In the hall they told Bjorn that Ragnar had already retired for the night, which did not present a problem because his father had the warrior's way of sleeping in brief phases and was unlikely to be difficult to wake or irritated if he was. He would feel badly if he was disturbing his mother, though. His parents did keep separate rooms but were often found together in one or the other. He tapped on the door cautiously. No response the first time, so he tried again more loudly.

Ragnar opened the door and peered at him, bright blue eyes alert though he might indeed have been sleeping moments before. "What?" he said, but equably, not brusquely.

"I need to speak with you."

Ragnar did not look surprised, but it was hard to make his father look surprised. He opened the door.

"Is Mother here?" Bjorn came in, somewhat diffidently.

"She's still at Floki and Helga's. Why, do you need her too?"

"No."

"Sit," Ragnar said, throwing furs off the bed so he had a place to do so. Bjorn eased himself down on the bed, not meaning to sigh out loud but it escaped him.

"Hm," Ragnar said, analyzing his sigh with, no doubt, the insight of a king and the heart of a parent. "Woman problems."

Bjorn nodded, supposing that was the truth.

"What should we do? Should we kill her?" Ragnar gazed at him completely straight-faced. It wasn't a crazy thing for him to say in any circumstance. Bjorn didn't have the energy to take umbrage. He tossed a cushion at his father, who knocked it out of the air now with a grin.

"I notice I still have no grandchild."

"Not for lack of trying."

"Hm." Ragnar cocked his head to the side in the way he had. "But that's not the problem?"

"Not the main problem."

His father waited, expectantly.

Bjorn sighed again, and winced in preparation. "She wants to come to England with us."

"And you told her no, of course," Ragnar said with the confidence of a parent who believed he'd raised his son properly.

"Of course I did."

"So then—" Ragnar shrugged. "How is there a problem?"

Bjorn tapped his arm ring. "I promised." He flinched again, internally at least.

"Why in the name of Thor would you do that." Now the steel in the voice was there. He'd been waiting for it.

"It wasn't...I didn't know. She made me...It was a future favor." Bjorn hated how weak this was making him sound. The only thing saving him from being completely humiliated was the fact that they were alone, and there were no jeering younger brothers to endure.

"Well, that was stupid," Ragnar said. "Desperate to have her, were you?"

Curse his father for somehow knowing everything. Bjorn stared resolutely down at the bed and chewed the inside of his mouth to avoid bursting out in his own defence. But it really wasn't like that and Ragnar should know that too. Thorunn was special. She meant something. A lot. It wasn't as if he would have sworn on any fly-by-night.

"I'm sorry, Father," he said, between clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry too. Because now—" Ragnar held a hand to him, turning his palm up and around, as if he were casting a spell—"now you are in the business of babysitting, and I can't spare you. Can't spare any of the rest of them either."

Not that, as Ragnar probably realized, Bjorn would let anyone other than himself be in charge of Thorunn's safekeeping while they were over there.

"That's the trouble with freedom," his father said, after some silence. "You get a taste. You want it all."

Bjorn didn't really know how he felt about that, at least as far as it applied to Thorunn, but he just nodded. Suddenly he felt exhausted at the idea of all that lay ahead.

"Can I stay here?" he said, like a child.

Ragnar's head dipped.

They stretched out on the bed, side by side. Ragnar leaned over and embraced him in a headlock, pressing a kiss against his forehead. "If you put yourself at risk," he said, growling, "I'll beat you myself."

Bjorn muttered an acknowledgement by way of understanding. He fell asleep with Ragnar's arm still around his neck, as in the old way, when he, Lagertha and Gyda would all curl up like puppies together around Ragnar on the floor of their farmhouse. It was pleasant, but he dreamt uneasily of battle screams, stomachs ripped open and fields of blood.

England

A fortnight later and on English soil, Bjorn was still uneasy although nothing had gone wrong thus far. They had only made a few small raids where they encountered little real resistance, and though he'd insisted Thorunn stay right by him (and she'd cooperated perfectly), she had acquitted herself well. Of course it was, and always had been, the entire idea of her being there that he objected to, not for any lack of skill. If the other men and women objected to her presence, he'd heard nothing but a few muttered conversations, but since last year Thorunn had made friends with several of the other shieldmaidens—Astrid and Oddveig—and when not at Bjorn's side she spent time with them.

