Page 22 of Her Celtic Captor
Fuck, fuck, fuck—it was cold!
It took but two powerful strokes for Taranc to reach the spot where he had last sighted the lad, but Njal was nowhere to be seen. Treading water and his teeth chattering as his inner temperature plummeted, Taranc sought to peer down into the murky depths but could not discern anything more than a few inches below the surface. He emptied his lungs, then filled them again with fresh air, and tipped forward to dive beneath the waves. Still he could see almost nothing, and his senses were already dulling with the intense cold. He spun around beneath the surface, disorientated. Which way was the shore? Was the boy in front of him or behind? He might be right here, inches away, or already being dragged out into the open sea.
Taranc reached out, flailing about blindly with arms outstretched. And he made contact.
Something brushed the fingers of his left hand. He turned in that direction, propelled himself forward and grabbed wildly. His reward, a handful of wet, wool tunic. Taranc dragged the boy's small body against his own and kicked hard for the surface which glittered just inches above his head. He was pleased that at least he had been correct in his estimate of the depth.
He broke the surface gasping for air. Njal was wriggling in his arms but went still as Taranc clutched him against his chest and stroked hard for the rocks where willing hands, Viking and thrall alike, reached down to drag the boy from the water. Others aided Taranc and he scrambled, gasping and shivering, onto the wet rock path where he lay still.
Several moments passed, during which Taranc offered up thanks to the dear, sweet Saviour that they had both survived the ducking. Or, he believed this to be so. He pushed himself into a sitting position and peered over to where the boy lay on his side, coughing and gasping in great lungfuls of air.
The pounding of footsteps heralded the arrival of Ulfric. He dropped to his knees beside his son and hauled the boy into his arms.
"C-cold, daddy," spluttered the boy, his features ashen now as shock began to take hold.
Ulfric rose to his feet, the lad cradled in his arms, and he started back up the cliff path, his stride long and purposeful. He paused to glance back as Taranc fumbled to retrieve his tunic. The garment had remained dry, though his leggings were soaked. Taranc looked up and met Ulfric's gaze.
"Thank you." If anything, Ulfric looked even more devastated by this day's events than did Njal. Such was the love of a father for his only child, surmised Taranc.
"You are welcome." He pulled his tunic over his head.
"Come." Ulfric beckoned Taranc to accompany him as he strode back up the hillside, his shivering son bundled in his arms. "You too require a warm bath and dry clothing."
Taranc was not about to argue with that assessment. He got to his feet and followed.
In the longhouse all was a flurry of activity. Word had preceded them and a tub of steaming water awaited Njal by the time they arrived. Brynhild, pale and shaken by the news of her nephew's brush with disaster, rushed to fuss over him. To Taranc's surprise the Viking woman paused to thank him for his actions in effecting a rescue, though he noted she did not call for hot water for him.
It was of no matter. Ulfric issued instructions and bade Fiona attend to the drenched thrall. The grateful Viking Jarl invitedTaranc to sit close to the fire pit to remain warm as his own bath was prepared, and he charged Fiona with finding dry blankets for him.
It was a warmer, and infinitely more comfortable Taranc who hauled himself at last from the cooling water which lapped the brim of Ulfric’s own bathtub and accepted the thick blanket handed to him by one of the Jarl’s house thralls. The lad, Harald, had scurried back and forth with buckets of hot water and had even managed to procure a mug of fine mead for the thrall all now hailed as a hero. Taranc was vaguely embarrassed. He had only done what anyone would have. Well, anyone able to swim.
It remained a complete mystery to him why such an adept seafaring race as these Vikings should neglect to master that simple skill.
His own clothing was still wet so Taranc accepted a pair of dry leggings which he suspected might have belonged to the Jarl himself since they were of a similar size and the fabric was finely woven. His own shoes and tunic were fit to wear, so Taranc donned those and set about his remaining task for this day. Here was an opportunity to speak with Fiona, and he was not about to miss it.
His once-betrothed was not in the longhouse when Taranc finished his bath so he asked Harald where she might be found.
The lad scratched his head. "Oh, I think she is feeding the chickens. In the pen, around the back."
Taranc thanked him and made his way around to the rear of the dwelling where Fiona stood among a bunch of squawking fowl. She had never looked more beautiful, in Taranc's opinion. Nor more distant. He leaned his elbows on the top of the fence which penned the hens in and watched her for a short while before speaking.
"Fiona? Walk with me?"
She whirled around to face him. "I...I cannot. Ulfric..."
"Ulfric has not forbidden you to speak with me, has he?"
"No, but?—"
"Then, walk with me. I need to talk to you."
She met his gaze, hesitated but a few moments more, then gave a brief nod. She set aside the basket of corn she had been feeding to the hens and exited the pen, closing the gate carefully behind her.
"Where shall we go?" She looked up at him, her dark grey eyes the colour of wet slate.
"The meadow, over there. It is but a short walk and you will hear if you are summoned."
They walked side by side, in silence, until by mutual and unspoken consent they stopped in the shadow of a huge pine. Taranc sank to the ground and leaned back against the tree. Fiona lowered herself beside him. He glanced down at her and contemplated a life that could have been.
