Chapter Three

Ulfric rose late the morning after his return from the land of the Celts.

As was her usual habit, Brynhild was out of her bed at first light, stirring up the fire to restore the blaze to cheery life, and setting the pot above the flames to provide hot water for the household. The thralls were stirring as Brynhild fed the livestock in the pens outside the longhouse, collected eggs, and set to drawing a pail of warm milk from their heifer. She sent Harald to collect more water from the river while Hilla set about preparing the porridge that Njal usually enjoyed with a spot of fresh honey. The lad himself appeared beside her as she flung grain down for the poultry, his hair still tousled from his bed.

"Aunt, who is that with my father? There is someone in his bed, and he is still there, too, even though it is already late and everyone else is working."

Brynhild straightened and wondered what to say. She settled for something innocuous. "I expect he was tired after his journey yesterday. Shall we let him sleep a little longer this morning?"

Njal shook his head. "He is awake. I heard them talking. Who is that lady, Aunt Brynhild? "

Brynhild drew in a deep breath. "She is a new thrall who has come to live here. Your father likes her."

"I like her too. She is pretty."

Brynhild snorted, a most unladylike sound that attracted a puzzled scowl from Njal.

"You do not like her?"

The child's guileless question caught her by surprise. Brynhild shrugged and reached into the pouch at her waist for another handful of grain. She flung the seeds before the pecking, chattering chickens and forced a smile for the boy. "I do not really know her. Come, we should take these eggs inside."

The day passed in awkward, acrimonious silence. The usual chatter and merriment between mistress and thralls was absent as Harald and Hilla tiptoed about their duties in a reproachful, sullen hush. Brynhild hated the tense atmosphere and became more irritated with every passing hour. It was all the fault of this troublesome wench, and she glared balefully at the girl as Fiona took a seat next to Hilla and began to peel vegetables. Brynhild sought to busy herself with her weaving but it was no use. Soon, unable to bear the tension another moment, she told the servants to continue with their allotted tasks, excused herself, and left the longhouse.

Once outside she took a turn about the settlement, nodding to villagers as she passed. Did their honest, familiar faces betray their knowledge of what had transpired the previous evening in her longhouse? Brynhild was under no illusions that her house thralls would not have talked to others. Word would get around and by now all would consider her an ill-tempered shrew.

It was unjust. Brynhild Freysson was a decent, respectable woman, a woman of the Jarl, someone to be held in high esteem, not the stuff of common gossip. This bothersome Celt had turned her neat little existence on its head, and the wench had not even been here one day yet.

Brynhild returned to the longhouse, determined to assert some measure of control in this situation. Her best intentions scattered when she entered to find the hateful wench meddling with her precious loom.

How dare she? How dare she touch my work?

Brynhild let out an angry shriek and the girl spun on her injured heel, only to send flying one of the rods that separated the strands of wool in the pattern. Fiona started to apologise, bent to retrieve the dropped stitches, but Brynhild was beyond reason. She flew at the smaller woman.

"How dare you? Who gave you permission to touch my work? You were trying to sabotage it, I know your tricks, filthy little Celtic whore."

Fiona backed away, her hands upraised in surrender. "I was not. I just—"

"Silence. I will have you flogged for this. Indeed, I shall deal with the task myself…"

"I can help to repair it. I did not mean any harm."

The wench was babbling now. As if this Celt could repair the damage she had caused. She had probably never so much as laid eyes on a loom before. "You will not touch my loom again, slut. Do you not know yet what we do with disobedient slaves here?"

A gleam of defiance appeared in the dark grey eyes that glittered mutinously at her. Fiona was already making for the curtain that separated Ulfric's sleeping chamber, as though to seek refuge there. "I do not care. I am not your slave, nor anyone else's. I was only looking at the weave, admiring—"

"You will be silent, girl. Harald, fetch me a strap."

The young man muttered something under his breath and it did not escape Brynhild's notice that he made no move to obey. Was her authority to be undermined at every turn?

