The pregnant woman on the ground let out a cry of despair and sought to rise. Gunnar offered his hand and she took it, allowing him to aid her to her feet. Then she set off in pursuit of her tormentor. Gunnar grabbed at her elbow.
“Wait. You will remain here.”
He spoke in their Nordic tongue so Ulfric knew the woman could not understand Gunnar. He, however, could follow her rapid Gaelic as she grappled with his brother in her desperation to escape his grasp.
“My son! My boy, he needs me. He is but a baby. Please, let me go! I have to remain with him. I can manage…”
What?Ulfric stood and scanned the ranks of slaves but could not pick out the reason for such grief. He turned to the girl who lay at his feet. “What is she saying? What boy?”
“Her son. He is among the men you took. He is just seven summers…”
“She fears for her son. The lad is but a child and is with the male thralls.” Ulfric translated the explanation for Gunnar’s benefit. Privately he regretted having devoted so much of his attention to the loading of the goods they had plundered ratherthan overseeing the taking of slaves. Neither this red-haired woman nor her child should have been among those seized.
“A boy?” Gunnar tightened his grip on the struggling woman. “Then I shall have him too.”
Ulfric regarded his brother with a mix of surprise and amusement. Gunnar was not known for his finer feelings nor for his tenderness toward women and children. Certainly, he harboured no sympathy for slaves.
Theirs was a harsh society, sharply divided between the class of jarls to which he and Gunnar both belonged despite his brother’s illegitimacy, the karls who were the tier below, and the slave class or thralls who languished at the bottom of the class system. Slaves had no rights, thralls barely any more though they might, if they could accrue the necessary wealth, purchase their freedom. That was rare. Certainly, slaves did not dictate to their masters. This woman had no right to demand that her son remain with her. She could be whipped for her impertinence though one look at Gunnar’s angry countenance convinced Ulfric that it would be folly to suggest such a thing.
Still, he could turn this situation to his advantage.
“The woman is yours, if you want her. You may buy the lad from me, too, if you so wish.”
“Buy him?” Gunnar’s eyes narrowed. “You would sell him? To me?”
“Aye, if we can agree a price. That purse of silver dangling from your belt would be about right, I daresay.”
“You bastard!”
Ulfric shrugged. “I believe you will find it isyouwho is the bastard among us, but let us not haggle over details. Very well. I expect the boy will fetch a decent enough price when I offer him for auction. Do not forget, I offered you first refusal.” He spoke in Nordic and was glad his own little captive could notcomprehend his words. She would not understand the banter between the brothers.
Gunnar untied the purse from his belt and hurled it at Ulfric. “Greedy cur. You were ever a poor loser.”
“Perhaps. I confess I get little enough practice.” He turned to Dagr who had witnessed this exchange with a look of pure bewilderment. “It seems my brother will be having the boy as well. Release him from the shackles.”
“But—”
“Now, if you would, Dagr. You really do need to be getting on your way.”
A few moments later Dagr produced a small boy from among the throng and shoved him in the direction of Gunnar and the woman. The lad stood, uncertain as the rest of the men moved off behind him.
“Donald!” The woman still secured in Gunnar’s embrace held out her hands to the confused and frightened child. Gunnar let her go and she stumbled along the rough track to take her son in her arms. She knelt beside him weeping, clinging to her child as she murmured words of love and devotion and eternal hope.
Ulfric allowed himself a private grin as he bent to retrieve the purse of silver coins and attached it to his own belt. Without a doubt, there was something oddly alluring about these Celtish females.
“What is your name, wench?”Ulfric deliberately softened his voice as he addressed the ebony-haired girl again. He was once more crouching at her side and needed to ascertain the nature and extent of her injury. First, he had to calm her.
She did not reply. Instead she used her good leg, still sporting the heavy iron shackle, to attempt to scramble backwards and out of his reach.
Her efforts were futile. She could not get away. Ulfric repeated his question, this time cupping her chin in his palm.
“I am Ulfric, son of Frey, Jarl of Skarthveit. And you are…?”
“F-Fiona. Daughter of Dughall, of Pennglas.” The wench whispered her name as though she feared relinquishing even this small part of her.
Ulfric nodded, and reached for her injured ankle. Fiona let out a startled scream as he lifted the damp hem of her woollen skirt. He glanced up in time to glimpse the rock in her hand as she swung it toward his head. The blow bounced off his temple. The last thing Ulfric remembered was the beautiful stormy shade of her eyes and an instant later his entire world went similarly grey.
3
