Page 43 of Her Rogue Viking
“Visitors? Who?” Brynhild laid down her shuttle. “We have salted mutton in the stores, and there is some good cod…”
“Well, set it over the stove. Quickly now, they are almost here.”
“Who?”
“Our brother approaches over the south meadow. He has men with him and others of his household.”
“How many?” Already Brynhild was rushing to inspect her barrels of fermented mead and baskets of produce harvested in recent weeks. Beans, turnips, carrots—Ulfric knew she would complain and fuss, but there would be ample for all. Brynhild’s hospitality was second to none.
“A dozen, perhaps a couple more. Fiona, you will assist with the food since you have some aptitude for cooking. We will serve it in here…” His instructions issued, he wheeled around to make his way down to the edge of the settlement to greet his brother.
Gunnar’s visits were infrequent, and Ulfric was always glad to see him though the pair would argue and bait each other without mercy during the entire encounter. It was as well they did not share a home, they would tear each other apart, but he could survive an occasional foray into the battlefield of filial affection.
His brother’s dark figure was instantly recognisable at the head of the troop of men who rode toward Skarthveit. They had two wagons with them also. Perhaps his brother had thought to bring supplies to replenish those he and his men would undoubtedly diminish during the course of his stay. As the convoy neared, Ulfric could see that the carts carried more people. Women? Children? More mouths to feed, as Brynhild would without doubt observe soon enough. His sister was not as close to Gunnar as he was, but the two got along well enough and he knew Brynhild would not begrudge the fare though she would have plenty to say. She always did.
“Brother, what brings you here? Am I to assume those hovels and caves you choose to inhabit are becoming too chilly for your old bones?” he called out to Gunnar as soon as the other man was within earshot. Gunnar’s own settlement lay perhaps two days’ ride to the north and whilst his accommodations might be rougher that those at Skarthveit, to describe his brother’s longhouse as a hovel or cave was stretching the truth somewhat, but such a detail would never deter Ulfric.
“Nay, but I thought we might descend upon you to while away a pleasant evening or two afore the winter sets in. Failing that, I can always pour ale down your gullet and best you at cards.”
Gunnar slid from his horse and wrapped Ulfric in a tight hug. As ever, his brother was clad in a black leather tunic and trousers, his stout boots laced high above his knees. A thick cloak made of a ram’s fleece hung about his muscular body, held in place at the shoulder with an ornately fashioned pin. It would appear his brother continued to prosper from his raiding expeditions across the cold northern seas. Ulfric returned the hug and the pair turned to walk back in the direction of his longhouse.
“How fares our sweet sister? Still not wed?”
Ulfric shook his head. “Alas, no.”
“And that lad of yours? Does he continue to sprout up faster than a weed?”
“Aye, he does well. I near enough lost him a sennight ago though. He fell in the fjord, had to be dragged out by one of my thralls. It was lucky the man was to hand and acted quickly.”
Gunnar paused to regard his brother. “By Odin! How did that happen?”
“A big wave? The rocks were slippery. I could not say for sure, but it was a close thing. First Astrid, and Eirik, we could not bear another tragedy.”
“Ah, yes. And since you mention our lost kinsfolk, I have to warn you, there are rumblings from Bjarkesholm once more. I come fresh from Hafrsfjord and the talk there is of war, of surprise attacks, retribution.”
“Shit, will those vultures never be satisfied? What more can I do to appease them?”
“You could try paying them again, but I fear it will never be enough. The old man is ill, and irrational in his hatred. Eirik was his eldest son, Astrid his favoured daughter. His nephew is his heir, and Olaf Bjarkesson is as crazed as his uncle, perhaps more so since he lacks the wisdom of years. You need to be careful, mybrother. Make sure your home is well guarded, your crops safe, and your livestock kept close.”
“Aye, we will. Am I to assume that it is the need to deliver this warning which has necessitated this visit?”
“In part, yes.”
“I appreciate it. You say in part?”
“Yes, I have other news too.” They were now strolling past the longhouses that ringed the settlement and villagers came out to greet the new arrivals. Most of Gunnar’s men were kin so there would be much in the way of reunions, of catching up and exchanging news. Gunnar paused every few yards to exchange pleasantries and accept words of welcome, but at last they entered the main longhouse where Brynhild and her thralls were rushing about to make ready the feast.
“Ah, sister. Stop your fretting with that cauldron and come greet your brother.” Gunnar held out his arms and Brynhild went willingly into them. He hugged her and kissed her blonde locks. “My brother tells me you are still unmarried, lass. ‘Tis a pity, for you would make a fine wife.”
“What do you know of marriage, brother? Maybe you should look to your own house before trying to set mine to rights.”
“Ah, you are correct, as ever. And you will no doubt be delighted to learn I have heeded your words of wisdom even before you uttered them.”
“What are you babbling about?” Brynhild wriggled free. “Hilla, ale for my brother, if you would. And for those who came with him…”
Ulfric turned as more people entered his home. He squinted at the red-haired woman who hovered there, a babe in her arms. She looked vaguely familiar though he could not quite put a name to her. A lad stood at her side, perhaps Njal’s age or a little older. They were Celts by the look of them, though their clothing was finer than would be usual for thralls.
“Ah, Mairead, come in, come in.” Gunnar reached for the woman’s hand, then took the baby from her arms. Ulfric watched in amazement as his brother shushed the child when he—she?—started to grizzle. Gunnar seemed to find nothing amiss in any of this. He beamed at his brother and sister. “May I present Mairead, my wife. And this is our daughter, Tyra.”
