Page 8 of Her Celtic Captor
"You must be busy. I would not wish to delay you..."
"I said, get on with it. Now. Or would you prefer I take a whip to you?" Brynhild could not quite recall the last time she had taken a whip to a thrall, probably never, but the Celt was not to know that.
"A whip? But..."
"You are nothing but a dirty little slave. A whore-thrall. Do not think I would hesitate to show you what happens to worthless little sluts who disobey their betters."
"Ulfric would not?—"
"You heard what my brother said. I run this home, you will obeymeor become acquainted with the whip." Brynhild was not entirely certain where the menace in her tone came from, nor the vile words she hurled at this hated Celt. At some level Brynhild knew she was acting unreasonably. The girl was injured, after all, and had offered her no harm. Irrational hatred was proving to be a potent motive, however, and Brynhild found she was unable to mitigate her resolve. She would see this through, and with luck the wench would soon beg to be allowed to live with the other slaves.
She watched as the girl struggled to remove her clothing. First the loose smock, then the linen shift. The girl wore no shoes, so soon stood naked before Brynhild apart from the bandage which bound her injured ankle.
How had she been hurt?Ulfric had not said. It was of no consequence in any case. Brynhild shrugged. "That too." She pointed at the bandage and was gratified by the ready obedience which met her command.
"In the tub," she ordered, gesturing to the frigid water. The wench had not yet realised the temperature and rose unsteadily to her feet to approach the bath. Brynhild could have almost felt pity for the Celt when the awful truth hit her. The girl leaned forward to dip her fingers in the water then turned to face her.
"No, I cannot. It is too cold and?—"
Brynhild felt a momentary flutter of sympathy at the girl's stricken features but quashed that hard. A cold bath was unpleasant, but would do her no real harm. "Get in or I shall have my other thralls come back and help you. My brother wishes you to be clean, and we will not disappoint him, will we?"
"He did not intend this..."
"Of course he did. Do you imagine we treat our slaves to a hot bath? You are fortunate not to be made to wash in the river, you filthy little slut."
Brynhild scooped up Fiona's discarded clothing and determined that this matter had better be concluded quickly now. "These will be burnt. I shall count to five, then if you are not submerged to the shoulders in your bath I shall summon thralls to ensure your obedience."
The wench protested, reaching for her filthy clothing and declaring it her intention to wash the garments herself. Brynhild stepped back out of reach and started to count. The girl continued to plead, but Brynhild detected the resignation and defeat now permeating her words. The Celt knew when she was beaten, and Brynhild watched in silent satisfaction as she slowly lowered her shivering body into the frigid water.
Brynhild winced, but did not relent. The wench perched in the tub, her back to Brynhild.
"Lower. I want your shoulders under too."
"I c-c-cannot. The tub is not big enough..."
"Maybe you need more water. Shall I have more brought in?"
This was sufficient encouragement for the girl to slide further into the tub until her shoulders were also submerged. Brynhild flung a rough cloth into the water and ordered her to wash. She even insisted that the girl rinse her matted hair, though she did not offer her any soap.
A movement by the curtain caught her eye. Brynhild turned. Harald stood there, his eyes fixed on the shivering form in the bath. He bore a pail in each hand. The ice. She had nearly forgotten that. She dismissed the thrall with a curt nod and picked up the first bucket.
"Sit up now, " she ordered. The girl complied, her shoulders hunched and her head bowed. She knew what was coming, and that she was powerless to resist. Brynhild lifted the pail over the Celt's head and slowly, deliberately, she deposited the icy contents over the narrow shoulders. The girl sucked in a sharp hiss of breath and went rigid. Brynhild set down the empty pail and lifted the next one. That, too, she emptied over the shivering girl.
"You may get out now."
Her work here was done. Brynhild turned on her heel and left.
What hadshe been thinking of?
Brynhild sat at the table, a hank of rough wool between her fingers. She dragged her comb against it ineffectually, painfully aware of the shocked, accusing glances of her house thralls. Hilla sat in silence, her horror at the treatment of the newest thrall near palpable. Harald, too, was sullen and responded in monosyllables when she spoke to him. Brynhild could not blame either of them. Now that her fit of malicious spite was over she was ashamed of her vengeful cruelty to a defenceless slave.
Regrets were pointless, what was done was done. She could not undo her actions, but would try to be more rational in her future dealings with the girl. She hoped those dealings would not be prolonged. Surely Ulfric would soon see that this situationwas impossible, intolerable in fact. This washerhome,herlonghouse. She was his sister, his family. Ulfric loved her, heneededher. A bed-slave was nothing, worthless, dispensable. The sooner her fool of a brother stopped thinking with his dick and saw the truth of that, the better.
She muttered an exasperated curse and left the longhouse. She needed to get some air.
It was not many minutes before Harald arrived, panting at her heels. "Lady, the Jarl has returned. He wishes to speak with you. He is... I mean, he did not..."
"Thank you, Harald." Brynhild had little doubt what her brother would be thinking, and she knew she had to face him sooner rather than later. He would have plenty to say regarding his precious little Celt and he was not alone in that. She, too, had matters she wished to air and there was no time like the present. She followed Harald back to the longhouse, her chin tilted high.
