Chapter Six

The granary was complete and all the thralls were now working on the foundations for the harbour. The labour was harsh and cold, involving the hauling of huge boulders across the beach and depositing them in the icy waters of the fjord to eventually create a barrier that would offer protection for the Jarl's dragon ships, as well as a shallow place upon which to ground the vessels over the winter. Viking dragon ships were constructed with flat hulls, designed to be hauled up onto a beach and to be agile in shallow water. They were safer moored out of the water, and Ulfric had declared it his intention to construct boathouses for their even greater protection in future years.

Taranc had no intention whatsoever of contributing to that project. He would be long gone.

For now, though, he toiled alongside his comrades as they dragged the huge rocks into place. As usual, Njal strutted up and down the cliff path where they worked, offering his lively commentary to proceedings. The boy never stopped asking questions, and Taranc was not the only man who was happy enough to pause and answer.

"How deep is the water here?" demanded Njal. "Is it higher than I am?" He reached his arm high above his head to indicate his full height.

"Aye, and plenty besides," confirmed Taranc. He would estimate the depth to be at least seven feet of churning water, and they needed to reduce that by half to enable the dragon ships to land there.

Soon it would be too dangerous to continue the work, once the weather turned really cold and stormy and the shoreline was lashed day after day by frigid, numbing waves. They would be forced to abandon the project for the winter. He wondered what labour would be found for the thralls then, to pass the long, dark months until spring.

Taranc did not see the small body slither across the slippery rocks and into the swirling, foaming waves, but he heard the splash and the harsh shout of warning from someone behind him. He swirled, almost lost his own footing, but could not see who had fallen in.

"There! There…" A thrall named Macklyn pointed to a spot perhaps five or six feet from the rocks. "He is there, see?"

Taranc groaned when he recognised the bright red of the lad's tunic. He turned to the closest Viking. "Can he swim? Can he?"

The man shook his head. Another Norse guard was already dragging off his cloak and Taranc expected the man to dive in and haul the boy from the water. Instead the guard knelt on the rocks and cast the cloak out over the waves, yelling to the boy to grab hold.

Njal sank beneath the surface, disappearing from their view. He could no more grab the cloak than he could take to the air and fly back to the safety of the shore.

Taranc watched in disbelief. Why did no one act? There was but one way…

Fuck! Taranc pulled his heavy woollen tunic from his shoulders and flung it aside, then kicked off his shoes. A strong swimmer, he had no doubt he would be able to pluck the lad from his watery grave, provided he could reach him before he was swept out to sea. With no more ado he dived into the frothing waves.

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, disoriented. 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 invited Taranc 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 that 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 that 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. Or more distant. He leaned his elbows on the top of the fence that 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.

Would have been, had either of them truly wanted it. Taranc saw now what he had not properly recognised before. They had grown up together, friends from childhood, promised to one another more or less from the cradle. He loved this woman, loved her dearly, but as his sister not his bride. Had the Vikings not come, perhaps they would have married, eventually. They would have exhausted all their excuses and done their best to make a success of their union. They would have managed it, too, because they liked each other and they cared. But there would have been no passion, no fire or spark. Fiona would never have run across his village to poke him in the back, then shyly followed him back to their cottage to make love.

It was time to move on.

"Tell me of your Viking. Is he kind to you?"

His question seemed to startle her. "I suppose—"

Taranc chuckled. "Other than in his bed. Are you happy living in his household?"

Fiona nodded and wrapped her arms about her legs. She rested her chin on her knees as she answered. "Ulfric is kind but his sister hates me and I avoid her at all costs. She is not allowed to beat me, but she will do all in her power to convince Ulfric to do so."

He was not surprised to hear this. The tales of Brynhild's hostility had carried as far as the slave barn, and he had seen enough of it himself to know what the Viking woman was like. It bothered him that she could manage to harm Fiona, if only vicariously.

"And does he? Beat you?"

"Once or twice, with a switch. It was… not so bad and after, he… he…"

"You find pleasure with him, sweetheart? Is that what you are trying to tell me? "

"I could not help it. He is very… compelling."

Taranc laughed out loud at this. He was genuinely glad for her, and knowing that she found pleasure in her Viking's bed relieved the lingering guilt he might feel at contemplating leaving her here. As though she discerned the way his thoughts were turning, she leaned her head on his shoulder.

"When you escape from here, and I know you will, I want you to take me with you. I want to go home."

As did Taranc, but it was not so simple. "If we were to escape, we would be stranded here, in this frozen wilderness unless we could procure a ship of some sort. We must bide our time, Fiona. A chance will come, and we will take it."

"No, we should—"

"Things change, always. Events we do not control. You are safe here for now."

"I want to be free. Do you not long for the same thing?"

"I am free, though for now I choose to remain here. Your Viking brought us to this place against our will, so I see no reason not to enjoy his hospitality for a while longer. He feeds us well, clothes us, provides decent shelter."

"He is not my Viking."

"No? I believe he is, or could be, but that is for you to judge."

Fiona might have argued further, but at that moment Ulfric appeared from around the tree where they had sought refuge. Taranc knew without needing to ask that the Jarl had been listening to their conversation, to their talk of escape. He hoped Fiona would not bear the brunt of the Viking's anger, but he suspected not. Ulfric appeared more thoughtful than vexed, and fiercely possessive, which amused Taranc more than a little.

"I shall escort my thrall back to her place in my bed," announced the Norseman, his mouth set as though to brook no challenge.

Taranc rose to his feet and tugged Fiona up with him. "Treat her well," he said, his voice low .

Ulfric narrowed his eyes and muttered something about returning to the slave barn, but Taranc was already on his way, ambling casually away from the pair who remained under the tree. Ulfric called belated thanks, for his actions in saving Njal. Taranc raised his arm in silent acknowledgement and did not look back.