Page 74 of Her Celtic Captor
"No!" Brynhild splayed her palm over her pounding heart. "Surely, no..."
"Whatever their intent, they will think again once they spot my ships on our beach. They will not wish to take us on, but if they do try to land here my warriors and the Celts we have trained and armed will soon see them on their way. Have no fear, sister, we can and we will defend our home from these raiders."
"Why? Why would Vikings come here?"
Her brother shrugged, his jaw set. "Go to Pennglas. I will deal with this."
As the door slammed in her brother's wake Brynhild reached for her own cloak and secured it around her shoulders with an ornate pin. She hurried from her house, but did not turn in the direction of the larger village. Instead, she ran along the coastal path leading to the beach. Already she could see the dragon ships skimming the waves and fast approaching their shore. Her brother's confidence was misplaced, these Norsemen were headed straight for Aikrig.
The ships reached the beach. Brynhild stopped, panting, and shaded her eyes to watch as the leader leapt into the shallow foam and waded ashore. She squinted into the low sun, the glare reflecting back from the surface of the water.
Surely that was not...
It was. As she managed to focus on the lone figure now striding up the sand there was no mistaking the dark leather attire, the huge wolf skin cloak, those ebony locks.
"Gunnar, " she breathed.
Even as she watched Ulfric confronted his brother. Words were exchanged, but from the stiffness of their broad shoulders, the tense set of Gunnar's jaw Brynhild had no illusions regarding the nature of this particular reunion. Gunnar was livid and had come here seeking blood.
"You. Yes, you. Help me, if you would." She summoned the assistance of a serf hovering close by. "Come with me to the well. Be quick."
Under her direction, the man aided her in drawing two full buckets from the fresh water well which served their village. Brynhild took one by the handle and hefted it up, trying not to spill too much. "You, bring the other pail. Come with me." She hoped the water was bloody cold as she strode off in the direction of the confrontation unfolding on the beach.
By the time she arrived the fight was in full swing. Her brothers brawled like cornered wolves on the golden sands of her adopted home. Brynhild had never been more ashamed of them. Was this disgraceful display the way a Viking chief earned the respect of his karls, his peers? She thought not. No indeed!
The pail of water was satisfyingly cold, she noted, as she flung the whole lot over both their idiotic skulls. Gunnar let out a roar of outraged bewilderment and shook the torrent from his dark locks, but not before the second bucket was emptied over him. Ulfric fared no better. The pair of them lay gasping and flapping on the sand, drenched, peering up at her. They reminded Brynhild less now of wolves and more of a pair of drowned rats. Her contempt for them plummeted to more or less the same level.
"Get up, the pair of you. Do you never learn? Grown men, brothers, brawling in the sand like a pair of rabid dogs." She glanced about, not best pleased at the audience which had gathered to witness the spectacle. Celts and Vikings alikesniggered and smirked at their bedraggled leaders. Had these Freyssons no pride, no dignity at all? Their mother would be mortified.
"Ah, Brynhild. I was hoping to run into you." Gunnar offered her a lop-sided grin, the scar which ran the length of his cheek doing nothing to soften his expression.
She refrained from kicking him in the ribs, but that would only reduce her to their level. Instead she gathered her cloak about her and adopted her most haughty expression.
"Were you? Well, now you have, and you can at least do me the honour of standing to greet me properly."
She had the satisfaction of seeing him ease himself painfully to his feet. It served him right, the imbecile. She fervently hoped Ulfric had come out of the encounter in similar discomfort, and was gratified to note that it was so. Gunnar's Celtic wife, Mairead she seemed to recall, hovered about the pair issuing words of gentle concern and offering poultices. Brynhild shook her head in exasperation. She would be minded to let them bleed, but this Mairead appeared to be of a rather kinder disposition.
Even now the brothers bickered and taunted each other, and violence seemed ready to erupt anew at any moment. Brynhild had heard and seen enough.
"Shut up, the pair of you. Come with me." She glowered at each of them in turn, offered what she hoped might pass as a polite nod of welcome to the sister she barely knew, and turned to lead the dishevelled party from the beach.
21
Taranc leapt into the saddle of the horse he had commandeered, his tiny son tucked within his cloak, and galloped hard for Aikrig. The warrior sent to summon him had barely slipped from his mount in the rutted track which ran the length of Castlereigh and passed for the main street and delivered the tidings of the imminent attack before the Celtic chieftain had seized his horse and turned the animal in the direction of his home. Taranc dug his heels into the horse's flanks and prayed he would be on time.
He could not lose her….could not lose the fragile family he had worked so hard to build, to keep.
Fucking Vikings.Why could they never keep their thieving hands to themselves? Still, he blessed the fact that his friend and now brother of sorts, Ulfric, would be his ally in defending their village. His Viking warriors would help to protect the Celts and their homes. They would not be taken as slaves, their crops destroyed, their property seized. Never again.
His heart sank when he thundered into Aikrig at a flat gallop and saw for himself the three dragon ships which sat proudly onthe beach, as well as those Ulfric kept in plain view. Seemingly the deterrent had not worked.
"Where? Where did they go?" he demanded of the nervous serf who ran to greet him.
"There was a fight, and..." the man gestured up the beach, toward the track leading to Pennglas.
"A fight? Are people hurt?"
"Only the Vikings, lord. Lady Brynhild?—"
