Page 18 of Her Celtic Captor
Ulfric baffled him. The man was a thief, a murderer, a killer who lived by violence and thought nothing of slaying those who stood between him and what he wanted. Yet he had spared Fiona's life and from what Taranc had observed since, the Viking had treated her well. There had been no occasion to speak with Fiona herself, but the female thralls came and went freely between the village and the slave barns and he had ample opportunity to ask them how she fared. He learnt that Ulfric protected her, that she shared his bed and his home, and appeared happy with him.
This was borne out by his own observations on the rare occasions he went into the village. On one such visit he was at the forge when Fiona sauntered past outside. She did not see him. Her attention was focused on the Viking chief who she had spotted across the way. Taranc watched as she trotted up behind her Viking and poked him in the middle of the back then made to run away. Ulfric caught her within three paces and lifted her, squealing, in his arms. Still laughing, Fiona flung her arms about his neck and kissed him on the mouth as he lowered her back to the ground. The kiss deepened as Taranc watched, then Ulfric lifted his head and whispered something in her ear. She smiled and took his hand as he led her back to their longhouse.
Yes, matters looked to be fine between his once betrothed and her Viking captor, and Taranc was glad of it. He did need to speak with her, of course, to be certain, but he was coming around to the belief that he might safely leave her here when he made his escape.
It had been his intention from the outset that his captivity would be a short-lived affair. Had he chosen to do so he could have eluded the Viking guards and left Skarthveit at more or less any time. These arrogant Norsemen were complacent, believing that their superior might and brawn rendered them invincible, that their swords were all the surety they required. They werefools, but they were dangerous too and would seek to hunt him down were he to run. He would need to pick his moment with wisdom, and plan his return to his homeland. The matter of procuring a ship was the most challenging obstacle, but he would find a way.
Brynhild Freysson continued to perplex and baffle him. The woman was lovely, to be sure, and the mere sight of her as she moved with both grace and purpose about the settlement never failed to stir his rampant cock in a manner he found both disconcerting and utterly delicious. He allowed himself to savour the fantasy of sinking his hard length into her warm, welcoming cunt, though he knew better than to imagine that might become reality. She made her distaste for him, and for all Celts, painfully obvious. Taranc might lust after the Viking noblewoman, he was a male and drew breath so how could he not? But he did not like her, and he had never yet fucked a woman he disliked.
He spoke often with Njal as the boy sought him out on a regular basis. The lad was an avid pupil and constantly pestered Taranc to teach him more Gaelic words. Their conversations ranged from exchanging opinions on the relative merits of carrots or turnips to who was the most skilled at the game of kingy bats. Njal showed Taranc how to pass the ball made of tied rags from one round bat to another, and they spent much convivial time thus occupied. In return Taranc taught Njal to play skittles, a game he had much enjoyed as a small boy in Aikrig.
"My father plays a game calledhnefatafl. It is complicated, with many pieces which must be moved about on a board." The boy crinkled his nose in disgust. "Running about is not allowed whilst playing, however, so I do not care for it."
Taranc shrugged. "Perhaps it is similar to chess, which is a fine game and one you must learn should you ever master the art of remaining still for long enough."
Njal was clearly not convinced. "Are you permitted to come to the river this evening? There are fine salmon to be had there, and trout. I will show you. It is best to fish at night..."
The day's labours were over so Taranc saw no serious objection, though Dagr always insisted upon locking the thralls in the slave barn as evening fell. Taranc and the other thralls were compliant enough since they found little difficulty in slipping the lock and letting themselves out as they pleased.
"I shall see you there later," he promised.
The night was cool. Summer had more or less given way to the onset of autumn, and Taranc shivered as he made his way to the river. He had yet to experience a Nordic winter and did not relish the prospect. His homeland offered a harsh enough climate, but these frozen lands to the north would be far less hospitable. He hoped to be gone soon.
Njal was already at the river bank, his short fishing pole secured at an angle so the line dangled in the water. He leapt to his feet when he saw Taranc's approach, no doubt scattering any trout curious enough to have seen fit to investigate the wriggling worm impaled on the sharp hook at the end.
"You came!"
"Did I not say that I would? How has the fishing been so far?"
The lad knelt to peer into the fast-flowing water. "Nothing so far. This is the best spot, though. I caught a huge pike here in the spring."
"We shall try our luck, then. First, I must fashion a fine pole like yours." Taranc had selected a decent length of willow on his way down to the river and now sat on the bank to whittle away the sharp twigs protruding from the edges. "Do you have spare line I might borrow, if you please?"
"Aye, I brought some. Here. And spare hooks." The boy tugged free a sack which he had suspended from the belt at his waist, the bag almost dangling to the ground. He shoved it at Taranc. "Take what you need. I shall find you some worms."
"Thank you." Taranc proceeded to attach the line and tied a hook to the end, then waited for the boy to return with bait. Soon the pair were gazing contentedly upon their bobbing lines though Taranc doubted the creatures of the deep would venture their way unless Njal could manage to restrain his high-pitched chatter. That seemed unlikely so he resigned himself to a pleasant if fish-free evening and settled onto his back to stare up into the inky blackness peppered by a thousand glittering stars.
Did the same brilliant display sparkle in the skies over Scotland? Had the season changed there also or did the summer still bathe their land in her warm glow?
"I have one. Look! Look, I have a fish!" Njal leapt up and hopped from one foot to the other pointing at his rod. The pole had almost jerked free of the ground where Njal had jammed one end, and Taranc grabbed for it before the entire paraphernalia disappeared into the river. He sat up and beckoned the boy to his side.
"We must reel it in. Take care, now. You do not wish to lose your supper."
Njal took the rod from Taranc and, face contorted in blissful concentration, he started to wind the line around the pole. Soon the splashing on the surface of the river showed them the location of the trapped fish. It looked to Taranc as though Njal had taken a sizable trout and he tilted his chin in acknowledgement of the feat.
"You do indeed appear to have the touch, my young friend. Let us hope I can do as well. We would welcome a nice fillet of plump trout to augment our rations in the slave barn this night."
"You may have this one," offered Njal as he landed the squirming fish and knelt to extract his hook from the upper lip of the gasping mouth. The trout gleamed silver in the moonlight, his bright scales catching the thin glimmers of light as the creature waggled and twitched on the bank, then lay still.
"No, that one is yours. The next is mine."
Njal merely grinned as he reloaded his hook with fresh bait and tossed the line back into the water.
The boy caught a smaller trout next, then a decent salmon. Taranc's admiration was not feigned. This lad would never want for a decent meal. He, on the other hand...
"What are you doing here?" The strident tone brought them both whirling to their feet. Brynhild stood a few feet away, her fine blue cloak billowing in the crisp breeze. She gathered it to her, clutching the soft wool to her chest. Her head was bare, her magnificent pale blonde hair lifting in the wind. She was furious, her eyes a deep and brilliant blue as she glowered first at Taranc then at her nephew.
Njal shuffled, awkward at first then opted to attempt to mitigate his transgression by gesturing to his impressive catch.
