Chapter Seven

The next few days were uneventful. Brynhild was glad of the respite as it afforded her the welcome opportunity to seek refuge in her weaving, an activity she found both soothing and therapeutic. The repetitive labour gave her time to think, to plan, to calm her rattled nerves. She had been more distressed than she cared to admit over the near loss of her beloved nephew and even now, more than a sennight later, she shuddered at the recollection. Life could be so fleeting, so fragile. Her peace was shattered by the unexpected arrival of her brother, Gunnar, who descended upon them, his new family about him. The three Freysson siblings were close, but Gunnar preferred to maintain his own settlement a couple of days' ride to the north. He had grown up at Skarthveit and visited often, but not usually without warning.

"This is Mairead," her youngest brother announced with obvious pride when Ulfric and Brynhild strode out to greet him, to bid him welcome. "My bride of these past couple of months. And these are our children, Donald and Tyra." Brynhild was at a loss. Had both her brothers run completely mad? As if it was not enough that Ulfric had brought a Celtic bed-slave into their longhouse, the usually taciturn and serious Gunnar had actually gone a step further and taken a Celt as his wife!

What was more, the bride, Mairead, already had two children and Gunnar appeared determined upon treating them as his own.

"Welcome, sister." Ulfric barely missed a beat before leaning in to kiss the pale-featured Celt. "It is good to meet you. Please, come inside, take your rest. You must be tired after your journey."

At Ulfric's urging, Brynhild hurried to organise the feasting that would mark the family reunion. She would play her part, no one would find fault with her hospitality but she was not fooled by the effusive welcome. Ulfric had been as astonished as she was by the announcement of their brother's wedding, but had made the woman welcome, and of course that upstart Fiona had been falling over herself to befriend the jumped-up thrall.

Brynhild never would. Sister or no, this Mairead was a Celt, a slave, nothing more. Fiona, too, needed to learn her place. The sooner her idiot brothers came to their senses and stopped thinking with their dicks the better, and safer, their homes would be.

As well as news of his marriage, Gunnar brought worrying tidings from Hafrsfjord. For several years now their family had been embroiled in a blood feud with the Bjarkessons, their closest neighbours to the west. The two families had been close once. Ulfric's wife, Astrid, had been a Bjarkesson, and Brynhild had been betrothed to another. Her hopes of marriage had been dashed when Eirik Bjarkesson met an untimely end in a raiding expedition on Orkney, shortly after Astrid died of a sudden fever.

Brynhild missed Astrid dearly. She had always longed for a sister as she grew up, and when Astrid came to Skarthveit to wed her brother the pair became close. It was a natural enough development that Brynhild should accept the offer of marriage from Eirik, Astrid's cousin. Eirik was a year or so younger than Brynhild, and always put her in mind of a lively puppy. A large man, he was gentle and unassuming, eager to please and gave the impression of being utterly besotted with his bride to be though she knew the situation to be rather more complex than that. No matter, he would have made a fine, malleable husband, Brynhild had no doubt of it. Eirik had been exactly what she needed.

But it was not to be. Her failed hopes merely added to the bitter disappointment her life had become. Her brothers both urged her to consider other men and she was assured of an enviable bridal settlement were she to require it, but Brynhild refused to even discuss the matter. She was confident that in time she could have made something of Eirik, but another candidate might not be so obliging. She had no interest whatsoever in a man who would seek to take charge, to assert his authority, and to dominate his household as did her brothers. Brynhild had to be in charge, nothing less would suffice. Nothing less could be trusted to offer her the security and safety she craved.

The untimely and tragic deaths of both Astrid and Eirik had soured the relationship between the two families. Olaf Bjarkesson, their Jarl, blamed Ulfric for the death of Eirik since he had led the raid in which the younger man perished. And even more bizarrely, Olaf sought to suggest that Ulfric had actually poisoned his wife. It was ridiculous; Ulfric had loved Astrid and her death had caused him great anguish. Olaf was convinced, however, and nothing Ulfric did or said could dissuade him from his ill-conceived malice.

In the years since, Olaf Bjarkesson had made numerous attacks on the Freyssons. Their crops had been destroyed, sheep stolen, trade disrupted. And now their enemy appeared to be ready to escalate the feud yet further, according to Gunnar. Olaf had made no secret of his intentions as he blustered about Hafrsfjord telling all who would listen that he intended to bring Ulfric Freysson to his knees. He knew Gunnar heard his threats and would bring the news straight here to Skarthveit. A challenge had been issued .

Ulfric was no stranger to battle, but always preferred to choose his fights with care. From the outset he had sought to placate Olaf, to restore the peace with his neighbours, which had always served both sides well. They had prospered together, and this senseless fighting threatened to destroy them. Brynhild knew that Ulfric had more or less lost hope of finding a peaceful solution, but he was determined upon one final attempt. Gunnar had not long departed Skarthveit to return to his own settlement when Ulfric announced that he would go to Bjarkessholm one last time to offer reparation and seek to make peace with Olaf.

