by Ashe Barker
“Brynhild? Sister?”
“Brother? Bastard,” she spat.
Ah, so this was how it was to be. It went against the grain, but he would grovel if he must.
“I am sorry…” he began.
“Do not bother. Save it for one who cares what you think, how you feel. This one, perhaps.” She levelled a glare at Fiona. “I hear you are wed to your little—”
“Do not say it, Brynhild,” Taranc broke in quietly. “Not in front of her father, and the lad.”
Brynhild gave a curt nod, but her features betrayed her furious anguish. “For her? You sent me away, for her? I was your sister, your own kin. I cared for your home, your son, yet you threw me aside.” Her haughty, angry facade crumpled and she buried her face in her hands. “I loved you. You and Njal were everything to me. How could you do it?”
Ulfric would have stepped forward but Taranc beat him to it and enfolded his weeping wife in his arms. “You have your family back, now, sweetheart. All of them and more besides. They are to stay here, with us.”
Her sobs grew louder, and she gripped her husband’s cloak with renewed vigour. Njal moved closer and laid his hand on her back.
“Please, Aunt Brynhild, are you not at all pleased to see us?”
She groped for the boy, blindly reaching until she could gather him in. Taranc beckoned Ulfric to join them.
“She is shocked, and grieving for what she thought was lost. Give her time.” The Celt shifted back to allow Ulfric the space to join their tight circle. As Brynhild’s grip on his garments loosened, Taranc eased away and handed her to her brother. Ulfric took her in his arms and Brynhild wept against his chest as though her heart was breaking.
Taranc stepped away from them and came to where Fiona and Dughall stood in silence, watching the tableau before them.
“It will take time,” he murmured. “There is much to forgive, and not only between your husband and my wife. She is not blameless in this. She wronged you, Fiona, but I have come to know her these past months and I do not believe it was all intentional. In time, you might become friends. Brynhild is… difficult, but there is much to love about her. Do you not agree, Dughall?”
“Aye, yon lass has a fierce temper but she has been kind to me in my infirmities. There is much good in her.”
Fiona was astonished, could not readily reconcile her father’s assessment with the woman she remembered. She agreed as far as the temper was concerned but as to the rest… Still, they would all need to adapt and she was already determined to do her part. Ulfric had more than shown willing and she felt moved to speak in his defence. “There is much good in Ulfric,” she murmured. “Despite everything.”
The old man sighed. “These are strange times, my girl, very odd. Still, I believe I shall instruct my cook to lay out a feast. ‘Tis not every day my daughter returns to me from the dead, even if she does bring a Viking into my hall.”
He shuffled off in the direction of the kitchen. “Aye, very odd. Very odd indeed.”
Epilogue
Six months later
Fiona finished her porridge. She set her bowl aside and rose from the table, then stepped toward the door. She still thought of the morning meal as dagmal though she rarely used the Nordic tongue herself since her return to Pennglas. Ulfric and Njal continued to speak in their first language, though the boy was now proficient in both Gaelic and Norse.
The lad had struggled to settle initially, viewed with suspicion by others of his own age, even feared. Ulfric had guided him well, insisting that his son take the time needed to allow the Celtic youths to become familiar with him, with all of the new arrivals, and to realise that the Vikings posed no threat. Indeed, that they brought with them a guarantee of safety or at least a better chance of it.
Time had healed, as Ulfric had known it would. Or mostly. His relationship with his sister remained fraught. She was hostile, angry, and bitter, and even the birth of her son some four months previously had done little to soften her attitude.
Fiona knew how much this continuing ill feeling saddened her husband. He did not feel any remorse over his actions in banishing Brynhild, though he regretted the pain it had caused her. Fiona took care not to exacerbate matters by further provoking her old enemy. She tended to avoid Brynhild, which was not especially difficult as they lived in separate villages and Brynhild rarely ventured to Pennglas except to occasionally visit Dughall.
Ulfric, on the other hand, was in daily contact with Taranc. The two had forged an alliance that blossomed into what appeared to be genuine friendship, and that never failed to amaze Fiona. Both villages prospered as a result. The Vikings brought with them skill with weapons and knowledge of agriculture, whereas the Celts were mainly fishermen and their knowledge of farming was limited to the rearing of livestock. The villages worked together and all ate well.
Too well, perhaps. With a groan Fiona clutched at her stomach and ran from the hall. She rushed into the solar, the private rooms occupied by herself, Ulfric, Njal, and her father. Just in time she dropped to her knees beside the pail she had deliberately left in the corner and deposited the porridge there.
This was not the first time she had cast up her accounts since she rose this morning, and if the experience of the last few days was any indication it would not be the last. She groaned as her stomach continued to rebel, and despaired of ever feeling well again.
Light footsteps behind her heralded the arrival of Hilla. The maid had accompanied them across the North Sea and had somehow attached herself to Fiona’s household. It was an arrangement which suited all.
“A damp cloth, if you please, Hilla,” croaked Fiona, not yet daring to rise lest her fragile hold on whatever might remain in her stomach be loosened once more.
