Page 25 of Her Celtic Captor
Brynhild watched as Harald caught the struggling, pleading wench by the wrist and dragged her across the settlement to where their stocks were located at the rear of the forge. She did not follow to supervise the punishment. Harald was well aware of how this would go and she could leave it to him to release the girl when she had learnt her lesson. Satisfied, Brynhild dismissed the troublesome thrall from her mind and hurried back indoors to take up her vigil beside her nephew.
The chamomile tea had made little difference. Perhaps if she were to sacrifice one of their finest goats her nephew might be spared. She was ready to try anything.
Njal's fever broke after an hour. Brynhild could have wept with relief. She remained at his side, stroking his damp hair and muttering her thanks to the goddess Freya who she was sure must have interceded for them in return for the promise of the goat. It was a good bargain, one she would be happy to keep.
Exhausted, Brynhild got to her feet and stretched. It was late, very late, and the longhouse was silent but for the soft breathing of Hilla asleep on her pallet by the fire pit and Njal's occasional snuffles.
An icy trickle of unease snaked down her spine. It was too quiet. What was wrong? Something—someone—was missing.
The girl!Had Harald brought her back indoors? He must have, though Brynhild could not recall hearing them enter. Her heart in her mouth Brynhild rushed to peer behind the curtain which separated her brother's sleeping chamber from the rest of the longhouse. The bed was empty.
"Oh, sweet Freya..." murmured Brynhild as she grabbed her cloak and flung it about her shoulders. Surely Harald had released the wench by now. He knew he was supposed to leave her in the stocks for no longer than half an hour, she had told him that quite specifically.
How long had it been? An hour? Closer to two, she acknowledged as she flung open the door.
Brynhild was shoved roughly back into the dwelling as the large and clearly enraged form of her brother rushed past, his bed-slave in his arms. The wench was limp and pale. Brynhild's beart sank.
Harald! I will flay the skin from his back for this.
"Ulfric, you are here..."
He glared at her, his expression little short of murderous.
Brynhild stood, rooted to the spot. "Brother, I can explain. She was?—"
"Not a word, Brynhild. Not a fucking word. I have heard enough from you."
Brynhild reached for his elbow, anxious to explain that the matter was not as it first appeared, but Ulfric shook her off.
"Leave us. I shall hear an account of this in the morning, and believe me, Brynhild, therewillbe a reckoning."
He left her there and disappeared into his chamber with the wench. Brynhild spun on her heel, paused to check once more on Njal who had somehow managed to sleep through the entire commotion, then she stalked from the longhouse in search of Harald. By Odin he would regret his part in this night's work.
Harald was nowhere to be found. Not that night, nor the following morning. Brynhild discovered he had passed a good portion of the night with Adelburga, a Saxon slave with whom he was inclined to spend his rare moments of leisure. She had to assume that he had seen an opportunity when, for reasons only he might fathom, he had believed his absence would not be noted, and he had taken it. According to a tearful Adelburga, Harald had fled her cottage on hearing the enraged Jarl bellowing for assistance when Ulfric returned and discovered Fiona. She had no idea where he went.
Brynhild wracked her brains. She went over and over the conversation with Harald and was quite certain she had made her instructions clear to him. Even had she not, Harald knew as well as she did that no one should be left outside in the stocks overnight as Ulfric now seemed convinced had been her intention.
His mission to make peace with the Bjarkesson's had met with implacable hostility from the moment he arrived at their settlement and Ulfric had quickly determined that the entire errand was futile. He had abandoned the attempt and left at once for home, arriving in the middle of the night. Despite Brynhild's assertion that he was wrong he remained convinced that had he not changed his plans, Fiona would have died.
That was ludicrous, it would be tantamount to murder and Brynhild Freysson would not stoop to such an act of cowardice. She was confident that her brother would realise that, once he calmed down and saw matters more clearly.
Brynhild explained to him that Njal had been ill, and that she had been distracted by that or she would have noticed Harald's dereliction of his duty much earlier. The girl had been badly frightened, Brynhild would allow that, but no real harm was done. She would have released the girl herself. Indeed, she was on her way to do exactly that when her brother barged past her into the longhouse. Ulfric had simply arrived before she did, that was all. After his initial rage had calmed Ulfric became oddly silent on the matter. He listened to her account, but asked few questions and Brynhild knew he did not believe her. No matter, he would come around. She was telling the truth. Why would she lie?
Fiona was not the only one deeply shocked. Brynhild was no fool, and she knew that the incident might have ended differently. Had Njal's fever not broken, had Ulfric not returned, it was by now clear that Harald would not have done as he should and the wench might well have perished. That had not happened, but Brynhild was ready to admit, at least to herself, that it had been a near thing.
This could not continue. Brynhild was a grown woman, mistress of this settlement. She had duties, responsibilities, and she could not continue to allow her dislike of this wench to control her actions. Her fear and loathing of the Celts was real enough, but at some level Brynhild knew it to be irrational and based upon childish concerns. She could not let her adult life be ruled by events which took place when she was but fourteen years of age.
She was a Viking, a woman of the Jarl and she was better than this.
8
"My apologies, Viking, for I fear I misheard you." Taranc turned his head to regard the Jarl at his side. Ulfric's profile was stark against the inky blackness of the night, illuminated only by thin slivers of moonlight which penetrated the lowering cloud.
The Viking did not move, simply continued to stare ahead into the darkness. When he spoke, his tone was harsh. "You did not mishear, but I shall repeat it anyway. I will help you to regain your freedom, on condition that when you leave here you take Brynhild with you."
Taranc could only gape at the other man. He had not known what to expect when the Viking had come to the slave barn in the dead of night, woken Taranc and bade him come outside to talk, but it was not this. Nothing remotely like this.
"You are asking me to abduct your sister? Why? Why would you even dream of such a horrendous act?" The whole thing was beyond Taranc's comprehension. Even for a Viking such an act was unthinkable, surely.
