Page 6 of Her Celtic Captor
Brynhild loathed Celts. She found them untrustworthy, dishonest, duplicitous, and frankly dangerous. None of her house thralls were from the land of the Celts, she would not tolerate such worthless individuals within her home and she would have preferred to have none of them anywhere at Skarthveit. Still, she supposed the location of the slave quarters at the foot of the lower meadow would provide sufficient distance to separate the vile creatures from her. It had better be.
Ulfric required the extra labour to build a new granary. Brynhild well understood the necessity, they needed to store food over the winter and many hungry mouths depended on it. The existing one was too small and overrun with vermin. She had no quarrel with the project, nor with the seizing of slaves to accomplish it. This was the Viking way, it served them well and the thralls would be well-fed and cared for. They would resent their captivity, that was inevitable, but such was the way of things and Skarthveit was better than many settlements. Her brother was a decent, fair-minded Jarl. He had been taught well by their father, as had she. They took care of their own.
But not Celts. Celts did not count.
Brynhild had pleaded with her brothers to sail further south, to the English shores. Saxons made good workers, biddable, diligent. They were worth the extra day's sailing. Ulfric would have probably heeded her advice, but Gunnar was having noneof it. He had raided this particular Celtic village before, a few months previously. The slaves they needed were to be found there and he was determined that this was the right target. Brynhild's protests fell on deaf ears and the raid was planned according to Gunnar's wishes.
Tomorrow, she would go down to the slave quarters to ensure that all was in readiness. Celts or not, that was her responsibility, to ensure that their accommodations were weatherproof and supplied with the necessities required—firewood, basic food and drink, a few blankets. She preferred to do her final checks before the new occupants arrived, and from there on would endeavour to avoid them as best she could.
"Lady, they are here." Harald yelled at her from across the settlement, pointing to the hills to the south. "See? Coming through the pass, there?"
Brynhild stood and shaded her eyes against the lowering sun. She could just discern the movement in the distance, several horses picking their way down the coastal track leading from the mountains which divided the upper slopes of their land from the lower plains.
"Ready the stables," instructed Brynhild. "Hilla, make sure the broth is ready, and put new loaves in the ovens now. They shall have fresh bread when they get here. Where is Njal?"
"Here, Aunt Brynhild. I am here." The small boy bobbed beside her, dancing from one foot to the other in his excitement. "My father is home. I see him."
"Yes, I do too." Brynhild bent to hug the little boy. "You can show him how well you have done with your swordplay whilst he has been away."
"I shall go with him, next time he goes raiding."
"Aye, perhaps," acknowledged Brynhild doubtfully. "Though maybe he will need you to look after things here at his home. He trusts you more than he does anyone else, you know that."
"I know, but..."
"Good lad. Would you like to wait indoors? Maybe you should have your sword ready to demonstrate your progress when he arrives."
"I must go and look for it." The lad grinned and charged back into the longhouse as Brynhild turned her attention to the approaching convoy.
Ulfricand his party clattered into the village less than an hour later. Her brother was surrounded by a dozen or so of his trusted karls, but it was the small figure seated before him on his stallion who held Brynhild's attention. She peered at the odd sight from her vantage point just within the longhouse.
The girl was beautiful, in a wild and vaguely barbarian sort of way. Her hair was dark, darker than any Brynhild could ever recall, and she was slender. It was difficult to see how tall the wench was, though Brynhild thought not overly so. Her brother's arm was wrapped around the woman's middle in a manner Brynhild found disconcertingly possessive. The female was not a Viking, that much was obvious, not even of the karl class. A thrall, surely, so what, then, was she doing seated upon Ulfric's stallion and riding right into the heart of Skarthveit with him?
She was still contemplating this unexpected twist in affairs when Njal rushed past her with whoops of joy. The boy burst from the longhouse and charged at his father, who had now dismounted and aided the woman from the horse too. She clung to Ulfric as though she might fall over were she to let him go. Ulfric, too, seemed to share the sentiment and did not relinquish his grip on her as he bent to hug his son one-handed. He liftedthe boy high and laughed as Njal's arms clamped around his neck. Ulfric spoke to the lad, and Njal glanced at the pale-faced woman standing at his father's side. The little boy bestowed one of his gap-toothed grins on the newcomer, and she managed a tremulous smile in return. At once Brynhild was seized by an unfamiliar wave of bitter resentment.Who is this foreign wench and what is she doing at my door?
"Ulfric, you have returned. I am so pleased to see you back, safe and well." Slowly and with all the dignity she might summon in such circumstances, Brynhild emerged from the sanctuary of the longhouse. She stood on the threshold, her hands folded at her waist and assumed an air of bemused curiosity as she regarded her brother's companion. "Who are you?" Brynhild directed her question at the stranger but the inquiry was met with a blank stare.
Ulfric answered for the wench. "She does not speak our tongue, Brynhild. This is Fiona, a captive taken from the land of the Britons."
Of the Celts, more like.Her brother knew of her aversion to that race and sought to soften the blow. It would not work.
"A thrall? Then I shall see to it that she is taken to the thrall's hall at once. When will the rest be arriving?" Brynhild did not speak the fluent Gaelic which her brother had mastered, but could manage a clumsy rendition of that tongue which she had picked up from servants when she was a child. She switched to this now to ensure that the interloper was left in no doubt as to her status at Skarthveit.
Ulfric's features did not slip. "She is to live here, with us."
"What? Why?" Astonished and horrified in equal measure Brynhild lapsed into her own tongue once again.
"Because she is mine. My slave. She will serve me, and assist you in the care of my son."
"Our boy has no need of the services of a Celtic whore." Brynhild delivered this insult in Gaelic, and took pleasure in the start of shock which swept the other woman's ashen features.
"Watch your tongue, Brynhild." The admonishment from her brother stung, and Brynhild's anger seethed even more. Ulfric continued. "Fiona is to be treated well under our roof. And now, she is injured and has need of rest, food and water in which to bathe. I trust I may leave those details to you?"
He expected her to actually serve this creature?Despite her resentment, Brynhild was left with little option at that moment. She snorted in disdain and turned on her heel. "Follow me, thrall."
The girl did not move, and suddenly Ulfric picked her up and carried her past Brynhild into their home. He marched through the main hall of the longhouse and past the trailing woven curtain which divided his own sleeping quarters from the rest of the dwelling. He did not stop until he reached his own bed, where he laid the Celtic wench as though she were the finest Jarl maiden.
Brynhild followed, and paused by the curtain. Foot tapping, she watched in mounting irritation as Ulfric settled the wench among the blankets and furs. Her brother turned to glance in her direction
