Chapter Eight

"My apologies, Viking, for I fear I misheard you." Taranc turned his head to regard the Jarl at his side. Ulfric's profile was stark against the inky blackness of the night, illuminated only by thin slivers of moonlight that penetrated the lowering cloud.

The Viking did not move, simply continued to stare ahead into the darkness. When he spoke, his tone was harsh. "You did not mishear, but I shall repeat it anyway. I will help you to regain your freedom, on condition that when you leave here, you take Brynhild with you."

Taranc could only gape at the other man. He had not known what to expect when the Viking had come to the slave barn in the dead of night, woken Taranc, and bade him come outside to talk, but it was not this. Nothing remotely like this.

"You are asking me to abduct your sister? Why? Why would you even dream of such a horrendous act?" The whole thing was beyond Taranc's comprehension. Even for a Viking such an act was unthinkable, surely.

Ulfric drew his hand across his brow and for the first time Taranc noted how weary the other man appeared, and how careworn. He turned to regard Taranc. "Fiona told you of the enmity between them?"

"Between your sister and Fiona? Yes, but—"

"Tonight, Brynhild tried to murder Fiona. It was only by sheer good fortune that I arrived home in time to prevent it. She survived, but next time, we may not be so lucky."

Taranc was stunned. "Sweet Lord. What happened?"

"I was away from Skarthveit, not expected back for two nights. Brynhild had Fiona locked into the stocks and would have left her outside the entire night had I not returned earlier than I had intended. Fiona would have frozen to death, very nearly did."

"Are you quite certain? Perhaps there was some mistake, some misunderstanding…?" Even as he uttered the words Taranc harboured no real doubt that Ulfric had the right of it. The Viking was not given to hasty conclusions.

Ulfric shook his head. "I know what I saw, and I have heard Fiona's telling of it. Of course Brynhild denies intending any real harm, but I no longer trust her word. I have to do something, and this seems like the right solution. I can trust you to take care of my sister."

Could he? Taranc was not so sure. Rage boiled within him at the injury almost done to the woman he cared about. And if Ulfric had the right of it, this cast an entirely different light on his decision to leave Fiona here with her Nordic captor when he made his own escape. He could not abandon her to the ruthless mercy of Brynhild Freysson.

His tone was bitter as he responded. "After what I have heard, I do not believe I even like your sister let alone wish to spend any time in her company."

Ulfric was not to be deterred. "Brynhild cannot continue as she is. She is tearing herself apart." The Viking turned his haggard gaze upon Taranc. "Despite her vicious words and deeds, I know that at heart my sister is deeply unhappy, and very lonely. She blames the Celts for all that is amiss in her life, and has lost any sense of perspective she might have once possessed. She needs to be forced to think again, and I need to act before this ends in tragedy. One of them must leave, and I will not let it be Fiona. So, will you do this? For Fiona, if not for me?"

Taranc leaned forward to study the grass beneath his feet. He could not see how this might end well. It was all too… complicated.

"Your sister will despise you for betraying her. She will hate me."

Ulfric nodded. "At first, perhaps. But you must understand that I do not wish her harm and I will require you to offer her your protection, whatever happens."

"She will not come quietly. I would have to subdue her." Even as he uttered the words Taranc could not quite believe that he was contemplating this. Was he actually going to agree to this mad scheme?

"You will do what is necessary to ensure her compliance, but you will not injure her. I must have your word on this."

"You would trust my word? The promise of a Celt? A slave?"

"I once offered you my word and told you that you may rely upon it. I did not let you down, and I know that you will not let me down. So, do we have an agreement?"

Taranc met Ulfric's gaze, considering the options that faced him. He made up his mind. "Very well, Viking. For the sake of Fiona's safety, I will do this thing." He offered his hand and Ulfric took it.

The Viking got to his feet. "I shall do all in my power to aid you. You will require a horse, and provisions. Warm clothing, and a ship to take you back to Scotland. I assume that is where you will go?"

Taranc shrugged, though in truth there was nowhere else he might consider. Aikrig was his home, and now he had the means, probably, to return there. However, if he was to do this, it would be on his terms.

"Where I go once I leave here is my concern."

"But—"

Taranc put up a hand. " My concern, Viking. I will take your sister with me, but I will decide when, and where we go."