At least a smile came readily to her face now, and while there was no time or opportunity for intimacy between them, she was clearly happier than she'd been all winter—especially when he pointed out, or she recognized, something from his stories.

But now a bigger battle plan was on the horizon—Ragnar had his mind set on the closest town-city—and there was less lighthearted chatter and laughter among the warriors now that they were giving consideration to the losses they might face. Bjorn was trying to think of a way he might keep Thorunn at the camp, but other than injuring her himself he hadn't come with any good ideas. Besides, how was she meant to protect herself properly if she were already facing the deficit of a wound? No, it made no sense. He would have to trust that she was ready and that the two of them, fighting together, could keep each other safe.

Thorunn, Astrid and Oddveig were washing down by the river. On enemy ground there was no time for extended ablutions, but while two kept guard, the third could easily take a few moments to scrub herself and any clothing that required it. Oddveig, a sharp-faced older woman who had lost her husband on one of these very raids, was rinsing out her monthly cloths in the shallows. Oddveig was one of Kattegat's best archers and Thorunn revered her almost as much as she did Lagertha (who had stayed behind this time, having come down with illness).

"Terrible timing," she was saying as she wrung out the cloths and laid them on rocks by the shore to dry. "But that's what we must deal with, isn't it, girls?"

Astrid, sitting cross-legged with her own bow at hand, murmured something in assent. Thorunn said suddenly, surprising herself, "I haven't had mine this month yet."

The other two stared at her, then Oddveig shrugged and stood up, pressing hands into her back. "You know sometimes the change of your days will make it late."

"I know," Thorunn agreed. In fact, during the hardest days of her life as a slave, she had often foregone her moon cycle altogether. But since last summer it had returned with regularity, all through her and Bjorn's relationship. Quite reliable, in fact.

"How late are you?" asked Astrid, widening her eyes. She was closer in age to Thorunn, a short brunette whose cute mouse-like appearance belied her fierce battle skills.

"I was expecting to bleed right around the time we left." She'd packed extra cloths in case, and it had been quite nice not to have to deal with it on the boats, truthfully. Oddveig's nose wrinkled as she calculated in her head.

"That's been over two weeks now."

"I know," she said again, beginning to rebraid her damp hair. She had washed first.

"Will you say something to Bjorn?" Astrid bounced up curiously, to take her turn in the water.

"No," Oddveig answered for her with a short laugh. "Not if she has any sense, she won't."

Thorunn smiled vaguely. "It would only make him worry, probably needlessly."

"Even more than he already does," Oddveig said. "Anyone can see the way that man watches you. I'm surprised he trusts us to bring you this far from camp."

"Maybe he's realizing how hard you've worked," Astrid suggested. "And how well we trained you." She giggled, infectiously, splashing back when Thorunn tossed a pebble across the water at her. "So why hasn't he asked you to marry him yet?"

"They have not been together for long, Astrid," Oddveig chided. "I don't see your man asking you to marry."

Astrid shrugged, not at all offended. "My man's stupid."

They laughed together. Oddveig said, "A better question and one that Thorunn might actually answer, is, what are you going to say if he does ask you?"

"I haven't thought about it," Thorunn said, honestly. "But does one say no to Bjorn Ironside?"

(In fact, she had, she remembered).

They nodded sagely.

"Promise not to say anything," Thorunn urged. "If he were to find out, it should be from me."

"Of course," Oddveig said, and Astrid echoed her. Astrid climbed out of the water and they picked up their things, preparing to make their way back to camp.

Thorunn couldn't complain of Bjorn's behaviour at all. Yes, he continued to be overprotective where she felt wasn't necessary, but he was letting her participate, and that was all that (at least on this journey) she really wanted. No heroics were needed; she'd just wanted to be part of it.

