Page 70 of Her Celtic Captor
Brynhild groaned, her usual stoic courage in tatters. "It has been a full day, and a half. I am scared..."
"All is well," insisted Murdina. "I have attended many births in my time, and see no cause to worry. The babe will be here soon."
Taranc tried again. "Perhaps a soothing draught would ease the pain somewhat. Fiona might?—"
"No!" Brynhild dragged herself to a sitting position as another contraction seized her. She screamed as her belly twisted, the sound ragged, her voice hoarse now. Her futile cries of agony bounced off the timbers of their dwelling, echoing in her ears as the child stubbornly refused to shift.
She sank back against the bolster which Murdina had jammed behind her shoulders, despairing that this ordeal would ever be over. The next contraction was upon her almost before the last had receded. How much more? How much longer before her body split in two?
Suddenly, almost without warning, the pain arrowed down, now settling at her very core. Brynhild let out another guttural moan, then a startled yelp. The urge to push was beyond overwhelming. As both Taranc and Murdina urged her on she bore down with all that was within her, forcing this determined, obstinate little being out into the light.
"I see the head." Murdina peered between Brynhild's thighs. "One more good push, with the next contraction..."
"Aaagh!" Pain gripped her again, and Brynhild tightened her crushing grasp on Taranc's hand. Even in her own tortured misery Brynhild could not miss the grimace which flickered across his features. He did not pull away though.
"So close, my Viking. You can do this. Just one last push..."
He was right. Brynhild bore down again, and her baby slithered into Murdina's waiting hands.
"A boy," announced the older woman. "A fine, yowling lad who looks the very image of his sire."
As though to add his own contribution the child chose that precise moment to open his mouth and bellow his displeasure to the heavens. His thin, high cries now filled the house as Brynhild sagged back against the pillows. Murdina hastily wrapped a blanket about the squirming child and laid him on Brynhild's chest. At once he ceased his bawling, instead starting to rootamong her garments. Brynhild opened her shift and pressed his tiny mouth to her nipple, though it took a little experienced intervention by Murdina to see the child properly latched on and suckling hard.
Satisfied that all was well Brynhild submitted to Murdina's continuing ministrations. As the older woman cleansed her spent body and dragged the soiled bedding away, Brynhild spared a look at Taranc. She noted the glistening in his forest-green eyes. On closer inspection of the downy head at her breast she knew the baby shared his brown hair, though the infant's eyes had yet to take on the brilliant hue of his father's irises. Or maybe he would take after her. In that moment it did not matter. Nothing mattered save that her baby was here, safe, healthy.
A boy. She had a son.
"What name shall we give him?" Brynhild looked to Taranc for guidance. "A Celt name, since he shall be chief here and lead his people. Our people."
"Then Morvyn. That was my father's name. If you are agreeable?"
She nodded. "Morvyn is an excellent choice. I believe our son shall make a fine chief."
Taranc merely nodded.
20
"Is the lad well?" Lord Dughall sat at her board, a mug of Brynhild's fine mead before him. It was rare that the old man ventured so far from Pennglas, but he had made the journey today. "Does he thrive? Taranc tells me he does, but I wished to see for myself. You visit me so rarely these days."
The faint thread of admonition could not be ignored. And it was true. Her visits to Pennglas were infrequent.
"I have been busy. The baby..."
"I miss you. I miss your conversation, your ready wit."
"But you have your daughter. I am sure that Fiona will see to your comfort."
"Indeed she does, and I am glad of her presence. And the lad. Njal is a fine boy. You raised him well."
"He is Fiona's to care for now."
"He misses you too. Why do you not come to see us?"
Brynhild cuddled her son close. "You know why. You must know. Fiona has told you why Ulfric sent me away."
"Yes, I have heard the story. Of the stocks."
"Well, then?—"
