by Ashe Barker
They did not. Her husband raised his arm to signal that all were to remain where they were. He stood on the prow and bellowed his orders to the other ships.
“The Celts may go ashore. The rest, remain here until I give the order to do otherwise.”
The Vikings exchanged puzzled looks, but no one disobeyed. The Celts, however, were eager to be back on dry land and as one they leaped over the sides of the boats into the shallows. They splashed up onto the beach, and from there began to make their way cautiously toward the closest habitation. Some called out, hailing old friends, family, anyone within earshot. Within moments they had disappeared into the trees that fringed the small cove.
The Vikings looked to one another, and to their leader. Ulfric was motionless, scanning the shoreline for—what? Fiona did not know. What did he expect would happen next?
“Ulfric,” she began. “Perhaps we should—”
He silenced her with an upraised finger, so often effective. She moved to stand beside him and watched the now deserted beach.
The trees moved, parted. A lone figure stepped forward, a Celt, clad in the traditional tunic and fur cloak, his sword drawn as though he might fend off this deadly horde alone. The man was tall, his shoulder-length tawny hair fluttered in the slight breeze. To Fiona’s eye he seemed familiar, as well he might. Surely she was acquainted with all such men hailing from hereabouts. But this man, he had a look of…
“Taranc.” She whispered his name, the name of her old, dearest friend, the man she loved as a brother and whom she had last seen wearing a leg shackle, a slave in a Viking homestead.
The Celt approached, his gait slow, fearless. He halted twenty or so paces from where Ulfric regarded him with a stony expression, and returned the Viking’s flinty gaze.
“So, Viking. We meet again.” Taranc’s voice rang loud and clear across the beach. He used the Norse tongue.
“Aye. I trust you are well, my friend. Your journey not too arduous?” Ulfric’s response was low-pitched, conversational, as though he did indeed greet an old friend.
“We managed. What is your purpose here, Viking?”
“Ah, now on that matter I would like to talk with you. May we come ashore?”
May we come ashore? Since when did Vikings seek permission to swarm into an unsuspecting village and take what they wanted? Fiona was every bit as baffled as the rest of their party.
“You may, Viking. And Fiona, naturally. Is that your boy I see there?”
“Aye, my family are with me.”
“Indeed, this promises to be quite the reunion then.”
Ulfric let out a breath. “She is here? And well?”
“Of course, though I would caution against paying your respects, Viking. Your actions were not well received.”
Fiona clutched at Ulfric’s arm. “What are you talking about? Who—”
“How dare you show your treacherous face here? You claim to be a brother—you are nothing but a self-serving worm. If my husband does not fell you where you stand, I shall do so myself.” Brynhild, heavily pregnant but as majestically beautiful as ever, strode from the cover of the trees to take up her position beside Taranc.
The Vikings gaped. Silence descended as the opposing sides gawked at each other in varying degrees of fury and disbelief. Only Taranc and Ulfric seemed to have the slightest inkling what was happening. It was Ulfric who broke the silence.
“Ah, sister. You appear… well. Much has happened, I see, since last we spoke.” He turned to regard Taranc. “Yours, I presume?”
Taranc responded with a curt nod, then turned and marched away from them up the beach. “Are you coming, then?” He hurled the words over his shoulder but did not look back.
Chapter Eighteen
Ulfric was not entirely certain who was least pleased to see him, though on balance he opted for his sister.
Brynhild had offered to gut him and leave the entrails on the beach for the seabirds to forage over. When Taranc, her husband of just a few weeks Ulfric had learnt, advised her that such action might not sit well with the Viking warriors who had accompanied her brother to their home, she had stamped off and flatly refused to speak to any of them. She was currently installed in the manor house at Pennglas, his own wife’s family home, refusing to emerge until the last of his longships was gone from their shores.
He feared he would have to disappoint her.
Ulfric wished to make his peace with Brynhild but Fiona’s response was the one he found most difficult to fathom. She had hated his sister, feared her, and with good reason. Yet despite his careful explanation of the reasons for his decision his little Celt gave every sign of being appalled by the action he had taken to protect her.
