“Fiona, this is my son. His name is Njal. He is five summers of age.”
“I… I see.” She managed a tentative smile. The boy did seem pleasant enough, even if he did hop from one foot to the other, clearly eager to be off.
“Apart from your duties in my personal service, you will assist in Njal’s care also.”
She could do that. Fiona liked children. “Yes, Ulfric.”
“When we are alone you may use my given name. When others are present you will refer to me asJarl. That is my title here.”
“Of course.”
The lad babbled something at his father and Ulfric smiled in response. He nodded and the lad shot off across the forecourt in the direction of one of the other huts.
“I am to be treated to a demonstration of his prowess with the battle axe. First though?—”
“Ulfric, you have returned. I am so pleased to see you back, safe and well.”
A woman had also emerged from the longhouse, unnoticed in their preoccupation with Njal. She now approached, a puzzled half-smile playing on her stunning features. The woman was beautiful, quite simply breath-taking. She was perhaps an inch or two taller than Fiona, slender though without any hint of fragility, and was blessed with curves to match. Her hair was arranged into two fat braids that hung over each shoulder and was so blonde it was almost white. Her eyes were intelligent, calculating, a dark shade of blue that looked almost amethyst to Fiona. The woman was finely dressed in a loose smock of fine yellow cotton and a woollen shawl of reds and greens. Fiona’s own clothing had been dowdy by comparison even before herordeal commenced and her garments were now hopelessly tattered and dirty. She could only stare at the image of feminine perfection who now stood before her, assessing and finding Fiona sorely wanting.
“Hvat heitir bu?” The question was directed at Fiona.
“She does not speak our tongue, Brynhild. This is Fiona, a captive taken from the land of the Britons.”
“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?” The woman had switched to a form of Gaelic. She was not fluent like Ulfric, but Fiona could just about follow her speech.
“She is to live here, with us.”
“Hvi?” The woman, Brynhild lapsed into her own tongue and Fiona surmised the use of Gaelic had been a deliberate attempt to frighten her. Instinctively Fiona knew that Brynhild would make herself understood when it suited her, and not otherwise.
“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.” Gaelic again.
Our boy?Oh, dear sweet Lord, the woman must be Ulfric’s wife. At least now the Viking woman’s undisguised hostility made better sense. Fiona wished to simply be swallowed up by the earth at her feet.
“Watch your tongue, Brynhild. 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?”
Brynhild snorted her disdain and turned on her heel. “Follow me, thrall.”
Fiona started forward, but could not get so much as one foot in front of the other before Ulfric swept her into his arms again. He carried her into the longhouse in Brynhild’s wake. Fionabarely had time to register a few details though she looked about her with curiosity.
The entrance led into a large central space, thick with smoke from the fire, which burned in a fire pit that ran down the middle. Two rows of wooden pillars divided the hall lengthways into three sections, and the parts closest to the two long walls were divided again to provide smaller chambers. Curtains of hanging skins marked the boundaries, but Fiona supposed these afforded a modicum of privacy.
A large cauldron hung over the fire pit and wisps of steam floated from within its depths. A variety of herbs and meats hung from the rafters, so it was clear this central hall served as kitchen as well as main living area. The fumes from the fire drifted upward to collect in the roof space, and from there they would eventually find their way through the tightly bound thatch to the outside. The room was warm, but gloomy too as the only light came from the fire and the doorway. She supposed more illumination would have called for the sacrifice of heat and in this frigid climate that was not really an option.
The main item of furniture was a long table situated in the main hall with benches down each side. There were also shelves against the walls in some of the outer cubicles and these were loaded with cooking pots and other household items. Several storage trunks were arranged around the edges of the hall and Fiona assumed these to contain valuables, or perhaps items of clothing and bed linens.
Ulfric strode straight across the central area and shouldered his way past a length of cloth suspended from the rafters at one end. The cloth served as a curtain to divide off this entire section, and here Fiona saw a raised platform covered with furs. This must be Ulfric’s sleeping chamber, his bed. Sure enough, he laid her upon it and turned to face the woman who now stood besidethe curtain, her arms folded and her foot tapping on the earth floor.
Ulfric ignored the woman’s angry demeanour. “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.”
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. And made a proper inspection of Njal’s progress in my absence, of course.” He made to pass Brynhild in the entrance to his sleeping chamber, but paused to cast a glance back at Fiona. “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?”
“Yes, Ulfric,” muttered Fiona.
