Chapter Ten
“We have visitors, Brynhild. There shall be feasting this night.” Ulfric stepped through the entrance of the longhouse to regard the members of his household. His sister was at her loom, as usual, and the thralls milled about at their everyday tasks. Fiona sat at the table with Hilla, the pair of them bent over a hank of rough sheep’s fleece. All turned to look at him.
“Visitors? Who?” Brynhild laid down her shuttle. “We have salted mutton in the stores, and there is some good cod…”
“Well, set it over the stove. Quickly now, they are almost here.”
“Who?”
“Our brother approaches over the south meadow. He has men with him and others of his household.”
“How many?” Already Brynhild was rushing to inspect her barrels of fermented mead and baskets of produce harvested in recent weeks. Beans, turnips, carrots—Ulfric knew she would complain and fuss, but there would be ample for all. Brynhild’s hospitality was second to none.
“A dozen, perhaps a couple more. Fiona, you will assist with the food since you have some aptitude for cooking. We will serve it in here…” His instructions issued, he wheeled around to make his way down to the edge of the settlement to greet his brother.
Gunnar’s visits were infrequent, and Ulfric was always glad to see him though the pair would argue and bait each other without mercy during the entire encounter. It was as well they did not share a home, they would tear each other apart, but he could survive an occasional foray into the battlefield of filial affection.
His brother’s dark figure was instantly recognisable at the head of the troop of men who rode toward Skarthveit. They had two wagons with them also. Perhaps his brother had thought to bring supplies to replenish those he and his men would undoubtedly diminish during the course of his stay. As the convoy neared, Ulfric could see that the carts carried more people. Women? Children? More mouths to feed, as Brynhild would without doubt observe soon enough. His sister was not as close to Gunnar as he was, but the two got along well enough and he knew Brynhild would not begrudge the fare though she would have plenty to say. She always did.
“Brother, what brings you here? Am I to assume those hovels and caves you choose to inhabit are becoming too chilly for your old bones?” he called out to Gunnar as soon as the other man was within earshot. Gunnar’s own settlement lay perhaps two days’ ride to the north and whilst his accommodations might be rougher that those at Skarthveit, to describe his brother’s longhouse as a hovel or cave was stretching the truth somewhat, but such a detail would never deter Ulfric.
“Nay, but I thought we might descend upon you to while away a pleasant evening or two afore the winter sets in. Failing that, I can always pour ale down your gullet and best you at cards.”
Gunnar slid from his horse and wrapped Ulfric in a tight hug. As ever, his brother was clad in a black leather tunic and trousers, his stout boots laced high above his knees. A thick cloak made of a ram’s fleece hung about his muscular body, held in place at the shoulder with an ornately fashioned pin. It would appear his brother continued to prosper from his raiding expeditions across the cold northern seas. Ulfric returned the hug and the pair turned to walk back in the direction of his longhouse.
“How fares our sweet sister? Still not wed?”
Ulfric shook his head. “Alas, no.”
“And that lad of yours? Does he continue to sprout up faster than a weed?”
“Aye, he does well. I near enough lost him a sennight ago though. He fell in the fjord, had to be dragged out by one of my thralls. It was lucky the man was to hand and acted quickly.”
Gunnar paused to regard his brother. “By Odin! How did that happen?”
“A big wave? The rocks were slippery. I could not say for sure, but it was a close thing. First Astrid, and Eirik, we could not bear another tragedy.”
“Ah, yes. And since you mention our lost kinsfolk, I have to warn you, there are rumblings from Bjarkesholm once more. I come fresh from Hafrsfjord and the talk there is of war, of surprise attacks, retribution.”
“Shit, will those vultures never be satisfied? What more can I do to appease them?”
“You could try paying them again, but I fear it will never be enough. The old man is ill, and irrational in his hatred. Eirik was his eldest son, Astrid his favoured daughter. His nephew is his heir, and Olaf Bjarkesson is as crazed as his uncle, perhaps more so since he lacks the wisdom of years. You need to be careful, my brother. Make sure your home is well guarded, your crops safe, and your livestock kept close.”
“Aye, we will. Am I to assume that it is the need to deliver this warning which has necessitated this visit?”
“In part, yes.”
“I appreciate it. You say in part?”
“Yes, I have other news too.” They were now strolling past the longhouses that ringed the settlement and villagers came out to greet the new arrivals. Most of Gunnar’s men were kin so there would be much in the way of reunions, of catching up and exchanging news. Gunnar paused every few yards to exchange pleasantries and accept words of welcome, but at last they entered the main longhouse where Brynhild and her thralls were rushing about to make ready the feast.
“Ah, sister. Stop your fretting with that cauldron and come greet your brother.” Gunnar held out his arms and Brynhild went willingly into them. He hugged her and kissed her blonde locks. “My brother tells me you are still unmarried, lass. ‘Tis a pity, for you would make a fine wife.”
“What do you know of marriage, brother? Maybe you should look to your own house before trying to set mine to rights.”
“Ah, you are correct, as ever. And you will no doubt be delighted to learn I have heeded your words of wisdom even before you uttered them.”