Moments later a moist cloth was placed in her outstretched hand. Fiona wiped her mouth with it, and turned to request a mug of buttermilk. She didn’t normally like the stuff, but just recently…
“Brynhild!”
Fiona shot upright at the unexpected sight of her nemesis standing beside her, the four-month-old Morvyn nestled in the crook of her left arm. With uncharacteristic bitterness Fiona reflected that motherhood had done nothing to dim the other woman’s stunning beauty. Brynhild was simply perfect, which rendered Fiona all the more despondent about her current predicament. Her stomach was already heaving again and with a groan she sank back onto her knees to hug the pail.
“‘Twill pass,” observed Brynhild evenly. “Does Ulfric know?”
“Yes, but no one else. It is very early…”
“I see. I wish you and the babe well.”
Had she heard correctly? Fiona made use of the wet cloth once more before attempting to stand again.
“Thank you. I had not expected to see you here today. Is there something I can do for you?” Her tone was cool. Despite the Viking woman’s good wishes Fiona knew better than to trust her and entertained no wish to delay Brynhild.
“Yes, there is. I want you to know the truth of what happened that night in Skarthveit, the night of the stocks.”
Fiona frowned. “I do know the truth. I was there.”
Brynhild shook her head. “I do not think you do, at least, not all of it. My brother is of the opinion that I attempted to murder you that night, and you share his view, do you not?”
“That is what happened…” began Fiona.
“No, it is not. I had no such intention.”
Fiona made to step past Brynhild. There was nothing to be gained by quarrelling with the woman again, reopening old wounds. “As you wish. Now, I have tasks awaiting me so I should—”
“Wait!”
The command rang out and Fiona turned, one eyebrow raised. The time when Brynhild could order her about was long past. “If you will excuse me…”
“Wait… please.” Brynhild softened her tone. “I would have you hear me out.”
Fiona drew in a long breath, then, “Very well. Shall we be seated?”
The pair settled on a ben
ch close to the one window in the solar and Brynhild shushed the baby who was starting to stir. As ever, Fiona was struck by the similarity to Taranc. There could be no mistaking this sturdy little boy’s sire and she was pleased for her oldest friend.
“He is growing so fast,” she offered, falling back upon the age-old female bond of shared motherhood.
“He is.” agreed Brynhild, who then fixed Fiona with a level look. Apparently the Viking was not to be deflected from her mission in coming here. “It was not my intention to leave you out in the cold all night.”
Fiona appreciated that Brynhild had come straight to the point but found she was not in any mood to pander to the woman’ self-delusion. “Yet still, that is exactly what you did. Or you would have, but for Ulfric’s unexpected return.”
“No. I was distracted, as I have said, by Njal’s illness. His mother died of a sudden ague, and I feared… Well, my fears were groundless, but I was not to know at that stage. I had instructed Harald to remain with you and to release you after a short while. You saw me speaking to him? Just before I returned to the longhouse?”
Brynhild paused, one perfect eyebrow raised as though to check that Fiona did indeed see this.
Fiona gave a slow nod. “You spoke to him under your breath. I was not intended to hear your words.”
“Yes. It was my intention to frighten you, so I did not allow you to hear me tell Harald to release you after thirty minutes. After I returned to the house I became preoccupied with Njal and I am ashamed to say I forgot all about you. I should not have, but that is what happened. It was only when the boy eventually slept that I realised that neither Harald nor you had returned indoors. I came at once to seek you out. I was on my way when my brother charged past me into our longhouse, with you in his arms.”
“I know, you have said all of this.” Brynhild had never wavered from her story. Ulfric did not believe it, and neither did Fiona.
“Because it is true.” She tilted her chin defiantly. “I would not be judged unfairly for that which I did not do.”
“No?” A flash of rare temper ignited within Fiona. “Yet you have seen fit to judge me unfairly since the moment we first met, holding me, and indeed all Celts, to account for the death of your betrothed. Why should you not be unfairly judged?”
Brynhild’s features hardened, but she was the one to lower her gaze first. “Very well, I accept your rebuke. I was… wrong.”
Wrong? Fiona stared, incredulous and quite lost for words.
Brynhild rocked her fretful child as she continued. “I have come to appreciate that Celts… well, some Celts… are decent, and…”
“Taranc’s influence, I do not doubt,” was Fiona’s bitter observation.
Brynhild nodded. “Yes, in the main. And that of your father. He was kind to me when I first came here, more so than I deserved.”
“My father is a generous man. He has found it within him to accept Ulfric, if not to entirely forgive what took place.”
“Forgiveness is precious. I know better than to ask it of you for I treated you very badly. I would have your honesty, however.”
“Honesty?” Fiona was still reeling from Brynhild’s comments and finding it hard to follow the other woman’s train of thought. “I have always been honest in my dealings with you, and with Ulfric.”
“He does not believe my account of that night, because he insists that his son was not ill. Indeed, Njal was quite recovered by the following morning when Ulfric next saw him so I can readily understand why he believes it to be so. But you know, do you not? You remember?”
Fiona nodded slowly. She did recall being sent running for a pail as the child was sick.
“You will also remember that I told you, and Harald, that Njal needed me indoors. I left you in order that I could tend to him.”
