by Ashe Barker
Ulfric stepped closer to the unruly slaves, intent upon showing not the slightest trepidation. He stopped before the man, Taranc. “She is mine now. I told you this. My property.”
“You will not harm her! I—”
“No, I will not. I take care of what is mine. She will be safe.” Ulfric paused, then, “You have my word on this.”
“Your word? What is that worth? The word of a murdering, robbing savage impresses no one.”
“I have offered you the word of Ulfric Freysson, Jarl of Skarthveit. You may rely upon it.” Ulfric stood his ground, his steady gaze unwavering.
Taranc returned his glare. The pair stood almost nose to nose, waves of frustrated fury rolling off the Celt though Ulfric thought the man might be at least considering what he had heard. Long seconds passed before the slave offered a curt nod.
“If you harm her, I shall kill you. You may rely upon that. This is my promise to you, Viking.”
Ulfric offered no response. Instead he turned on his heel and marched away without looking back. He knew he had achieved what he set out to do when the sound of trudging footsteps confirmed that the procession had started on their way once more.
Now for the wench…
* * *
Gunnar watched with undisguised interest as Ulfric crouched beside his property.
“You do not need to wait. I can handle this.”
“Without doubt, brother. Even so, I find I am in no particular hurry and we know this wench to be ferocious when riled. You may yet require my aid.”
“Very well. Since you insist upon remaining, perhaps you will make yourself useful and find something with which to bind this ankle.”
Gunnar chuckled as he turned to return to the saddlebags slung across his horse’s back, then let out a low oath. Ulfric looked up to see that the convoy had stopped again. Dagr was dragging another of the females from the group, this time a woman whose belly was distended with the final stages of pregnancy.
“Now what?” he muttered. The woman looked to be a little older than the wench on the ground before him, and this one sported hair of a vivid red. Her clothing was rough, indicating that she was not a woman of wealth. He supposed none of them were, not now.
The flame-haired slave stumbled, her knees buckling. She clutched her rounded abdomen and cowered away from the raised arm of the slave master. The switch whistled as it sliced the air.
“Neinn!” This time it was Gunnar who issued the command to stop, though not in time to prevent the first stroke from landing across the woman’s shoulders. She let out a sharp cry as Gunnar strode toward the pair.
“What is the problem here, karl?” Ulfric observed that Gunnar appeared fit to tear Dagr’s arm from his shoulder, but instead his brother settled for relieving the slave master of the switch. A good thing too. The man might be rather harsh in his dealings with these females but decent slave handlers were still hard to come by.
Dagr’s explanation was simple enough. “Look at her. She will not make the journey unaided and will be of no use when we get there. She should not have been taken.”
Ulfric had reached that conclusion unaided.
“Then leave her with us.” It appeared Gunnar concurred.
Dagr was again reaching for his dagger. “I will—”
“I said, leave the female with us and fuck off.” Gunnar was ever blunt in his dealings with those he considered his inferiors, but on this occasion Ulfric could find no cause to fault his brother’s approach. Dagr was becoming tedious and the callous brutality he was showing of late was not conducive to efficiency. Perhaps Ulfric should consider replacing him…
Dagr might have protested, but Gunnar’s glowering countenance was sufficient to quell any such misguided impulse. He shrugged and stormed off back to where the slaves waited. “Get moving. We have wasted enough time here. Onward. Now!”
The guards hurried to do the slave master’s bidding, prodding the thralls into motion once more.
The pregnant woman on the ground let out a cry of despair and sought to rise. Gunnar offered his hand and she took it, allowing him to aid her to her feet. Then she set off in pursuit of her tormentor. Gunnar grabbed at her elbow.
“Wait. You will remain here.”
He spoke in their Nordic tongue so Ulfric knew the woman could not understand Gunnar. He, however, could follow her rapid Gaelic as she grappled with his brother in her desperation to escape his grasp.
