Page 8 of Her Dark Viking
"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..."
The dark Viking knew no Gaelic. He stared at her, clearly unable to make sense of her reluctance to remain with him rather than continue her journey in the slave master's cruel care. Mairead's struggles became more frantic as the group of captives trudged further away.
The blond chief called out to him and the dark Viking's expression transformed from puzzled to incredulous. A rapid exchange ensued between him and the chieftain, culminating in the dark-haired man seizing a purse of jingling coins from his belt and hurling it at the blond Viking.
The chief laughed out loud and called an order to the slave master. Moments later Mairead was astonished when Donald was shoved unceremoniously from among the Celtic males. Thesmall boy stood, uncertain, scared, looking about him at the assembled Vikings. They presented a fearsome sight indeed and Mairead's only instinct now was to get to her son and comfort him.
This time when she pulled away the dark Viking released her. She made her ungainly way towards where Donald hovered, clearly unsure what he should do now or what was to happen to him. The boy caught sight of his mother, the one familiar face, the one who represented safety and warmth in a world gone mad. He rushed to meet her and flung himself into her arms.
Again, Mairead sank to her knees and this time Donald went with her. She heard the shambling footsteps of the prisoners as they trudged off, but she clung to Donald as though she would never let him be parted from her again.
She glared back at the dark Viking as though daring him to so much as attempt to separate them, but his attention was no longer on her. Instead he watched the interaction between Fiona and the blond chieftain.
It appeared that the Viking intended to examine her injured ankle, but Fiona was clearly of another mind. Perhaps she misunderstood his intentions, because before Mairead's horrified eyes the younger woman swung a rock which she had concealed within her hand. The blow caught the Viking on the side of his head and he collapsed over her.
The dark Viking swore and sprinted to where the other man lay prone in the dirt. Fiona scrambled from beneath his body and attempted to crawl away. Her efforts were doomed, she could barely drag herself a few feet across the inhospitable terrain let alone make her escape.
Two guards set off in pursuit but halted at a word from the dark Viking who now bent over the blond male. Already the downed man was showing signs of recovery. He pushed himselfup onto his knees and started to look around him. The other man patted his shoulder and ambled off after Fiona.
He did not hurry, had no need to. Mairead's heart sank, she had liked the other woman but could not imagine Fiona of Pennglas would survive this day after all. She had attacked her new master, actually injured him. She would be killed now, without doubt.
Even knowing it was hopeless Mairead opened her mouth to plead for mercy for Fiona. The dark Viking was not a vicious man, or had not seemed so in his limited dealings with her. The Vikings had even allowed her son to remain with her so perhaps they were not entirely without mercy.
"Please," she began, "It was a misunderstanding. You cannot..."
The dark Viking reached where Fiona now lay in the damp grass. He bent to grasp her shoulder then rolled her onto her back. Fiona curled into a ball as though to defend herself even now, the gesture futile but instinctive.
Long moments passed as the dark Norseman gazed down at the terrified, injured woman at his feet. Mairead held her breath, then let out a sharp cry when the Viking bent to deliver the death blow.
But he did not. Instead, he scooped Fiona up in his arms and carried her back to where the blond man now knelt in the dust, his expression thunderous. The man in black leather deposited the girl beside his chief and the two conversed again in their Nordic tongue. The dark Viking offered a brief nod and strolled over to where his mount still waited patiently. He spoke briefly to another Viking, a young man of no more than eighteen or nineteen summers by Mairead's estimation and one of the guards who had started off in pursuit of Fiona. He tilted his chin in the direction of Mairead and Donald. The youth replied and started to move toward them. Meanwhile the dark Viking tooka length of leather and a roll of linen from his saddlebag and returned to the pair on the ground.
Mairead stiffened as the young warrior approached.
"You ride with the Jarl. The boy with me." His Gaelic was slow but comprehensible.
Mairead tightened her grip on her son. "No, we must stay together. You have to?—"
"Together, yes. We go to Gunnarsholm. All of us."
She narrowed her eyes, not quite daring to believe. "Gunnarsholm? Where...?"
"Two days riding. Further north. Come, I will help..." The young man assisted Mairead to her feet, then ambled off to retrieve his mount. He returned towing a grey horse in his wake and another stallion of coal black. He beckoned to Donald, who stepped forward uncertainly. The Viking grinned at him then grabbed the boy and slung him up onto the saddle. He proceeded to mount up behind the startled lad then turned to regard the approach of his chief.
The dark Viking said nothing as he towered before Mairead, merely beckoned her to him. She saw no alternative but to obey. Standing beside the huge horse he bent and linked his hands to form a step. Mairead placed her foot in his palms and was hoisted up into the saddle. The dark Viking mounted behind her and signalled to his men to follow. Moments later he, the youth with Donald and four more of the Viking guards cantered away along the track into the gathering gloom.
Confused, scared, bewildered, Mairead leaned back against the solid man at her rear. He wrapped his arms around her to manage the reins and they rode in silence for several minutes. At last Mairead could bear it no longer. She twisted in the saddle to look up into the stern features of the man behind her.
"Mairead," she announced, her hand splayed against her chest. "Mairead of Aikrig." She pointed to her son. "Donald."
He regarded her for several more moments, his handsome features stern and unreadable. Then, just as she was about to admit defeat for now and face the front again, his dark eyes appeared to soften, to warm slightly. His mouth curled in the semblance of a smile and he made a brief nod of greeting.
"Gunnar Freysson," he replied.
4
What had he been thinking? A heavily pregnant woman could never manage the gruelling march all the way from the port at Hafrsfjord where the women had been bundled ashore, to his brother's homestead at Skarthveit. Nor did she have to, for Skarthveit had never been her destination. The flame-haired beauty would be traveling with him to his own homestead, Gunnarsholm and he had no intention of forcing her to walk there.
He should have intervened earlier, insisted that his captive ride with he and his brother. It was only when Gunnar passed the convoy of slaves on the road that he realised how much his little Celt was struggling. He had been on the point of announcing to Ulfric that he intended to claim one of the prisoners as his own when the commotion started. He might have known their females would be at the heart of it.
