Page 33 of Her Rogue Viking

She turned her head to regard him in surprise. “A gift? What manner of gift?”

“One moment.” He ducked through the curtain and Fiona watched in puzzlement as it swayed behind him. Moments later he was back, carrying two pieces of timber, each one perhaps five feet in length. He propped the ends on the floor and leaned on them. “These are for you, to aid you in moving about.”

“Crutches?” She pushed herself up onto her knees, still not ready to try sitting. “You brought me crutches?”

“Yes, which is why I had reason to return to the longhouse in the middle of the day. It is a practical gift but one you might appreciate. I had our carpenter fashion them for you. If they are too long he will shave a little off the ends.”

“But, why? I thought you did not wish me to be able to move?”

“Why would you think that? I would not have bound your injury if I had no thought for your comfort.”

“You had me shackled…” She pointed to the band of iron that encircled her good ankle. “I am a prisoner here.”

“A slave, not a prisoner. Provided you do as you are told and cause no problems you shall have the freedom to go about the settlement as you wish or as your duties require. The shackle serves to remind you of your status, and if needful I can make use of it to restrain you. Do not make that necessary, little Celt.” He gestured for her to rise. “Come, try these out.”

Fiona stood on one foot and Ulfric moved to stand behind her as she wrestled a crutch under each arm. The carpenter had provided handles for her to grasp, and she was soon able to move around the sleeping chamber with relative ease.

Ulfric nodded his approval. “Remember, little Celt, your freedom comes with conditions. Do not make me regret my generosity to you. Come.” He turned and lifted the curtain, then gestured for her to precede him through into the main room.

Only Hilla remained of the earlier group, a mass of rough wool piled up before her. She glanced up uncertainly as Fiona lurched across the room to join her at the table.

Ulfric spoke briefly to the girl in the Norse tongue, and she answered with equal brevity. He nodded then turned to Fiona. “Lady Brynhild will be back shortly. Donotattract further censure, from her or from me. You now appreciate the consequences should you do so.”

Fiona was not certain she could avoid displeasing her Viking mistress, but nodded her agreement anyway since she saw no other option. Ulfric appeared satisfied and took his leave.

The girl beside her was busily employed raking the mass of washed sheep’s fleece with a sharp metal comb in readiness for spinning. Hilla shoved a spare implement in Fiona’s direction and demonstrated the technique. Fiona managed a wan smile and took the comb. Together, the slaves bent over the fleece and worked in companionable silence.

8

“Have you managed to stay out of trouble this day?” Ulfric affected a stern demeanour as he regarded the diminutive figure who perched before him on the end of his bed, though in reality he knew of no cause to take issue with her. A pity, perhaps, since he would enjoy spanking her.

Fiona nodded. “Your sister had to go to the market in Hafrsfjord to sell her cloth and procure new dyes. She was gone from first light.”

He frowned. There had been no serious incidents since that first day when Fiona had become entangled in Brynhild’s weaving, but it was clear that tension simmered below the surface. He would speak with his sister—again.

“Why does she dislike me so? I have done nothing to deserve it. She finds fault with me constantly, threatens me with the whip, or the stocks. She refuses to allow me to help with Njal. Nothing I do pleases her.” Fiona peered up at him, a picture of misery, then continued. “I know that she is your sister, and you have said I must obey her. I do try, but she calls me whore and slut and I know her intention is to goad me into retaliating inorder that she can convince you to take a switch to me again. She was not here today, and it was peaceful. I spent the time with Hilla. I learned more of your tongue; we washed clothes at the river and I could understand a little of what the other women were saying. And Njal even tried to teach me to playhnefataflwith him but I fear I proved a poor opponent. We had fun together, but as soon as Brynhild returned, I came in here to stay out of her way.”

There were tears in Fiona’s eyes. He sighed. He had no desire to see his little Celt reduced to hiding away in his bedchamber but he understood her reasons for doing so. Brynhild’s bitterness had not lessened in the weeks since he had brought Fiona to Skarthveit. Perhaps he owed his captive an explanation, at least.

“She is not a cruel or unreasonable person, not at heart.”

Fiona made a disparaging sound in her throat. Ulfric could understand why the slave felt as she did. He pressed on.

“Brynhild is unhappy, and bitter, and this is why she behaves as she does.”

“She is not unhappy. She smiles and laughs with everyone but me. The other slaves like her, she is kind to them, and she adores Njal. Her anger is directed at me alone.”

“She was to be married.”

Fiona gaped at him, wide-eyed. “Then, why is she…?”

“Her betrothed died, in a raid on a Celtic settlement on Orkney.” He paused, and moved to sit beside Fiona on the mattress. “It was two years ago, but she has never recovered from the loss. I fear that she never will. Brynhild adored Eirik Bjarkesson and when he was killed it was as though a light was extinguished within her. The ceremony was to take place on his return and she had already moved to live with his family in their settlement, Bjarkesholm, about twenty miles to the north of here. On hearing of his death she returned to my longhouse andhas made her home with us. I value her assistance, especially with Njal, but it would be better for Brynhild to take another man to wed. She needs her own hall, her own family…”

“I am sorry for her loss, though I cannot find much sympathy for a man who lost his life wreaking death and fear upon innocent villagers. And I still do not comprehend how this explains your sister’s hostility toward me. There are other slaves here…”

“But no other Celts. Brynhild detests all Celts; she blames them for the death of her betrothed.”

“That is ridiculous. Had he not gone raiding?—”

---