Page 81 of Her Celtic Captor
Brynhild shook her head, her tears welling afresh. "I know. I know that. That is why, deep down, in her heart, I know she heldmeresponsible, not him. If she truly believed me to be blameless, she would not have let him go, would never have let him live to do such a thing again elsewhere. She would not have left me wondering if, when, I might next turn a corner in the marketplace and come face to face with him once more."
Silence descended upon the hall as those present digested the truth of her words. Neither of the Freysson brothers disagreed with Brynhild's assessment of their mother's character.
The clearing of a throat in the doorway to the kitchens brought eight pairs of eyes swinging in that direction. A tall Viking thrall stepped forward, bowed to Gunnar, then to Brynhild. "Jarl, lady... I believe I may be able to be of some assistance."
"Weylin? What are you doing here? Eavesdropping?" Gunnar scowled angrily at the man.
Brynhild peered at the slave, and thought she remembered him. He had been her father's thrall first, then the man left with Gunnar when her brother set up his own settlement at Gunnarsholm. The thrall was older now, and had a hardness about him she did not recall though she had barely known the man. It seemed strange to her that Gunnar would bring a thrallwith him on this visit since it was not customary to take slaves on Viking raids, but she had not questioned it.
"I asked to come, and you allowed it, Jarl. I... I believed I might be needed."
"Yes, you did. An unusual request but I assumed you had a hankering to see your homeland again and I saw no reason not to permit it. Your service has been loyal over the years."
"My home is some distance to the south, Jarl. I... I wanted to be here for this. You see, I was there, that night. I saw what happened. Or some of it, at least."
"Did you, indeed?" Gunnar's tone was dangerously low. "Then I think you had better share your knowledge with us now. And whilst you do, I shall be trying to make some sense of the fact that you have chosen not to share it before."
The thrall swallowed, his throat working hard as he sought to control his nerves. Brynhild knew her brother to be a tolerant and lenient Jarl. His thralls fared well enough, better than most, but he demanded loyalty and would punish dishonesty harshly. Weylin would do well to quake in his shoes.
The thrall rallied under his Jarl's stern glower. He cleared his throat again, and began. "I... I shared the thrall barn at Skarthveit with Aelbeart. He arrived there about half a year after I did. We were friends, at first, of an age."
"Go on," Gunnar prompted when the man stopped.
"He complained. All the time, he complained. Always moaning, always finding fault. He sowed discontent all about him. Soon we all became tired of his peevish whining. The life of a thrall is hard, it is natural to be... resentful, especially at first, but eventually we all must settle to our lot and find our place. Aelbeart would not, and he would not allow anyone else to either. He was unpopular and soon found himself isolated among the rest of the slaves. That... that is when he turned his attention to the wee lady. The Jarl's daughter."
"What do you mean?" breathed Brynhild.
"He used to boast about befriending you. He would tell the other thralls that you followed him about, like a puppy, though in truth it looked to be the other way round to the rest of us and we would laugh behind his back at his delusions. He would watch for you, find ways of making sure his duties brought him close to where you might be—at the river, in the meadows, in the granary. He was a pretty enough fellow so it was not a surprise, perhaps, that you liked him. He could make himself very amiable, could Aelbeart, when he chose to make the effort."
"So, you think he made a fool of me? Is that it?"
"I would not say that, exactly. Though he did flatter you and he took advantage of your youth. You were confused, I daresay..."
"That sounds like a fair enough description." Gunnar leaned one hip against the edge of the table. "So, that night? What did you see?"
"I knew that Aelbeart had taken to meeting the wee lady in secret. He bragged about that, too. I told him he would regret it, that as soon as the Jarl found out—and he would—it would end in disaster for him. He laughed in my face. He was arrogant, believed he could not be stopped. He intended to use you, Lady Brynhild, to make his escape. You were to steal food and valuables for him and aid him on his way, then he would abandon you once he had no further need of you."
"Bastard," murmured Ulfric under his breath.
Weylin nodded. "Aye, I thought so too. I... I followed him, that night. I saw him slipping out of the barn, a blanket rolled under his arm. It did not take much to work out what he intended to do. It was too much, he went too far." The thrall paused as though collecting his thoughts together. "I knew that the Jarl was away, as were you and your brother. But Solveig was at Skarthveit. Her finest sow had just farrowed and produceda litter of fine piglets. She was well pleased with them. I... I opened the gate to the pen as I passed and the wee things scattered across the village. Of course, it was not long before their squealing attracted attention and your mother was quick to respond. She came from the longhouse threatening to take a switch to whichever fool left the gate unfastened, but she soon had most of them rounded up again.”
“So what has this to do with Aelbeart?” Ulfric glared at the thrall.
“Solveig knew she had piglets still missing and was determined to find them all. She set off to search further afield, where squeals and scuffling could be heard by the old granary. I went with her. She found another pig on the way there and grabbed it, then handed it to me to take back to the pen. She continued on alone.”
"You. It was you who brought her there." Brynhild could only stare at the thrall who twisted his hands together nervously. "She did not arrive by chance."
"No, not entirely. I am not certain what happened next, but I heard a shout, a man’s voice I thought, and more squealing from another of the loose piglets. I shoved the one I had back in the pen and ran back in the direction Solveig had taken. You passed me on the way, lady, running hard. You were crying and you did not see me.”
“No, I did not,” agreed Brynhild.
“There was shouting, at least at the start, all of it from Aelbeart. With all that din it was easy enough to find them, but by the time I got there, he was dead.”
“Dead? He was dead?” Brynhild gaped. “Are you certain? How…”
“A knife wound to the chest. Solveig’s dagger.”
“She killed him.”
