Page 15 of Her Celtic Captor
"But—"
"Njal, I shall not argue with you over this. Promise me you will not go near."
His mouth flattened in a mutinous line, but she was adamant.
"Njal? I am waiting."
His lower lip jutted and the boy scowled at her, then his stomach growled loudly.
"I shall start the porridge just as soon as you give me your word."
He shrugged, as though none of this was of any real consequence. Perhaps it was not when set against the prospect of a delayeddagmal, the early morning meal shared by the entire household once their first chores of the day were completed. "I promise."
"Thank you. Now, I wonder if we might have a little honey laid aside. If so, a spoonful of that would be just right to sweeten the porridge."
Njal shot past her and back into the main hall of the longhouse. "Hilla, Harald, we are to have honey with the porridge. Hilla..."
Once out of her bed Brynhild set about her morning tasks with vigour. Work would help her to think about matters other than the fact that she found herself surrounded by the Celts she loathed. She welcomed the diversion. It seemed to her that the wench, Fiona, was always about. Every time she turned around she would encounter the woman in her hall, chatting with the other thralls, laughing with Njal, or if no one else was there the girl would go silently about her tasks. Fiona rarely approached Brynhild, and for this at least she could be thankful. She had nothing to say to the wench and simply wished her gone.
Ulfric was besotted. Brynhild had never considered her brother a man given to thinking with his dick, but he seemed oblivious to the difficulties created by his new plaything. Why did he have to insist that she share their home? He could fuck her just as well, surely, in the slave barn or the longhouse wherethe majority of unwed female thralls had their beds. Brynhild had suggested as much to him, several times now, and he had simply ignored her.
And as if this was not quite bad enough, her heart still pounded when, in an unguarded moment, the events of a few days prior popped back into her head. She vividly recalled that moment, suspended in time, when the loose and panicked horse bore down on her, then the rush of movement as the leader of the slaves burst into motion and dived upon her. He had borne her out of harm's way, tumbling the pair of them to the ground and risking his own safety in the process. At one level Brynhild knew all of this and was well aware that she ought to have thanked the man graciously for his quick thinking and for saving her from serious injury or worse. Instead, she had lain on the ground, winded at first, unable to move or speak. Then he had stroked her face, smoothed her hair from her eyes, and it was just like that other time. As clear, every bit as powerful as though everything was happening to her right here and right now. The sense of helplessness, of fear and vulnerability and utter worthlessness returned to swamp her. For a few moments she had thought she was drowning, unable to breathe, consumed by a desperation to be free and to be safe. So she had fought, as she should always have fought. She was a woman now, able to defend herself and she had done so at last. She had lashed out, overwhelmed by the need to escape.
The thrall had released her at once. He had even apologised and offered to help her to her feet, but she was too shaken by the experience, too confused to hear it or to accept his aid. She had lashed out again, with words and threats this time, and he had responded with cool disdain.
He considered her ridiculous. She knew it. His contempt had been there in his manner, in his icy, sardonic gaze as he responded to her empty threats then turned and simplywalked away from her. He thought her a fool, unreasonable, a woman who could neither manage her household nor command her servants. What is more the arrogant savage had taken it upon himself to determine who would work, and when. He had undermined her authority in the settlement just as the insufferable Celtic wench did here in her own home.
And there lay her other major cause for complaint. She was not permitted to beat the new slave, despite the girl's insolence and insubordination. Brynhild was reduced to complaining to Ulfric and asking him to discipline the wench. He had done so on occasions, not averse to taking a switch to the girl's bottom. Brynhild would take more satisfaction in this were it not for the reproach and disapproval such episodes earned her from the rest of her household. And for the fact that any punishment invariably resulted in a bout of noisy and, by the sound of it, extremely satisfying, bedsport.
Who was mistress here?
Brynhild felt a need to assert herself but was at a loss. She was not a woman normally given to cruelty, quite the reverse. She had been brought up to be a lady of the Jarl, and was expected to be a fair but firm mistress. She had a reputation for kindness, did she not, as well as efficiency? She treated all in her household well. She cared about them, was concerned for their welfare and saw it as her responsibility to ensure that the longhouse they shared was a happy home. Yet since this Fiona had invaded her domain she found herself ill-tempered all the time and ready to scold those about her for the most trivial matters. It was not like her.
Or it did not used to be.
She still brooded as she took a little of thedagmalwith her nephew and thralls, but found her appetite to be sorely lacking. Making her excuses, she left the table and slipped through the outer door into the damp, fresh air. It was still summer, but hadbeen raining in the night and the grass was wet. She sloshed through mud and small pools of water as she made for the weaving shed, then ducked through the low door. Within, the three large looms were all occupied, and she was pleased to note that the work was progressing well. She spoke briefly with Sigrunn, the woman who generally took charge of the looms and agreed to provide more washed and combed fleeces ready for spinning.