“My son! My boy, he needs me. He is but a baby. Please, let me go! I have to remain with him. I can manage…”
What? Ulfric stood and scanned the ranks of slaves but could not pick out the reason for such grief. He turned to the girl who lay at his feet. “What is she saying? What boy?”
“Her son. He is among the men you took. He is just seven summers…”
“She fears for her son. The lad is but a child and is with the male thralls.” Ulfric translated the explanation for Gunnar’s benefit. Privately he regretted having devoted so much of his attention to the loading of the goods they had plundered rather than overseeing the taking of slaves. Neither this red-haired woman nor her child should have been among those seized.
“A boy?” Gunnar tightened his grip on the struggling woman. “Then I shall have him too.”
Ulfric regarded his brother with a mix of surprise and amusement. Gunnar was not known for his finer feelings nor for his tenderness toward women and children. Certainly, he harboured no sympathy for slaves.
Theirs was a harsh society, sharply divided between the class of jarls to which he and Gunnar both belonged despite his brother’s illegitimacy, the karls who were the tier below, and the slave class or thralls who languished at the bottom of the class system. Slaves had no rights, thralls barely any more though they might, if they could accrue the necessary wealth, purchase their freedom. That was rare. Certainly, slaves did not dictate to their masters. This woman had no right to demand that her son remain with her. She could be whipped for her impertinence though one look at Gunnar’s angry countenance convinced Ulfric that it would be folly to suggest such a thing.
Still, he could turn this situation to his advantage.
“The woman is yours, if you want her. You may buy the lad from me, too, if you so wish.”
“Buy him?” Gunnar’s eyes narrowed. “You would sell him? To me?”
“Aye, if we can agree a price. That purse of silver dangling from your belt would be about right, I daresay.”
“You bastard!”
Ulfric shrugged. “I believe you will find it is you who is the bastard among us, but let us not haggle over details. Very well. I expect the boy will fetch a decent enough price when I offer him for auction. Do not forget, I offered you first refusal.” He spoke in Nordic and was glad his own little captive could not comprehend his words. She would not understand the banter between the brothers.
Gunnar untied the purse from his belt and hurled it at Ulfric. “Greedy cur. You were ever a poor loser.”
“Perhaps. I confess I get little enough practice.” He turned to Dagr who had witnessed this exchange with a look of pure bewilderment. “It seems my brother will be having the boy as well. Release him from the shackles.”
“But—”
“Now, if you would, Dagr. You really do need to be getting on your way.”
A few moments later Dagr produced a small boy from among the throng and shoved him in the direction of Gunnar and the woman. The lad stood, uncertain as the rest of the men moved off behind him.
“Donald!” The woman still secured in Gunnar’s embrace held out her hands to the confused and frightened child. Gunnar let her go and she stumbled along the rough track to take her son in her arms. She knelt beside him weeping, clinging to her child as she murmured words of love and devotion and eternal hope.
Ulfric allowed himself a private grin as he bent to retrieve the purse of silver coins and attached it to his own belt. Without a doubt, there was something oddly alluring about these Celtish females.
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* * *
“What is your name, wench?” Ulfric deliberately softened his voice as he addressed the ebony-haired girl again. He was once more crouching at her side and needed to ascertain the nature and extent of her injury. First, he had to calm her.
She did not reply. Instead she used her good leg, still sporting the heavy iron shackle, to attempt to scramble backwards and out of his reach.
Her efforts were futile. She could not get away. Ulfric repeated his question, this time cupping her chin in his palm.
“I am Ulfric, son of Frey, Jarl of Skarthveit. And you are…?”
“F-Fiona. Daughter of Dughall, of Pennglas.” The wench whispered her name as though she feared relinquishing even this small part of her.
Ulfric nodded, and reached for her injured ankle. Fiona let out a startled scream as he lifted the damp hem of her woollen skirt. He glanced up in time to glimpse the rock in her hand as she swung it toward his head. The blow bounced off his temple. The last thing Ulfric remembered was the beautiful stormy shade of her eyes and an instant later his entire world went similarly grey.
