Chapter Five

"Does your father know that you are here?"

Taranc leaned against the outer wall of the slave barn and managed not to laugh out loud at the guilty expression on the small boy's face as the lad emerged from the wholly inadequate cover of the undergrowth. He had watched the boy for the last few minutes. The Viking child, Njal, he had learnt, and son of Ulfric Freysson, was regularly given to creeping around the edges of the thrall quarters and observing the activities of the slaves. The child appeared fascinated and terrified all at once, and Taranc would not have minded betting that the latter response owed at least something to the aunt who had the day-to-day care of the boy. She had made her revulsion perfectly clear and would have no doubt conveyed it to the child.

Taranc repeated his question, but the boy just stared at him, uncomprehending. Taranc switched to a halting Norse and tried again. This time the lad frowned, obviously catching at least some of his meaning.

"You can speak my tongue?" The boy could not have looked more impressed had the god Thor materialised before him, silver hammer in hand.

"A little," conceded Taranc. "I have been practising. "

"My father speaks the language of the Celts. So does my aunt, and now Fiona who lives in our longhouse. Will you teach it to me?"

"Your father could teach you."

"He is busy. And he is a Viking. I am, too and we speak the Norse tongue. My aunt says I have no need of other languages."

"Perhaps she is right."

"Will you teach me?" pleaded the small boy as he hopped from one foot to the other. "I will teach you a word, and you will give me one. We shall swap our words."

A reasonable enough bargain, conceded Taranc to himself. "Very well. My name is Taranc. Who are you?"

"I am Njal. Son of Ulfric Freysson. You know who I am. You asked about my father."

Sharp boy . "Yes. I did. Now, in my language…" Taranc repeated his introduction in Gaelic.

Njal beamed and attempted to repeat the words. Taranc coached him and soon the boy managed a decent enough rendition. It would have been pleasant to continue the lesson, but Taranc had a granary to build.

"I must get back to work. Thank you for your company, Njal."

"But I have not given you a word yet."

"Perhaps next time you are here."

"My aunt says I am not to come to the slave quarters. She says you are dangerous, but that you do not have blue tongues. She is not sure if you can see in the dark."

"Your aunt is correct."

"About your tongue?"

"About everything. And we see well enough in the dark, I daresay. Now…" Taranc rose from the tree stump he had been sitting on.

"You will not tell them I was here, will you? I promised, you see…"

"A promise is important. You should keep your word."

"I know. But I wanted to speak to you. "

"We will speak again, that is my promise to you, Njal, son of Ulfric. For now, you should return to your longhouse so that your aunt need not worry over you."

* * *

Several weeks had passed since their arrival at Skarthveit and Taranc had adjusted to the life of a thrall as much as he was prepared to. For now. The work was hard, but not overly so since he had managed to convince the Viking Jarl that a better method of organising the task might be had. As a result, the granary was nearing completion ahead of schedule and they were already turning their attention to the harbour. Ulfric had declared himself well pleased since he had not intended to commence that project until the spring. Dagr had not been relieved of his duties but his violent tendencies were much curbed these days so Taranc had to assume his chief had warned him of the consequences if any more slaves were lost due to needless ill treatment.

Selwyn still shared the slave quarters but his labours were restricted to looking after the sheep on the neighbouring hillsides. It suited him well, apparently, since he had been a shepherd in his native Ireland. He had not lost his foot, but did hobble around with a pronounced limp using a crutch that Fiona had given him. Taranc recalled that she had injured her ankle on the forced march to reach Skarthveit so assumed the crutch had been provided for her use originally by her Viking protector.

Ulfric baffled him. The man was a thief, a murderer, a killer who lived by violence and thought nothing of slaying those who stood between him and what he wanted. Yet he had spared Fiona's life and from what Taranc had observed since, the Viking had treated her well. There had been no occasion to speak with Fiona herself, but the female thralls came and went freely between the village and the slave barns and he had ample opportunity to ask them how she fared. He learnt that Ulfric protected her, that she shared his bed and his home, and appeared happy with him.

This was borne out by his own observations on the rare occasions he went into the village. On one such visit he was at the forge when Fiona sauntered past outside. She did not see him. Her attention was focused on the Viking chief who she had spotted across the way. Taranc watched as she trotted up behind her Viking and poked him in the middle of the back then made to run away. Ulfric caught her within three paces and lifted her, squealing, in his arms. Still laughing, Fiona flung her arms about his neck and kissed him on the mouth as he lowered her back to the ground. The kiss deepened as Taranc watched, then Ulfric lifted his head and whispered something in her ear. She smiled and took his hand as he led her back to their longhouse.

Yes, matters looked to be fine between his once betrothed and her Viking captor, and Taranc was glad of it. He did need to speak with her, of course, to be certain, but he was coming around to the belief that he might safely leave her here when he made his escape.