Coming back into camp, the watchman whistling them through, she parted ways with the other two and went to find Bjorn. When he wasn't with her, he was often in the company of his father, around whom Thorunn still felt diffident. Ragnar hadn't been discourteous in any way, but his only words to her thus far had been to welcome her aboard the boats. Anything else she might have needed to know along the way was communicated through Bjorn. She hoped to gain Ragnar's trust, too, but that might take longer. Like the others, Thorunn had been deeply disappointed that Lagertha had been unable to come with them; at least that was a parent who had shown her favor, looked on her kindly.

She felt strongly that her cycle was not merely late, but that she was indeed pregnant. After three seasons of living with Bjorn that could hardly be surprising, but it was deeply unwelcome. If children would come—and she feared the notion—let them come no later than the end of the year, so that she could recover (if she recovered, she thought darkly) in time to pass them to a wet nurse and be gone for a month with the rest of the raiders. Now—now! While she was young and had strength!

Her thoughts must have twisted her features because someone whistled as she walked by If Bjorn had caught them whistling there would be trouble, no matter the reason; he was sensitive to any perception or suggestion that Thorunn hadn't earned her place on the battlefield. (So was she, but not to that extent.)

She found the men under one of the open-sided tents that kept the rain off—needed, under these almost constantly drizzling English skies. They were discussing something in animated terms, several others of Ragnar's most trusted along with himself and Bjorn, but they stopped talking once she drew near, and straightened. Bjorn put out an arm to welcome her anyway, drawing her into a side hug. The men resumed talking, and Bjorn turned her to the side and said into her ear, "You smell better now."

"It must be about your turn, then," she returned, pleased that he had not tried to brush her off in front of the others.

"Tomorrow, after we take the town. I'll be covered in blood by then anyway."

"As long as it's not your own."

He squeezed her shoulders. "You do exactly as I say tomorrow. Understand?"

"Have I not done so, till now?"

"Even more important this time."

"I will," she said, leaning into him.

Ragnar was watching them. His eyes were always so knowing. He gave her his little smile that could mean anything—approval, condemnation, impending death. She dipped her head respectfully and hoped it was the former. It would be so awkward if her prospective father-in-law—that was, if Bjorn ever did ask her to marry him—hated her.

She knew she could be a good wife; it was just the idea of motherhood that made her shy away. And that idea was rapidly becoming a reality, if her missing cycle were the proof she suspected it was. She gave a tiny shudder. Bjorn felt it, and turned her to face him, studying her expression.

"Nervous?"

"Yes," she said, because it was true, and because he didn't have to know it wasn't about the morrow.

He took her hands in his, squeezed them and said: "Stay by me."

Thorunn nodded. But her mind was far away.

They crept through the dawn as mist was unsettling itself from the town, clearing in patches and enabling better vision. From what Thorunn understood of the plan, the previous night had been some sort of Christian festival which meant that many folk would be slumbering and drowsy in their beds, thus allowing them greater time and freedom to pillage at will. The church especially was a draw, containing many of their odd treasures and relics. With Bjorn and Kjetil and two others, she helped to smash open the bolted door, relishing the way it quickly yielded to the assault of their axes. The town was starting to awaken, but had not yet raised the general alarm.

She drew in a deep breath as they walked down the center aisle, her nose twitching at the different smells of whatever oils were burned here. There were some gold and silver pieces on the walls, their crosses and such things. Some of the others grabbed them. Bjorn was more interested in what was hidden, and began to investigate behind closed doors at the end of the building. Thorunn followed him, keeping her word. A small room at first yielded little upon inspection, then a cloth-covered chest with candles on it proved to hold a number of small treasures. Thorunn grasped what seemed to be necklaces, long chains beaded and interspersed with jewels that sparkled even in the dim morning light through the smoke-dirty window. She met Bjorn's eye. He was listening. The shouts were increasing in number. "Let's go." She grabbed a few more things, shoving them into the pockets of her tunics, draping some over her own head. The items jingled noisily, but they were no longer trying to hide.