Slowly Ulfric bowed his head, and Taranc had the grace to pity the man. This was tearing the Viking apart. "Very well, and thank you. Now, let us return to our beds before either of us is missed. I shall tell you on the way back just how I plan to aid you in this endeavour."

* * *

Two nights later Taranc lay on his straw pallet staring into the dark. The soft snores of the other thralls surrounded him like a warm, familiar blanket. This was the last time he would lie here, listening to the sounds of a Nordic night in the thrall barn. He had eaten his final supper cooked over the slaves' fire pit, hauled his last rock across the beach at Skarthveit. It was to be tonight, he had determined.

He had not spoken again with Ulfric, but had no doubt that the Jarl would make good on all his promises. Supplies would be stowed in the place they had agreed upon, a mount would be waiting, hooves suitably muffled to reduce the risk of discovery. They had agreed that he would make his way with all haste to Hafrsfjord where a fishing vessel, the master well paid by Ulfric, awaited to convey him and his Viking captive over the sea. The plan was not without risk, but it could work.

It would work. It had to. Only Lady Brynhild stood between him and his freedom. She would need to be managed with care and ruthless efficiency. Taranc could lay claim to both. He would not fail.

He rose from his pallet in silence and made his way to the door. A deft flick of the hinge lifted the heavy wood from the door surround and Taranc was able to slip through the gap between the door and the wall. He paused to replace the hinge in its socket. There was no point in advertising to Dagr how his departure had been effected. Then he crouched low to sprint across the meadow in the direction of the village.

* * *

"You should go to bed now, Hilla. It is late."

"Aye, lady, but I have not yet secured the poultry. There is a fox about, and—"

Brynhild smiled at the lass. "You have been working since first light. Go get some sleep and I shall see to the chickens when I check on the rest of our livestock."

Locking up their animals at night had been Harald's job but it now fell to Brynhild, one of her many duties in her brother's longhouse. She did not mind; it was best to be busy, to be needed.

Her glance strayed to Njal, already fast asleep in his little bed by the fire pit. The small boy kept her busier than the rest of her responsibilities combined but she had no complaints. She was just relieved that he was well again, and showed no lingering ill effects from his indisposition of a few days previously.

A low chuckle reached her from behind the curtain that separated Ulfric's chamber. It was followed by a breathy sigh, then a little squeal. She gritted her teeth. She had resolved not to rise to the bait, but it was not easy. She might manage to curtail her dislike of her brother's bed-thrall, indeed, she was determined to do so since she had no option but to accept that the Celt was here to stay, but she would never warm to the wench.

Brynhild set aside the hank of wool she had been combing and reached for her cloak. The night was chilly; the sooner she could ensure that all was secure and their animals settled for the night, the better. She hugged the thick woollen garment to her chest and stepped outside.

The chickens were as stupidly uncooperative as usual but Brynhild managed to usher them into the small crate that offered them protection during the hours of darkness and dropped the lid. That accomplished, she made her way to the pen where their three goats and two kids bleated softly at her approach. Until yesterday there had been four fine goats, but one was owed to Freya and Brynhild knew better than to renege on such a deal. She checked that the gate was fastened securely and paused to lean on the low fencing to admire the young animals. She was proud of her goats, and the fine milk they provided, not to mention the good eating her family would enjoy in a few months' time.

Now for the heifer—

She never heard the approach of her assailant. Brynhild was stunned momentarily when a hand snaked across her mouth and she was seized from behind. The man was strong, lifted her easily from her feet to swing her away from the longhouse. Brynhild was not a slight woman, and after the initial shock she fought like one possessed. Her attacker was powerful, and within moments he had rammed a rag into her mouth and secured it with another tied around her face. Then he dragged a sack of some description over her head and Brynhild really started to panic. She could not breathe, was sure he meant to suffocate her.

Please, please… Ulfric… help me…

She pleaded silently as she fought to keep the waves of terror at bay. If she was to survive it would be because she remained calm, awaited her chance.

It was Bjarkesson. It had to be, no one else would dare. The mad, deluded fool had taken it upon himself to abduct the sister of his enemy and he would pay dearly for it. Ulfric would never let this insult pass unavenged.