It had been his intention from the outset that his captivity would be a short-lived affair. Had he chosen to do so he could have eluded the Viking guards and left Skarthveit at more or less any time. These arrogant Norsemen were complacent, believing that their superior might and brawn rendered them invincible, that their swords were all the surety they required. They were fools, but they were dangerous too and would seek to hunt him down were he to run. He would need to pick his moment with wisdom, and plan his return to his homeland. The matter of procuring a ship was the most challenging obstacle, but he would find a way.

Brynhild Freysson continued to perplex and baffle him. The woman was lovely, to be sure, and the mere sight of her as she moved with both grace and purpose about the settlement never failed to stir his rampant cock in a manner he found both disconcerting and utterly delicious. He allowed himself to savour the fantasy of sinking his hard length into her warm, welcoming cunt, though he knew better than to imagine that might become reality. She made her distaste for him, and for all Celts, painfully obvious. Taranc might lust after the Viking noblewoman, he was a male and drew breath so how could he not? But he did not like her, and he had never yet fucked a woman he disliked.

He spoke often with Njal as the boy sought him out on a regular basis. The lad was an avid pupil and constantly pestered Taranc to teach him more Gaelic words. Their conversations ranged from exchanging opinions on the relative merits of carrots or turnips to who was the most skilled at the game of kingy bats. Njal showed Taranc how to pass the ball made of tied rags from one round bat to another, and they spent much convivial time thus occupied. In return Taranc taught Njal to play skittles, a game he had much enjoyed as a small boy in Aikrig.

"My father plays a game called hnefatafl . It is complicated, with many pieces which must be moved about on a board." The boy crinkled his nose in disgust. "Running about is not allowed whilst playing, however, so I do not care for it."

Taranc shrugged. "Perhaps it is similar to chess, which is a fine game and one you must learn should you ever master the art of remaining still for long enough."

Njal was clearly not convinced. "Are you permitted to come to the river this evening? There are fine salmon to be had there, and trout. I will show you. It is best to fish at night…"

The day's labours were over so Taranc saw no serious objection, though Dagr always insisted upon locking the thralls in the slave barn as evening fell. Taranc and the other thralls were compliant enough since they found little difficulty in slipping the lock and letting themselves out as they pleased.

"I shall see you there later," he promised.

The night was cool. Summer had more or less given way to the onset of autumn, and Taranc shivered as he made his way to the river. He had yet to experience a Nordic winter and did not relish the prospect. His homeland offered a harsh enough climate, but these frozen lands to the north would be far less hospitable. He hoped to be gone soon.

Njal was already at the river bank, his short fishing pole secured at an angle so the line dangled in the water. He leapt to his feet when he saw Taranc's approach, no doubt scattering any trout curious enough to have seen fit to investigate the wriggling worm impaled on the sharp hook at the end.

"You came!"

"Did I not say that I would? How has the fishing been so far?"

The lad knelt to peer into the fast-flowing water. "Nothing so far. This is the best spot, though. I caught a huge pike here in the spring."

"We shall try our luck, then. First, I must fashion a fine pole like yours." Taranc had selected a decent length of willow on his way down to the river and now sat on the bank to whittle away the sharp twigs protruding from the edges. "Do you have spare line I might borrow, if you please?"

"Aye, I brought some. Here. And spare hooks." The boy tugged free a sack which he had suspended from the belt at his waist, the bag almost dangling to the ground. He shoved it at Taranc. "Take what you need. I shall find you some worms."

"Thank you." Taranc proceeded to attach the line and tied a hook to the end, then waited for the boy to return with bait. Soon the pair were gazing contentedly upon their bobbing lines though Taranc doubted the creatures of the deep would venture their way unless Njal could manage to restrain his high-pitched chatter. That seemed unlikely so he resigned himself to a pleasant if fish-free evening and settled onto his back to stare up into the inky blackness peppered by a thousand glittering stars.

Did the same brilliant display sparkle in the skies over Scotland? Had the season changed there also or did the summer still bathe their land in her warm glow?

"I have one. Look! Look, I have a fish!" Njal leapt up and hopped from one foot to the other pointing at his rod. The pole had almost jerked free of the ground where Njal had jammed one end, and Taranc grabbed for it before the entire paraphernalia disappeared into the river. He sat up and beckoned the boy to his side.

"We must reel it in. Take care, now. You do not wish to lose your supper."

Njal took the rod from Taranc and, face contorted in blissful concentration, he started to wind the line around the pole. Soon the splashing on the surface of the river showed them the location of the trapped fish. It looked to Taranc as though Njal had taken a sizable trout and he tilted his chin in acknowledgement of the feat.

