Page 19 of Her Rogue Viking
Brynhild made no further comment, though her bitter glower spoke volumes as she regarded Fiona with undisguised contempt. She turned on her heel and followed her brother from the room.
The Viking womanreturned after a few minutes with a bowl and a hunk of bread. She set those down on a low table beside the sleeping platform without so much as looking at Fiona.
“You will eat,” she announced.
Fiona was famished and reached for the bowl, but was disappointed to find it contained nothing but a greasy slop of some description. A broth, perhaps, though she could not determine what, if any, meat it contained. A few hunks ofhard carrot floated within, and slivers of turnip, but she could recognise nothing else. The soup was tepid, and the bread stale, but hunger drove Fiona to persevere with it.
She had managed to swallow perhaps half the fare when the curtain was swept aside and Brynhild returned, this time with a young lad in tow. He carried a large half-barrel, which he deposited on the floor at the foot of the sleeping platform. Two more youths arrived, each carrying two pails of water, which they emptied into the tub before retreating.
Her bath. Fiona attempted a tentative smile and thanked Brynhild. It would be good to feel clean once more. Perhaps she might contrive to wash her clothes too.
The Viking eyed her stonily and merely watched as all three lads trooped back and forth fetching water. When the tub was half full she dismissed them with a few words in her Norse tongue and turned to regard Fiona.
“You will undress and bathe. We have no use for a filthy Celt here.”
Fiona bristled, but knew better than to offer a retort. She perched on the edge of the platform, her injured foot resting on the floor, and wondered if she might request help in undressing. One glimpse of Brynhild’s unsympathetic countenance quelled that notion.
“Thank you. I… I believe I can manage.”
“I know that you can. Get on with it.”
“You must be busy. I would not wish to delay you…”
Brynhild leaned forward, her eyes glittering with menace. “I said, get on with it. Now. Or would you prefer I take a whip to you?”
“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 obeymeor become well acquainted with the whip.”
There was no point in protesting further. The woman’s baleful gaze was implacable and Fiona knew she would carry out her threat. It had been awful to be punished by Ulfric, but instinctively she had known he would do her no lasting harm. Brynhild was different. For some inexplicable reason the Viking woman had hated Fiona on sight. She would do well to fear her.
Fiona managed to stand and balanced on her good foot to pull her loose smock over her head. Under it she wore just a simple linen shift. She had not worn shoes since the previous evening when Ulfric had removed them to attend to her ankle so the cold earth chilled her bare feet. She shivered and willed the Norsewoman to retire and leave her to perform her ablutions alone.
It was not to be. Brynhild was going nowhere and after several moments Fiona pulled the shift over her head too. She stood naked before the other woman but for the binding that still protected her ankle and the shackle on her other foot.
“That too.” Brynhild pointed to the bandage.
Fiona sat back on the sleeping platform and reached down to unfasten the strip of linen from around her foot. The moment the binding loosened she was aware of the difference it had made. Her ankle throbbed angrily and Fiona blinked back tears.
“In the tub. Now.”
Fiona managed to hop the few feet to reach her bath and leaned over to grip the rim. No steam rose from the water. Miserably Fiona dipped her fingers in to test it. The water was freezing.
She turned to face Brynhild. “No, I cannot. It is too cold and?—”
“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.”
Already Fiona shivered from the chill in the room. The warmth of the fire did not penetrate the outer chambers, and with her few items of clothing now gone the cold seeped into her. She stood, balancing as best she might without putting her weight on her bad ankle, and regarded her tormentor.
Brynhild took a step forward, then another. She bent to scoop up Fiona’s discarded clothing.
