Page 17 of Her Celtic Captor
"Where is the healer, lady?" Taranc regarded her, his hostility barely muted.
"Follow me." Brynhild turned on her heels and marched off, her chin tilted high.
5
"Does your father know that you are here?"
Taranc leaned against the outer wall of the slave barn and managed not to laugh out loud at the guilty expression on the small boy's face as the lad emerged from the wholly inadequate cover of the undergrowth. He had watched the boy for the last few minutes. The Viking child, Njal, he had learnt, and son of Ulfric Freysson, was regularly given to creeping around the edges of the thrall quarters and observing the activities of the slaves. The child appeared fascinated and terrified all at once, and Taranc would not have minded betting that the latter response owed at least something to the aunt who had the day to day care of the boy. She had made her revulsion perfectly clear and would have no doubt conveyed it to the child.
Taranc repeated his question, but the boy just stared at him, uncomprehending. Taranc switched to a halting Norse and tried again. This time the lad frowned, obviously catching at least some of his meaning.
"You can speak my tongue?" The boy could not have looked more impressed had the god Thor materialised before him, silver hammer in hand.
"A little," conceded Taranc. "I have been practising."
"My father speaks the language of the Celts. So does my aunt, and now Fiona who lives in our longhouse. Will you teach it to me?"
"Your father could teach you."
"He is busy. And he is a Viking. I am, too and we speak the Norse tongue. My aunt says I have no need of other languages."
"Perhaps she is right."
"Will you teach me," pleaded the small boy as he hopped from one foot to the other. "I will teach you a word, and you will give me one. We shall swap our words."
A reasonable enough bargain, conceded Taranc to himself. "Very well. My name is Taranc. Who are you?"
"I am Njal. Son of Ulfric Freysson. You know who I am. You asked about my father."
Sharp boy. "Yes. I did. Now, in my language..." Taranc repeated his introduction in Gaelic.
Njal beamed and attempted to repeat the words. Taranc coached him and soon the boy managed a decent enough rendition. It would have been pleasant to continue the lesson, but Taranc had a granary to build.
"I must get back to work. Thank you for your company, Njal."
"But I have not given you a word yet."
"Perhaps next time you are here."
"My aunt says I am not to come to the slave quarters. She says you are dangerous, but that you do not have blue tongues. She is not sure if you can see in the dark."
"Your aunt is correct."
"About your tongue?"
"About everything. And we see well enough in the dark, I daresay. Now..." Taranc rose from the tree stump he had been sitting on.
"You will not tell them I was here, will you? I promised, you see..."
"A promise is important. You should keep your word."
"I know. But I wanted to speak to you."
"We will speak again, that is my promise to you, Njal, son of Ulfric. For now, you should return to your longhouse so that your aunt need not worry over you."
Several weeks had passedsince their arrival at Skarthveit and Taranc had adjusted to the life of a thrall as much as he was prepared to. For now. The work was hard, but not overly so since he had managed to convince the Viking Jarl that a better method of organising the task might be had. As a result, the granary was nearing completion ahead of schedule and they were already turning their attention to the harbour. Ulfric had declared himself well pleased since he had not intended to commence that project until the spring. Dagr had not been relieved of his duties but his violent tendencies were much curbed these days so Taranc had to assume his chief had warned him of the consequences if any more slaves were lost due to needless ill treatment.
Selwyn still shared the slave quarters but his labours were restricted to looking after the sheep on the neighbouring hillsides. It suited him well, apparently, since he had been a shepherd in his native Ireland. He had not lost his foot, but did hobble around with a pronounced limp using a crutch which Fiona had given him. Taranc recalled that she had injured her ankle on the forced march to reach Skarthveit so assumed the crutch had been provided for her use originally by her Viking protector.
