Page 69 of Her Rogue Viking
“You arranged to have her abducted? Your own sister? Even knowing how devastated your son would be at the loss of hisaunt, how the rest of Skarthveit would miss her, continue to search for her, long for her return, and fear for their own safety? You knew, yet still you did this thing?”
She had a point. Several, in fact. She would come around, eventually. Njal too, he hoped. The lad had paled at the sight of his aunt, as though he saw a spectre before him and did not know whether to run and hug her or hide under a bench on the longship.
Back there on the beach, Ulfric had leapt from his ship and sprinted to catch up with Taranc. The two had marched in silence to the village—Aikrig?—where he now knew Taranc had his home. Fiona had followed with Njal. The boy gripped his wife’s hand tightly, as though she were the only solid and certain thing in his life at this moment.
Curious, fearful Celts—those who had not already fled in terror—had peered at the bizarre procession from behind their own dwellings and outhouses. Ulfric heard their mutterings, their whispered questions.
“Who is he? He knows our chief? Is ithim, that one again?”
Taranc ignored them and led the way.
The Celt’s dwelling was large, comparable to Ulfric’s own longhouse in Skarthveit, and at least as comfortable. As they entered the low, turf-roofed building Ulfric recognised his sister’s influence at once. The loom, the well-stocked and tidy larder, the clean linens stacked on shelves against the far wall. Brynhild never could abide mess or dirt, and she liked those in her care to eat well.
Taranc had left Ulfric, Fiona and Njal there whilst he hurried to converse with the rest of the villagers, at least those who had not scattered to the nearby hills at the first sight of the invaders.
Ulfric had used the brief time alone to outline his case to his wife and son, but he feared he had much more work to do before either would became even remotely convinced. It was not to be.Taranc returned and installed himself at the head of the table. He had a point to make, Ulfric supposed, and who could blame him?
So now Ulfric sat beside Fiona at his sister’s board, a mug of her fine ale in his hand, and the less than welcoming countenance of her husband glowering at him from the master’s seat. Only Njal seemed to be at ease. He remembered the tall Celt who had saved him from drowning and chattered about his prowess in swimming. Taranc listened to the lad, his smile warm enough, then he turned to the boy’s father.
“I ask again, what brings you here, Viking?”
Ulfric set his mug down with care and reached for Fiona’s hand.
“I did as you suggested. I took care of what was mine.” He paused. “We are wed.”
“You are happy?” Taranc’s question was addressed to Fiona.
She nodded. “Yes, he is good to me.”
Taranc appeared to accept this. He fixed his unwavering stare on Ulfric once more. “I repeat, your purpose here?”
“I had to know about Brynhild.”
The Celt nodded. “I can see that. And now that you have the assurance you need, may I assume you will be on your way? I expect you have villages to rob, innocent Britons to pillage and rape?”
Fiona bristled, a fact Ulfric found somewhat reassuring. He patted her hand.
“That is not our intent, and never was. Well, not the raping part, though I suppose I must own to the rest. We are here in search of something else though.”
“And what might that be?” Taranc leaned back and signalled to a servant hovering by the door. “Refill our guest’s mug, if you will.”
Ulfric did not allow his tone to waver. “We wish to remain here. Permanently.”
Ale sloshed over the table and splashed Ulfric’s hand. The servant squealed and scuttled back, cowering.
Ulfric bestowed his most brilliant smile on the man and shook droplets from his fingers, then reached for the ale jug. “Allow me.” He needed to win friends where he might, so no harm in starting here. The serf would soon enough tell the rest huddled outside. As the man slid away Ulfric proceeded to fill their cups—his, Taranc’s, and Fiona’s—then met his host’s impassive gaze. “Do you have any comment to offer?”
Taranc did not mince his words. “Why?”
“Here?” breathed Fiona. “We are to remain here? This is my home…”
“Yes, so where better? You will be happy to return here, will you not? It is what I understood to be your dearest wish.”
“I will! Oh, yes, of course I will, but you…?”
“I am… flexible,” conceded Ulfric. “I have given this matter much thought, and I believe we can make this work.”
“Oh, you do, do you, Viking?” Taranc glared at him from his position at the head of the table. “I repeat, why?”
