Page 4 of Her Rogue Viking
The days on board the small boat were miserable, the nights even more so. None of the women had managed to grab warm clothing when the Vikings attacked so they shivered together until their captors relented and provided a few paltry furs for them to share. It was not much, but sufficient, barely, to stop them from freezing to death as the night-time temperatures plummeted. The bottom of the boat where the prisoners sat was damp and soon the wetness permeated their meagre clothing, adding to their ordeal.
Fiona was convinced their misery could not become worse when the shout went up from one of the men at the oars. Land had been sighted. But what land? Where had they been taken? Fiona had but the vaguest knowledge of the frozen wasteland that she understood lay to the north and from whence came these fierce marauders. She had no idea what to expect of their destination, but feared the worst.
The cargo ship hugged the rocky shoreline for several miles so Fiona and the other women had ample opportunity to study their new home. Green forests of towering pines covered much of the landscape, backed by mountains of deep grey capped in pristine white. Autumn had yet to arrive but already the air was chilled and snow fell on the higher peaks. Fiona saw many narrow inlets, perhaps a hundred paces in width though some seemed narrower, but all sliced deep into the land. Their sides were steep, the cliffs towering. The sea trapped between them churned and crashed against the rocks.
Occasional sandy beaches hugged the coastline, and here and there Fiona discerned signs of habitation—a wisp of smoke curling above the trees, a rough mud or wooden hut, a small boat bobbing close to the shore.
Eventually, the man at the helm of their own craft turned toward the coast. As they drew closer Fiona could make out the cluster of buildings, larger than the huts she had seen thus far, and a roughly constructed harbour nestling within a narrow bay. As their boat entered the harbour she could see the people on the shore, men and women scurrying about their business in this bustling little port. It was busier than any place she had seen before, and all the inhabitants seemed as fearsome as those she had already encountered.
She had longed for this miserable voyage to end; now she prayed to remain at sea.
Their boat collided with the harbour wall and the women were hurled to the damp planking beneath their feet. Ropes were flung over the side and the craft was secured by others waiting on shore. All too soon the women were ordered to climb up the side of the boat into the rough embrace of men waiting to haul them ashore.
Fiona tried but could not climb as her fingers were numb so one of the sailors flung her over his shoulder and scrambled upuntil another man could grab her and drag her unceremoniously onto the rough jetty. Once ashore Fiona lay on the unsteady planking gasping for breath and wondering if she would ever feel warm again.
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“Eileifr must have opted to return by the scenic route. We have been waiting here for almost two days.”
Ulfric Freysson complained into his jug of mead as he regarded the disembarkation of his female thralls. He was starting to regret his haste in taking women as well as men. It was strong male backs he needed to construct the granary and harbour at Skarthveit, his own settlement two days north of Hafrsfjord where he now quenched his thirst. He knew women to be a calming influence on male slaves and he had no wish to spend the next few years quelling one uprising after another, but his reasons were more complex than that. Certainly the dark-haired wench who had sought to fell his men with her puny slingshot had fallen victim to impulse rather than any reason on his part.
“It has been little more than one day. Your man made good time given the rot-bucket of a craft he has somehow managed to navigate across the northern waters. And we have put our enforced idleness to good use.” His companion patted the bulging purse fastened to his leather belt. “I trust you have nomore silver you wish to offload. I should be delighted to oblige you.”
“You cheated,” announced Ulfric dispassionately. “No one is that lucky.”
Gunnar shrugged and lifted his cup of ale to his mouth, saluting his lord with it before drinking deep.
Ulfric watched the women emerge one by one to be received into the ungentle care of his slave master, Dagr Varllsson. The man was not one of his favourites, but he was efficient and not unduly harsh. The Celts were here to work and Dagr could get the required results out of them without losing too many of their number to escapes. Slaves were valuable. Ulfric worked hard enough to acquire them and they could be used as required, then traded or sold. A slave master who was over fond of the whip was a liability, as was one not prepared to enforce the rigid discipline needed to maintain order. Dagr was about right, all things considered.
Ulfric lowered his jug when the dark-haired wench came into sight. Shit, she looks half-dead!
“Fuck,” he muttered and strode for the door of the tavern, his mead abandoned. Gunnar downed his own ale and followed him.
The wench still lay on her side on the jetty as he approached. Dagr had also seen her and was already advancing, his pugnacious jaw set. As his slave master bent to haul the girl to her feet, Ulfric spoke.
“Leave her to me.”
“Aye,Jarl, but—” Dagr peered at him, his expression bemused. Ulfric was not surprised. He normally preferred to leave all such tedious details to his servant.
“We need to be off as soon as possible. You attend to the rest, I can manage this one.”
“Aye, well, the smith is ready to fix the manacles. The men have been chained in line for hours…”
“I shall bring her over,” Ulfric assured him. “You secure the others.”
Dagr was still muttering as he hurried away. Ulfric ignored him, instead bending one knee to lower himself closer to where the girl still lay. She looked up at him but remained silent. It was defiance and resentment he discerned in her eyes though, not fear. And what eyes they were, every bit as grey as he remembered, their colour as deep as the sea and as stormy as a winter’s evening. For a brief moment he was again captivated by that smoky gaze, then she winced and he returned to his own senses.
“The delights of seafaring are lost on you, I take it?”
She furrowed her forehead, obviously not taking his meaning.
“You have not much enjoyed the crossing.” He took her chin in his palm and turned her face up toward him. “You look quite green, little Celt. Are you able to stand?”
The wench nodded slowly. Ulfric offered her a sardonic smile as he leaned across to draw her hands in front of her.
“Fuck, you are very cold.” He rubbed the stiff, frigid fingers. “Is that better?”
She nodded, curling her hands into fists.
