Page 20 of Her Dark Viking
“No?” The other thrall shrugged, his expression spiteful. “Pity.”
Mairead watched, unease crawling over her body as Ferris sauntered away.
Two more weekspassed without word of Gunnar. Mairead now considered herself fully recovered from the trials of Tyra's birth and the journey from her home in Scotland to this remote Nordic settlement. She was surprised to find she took genuine pleasure in her new life, and had amassed a fine array of herbal preparations in readiness for all manner of ills. The population of Gunnarsholm thus far had presented nothing but rude good health so she devoted her attention to augmenting Aigneis' culinary efforts and had started to brew a range of blue and red dyes since many of the Viking women were skilled at weaving. Donald assisted her when she could drag him away from the other children, but most of his time was spent outdoors. He appeared happier than he had in a long time. Tyra was growingfast, too. Her children thrived, so Mairead had no cause for complaint.
"Mairaid, would you come, please?"
She lifted her gaze from the myriad of drying leaves spread before her on the table. "What is it, Aigneis? Is there a problem?"
The other woman flattened her lips, a sign of her displeasure. "Perhaps. This way."
Mairead rose to follow Aigneis down the central aisle in the longhouse to the sleeping quarters at the far end. Here was where Weylin and Aigneis had their beds. Donald's, too was tucked away in an alcove but the lad himself was nowhere to be seen.
Weylin stood beside the small pallet where Donald slept, and as the women approached he bent to lift the blankets. Beneath the bedding Mairead saw a baffling collection of articles, none of which seemed to her to have any place in a small boy's bed. A carved bone comb, several clothing brooches, a small dagger, a hairpin made of bleached bone, a horn mug and a small silver amulet blinked up at her. Mairead recognised the hairpin, she had seen Aigneis wear it on a number of occasions. She also thought the dagger belonged to Weylin. The other items she had not seen before.
"What is this? What are these things doing here?" Mairead looked from one serious face to the other.
"Quite." Weylin folded his arms and leaned against the outer wall of the longhouse. "We hoped you might have some notion."
"Me? How should I know? Where is Donald? He will know, I daresay. We must ask him." Mairead turned to go in search of her son.
Weylin caught her elbow. "I have sent a lad to find him."
"Oh." Mairead sank to perch on the edge of her son's small bed. "I see. Then we shall wait."
Donald offered no reasonable explanation, though his guilt in the matter was beyond question. His cheerful face crumpled at the sight of the treasures laid out on his pallet and he clung to his mother uttering words of apology and contrition. Despite her urging, Mairead could extract nothing in the way of a reason for the theft of the items. They learnt that the comb had come from the longhouse of Steinn's family and was the property of the young Viking's mother. The horn mug had been stolen from another cottage, and the amulet rightly belonged to Gunnar himself. Donald had found it in the sleeping quarters occupied by his mother and had liked the gleaming sheen of it.
"You must return everything, and tell those you have wronged that you are sorry. We cannot take things which belong to others, and we have no need to. And you must promise me never to do such a thing again."
Donald nodded, his tear-stained features testimony to his remorse. "I will. I am sorry, truly."
Mairead turned to face the other servants who had watched the scene in stern silence. "I am sorry this has happened but I swear it will not occur again. Donald is a good boy, but these recent months have been hard for him..."
"The Jarl will deal with the matter. You have no need to apologise to us." Weylin's gaze was stony.
"Please..." Mairead's heart lurched, then sank. "Please, there is no need to involve Gunnar. Donald has apologised, there will be no further problems, I swear it."
Weylin shrugged. "It is for the Jarl to decide what must be done. That is the way here."
Mairead knew exactly where that way would lead. Vivid recollections of a man tied to a post and whipped by the harsh Viking chief still haunted Mairead's unguarded moments. The thought that the next thrall to suffer such treatment might be her own little boy was beyond unbearable. She reachedfor Weylin, ready to plead, prepared to do anything, to offer anything if he would just agree to let this matter drop. Her pleas fell on deaf ears. The man merely shook his head, turned and marched away.
"What can I do?" Mairead appealed to Aigneis next, her friend and companion. The woman's features were more sympathetic, but she echoed Weylin's statement.
"It is a matter for the Jarl. He will be back in a few days probably. You must speak with him, seek to explain and convince him to be merciful. He will listen..."
Gunnar would not listen. She knew it. She knew exactly what would happen to Donald as soon as Gunnar returned.
Two days passed,days during which Mairead thought of little else but the impending return of the Viking chief. She dreaded seeing Gunnar ride back into the settlement, knowing that Weylin would waste no time in imparting the news of Donald’s misdeeds. She had given up seeking to reason with the other slave, he was implacable on the matter.
Mairead sighed as she set down the pail of water she carried from the river which skirted the edge of the settlement. The brook ran clear and cold, providing ample good drinking water for the settlement. It had become her task to keep the longhouse supplied and she made regular trips, Tyra huddled against her chest, carried in a sling which Aigneis had fashioned for her. She stretched, rolled her shoulders, then picked up the bucket again and set off, taking care to spill as little as possible.
She started as she rounded the corner of the first dwelling she reached, when Ferris stepped from the shadow of thebuilding. Precious water sloshed across the ground to seep into the earth.
“You startled me,” she complained. “Now I shall have to make another trip.”
Ferris shrugged, unconcerned at having added to her labours. She wondered if he might make amends by offering to help carry the bucket, or even refill it for her.
It was not to be. The other thrall merely leaned on the cottage wall at his back and smirked at her. Unease became fear. Ferris made her flesh crawl, though she could not exactly say why. She should pity the man, he had suffered at the dark Viking’s hand, but any such sympathy had evaporated now as she picked up her pail again and made to pass him.
