by Ashe Barker
His bed-slave, he had said. His to fuck.
She shivered, though not with cold. The strange sensations her Viking had unleashed within her as she lay with him in their warm bed this morning still haunted her. Fiona had heard other women speak, had listened to their ribald laughter and occasionally to their hushed whispers, but had never dreamed she might share such an experience. If indeed that was what had happened to her. She longed to ask, to better understand what he had done, but she did not dare to. He would laugh at her, or worse still, offer to extend her understanding with a further demonstration.
She had no wish to learn. Had she?
Skarthveit came into view when they crested a particularly steep hill and their party paused to look down on the scene below. The settlement was larger than she had imagined, much more extensive than her own village of Pennglas. It was a town really, made up of many buildings spreading inland from the coast. The structures were not unlike the ones Fiona was accustomed to at home, plain wattle and daub walls for the most part with roofs of thatch or sometimes turf. Smoke seeped up through the thatches or from under the eaves, evidence of crowded habitation.
Even at this distance she could make out the people of Skarthveit scurrying about their business, and livestock wandering freely among the buildings. Poultry, cattle, sheep, and goats all meandered where they would as the town went about its daily life. Small, tethered boats bobbed on the beach, and the entire settlement was surrounded by cultivated fields. Fiona knew a moment’s surprise; she had not considered that these Vikings might be farmers, fishermen, traders, that their lives were not that dissimilar to her own.
She turned to Ulfric again. “How many people live here?”
“Perhaps two hundred. And the thralls, of course. They live in those barns on the edge of the town. See?” He indicated with his arm, and Fiona could pick out the stark buildings, large and forbidding, though they also oozed smoke that suggested that at least the thralls knew some comfort.
“They have food, and warmth.” Ulfric picked up on her unspoken question. “And they are well treated, provided they work and cause us no trouble. Our laws are strict, but fair.”
“The taking of slaves is never fair,” retorted Fiona before she could think better of it.
“Perhaps, but it is the way of things and you will adapt.”
She sincerely doubted that. “Am I to live there, in the slave barn?”
“You are to share my bed, Fiona, which I have never yet found reason to locate within the slave barn.”
“All the time? You will want me to be with you every night?”
“I see no reason to suppose otherwise.”
“Which is your house?” She scanned the town from her vantage point on the hill as they began to make their descent.
“That one, closest to the shore.” He pointed to the largest of the dwellings, a long, low building surrounded by a wicker fence. Several outbuildings clustered against its timber walls, leading Fiona to suppose that her new master did not choose to share his home with his livestock. Just like the rest of the buildings, eddies of smoke seeped through the thatched roof.
Fiona frowned. “Someone is there, in your house?”
“Of course. My family live there, with me. They will be watching eagerly for our return.”
Family? It had never occurred to Fiona to enquire once it became clear that Ulfric did not share his home with his brother. “You have a big family?” The house was the largest and grandest in the town, certainly there was enough accommodation there for a horde of Ulfric’s relatives.
“Not especially. You will see them soon.”
“Will they know? Will they know why I am there with you?”
“Of course, it will be obvious. There are other slaves, also, others from your land. You will make friends soon enough.”
Fiona’s heart sank a little further, though she would not have thought that possible. She dreaded her new role, but even worse was the prospect that she would be one of many such bed-slaves. Then another, even more terrifying possibility occurred to her.
“Will there be others? I mean… other men such as yourself? Will I be expected to… to…” She could not vocalise the thought.
“You are mine and mine alone. Now, enough questions.” Ulfric tightened his hold around her waist as he turned in the saddle to grin at his men. “We are home, my friends. Our kinsfolk await.”
With yells and shouts and fearsome war cries the men kicked their mounts into a gallop. They charged down the hill to where the people of Skarthveit already gathered in the centre of the town to welcome them home.
* * *
They arrived in the clearing of hard-packed earth that fronted Ulfric’s longhouse. He pulled the horse to a stop and flung the reins at a lad who came hurtling from one of the outhouses. The boy caught the trailing leather and somehow managed to hold the restless mount still while Ulfric vaulted to the ground. He turned and held up his arms to Fiona.
“Slide down to me, little Celt. I shall catch you.”
She knew he would, and Fiona had no hesitation in trusting her safety to him. Moments later she stood on one foot, a little unsteady, but safe with his arm encircling her waist. The lad led the horse away, and they were alone before the grand dwelling.
“Come, I shall—”
“Fadir!” The shrill cry came from within the longhouse, and a small boy emerged running from the open doorway. He was blond, and even from a few yards away there was no mistaking his vivid blue eyes and the familiar set of his miniature features.
“Ah, Njal. I have missed you.” Ulfric bent from the waist as the boy charged toward them and he swung the lad up into the air. Small arms encircled his neck and, one-armed, Ulfric returned the hug. “Have you been a good boy? Have you been working at your chores as I asked you and practised hard with the sword and the axe?”
“Fadir?” The lad peered at Ulfric, his expression bemused.
Ulfric spoke to him again, this time in their Norse tongue and the lad grinned and nodded vigorously. He squirmed free of Ulfric’s grip and slithered to the ground, ready to bolt off. Fiona suspected he wished to rush off in search of a sword and an axe, but Ulfric called him back.
“Fiona, this is my son. His name is Njal. He is five summers of age.”
“I… I see.” She managed a tentative smile. The boy did seem pleasant enough, even if he did hop from one foot to the other, clearly eager to be off.
