Chapter Ten

Brynhild perched in the saddle before her captor, shifting her weight as best she might to protect her punished bottom. The Celt helped by drawing her up onto his lap and allowing her to wedge her foot under his leg to provide the anchorage she needed. His arm was about her waist and he held her secure. She would not fall, however hard the mare galloped. After the delay in the forest he seemed intent upon making up the lost time, and for her part Brynhild had abandoned any attempt to thwart him in that.

This was not to say that she was at ease, however. Quite the reverse. Her head whirled. She was confused, baffled, and she did not care for the sensation at all.

Worse, she was scared. Not of the arrogant, slack-witted oaf who thought to carry her off and believed he might subdue her by taking a switch to her bottom. She had not the slightest doubt she would find a way to elude Taranc before much longer, definitely once they arrived in Hafrsfjord. Did he think no one there would recognise the sister of the Jarl of Skarthveit? That none would rush to her aid should she scream for help? The Celt was a fool, and he would likely die for his stupidity.

No, Brynhild did not fear the Celt. She feared herself .

What had happened to her, back there in the forest? One moment she was running for her life, ready to fight if she must and die in the attempt. The next she found herself prone on the forest floor, the stars swirling above her in the inky blackness, the weight of a strong, determined male pressing her into the ground. In those moments, she had been a girl again, helpless, vulnerable, desperate to escape the man who pinned her to the ground but unable to lift so much as a finger in her own defence. His voice grated in her ears, harsh and guttural, demanding, accusing. Her nostrils were filled with his odour, so strong she could almost taste it. He was real. He was here…back, after all these years and she was in his power all over again.

Brynhild gave herself a mental shake. It had been a hallucination, a nightmare … there was no other explanation. She did not confuse the spectre from her childish imaginings with the thrall who now held her captive. But this Taranc had been there. He had been beside her when she emerged from the horror, his voice soft, reassuring her, coaxing her back into the present where the earth did not shake, her wits did not betray her, and her courage was intact. He had held her while she wept, saying nothing, demanding nothing, simply waiting for her to return to her senses. And now he asked if he was the cause of her breakdown.

As if he held that level of power over her. No man did, or ever would again.

The Celt sought an explanation. He was not the only one, and he, too, would be disappointed. Even if she did properly understand what had happened, and if she had wished to confide in this escaped slave, Brynhild did not believe she could have found the words to tell him. And she did not choose to. It was private, her secret, buried even deeper this time and she would never allow that vision from her past to emerge again.

Thus fortified, Brynhild turned her thoughts to the rest. An idiot he may be, but this Taranc had planned his escape well and she had no notion how he might have accomplished that. She knew for a fact that he, along with all the thralls, had spent the entirety of the previous day toiling on the beach. The harbour was coming along slowly but her brother was determined to make as much progress as they might before the winter halted the work. At no stage, as far as she could work out, had this man had any opportunity to creep into their settlement and steal a horse, even less lead the beast away and conceal it in the surrounding woods. He had somehow managed to steal Ulfric's finest cloak, and that did not leave her brother's chamber except for when he wore it. Had Taranc entered their longhouse?

He had food too, and probably other supplies in that leather sack he slung from the saddle. Did he have blankets in there, purloined from Brynhild's own stores? Weapons? Had he stolen other valuables from Skarthveit? Coin that he might use to bribe a boatman?

It was not possible that he had achieved all of this unaided so he must have had an accomplice. Fiona. It had to be. Who else? So much for Ulfric's unshakable trust in his little bed-slave.

The other part of the puzzle concerned her own presence here. Why had the escaping slave taken her? It would have been far simpler, and safer, to make his bid for freedom alone. It was not as though she had done anything to aid him, quite the reverse. She had complicated everything, surely. He must intend to offer her for ransom, or in exchange for his betrothed. Or perhaps she was a hostage, offering him some semblance of security if he should be challenged. It had to be that, nothing else made sense.

Satisfied that she had arrived at the truth of the matter, Brynhild turned her thoughts to planning her escape. She would demand that the fishermen of Hafrsfjord come to her aid and she had no doubt that they would. This Taranc would soon enough find himself back in her brother's slave barn. If he was lucky.

The Celt tugged on the reins and brought their mount to a halt. The harbour of Hafrsfjord lay at the foot of the hill, the surface of the sea glittering as the backdrop. It was a fine night, chilly but not overly cold and the next day promised to be fair enough. Within the next hour or so the people of the port would begin to stir and go about their business. That would see an end to this Celt's tyranny over her.

She tilted her chin up and drew the shreds of her dignity about her as they descended into the coastal town.

