Page 11 of Her Celtic Captor
Brynhild should have felt a greater measure of satisfaction as the Celtic girl paled, her fate now obvious. Fiona's protests died in the face of the Viking chief's implacable features and she obeyed his curt command to take herself into the sleeping chamber and await him there. Brynhild applied herself to restoring her weaving to good order once more, and steadfastly refused to meet the reproachful gaze of her startled house thralls as Hilla and Harald returned to their duties. She flinched at the sound of the switch rending the air, and closed her ears to the high-pitched squeals of the punished Celt as she bore the whipping Brynhild had earned her.
Brynhild shadedher eyes as she viewed the sorry convoy of thralls descending the southern hillside in the direction of Skarthveit. They had made good time, she calculated. Dagr, the slave master, had no doubt forced the pace and the thralls would be exhausted. Brynhild disliked the arrogant little karl andusually managed to avoid his company, but she had to allow he was adept at managing slaves.
She could not be certain from this distance, but believed she could make out a handful of women among the shambling column. The females would not be quartered in the slave barn since they would be set to work as house thralls and would live with the families they served. She had better see to allocating tasks and accommodations.
Brynhild made mental notes as she strode across the settlement. Torunn, recently widowed and with three young children to see to, could do with some help so she would have one of the new wenches. Old Olaf and Gudrun could also do with an extra pair of young hands about their longhouse since their eldest daughter had wed so that would take care of another. As for the rest, she would see what seemed needful once she had taken stock.
"Harald," she called, catching sight of the young thrall. "Can you find a barrow, if you please, and meet me by the weaving shed?"
He nodded and scurried away, and Brynhild headed for the stables. There she quickly procured the services of two lads and a horse-drawn cart and issued instructions that the vehicle was to be loaded with firewood and driven out to the slave quarters at once. The fire pits in the barns would require stoking and tending if the new slaves were to have warmth and light this night, so the sooner they had the fuel the better. This matter settled, she and Hilla rounded up a half dozen hens whose finest laying days were behind them and secured the birds in a wooden crate. The thralls could slaughter them as needed. The meat would keep them going for a while, supplemented by bread which she would provide, and anything the Celts might forage for themselves from the surrounding fields. She would not coddle them, but neither would she see them starve.
Harald was waiting for her at the weaving shed. Brynhild strode past him and started to select rough blankets from the selection stored there. Most were her own work, though not her finest. Not one to waste anything, Brynhild used rough offcuts of poor wool to make these basic things. The wool was plain, undyed, but the fabrics warm and thick enough to keep out the winter chill. They were not pretty, but the Celts would probably appreciate them.
"I counted about fifteen in the convoy, I think. Collect enough blankets to go around and load them onto the barrow." Harald hurried to obey while Brynhild and Hilla hoisted the crate of chickens onto the top of the pile. Between the three of them they started to make their unsteady way across the meadow towards the slave barn.
Taranc narrowedhis eyes as he took in his new surroundings. As soon as their Viking guards removed the chains securing their shackles together the other Celts sank to their haunches in silent, exhausted misery. Not Taranc. He remained standing, assessing the condition of their bedraggled ranks. The four women were utterly spent, and the men hardly any better. Ever one to dwell on the bright side, Taranc took comfort in the knowledge that at least they had arrived, no one had perished on the journey despite the best efforts of the short Viking with the long switch. Now they could rest.
"You, all stand. All up, now!"
For fuck's sake...
Taranc had never loathed anyone the way he had come to detest the little slave master. The man was called Dagr, he had learnt, and he was a bully. Never satisfied, always complainingand ready to lay into any slave who didn't move fast enough for his liking, Dagr was a conceited fool who had driven them mercilessly across the hills and valleys to reach this inhospitable place and it seemed he was not yet done.
They were to have shelter it would seem, since the structures in whose shadows the Celtic captives now crouched did at least appear sound and weather-proof, but that was all that might be claimed as far as comfort went. It was not sufficient. The Celts needed food, they needed to rest, to recover from the arduous journey. And now this idiotic Viking cur seemed intent upon heaping more misery on them.
