Page 9 of Her Celtic Captor
He made her wait. Ulfric was closeted in his sleeping chamber with the wench, and had left instructions that he was not to be disturbed. The sounds of lovemaking, unmistakable and sensuous, drifted from behind the fluttering barrier. Brynhild gritted her teeth. The wench might have been less than happy at the start of this encounter with Ulfric, but matters had clearly taken a turn for the better. Left with no option but to bide her time until her brother was finished, Brynhild simmered with resentment as she resumed her distracted combing of the unwashed wool, then moved to work at her loom. Weaving usually soothed her, she loved the colours and the soft feel of the wool between her fingers, the magic as the pattern formed under her skilled hands. Not this day. This day she snapped her weft and tangled her yarns, and eventually tossed her spindle away with an impatient curse.
At that moment Ulfric chose to emerge from his chamber. Brynhild looked up from her mangled work, looked past himto the bed where the slave still lay. Their eyes met, the grey darkening in fear. Brynhild should be more satisfied at the trepidation she had caused, this was, after all, what she had set out to achieve. Instead, she just felt bitter anger and disappointment at her brother's insensitivity, coupled with an awful sense that her ordered little world was no longer the safe haven she had thought it to be.
Ulfric stepped forth and allowed the curtain to drop behind him.
"What the fuck was that about?"
"She... I—" Rarely was Brynhild lost for words, but she could find no ready explanation. Exasperated, she signalled for the reproachful house thralls to leave the dwelling then turned to face her brother.
"I do not want her here." Inadequate, she knew. It was all she had.
"But I do, so the matter is settled." Ulfric folded his arms and leaned back against one of the central pillars which ran the length of the longhouse. "What possessed you, sister? This is not like you, to ill treat those weaker than yourself."
"She is a Celt. I do not like Celts, and I will not have one here. This is my home, and?—"
"Enough." Ulfric halted her protests with one upraised hand. "The girl is harmless, and she has done nothing to you. I will have your word that she is not to be mistreated further, and that will be the end of it." He waited, an eyebrow raised in determined expectation. Never given to deliberate falsehood, Brynhild merely shook her head and turned away, refusing to offer any such undertaking.
“Brynhild, you will not ignore my command. I shall have your word.”
“No, you shall not,” she spat back. “This is my house, my servants. I shall run the household as I see fit.”
“Where has this callousness come from? I cannot believe this of you, sister. It makes no sense.”
“Then you are more stupid than I imagined.” Anger and defiance loosened her tongue. “You know how I feel about those… those…”
“Celts?” Ulfric offered the word quietly but Brynhild knew his tone belied a growing anger. “And this is my house, not yours. You will do as I say, run it according to my wishes. And you will keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak to me.”
“Or what?” Outrage and indignation drove her now and she flung caution to the winds. “What will you do, brother?”
“Do not test me, Brynhild.”
“If I am to run this house with the efficiency you set such store by as a rule then discipline is my responsibility.”
Ulfric shook his head in disbelief. “You know my wishes on this matter and you would do well to heed them. Treat the wench well from now on.”
“But—"
"Leave her alone," he warned. "She is mine, and I will not have her harmed."
Brynhild tried another tack. "Why? Why is she here? If you do not care for me, what of Njal? What of Astrid?"
"This does not concern Astrid?—"
"Your wife, the mother of your son. How can you say it does not concern her?" Brynhild had been fond of her sister-in-law and she was reasonably certain that Ulfric had cared deeply for his late wife. Had Astrid lived, there would have been no interloping Celtic bed-slave brought to their home.
"Astrid is gone. I loved her, but she is dead and we must move on."
Why? Why must anything change?
Even as she harboured this ridiculous notion Brynhild sought to convince Ulfric of the error of his ways. "You shouldwed another, provide Njal with a mother, more brothers and sisters. Not move some... some worthless Celtic slut into our home."
"I prefer it if you do not refer to her thus." Ulfric sounded tired, and Brynhild knew she was dismissed. He had not heard her, did not see why this matter was of such concern.
Why are all men such unfeeling pigs?
"I do not want her here. It is not right, not... not..."
He rounded on her, his expression exasperated. "Why does it matter so much to you? She is just a wench to fuck. Not important. I am warning you, leave her be, Brynhild." He slammed the door as he left.