Bjarkessholm was a day's ride away so Ulfric would be gone for one night, possibly two. There had been a quarrel between her brother and his precious bed-thrall just before he left. Brynhild did not know what had caused it but had heard the unmistakable sounds of a hard spanking and Ulfric had left instructions that Fiona was not to leave the longhouse. Now the wench sat at her table, chopping vegetables, her features set and sullen, clearly fuming over some imagined slight.

How dare she? The girl was fortunate to have the favour of the Jarl. What had this Celt to complain of?

Brynhild observed from her loom, quietly fuming. She opened her mouth to issue a sharp rebuke but swallowed it at a pained squeal from Njal. The lad had been seated at the table sipping his mug of buttermilk but now he doubled over, clutching his stomach.

"My tummy hurts," he mewled, his small features scrunched in pain.

Brynhild abandoned her weaving and rushed to his side. She laid her palm on his forehead and winced. He was hot to the touch, clammy. A fever was the thing she most feared, having witnessed the speed with which Astrid lost her fight for life once the illness took hold.

Njal leaned forward and was violently sick, then lay on the bench shivering. Brynhild fought back her mounting panic and dismay as Hilla, the smallest of her house-thralls ran to fetch a mop.

"You, go get a pail in case he is sick again." The command was directed at Fiona who hurried to obey. Brynhild helped Njal from the table and carried him to his bed where she made him lie down. He did so without argument, his small body racked with huge shudders.

Brynhild wrung her hands in helpless terror. She had some knowledge of healing herbs, though her skills were scanty. She had heard somewhere that chamomile tea might help in such cases so for want of something better she set about preparing that.

Why did such a thing have to happen when Ulfric is away? Why do I always have to cope with things alone?

Hilla dealt with the mess on the floor and Fiona brought the bucket. Brynhild was oblivious to the rest of her household, her entire attention riveted on her sickly nephew. Not for the first time, she reflected on the fragility of life and how swiftly it could be snatched away. Children were the most vulnerable, so precious and so easily lost. Had Njal been rescued from the sea, only to succumb to disease just days later? Perhaps death refused to be cheated…

She did not know how long she sat beside the gasping, wheezing boy. He coughed from time to time, and continued to shiver despite the extra blankets that Brynhild piled upon him. He did not vomit again, and she wondered if perhaps that might be a good sign, but his face was pallid and his breathing shallow.

Brynhild had never been so scared in her life.

At last the demands of her own bladder forced her to abandon her place at Njal's side in order to use the privy. She hurried around the side of the longhouse and did what she must, then scurried back toward the door. The sight of Fiona standing out in the open and staring up into the night sky brought her up short.

The wench knows full well that she is confined to the longhouse. Can she not obey the simplest instructions, even now?

Brynhild's temper, always simmering as far as Fiona was concerned, boiled over in that moment of perceived defiance.

"You, what are you doing out here? My brother instructed you to remain inside."

The wench started, caught off guard by the sharp tone. Fiona muttered something about just stopping for a moment to look at the stars. Brynhild bristled further. Would that they all had time to pause and contemplate the heavens but some of them had real concerns to attend to. She could well do without disobedient thralls demanding her attention this evening, on top of everything else.

"Do you require another thrashing this day?" demanded Brynhild, her tone sharper than she intended. She knew perfectly well that Ulfric had forbidden her to lay a hand on the girl.

Fiona knew it too and did not hesitate to remind Brynhild of that fact. "You may not beat me. In any case, I was just coming in…"

Brynhild had heard enough. She would teach the insolent wench a lesson, and could easily do so without breaking Ulfric's rules. "Since you seem to enjoy the outdoors so much, perhaps I should allow you to remain here. I think a spell in the stocks will teach you the benefits of obedience."

Fiona staggered back as though Brynhild had actually struck her. She started to protest, but Brynhild had no time to listen. She needed to get back to Njal. A movement to her right caught her attention and she summoned the hovering Harald to her.

"See her set in the stocks, at once. Secure her well." The thrall's reluctance was obvious, but Brynhild was mistress here and would be obeyed. If Harald saw fit to argue he might take his place alongside the wench, a fact which she was quick to point out to him. Brynhild moved to pass the pair, stopping to issue her instructions to Harald.

"A half hour or so will be sufficient to teach her some manners. You will take charge. You know what you have to do. See to it. I am needed inside to tend to Njal as his sickness has worsened, but be assured I shall be back to check that you have done exactly as I have instructed."

Brynhild watched as Harald caught the struggling, pleading wench by the wrist and dragged her across the settlement to where their stocks were located at the rear of the forge. She did not follow to supervise the punishment. Harald was well aware of how this would go and she could leave it to him to release the girl when she had learnt her lesson. Satisfied, Brynhild dismissed the troublesome thrall from her mind and hurried back indoors to take up her vigil beside her nephew.

