Page 72 of Her Rogue Viking
Fiona was astonished, could not readily reconcile her father’s assessment with the woman she remembered. She agreed as far as the temper was concerned but as to the rest… Still, they would all need to adapt and she was already determined to do her part. Ulfric had more than shown willing and she felt moved to speak in his defence. “There is much good in Ulfric,” she murmured. “Despite everything.”
The old man sighed. “These are strange times, my girl, very odd. Still, I believe I shall instruct my cook to lay out a feast. ‘Tis not every day my daughter returns to me from the dead, even if she does bring a Viking into my hall.”
He shuffled off in the direction of the kitchen. “Aye, very odd. Very odd indeed.”
EPILOGUE
Six months later
Fiona finished her porridge.She set her bowl aside and rose from the table, then stepped toward the door. She still thought of the morning meal asdagmalthough she rarely used the Nordic tongue herself since her return to Pennglas. Ulfric and Njal continued to speak in their first language, though the boy was now proficient in both Gaelic and Norse.
The lad had struggled to settle initially, viewed with suspicion by others of his own age, even feared. Ulfric had guided him well, insisting that his son take the time needed to allow the Celtic youths to become familiar with him, with all of the new arrivals, and to realise that the Vikings posed no threat. Indeed, that they brought with them a guarantee of safety or at least a better chance of it.
Time had healed, as Ulfric had known it would. Or mostly. His relationship with his sister remained fraught. She was hostile, angry, and bitter, and even the birth of her son some four months previously had done little to soften her attitude.
Fiona knew how much this continuing ill feeling saddened her husband. He did not feel any remorse over his actions in banishing Brynhild, though he regretted the pain it had caused her. Fiona took care not to exacerbate matters by further provoking her old enemy. She tended to avoid Brynhild, which was not especially difficult as they lived in separate villages and Brynhild rarely ventured to Pennglas except to occasionally visit Dughall.
Ulfric, on the other hand, was in daily contact with Taranc. The two had forged an alliance that blossomed into what appeared to be genuine friendship, and that never failed to amaze Fiona. Both villages prospered as a result. The Vikings brought with them skill with weapons and knowledge of agriculture, whereas the Celts were mainly fishermen and their knowledge of farming was limited to the rearing of livestock. The villages worked together and all ate well.
Too well, perhaps. With a groan Fiona clutched at her stomach and ran from the hall. She rushed into the solar, the private rooms occupied by herself, Ulfric, Njal, and her father. Just in time she dropped to her knees beside the pail she had deliberately left in the corner and deposited the porridge there.
This was not the first time she had cast up her accounts since she rose this morning, and if the experience of the last few days was any indication it would not be the last. She groaned as her stomach continued to rebel, and despaired of ever feeling well again.
Light footsteps behind her heralded the arrival of Hilla. The maid had accompanied them across the North Sea and had somehow attached herself to Fiona’s household. It was an arrangement which suited all.
“A damp cloth, if you please, Hilla,” croaked Fiona, not yet daring to rise lest her fragile hold on whatever might remain in her stomach be loosened once more.
Moments later a moist cloth was placed in her outstretched hand. Fiona wiped her mouth with it, and turned to request a mug of buttermilk. She didn’t normally like the stuff, but just recently…
“Brynhild!”
Fiona shot upright at the unexpected sight of her nemesis standing beside her, the four-month-old Morvyn nestled in the crook of her left arm. With uncharacteristic bitterness Fiona reflected that motherhood had done nothing to dim the other woman’s stunning beauty. Brynhild was simply perfect, which rendered Fiona all the more despondent about her current predicament. Her stomach was already heaving again and with a groan she sank back onto her knees to hug the pail.
“‘Twill pass,” observed Brynhild evenly. “Does Ulfric know?”
“Yes, but no one else. It is very early…”
“I see. I wish you and the babe well.”
Had she heard correctly?Fiona made use of the wet cloth once more before attempting to stand again.
“Thank you. I had not expected to see you here today. Is there something I can do for you?” Her tone was cool. Despite the Viking woman’s good wishes Fiona knew better than to trust her and entertained no wish to delay Brynhild.
“Yes, there is. I want you to know the truth of what happened that night in Skarthveit, the night of the stocks.”
Fiona frowned. “Idoknow the truth. I was there.”
Brynhild shook her head. “I do not think you do, at least, not all of it. My brother is of the opinion that I attempted to murder you that night, and you share his view, do you not?”
“Thatiswhat happened…” began Fiona.
“No, it is not. I had no such intention.”
Fiona made to step past Brynhild. There was nothing to be gained by quarrelling with the woman again, reopening oldwounds. “As you wish. Now, I have tasks awaiting me so I should?—”
“Wait!”
The command rang out and Fiona turned, one eyebrow raised. The time when Brynhild could order her about was long past. “If you will excuse me…”