Her attacker spun her around and tied her wrists in front of her. He did not speak, just grabbed the binding that secured her hands and dragged her forward. Brynhild followed, stumbling blindly, trying to discern her location in the settlement by the feel of the ground underfoot.

Soon the hard-packed earth gave way to the crack and crinkle of undergrowth and she knew they had left the security of the cluster of longhouses. They were entering the woods that surrounded the village and still her abductor tugged her onward, forcing her to break into a run to keep up with him. More than once she tripped on a root or branch, but he just hauled her upright again and forced her on.

Her side burned. She was gasping, struggling to breathe behind the gag and the sacking that covered her head. As their pace slowed she began to succumb to the mind-numbing panic that now threatened to overwhelm her. It was as though the years fell away and she was fourteen again, young, helpless, hopelessly out of her depth and at the mercy of a man who meant her harm.

Her captor came to a halt and Brynhild stopped too. She sank to her knees, shaking. She would not beg, she would not plead.

Or would she? She was a survivor, she would do what she must.

His hands were on her shoulders now and he gripped the bag that covered her head. The sacking was drawn up and over her hair and at last she felt the welcome chill of the night air on her skin. She tilted her head back and opened her eyes.

The forest-green gaze that met her was the last she expected to encounter. The thrall, Taranc, grinned at her, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. "Good evening, lady. I must apologise for the unseemly rush. I trust you are not too uncomfortable."

She recoiled, stunned.

How dare he? What was this dolt thinking, laying his filthy hands upon the person of a lady of the Jarl? Ulfric would have him hanged for such an offence.

His smile did not waver. "I will not harm you, but I must insist on your silence, at least for the time being, until we are well away from this place. Do not move from there." He had been balancing on his haunches looking directly into her face but now he stood and walked slowly around the clearing in which they had arrived. Brynhild scanned from left to right and recognised the spot, perhaps a couple of hundred yards from the closest dwelling. If she might just get to her feet she could run hard and maybe get back to the village before he caught her. If she could just get this gag from between her lips she would be able to scream loud enough to rouse Valhalla and by Odin she would do so. She pursued the Celt with her eyes as he paced the perimeter of the clearing, and watched in amazement when he crouched to reach under a spiky holly bush.

The thrall withdrew a large leather bag that he had obviously secreted there earlier. When had he had such an opportunity? She knew for a fact that all the slaves had been occupied down at the harbour the entire day. No matter, she would ponder such mysteries later, in less urgent circumstances.

Slowly, with care, Brynhild rose to her feet and started to back away from the Celt. He was busy checking the contents of his bag so his attention was not on her. This was her chance, and might well be the one opportunity she would have.

Brynhild turned and she ran.

Less than six paces later she was hauled from her feet and slung unceremoniously over the slave's shoulder. She kicked and wriggled, which efforts earned her a hard slap direct to her upturned rump.

"I told you to stay put. Try that again, and I shall take a switch to your pretty arse, lady."

Brynhild emitted a silent screech of outrage into the gag. How dare he manhandle and threaten her? She would see him dangling from a rope for this. She would see him whipped, and, and…

The wind was knocked out of her when Taranc deposited her back on the ground in exactly the same spot he had left her. Now he towered over her, his hands on his hips.

"Allow me to be plain since I wish there to be no misunderstanding between us. You are coming with me. You will be silent, and you will be cooperative. If you cause me no problems we shall get along quite well, but I will tolerate no disobedience from you. You have been warned. Further attempts to thwart me will result in you being punished, and a decent switching will be just the start of it. Do not test me on this, Brynhild. You will regret it."

Gagged as she was Brynhild could not reply, though she hoped her eyes would convey her outrage and give this ruffian pause. If he let her go, now, she promised herself, she might yet allow him to live.

He merely shook his head in amusement. "Ah, such temper. Still, I suppose I cannot blame you. Do you understand what I have said to you?"

She narrowed her eyes and glared at him.

"A nod will suffice. Do you understand the consequences should you cross me again, or disobey my instructions?"

Still she refused to grant him the satisfaction.

He cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her face up to meet his gaze. "If you require a demonstration of my power over you, I shall be delighted to oblige you. A few strokes of my belt should do the job."

