Page 5 of Her Celtic Captor
"I have offered you the word of Ulfric Freysson, Jarl of Skarthveit. You may rely upon it."
Taranc returned his glare as waves of frustrated fury rolled from him. Despite their dire situation, his instinct told him he could trust this man. If Ulfric Freysson gave his word, he meant it. Fiona would not be harmed. The pair stood almost nose to nose as Taranc considered what he had heard. At last he allowed his shoulders to relax and he offered the Viking a wary nod. He had a warning of his own to deliver though, before he was done. "If you harm her I shall kill you.Youmay rely uponthat. This ismypromise to you, Viking."
Now it was Ulfric's turn to consider. He did so, and seemed to find their peculiar bargain satisfactory. He nodded, his lip quirked in what might have passed for a smile in less fraught circumstances and he turned away. He paused to say something to the slave master, and strode away to where Fiona still lay on the grass.
As the Viking lowered himself to his haunches beside the injured woman Taranc should have been overwhelmed by jealous impotence. He wondered why such finer emotions eluded him as he returned to his position in the line and the convoy of slaves lurched into motion again. Fiona was no longer his. He had lost her. He knew that, and at some level he regretted it though he did not begrudge the Viking his gain, provided the man understood the value of his prize. Taranc believed he did. Now, he just had to hope that Ulfric would prove worthy ofFiona, and that she might find it in her to accept him. If not... he preferred not to dwell on that.
What the...?
Another furious shout went up from the slave master and again he dived in among the female captives. This time he emerged dragging Donald's heavily pregnant mother behind him. Once free of the line the woman hugged her distended abdomen with her one free arm and sank to the ground. The column of slaves watched in disbelief as the slave master again drew his dagger. Red-faced, he was babbling in broken Gaelic, something to the effect that the woman now cowering at his feet was too slow, too clumsy, too useless.
Taranc again opened his mouth to roar his protest. Was this what Viking mercy amounted to? The callous murder of defenceless women and unborn infants? His intervention was not required. The dark Viking beat him to it.
"Neinn!" The sharp command from the leather-clad Norseman halted the slave master's descent into butchery, though not before a sharp swipe of the switch landed across the woman's shoulders. The karl shrank back, open-mouthed as the tall chieftain towered above him, dark eyes flashing with pure menace. The slave master made no protest at all when the switch was snatched from his grip. Taranc believed for one glorious moment that the dark Viking intended to acquaint the little bully with the fiery bite of his own weapon, but instead he settled for a rapid exchange in their harsh Norse tongue. Taranc could not understand the conversation, but it was clear that the slave master had come off the loser and he retreated back to the waiting column of slaves, his features puce with rage. Impassive now, the dark Viking watched him go, then extended his hand and assisted the woman to her feet.
"Get moving. We have wasted enough time here. Onward. Now!" The angry thrall master brandished a whip he hadcommandeered from one of the guards as he passed and he cracked it at the heels of the slaves closest to him. They danced back into line and the column started forward again.
But even now the drama was not concluded. The pregnant woman struggled to escape her rescuer, screaming at him as she sought to wriggle free and pursue the slave convoy.
"My son! My boy! He needs me. He is but a baby. Please, let me go! I have to remain with him. I can manage..." Her efforts were completely ineffective. The dark Viking restrained her with ease, though he appeared bemused at her determination to leave his protection. The column halted again and Taranc made a rapid recalculation. Whatever the final outcome, surely the boy was better off with his mother. He could not be worse off, certainly...
"Show him. Show them the lad. He should stay with her." The men on either side of Donald understood and obeyed. They pushed the diminutive figure to the front, in full view of the slave master who peered at him with undisguised loathing.
Ulfric and the dark Viking exchanged a few words, and, incredibly, the dark one untied a purse of coins from his belt and tossed it to Ulfric. The Viking chief laughed and issued an instruction to the slave master. Seconds later, Donald was free of the chained slaves and staggering away from the convoy. He appeared confused, disorientated, utterly terrified.
His mother shrieked again and this time succeeded in escaping the grip of the man who held her. No, she did not escape, concluded Taranc. The dark, enigmatic Norseman had released her, permitted her to rush across the rough ground which separated the captive Celt from her son and take the boy in her arms. She sank to her knees, sobbing.
They made an unlikely tableau, reflected Taranc as the remaining thralls were once more ordered to form up and move out. As they shuffled away along the rough track he glanced backover his shoulder at the tall, leather-clad warrior who now stood over his latest acquisitions. Taranc found the expression of the Norseman's harsh visage difficult to define as the Viking studied the small boy he had paid such a generous price to purchase. The closest he could come to a description would perhaps be 'resigned'.
