Page 21 of Her Celtic Captor
"I am no farmer, Jarl." Dagr drew himself to his full, yet still less than impressive height, his expression indignant. "I shall not scrabble in the soil or?—"
Ulfric's tone hardened. "You will do as I deem fit, karl. Remember that. And you may start by replacing the lock on this barn with one which actually works. In future you will ensure that none of my slaves are free to wander the countryside at will, or you will answer to me for it."
"But, this man... he should be punished. He knew he was not permitted to leave, and?—"
"It was your responsibility to ensure that he did not, and you failed. Do not fail again. You will spend the rest of the night on guard outside, and at first light you will seek out Ugo at the forge and have him fashion a stout lock. There will be no more nocturnal wanderings. Is that clear? To all?"
This time Ulfric's blue gaze fell upon Taranc who kept his own visage impassive. A stronger lock would make things more difficult, but he had little doubt he would find a way out should he choose to. Ulfric might be blessed with more brains than Dagr, though that was not to say much, but even he was not infallible. Taranc was no fool and saw no reason to provoke the Jarl needlessly. He shrugged and arranged his features into anexpression of resignation. Hopefully this would satisfy Ulfric, for now at least.
The Jarl stepped closer to him, his brow furrowed. "This was not the first time you have been outside the barn after dark." It was a statement, not a question.
"No, Jarl."
"Then why are you still here? Why have you not already made your escape when you could have easily done so?"
"I will leave here at a time of my choosing." Taranc met Ulfric's gaze and held it. He could not be entirely certain, but he believed he detected the flickering of respect in the Viking's cool, blue eyes.
Ulfric flattened his lips in a mirthless smile. "We shall see, Celt. We shall see." He turned to leave, his hand resting on his son's narrow shoulder. "Thank you, Njal, for alerting me to the problem here." His azure gaze swept the nervous, silent thralls who surrounded him. "I trust there will be no further... disturbances this night?"
They responded with murmurings and head shakes, seemingly eager to return to the monotony of a night in their barn. Ulfric nodded and strode to the door. "Brynhild? I trust your business here is concluded also?"
"He should be whipped. He was... belligerent and, and..."
Ulfric was not impressed by her claims. "The fault lay with Dagr. There will be no whipping."
Bright spots of colour blazed across Brynhild's pale cheeks as she cast one final, fulminating glare at Taranc before following her brother from the barn.
He watched her go with mounting unease. This latest act of spite had little enough to do with illicit fishing and much to do with that kiss by the riverside. She had responded, briefly, but he was not mistaken, and she had then sought some manner of misplaced vengeance for what had occurred between them. Dagrhad been her tool, her means of exacting retribution for Taranc having humiliated her, if indeed that was how she viewed their recent encounter. He could understand her anger, to a point. He had taken advantage of the Viking noblewoman in a weak moment, taken her by surprise and she was entitled to resent his familiarity. Indeed, her towering pride would demand it.
But her hatred went beyond what was rational or deserved. It was near enough palpable, and he could not even start to fathom what lay at the root of it.
6
The granary was complete and all the thralls were now working on the foundations for the harbour. The labour was harsh and cold, involving the hauling of huge boulders across the beach and depositing them in the icy waters of the fjord to eventually create a barrier which would offer protection for the Jarl's dragon ships, as well, as a shallow place upon which to ground the vessels over the winter. Viking dragon ships were constructed with flat hulls, designed to be hauled up onto a beach and to be agile in shallow water. They were safer moored out of the water, and Ulfric had declared it his intention to construct boathouses for their even greater protection in future years.
Taranc had no intention whatsoever of contributing to that project. He would be long gone.
For now, though, he toiled alongside his comrades as they dragged the huge rocks into place. As usual, Njal strutted up and down the cliff path where they worked, offering his lively commentary to proceedings. The boy never stopped asking questions, and Taranc was not the only man who was happy enough to pause and answer.
"How deep is the water here?" demanded Njal. "Is it higher than I am?" He reached his arm high above his head to indicate his full height.
"Aye, and plenty besides," confirmed Taranc. He would estimate the depth to be at least seven feet of churning water, and they needed to reduce that by half to enable the dragon ships to land there.
Soon it would be too dangerous to continue the work, once the weather turned really cold and stormy and the shoreline was lashed day after day by frigid, numbing waves. They would be forced to abandon the project for the winter. He wondered what labour would be found for the thralls then, to pass the long, dark months until spring.
Taranc did not see the small body slither across the slippery rocks and into the swirling, foaming waves, but he heard the splash and the harsh shout of warning from someone behind him. He swirled, almost lost his own footing, but could not see who had fallen in.
"There! There..." A thrall named Macklyn pointed to a spot perhaps five or six feet from the rocks. "He is there, see?"
Taranc groaned when he recognised the bright red of the lad's tunic. He turned to the closest Viking. "Can he swim? Can he?"
The man shook his head. Another Norse guard was already dragging off his cloak and Taranc expected the man to dive in and haul the boy from the water. Instead the guard knelt on the rocks and cast the cloak out over the waves, yelling to the boy to grab hold.
Njal sank beneath the surface, disappearing from their view. He could no more grab the cloak than he could take to the air and fly back to the safety of the shore.
Taranc watched in disbelief. Why did no one act? There was but one way...
Fuck!Taranc pulled his heavy woollen tunic from his shoulders and flung it aside, then kicked off his shoes. A strong swimmer, he had no doubt he would be able to pluck the lad from his watery grave, provided he could reach him before he was swept out to sea. With no more ado he dived into the frothing waves.