* * *

The Celt headed for the small fishing vessel, which was moored at a distance from the rest. Brynhild recognised the craft at once. It was owned by Eileifr, one of Ulfric's own karls and unless she was very much mistaken that was he, seated on the deck as though he was expecting them. The fisherman got to his feet at their approach and leapt onto the quay.

"Eiliefr?" Taranc murmured the name, keeping his voice low so as not to alert others. Their mare's hooves were still muffled and although Brynhild cast her gaze wildly from left to right she saw no one else. No matter, Eileifr was her brother's man and he would have to do.

"You know me?" she demanded.

"Aye, lady," confirmed the fisherman, though his eyes were on Taranc.

"All is in readiness? We may leave at once?" Taranc addressed Eiliefr, and both ignored Brynhild.

"Aye, within minutes. You have the money?"

"I do." Taranc reached into the saddlebag and withdrew a purse. Coins jangled within.

"Ten pieces of silver, the Jarl said."

"It is all there. You may count it." Taranc tossed the purse to the man who tipped the contents into his hand.

Seemingly satisfied, he nodded once to the Celt. "Bring her aboard. We shall be away before first light."

Taranc dismounted from the horse and reached up to help Brynhild down. Stunned, she slid down into his arms, then staggered on the rough cobbles of the quayside.

What was happening? The man said he knew her, yet was still prepared to see her taken aboard his fishing vessel by an escaping slave and carried away from these shores. Worse, he had been paid to take them, and the Jarl was aware of the bargain.

Ten pieces of silver, the Jarl said. At last it all fell into place.

Ulfric had made this deal. He had provided the payment, and no doubt the rest—supplies, horse, his own cloak! There had been no other accomplice. In all likelihood, there had been no escape, really, since Ulfric had known all along what was intended and Taranc had his permission to be here in Hafrsfjord, embarking on the voyage home.

But the Celt had no right to abduct her. That was impossible and she would die before she would go meekly with him. Whatever deal had been struck between her brother and this man, Ulfric would never have countenanced such disloyalty, such wickedness. They had quarrelled lately, that was true, but he was her brother and he loved her. Surely Eileifr must realise that this was all wrong.

She turned to the fisherman. "You must help me. My brother will reward you, he—"

Eileifr had the grace to shuffle before her and found it necessary to inspect his shoes most carefully, but he made no move to come to her aid. The karl dropped the coins back into the purse and tied it to his belt, then vaulted back over the rail to land on the deck of his boat. "If you can manage the lady, I shall get us under way. The tide is good, and the wind fair. We will make good time."

"But—"

Brynhild's protest was cut off as Taranc stepped forward. Was that compassion she detected in his green-eyed gaze? Why? Why should he feel sorry for her ?

Taranc took her elbow and urged her toward the boat. "I shall lift you aboard, lady. Do not worry, I shall not drop you."

"No!" She shook off his hand and backed away. "My brother will kill you for this. Both of you. Are you quite mad?"

"Best you keep her quiet. The Jarl wants no fuss. He was most definite on that. Get her away under cover of darkness, he said, and no one else is to know." Eileifr busied himself loosening ropes in readiness for setting sail. "Let's not be wasting time now."

Brynhild gaped, open-mouthed as the full, horrific reality of her situation finally dawned. Ulfric had planned this, all of it. Her brother had arranged everything. No wonder their departure from Skarthveit had all seemed so easy for this Celt, so well-prepared. Her disappearance had probably not even been discovered yet, and she could be certain that Ulfric would not be sending men galloping in the direction of Hafrsfjord to rescue her. He would direct the search elsewhere whilst she was spirited away with his full knowledge and consent.

She would never see her home again. Her family, her nephew… Would they even know what had happened to her? Could she ever get word to those she loved and who would grieve for her?

She backed away from Taranc, but he pursued her. She turned to run, but he was faster. He slung her over his shoulder and stepped over the rail onto the roiling deck, then set her on the bench in the stern of the boat. "It is a shock, I know. We shall talk later. For now, you are to sit here and keep still." He did not even wait for her response before he strode the length of the vessel to lend his assistance to Eiliefr's efforts. In moments the craft would be away, and with it her last hope of seeing those she loved again would be gone.

Brynhild glanced over her shoulder. The quay was already three or four feet away, but surely she could leap that distance. Taranc was keen to be out of the port before the town awoke, he would not come back for her, especially if she was standing in the middle of the harbour screaming fit to rouse the dead. She wasted no further time contemplating the matter; every second increased the distance she would have to jump to reach safety. Taranc's back was turned, she could do this.

