tongue, which she had picked up from servants when she was a child. She switched to this now to ensure that the interloper was left in no doubt as to her status at Skarthveit.

Ulfric's features did not slip. "She is to live here, with us."

"What? Why?" Astonished and horrified in equal measure, Brynhild lapsed into her own tongue once again.

"Because she is mine. My slave. She will serve me, and assist you in the care of my son."

"Our boy has no need of the services of a Celtic whore." Brynhild delivered this insult in Gaelic, and took pleasure in the start of shock that swept the other woman's ashen features.

"Watch your tongue, Brynhild." The admonishment from her brother stung, and Brynhild's anger seethed even more. Ulfric continued. "Fiona is to be treated well under our roof. And now, she is injured and has need of rest, food, and water in which to bathe. I trust I may leave those details to you?"

He expected her to actually serve this creature? Despite her resentment, Brynhild was left with little option at that moment. She snorted in disdain and turned on her heel. "Follow me, thrall."

The girl did not move, and suddenly Ulfric picked her up and carried her past Brynhild into their home. He marched through the main hall of the longhouse and past the trailing woven curtain that divided his own sleeping quarters from the rest of the dwelling. He did not stop until he reached his own bed, where he laid the Celtic wench as though she were the finest Jarl maiden.

Brynhild followed, and paused by the curtain. Foot tapping, she watched in mounting irritation as Ulfric settled the wench among the blankets and furs. Her brother turned to glance in her direction.

"You will bring food, and have a bath brought in here."

"I am to fetch and carry for a worthless Celt now, am I? You insult me, brother."

"You are to do as I ask, and at this time that means providing my property with food and seeing to her comfort. I shall return soon, when I have made certain that the new slave hut is ready."

It was on the tip of Brynhild's tongue to inform him that he had no need whatsoever to check on the slave quarters. Had he not left that matter in her own capable hands? Did he imagine that she had become derelict in her duty whilst he was away seizing Celtic whores and bringing them back to install in her home? Her eyes narrowed but she held her tongue… for now.

Ulfric rose. He spoke to the girl on the bed. "My sister will see to your needs. She runs this household so you will obey her as you would me. You understand the consequences if I have cause for complaint?"

At least this was something. The girl would soon learn her place, Brynhild would make sure of it. And if she had anything to say on the matter, the wench would soon be gone.

Brynhild Freysson was not about to share her home with a Celt, and if her fool of a brother thought otherwise, he had much to learn.

Ulfric strode from the sleeping chamber, Brynhild at his heels. He marched outside, accompanied by a chattering Njal.

Brynhild paused for a few moments to collect her thoughts. A Celt? Ulfric had taken a Celt as a house slave. What was he thinking? Surely he realised how dangerous they were, how unreliable. That could none of them sleep safe in their beds as long as such vile creatures lived among them. It was too much, just too much…

In a near daze, Brynhild set Hilla to collecting the necessities for a crude meal. At her instructions a bowl of broth was drawn from the simmering pot then left to cool and congeal on the table, carefully devoid of any meat or decent chunks of vegetables. A lump of stale bread was retrieved from the bottom of the bag where offcuts were stored.

Brynhild was tempted to have Hilla carry it into the bedchamber, but decided to do so herself. She dumped the unappetising fare beside the bed. "You will eat," she announced in a curt Gaelic, but she did not remain long enough to see if her instruction was obeyed. She had no desire to so much as look at the girl.

Back in the main hall she sank onto the bench beside the long table that ran the length of the central portion of the dwelling.

"Lady, shall I take in the bathwater?"

"What?" Brynhild twisted in her seat to regard Harald. The young man stood before her, his expression puzzled.

"The Jarl said that the new thrall is to have a bath. Shall I carry the water into the chamber now, lady? I have some heating, down there…" He gestured to the fire pit where a second cauldron now hung, light wisps of steam starting to rise above the brim.

