Page 17 of Her Rogue Viking
Even at this distance she could make out the people of Skarthveit scurrying about their business, and livestock wandering freely among the buildings. Poultry, cattle, sheep, and goats all meandered where they would as the town went about its daily life. Small, tethered boats bobbed on the beach, and the entire settlement was surrounded by cultivated fields. Fiona knew a moment’s surprise; she had not considered that these Vikings might be farmers, fishermen, traders, that their lives were not that dissimilar to her own.
She turned to Ulfric again. “How many people live here?”
“Perhaps two hundred. And the thralls, of course. They live in those barns on the edge of the town. See?” He indicated with his arm, and Fiona could pick out the stark buildings, large and forbidding, though they also oozed smoke that suggested that at least the thralls knew some comfort.
“They have food, and warmth.” Ulfric picked up on her unspoken question. “And they are well treated, provided they work and cause us no trouble. Our laws are strict, but fair.”
“The taking of slaves is never fair,” retorted Fiona before she could think better of it.
“Perhaps, but it is the way of things and you will adapt.”
She sincerely doubted that. “Am I to live there, in the slave barn?”
“You are to share my bed, Fiona, which I have never yet found reason to locate within the slave barn.”
“All the time? You will want me to be with you every night?”
“I see no reason to suppose otherwise.”
“Which is your house?” She scanned the town from her vantage point on the hill as they began to make their descent.
“That one, closest to the shore.” He pointed to the largest of the dwellings, a long, low building surrounded by a wicker fence. Several outbuildings clustered against its timber walls, leading Fiona to suppose that her new master did not choose to share his home with his livestock. Just like the rest of the buildings, eddies of smoke seeped through the thatched roof.
Fiona frowned. “Someone is there, in your house?”
“Of course. My family live there, with me. They will be watching eagerly for our return.”
Family?It had never occurred to Fiona to enquire once it became clear that Ulfric did not share his home with his brother. “You have a big family?” The house was the largest and grandest in the town, certainly there was enough accommodation there for a horde of Ulfric’s relatives.
“Not especially. You will see them soon.”
“Will they know? Will they know why I am there with you?”
“Of course, it will be obvious. There are other slaves, also, others from your land. You will make friends soon enough.”
Fiona’s heart sank a little further, though she would not have thought that possible. She dreaded her new role, but even worse was the prospect that she would be one of many such bed-slaves. Then another, even more terrifying possibility occurred to her.
“Will there be others? I mean… other men such as yourself? Will I be expected to… to…” She could not vocalise the thought.
“You are mine and mine alone. Now, enough questions.” Ulfric tightened his hold around her waist as he turned in the saddle to grin at his men. “We are home, my friends. Our kinsfolk await.”
With yells and shouts and fearsome war cries the men kicked their mounts into a gallop. They charged down the hill to wherethe people of Skarthveit already gathered in the centre of the town to welcome them home.
They arrivedin the clearing of hard-packed earth that fronted Ulfric’s longhouse. He pulled the horse to a stop and flung the reins at a lad who came hurtling from one of the outhouses. The boy caught the trailing leather and somehow managed to hold the restless mount still while Ulfric vaulted to the ground. He turned and held up his arms to Fiona.
“Slide down to me, little Celt. I shall catch you.”
She knew he would, and Fiona had no hesitation in trusting her safety to him. Moments later she stood on one foot, a little unsteady, but safe with his arm encircling her waist. The lad led the horse away, and they were alone before the grand dwelling.
“Come, I shall?—”
“Fadir!” The shrill cry came from within the longhouse, and a small boy emerged running from the open doorway. He was blond, and even from a few yards away there was no mistaking his vivid blue eyes and the familiar set of his miniature features.
“Ah, Njal. I have missed you.” Ulfric bent from the waist as the boy charged toward them and he swung the lad up into the air. Small arms encircled his neck and, one-armed, Ulfric returned the hug. “Have you been a good boy? Have you been working at your chores as I asked you and practised hard with the sword and the axe?”
“Fadir?” The lad peered at Ulfric, his expression bemused.
Ulfric spoke to him again, this time in their Norse tongue and the lad grinned and nodded vigorously. He squirmed free of Ulfric’s grip and slithered to the ground, ready to bolt off. Fionasuspected he wished to rush off in search of a sword and an axe, but Ulfric called him back.