The chamomile tea had made little difference. Perhaps if she were to sacrifice one of their finest goats her nephew might be spared. She was ready to try anything.

Njal's fever broke after an hour. Brynhild could have wept with relief. She remained at his side, stroking his damp hair and muttering her thanks to the goddess Freya who she was sure must have interceded for them in return for the promise of the goat. It was a good bargain, one she would be happy to keep.

Exhausted, Brynhild got to her feet and stretched. It was late, very late, and the longhouse was silent but for the soft breathing of Hilla asleep on her pallet by the fire pit and Njal's occasional snuffles.

An icy trickle of unease snaked down her spine. It was too quiet. What was wrong? Something—someone—was missing.

The girl! Had Harald brought her back indoors? He must have, though Brynhild could not recall hearing them enter. Her heart in her mouth, Brynhild rushed to peer behind the curtain that separated her brother's sleeping chamber from the rest of the longhouse. The bed was empty.

"Oh, sweet Freya…" murmured Brynhild as she grabbed her cloak and flung it about her shoulders. Surely Harald had released the wench by now. He knew he was supposed to leave her in the stocks for no longer than half an hour, she had told him that quite specifically.

How long had it been? An hour? Closer to two, she acknowledged as she flung open the door.

Brynhild was shoved roughly back into the dwelling as the large and clearly enraged form of her brother rushed past, his bed-slave in his arms. The wench was limp and pale. Brynhild's beart sank.

Harald! I will flay the skin from his back for this.

"Ulfric, you are here…"

He glared at her, his expression little short of murderous.

Brynhild stood, rooted to the spot. "Brother, I can explain. She was—"

"Not a word, Brynhild. Not a fucking word. I have heard enough from you."

Brynhild reached for his elbow, anxious to explain that the matter was not as it first appeared, but Ulfric shook her off.

"Leave us. I shall hear an account of this in the morning, and believe me, Brynhild, there will be a reckoning."

He left her there and disappeared into his chamber with the wench. Brynhild spun on her heel, paused to check once more on Njal who had somehow managed to sleep through the entire commotion, then she stalked from the longhouse in search of Harald. By Odin he would regret his part in this night's work.

Harald was nowhere to be found. Not that night, or the following morning. Brynhild discovered he had passed a good portion of the night with Adelburga, a Saxon slave with whom he was inclined to spend his rare moments of leisure. She had to assume that he had seen an opportunity when, for reasons only he might fathom, he had believed his absence would not be noted, and he had taken it. According to a tearful Adelburga, Harald had fled her cottage on hearing the enraged Jarl bellowing for assistance when Ulfric returned and discovered Fiona. She had no idea where he went.

Brynhild racked her brains. She went over and over the conversation with Harald and was quite certain she had made her instructions clear to him. Even had she not, Harald knew as well as she did that no one should be left outside in the stocks overnight as Ulfric now seemed convinced had been her intention.

His mission to make peace with the Bjarkessons had met with implacable hostility from the moment he arrived at their settlement and Ulfric had quickly determined that the entire errand was futile. He had abandoned the attempt and left at once for home, arriving in the middle of the night. Despite Brynhild's assertion that he was wrong, he remained convinced that had he not changed his plans, Fiona would have died.

That was ludicrous, it would be tantamount to murder and Brynhild Freysson would not stoop to such an act of cowardice. She was confident that her brother would realise that, once he calmed down and saw matters more clearly.

Brynhild explained to him that Njal had been ill, and that she had been distracted by that or she would have noticed Harald's dereliction of his duty much earlier. The girl had been badly frightened, Brynhild would allow that, but no real harm was done. She would have released the girl herself. Indeed, she was on her way to do exactly that when her brother barged past her into the longhouse. Ulfric had simply arrived before she did, that was all. After his initial rage had calmed, Ulfric became oddly silent on the matter. He listened to her account, but asked few questions and Brynhild knew he did not believe her. No matter, he would come around. She was telling the truth. Why would she lie?

Fiona was not the only one deeply shocked. Brynhild was no fool, and she knew that the incident might have ended differently. Had Njal's fever not broken, had Ulfric not returned, it was by now clear that Harald would not have done as he should and the wench might well have perished. That had not happened, but Brynhild was ready to admit, at least to herself, that it had been a near thing.

This could not continue. Brynhild was a grown woman, mistress of this settlement. She had duties, responsibilities, and she could not continue to allow her dislike of this wench to control her actions. Her fear and loathing of the Celts was real enough, but at some level Brynhild knew it to be irrational and based upon childish concerns. She could not let her adult life be ruled by events that took place when she was but fourteen years of age.

She was a Viking, a woman of the Jarl and she was better than this.