One of the men of their god that Bjorn had told her of, shoved the door open and stood, his face a mess of fear and anger. Bjorn's ax was already drawn and Thorunn was wielding hers but one of their men dispatched him from behind. "You're welcome," he grinned, showing a missing tooth. The man's body slumped to the ground. Thorunn stepped over him, smelling death as they re-entered the main area of the church. Someone was setting a fire in a corner. That seemed excessive, but it was not her place to have an opinion on how others conducted themselves during the raids. They went out into the street, where they immediately clashed with several of the locals. It did not present a threat to Thorunn who easily helped dispatch them, her muscles trembling more with adrenalin than overexertion.

In the pause afterwards, someone nearby was wordlessly screaming. "I'm going to find that one and shut her up," boasted Kjetil, appearing to the side of Bjorn and Thorunn, and at nearly the same time, a child dashed into the street. They all stared at each other, as immobile as they had been active.

The child blinked. It could have been boy or girl, still young enough that gender was indeterminate, with an untamed mop of curly brown hair. Thorunn made an instinctive, abortive gesture that the child should run, but it only continued to stare. Then, too late, as Kjetil was already drawing his axe, the child turned to run back into the shadows of the huts.

It fell with no cry at all, but the screaming increased.

Thorunn's hand gripped her own axe with a sudden vicious purpose, but Bjorn was there, speaking her name sharply, in her face, knowing her intent nearly before she did. Kjetil didn't even notice, he was already laughing and moving on down the street, giving the body a push with his boot as he passed by it.

"Let me go," Thorunn struggled, so overtaken by emotion and the need to punish that she was genuinely fighting Bjorn himself. He wrapped both arms around her, trapping her axe hand and lifting her nearly off the ground. "Stop," he hissed. "What are you going to do, Thorunn? Are you going to kill him? Do you think you could?"

"That was a child— " She let out a brief stream of invective, directed not specifically at anyone.

"—who in ten years we would kill anyway if he took up arms," Bjorn retorted. The pressure of his arms around her was almost unbearable. She slumped, seeing the futility all at once, but angry tears coming to her eyes regardless.

He half-dragged her out of the street, to take cover. "Look at me."

She shook her head. There was already blood on him, and though she wasn't at all weak-stomached—one couldn't be, growing up in Kattegat where ritual sacrifice of both animal and human was commonplace—it was too fresh.

"We're getting out of here. The others can finish up. Are you with me?"

She bit her lip hard, willing it to bleed. Briefly she nodded.

He took her hand and they were running, then, away from the houses and screams and fire, to the bushes, and from there back to camp.

Kattegat

Thud.

She woke sweating, feeling the axe in her own back just as she heard the sound of it going into the child's.

It was not the first time. She peeled back the furs, kicking them to her feet where they couldn't trap her. Despite herself a tiny gasp came from her throat, partly the relief of not dreaming the dream any more.

Bjorn rolled over, murmuring something, cupping her cheek. She turned her face towards his, seeking comfort, seeking distraction. But her stomach protested just moments later, and then she was shoving him away and crawling from the bed to the chamberpot, gagging and throwing up into it. It was not the first time for that, either.

Two months.

Crawling on his elbows to the edge of the bed, Bjorn looked down at her. "All right?"

Dully, she shook her head and brushed a bit of sick from a few strands of hair, then glanced back up at him. He looked sleepily pained and sympathetic at the same time.

Probably, she thought drearily, she could keep him unaware another month or so. But then it all seemed so futile to try to maintain the secret. The maids would know sooner, perhaps even Lagertha would see it, or had already suspected it. She was too much in the public eye to hide.

She pushed the bucket away. "Did you finish that toy you were carving?"

"Yes, it's—" he waved, frowning, at the mantelpiece, then something like comprehension began to change his expression.

"We'll be needing it by winter," she said, rather flatly.

He broke into a grin. Like a child himself he bounced off the edge of the bed and helped her up. "Really? Are you sure?"

"Of course I am sure." She gestured wildly to indicate all that was wrong with her. Bjorn sat her back down on the bed, still holding her hands, kneeling at her side. "A boy? A girl?"

"I don't know that," she said, unable to keep the tartness from her voice now. "Do you take me for the Seer?"

"Perhaps the Seer will tell us if we ask." Bjorn scanned her face. "Do you want a drink? What can I get you?"