Brynhild got to her feet and stood on the bench. From there it took a large stride to bring her teetering onto the rail at the bow. She balanced precariously for a moment as the craft dipped and rocked under her feet. Could she?

A shout behind her decided the matter. She bent her knees and launched herself for the receding shore.

She might have made it. Brynhild was convinced she would have made it but for the sudden lurch of the boat that meant she not only had to jump a distance of several feet, but she had to gain something in height also. It was too much, and she hit the water with a resounding splash.

The murky blackness closed over her head. It was cold, colder than she had ever been. Instinct demanded that she fight, that she struggle for her life and she did so now. Just once, she broke the surface and gulped in a lungful of salty air. She caught sight of the two men peering down at her from the stern of the boat, then she sank again. This time she could not find a way back to the surface however hard she fought. She kicked her booted feet, thrust her still bound hands upward, but could grasp nothing but empty water. Her lungs burned, her eyes stung. It was deep, much deeper than she had imagined, and so cold. So very, very cold…

A hand grasped hers. Then another. A face was before her, green eyes bore into hers.

Taranc. He had come into the water after her. Why? Brynhild closed her own eyes and allowed her body to go limp.

When next she prised her eyelids apart she was back on the deck of Eileifr's small boat. The sail was full, billowing above her and the wind whipped across her shivering body. They were out at sea.

It was too late.

With a groan she rolled onto her side and without further ado cast up the contents of her stomach. At once Taranc was beside her.

"Welcome back aboard, lady. I trust your wetting has taught you the folly of attempting to fly."

"And I trust that Freya will grant me the strength to slay you in your bed one night, Celt."

"I shall bear that in mind, lady. Meanwhile, if you wish to survive your recent experience, I suggest you get out of those wet clothes before you take a fever. We can dry your skirt and tunic on the rail, and I have blankets here."

She glared at the yellow and blue weave and recognised it, naturally. More of her brother's largesse to this thrall, no doubt. Brynhild had never been so angry, so bitter. Never had she felt so utterly and thoroughly betrayed.

And so cold. Her teeth started to chatter as Taranc hauled her into a sitting position and released the leather strap that bound her wrists. She noted that he was himself bare chested, and his leggings were dripping wet, then she screeched in protest as he started to pull her tunic over her head.

"Leave me. What are you doing?"

"I am helping you, since you appear reluctant to help yourself. You will freeze in those wet clothes. Come now, be quick and you will soon be warm and dry."

Was he quite deluded? Perhaps the seawater had pickled such brains as he might possess. She would never be warm and dry again. In fact, she was perfectly convinced that nothing would ever be right again. Still, she did not resist when he released the buckle on her belt to loosen her tunic then tugged the garment over her head. The soaked clothing fell slapping to the deck beside her. He made similarly short work of her skirt, loosening the ties then rolling it down her legs. Her light woollen shift was all that remained. Brynhild glanced toward Eileifr but the man appeared much more interested in his sails than in her almost nude form. Still, she appreciated Taranc's consideration when he held up the blanket to shield her from the other man's view if not his own. Resigned to the inevitable, and tempted more than she was ready to admit by the prospect of the dry blanket, she dragged the remaining garment over her head and threw it at Taranc. It caught him on the shoulder than flopped onto the deck.

He chuckled and wrapped the blanket about her. "I shall allow you that display of temper, lady, but have a care in the future."

The Celt took his time. He arranged the blanket with care, ensuring that it enveloped her completely before he stood and turned his back to her. Before her startled gaze he peeled off his own leggings to reveal taut buttocks and finely sculpted thighs. Brynhild's mouth went dry as the Celt, gloriously and unashamedly naked, strolled the length of the boat to pick up another blanket. Brynhild recognised that one, also, and could not tear her gaze away as he wrapped it around his lower body. He spoke briefly with Eileifr then returned to crouch beside her.

"It is time to talk, lady. You have questions, I do not doubt. I shall do my best to explain."

Brynhild turned her gaze on him and uttered the one word that she could dredge up.

"Why?"

Taranc sighed and repositioned himself on the bench where he had initially placed Brynhild. He patted the seat beside him. "Come, lady. You might as well be comfortable."

Was he mad? Comfort was the least of her concerns. She shook her head and clutched the precious blanket closer to her chest.

"Are you warm enough? We have more blankets." He glanced up at the rapidly lightening horizon. "The sun will soon be fully risen and you will feel better then. "

Brynhild seriously doubted that but allowed him his little fantasy. She repeated her question. "Why? Why did Ulfric do this? Do you know?"

Taranc nodded. "It was because of Fiona. You and she are not friends, I gather."

