Page 68 of Her Rogue Viking
The longships slid up onto the beach with a sickening scrape as rough sand connected with the smooth underside of each craft. As the boats shuddered to a halt Fiona expected the Nordic warriors to swarm over the sides and charge, yelling ferociously, for the closest village. That would be Aikrig, she thought.
They did not. Her husband raised his arm to signal that all were to remain where they were. He stood on the prow and bellowed his orders to the other ships.
“The Celts may go ashore. The rest, remain here until I give the order to do otherwise.”
The Vikings exchanged puzzled looks, but no one disobeyed. The Celts, however, were eager to be back on dry land and as one they leaped over the sides of the boats into the shallows. They splashed up onto the beach, and from there began to make their way cautiously toward the closest habitation. Some called out, hailing old friends, family, anyone within earshot. Within moments they had disappeared into the trees that fringed the small cove.
The Vikings looked to one another, and to their leader. Ulfric was motionless, scanning the shoreline for—what? Fiona did not know. What did he expect would happen next?
“Ulfric,” she began. “Perhaps we should?—”
He silenced her with an upraised finger, so often effective. She moved to stand beside him and watched the now deserted beach.
The trees moved, parted. A lone figure stepped forward, a Celt, clad in the traditional tunic and fur cloak, his sword drawn as though he might fend off this deadly horde alone. The man was tall, his shoulder-length tawny hair fluttered in the slight breeze. To Fiona’s eye he seemed familiar, as well he might.Surely she was acquainted with all such men hailing from hereabouts. But this man, he had a look of…
“Taranc.” She whispered his name, the name of her old, dearest friend, the man she loved as a brother and whom she had last seen wearing a leg shackle, a slave in a Viking homestead.
The Celt approached, his gait slow, fearless. He halted twenty or so paces from where Ulfric regarded him with a stony expression, and returned the Viking’s flinty gaze.
“So, Viking. We meet again.” Taranc’s voice rang loud and clear across the beach. He used the Norse tongue.
“Aye. I trust you are well, my friend. Your journey not too arduous?” Ulfric’s response was low-pitched, conversational, as though he did indeed greet an old friend.
“We managed. What is your purpose here, Viking?”
“Ah, now on that matter I would like to talk with you. May we come ashore?”
May we come ashore?Since when did Vikings seek permission to swarm into an unsuspecting village and take what they wanted? Fiona was every bit as baffled as the rest of their party.
“You may, Viking. And Fiona, naturally. Is that your boy I see there?”
“Aye, my family are with me.”
“Indeed, this promises to be quite the reunion then.”
Ulfric let out a breath. “She is here? And well?”
“Of course, though I would caution against paying your respects, Viking. Your actions were not well received.”
Fiona clutched at Ulfric’s arm. “What are you talking about? Who?—”
“How dare you show your treacherous face here? You claim to be a brother—you are nothing but a self-serving worm. If my husband does not fell you where you stand, I shall do so myself.” Brynhild, heavily pregnant but as majestically beautiful as ever,strode from the cover of the trees to take up her position beside Taranc.
The Vikings gaped. Silence descended as the opposing sides gawked at each other in varying degrees of fury and disbelief. Only Taranc and Ulfric seemed to have the slightest inkling what was happening. It was Ulfric who broke the silence.
“Ah, sister. You appear… well. Much has happened, I see, since last we spoke.” He turned to regard Taranc. “Yours, I presume?”
Taranc responded with a curt nod, then turned and marched away from them up the beach. “Are you coming, then?” He hurled the words over his shoulder but did not look back.
18
Ulfric was not entirely certain who was least pleased to see him, though on balance he opted for his sister.
Brynhild had offered to gut him and leave the entrails on the beach for the seabirds to forage over. When Taranc, her husband of just a few weeks Ulfric had learnt, advised her that such action might not sit well with the Viking warriors who had accompanied her brother to their home, she had stamped off and flatly refused to speak to any of them. She was currently installed in the manor house at Pennglas, his own wife’s family home, refusing to emerge until the last of his longships was gone from their shores.
He feared he would have to disappoint her.
Ulfric wished to make his peace with Brynhild but Fiona’s response was the one he found most difficult to fathom. She had hated his sister, feared her, and with good reason. Yet despite his careful explanation of the reasons for his decision his little Celt gave every sign of being appalled by the action he had taken to protect her.
