by Ashe Barker
* * *
Ulfric rolled over and withdrew from her almost at once. Fiona was not sure if she was glad or not. If he had wished to tarry she might not have objected, but it was clear he harboured no such inclination. He did, however, pull her to him and wrap his arms around her from behind.
“Are you well, little Celt?”
“I… I believe I am, Viking.”
“No pain?”
“I am a little sore, but…” She pondered what to say to him next, and settled for the first thing that had entered her head. “Thank you. That was very nice.”
Ulfric laughed out loud. “Good. In that case you will not strenuously object to repeating the exercise.”
She shifted a fraction and groaned as her no longer virgin body complained. “I believe I would not, but perhaps not immediately.”
“No, not immediately. You will remain here, rest, keep warm.”
She turned her head to look at him, anxious. “You are leaving me?”
“I must. I have much to attend to, but you will be safe here. No one will trouble you. I will ensure that food is brought…”
“I have been fed, by your sister. I do not much care to sample more of your Viking fare.”
“You shall have good food, the same as I do. Be assured, little Celt, I shall deal with Brynhild and you will not be troubled by her in the future.”
“Still, must you go? Or if you must, maybe I could come with you…?”
“You need to rest, allow your ankle to heal.”
He pressed his lips against her hair then rolled from among the furs to seek out his discarded clothing. Despite her trepidation Fiona could not help watching in fascination as he dressed. She recalled with sadness the destruction of her own belongings, tattered and soiled as they might have been.
“She burned my clothes.”
“She what?”
“Burned my clothes. Everything, even the bandage. Now I have nothing.”
His jaw tightened, his mouth flattened. A spark of genuine anger leapt in his eyes, to be quickly extinguished. “I shall see that you have more, and that you are given clothing suited to our climate since I now know how much you dislike the cold.”
He draped his own cloak about his shoulders and lifted the curtain that separated them from the rest of his household. Fiona knew a moment’s embarrassment when she realised how flimsy was that barrier, and how unrestrained had been her vocal response to Ulfric. Even from her position within the nest of furs she could see Brynhild standing beside her loom on the other side of the hall. There was no mistaking the Norsewoman’s surly expression when she raised her head to regard her brother as he emerged from his sleeping quarters.
Whatever Ulfric might promise, whatever he might choose to believe, Fiona harboured no such illusions. She had every reason to fear Brynhild.
* * *
She heard but snatches of conversation as Ulfric berated his sister for her treatment of Fiona, and much of it was in their Norse tongue in any case. It was clear he was displeased. His voice was raised, though he did not shout. Brynhild hissed her replies, her resentment and bitterness apparent with every foreign syllable she uttered. The woman clearly believed she was justified in doing as she had, and Fiona knew full well that she would not refrain from tormenting her in the future. And why should she, after all? Brynhild was a Viking, sister to the Jarl. She ruled here, just as he did, whilst Fiona was a mere thrall who might be bundled off and sold at a moment’s notice. She had but to displease Ulfric, and her slender thread of protection would be snatched away.
The voices became clearer. The quarrelling pair must have moved closer to the curtain, and they had switched to her own Gaelic tongue, or Brynhild had.
“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?”
A wife? He had a wife after all?
“Astrid is gone. I loved her, but she is dead and we must move on.”
Ah, not a living wife, at least…
“You should wed 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.” He sounded irritated, and the receding footsteps told Fiona that he was already heading for the outer door. At least he had defended her.
“I do not want her here. It is not right, not… not…”
“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.”
* * *
Fiona gaped at the curtain, still swaying from his departure.
Just a wench to fuck. Not important.
She had surrendered her virginity to a man to whom she was no more than a trivial plaything, a release for his lust. He had seemed so kind, as though he genuinely cared for her pleasure, as though it mattered to him what she felt. She had had a choice, she knew that. He could have forced her but instead he took the trouble to persuade her, to arouse and entice her until she was near senseless with lust. And all the while he held her in such contempt. How could she have been so stupid, so foolish, so utterly gullible? Worse, how could she so much as contemplate repeating her folly?
But repeat it she would. Fiona knew she would. He had only to touch her, only to suggest those wicked things he could do to her, and she would beg him again.
She was not entirely certain who she hated more in that instant—herself, Ulfric, or his loathsome sister.
* * *
Ulfric returned to his sleeping chamber several hours later. Fiona had spent the intervening time alone and undisturbed, but she feigned sleep when the Viking slipped into the bed beside her. She had no words for him, not yet, and hoped he would not seek to demand her attention.
He did not, and soon his low, even breathing signalled that he slept. She closed her eyes and tried to do likewise.
When she opened them again she was alone, the furs beside her cold and empty. She raised her head from the mattress and peered about her. Narrow fingers of watery daylight penetrated the cracks between the walls of the longhouse and the rafters so she knew the hour to be after dawn, but for the most part the room where she lay remained unilluminated. Fiona longed for a sight of the morning sun, however thin and cold it may be in this frigid Northern land, but her ankle would not hold her and she could not move from where she was without assistance. Added to this, she possessed no clothing and would most certainly not voluntarily stir from this room naked.