Chapter Three
The Viking crumpled before her, his weight toppling across her good leg. With a despairing whimper Fiona dragged the limb free and turned to scramble up onto all fours. She tried to stand but her injured ankle gave way beneath her. Crawling was her one option, and she took it now.
The Norsemen who had been standing around shouted, one grabbed at the fur cloak draped across Fiona’s shoulders and it came away in his hand. The garment had offered little enough protection from the bitter elements in this frigid land, but it was gone now. She dragged her injured ankle behind her as she redoubled her efforts to escape across the scraggy grass that fringed the track. Perhaps if she could gain some cover, find a place to hide…
Footsteps were in pursuit, a heavy, purposeful tread and gaining on her fast. In mere moments the black leather boots and leggings of the dark Viking appeared alongside her, the man strolling casually as though to escort her to safety. Fiona harboured no such illusion. This was it. She had attacked their leader, injured him, possibly even killed him and her own life would be forfeit. She was to die here, in a damp meadow in a foreign land, her family never to know of her fate.
Fiona halted, her futile attempt at escape ending almost before it had begun. She collapsed onto the ground, her injured ankle throbbing mercilessly. She screwed her eyes tight shut and tensed as she waited for the man clad in black leather to conclude matters.
He laid his hand on her shoulder and pushed her over onto her back. Fiona drew up her knees into an instinctive defensive posture, and covered her face with her hands.
Nothing happened. She waited, held her breath, prayed.
Still… nothing.
Fiona cracked open her eyelids to peer up at the man who towered over her. His silhouette shimmered in the fading sunlight, the scar that marred his face vivid despite the half-light of approaching dusk. He would have been handsome but for that. Fiona checked herself. The man was handsome in a cold, detached sort of a manner. His lips were thin, and now curled almost imperceptibly as he assessed her. His near-smile was considering, as though he sought to unravel some mystery concealed about her cowering person. But it was his eyes that held her attention. They were black, cold as midnight, and quite merciless.
Suddenly and without warning his features split to form a genuine grin. His teeth flashed a brilliant white as he smiled down from his height, and those coal-black orbs seemed to soften, as though he had found what he sought and was satisfied with it.
He bent at the waist and scooped Fiona up in his arms. In what seemed to her no more than a couple of paces he had returned her to the side of the track where Ulfric still sat on the ground. He was surrounded by his men and one offered him a flask to drink from. The Viking leader refused the proffered refreshment and raised his hand to test the damage. His blond head was bowed and already Fiona could discern the vicious bruise on the side of his temple that appeared to swell before her very eyes.
She had done that, with the rock she had surreptitiously secreted in her skirt whilst the two brothers had been preoccupied with the fate of Mairead and her boy. She had hurt the Viking, and now he would hurt her. He had said as much, back there in the smoking ruins of her village. He had warned her not to offer further resistance, but in those desperate moments when he started to lift her skirt she had acted purely on impulse, without planning or thought. Such foolishness would have dire consequences.
The dark Viking deposited her beside Ulfric. He was gentle enough, she supposed, taking care not to place her weight on her bad ankle. The two men exchanged a few words as Fiona again curled into a protective ball.
“My brother believes I should keep you permanently bound if I care for my life.” Ulfric’s tone was bitter. He was angry, of course. “I suspect he may be right.”
Fiona groaned. Her shoulders still ached from the prolonged immobility she had endured on the crossing to reach this cursed land.
“A leather strap, if you please, Gunnar. And some linen for binding that ankle.” Ulfric reached for Fiona and patted her hip. When he spoke again his tone was softer, though not much. “So, where were we?”
She chanced a peek at him, and could swear that the angry bruise had worsened. Should she apologise? Certainly, she regretted her actions.
