Page 44 of Her Rogue Viking
Brynhild sank to sit on the bench behind her, her mouth agape. Ulfric was hardly less astonished. He peered again at the woman clinging uncertainly to his brother’s arm. There was no mistaking Gunnar’s devotion though as he regarded the auburn curls that framed her bent head.
“We are delighted to make your acquaintance, sister.” Ulfric recovered his manners and stepped forward to kiss the woman on each cheek. He managed to deliver a sharp nudge to Brynhild’s ribs as he passed her. “Mairead, did you say?”
Gunnar answered for her. “Aye, Mairead, of Aikrig, in Scotland. You will recall my bride, I do not doubt. And the lad here, for you made a fair enough price on him.” Gunnar beckoned the boy to his side. “Come, Donald, and greet your family.”
Ah.Suddenly all became clear. The woman, the pregnant one at the roadside, the one his brother had taken an obvious liking to. More than a liking, it would seem. Ulfric had been somewhat distracted by his own lovely captive and had failed to properly appreciate the merits of the other female. He had been remiss, for clearly she was a beauty. But… a bride? A Viking did not wed his thrall, why would he?
As Ulfric grappled with that question, Brynhild rediscovered her powers of speech. “But, she is a Celt.”
“Aye, that she is,” agreed Gunnar, “and now she is wife to a Viking.”
“But, I do not understand. Why…?”
A fair enough question, if somewhat tactless. Ulfric opted to step in before matters worsened. “And a lovelier bride no Viking ever claimed. Welcome, Mairead. You must be tired after your journey, and your children will no doubt be hungry. Come, be seated…”
As Brynhild scowled at her new sister, Ulfric ushered his guests to the table. He signalled to Hilla who jumped forward with a jug of fine ale, as Fiona leaned down to hug first Mairead, then Donald. Of course, they were acquaintances, at least, and would welcome the chance to renew their friendship.
“Fiona, you will entertain our guests. Hilla, Harald, fetch more food, more ale. Where is Njal?”
“I am here.” The lad rushed through the door and ran at his uncle who swung him into the air. The boy shrieked his delight and clung to Gunnar’s cloak, only then catching sight of the other boy. “Who is that?” he demanded.
“That is Donald, my stepson. He is good with a sword and a fair enough shot with his dagger.”
“Not as good as me,” asserted Njal. “I have been practising.”
“Indeed you have, when not splashing about in the fjord.” Ulfric patted his son’s shoulder. “Perhaps you will show Donald your skills then, and in return perhaps he will demonstrate his own. Could you show him your pony too?”
Njal wriggled out of his uncle’s embrace and glowered at the other boy. “Well, come on then.” He marched to the door then turned to make sure that Donald was following. The two were already chatting and trading boasts as they left the longhouse, quite oblivious to the tensions between the adults they left behind.
Ulfric was glad of Fiona’s easy laughter as the evening wore on. She was friendly to Gunnar and at great pains to make Mairead welcome, which was more than could be claimed for Brynhild. She was clearly aghast at their brother’s choice of awife, and her usual hospitality was nowhere in evidence as she uttered hardly a word to any but the servants. Njal and Donald appeared to hit it off, to Ulfric’s relief, but he was beyond irritated by his sister. When would she let this ridiculous grudge drop? Her irrational hatred of the Celts threatened to split their family apart, and at a time when the bonds of kinship had never been more vital. When all else failed, a Viking relied on his kin.
“I oweyou my thanks for today, little Celt.” Ulfric pulled Fiona to him and wrapped his arms around her as they snuggled together in the pallet they shared in a corner of the longhouse. Their usual sleeping quarters had been made available to the guests so they were spending the night in one of the chambers off the main room.
While Gunnar, Mairead, and the baby, Tyra, enjoyed the relative privacy of the alcove behind the curtain, Njal slept a few feet away, and Donald too. Brynhild had made up her bed as far away from the rest as she might accomplish in such unusually crowded conditions.
“It was pleasant to see Mairead again. And I confess, your brother is not as fearsome as I remember.”
He chuckled. “Ah, yes, Gunnar did not endear himself to you on the occasion of your previous meeting. So, Mairead is your friend?”
“Oh, no. I barely know her really. Mairead came to Aikrig, the village close to Pennglas but a year or so ago. Her husband was a fisherman.”
“Her husband? Did he perish in the raid?” Ulfric would not wish the man ill, but he would prefer not to contemplate the awkwardness should this husband still live.
“No, she was widowed a half year ago. His fishing boat capsized…”
“Ah. But the lad, Donald, he is what, seven summers of age? You say she only came to the village a year ago?”
“About that. She had a previous husband, before Alred the fisherman.”
“Twice widowed? She looks to be about your age though.”
“She is twenty-four summers I believe, so a little older than me. Even so… she has seen much in her life. I hope Gunnar will be kind to her.”
“I believe he will. He is besotted by his new bride, and by the baby too, though the little one is not his. I recall Mairead looked about ready to drop her bairn by the roadside.”
“Yes.” She turned to face him. “You truly believe he will make her happy? Protect her and her children?”
“I do, for it is clear to me that he loves her. I can well comprehend his fascination with Celtic females,” he bent to kiss her hair, “since I do share it.”