"Oh, yes… No!" Brynhild straightened on the bench and scowled at the curtain that concealed the object of her anger as an idea formed. If Ulfric could not be convinced that the wench should rest elsewhere, then maybe the girl herself might be brought to that conclusion. She could have a bath, but not one she would enjoy overmuch. Brynhild pr omised herself that it would not take long before this Fiona was demanding to be allowed to reside with the other Celts in the slave quarters. She would be out of Brynhild's way soon enough.

"Yes, take the bathtub into my brother's sleeping chamber and fill it with water. But not from there. Take the water from the river."

"The river, lady? But it will be too cold…"

"It will be absolutely fine. Just right, in fact. Do as you are told, Harald. You will need help; get a couple of others to aid you or you will be at it all evening." She knew that Ulfric would not be more than an hour or so at the slave quarters so she really needed to get this done quickly.

Harald frowned at her, obviously troubled by her unusual instructions. She did not blame him. Even thralls were treated well here, he would not be able to comprehend her reasons for behaving otherwise now. She could barely comprehend them herself, but was not about to start examining her motives and certainly she would not be questioned by her servants.

"Get on with it. Do as you are told or your next dunking will be equally frigid."

Brynhild watched in haughty silence as Harald and two other thralls trooped past her carrying buckets of cold water drawn direct from the river that skirted their village. Once or twice one of the servants would slide her a sidelong glance of reproach; thralls tended to stick together, after all. Brynhild met their impotent protest with a narrow-eyed scowl.

"The bath is full, lady."

"Thank you, Harald. Now, would you please bring me some ice from the cooling pit, if we have some." She knew full well they did. Every winter she would have her thralls cut large lumps of ice and drop them into a deep pit at the rear of the village. Even in the summer the ice store remained chilled and the ice did not entirely melt. The cold pit offered a good way of storing perishable food, and this evening would deliver up the final flourish for her intended treatment of this intruder in her home.

As Harald left to do her bidding, Brynhild returned to her brother's chamber.

The wench still lay on the bed. Her deep grey eyes darkened as Brynhild entered. This was good, it showed she did at least possess the wit to fear her. As she should.

"You will undress and bathe. We have no use for a filthy Celt here." Brynhild spoke in her halting Gaelic, but had no doubt that the wench took her meaning clearly enough.

She perched on the edge of the bed and looked up at Brynhild as though expecting to be left in privacy to go about her ablutions. She would learn.

"Thank you. I… I believe I can manage." The wench had the temerity to seek to dismiss her.

Brynhild's lip quirked. "I know that you can. Get on with it."

"You must be busy. I would not wish to delay you…"

"I said, get on with it. Now. Or would you prefer I take a whip to you?" Brynhild could not quite recall the last time she had taken a whip to a thrall, probably never, but the Celt was not to know that.

"A whip? But…"

"You are nothing but a dirty little slave. A whore-thrall. Do not think I would hesitate to show you what happens to worthless little sluts who disobey their betters."

"Ulfric would not—"

"You heard what my brother said. I run this home, you will obey me or become acquainted with the whip." Brynhild was not entirely certain where the menace in her tone came from, nor the vile words she hurled at this hated Celt. At some level Brynhild knew she was acting unreasonably. The girl was injured, after all, and had offered her no harm. Irrational hatred was proving to be a potent motive, however, and Brynhild found she was unable to mitigate her resolve. She would see this through, and with luck the wench would soon beg to be allowed to live with the other slaves.

She watched as the girl struggled to remove her clothing. First the loose smock, then the linen shift. The girl wore no shoes, so soon stood naked before Brynhild apart from the bandage that bound her injured ankle.

How had she been hurt? Ulfric had not said. It was of no consequence in any case. Brynhild shrugged. "That too." She pointed at the bandage and was gratified by the ready obedience that met her command.

"In the tub," she ordered, gesturing to the frigid water. The wench had not yet realised the temperature and rose unsteadily to her feet to approach the bath. Brynhild could have almost felt pity for the Celt when the awful truth hit her. The girl leaned forward to dip her fingers in the water then turned to face her.