“What are you babbling about?” Brynhild wriggled free. “Hilla, ale for my brother, if you would. And for those who came with him…”
Ulfric turned as more people entered his home. He squinted at the red-haired woman who hovered there, a babe in her arms. She looked vaguely familiar though he could not quite put a name to her. A lad stood at her side, perhaps Njal’s age or a little older. They were Celts by the look of them, though their clothing was finer than would be usual for thralls.
“Ah, Mairead, come in, come in.” Gunnar reached for the woman’s hand, then took the baby from her arms. Ulfric watched in amazement as his brother shushed the child when he—she?—started to grizzle. Gunnar seemed to find nothing amiss in any of this. He beamed at his brother and sister. “May I present Mairead, my wife. And this is our daughter, Tyra.”
Brynhild sank to sit on the bench behind her, her mouth agape. Ulfric was hardly less astonished. He peered again at the woman clinging uncertainly to his brother’s arm. There was no mistaking Gunnar’s devotion though as he regarded the auburn curls that framed her bent head.
“We are delighted to make your acquaintance, sister.” Ulfric recovered his manners and stepped forward to kiss the woman on each cheek. He managed to deliver a sharp nudge to Brynhild’s ribs as he passed her. “Mairead, did you say?”
Gunnar answered for her. “Aye, Mairead, of Aikrig, in Scotland. You will recall my bride, I do not doubt. And the lad here, for you made a fair enough price on him.” Gunnar beckoned the boy to his side. “Come, Donald, and greet your family.”
Ah. Suddenly all became clear. The woman, the pregnant one at the roadside, the one his brother had taken an obvious liking to. More than a liking, it would seem. Ulfric had been somewhat distracted by his own lovely captive and had failed to properly appreciate the merits of the other female. He had been remiss, for clearly she was a beauty. But… a bride? A Viking did not wed his thrall, why would he?
As Ulfric grappled with that question, Brynhild rediscovered her powers of speech. “But, she is a Celt.”
“Aye, that she is,” agreed Gunnar, “and now she is wife to a Viking.”
“But, I do not understand. Why…?”
A fair enough question, if somewhat tactless. Ulfric opted to step in before matters worsened. “And a lovelier bride no Viking ever claimed. Welcome, Mairead. You must be tired after your journey, and your children will no doubt be hungry. Come, be seated…”
As Brynhild scowled at her new sister, Ulfric ushered his guests to the table. He signalled to Hilla who jumped forward with a jug of fine ale, as Fiona leaned down to hug first Mairead, then Donald. Of course, they were acquaintances, at least, and would welcome the chance to renew their friendship.
“Fiona, you will entertain our guests. Hilla, Harald, fetch more food, more ale. Where is Njal?”
“I am here.” The lad rushed through the door and ran at his uncle who swung him into the air. The boy shrieked his delight and clung to Gunnar’s cloak, only then catching sight of the other boy. “Who is that?” he demanded.
“That is Donald, my stepson. He is good with a sword and a fair enough shot with his dagger.”
“Not as good as me,” asserted Njal. “I have been practising.”
“Indeed you have, when not splashing about in the fjord.” Ulfric patted his son’s shoulder. “Perhaps you will show Donald your skills then, and in return perhaps he will demonstrate his own. Could you show him your pony too?”
Njal wriggled out of his uncle’s embrace and glowered at the other boy. “Well, come on then.” He marched to the door then turned to make sure that Donald was following. The two were already chatting and trading boasts as they left the longhouse, quite oblivious to the tensions between the adults they left behind.
Ulfric was glad of Fiona’s easy laughter as the evening wore on. She was friendly to Gunnar and at great pains to make Mairead welcome, which was more than could be claimed for Brynhild. She was clearly aghast at their brother’s choice of a wife, and her usual hospitality was nowhere in evidence as she uttered hardly a word to any but the servants. Njal and Donald appeared to hit it off, to Ulfric’s relief, but he was beyond irritated by his sister. When would she let this ridiculous grudge drop? Her irrational hatred of the Celts threatened to split their family apart, and at a time when the bonds of kinship had never been more vital. When all else failed, a Viking relied on his kin.
* * *
“I owe you my thanks for today, little Celt.” Ulfric pulled Fiona to him and wrapped his arms around her as they snuggled together in the pallet they shared in a corner of the longhouse. Their usual sleeping quarters had been made available to the guests so they were spending the night in one of the chambers off the main room.
While Gunnar, Mairead, and the baby, Tyra, enjoyed the relative privacy of the alcove behind the curtain, Njal slept a few feet away, and Donald too. Brynhild had made up her bed as far away from the rest as she might accomplish in such unusually crowded conditions.
“It was pleasant to see Mairead again. And I confess, your brother is not as fearsome as I remember.”
He chuckled. “Ah, yes, Gunnar did not endear himself to you on the occasion of your previous meeting. So, Mairead is your friend?”
“Oh, no. I barely know her really. Mairead came to Aikrig, the village close to Pennglas but a year or so ago. Her husband was a fisherman.”