"You do indeed appear to have the touch, my young friend. Let us hope I can do as well. We would welcome a nice fillet of plump trout to augment our rations in the slave barn this night."

"You may have this one," offered Njal as he landed the squirming fish and knelt to extract his hook from the upper lip of the gasping mouth. The trout gleamed silver in the moonlight, his bright scales catching the thin glimmers of light as the creature waggled and twitched on the bank, then lay still.

"No, that one is yours. The next is mine."

Njal merely grinned as he reloaded his hook with fresh bait and tossed the line back into the water.

The boy caught a smaller trout next, then a decent salmon. Taranc's admiration was not feigned. This lad would never want for a decent meal. He, on the other hand…

"What are you doing here?" The strident tone brought them both whirling to their feet. Brynhild stood a few feet away, her fine blue cloak billowing in the crisp breeze. She gathered it to her, clutching the soft wool to her chest. Her head was bare, her magnificent pale blonde hair lifting in the wind. She was furious, her eyes a deep and brilliant blue as she glowered first at Taranc then at her nephew.

Njal shuffled, awkward at first then opted to attempt to mitigate his transgression by gesturing to his impressive catch.

"We are fishing, aunt. Is it not a fine night for it? My father allows me to come here in the evening, as long as I do not stay too late. It is early still, and look, we have caught trout, salmon—"

"You will be fortunate not to catch the flat of my palm across your disobedient little backside, young man. Did I not expressly tell you to stay well away from the thralls?" She paused to eye Taranc with undisguised distaste. "In particular, Celts."

"Taranc is my friend."

The lad was nothing if not loyal, especially in the face of his aunt's mounting anger. Still, Taranc could not allow him to make matters worse for himself if that might be avoided.

"It is getting late, perhaps. And you have thoroughly humiliated me with your fishing prowess. I know when I am well beaten so let us call it a night for now."

"But—"

"Your aunt is right, you should be heading for your home now, and your bed. I shall do likewise, and I will see you soon."

"Oh, no, you shall not see my nephew soon. I forbid it. I—" Brynhild stepped forward to take the boy by the arm and started to tug him away from the river bank. "And you." She turned to glare at Taranc over her shoulder. "You shall be flogged for being outside after dark. I shall tell Dagr, and—"

Njal wriggled free and planted himself in front of her, his small body quivering with indignant yet impotent rage. "You shall not have him flogged. You shall not! He is my friend, I told you. My father will not allow it, and—"

"Go home. Now." Brynhild's tone was low and uncompromising. "I shall deal with you when I get there. "

"But—"

Taranc interrupted his further protests. "It is all right, lad. Do not worry about me. Go straight home, now, as your aunt has told you. I shall see to your rod, your bag of tackle, and your fish. You may collect them from the slave barn whenever you like."

"I already told you, you and the other thralls may have the fish."

"That is most generous, Njal. I thank you on behalf of all. Now, I must bid you good night."

The lad hesitated a further few seconds, then ventured a glance into his aunt's stern features. Whatever he saw there was sufficient to convince him of the wisdom of leaving without further ado. He turned and sprinted away across the springy meadow grass.

Taranc watched him out of sight, then bowed politely to Brynhild. "Lady," he murmured as he bent to wind Njal's line around his pole.

He expected Brynhild to stalk off after her nephew, but she did not. Instead, she remained where she stood, her eyes narrowed in a malevolent glare that remained fixed upon him as he busied himself clearing up his own fishing rod. That task accomplished, he attached each of the three landed fish to hooks from Njal's bag in readiness to hang them from his own belt for the journey back to the slave barn. All set to leave himself, he made to pass the still fuming Norsewoman.

"You will excuse me," he murmured.

"Why?"

He glanced at her, surprised. "Because I am leaving."

"I mean, why are you spending time with my nephew? What do you plan to do?"

"Plan? Nothing." Well, nothing that concerns the boy, at least . "He is lonely, and curious. There is no harm in him. And I mean him no ill."

"I do not believe you."

Taranc's slender patience frayed. "And I do not care what you believe. Good night."

She moved fast, he would allow her that much. He barely even saw the slender hand that snaked from within the confines of her cloak to land a resounding slap across his cheek, and certainly he had no opportunity to dodge that first blow. Not so the second. As she drew back her hand to strike him again, he grabbed her wrist and squeezed, only relaxing his grip marginally when she let out a startled squeal.

"I shall let the first slap go, since you are a woman and no doubt consider yourself provoked. But you shall not raise your hand to me again, lady, lest you wish to find yourself upended across my lap and spanked. Do I make myself clear on this?"

"How dare you? Let go of me! I shall—"

"Do I make myself clear?" His grip remained firm despite her frantic tugging to be free.