"No, I cannot. It is too cold and—"

Brynhild felt a momentary flutter of sympathy at the girl's stricken features but quashed that hard. A cold bath was unpleasant, but would do her no real harm. "Get in or I shall have my other thralls come back and help you. My brother wishes you to be clean, and we will not disappoint him, will we?"

"He did not intend this…"

"Of course he did. Do you imagine we treat our slaves to a hot bath? You are fortunate not to be made to wash in the river, you filthy little slut."

Brynhild scooped up Fiona's discarded clothing and determined that this matter had better be concluded quickly now. "These will be burnt. I shall count to five, then if you are not submerged to the shoulders in your bath I shall summon thralls to ensure your obedience."

The wench protested, reaching for her filthy clothing and declaring it her intention to wash the garments herself. Brynhild stepped back out of reach and started to count. The girl continued to plead, but Brynhild detected the resignation and defeat now permeating her words. The Celt knew when she was beaten, and Brynhild watched in silent satisfaction as she slowly lowered her shivering body into the frigid water.

Brynhild winced, but did not relent. The wench perched in the tub, her back to Brynhild.

"Lower. I want your shoulders under too."

"I c-c-cannot. The tub is not big enough…"

"Maybe you need more water. Shall I have more brought in?"

This was sufficient encouragement for the girl to slide further into the tub until her shoulders were also submerged. Brynhild flung a rough cloth into the water and ordered her to wash. She even insisted that the girl rinse her matted hair, though she did not offer her any soap.

A movement by the curtain caught her eye. Brynhild turned. Harald stood there, his eyes fixed on the shivering form in the bath. He bore a pail in each hand. The ice. She had nearly forgotten that. She dismissed the thrall with a curt nod and picked up the first bucket.

"Sit up now," she ordered. The girl complied, her shoulders hunched and her head bowed. She knew what was coming, and that she was powerless to resist. Brynhild lifted the pail over the Celt's head and slowly, deliberately, she deposited the icy contents over the narrow shoulders. The girl sucked in a sharp hiss of breath and went rigid. Brynhild set down the empty pail and lifted the next one. That, too, she emptied over the shivering girl.

"You may get out now."

Her work here was done. Brynhild turned on her heel and left.

* * *

What had she been thinking of?

Brynhild sat at the table, a hank of rough wool between her fingers. She dragged her comb against it ineffectually, painfully aware of the shocked, accusing glances of her house thralls. Hilla sat in silence, her horror at the treatment of the newest thrall near palpable. Harald, too, was sullen and responded in monosyllables when she spoke to him. Brynhild could not blame either of them. Now that her fit of malicious spite was over, she was ashamed of her vengeful cruelty to a defenceless slave.

Regrets were pointless; what was done was done. She could not undo her actions, but would try to be more rational in her future dealings with the girl. She hoped those dealings would not be prolonged. Surely Ulfric would soon see that this situation was impossible, intolerable in fact. This was her home, her longhouse. She was his sister, his family. Ulfric loved her, he needed her. A bed-slave was nothing, worthless, dispensable. The sooner her fool of a brother stopped thinking with his dick and saw the truth of that, the better.

She muttered an exasperated curse and left the longhouse. She needed to get some air.

It was not many minutes before Harald arrived, panting at her heels. "Lady, the Jarl has returned. He wishes to speak with you. He is… I mean, he did not…"

"Thank you, Harald." Brynhild had little doubt what her brother would be thinking, and she knew she had to face him sooner rather than later. He would have plenty to say regarding his precious little Celt and he was not alone in that. She, too, had matters she wished to air and there was no time like the present. She followed Harald back to the longhouse, her chin tilted high.