“Her husband? Did he perish in the raid?” Ulfric would not wish the man ill, but he would prefer not to contemplate the awkwardness should this husband still live.
“No, she was widowed a half year ago. His fishing boat capsized…”
“Ah. But the lad, Donald, he is what, seven summers of age? You say she only came to the village a year ago?”
“About that. She had a previous husband, before Alred the fisherman.”
“Twice widowed? She looks to be about your age though.”
“She is twenty-four summers I believe, so a little older than me. Even so… she has seen much in her life. I hope Gunnar will be kind to her.”
“I believe he will. He is besotted by his new bride, and by the baby too, though the little one is not his. I recall Mairead looked about ready to drop her bairn by the roadside.”
“Yes.” She turned to face him. “You truly believe he will make her happy? Protect her and her children?”
“I do, for it is clear to me that he loves her. I can well comprehend his fascination with Celtic females,” he bent to kiss her hair, “since I do share it.”
“Not entirely.”
Her tone had changed, she seemed… sad. “Fiona?”
“Your brother became fascinated by a Celtic woman, so he made her his wife. Your fascination drove you to make a slave of me. There is a world of difference, as I am quite sure Brynhild has already pointed out.”
It was true, his sister had had much to say on the subject when she was able to get him alone and Ulfric had eventually snapped at her, told her to hold her tongue or make herself scarce. It would seem that not only Gunnar was offended by her words.
“You think he should not have wed her?”
“I did not say that. I am pleased for Mairead, that she has a man who will respect her and take care of her, even if he is a Viking.”
Her meaning was clear. “You believe that I should wed you?” His tone was incredulous and he made no attempt to conceal his astonishment. The very notion was preposterous, out of the question. A Viking did not take a slave to wife, however lovely the wench might be, however warm his bed with her in it.
“What I believe, or want, has no relevance here. You have made that much clear to me. I will bid you a good night, Viking.” She rolled over to present her back to him, her spine stiff as though she dared him to so much as touch her. He considered it, but let his hand drop to the blankets. His thrall was tired, it had been a hectic and stressful day. He would allow her to rest.
* * *
Fiona had little to say to him the following morning. It was clear that she was still angry following their exchange the previous night but he had no time to address the matter now. Worse, he lacked his usual certainty in how to deal with his slave. Should he spank her for her insolence, for her unrealistic expectations and her ridiculous demands? The notion was tempting, certainly, but he was not entirely convinced it would yield the results he desired. Should he apologise instead, try to explain the vast difference in their status here? It would not be the first time he had apologised to Fiona, but he could not quite bring himself to the view that he was in the wrong here.
He was master, she the slave. It was simple, and she must accept her situation. So, a spanking then. He would see to it as soon as their visitors left.
Gunnar and his party were to depart by noon so the two brothers and their men took advantage of their final few hours to indulge their shared passion for hunting. When they left the longhouse, Mairead and Fiona were seated together enjoying a cup of mead. Brynhild glowered at them from her position at the loom, but Ulfric had made it clear that Fiona was to be left in peace with her friend so he did not anticipate interference from that quarter. Still, his sister made her feelings plain enough.
He shook his head, baffled and frustrated by her intransigence, and strode off to mount his horse.
The hunt was successful. The men returned to Skarthveit with three fine stags slung across their horses. One carcase was to go to Gunnarsholm, the other two would be butchered and salted here to provide food during the coming winter months. Ulfric was pleased with the morning’s work, and genuinely sorry to wave farewell to his brother when Gunnar and his family were ready to leave.
“Mind my words, watch out for Olaf Bjarkesson. He is a vengeful bastard, and quite beyond reason. He will attack you, the first chance he has.”
“I know. I will inspect our fields to check for any signs that he has been around. And even though I believe you to be correct in your assessment of him, I shall endeavour one last time to make peace with Olaf since we are neighbours and must inhabit this land together.”
“Good defences and vigilance will keep you safe, not negotiations. But you must do as you think best, brother. I am intending to remain at Gunnarsholm over the winter, then resume raiding as soon as the weather clears enough. If you need me, send word and I will be here as quickly as I can.”
“Thank you. Be safe, and take care of your family.”
“I intend to, brother, you may be certain of that. You also.”
As his guests disappeared from view over the crest of the hills to the north, Ulfric considered his brother’s parting words. With every day that passed, he reflected, taking care of his family became ever more challenging. There was much to be said for Gunnar’s far simpler approach.
* * *
Fiona did not take her spanking well. He was obliged to drag her across his lap and secure her hands in the small of her back before he could lift her skirts and apply his palm to her delightful bottom. She squirmed and squealed and dared to call him a vile Viking bully, which earned her several additional swats. Only when she at last lay spent and weeping over his knees did he cease to punish her. He lifted her in his arms and lay with her on their bed as she sobbed against his chest.
As he finally extricated himself from her clinging embrace and drew the blankets up around her, she muttered something into the mattress. He did not quite catch it, could not have for her words made no sense.
“Why could you not just love me?”