Thorunn grimaced wryly. Not that he hadn't been attentive since they'd come back from England. Actually he'd been quite careful with her and never once thrown back in her face that she'd wanted to come, instead keeping her separated from Kjetil and doing everything he could to ensure her comfort. But if he meant to be like this the entire pregnancy, it was going to feel very long indeed. She would never get used to being waited on, never.

"I'm fine," she said, contradicting herself from earlier. "There is no need to do anything differently now."

He straightened. "Of course there is. No more fighting, for one thing."

Thorunn said nothing. On this subject she knew she wouldn't win an argument. There would be more raids, and she would miss them. Though since her dreams of the child Kjetil had murdered, she hadn't felt the enthusiasm to leap back into the role of raider either. She wanted to fight, yes, still, but honorably—against grown men and women who would try to kill her if she didn't kill them first. Murdering children could not win you the approval of the gods, surely? It seemed far more likely the sort of thing that would bring a curse down on your head, and your own children's heads.

"Thorunn," Bjorn said, and she realized in the brief silence that his voice had changed, his face had changed. She reached out instinctively, but he pulled back, still kneeling by the bed. "When?"

"I don't know," she said quickly, and when he looked down shaking his head she pleaded "I don't know for certain—"

"You knew," he said, rising now, pacing, going to stand by the fireplace and then coming back to her. "You knew when you got on the boat."

"I didn't!"

Bjorn swore. Volubly. "Are you going to lie to me like that?"

"I'm not lying." She jumped off the bed to face him, ignoring the nausea lingering in her stomach. "I swear. I thought I would bleed then. And what good would it have done to tell you?"

"I would have turned the boat around!" he yelled. It was the first time he'd really ever raised his voice to her. For a moment she was shocked into silence. Arguments came to mind and bubbled to her lips but did not spill out. She knew he wouldn't hurt her—would never strike her in anger, less so now than ever—but the look on his face was frightening.

"I could've lost both of you," he said, suddenly soft again.

"But I wasn't even scratched. I'm fine," Thorunn pleaded, nerves seizing her at the thought of having to prove somehow that the baby growing inside her was also unharmed. What if, after all, what if it wasn't? What if the gods chose to curse them? Bjorn would say they had brought it on themselves, that it had been her doing.

This baby had to be utterly perfect, she realized with a growing sense of fear.

She reached out to touch Bjorn's face, hoping suddenly to genuinely comfort, he looked so raw and full of ragged emotion, but he stepped back again. "I need—"

Leaving the sentence unfinished, he turned and strode from their room.

Hurt and angry and confused, Bjorn paced the lantern-lit hallway for a while, up and down its lengths until he felt calm enough to consider having an actual destination. Bad enough that Thorunn had endured a dangerous sea crossing twice and had been in danger multiple times while on foreign soil—worse, the feeling that he didn't know if he believed her claim that she hadn't known. Her eyes had begged him to believe her, but that didn't mean she was innocent. How to forgive it? If she was fine and the coming child too, that should be enough for him but he didn't know if it was, not just yet at least.

And he didn't want her to apologize. He wanted for it not to have happened in the first place.

A door opened nearby, startling him from thought and he realized he'd woken his mother with his pacing. She stood in her nightrobe, thinner than before as her recovery from the sickness that had swept Kattegat in their absence had been a slow one. "Bjorn? What are you doing out here, my son?"

"I didn't mean to wake you." Somewhat abashed, he took a step back, into the shadows, but she gestured him forwards. "Come. I've spoken with you very little since you got back. Come and sit up with me."

He followed her obediently, not at all certain that he was ready to talk about any of it, but also knowing he could probably benefit from whatever counsel she might impart.

Lagertha lit another couple of candles, brightening the room moderately, then sat in her wooden chair by the table, gesturing for him to take the other one. "You did not wake me, in fact," she said. "I'm still not sleeping very well."

"I'm sorry." He said it a bit absently, distracted by his own concerns.

"And you, why are you not sleeping, but roaming the halls with a forehead full of thunder? What gives you trouble?"

"Thorunn."

"Yes?"

"She's having a child," he muttered.

His mother smiled. "Well, that was hoped for, was it not? And not unexpected?"

