Page 4 of Her Dark Viking
Ulfric bestowed one final, stern glare on the unfortunate wench who had crossed him and he strode away.
Left to his duty, Gunnar wasted no time in having the men herded off toward the beach where they could be set to work at once rowing the dragon ships back across the sea. That settled, he scanned the remaining captives and immediately dismissed the elderly and the children. Those released scuttled away, seemingly unable to comprehend their good fortune. Of the remaining women, he kept his brother's choice close to his side while he pointed to just a half dozen or so others who lookedto him to be likely candidates – fit, seemingly healthy, not unattractive. His redhead was the first to be selected.
2
She knew him.
The moment the huge warrior entered her brother-in-law's dwelling Mairead recognised the dark and fearsome Viking who had saved her all those months ago. His appearance on that day had been terrifying, his raven-black hair loose to his shoulders, his ebony-hued leather tunic and breeches stretched taut across his muscular body, his wolf skin cloak of the darkest grey caressing his wide shoulders and descending almost to his knees. The beast from whom he had acquired the pelt must have been a monster, but this man looked as though he might have been spawned by the devil himself.
He had held a sword on that occasion, the point turned upward as though ready to disembowel any who crossed his path. Yet his actions that day had not been cruel. He had allowed her to go free, unharmed, and she had not the slightest notion why he had been merciful. He had no need to be – she was powerless, helpless, yet he had spared her.
But now, he was back. He had returned, and by his impassive visage as he regarded the scene in the tiny cottage, she expected no such merciful end to this second encounter.
He was similarly attired this time, though he sheathed his sword as he perused the one room hovel, no doubt perceiving that the occupants of the cottage offered no threat to him. The dark Viking was no less awesome a presence now and Mairead wished she might shrivel into a ball and disappear. She backed away, words of pleading rising to her lips though they remained unspoken.
At a few curt words in their guttural Nordic tongue the other Viking raiders slipped from the dwelling. Their chief, if that was his status, cast a dispassionate eye over Ferghus as he huddled beneath his thin blanket. Her brother-in-law had succumbed to a fever just two days earlier and Mairead feared he might not survive it. The Viking appeared disinterested in the fate of the sick man and turned his attention fully to her, just as Mairead's unborn babe chose that moment to deliver a sharp kick to her abdomen wall. She gasped but offered up silent thanks that, thus far at least, her child was unharmed. She must do what she could to ensure that remained the case.
He spoke to her, strange, alien words which she could not comprehend. Mairead shook her head, hoped he would realise she did not understand. It seemed he did, as he offered no further conversation. Instead he seized her arm and marched, pulling her behind him. Acting on instinct she tried to tug her arm free, but he tightened his grip on her wrist. Mairead blinked as they emerged into the afternoon sunshine, then blanched at the scene which surrounded her.
The village of Pennglas was laid waste, several of the turf-roofed cottages already ablaze. Dughall, the lord of this hamlet, knelt weeping beside the body of his son, Adair. The lad had been a fool and something of a wastrel in Mairead's opinion, but he was the heir and now he was gone. What would become of them?
Her captor barely broke stride as he towed her past the scene of Lord Dughall's grief. A crowd of villagers had been assembled in the middle of the settlement, surrounded by fearsome warriors brandishing an array of weaponry who threatened any who attempted to make a break for it. They were mostly males, she noted, though some women were among the prisoners.
Mairead was not a resident of Pennglas. Her own home was a one room cottage in Aikrig, the fishing hamlet situated on the coast perhaps a mile from here. She had been visiting her late husband's brother, had brought him some broth to ease his hunger in his illness, when the raiders struck. She had had no chance to flee; indeed, few of the villagers had by the looks of it. And she could not have got far in her condition in any case.
She could but hope that this Viking's dubious mercy might save her a second time.
He uttered a command to one of the guards. The man eyed her with interest, then offered his chieftain a brief nod. He started to speak, but was struck on the temple by a rock. He toppled to the ground, blood seeping from a wound on his head.