“You arranged to have her abducted? Your own sister? Even knowing how devastated your son would be at the loss of his aunt, how the rest of Skarthveit would miss her, continue to search for her, long for her return, and fear for their own safety? You knew, yet still you did this thing?”
She had a point. Several, in fact. She would come around, eventually. Njal too, he hoped. The lad had paled at the sight of his aunt, as though he saw a spectre before him and did not know whether to run and hug her or hide under a bench on the longship.
Back there on the beach, Ulfric had leapt from his ship and sprinted to catch up with Taranc. The two had marched in silence to the village—Aikrig?—where he now knew Taranc had his home. Fiona had followed with Njal. The boy gripped his wife’s hand tightly, as though she were the only solid and certain thing in his life at this moment.
Curious, fearful Celts—those who had not already fled in terror—had peered at the bizarre procession from behind their own dwellings and outhouses. Ulfric heard their mutterings, their whispered questions.
“Who is he? He knows our chief? Is it him, that one again?”
Taranc ignored them and led the way.
The Celt’s dwelling was large, comparable to Ulfric’s own longhouse in Skarthveit, and at least as comfortable. As they entered the low, turf-roofed building Ulfric recognised his sister’s influence at once. The loom, the well-stocked and tidy larder, the clean linens stacked on shelves against the far wall. Brynhild never could abide mess or dirt, and she liked those in her care to eat well.
Taranc had left Ulfric, Fiona and Njal there whilst he hurried to converse with the rest of the villagers, at least those who had not scattered to the nearby hills at the first sight of the invaders.
Ulfric had used the brief time alone to outline his case to his wife and son, but he feared he had much more work to do before either would became even remotely convinced. It was not to be. Taranc returned and installed himself at the head of the table. He had a point to make, Ulfric supposed, and who could blame him?
So now Ulfric sat beside Fiona at his sister’s board, a mug of her fine ale in his hand, and the less than welcoming countenance of her husband glowering at him from the master’s seat. Only Njal seemed to be at ease. He remembered the tall Celt who had saved him from drowning and chattered about his prowess in swimming. Taranc listened to the lad, his smile warm enough, then he turned to the boy’s father.
“I ask again, what brings you here, Viking?”
Ulfric set his mug down with care and reached for Fiona’s hand.
“I did as you suggested. I took care of what was mine.” He paused. “We are wed.”
“You are happy?” Taranc’s question was addressed to Fiona.
She nodded. “Yes, he is good to me.”
Taranc appeared to accept this. He fixed his unwavering stare on Ulfric once more. “I repeat, your purpose here?”
“I had to know about Brynhild.”
The Celt nodded. “I can see that. And now that you have the assurance you need, may I assume you will be on your way? I expect you have villages to rob, innocent Britons to pillage and rape?”
Fiona bristled, a fact Ulfric found somewhat reassuring. He patted her hand.
“That is not our intent, and never was. Well,
not the raping part, though I suppose I must own to the rest. We are here in search of something else though.”
“And what might that be?” Taranc leaned back and signalled to a servant hovering by the door. “Refill our guest’s mug, if you will.”
Ulfric did not allow his tone to waver. “We wish to remain here. Permanently.”
Ale sloshed over the table and splashed Ulfric’s hand. The servant squealed and scuttled back, cowering.
Ulfric bestowed his most brilliant smile on the man and shook droplets from his fingers, then reached for the ale jug. “Allow me.” He needed to win friends where he might, so no harm in starting here. The serf would soon enough tell the rest huddled outside. As the man slid away Ulfric proceeded to fill their cups—his, Taranc’s, and Fiona’s—then met his host’s impassive gaze. “Do you have any comment to offer?”
Taranc did not mince his words. “Why?”
“Here?” breathed Fiona. “We are to remain here? This is my home…”
“Yes, so where better? You will be happy to return here, will you not? It is what I understood to be your dearest wish.”