"Let them rest." Taranc stepped forward, his chin held high. "No one has the strength to stand any longer. We need to eat, and?—"
The whip cracked and pain blistered across Taranc's chest, but still he did not back off. Dagr's pugnacious features darkened in fury. The man did not like to be gainsaid. "Now. All stand. All will work..."
"Tomorrow," replied Taranc, his tone deliberately calm. "We will work tomorrow, when we have rested."
The whip whistled through the air again, and this time Taranc did stagger back, though his resolve was undimmed. Dagr could posture and screech all he liked, the bare facts were clear enough. His people were on the point of dropping. There would be no work done today.
The standoff was interrupted by the arrival of a small, horse-drawn cart loaded with roughly hewn logs. The young karl who drove it spoke to Dagr in their coarse Nordic tongue and pointed to the seated slaves. Dagr shook his head but the lad was having none of it. He started to unload the cart, arguing all the while with the slave master.
Firewood.
Taranc could but hope. Acting on his hunch he stepped around the slave master and started to assist the sweating karl. As the other thralls realised what their leader was about, one or two struggled back onto their feet to lend their efforts to the unloading. Dagr was quiet for once, and soon the pile of fuel was stacked in a neat pile beside the door of the barn. As soon as the task was completed the karl clambered back into the cart and clucked at the stocky little pony between the shafts. The wagon trundled off, leaving the Celts to contemplate their firewood.
"Gather kindling and load the fire pits. Get on with it. Do you think your fire will light itself, perhaps?"
Taranc spun in surprise at the haughty female voice behind him, and almost swallowed his tongue. The tall, blonde woman who approached across the meadow beside a loaded barrow and flanked by two young thralls was nothing short of stunning. She fought to keep a crate of squawking poultry balanced on top of what appeared to be a pile of blankets, her waist-length plaited hair shining in the early afternoon sunlight. If he had ever beheld a vision more beautiful he could not recall it, and Taranc was a man normally possessed of an excellent memory.
He stepped forward to catch the crate before it tumbled to the ground. It would be a pity if those birds were to escape after all the trouble this trio had gone to in order to drag the clucking fowls all the way over here. He lowered it to the grass and peered through the slats at the irate chickens within. Could this be their supper, perhaps?
"Light fires." The Viking woman cast her gaze about the sorry crowd, clearly irritated by their inactivity. "You will need to cook, to keep warm. Here is firewood." The woman gestured at the pile of logs. "I shall send bread..."
"Thank you." Taranc offered the woman a polite bow. "We would appreciate that."
She fixed him with a cold stare. "And I would appreciate it if you would set your quarters to rights. Here are blankets, since it will be cold later. You will find kindling hereabouts if you seek it." She glowered at him, her jaw clenching. "Move. You have not been brought here in order that you may sit about taking your ease the entire day."
She might be lovely to look at, but the woman was sorely lacking in compassion, concluded Taranc. She had eyes in her head, a perfectly delightful shade of pale blue, he noted. Could she not see the state his people were in? She was seemingly as misguided at Dagr.
"Lady, we have walked for two days, had almost nothing to eat and no rest. We are tired and hungry, and can do no more this day. We thank you for the firewood and the food you have provided, and as soon as a few of us have our breath back we will do as you suggest. But once the fires are lit, I believe it is fair to say wewillbe taking our ease the rest of this fine afternoon."
Her expression was a delightful mix of outrage and incredulity. Her lovely mouth worked though she appeared at a loss for words. Dagr, too, seemed near enough ready to explode and his whip was already curling in the air. Taranc had had enough and stepped forward to disarm the man, then tossed the weapon to the ground. He was at once surrounded by Viking warriors, their swords drawn.
The Viking woman stepped forward and slapped the man closest to her on the shoulder. "Stop, all of you. Are you quite mad? My brother did not have these slaves brought here only for you dolts to slaughter his workers before so much as one stone has been laid. Our granary requires live thralls to build it."
