Page 47 of Her Rogue Viking
His footsteps disappeared into the gathering gloom and Fiona was left alone in the eerie silence. All around her people ate, worked, tended to their children, their animals, but none would willingly venture outdoors after dark. Even if it were not for the threat posed by the Bjarkessons, Viking folk preferred the safety and warmth of their dwellings after the sun set.
Fiona could well understand why as she clutched her meagre shawl about her shoulders. She was glad that Harald had not thought to remove her shoes before locking her in the stocks or her feet would already be turning blue. The temperatures would plummet to below freezing soon. The vengeful Viking woman had said that she would return, to check that her orders had been carried out. Surely even Brynhild would not leave her here for more than a few minutes.
Fiona’s teeth chattered and she could not control her shivering as the minutes crept by, lengthening to a half hour, she estimated, then an hour.
Brynhild was not coming. She would be here by now if she meant Fiona no real harm.
As the reality of her situation dawned, Fiona sank into a despondent weeping. Ulfric’s slender protection was gone, if only for one night, but that was enough. Brynhild meant to kill her. She had planned for this, had waited for her opportunity, and when it came, she seized it. The Viking woman might even pass Fiona’s death off as an accident, tell Ulfric that his slave had disobeyed his orders, that she had wandered off and became lost, died of the cold. Only Harald knew any different, and he would hardly be likely to tell the truth.
Fiona did what she might to remain warm, clapping her numb hands together and shifting as much as she could. It was hopeless. She called out, pleading for help, but the closest longhouse was at least thirty yards from where she sat on the frozen earth. The forge and the tannery were both deserted at this hour, and by the time the smith emerged, yawning, into the dawn light she would be just a stiff corpse. No one could survive a night outdoors, without shelter, without warm clothing.
Fiona closed her eyes and allowed her frantic mind to drift, seeking peace at last as she sank into unconsciousness.
Ulfric, why did you leave? I need you, please, please, I will never speak out of turn again. I shall obey, be the meek little bed-slave…
“What the fuck…?”
Fiona was dreaming, her imagination conjuring up that which she wanted most in the world. Ulfric, his strength, his warmth. There was a scrape of iron against wood, then a clatter as the stocks were thrown open. Gentle hands about her waist, under her stiff knees, lifting…
“Hilla! Harald! I want hot water, a bath.Now!” Ulfric’s angry bellow echoed about the settlement. Footsteps, running. Voices, questions, the pounding of his feet as he sprinted across the settlement with her in his arms. Fiona tried to lift her hand, to reach for his chin to check he was real, not another illusion. She cracked her eyelids apart and inhaled deeply. The warm, familiar tang of his leather tunic, the soft rub of his fleece cloak. These were so achingly real, so familiar. Perhaps…
“Ulfric, you are here…”
Fiona flinched at the hated tone of her adversary. She turned her head to see Brynhild emerging from the longhouse, her cloak gathered about her as though thrown on in a hurry. The woman seemed rooted to the spot now, her expression stunned as she took in the enraged Viking before her.
“Brother, I can explain. She was?—”
“Not a word, Brynhild. Not a fucking word. I have heard enough from you.” Ulfric never so much as broke stride as he brushed past as though his sister did not stand in his doorway seeking to bar his way. Fiona clutched at his cloak whilst Brynhild followed. The woman reached for his elbow, but Ulfric shook her off. “Leave us. I shall hear an account of this in the morning, and believe me, Brynhild, therewillbe a reckoning.”
Once inside, Fiona lay shivering on the bed as Ulfric himself made up the fire in their sleeping quarters. Hilla rushed back and forth with buckets of water, but Harald was nowhere to be seen. Fiona was glad of that, even though it meant more work fell on Hilla’s shoulders. Not for long, though, Ulfric summoned more thralls and soon her bath was ready for her. He helped her to undress, or rather he managed to remove her clothing despite her own inability to move her fingers or limbs to aid herself. Then he lifted her into the bath and sat behind her to support her head.
“This seems to be all too familiar, little Celt,” he murmured. “But we shall not find ourselves here again, I swear it.”
“I… I thought you were gone, until tomorrow.”
“That was my intent, but as soon as I arrived at Bjarkesholm it was obvious that Olaf was beyond reason. I saw no point in remaining, he would not even listen to me let alone consider a truce. So I cut short the negotiations and decided to return early. And thank all the gods that I did.”
“I… I am pleased to see you. I longed for you to come home, and you did.”
“I should not have left you.”
“I was angry with you. You spanked me, just for my words. You said I could talk to you, but?—”
“I know. I was wrong and I apologise. Things will be different. I have been thinking…”
“Ah, I thought I could smell burning but I believed it to be merely a cinder which had strayed from the grate.”
Ulfric laughed out loud. “Little Celt, you are clearly in need of another spanking, but that will have to wait.”
“What have you been thinking, Viking?”
“A great deal, but that also will wait. My priority now is to see you safe and well, and to deal with those who would do you harm.”
“It was Brynhild…”
“I know.”
“Harald did as she commanded.”