She shoved herself up into a sitting position and contemplated calling out. No, not if that would risk Brynhild answering her summons. She wondered again if she might just manage to—
The curtain parted and the slim figure of a young thrall slipped into the sleeping chamber. She carried a bundle of fabric. which she deposited upon the bed. The girl stepped back and simply pointed to the clothing she had brought, then to Fiona. It seemed the attire was intended for her.
Fiona managed a tentative smile and reached for the closest item, a smock made of stout woollen cloth. It was a dull grey in colour, but soft enough and would be warm, and decent. She continued her investigation to find a linen pinafore and a pair of leather sandals. All were of reasonable quality, if somewhat basic, and were clean.
“Thank you,” she began, before realising that the slave who had brought her new clothes did not speak her tongue. The thrall nodded and bobbed from the room, leaving Fiona alone once more.
She perched on the edge of the bed and groaned as moisture pooled beneath her. Fiona shuffled to the side and peered at the place she had been sitting. In the dim light she could barely make out the dark stain of her own blood, the residue of the previous night’s incredible events, now mixed with the excess of her Viking’s seed. She should find the sight more distressing than she did. Indeed, she was oddly calm about the entire episode and
did not especially regret the loss of her virginity despite the Viking’s callous words to his sister. She was honest enough to admit that she had relished the experience and had learnt a great deal from her Viking master. Even so, she wished to remove the evidence of her deflowering and clean herself before she dressed. Luckily, her bath from the night before had not yet been removed so Fiona was able to use the flannel and a little of the tepid water to accomplish some basic ablutions.
Satisfied with her efforts, she dragged the smock over her head quickly in case anyone else was about to enter unannounced. The pinafore soon followed, then Fiona bent to consider the sandals. Her good foot posed no problem and she soon strapped the footwear on. She discovered that the shoe could be adjusted to accommodate her still swollen and bandaged ankle, and since it was far more comfortable, and warmer than walking about barefoot, she secured the left one too.
She clung to the wall as she got to her feet, and tested her weight on her injured foot.
No, no way could she use it yet. Laughter sounded from beyond the curtain, a female voice, not Brynhild, then a male speaking in the Nordic language she did not comprehend. Yet still, they sounded merry and Fiona craved company. Perhaps, if she used the wall to support herself, she might be able to manage an ungainly hop…
Fiona emerged from the sleeping chamber into the main room of the longhouse. Four pairs of eyes swung in her direction. Brynhild sat at the head of the huge table in the centre of the room, the girl who had delivered the clothing on her right side and two male thralls seated opposite her. The slaves had been chatting and laughing over something, but all fell silent when Fiona appeared. She fought the instinct to duck back behind the curtain, instead tilting her chin up and meeting the Viking woman’s hostile glare.
“I… I was hungry. And I need to… to…” She needed the privy, but could not quite bring herself to be so explicit.
“Hilla will show you the place.” Brynhild spoke a few words to the female thrall who nodded and rose to her feet. The girl waited by the door leading to the outside, and beckoned.
Fiona started to make her way around the outer wall, but Hilla came back to aid her. By leaning on the smaller girl Fiona was able to cross the room and skirt the outside of the longhouse until they reached the wicker-fenced cubicle that served as the place for more private functions. Fiona waved away Hilla’s gestured offer of further aid and managed to sink into a crouch herself.
Getting back on her feet was trickier, but she managed, driven by sheer determination. Hilla waited outside for her and helped her back into the main room of the longhouse.
“Sit there.” Brynhild pointed to a rough bench at the foot of the table. A basket of turnips had been set beside the bench, and a sack containing carrots. “You will prepare those for the pot. Be quick about it, we want to eat this day.”
Fiona peered at the vegetables, and at the blunt knife provided for her use. The task would take an age with such an unsuitable implement, but she reached into the basket and selected her first turnip.
Rarely was she called upon to assist with kitchen chores at Pennglas, but Fiona had no real objection to the labour and set to with a will. Soon, the chatter around her resumed, though Fiona was unable to follow the rapid speech of her fellow thralls who also peeled and chopped a variety of vegetables.
Brynhild did not say much, but what conversation she did offer seemed genial enough and the other slaves clearly did not share Fiona’s trepidation around their mistress. On one occasion when Hilla accidentally slipped and cut her finger with the knife she had been provided, Brynhild leapt to her feet and grabbed a cloth to stanch the flow of blood. The Viking spoke softly to the weeping lass and allowed her to sit and watch, her hand swathed in a thick wad of linen, whilst the others continued with their tasks.
It was clear that Brynhild’s sour temper was not vented upon all around her. As though to further illustrate this point the small boy, Njal was next to interrupt their labours. Ulfric’s son ran into the longhouse dragging a sack of peas, which he dumped before his aunt. Brynhild stroked the panting child’s cheek and bent to inspect his offering before apparently declaring it perfectly excellent. He beamed and charged off out of the door again. Brynhild fixed Fiona with a glare. “Stop dawdling with those turnips and start shelling these peas. We do not have the entire morning to sit around waiting for you to finish even the simplest task.”