Intent upon restoring order, Brynhild made a grab for the girl. Fiona was quick despite her injury but Brynhild was stronger and seized her arm in a vise-like grip.

The wench was terrified but still she fought like a cornered vixen and screeched her hatred at her captor. "Let me go, Viking. I do not answer to you, I shall—"

"Silence!"

All heads turned to face Ulfric, who chose just that precise moment to return to his longhouse. He assessed the scene before him in moments, and Brynhild had the grace to flush. How had her calm, orderly household descended into such unruly chaos? His tone low and ominous, Ulfric instructed Harald to go and fetch him a switch.

Brynhild should have felt a greater measure of satisfaction as the Celtic girl paled, her fate now obvious. Fiona's protests died in the face of the Viking chief's implacable features and she obeyed his curt command to take herself into the sleeping chamber and await him there. Brynhild applied herself to restoring her weaving to good order once more, and steadfastly refused to meet the reproachful gaze of her startled house thralls as Hilla and Harald returned to their duties. She flinched at the sound of the switch rending the air, and closed her ears to the high-pitched squeals of the punished Celt as she bore the whipping Brynhild had earned her.

* * *

Brynhild shaded her eyes as she viewed the sorry convoy of thralls descending the southern hillside in the direction of Skarthveit. They had made good time, she calculated. Dagr, the slave master, had no doubt forced the pace and the thralls would be exhausted. Brynhild disliked the arrogant little karl and usually managed to avoid his company, but she had to allow he was adept at managing slaves.

She could not be certain from this distance, but believed she could make out a handful of women among the shambling column. The females would not be quartered in the slave barn since they would be set to work as house thralls and would live with the families they served. She had better see to allocating tasks and accommodations.

Brynhild made mental notes as she strode across the settlement. Torunn, recently widowed and with three young children to see to, could do with some help so she would have one of the new wenches. Old Olaf and Gudrun could also do with an extra pair of young hands about their longhouse since their eldest daughter had wed so that would take care of another. As for the rest, she would see what seemed needful once she had taken stock.

"Harald," she called, catching sight of the young thrall. "Can you find a barrow, if you please, and meet me by the weaving shed?"

He nodded and scurried away, and Brynhild headed for the stables. There she quickly procured the services of two lads and a horse-drawn cart and issued instructions that the vehicle was to be loaded with firewood and driven out to the slave quarters at once. The fire pits in the barns would require stoking and tending if the new slaves were to have warmth and light this night, so the sooner they had the fuel the better. This matter settled, she and Hilla rounded up a half dozen hens whose finest laying days were behind them and secured the birds in a wooden crate. The thralls could slaughter them as needed. The meat would keep them going for a while, supplemented by bread that she would provide, and anything the Celts might forage for themselves from the surrounding fields. She would not coddle them, but neither would she see them starve.

Harald was waiting for her at the weaving shed. Brynhild strode past him and started to select rough blankets from the selection stored there. Most were her own work, though not her finest. Not one to waste anything, Brynhild used rough offcuts of poor wool to make these basic things. The wool was plain, undyed, but the fabrics warm and thick enough to keep out the winter chill. They were not pretty, but the Celts would probably appreciate them.

"I counted about fifteen in the convoy, I think. Collect enough blankets to go around and load them onto the barrow." Harald hurried to obey while Brynhild and Hilla hoisted the crate of chickens onto the top of the pile. Between the three of them they started to make their unsteady way across the meadow toward the slave barn.

* * *

Taranc narrowed his eyes as he took in his new surroundings. As soon as their Viking guards removed the chains securing their shackles together, the other Celts sank to their haunches in silent, exhausted misery. Not Taranc. He remained standing, assessing the condition of their bedraggled ranks. The four women were utterly spent, and the men hardly any better. Ever one to dwell on the bright side, Taranc took comfort in the knowledge that at least they had arrived, no one had perished on the journey despite the best efforts of the short Viking with the long switch. Now they could rest.

"You, all stand. All up, now!"