Her musings were cut short by the return of the dark one, Gunnar. He tossed a length of leather at his brother still seated on the grass banking, and held a roll of linen in his hand. He spoke again in that guttural Nordic tongue of theirs. Ulfric replied in Gaelic, which Fiona realised was for her benefit.
“No, I can manage, though I am glad of your assistance in the matter of returning my property to me.”
Gunnar frowned, then answered, again in Nordic. Fiona could not comprehend his words, but whatever he had said seemed to amuse her captor.
“By all means, be on your way, brother. I wish you joy of your new thralls. All of them. And I thank you for the silver, naturally. I trust we shall do business again soon for I do so enjoy the satisfaction of a decent trade.”
Gunnar grinned and offered his hand to the man on the ground. Ulfric took it and Gunnar hauled him to his feet. The two embraced, then with no more than a final sideways glance in her direction Gunnar marched back to his horse.
Mairead waited for him there, her boy, Donald at her side. Gunnar picked up the lad and passed him to one of his guards, already mounted. He then assisted Mairead into his own saddle and mounted behind her. With a last wave to his brother he and his party of about a half dozen Vikings cantered off along the track. They were soon lost in the gathering gloom.
“What will happen to her? To Mairead?” Fiona feared for the woman left to the tender mercies of that heathen barbarian.
“I am really not sure,” confided Ulfric. “Perhaps he has need of a woman to tend his fires and prepare his food. Is she a decent cook?”
“I cannot say. I barely know her. Will I… Will I see her again?”
“Probably not. Gunnar does not share my home. He has his own stronghold to the north of Skarthveit and he will take her there I daresay.”
“Oh.” Fiona was sorry. She had come to like Mairead, and would miss her.
“So, you chose not to heed my warning. And this time I am the one nursing a sore head.” His tone remained gentle, but Fiona detected something more, a certain resolve. He meant to punish her.
“I am sorry. I did not think…”
“You will next time, I intend to make sure of that. But first, your hands, Fiona.”
“Please, I swear that I will not strike you again.”
“No, you will not. Your hands. Now. You may keep them in front of you this time, however.”
It was with some small measure of relief that Fiona extended her hands and allowed him to bind her once more. He concluded his task then placed his fingers beneath her chin to raise her gaze to his.
“You will recei
ve ten strokes of the switch by way of punishment for your actions. It will hurt, but it will be quick and I trust you will find the experience memorable. Disobedience is not tolerated among our slaves, and attempting to escape will usually earn you a whipping. Any attack upon a free Viking, jarl or karl, is normally punishable by death. You will do well to keep all of that in mind, little Celt, should you be driven to resort to such extremes in the future. I will be lenient on this occasion, but do not try me again.”
Leniency was not the word Fiona might have chosen. Ten strokes! Sweet Jesus. Still, she well understood that matters could be worse. Much worse.
His gaze was stern, unwavering. He meant her to heed his words and Fiona knew she would receive no further warnings after this one. If the Viking chief intended to intimidate her, though, he had failed. If anything his terse threats only served to harden her resolve. Whatever Ulfric, son of Frey might choose to believe, she was not his property. One day, she would be free.
* * *
Ulfric assisted her into a sitting position on a slight rise in the ground. He knelt before her, the roll of linen beside him. This time when he pushed her skirt up to her knee she did not protest.
Her injured ankle was now hideously swollen and sported various shades of purple and blue where the bruising had bloomed. Fiona gasped when she saw it and jerked her foot away from Ulfric’s grasp.
“Be easy, little one. I shall be gentle, I swear.”
Fiona willed herself to relax, to allow him to tend to her. Certainly, with Mairead and the other women gone, there was no one else she would prefer to have aid her.
“It is fortunate that it was not the chained ankle which you turned. It would have been extremely painful for you had we needed to hammer out the pin to remove the shackle, but there would have been no other course, given the swelling. As it is, I believe if this is tightly bound you will find some relief.”