As their settlement grew in numbers so did the need to produce good, warm fabrics for clothing and for bedding. As mistress here, sister to the Jarl, it fell to Brynhild to ensure that all were supplied, everyone's basic needs met. They would not shear their ewes at this time of year, that was a task for the spring, but she had several untreated fleeces stored which she could set Hilla and Fiona to work on. This resolved, she set off back to her longhouse, determined to attend to her duties and not allow the distraction of these bloody Celts to disrupt the smooth running of her home.
She might have succeeded were it not for the loud shouts which reached her from across the meadow. She paused, shaded her eyes to look, and was unable to miss the tall, solid from of the brown-haired Celt leader who had so shaken her on the day of their arrival. His name was Taranc, she had learnt, and he had been the chief of this particular group in their village in their own land. His leadership was undiminished by captivity since the rest clearly looked to him for direction. Brynhild had no doubt whatsoever that regardless of who held the swords and whips, the Celts would do Taranc's bidding before any other. That he and Fiona should have been married was a detail upon which Brynhild chose not to dwell.
Taranc was the one whose voice she heard. He marched up and down a long column of his men as they formed a chain and passed large lumps of stone along their ranks. The Celtic chiefdirected them, urging them on and every so often stepping into the line himself to take over when one of the thralls needed to drop out to rest or to seek the privacy of the soil pit which the Celts had dug at the rear of the barn.
She had no intention of wasting her day watching him. She was a busy woman, with far better things to do with her time than stand here gazing at some lowly thrall however beguiling the view might be. But there was something about this Celt which drew her attention and held it fast. He was tall, she had discerned that much during their confrontation on that first day, but that was not unusual. Most males were at least a head taller than she was, and Brynhild was not short in stature. His eyes were a deep shade of green which put her in mind of the mosses which adorned the north-facing side of the Nordic pine trunks on the hillside above Skarthveit, and his hair was a deep shade of brown. His locks were thick, curling slightly around his neck. He wore his hair hacked to shoulder length, as did most of the Celtic males, and she imagined it would feel soft under her fingers though that was not a theory she would ever put to the test. His shoulders were solid, his torso muscular, but she would not describe him as heavy set. He had strength, she had felt that power ripple through his limbs as he bore her to the ground, then the unyielding weight of him as he lay on top of her. Despite the speed and purpose of his movements he had not been rough with her, though as she fought him in those moments of blind panic he had been unmoving. She would not have escaped him had he chosen not to let her go.
In the brief interlude before she was seized by hysterical dread she had even been conscious of the steady thump of his heart beneath the soft leather jerkin, though she preferred to bury those memories. It did not do to think on such things. Male strength was dangerous, she knew this well enough, and theseCelts with their base, uncontrolled urges were especially so. She must avoid them
Despite the many tasks awaiting her attention Brynhild permitted herself a few minutes more to observe the progress of the building. It was the project she needed to assess, of course, not the thralls working on it.
The new Celts, along with her brother's existing thralls who had been brought from places as far afield as England and Ireland, had already been at this task for several days now. The pile of building materials was growing at a rate which she knew pleased her brother and she could not help but be impressed herself. Previously, the practice had been to heave the materials up from the beach as they were needed. Each man would struggle up the steep incline carrying a chunk of the rock which they had collected, dump his burden at the build site, and stagger back down to the beach for more. The stonemasons would fit the pieces in where they might, and continue on.
Now, under Taranc's leadership, the construction itself was halted whilst all the materials were to be gathered and transported. Once all the stone required was assembled, they would commence the building again and from there the work would be completed quickly. By forming this line and passing the rocks from one to another they avoided the need for each of them to struggle up the hillside carrying the heavy rocks. The work was not light, not by any means, but Brynhild could appreciate the merits of this approach.
So could her brother. Brynhild knew that he had over-ruled Dagr's ridiculous posturing when the slave master attempted to flog the thralls into more forced marching up and down the cliffs. Instead, Ulfric told the karl to heed to the advice offered by the Celt and to try it this way. The new method was clearly better, and the disgruntled Dagr had been sulking for days.
Idiot man.She flattened her lips in annoyance as the resentful karl wrapped the lash of his whip around the shoulders of one hapless Saxon who had not shifted fast enough for his liking. The unfortunate man staggered forward and dropped the huge lump of granite cradled in his arms. It took a moment or two for the scream to reach her across the distance, but Brynhild did not need to hear the shriek of agony. Even from where she stood she could see full well that the huge boulder had crushed the Saxon's toes.
"Oh, sweet Freya," she murmured and set off across the meadow at a run. By the time she arrived at the scene the angry thralls were advancing upon Dagr, a menacing mob of resentful, vengeful slaves intent upon wreaking their justice on the man who had pushed them too far. Dagr lashed at them with his whip while other Viking guards circled the rioting slaves, their swords and axes drawn.