For fuck's sake…

Taranc had never loathed anyone the way he had come to detest the little slave master. The man was called Dagr, he had learnt, and he was a bully. Never satisfied, always complaining and ready to lay into any slave who didn't move fast enough for his liking, Dagr was a conceited fool who had driven them mercilessly across the hills and valleys to reach this inhospitable place and it seemed he was not yet done.

They were to have shelter, it would seem, since the structures in whose shadows the Celtic captives now crouched did at least appear sound and weatherproof, but that was all that might be claimed as far as comfort went. It was not sufficient. The Celts needed food, they needed to rest, to recover from the arduous journey. And now this idiotic Viking cur seemed intent upon heaping more misery on them.

"Let them rest." Taranc stepped forward, his chin held high. "No one has the strength to stand any longer. We need to eat, and—"

The whip cracked and pain blistered across Taranc's chest, but still he did not back off. Dagr's pugnacious features darkened in fury. The man did not like to be gainsaid. "Now. All stand. All will work…"

"Tomorrow," replied Taranc, his tone deliberately calm. "We will work tomorrow, when we have rested."

The whip whistled through the air again, and this time Taranc did stagger back, though his resolve was undimmed. Dagr could posture and screech all he liked, the bare facts were clear enough. His people were on the point of dropping. There would be no work done today.

The standoff was interrupted by the arrival of a small, horse-drawn cart loaded with roughly hewn logs. The young karl who drove it spoke to Dagr in their coarse Nordic tongue and pointed to the seated slaves. Dagr shook his head but the lad was having none of it. He started to unload the cart, arguing all the while with the slave master.

Firewood.

Taranc could but hope. Acting on his hunch, he stepped around the slave master and started to assist the sweating karl. As the other thralls realised what their leader was about, one or two struggled back onto their feet to lend their efforts to the unloading. Dagr was quiet for once, and soon the pile of fuel was stacked in a neat pile beside the door of the barn. As soon as the task was completed, the karl clambered back into the cart and clucked at the stocky little pony between the shafts. The wagon trundled off, leaving the Celts to contemplate their firewood.

"Gather kindling and load the fire pits. Get on with it. Do you think your fire will light itself, perhaps?"

Taranc spun in surprise at the haughty female voice behind him, and almost swallowed his tongue. The tall, blonde woman who approached across the meadow beside a loaded barrow and flanked by two young thralls was nothing short of stunning. She fought to keep a crate of squawking poultry balanced on top of what appeared to be a pile of blankets, her waist-length plaited hair shining in the early afternoon sunlight. If he had ever beheld a vision more beautiful he could not recall it, and Taranc was a man normally possessed of an excellent memory.

He stepped forward to catch the crate before it tumbled to the ground. It would be a pity if those birds were to escape after all the trouble this trio had gone to in order to drag the clucking fowls all the way over here. He lowered it to the grass and peered through the slats at the irate chickens within. Could this be their supper, perhaps?

"Light fires." The Viking woman cast her gaze about the sorry crowd, clearly irritated by their inactivity. "You will need to cook, to keep warm. Here is firewood." The woman gestured at the pile of logs. "I shall send bread…"

"Thank you." Taranc offered the woman a polite bow. "We would appreciate that."

She fixed him with a cold stare. "And I would appreciate it if you would set your quarters to rights. Here are blankets, since it will be cold later. You will find kindling hereabouts if you seek it." She glowered at him, her jaw clenching. "Move. You have not been brought here in order that you may sit about taking your ease the entire day."

She might be lovely to look at, but the woman was sorely lacking in compassion, concluded Taranc. She had eyes in her head, a perfectly delightful shade of pale blue, he noted. Could she not see the state his people were in? She was seemingly as misguided as Dagr.

"Lady, we have walked for two days, had almost nothing to eat and no rest. We are tired and hungry, and can do no more this day. We thank you for the firewood and the food you have provided, and as soon as a few of us have our breath back we will do as you suggest. But once the fires are lit, I believe it is fair to say we will be taking our ease the rest of this fine afternoon."

