Page 3 of Her Dark Viking
The Norsemen set off at a sprint to carry out their orders. Gunnar strode to the closest dwelling to his left and booted open the door. Inside he found three women cowering beneath a rough table, though none sported the hair he sought. He gestured to them to leave, and was gratified that they offeredno resistance. As they scuttled out into the daylight he shoved them into the keeping of two of his men to be taken and held with the rest. Already the clearing in the centre of the hamlet was teeming with captives. The women wept, children clung, white-faced, to their mothers' skirts. Several men offered some semblance of a struggle but that foolishness was quickly quelled by the application of a sword hilt to the head of one, a dagger to the throat of another.
Gunnar had no knowledge of the Gaelic tongue, but his brother did. Ulfric's voice bellowed above the din of battle and Gunnar supposed he was telling the prisoners to accept their fate and they would not be harmed. Some quieted, others appeared not to believe the word of a Viking. Gunnar could not blame them.
He continued his search, discovering an elderly couple, a young man, and a child of about five summers in the next dwelling. The man would make a fine slave, he thought. Ulfric would be pleased. Soon this bunch joined the rest.
A shout behind him caused Gunnar to spin on his heel, his axe at the ready. The manor house which dominated the village lay to his rear, and a man of perhaps twenty summers was charging from the front door, a shovel in his hands. Behind him an older male called out, wringing his hands as he sought to dissuade the young hothead from his obvious folly.
A pity he did not succeed. Gunnar readied himself to parry the attack. The lad would perish, and it would be a waste. Ulfric would not be pleased at the loss of a decent thrall, but there was nothing else for it. Gunnar circled the youth, allowed him ample opportunity to think better of this idiocy and surrender. The old man caught up and he tried to plead with the younger one, but to no avail. The fool swung his shovel at Gunnar who side-stepped it easily. The lad came forward, prodding, swinging his makeshift weapon wildly. There was a madness inhis eyes, a crazed glitter, which Gunnar had seen before in those unaccustomed to battle but suddenly exposed to the full horror of it.
There was no point reasoning with this one. The skirmish would end just one way.
Gunnar was quick, and he was merciful. He doubted the lad even saw the blow coming and death was swift. The would-be warrior went down in a crumpled heap, dead before he even hit the earth beneath him. The old man sank to his knees beside the lad, his son, Gunnar assumed. Gunnar bent to remove the shovel, just in case the old man might yet be consumed by a sudden thirst for vengeance. The old one was of no interest to them, he could not work. There was little point in dragging the grieving father away to join the other prisoners. Gunnar left him beside the body of his son. He had work still to do.
He heard her before he saw her. The scream, the pleading tone, all reawakened his vivid recollection of that day several months before. The sounds came from the bowels of a small hovel, and a commotion from inside suggested yet more futile resistance. He lowered his head and entered the tiny dwelling.
His quarry was there, confronting two Norse men who apparently sought to drag a male of middling years from his bed. The man's sickly palor, his rapid breathing, all suggested this invalid would be better left where he was. The last thing Ulfric's settlement in their homeland needed was some epidemic brought from across the seas from the land of the Celts. Some virulent contagion could wipe out his brother's slaves in a matter of days, and probably half the Viking community too.
"Leave him," Gunnar commanded. "He is sick, probably infectious." He stepped aside to allow his warriors to leave the cottage, then paused to regard the girl he had not been able to forget and his heart lurched, painful in his chest. Now this – this he had never imagined.
She was pregnant. Heavily pregnant, probably ready to give birth at any time from the look of her swollen, distended abdomen. He thought back to the incident he had disturbed. Had he not been in time? Was this the result of rape?
No, he was certain he had prevented that. She was married, then. Her husband might even be the man sweating and moaning in the bed and giving every impression that this day might be his last. If not, the husband was probably already swelling the ranks of Ulfric's latest batch of slaves.
Did this change things? He rapidly reconsidered, assessing this latest unexpected turn of events, and quickly concluded that it did not. The husband was of no consequence. He wanted her,stillwanted her. If anything, this unassailable evidence of her fertility heightened his desire for her even more. She was perfect. It was that simple.
"You, you will join the others," he commanded. "Outside."
She shook her head, her expression perplexed. The woman did not understand him, and he could not speak her tongue. For want of a better option he seized her arm and tugged her bodily from the dwelling. She struggled, as he had expected, but he tightened his grip. Gunnar was determined not to harm her, keenly aware of the delicacy of her condition. The less she fought him now, the better.
