Her protector shoved her behind him, but not quickly enough. The injured Viking’s eye fell upon her. Snarling, he crouched to retrieve his mighty war-axe and he lumbered forward.
“Létta!” The ringing tone of the Viking who had captured her rang out once again, stopping the man in his tracks.
Fiona risked a peep from behind Taranc’s broad back to see her captor, who she now assumed to be the leader of these savage marauders, striding across the ruins of her village, his sword still in his hand. He planted himself before the man who would seek his vengeance upon her and the pair exchanged rapid, angry words. The confrontation was quick but decisive, her would-be assailant backing off, his features sullen but resigned. He cast one, final murderous look in her direction before slinking back to join his comrades. The victorious warlord turned to rake her with his eyes.
“So,” he began, switching to speak in her native Gaelic now. “It seems I must continue to protect you from the consequences of your foolhardiness.”
Fiona swallowed hard and chose not to reply. The Viking came to stand before Taranc, his head cocked to one side as he regarded the pair of them.
“This is your husband?” The question was curt, simple enough, yet Fiona could not cobble together a coherent response.
“We are betrothed,” Taranc answered for her. “If you mean her harm, you must first kill me.”
Had Taranc possessed a weapon and not been hopelessly outnumbered by ferocious fighting men all armed to the teeth he might have put up a decent fight, though even in her most generous moments Fiona would not have given much for his chances against this battle-hardened warrior. Still, his unswerving protection warmed her spirit and lent her the courage to face her fate.
“No. No, it is me that you want. You should not harm others…”
“I want you, yes, and I shall have you. And your noble protector too.” The Viking eyed Taranc with interest but made no move against him. Returning his implacable gaze to Fiona he pinned her with his glare. “You are my property now. Mine to discipline, mine to punish unless I decide to sell you to another.” His words were directed as much at Taranc as they were intended for her. The Nordic warlord paused to allow his meaning to sink in before continuing. “I appreciate that your actions earlier were an attempt to defend your home and your people, and I can understand why you acted as you did.” His mouth curled in a wry smile. “I might see the matter differently were I one of those nursing a sore head, but I am not and you are fortunate that it is I who will decide your fate. You will not bepunished for what you did, but you need to understand that your cause is now lost. You will not raise a hand against us again. Do I make myself clear, wench?”
Fiona could not break his gaze, and neither could she find words to respond. Her head reeled with the import of his words.His property? He might sell her at his whim?
“Wench, I would have your answer.” The Viking’s tone was harsh before. Now, it was cold as the bitter wind that blew from his northern home.
“I… I?—”
“She understands. There is no need to frighten her further.” Once again Taranc stepped in to intercede for her.
The tall Norseman regarded Taranc with a calm, assessing stare. “You think not? I disagree. Your lovely betrothed would do well to fear me. As would you.”
Fiona shook with apprehension as the two men glared at each other, the one all-powerful, the other buoyed up by honour alone.
The Viking glanced over his shoulder and for the first time Fiona noted the man who stood behind him. This Norseman was tall, taller even than the one who was in command. Also bare-headed, his hair was black as the wing of a raven and a livid red scar marred his otherwise perfect features. The mark ran from beside his left eye and down his cheek to disappear under his powerful jaw. The man was clad in black, a leather tunic and leggings and a thick woollen cloak. His expression betrayed his amusement as he leaned forward on the hilt of his sword while the point pierced the muddy soil at his feet.
The Viking spoke to his comrade in their own tongue. The dark one nodded and straightened as his lord turned back to face his captives.
“Gunnar will see you to our ship with the rest of the women we intend to take. I am afraid I must insist that you remainbound until you are at sea. You would do well to bid farewell to your man as your betrothal is at an end.” He lifted his gaze to now encompass the villagers clustered around her. “As for the rest of you, the men will help row so be ready to bend your backs. The seas can be unforgiving and we will not hesitate to toss overboard any man who fails to pull his weight.” He returned his ice blue gaze to Fiona. “Well, my dark-haired little Celtic she-cat, I must leave you here but I will see you again very soon. Be sure of it.”
Fiona watched him stroll away, his gait deceptively casual as he issued further instructions to his men as he passed. All scuttled to do his bidding, his authority absolute. She saw no cause to doubt his assertion.
The dark Viking,Gunnar, spoke no Gaelic but still his commands were readily understood by the captives who now fell to his responsibility. He ordered that the men be herded off first, allowing Fiona almost no opportunity to receive Taranc’s quick hug and hurried admonition to do as she was told and not attract attention from their captors.
“I shall see you soon, I know it,” she whispered, though in truth she held no such conviction. They might not even be taken to the same destination.
Fiona shivered as the men were hurried away, encouraged to make haste across the wasteland of their former homes by the jab of several swords and the occasional application of a switch if one among them seemed unduly tardy. The women left behind were few in number, just a half dozen or so. Fiona was acquainted with all of them, though not all came from Pennglas. She exchanged an anxious look with Mairead, the young widowfrom Aikrig, heavily pregnant, and Fiona wondered why she had been chosen since surely she could not work in her condition. Perhaps these savages just did not care. She acknowledged Quinn, another widow of middle age, also from Aikrig, who Fiona knew to be skilled in weaving. Briana, Quinn’s daughter clung to her mother and wept as their small group was prodded at sword point in the direction of the beach. Fiona recalled that Briana had been recently wed to Cedric, one of the men taken away with Taranc. Had she, too, been made to speak her goodbyes?
Only Fiona was bound, and she almost stumbled to her knees as she tried to keep up the forced pace across the rough terrain. Mairead took her elbow to help steady her and Quinn stationed herself at her other side. Fiona was glad of their aid and thanked them quietly.
“‘Tis nothing, lady,” muttered Mairead. “We must all seek to help each other now.” The woman paused, then, “Did you see my son? Was he taken with the men?”
“No, I did not see him.” Fiona tried to summon a reassuring smile for the anxious mother. “I expect he managed to slip away. They were mainly seizing strong men, the most able-bodied.”
“Aye, my Donald is but seven years old, a mere bairn. He would be of no use to them.”
“Begja,”snarled the Norseman closest to them. Fiona could not understand his coarse Nordic speech, but even so she and the others took his meaning well enough. The women fell silent.
The next threedays and nights were the stuff of nightmares. The women were forced onto a small cargo boat, where they huddled together on the floor as their Viking captors plied theoars. Neither the Viking overlord nor his dark comrade sailed with them, relinquishing the captives into the charge of a small crew of rough Norsemen. Fiona was surprised to realise she was more afraid as a result of their absence than she was by their presence.
It was not yet fully the end of summer but the crossing was rough. A huge sail whipped and flapped above them, dragging the small craft across the choppy seas. Despite living her entire nineteen summers beside the sea, Fiona had never been fond of sailing. She felt nauseous from the moment she was slung on board and could hardly manage to keep down any of the hard, bland lumps of bread given to them by the barbarians who held them prisoner. Quinn coaxed her to eat, holding the bread for her since Fiona could not feed herself with her hands tied in the small of her back. At Quinn’s insistent pleading one of the Viking sailors freed Fiona’s wrists, though this small mercy did little to alleviate the discomfort of the voyage.