Her expression was a delightful mix of outrage and incredulity. Her lovely mouth worked though she appeared at a loss for words. Dagr, too, seemed near enough ready to explode and his whip was already curling in the air. Taranc had had enough and stepped forward to disarm the man, then tossed the weapon to the ground. He was at once surrounded by Viking warriors, their swords drawn.

The Viking woman stepped forward and slapped the man closest to her on the shoulder. "Stop, all of you. Are you quite mad? My brother did not have these slaves brought here only for you dolts to slaughter his workers before so much as one stone has been laid. Our granary requires live thralls to build it."

"Lady, this does not concern you," intoned the arrogant Dagr as he retrieved his whip. "I shall deal with the slaves, and—"

"All at Skarthveit concerns me," corrected the vision of loveliness. The venom in her tone did not escape Taranc, even if Dagr seemed oblivious. "And you," she turned her attention to Taranc, "you will do as I ask. Now."

Taranc bowed his head. He had no serious objection to carrying out this woman's instructions to render their new quarters habitable since that was of benefit to his people. He gestured to the Celts closest to him "You two, go and collect kindling. The rest of you can carry the blankets inside."

Most of the Celts dragged themselves back onto their feet and started about these latest duties.

"You women, you will accompany my servants back to the main village. You will be found places in the longhouses." The Viking female issued her further instructions and the four Celtic females eyed each other uncertainly. None of them moved as they looked to Taranc for guidance.

"What will happen to them?" Taranc stepped in front of the Viking woman, ignoring the furious chuntering of Dagr. He had already surmised where the real power lay in this little group, and whatever the slave master might like to think, it was not with him. "You will understand, they are afraid…"

The Norsewoman frowned at him. "They will not be harmed. The women will work in our longhouses, cooking, cleaning, weaving, caring for our livestock. They will have food and shelter."

"Will you give me your word on that, lady?"

"Of course." She sounded indignant. "Why would I tell you false?"

"Of course," he agreed pleasantly. "You may go with them," he added, for the benefit of the Celtic females.

The blankets were soon transferred into the newly constructed barn and Taranc watched as the women who had made the gruelling journey with them trudged slowly across the grassy meadow in the company of the two slaves. The little wench chattered ceaselessly in a dialect of Gaelic, which was more or less comprehensible. The young man was more taciturn, though he did appear friendly enough. Perhaps life here would prove bearable after all.

They would soon see.

He turned to face the woman again.

"There was another woman with our group when we were taken. Her name is Fiona, and she was in the company of your chief. Has she arrived safe?"

"What is this female to you?"

"She is—was—my betrothed. I would know that she is safe and well."

"The Celtic female is to be my brother's bed-slave."

Taranc drew in a shuddering breath. The prospect of another man fucking Fiona disturbed him less than it surely should, but he was concerned for her even so. They were to have been married, eventually and he bore some responsibility for her now. Fiona was a lovely woman. They had grown up together, first as playmates, then as a couple. There had existed an understanding between their families since he was but ten years old and she just five summers, but their betrothal had been formalised a couple of years ago now. They had been fond of one another from childhood, constant companions and firm friends but she had never struck him as being overly demonstrative. In a less generous moment he might even describe Fiona as cold, though he knew his own lack of enthusiasm had been as much at fault in their failure to find carnal pleasure in each other. He would not begrudge Fiona any happiness she might glean from her current predicament and Ulfric Freysson had not seemed unduly cruel. Nevertheless, the possibility that Fiona's virginity might be taken by force caused him real anguish.

"He had better not harm her…"

"She is my brother's property now. He will do as he sees fit."

"If he—"

"Silence. The wench is well enough, and will remain so as long as she remembers her place here. All slaves must learn that."

Had Fiona been beaten? The words of this she-Viking certainly implied as much. Taranc eyed the woman with suspicion. "I wish to see her."

"My brother will not permit that. Nor will I."

Taranc was unimpressed. He had already made up his mind that he would seek out Fiona at the earliest opportunity and satisfy himself as to her circumstances. To accomplish this, he needed the Vikings to relax their guard in order that he might slip between them when he chose to do so. He bowed his head in apparent acquiescence and briefly considered the other tidbit of information he had gleaned from this exchange.