Fiona might have retorted something along the lines of doing better with a half-decent blade, but she opted to hold her tongue. Nothing she might say would assuage Brynhild’s ill humour. Instead, she lowered her gaze and persevered.
A couple of hours passed and the pile of prepared fare grew into something more reasonable. One of the male thralls—Harald, Fiona thought though she was not entirely certain—brought in buckets of water, which he tipped into the huge cauldron suspended over the fire pit in the centre of the room. To the pot he added the turnips that Fiona had peeled and chopped, and started to stir the broth. The other male thrall disappeared and returned with three rabbits hanging from each hand. He flung those on the table and proceeded to skin each animal.
Fiona preferred not to watch and was relieved when at last the meat also disappeared into the bubbling pot. A pleasant aroma emanated from the stew, which by now contained several of her carrots too, and a generous portion of peas. Hilla had rejoined the task and merrily shelled peas beside Fiona, offering her an occasional shy smile. Fiona warmed to the lass and grinned back.
With an expressive snort, Brynhild left them to finish the work and moved over to the huge loom which was situated by the door, clearly positioned to best catch what meagre light penetrated the longhouse. The loom was perhaps six feet in height and leaned against the wall. A length of already woven cloth was wound around the upper beam, and Brynhild leaned in to inspect the fabric forming within the framework. Fiona was familiar with the weaving process though not especially skilled at it, and the Viking method differed little from that which she was accustomed to in Pennglas. The warp threads were tensioned by stones tied to the ends, and moved relative to each other by means of rods about halfway down. Several rods were attached to this piece, and Brynhild commenced moving these as she passed the shuttle holding the weft thread backwards and forwards. It was laborious work and Brynhild had to pace back and forth across the front of the loom to accomplish it, but the Viking was both deft and accurate. She appeared to be working on a type of twill fabric, which Fiona knew to be more complex than the normal plain weave. Despite her dislike of the woman, Fiona could not help but admire her skill with the loom.
Brynhild said something to Hilla, then strode from the longhouse. The thralls remained at their assigned tasks.
Curious, Fiona took advantage of Brynhild’s absence to study the weave more carefully. It really was quite beautiful, a rich blend of blue weft and various reds making up the warp to create a pattern that reminded her of the heather-clad mountains of her home. Unthinking, she pushed herself to her feet and hopped over to grasp the heavy loom, then leaned in to examine the work.
“What are you doing?” The harsh tone of the Viking woman rang in her ear, causing Fiona to whirl on her good leg. She lost her balance and instinctively grabbed at the loom for support, dislodging one of the rods that helped to create the design. Several threads sprang loose, and Brynhild let loose a torrent of angry Nordic before switching to Gaelic.
“How dare you? Who gave you permission to touch my work? You were trying to sabotage it, I know your tricks, filthy little Celtic whore.”
“I was not. I just—”
“Silence. I will have you flogged for this. Indeed, I shall deal with the task myself…”
“I can help to repair it. I did not mean any harm.” Fiona started to back away.
Brynhild followed, very much on the attack and clearly furious. “You will not touch my loom again, slut. Do you not know yet what we do with disobedient slaves here?”
Fiona had a very good idea, but was stung by
the injustice of this latest attack. She paused her retreat and tried to stand her ground. She was a lady, daughter of the lord of Pennglas, not some peasant to be berated by a bitter, vengeful woman.
“I do not care. I am not your slave, nor anyone else’s. I was only looking at the weave, admiring—”
“You will be silent, girl. Harald, fetch me a strap.”
“No!” Fiona turned and made to head back to the one place that seemed to offer any form of sanctuary. She had not managed two paces toward the curtain before Brynhild seized her elbow.
Fiona tried to yank her arm free, but Brynhild’s fingers tightened, digging into her flesh. Terrified now, Fiona tried to wrestle out of her grip but could not get loose.
“Let me go, Viking. I do not answer to you, I shall—”
“Fiona!” The loud, stern tone of Ulfric brought the unequal struggle to an abrupt end. Both women turned to where he stood, framed in the doorway, his expression thunderous. “What the fuck is going on here?”
Fiona had known a moment of relief at his arrival. That was instantly dispelled when he narrowed his eyes in a forbidding glare.
“I… I only—”
“This vindictive little slut of yours saw fit to tamper with my weaving. Now I shall have to repair the damage she has wrought and that will take hours.”
The woman exaggerated and Fiona opened her mouth to say so.
“Did you touch the loom, Fiona?” Ulfric’s question was terse.
“Yes, but—”
“Did you have permission to do so?” He was evidently not interested in any mitigating factors.
“Not exactly, but I—”
“Not at all,” spat Brynhild. “I stepped out to check on Njal and told all of them to continue with their work.” She swept out an arm to indicate the group of startled thralls now watching open-mouthed. “For this idle wench that meant she should finish shelling the peas. She had no cause to so much as leave the table, let alone approach my weaving. She has earned a whipping, and I shall be happy to deliver it.”