“I will! Oh, yes, of course I will, but you…?”
“I am… flexible,” conceded Ulfric. “I have given this matter much thought, and I believe we can make this work.”
“Oh, you do, do you, Viking?” Taranc glared at him from his position at the head of the table. “I repeat, why?”
Ulfric had prepared for this and had his answer ready. “My wife has kin here, and I am relieved to discover, so do I. The land is fertile, there is ample for all. And you will benefit from our protection should others come. Others less… friendly… than we.”
Taranc was not to be deflected. “Why? Why leave your own settlement?”
Ulfric sighed. “You recall the blood feud, with our neighbours, the Bjarkessons?”
“I heard of it. It was not a matter of concern to your slaves.”
“Quite, though of late that may have changed somewhat. My thralls were persuaded to lend their efforts to mine in defence of Skarthveit and our combined force was sufficient to repel an attack by our enemies. In return, I granted them their freedom.”
“All of them?” For the first time Taranc allowed his surprise to show.
“Yes. All. But rather than remain at Skarthveit and fight off one attack after another until nothing and no one remained, I decided to seek a more peaceful existence. I have a family, other considerations. So we left in search of a new home where we might settle. Those ex-slaves who chose to have returned aboard our longships. You will have seen them, no doubt?”
Taranc nodded, frowning. Ulfric continued.
“Others have remained behind, by their own choice as free karls. Fiona, also, has her freedom.”
“And if I do not agree to this… this … proposition of yours? Will you… insist?”
“You mean, is it my intention to take this village by force? No, it is not. If I cannot convince you, and the rest out there, of our honest and peaceful intent I shall request just sufficient time here for my wife to visit her kin and assure them that she is well and happy, and then we will leave in search of an uninhabited haven in which to make our home. We are here to farm, to settle, to put down roots. I believe an understanding between you and I will be of mutual benefit, and I know I can trust you. I placed something which was most precious to me in your hands and you did not let me down. For this I am in your debt, and I hope I have shown that I am also worthy of your trust.”
Taranc eyed Fiona and appeared to accept this.
“If I agree to your suggestion, my wife will skin me alive, and you alongside me.”
“Brynhild will accept us. Give her time.” He hesitated. “I suppose you told her everything?”
“Your sister is stubborn and wrong-headed on some things, but she is no fool. The evidence of your complicity was plain enough—the horse, the supplies, the fishing boat awaiting us at Hafrsfjord. I would not compound the deception by lying to her myself.” He hesitated, then added, “She was very… upset.”
Ulfric lowered his head into his hands. “Perhaps if I talk to her, I can make her understand that I did what I thought was best, for all of us. Including her. You and she are happy, yes?”
Taranc shrugged. “We have arrived at an understanding, of sorts, and I believe she is content. Or she was.”
“It is me.” Fiona gripped Taranc’s hand. “She loves you, too much perhaps. And Njal, of course. It was always me she hated. Perhaps if I were not here…”
“No!” Ulfric was vehement. “This was all about you, always. I love my sister, but I love you more. It is that simple. I will not give you up nor will I allow you to be hurt. I shall try to reason with her, explain how it was. Now that she is wed, with a child on the way, surely she will see things differently.”
“I wish you joy of that,” observed Taranc, “but whatever Brynhild’s opinion, I believe you are sincere. And our villages are vulnerable to attack so perhaps there is benefit in considering your proposal. Even the sight of your longships on the shore will deter others from landing on our beach.”
“So you will consider allowing us to remain?” Ulfric got to his feet, and Taranc followed suit.
“Aye, I will. If Brynhild can be convinced to at least tolerate your presence, I will not object. But you must understand that I am chief here, in Aikrig, and Fiona’s father is lord at Pennglas, so…?”
“My father? He is alive?” Fiona had paled, her hands clasped together before her. Both men turned to regard her.
“Did I not say?” Taranc frowned. “Surely, I told you—”
“No, you did not. And… I was too fearful to ask.”