“Yes,” agreed Fiona. “I do recall what you said. You also told Harald that you would return to check that your instructions had been carried out. You did not come back.”
“I did, though not as soon as I should have. By then Ulfric had also returned just moments before me and he freed you from the stocks. He would not listen to my explanation.”
“Why would he believe you? He knew that you hated me, that you wished me harm.”
“Wishing and doing are not the same. I was cruel to you, but I did not intend you to die that night. You would not have, as I would have freed you had my brother not already done so. Harald knew that we would never leave anyone outside for more than about half an hour, and he had his instructions. My commands were perfectly clear, he knew what I expected of him and he was to bring you back inside after that time had elapsed. He had done so on other occasions, with other thralls.”
“He left me. He said there was a woman, in one of the longhouses…”
“He had no business leaving you unattended in order that he might dally with some wench. He should have stayed. He knew that and I suspect his disappearance by the following morning has much to do with him knowing full well that he had disobeyed me and would be punished. Add to that my brother’s wrath… Harald would not have wished to face either of us to explain his part in that night’s events.”
“You did not instruct Harald to stay. I would have heard that.”
“I did, but not in your hearing. Harald knew, and I knew, but I could not prove it. I still cannot, but I swear that it is true.”
Fiona regarded the Viking woman with lingering suspicion, though she could see that Brynhild’s version was at least possible. “Why should I believe you now?”
“Why should you not? I would not lie about this. You know that Njal was ill, events could have been as I say.”
Fiona nodded slowly, though she remained far from convinced. “Very well. Let us leave it at that then.”
“No. You must tell Ulfric.”
“Ulfric knows—”
“Did you confirm to him that my nephew was ill that night?”
“I am not sure. Yes… perhaps.”
“You did not. You could not have, as he does not know of that.”
Fiona tried to remember, but after a year her own recollection of the hours following her ordeal was hazy. She had been bathed, then wrapped up in furs. She had slept…
Perhaps she had not mentioned every detail, and had had no cause to do so in the weeks and months since. Brynhild mysteriously disappeared and Ulfric had been reluctant to discuss the matter. Fiona considered it closed, over and done.
“You saw,” insisted Brynhild. “You know, as did Hilla, and Harald. Harald is gone, and in any case, my brother might not accept the word of a thrall.”
“Njal could—”
“Njal is but a child, he barely remembers last week let alone the events of over a year ago. And my brother knows my nephew loves me and the lad would say what was needed to aid me. Hilla too, perhaps. But you… you have no cause to back me up apart from that it is the truth. Ulfric will not question it if you say it is so.”
Fiona remained silent for several moments as she considered Brynhild’s words. She could not fault the other woman’s logic, and there was no doubt that Brynhild was telling the truth about Njal’s illness. If that was so, then perhaps the rest…
“Very well, I shall tell Ulfric what I remember of that night. All of it. He may still not—”
“No, but it will be a start. The truth is important, there can be no reconciliation without it.” The woman got to her feet, her baby now fretting in her arms. “Thank you. My son is hungry so I must attend to him. Shall I send your maid to you? I could explain to her how to prepare a chamomile tea which might settle your discomfort.”
“That would be very welcome,” murmured Fiona. “I believe I may remain here for a little while.”
Brynhild paused at the door. Fiona reclined on the bed, her eyes closed as another wave of nausea swept over her but she managed a wan smile for her old enemy. If reconciliation might be in the air, she would do what she could to nurture it.
“We are sisters now,”
announced Brynhild. “Perhaps, in time, we might be friends.”
“Perhaps,” murmured Fiona to the door as it closed behind her old adversary, “in time. Without doubt, stranger things have happened.”
* * *
“Do you believe her?” Ulfric pulled Fiona in closer, tucking her under his arm as she snuggled into his side. They lay together in their bed, in the privacy of their chamber at Pennglas, enjoying a few moments of quiet solitude before rising for the day.
“I was uncertain at first.”
“At first? Not now?”
“Taranc believes her. He would not have wed her otherwise. I trust his judgement.”
“As do I, but—”
“And I spoke with Hilla. She was there, in the longhouse, that night.”
“Yes, I recall that.” He paused to nuzzle her hair. “And did Hilla have anything of significance to add?”
“She told me that Njal did seem very ill, at least for a while. He did not strike me as particularly unwell whilst I was still in the house so I dismissed Brynhild’s excuses. Indeed, your sister also made light of it in my hearing, blamed her nephew’s sudden sickness on the honey he had consumed during the day. When I questioned Hilla yesterday though, after I had spoken with Brynhild, I specifically asked about Njal. Hilla told me that by the time Brynhild returned your son was vomiting and seemed quite delirious. Brynhild did not leave his bedside. She was beside herself, weeping and beseeching the goddess Freya to intercede. She even offered to sacrifice your finest ewe if the boy be spared.”
“My finest ewe? This does indeed sound more serious. Why was this not explained at the time?”
“It was, my love. Brynhild did claim that she merely forgot to come and release me, that she was preoccupied with Njal and overlooked her other duties. I did not believe her and I told you she was lying. None of us would listen…”