He could not be serious. Even as she told herself this, he was unfastening the leather band about his waist. Horrified, Brynhild wriggled back and away from him. The thrall paused in his actions.

"A nod will suffice," he repeated.

Brynhild slowly bowed her head.

Taranc picked up the leather bag and peered inside again. He pulled out a cloak, which he slung across his shoulders. Brynhild blinked. Surely that was her brother's garment. Yes, she was certain of it for she had woven the fabric herself. How had this thrall managed to steal it from Ulfric?

Taranc hung the bag over his right arm and with his left he reached to aid Brynhild to her feet again. "Come."

His hand on her elbow was sufficient to propel her through the trees at his side. The night was cold and she was glad of the thick cloak she had thought to pull on before leaving the sanctuary of her brother's longhouse. How much further would they go? She may have a warm cloak, but her shoes were not the stout boots she would normally choose to hike through the forest.

After just a few minutes the thrall paused again. This time he stood, his head tilted to one side, listening. Suddenly his features broke in a wide grin and he released her elbow to stride into the trees. Despite his threats of a few minutes ago Brynhild contemplated making a run for it again, but had not the time to do so before the man returned, this time leading a horse.

Not just any horse. This was one of Ulfric's, a fine little mare, swift and dainty. The animal was saddled, and her hooves were wrapped in thick sacking to muffle the sound they made.

"Lady, we have a long ride ahead of us. You will mount quickly, if you please…" He beckoned her to approach him.

Brynhild retreated, all talk of switching and punishment flying from her head. If she got on that horse he would have her. They would soon be miles away, she might never see her home again. She could not, would not…

As though seeing the dismay in her features, the thrall's expression softened. "I have promised you will not be harmed, as long as you obey. Come, we have a long journey ahead."

Brynhild had no desire to embark upon any journey with him, long or short. She shook her head and backed away, ready to run again.

Taranc was swift. He tossed the reins of the horse over a branch and lunged for her. In moments Brynhild found herself upended over his knee as he planted himself down on a fallen tree truck. Her wool skirts were about her waist, the chilly air caressing her naked bottom.

"I promised you a switching. I had hoped to delay the need, at least for a while since you will now be extremely uncomfortable when you do mount the horse. Still, it cannot he helped, I daresay. You may consider yourself fortunate that I foresaw this eventuality and prepared a switch or two in readiness. I am sure you would not have relished being forced to lie here, your lovely bottom bared, whilst I waste half the night searching out a suitably supple branch."

Brynhild squirmed in his grip, wriggling and writhing, spluttering her fury into the infernal gag. None of it did any good since the thrall simply tightened his grip by wrapping his arm about her waist and pinning her flailing legs under one of his. There was a whistle as the switch rent the frigid air, then pain exploded across Brynhild's right buttock.

For a moment she forgot to breathe. Her bottom was aflame, surely. She went rigid, flexing, clenching in readiness for the next stroke.

Taranc did not keep her waiting. Three more slivers of fire snaked across her bottom, each worse than the one before. She gasped and whimpered in shocked disbelief. She had never been punished thus before, not even as a child. Her father had been indulgent with his only daughter, her mother stern but never resorting to use of the switch or even a mild spanking.

Almost as quickly as the spanking had started, it ceased. Taranc did not let her up, but he did lay the switch down on the ground. His palm caressed her quivering buttocks as though to smooth away the hurt as Brynhild lay motionless under his hand. As he stroked her bottom she was seized with a sudden urge to part her thighs. She resisted it, of course.

She would never willingly spread her legs for a man.

"Are you ready to ride with me now, Brynhild?"

His voice was low and soft, seductive even. Despite her terror, Brynhild found herself nodding again.

He helped her to her feet and over to the horse. The rough wool of her skirts rubbed against her freshly punished bottom as she stumbled beside him, her eyes blurred with tears of rage, fear, and pain. He cupped his hands to assist her up into the saddle and she winced as her buttocks made contact with the unrelenting leather. The bastard actually smirked as she shifted and tried to find a comfortable position. He leapt up onto the mare behind her and reached around for the reins.

"So, let us be on our way," he announced pleasantly. "You may get some sleep if you are able and I do advise it. You have a difficult time ahead, my lovely she-Viking."