The woman before him was sister to Ulfric Freysson. He told himself it was for Fiona's sake that he was relieved the beautiful Norsewoman was not Ulfric's wife.

"Did you mention a granary, lady?" He deliberately softened his tone.

She narrowed her eyes at him, clearly surprised at the change in subject. "I did. That is to be your task, the reason you were brought here. You are to construct the new granary, then you will commence work on our harbour."

"I see. And is there some reason that your menfolk do not build your own granary and harbour? I can hardly imagine the task to be beyond you."

She bristled and regarded him down the length of her straight and, to Taranc's mind, utterly perfect nose. "We require the granary to be erected and in use before the onset of winter in less than two months' time so extra labour is necessary in order to accomplish that. This is why you will commence work at once. We cannot delay."

Ah, we are back to that, are we? Taranc sighed. "Tomorrow, lady. Today, we rest. And we eat. I thank you for the generous gift of the chickens. Did you mention bread, also?"

"Food must be earned. You will begin work today."

"Lady, I give you my word that the granary will be completed before winter, in exchange for your assurance that food will be brought, and straw too in order that we may fashion beds. The blankets are most welcome, but will not be sufficient. We will rest, nurse our bruises, and start work on your granary tomorrow, after we are refreshed."

He could have simply refused to cooperate at all, but saw no point in that. The Vikings would force them to work, and it would be harder on all. Maybe by negotiating with their new masters he could secure a better existence for his people, glean some comforts for them in this hostile world. And he found he rather liked discussing the deal with this beautiful Viking. She had a way of flushing when riled, and the lush curves lurking beneath her bright yellow linen dress caused his cock to respond in a manner he had never experienced with Fiona.

How strange. And how utterly fucking delightful.

"You cannot know how long it will take to construct the granary. That is an empty promise, Celt. You lie, as do all of your sort. I do not bargain with cheats and frauds. You will obey, and you will do so now."

"Is that it?" Taranc chose to disregard her slurs on his character though they did not pass unnoticed. He gestured to the foundations of a circular structure located some thirty paces from where they now stood. The stonework had reached a height of perhaps three or four courses. "Is that your granary? Or at least the start of it?"

"Aye. That is it," confirmed the Norsewoman.

"Where is the stone to be brought from?"

"The beach." She tilted her chin in the direction of the coast.

"Less than a mile away. It would take the ten of us no more than a month to carry sufficient stone up here, then a further two weeks to complete the building. Your granary will be ready in six weeks, lady. Less, if your Vikings help with the labour, or if you use timber for the higher structure, which could be cut from yonder forest."

Her brow furrowed. "How do you know all this?"

"You think we never build anything in our own land? This is no different. Six weeks. You have my word on it. Now, do I have yours?"

"What?" She peered at him in confusion.

"The food, and the straw. And a day to rest."

She opened her mouth to reply, and Taranc had little doubt what her response would be. This haughty Viking was unused to negotiating with those she considered beneath her and was about to reject his suggestions. He groaned inwardly. This would prove awkward…

The clatter of cart wheels on the rutted track caught the blonde Norsewoman's attention. "Ah, more firewood. You should have sufficient now. You will help Otto to unload the cart."

Taranc and three more Celts dealt with stacking the logs alongside the first lot, while Otto released the horse from between the shafts of the cart. This was a larger wagon than the first so the horse was accordingly bigger and somewhat frisky. The driver muttered something to the Norsewoman, who replied in the Nordic tongue. They both seemed intent upon examining the animal's rear hoof and spoke quietly together.

Taranc listened, frustrated that he could not understand their conversation. This placed him at a disadvantage, which he would not countenance. He resolved to make it his business to learn their language as quickly as he might accomplish that feat. He was a fast learner when it suited him.

The cart driver manoeuvred the horse back between the shafts and leaned in to secure the leather straps as the Norsewoman turned to leave. She cast one last glance at Taranc.

"I expect to see you start work within the hour."