2
"Hilla, be quick now. The turnips will not peel themselves." With a groan and a hand pressed to her aching back, Brynhild Freysson straightened from stirring the huge pot suspended above the fire pit in her brother's longhouse. The broth was bubbling well. It would make a fine meal for when Ulfric returned, and according to the news from Hafrsfjord he could be expected within hours. It was her responsibility to ensure that all was in readiness, not least a nourishing meal on the table to welcome him home.
"I am coming, mistress." The breathless tones of a small maidservant reached her through the open door. Brynhild stepped over to see what was causing the delay. A slender girl of perhaps fourteen summers, though Brynhild was not entirely certain, struggled toward her threshold dragging a large sack. The bag was almost as big as the wench, and put up quite a fight as the servant sought to drag it across the rough earth beyond the longhouse. Brynhild rushed to aid her.
"What are you doing? I told you to leave the grain where it was until one of the men was free to help." Togetherthey managed to pull the load into the longhouse, Brynhild shouldering most of the strain.
The girl was unrepentant. "We need to get on with grinding it, mistress. There is bread to make, and?—"
"Even so, it was too heavy for you. Go and sit down, peel the turnips for the pot and get your breath back." The girl might have protested, but a glower from her mistress was sufficient to quell such foolishness. It usually was. Brynhild had been chatelaine of this settlement for long enough now to be able to command her house thralls with ease. Satisfied that the lass was more appropriately occupied Brynhild glanced up as a male thrall entered. "Harald, this sack needs storing with the rest. Could you see to it, please?"
The man, a blond-haired Saxon of perhaps twenty or so hoisted the sack of grain onto his shoulder and strode across the longhouse to the store at the far end. He whistled as he went about his work, and winked at Hilla as he sauntered from the low dwelling.
"Where is he going now?" Brynhild wondered aloud as the door swung behind the slave.
"I think he has a sweetheart, mistress," confided the girl at the table who now wielded a sharp knife and was peeling vegetables with a deft skill.
"I know full well he has," muttered Brynhild. She would let the matter ride, as long as Harald's dalliance did not interfere with the smooth running of her domestic arrangements. She had learnt from an early age that contented thralls served their masters well. As long as he did his portion of the work Harald could sow his oats with any willing female of his own class.
Brynhild took a seat beside Hilla and set to on peeling the vegetables. The work was soon finished and the turnips added to the pot.
"Go bring that fleece we are combing, Hilla. We shall use the rest of the daylight to tease out wool for dyeing." The girl ran to fetch the bale of unwashed, tangled wool, fresh from the sheep, and they settled themselves by the open door to drag their sharp metal combs through the oily strands. The longhouse had been constructed, as was customary, with no windows in order to preserve warmth and keep out the damp, so the open doorway and the fire pit provided the only illumination. The fire was never allowed to go out, whatever the season, but natural light was preferred for close work such as this.
The pair worked in quiet companionship for the next couple of hours, and Brynhild enjoyed the gentle warmth of the late summer afternoon. A soft breeze played about her ankles, lifting the hem of her loose woollen over-tunic. As a woman of the Jarl, the noble class in Viking society, Brynhild was well-dressed, her clothing fashioned of brightly coloured linens and soft wool. She had woven the fabrics herself, her skill at the loom something of a legend among those who knew her. Most of the blankets and other woollen items at Skarthveit, her brother's thriving settlement on the Nordic coast, were her work and she took great pride in it. None would be cold, or hungry here. Not under her management.
For the last three years she had been in charge of her brother's domestic arrangements, including the care of his young son, Njal. The boy was just five summers of age, and had been motherless since Ulfric's wife, Astrid, succumbed to a fever some three years previously. Brynhild's own betrothed had perished at around the same time, the victim of an ill-fated raiding assault on Orkney. Her own future in tatters it had seemed natural enough that she would return to Ulfric's household to take her sister-in-law's place. She had lived almost her entire life at Skarthveit and here she remained.
Brynhild's thoughts turned to the new influx of thralls expected in the coming days. Her brothers, Ulfric and Gunnar, had led a raiding expedition to the land of the Celts in search of fine, strong slaves. She had no doubt of their success. The new thralls would arrive a day or so after her brother, having made their journey from the port at Hafrsfjord on foot whereas Ulfric would ride. She sighed, and wished she might have been successful in convincing them to seek their new workers elsewhere. Anywhere but Scotland.