He towed her across the village and deposited her among the peasants assembled in the centre. "Watch her," he commanded the Viking closest to him.
"Aye, Jarl." The man grinned at him, his toothless smile betraying his glee at their impending victory, the unqualified success of their mission. "She'll be going nowhere?—"
The Norseman's words were cut off abruptly when he was hit on the side of the head by a rock. He dropped like the stone which had felled him.
"What the—?" Gunnar whirled but could not pick out the source of this unexpected attack. Even as he scanned the surrounding trees another stone whistled past him to bring a second of their men to his knees. This time he could pinpoint the direction and without thinking stepped between the unknown threat and his captive as he peered into the woods.
Seconds later his brother emerged from the trees, a young Celtic wench slung unceremoniously over his shoulder. Her hands were bound behind her back and, frantic, she struggled in her captor's grasp, though at a few words in Gaelic from his stern-faced brother that futile effort ceased. Gunnar wondered what Ulfric had said to subdue the wench but had no time to ponder that.
Soon the girl was bundled into the growing throng of captives, his brother towering over her menacingly. He had a slingshot dangling from his hand, which explained the brutal effect of the missiles. Gunnar was impressed despite himself. The lass was obviously an excellent shot. More brief words were exchanged, then Ulfric stalked off.
Curious and amused in equal measure Gunnar eyed the diminutive Celtic female with interest. She was dark-haired, slender, and younger, he thought, than his own flame-haired beauty who had now melted into the growing crowd of captured Celts. No matter, he would ensure she was selected to accompany them, when the time came to choose the females. Ulfric particularly required male thralls for his building projects, but experience had shown that a handful of women would prove beneficial too. Females had a calming effect on healthy male slaves, as well as which they could cook, weave, sew, and usually didn't eat too much.
He assessed the girl dispassionately. This one was pretty enough to catch Ulfric's eye, without doubt. Another of the Celts, a tall, tawny-haired male, was immediately at her side.As Gunnar watched, the male attempted to release her from her bonds. A sharp shout from his brother put a stop to that endeavour. The man abandoned his efforts but remained close and the two conversed quietly. The man would be coming with them as a slave, Gunnar was certain of that. The girl smiled up at her companion and he wrapped his arms around her. Gunnar wondered what the Celt was to this wench and if this relationship between the two of them spelt trouble for later.
As he pondered this question he watched as the first man felled by one of the Celtic girl's missiles staggered unsteadily to his feet. The injured Viking pressed his huge paw against his temple and let out a low, menacing growl as he shook his head as though to clear his addled wits. His gaze fell upon the wench who had wielded the slingshot and his lip curled. He lumbered toward her.
Ulfric would not wish this. Gunnar moved to intervene at the same time as the Celt male at her side hastily shoved the girl behind him. However, neither was called upon to offer protection as the man's intended retribution was curtailed by a loud yell from their chief. The command to stop caused the man to halt in his tracks, though he did not appear unduly deterred as Ulfric strode toward the group in the middle of the village. Words were exchanged, the Viking warrior appeared sullen, ready to argue his right to exact revenge upon the small female.
There could be but one outcome. Ulfric's word would be law, none would disobey him. Sure enough, the man slunk away leaving Ulfric to confront the wench and her would-be protector. Although Gunnar was fully aware his brother did not require his aid or support, this was sport he would not miss. He approached and stationed himself behind his chief. Intrigued, he stuck the point of his sword into the ground and leaned forward on the handle, his posture utterly relaxed as he settled in to enjoy the entertainment.
The conversation was in Gaelic so Gunnar could not follow their words. However the belligerent expression on the Celtic male's face told its own story. The girl herself appeared more fearful, more respectful of the power the Viking warlord wielded over all her people now.
Ulfric was aware of Gunnar's presence and turned to him, his expression stony. "Brother, will you see to boarding the prisoners? Take all the males who are able to hoist a rock or handle an oar, and make certain that this wench is taken to the ship intended for the women. You shall select such other females as you think needful. It is time we were on our way."
"Of course," agreed Gunnar, his gaze already scanning the group of Celts for his redhead. "I shall see your new slave safely secured."
"She will remain bound until I say otherwise." Ulfric's features were impassive, but Gunnar knew that look. This little Celt would end up in his brother's bed before long, whatever her handsome yet powerless Celtic protector might have to say on the matter. He knew a moment's sympathy for the man – he could not start to imagine the furious impotence of being unable to protect those dear to him. Still, he was a Viking so the matter would not arise.