He shook his head and watched, arms folded in front of his muscled chest, as she made her way back across the meadow. Despite her ridiculous intransigence, he could not help but admire the gentle sway of her hips as she walked.

A screech from the excitable horse brought him spinning about in time to see the animal rear up between the shafts then lurch forward. The leather strap attached to the halter snapped and at once the beast was free. It sprang forward, demolishing the flimsy cart shafts in a volley of flailing hooves as the driver leapt to grab in vain for the dangling reins.

"What the—?" Taranc also made a lunge for the trailing straps but was too far away. The horse reared up on its hind legs then dropped back onto all fours. He stamped, pawed the earth for a few moments, then took off across the meadow at a headlong gallop.

"Lady Brynhild, look out!" The driver yelled his useless warning as the Norsewoman stood transfixed. The crazed horse bore down on her, hooves thundering across the springy grasses as he tore up the distance that separated them.

Taranc did not pause to think. He had but a few yards' advantage over the bolting animal but he used them to best advantage. He sprinted as hard as he was able for the Viking woman and reached her perhaps half a beat before the frenzied horse. He lunged for her and bore her to the ground. The pair of them rolled together through the heather as the horse's murderous hooves missed them by fractions of an inch.

Only when he heard the pounding of the hoof beats disappearing into the distance did Taranc lift his head. The woman—Lady Brynhild—lay motionless beneath him. Her eyes were open but unfocused, staring at a point beyond his right shoulder. Her hair had become loosened from the neat plait and covered half her face. Unthinking, Taranc swept the pale locks aside with his fingertips.

"Are you injured, lady?"

She did not answer.

"Lady? Are you hurt? Did the horse catch you?" Taranc did not think so. He had been on top as they fell so would have taken any blow from the flying hooves. For reasons he could not quite fathom he believed himself miraculously intact.

Still no response. Taranc eased his weight from the slender yet curvy body beneath him and leaned up on one elbow. He cupped the delicately pointed chin in his palm and turned her face toward him, forcing her to meet his eyes. And he saw it.

Terror. Pure, mind-numbing, abject terror. The woman in his arms was rigid with fear.

"It is safe now, lady. Brynhild?" That was the name yelled by the driver, was it not? Taranc attempted a reassuring smile. "The horse will be back in his stable by now. I believe we may risk getting to our feet without fear of being trampled to death."

She lay still for several moments more, then something shifted in her deep blue gaze. Her eyes darkened, she drew in a ragged breath, and where moments before she had been motionless, she burst into a hysterical frenzy of writhing and clawing. She fought him like a woman possessed and it was then that Taranc realised she did not fear the horse.

Her terror was of him and she was fighting for her life .

He rolled from her at once and leapt to his feet. She scrambled away from him on her bottom, ignoring the hand he offered to help her up. "Let go of me. How dare you touch me. You have no right, no—"

"Lady, I meant no offence. The horse—"

"You are not to touch me. I shall have you flogged. I shall… I shall…" She staggered to her feet and turned her back on him, hugging her arms tight across her middle. She bent at the waist, and for a moment Taranc thought she might be about to be sick but she settled for several long, heaving breaths. At last, her senses gathered, she straightened and turned to face him again. "A thrall may not lay hands upon a woman of the Jarl. It is a crime punishable by death. You will do well to remember that, Celt."

He shook his head in exasperation. "Standing in front of a bolting horse tends to yield a similar result. I suggest you bear that in mind, lady."

This woman might be lovely to look upon, but she was every bit as deluded as the ridiculous little slave master who now approached, his whip at the ready. Taranc executed an exaggerated bow to Lady Brynhild, ignored the pompous karl, and turned to stride back to where his countrymen had watched the bizarre exchange with open mouths.

"Have we any kindling yet? We have a fire to start, chickens to slaughter." His voice was harsher than usual. "And we have a granary to build. We start at first light. Tomorrow."

Neither Brynhild nor Dagr contradicted him. Taranc stalked into the empty slave barn and snarled.

Bloody Vikings! They were mad as a pail full of frogs, the whole fucking lot of them.