"Of course—it's not that. She—I believe she knew before we left for England." The injustice of this struck him again, and he lowered his head, staring in defeat at the ground.

"Ah." Lagertha spoke gently.

He looked back up at her as if to see if that was all she was going to say.

"It is hard for a woman to be sure about these things. Most likely you will never know," Lagertha said, simply.

"So I should just accept it?" he demanded. "Not speak of it again?"

Lagertha sighed. "You have a young man's heart, Bjorn, easily offended—you must not let that come between you. Thorunn is a good girl. She wanted so terribly to join this raid. Now she has had what she wanted, it is likely she will settle into motherhood."

"You didn't," he couldn't stop himself from saying.

"No, my son, but your father was never going to be just a farmer, and I never a farmer's wife. We had different paths. Thorunn will not have the same journey. Of that, I'm sure. I don't believe she is terribly ambitious. Not to the degree that it would prove a problem for you."

Bjorn wasn't sure of that, at all, but he wanted to believe Lagertha. Still, that left them...where they were, with the uncertainty of the rest of the year ahead.

And what if something were to go wrong? How could he not think, even in some small way, that it was the travel or the skirmishes they'd been in that caused it? Everyone knew it was possible for a woman just to look at one odd thing at the wrong time when she was carrying and have the offspring be affected.

His family was blessed by the gods, though. Everyone always said so. He had to trust it would carry through his generation as well. No matter what Thorunn did.

Lagertha was right. He must try not to dwell on it.

"My grandchild," Lagertha said, smiling again. "I look forward to meeting him, or her, when the time comes. You will be a good father, Bjorn. And Thorunn a good mother. I am not worried about that, and nor should you be."

He thanked her for those words, and said he would leave her to sleep, but once outside in the hall again he gave way to doubts. He went and banged on his brother's door. There was silence for a while, a muffled grunt and then Ubbe threw something, probably a boot, in response.

The door wasn't bolted so Bjorn let himself in.

Ubbe yawned and lifted his head from the bed. "What do you want, big brother?"

"I can't sleep."

"So you wake me up?" He rolled over and squinted at him.

"Thorunn's having a baby."

Ubbe sat up. "And you let her go to England like that?"

"I wouldn't have if I had known!"

"Gods, Bjorn. Anything could've happened."

"That's why I can't sleep."

Affectionately, Ubbe threw the other boot at him, which Bjorn ducked without effort. "I'm going to be an uncle."

"Yes, and you'd better be a better one than ours," Bjorn said, thinking of Rollo, a mighty warrior who unfortunately had ultimately defected to the French.

"How's Thorunn?"

"I don't know. Sick."

"Well, that'll keep her home for the rest of the raids, then."

Bjorn nodded glumly. They would be going again, and probably farther afoot this time, as soon as Ragnar made the decision of where and when. He didn't like the idea of going away if there were misunderstandings between them, although he couldn't see what else remained to be said.

Ubbe yawned. "We should toast to the new baby. I'll get dressed."

"No," Bjorn said. "Tomorrow, maybe. I'm not ready yet." He passed a hand over his face. "I think I just want to get some sleep."

"You mean here, don't you."

"Of our brothers you're the least likely to have lice," Bjorn said, grinning wanly.

Ubbe scratched, as if considering, then laughed. "Come on then."

He stretched out on the bed beside his brother, looking up at the roof. "Maybe I should visit the Seer."

"What would you ask?"

"I don't know," Bjorn said again. "Something. If this is meant to be. If the baby is meant to be. How I should keep them safe."

"That might be a lot for even the Seer to answer," Ubbe reflected.

"What is the point of having a Seer who can't answer things?" Bjorn said, a little recklessly. Ragnar would probably (even now though he was grown) cuff him on the side of the head for expressing doubts about their beloved Seer, but sometimes, Bjorn wondered if the Seer ever did answer anyone directly and helpfully.

He thought of the rattle he'd carved, knowing that would be the token he'd have to bring if any foresight were to occur.

Some time passed, and he muttered, "Thanks for letting me stay here."

Ubbe mumbled something in response that sounded very like a loving: "idiot."

After which Bjorn went to sleep.