"Of course we are not," retorted Brynhild. "She is a thrall, my brother's bed-slave. Why would we be friends?"

"Allow me to rephrase that. You have treated Fiona as your enemy, since first she arrived in your longhouse. Is this not so?"

"The wench is insolent, and disobedient, and—"

"She and I were betrothed. Perhaps you have forgotten that."

"I—" Brynhild pressed her lips together. Of course she had known of this, he had said as much when they first met. Naturally, the Celt would take Fiona's side, even though the slave now warmed a Viking's bed.

"Yes, well, I thought you might prefer to bear that in mind, before you say much more about Fiona. Shall I continue?"

Brynhild nodded.

"There have been… incidents. A cold bath, I understand, if the chatter among your house thralls is to be believed, as well as numerous other insults and acts of meanness. You are not a kind mistress, Brynhild." His expression was grave, his deep green eyes chiding.

Brynhild bristled. What gave him the right to judge her? "I am stern, it is true. And I expect hard work from my house servants. Fiona was always difficult, always ready to make excuses, to… to…" She paused, tilted her chin back and met his gaze. "I run my brother's household, it is for me to decide how the house slave should be treated."

Taranc shrugged. "You tried to kill her."

Brynhild was dumbstruck. "Why would you say such a thing? I did not!"

"It is not I who say it. I was not there. Ulfric says it, and this is why he decided that it was no longer possible for you and Fiona to share a home. He fears for her. He believes you mean her real harm."

She shuffled away from him on her bottom, as far as she could go. Her back pressed against the planking that made up the hull of the vessel, her mouth opened and shut as Brynhild sought for words to rebut this nonsense. She was convinced that Ulfric had said no such thing, and certainly not to a slave.

"You lie."

He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. "There was an incident with the stocks, three nights ago, I gather. You had Fiona secured there and meant to leave her outside the entire night. She would have died of cold had your brother not returned and freed her."

Brynhild was incredulous. Of course she had heard that preposterous suggestion made, her brother had accused her but she had denied it at the time. Why was this Celt spouting the same ridiculous notion days later? "That is untrue. I did no such thing."

He appeared perfectly calm as he regarded her carefully before answering. "Ulfric says you did. He is convinced of it."

"Then Ulfric is mistaken. He would have come to realise that, eventually."

"He will not. Not now."

"But… this is ridiculous. Why would my brother believe such rubbish of me? He knows me, knows I would never stoop to such an act. I told him I was on my way back to her. He saw me, I was actually leaving the longhouse, I had my cloak on…"

"You decided to feign a rescue when you heard his horse."

"I did not hear his horse. I had no idea he was even at Skarthveit." Brynhild sat bolt upright now, her eyes locked on Taranc's cool, green gaze. For reasons she could not entirely fathom it was important to her that he, at least, believe her version of that night's events. "It is true I forgot to check on the wench. Njal was ill and I was worried for him. I sat beside his bed and for a while—a short while—I was distracted from my other responsibilities. I admit to that fault, but none of it was intentional. I left another thrall with her, Harald. It was his task to release Fiona after half an hour or so. I gave him instructions, he knew what was expected and I assumed he would obey me. I should have checked, I accept that, but I believed her to be safe. Certainly, I meant her no lasting harm."

The Celt furrowed his brow. "And this Harald confirms your story?"

Brynhild shook her head, her frustration almost choking her. "He was gone. I searched for him the next day but found no sign."

"That is… convenient."

"Is it? I hardly think so."

"And Njal? He could have told his father that you sat with him. Did he not do so?"

"He was asleep the entire time so he knew nothing of it. When he awoke the next morning his temperature was normal. I… I offered a goat to Freya and she interceded."

"So, no one but you knows about Harald. Or Njal?"

"Fiona knew. She knew that Njal was sick and she heard my instructions to Harald. She has lied to my brother, accused me falsely. And he has chosen to believe her rather than me."

"Fiona would not lie."

"Hah!" She waved a dismissive hand at him. "You would say that. You were to marry."

"Fiona would not lie, not about something so momentous. She told Ulfric that you tried to kill her."

"Then why is she not dead?" Brynhild spat the words at him. "Do I seem so inefficient to you, Celt? Do you not believe that, had I set my mind to do away with one insignificant slave, that I would have so spectacularly failed to carry out my intentions? That I would have relied on such a haphazard method, such a public method? How much more unreliable could it have been? Anyone might have passed by and set her free. And had I truly been intent upon murder would I have enlisted the help of another thrall, a potential witness to the act?" She paused again, her body shaking though it was with anger now, not the cold. "My brother should have known this. Ulfric should have known it was an accident, because if I had meant it I would not have failed."