Mairead could not tell from where this ill-fated attempt at retaliation might have come, though she heartily wished whoever had unleashed the missile had not done so. The Celts were already defeated and resistance would only bring more misery, more violence down upon their unprotected heads. Even as she arrived at this conclusion a second stone hurtled past to bring down another of their attackers.
"Oh, sweet Jesus, " murmured Mairead. She clutched at her abdomen in an age-old gesture of maternal protection, fearing that the Norsemen might at any moment set upon the prisoners in a burst of murderous vengeance. However before they could muster sufficient wit to do so, the trees at the edge of the hamlet parted and another huge Norseman strode forth, the struggling, wriggling body of a girl slung unceremoniously across hisshoulder. Mairead recognised the woman at once. It was Fiona, daughter of Dughall. Her slingshot dangled from her captor's hand.
Fiona was a fine shot, the best in the village, probably. Mairead should have known there was but one who could have found her mark with such unerring accuracy not once but twice. Although she did not know the girl as the lord's daughter was somewhat above her own lowly station, Mairead felt sorry for the lady now as she would surely pay for her actions with her life.
But seemingly not, or at least, not yet. The Viking deposited his captive among the other prisoners and left her there. Mairead heaved a sigh of relief. There had been more than enough bloodshed this day.
Her own dark Viking captor also appeared to have lost interest in her, thank the dear Lord. Mairead shuffled back to conceal herself among the other prisoners. She peered about, anxiety warring with relief as she failed to spot the other she sought. Her other child, Donald, a lad of just seven summers, had been left with neighbours in Aikrig whilst she tended to Ferghus. The villagers on the coast would have seen the raiders coming, and would have had those precious few minutes in which to flee. She had to hope and pray that Donald had managed to escape.
"Have you seen my boy?" She made the fretful enquiry of those closest to her. "He is small, just seven years old. His hair is red, like mine..."
Most did not answer, concerned solely for their own welfare, their own kin. Those who did shook their heads, shrugged, expressed their conviction that he would be safe.
How could they know? None of us are safe.Mairead fought back tears as she moved through the frightened peasants, scanning each face, seeking the neighbour to whom she had entrusted her son but failing to find the woman.
Her fears grew as the Vikings began to separate the men from the women.Sweet Saviour, what do they intend to do now?The men were herded out of Pennglas onto the track leading back to Aikrig and the coast. She recognised the chief of their own village among them. Taranc was betrothed to Fiona of Pennglas, and his usually benign features were contorted in fury as he and the rest were led away at sword point.
The men gone, the group remaining was depleted to just a couple of dozen or so. The dark Viking strode around their huddled throng, selecting the older prisoners and one woman who had two small children with her. These people were released. Their faces betrayed their startled, grateful astonishment when they were allowed to rush away and hide in the surrounding trees.
The fierce Norseman paused beside Mairead and she held her breath. Surely he would release her too. Once again this unlikely protector would free her from the horror of Viking brutality. He had to. She prayed in silence, awaiting the command to flee.
Perhaps her prayers might have been heeded had her unborn babe not chosen that precise moment to deliver an almighty kick. Mairead gasped and lurched forward, to be caught in the firm grip of the Viking. His hands on her elbows, he steadied her and murmured something incomprehensible but not ungentle either. Mairead opened her mouth to thank him, but the infant was not to be ignored. Another solid thump from within her swollen abdomen caused her to flinch and she was certain the movement was discernible by those around her should anyone care to observe.
The Viking observed. One dark brow lifted in surprise, then in understanding as he realised what had caused her to stumble. He lowered his gaze to her distended middle and watched theintimate display of lumps and bumps as the child again made his presence felt.
Mairead was mortified. She was embarrassed, humiliated and above all terrified of the consequences of drawing the fascination of this ferocious warrior. And fascinated he was. His lip quirked in a grin of genuine amusement when her belly lurched again. He met her gaze and he smiled at her.
The smile transformed his appearance. She had known this fearsome man was handsome, in a rugged and savage sort of manner, his jaw strong, his eyes almost black and exuding a cruel authority which both attracted and repelled her. Now, he was simply breath-taking.