“My apologies, for that should have been the first thing to be settled. Aye, he lives, and for reasons I cannot entirely fathom, your father and Brynhild appear to get on well, which is why she has taken refuge in his manor house rather than here.” He turned to Taranc. “The village of Pennglas is our closest neighbour, perhaps two miles or so from here. Ah, but I forget, you are no stranger to that particular settlement.”
Ulfric narrowed his eyes but allowed that jibe to pass unremarked. “We are not here to usurp anyone, nor to seize what is not ours. We will adapt, and fit in. We are here to settle, not to conquer.”
“Very well.” Taranc picked up his cloak. “We shall go now to Pennglas. Your father will be eager to see you, Fiona, and I suppose you must face your sister again sometime, Viking.”
* * *
The walk to Pennglas took perhaps a half hour, and was conducted in near silence. Again, Taranc and Ulfric walked side by side, and Fiona followed with Njal. Ulfric thought she appeared deep in thought, no doubt overwhelmed by the revelations of this day, and the realisation that soon she would soon see her father and stand within the walls of her family home once more. Ulfric allowed himself a few pangs of regret for the wrong he had done her, but in truth he would not behave very differently had he his time over.
He was what he was, and what was done was done. The future was what mattered, the future was yet to be forged while the past was already set in stone. He grimaced. If only he could convince Brynhild of that.
The reunion between father and daughter was one that touched even Ulfric’s battle-hardened heart. Fiona’s father, Dughall of Pennglas, was elderly, grey-haired and his sight failing, yet at their approach he hurried down the steps from his front portal to take her in his arms.
“My daughter, my beautiful girl, I lost your brother and I thought that I had lost you, too.” Tears streamed across the man’s cheeks and Fiona wept also. Ulfric managed the occasional surreptitious wipe to dispel any stray moisture that might be in the air.
He was grateful when Taranc offered his hand to Njal and told the lad he would take him to his aunt who had remained within the manor house, still refusing to come out and greet them. The pair disappeared inside the house, and Ulfric allowed himself to be drawn forward and introduced to his father-in-law.
&nb
sp; Dughall seemed less than enamoured and took a swing at Ulfric’s jaw. The blow was never destined to land. Ulfric stepped back smartly, but he could not blame the older man for the sentiment. He had witnessed his son perish in the raid on their village, seen his daughter carried off.
“I owe you an apology, sir.” The words took some stringing together but he knew when he needed to build bridges. This would not be the first apology he would be called upon to issue.
Dughall glared at him but undeterred, Ulfric extended his hand.
“Your daughter is my wife, and very precious to me. For her sake, if not for mine…”
Long, tense moments passed until grudgingly the older man took the proffered hand. “For her,” he muttered.
Ulfric settled for that. “I am pleased to meet you, sir.” He spoke in Gaelic, and was gratified at the lord of Pennglas’ reluctant nod. It was a start.
“You are here, intending to stay? My daughter tells me…”
“We are. We are settlers, and find ourselves in search of a home.”
“This was always my daughter’s home,” the man pointed out grimly, “until such time as you and your heathen mob saw fit to abduct her. You took her from us, and… and…” It was clear he preferred not to articulate the rest, and Ulfric, too, saw no merit in dwelling on matters best set aside.
“We have returned, and have come here in peace. I have wed your daughter, and I love her dearly. I hope that, in time, you and I will find an accord.”
Dughall responded with a sound somewhere between a snort and a cough. It would have been fanciful to interpret this as agreement, but Ulfric believed it was likely to be the best he would get, for now. “Perhaps we might go inside?” he suggested. Now that the moment had come to face his sister he had no desire to prolong the waiting.
The manor house consisted of a great hall, a solar, and a kitchen. Brynhild, Taranc, and Njal were seated in an alcove below the single window that illuminated the hall. From the tearstained faces of his sister and his son he surmised their reunion had been every bit as emotional as that between Fiona and her father. Ulfric shifted uncomfortably. His intentions had been good, and even now he believed he had done what was best, but he had much to answer for.