He made her wait. Ulfric was closeted in his sleeping chamber with the wench, and had left instructions that he was not to be disturbed. The sounds of lovemaking, unmistakable and sensuous, drifted from behind the fluttering barrier. Brynhild gritted her teeth. The wench might have been less than happy at the start of this encounter with Ulfric, but matters had clearly taken a turn for the better. Left with no option but to bide her time until her brother was finished, Brynhild simmered with resentment as she resumed her distracted combing of the unwashed wool, then moved to work at her loom. Weaving usually soothed her; she loved the colours and the soft feel of the wool between her fingers, the magic as the pattern formed under her skilled hands. Not this day. This day she snapped her weft and tangled her yarns, and eventually tossed her spindle away with an impatient curse.

At that moment Ulfric chose to emerge from his chamber. Brynhild looked up from her mangled work, looked past him to the bed where the slave still lay. Their eyes met, the grey darkening in fear. Brynhild should be more satisfied at the trepidation she had caused; this was, after all, what she had set out to achieve. Instead, she just felt bitter anger and disappointment at her brother's insensitivity, coupled with an awful sense that her ordered little world was no longer the safe haven she had thought it to be.

Ulfric stepped forth and allowed the curtain to drop behind him.

"What the fuck was that about?"

"She… I—" Rarely was Brynhild lost for words, but she could find no ready explanation. Exasperated, she signalled for the reproachful house thralls to leave the dwelling then turned to face her brother.

"I do not want her here." Inadequate, she knew. It was all she had.

"But I do, so the matter is settled." Ulfric folded his arms and leaned back against one of the central pillars that ran the length of the longhouse. "What possessed you, sister? This is not like you, to ill treat those weaker than yourself."

"She is a Celt. I do not like Celts, and I will not have one here. This is my home, and—"

"Enough." Ulfric halted her protests with one upraised hand. "The girl is harmless, and she has done nothing to you. I will have your word that she is not to be mistreated further, and that will be the end of it." He waited, an eyebrow raised in determined expectation. Never given to deliberate falsehood, Brynhild merely shook her head and turned away, refusing to offer any such undertaking.

"Brynhild, you will not ignore my command. I shall have your word."

"No, you shall not," she spat back. "This is my house, my servants. I shall run the household as I see fit."

"Where has this callousness come from? I cannot believe this of you, sister. It makes no sense."

"Then you are more stupid than I imagined." Anger and defiance loosened her tongue. "You know how I feel about those… those…"

"Celts?" Ulfric offered the word quietly but Brynhild knew his tone belied a growing anger. "And this is my house, not yours. You will do as I say, run it according to my wishes. And you will keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak to me."

"Or what?" Outrage and indignation drove her now and she flung caution to the winds. "What will you do, brother?"

"Do not test me, Brynhild."

"If I am to run this house with the efficiency you set such store by as a rule then discipline is my responsibility."

Ulfric shook his head in disbelief. "You know my wishes on this matter and you would do well to heed them. Treat the wench well from now on."

"But—"

"Leave her alone," he warned. "She is mine, and I will not have her harmed."

Brynhild tried another tack. "Why? Why is she here? If you do not care for me, what of Njal? What of Astrid?"

"This does not concern Astrid—"

"Your wife, the mother of your son. How can you say it does not concern her?" Brynhild had been fond of her sister-in-law and she was reasonably certain that Ulfric had cared deeply for his late wife. Had Astrid lived, there would have been no interloping Celtic bed-slave brought to their home.

"Astrid is gone. I loved her, but she is dead and we must move on. "

Why? Why must anything change?

Even as she harboured this ridiculous notion, Brynhild sought to convince Ulfric of the error of his ways. "You should wed another, provide Njal with a mother, more brothers and sisters. Not move some… some worthless Celtic slut into our home."

"I prefer it if you do not refer to her thus." Ulfric sounded tired, and Brynhild knew she was dismissed. He had not heard her, did not see why this matter was of such concern.

Why are all men such unfeeling pigs?

"I do not want her here. It is not right, not… not…"

He rounded on her, his expression exasperated. "Why does it matter so much to you? She is just a wench to fuck. Not important. I am warning you, leave her be, Brynhild." He slammed the door as he left.

Brynhild sank into her usual seat at the table, and she wept.