At last, with no other choice if she was to be released, Brynhild gave a sharp nod. "Very well, I shall not slap you."

"Excellent decision. And I shall not spank you. This time. Instead…"

He bent his head, lowered his face to hers. Taranc took in the startled expression, the widening of her kingfisher-blue eyes as his mouth descended to brush across hers. Despite his words of just moments ago he was without doubt inviting another slap and the Viking woman could hardly be blamed for delivering it.

Her mouth was soft under his, her breath warm in the cool evening. She parted her lips as though unable to prevent her artless response and his tongue found the seam of her mouth. She opened fractionally more, and it was enough. He slipped his tongue between her lips and caressed the inner surface of her teeth with the tip.

Her hands were on his shoulders, and she clung to him, her fingers curling into his rough tunic. The sane part of his mind expected a protest, expected her to shove him away, to screech her outrage, to summon her guards, but the madness that drove him now ignored all of that.

What am I doing? I don't even like this haughty, cruel woman.

His cock disagreed. His rampant erection liked her perfectly well and tented his pants in instant recognition of the Norsewoman's ample charms. He deepened the kiss, tunnelling his fingers through her blonde locks to hold her head still. Brynhild let out a soft moan, followed by a gasp. Now, at last and somewhat belatedly, she stiffened in his arms and sought to be free.

Fuck!

Taranc broke the kiss and released her, his own breath less than steady. Brynhild backed away, her stunned expression one he found he did not entirely care for.

"You… you should not have done that."

Probably not.

"Why…? I do not understand…"

Neither did he.

"Go! Go back to the slave barn. Now!"

A decent plan, at last.

Taranc stepped back to execute an exaggerated bow. "Sleep well, Lady Brynhild."

* * *

Taranc was not in the least surprised when, a half hour or so later, Dagr burst into the slave barn, Brynhild at his heels. The slave master had his whip at the ready and stomped across the bare earth floor to where Taranc crouched beside the fire pit. He had a juicy fillet of trout impaled upon a stick and was holding it above the blaze to cook. It appeared his meal was to be disturbed. The other slaves stared in stunned amazement but Taranc merely sighed as he turned to face the irate karl and the Viking female.

"You were out. By the river, and you threatened the Jarl's own son. You know the punishment for this." Spittle sprayed from Dagr's lips as he enunciated the charges. " Twenty lashes. You, and you…" He gestured to several of the thralls who hovered closest. "Seize him and hold him fast."

No one moved to oblige the slave master in his quest. Taranc smiled. "It appears you must manage unaided, karl. I wish you joy of that." He had no idea what had possessed Dagr to charge up to the slave barn accompanied by no one but Brynhild, but it seemed the man had been stupid enough to do just that. Taranc had not the slightest intention of cooperating with the promised whipping, so he doubted it would happen. At least, not yet. Dagr was malicious, Brynhild seemingly even more so. They would not forget.

Dagr stepped forward, his pugnacious chin jutting at Taranc. He trailed the whip along the floor, then flicked it in the air with a loud crack. "You think that I will not, thrall? You think to defy me, to make a fool of me? You will learn, Celtic cur. You will learn who is master here."

"I was under the impression that I am master here."

Dagr spun to face Ulfric as the Jarl entered the barn, Njal panting at his rear. The Viking chief paused to take in the scene, then turned to his sister. "Perhaps you will be so good as to explain to me what this is about, Brynhild. A fishing expedition, I gather…"

"I caught this man, this Celt , with your son by the river. Anything might have happened…"

"And what did happen?" Ulfric's voice remained low and even, though his irritation was apparent.

Brynhild stamped her foot. "I do not know. I arrived, and—"

"Njal? What did happen?"

"We caught three fish, Father. Two trout and a salmon."

"Ah, yes. These would be the fish, I imagine. Or what remains of them." The thralls had made short work of filleting and cooking the welcome fare and nothing but the heads were left to bear witness to Njal's largesse. Those would find their way into the next day's broth. "I trust you all enjoyed your meal. "

"Aye, Jarl," confirmed Taranc. "It was most flavoursome. We must thank you, Njal. Again."

Ulfric folded his arms across his chest and leaned against one of the upright beams that supported the roof of the barn. "And how, I wonder, did you come to be fishing at the river with my son when you should have been securely locked within these walls? Do you care to explain that to me, Celt?"

Taranc shrugged. "The locks are flimsy."

"Evidently." Ulfric shifted his regard to Dagr. "I find myself sorely disappointed in your management of my thralls, and not for the first time of late. Flimsy locks, indeed. You must do better than this, Dagr, or I shall find you alternative work to which you may be better suited. Perhaps you might prefer to herd sheep since they do not require much in the way of locks, or maybe you should work in the fields."

"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 an expression 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. Dagr had 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.