“Apart from your duties in my personal service, you will assist in Njal’s care also.”
She could do that. Fiona liked children. “Yes, Ulfric.”
“When we are alone you may use my given name. When others are present you will refer to me as Jarl. That is my title here.”
“Of course.”
The lad babbled something at his father and Ulfric smiled in response. He nodded and the lad shot off across the forecourt in the direction of one of the other huts.
“I am to be treated to a demonstration of his prowess with the battle axe. First though—”
“Ulfric, you have returned. I am so pleased to see you back, safe and well.”
A woman had also emerged from the longhouse, unnoticed in their preoccupation with Njal. She now approached, a puzzled half-smile playing on her stunning features. The woman was beautiful, quite simply breath-taking. She was perhaps an inch or two taller than Fiona, slender though without any hint of fragility, and was blessed with curves to match. Her hair was arranged into two fat braids that hung over each shoulder and was so blonde it was almost white. Her eyes were intelligent, calculating, a dark shade of blue that looked almost amethyst to Fiona. The woman was finely dressed in a loose smock of fine yellow cotton and a woollen shawl of reds and greens. Fiona’s own clothing had been dowdy by comparison even before her ordeal commenced and her garments were now hopelessly tattered and dirty. She could only stare at the image of feminine perfection who now stood before her, assessing and finding Fiona sorely wanting.
“
Hvat heitir bu?” The question was directed at Fiona.
“She does not speak our tongue, Brynhild. This is Fiona, a captive taken from the land of the Britons.”
“A thrall? Then I shall see to it that she is taken to the thrall’s hall at once. When will the rest be arriving?” The woman had switched to a form of Gaelic. She was not fluent like Ulfric, but Fiona could just about follow her speech.
“She is to live here, with us.”
“Hvi?” The woman, Brynhild lapsed into her own tongue and Fiona surmised the use of Gaelic had been a deliberate attempt to frighten her. Instinctively Fiona knew that Brynhild would make herself understood when it suited her, and not otherwise.
“Because she is mine. My slave. She will serve me, and assist you in the care of my son.”
“Our boy has no need of the services of a Celtic whore.” Gaelic again.
Our boy? Oh, dear sweet Lord, the woman must be Ulfric’s wife. At least now the Viking woman’s undisguised hostility made better sense. Fiona wished to simply be swallowed up by the earth at her feet.
“Watch your tongue, Brynhild. Fiona is to be treated well under our roof. And now, she is injured and has need of rest, food, and water in which to bathe. I trust I may leave those details to you?”
Brynhild snorted her disdain and turned on her heel. “Follow me, thrall.”
Fiona started forward, but could not get so much as one foot in front of the other before Ulfric swept her into his arms again. He carried her into the longhouse in Brynhild’s wake. Fiona barely had time to register a few details though she looked about her with curiosity.
The entrance led into a large central space, thick with smoke from the fire, which burned in a fire pit that ran down the middle. Two rows of wooden pillars divided the hall lengthways into three sections, and the parts closest to the two long walls were divided again to provide smaller chambers. Curtains of hanging skins marked the boundaries, but Fiona supposed these afforded a modicum of privacy.
A large cauldron hung over the fire pit and wisps of steam floated from within its depths. A variety of herbs and meats hung from the rafters, so it was clear this central hall served as kitchen as well as main living area. The fumes from the fire drifted upward to collect in the roof space, and from there they would eventually find their way through the tightly bound thatch to the outside. The room was warm, but gloomy too as the only light came from the fire and the doorway. She supposed more illumination would have called for the sacrifice of heat and in this frigid climate that was not really an option.
The main item of furniture was a long table situated in the main hall with benches down each side. There were also shelves against the walls in some of the outer cubicles and these were loaded with cooking pots and other household items. Several storage trunks were arranged around the edges of the hall and Fiona assumed these to contain valuables, or perhaps items of clothing and bed linens.
Ulfric strode straight across the central area and shouldered his way past a length of cloth suspended from the rafters at one end. The cloth served as a curtain to divide off this entire section, and here Fiona saw a raised platform covered with furs. This must be Ulfric’s sleeping chamber, his bed. Sure enough, he laid her upon it and turned to face the woman who now stood beside the curtain, her arms folded and her foot tapping on the earth floor.
Ulfric ignored the woman’s angry demeanour. “You will bring food, and have a bath brought in here.”
“I am to fetch and carry for a worthless Celt now, am I? You insult me, brother.”
Brother?
“You are to do as I ask, and at this time that means providing my property with food and seeing to her comfort. I shall return soon, when I have made certain that the new slave hut is ready. And made a proper inspection of Njal’s progress in my absence, of course.” He made to pass Brynhild in the entrance to his sleeping chamber, but paused to cast a glance back at Fiona. “My sister will see to your needs. She runs this household so you will obey her as you would me. You understand the consequences if I have cause for complaint?”
“Yes, Ulfric,” muttered Fiona.
Brynhild made no further comment, though her bitter glower spoke volumes as she regarded Fiona with undisguised contempt. She turned on her heel and followed her brother from the room.
* * *
The Viking woman returned after a few minutes with a bowl and a hunk of bread. She set those down on a low table beside the sleeping platform without so much as looking at Fiona.
“You will eat,” she announced.
Fiona was famished and reached for the bowl, but was disappointed to find it contained nothing but a greasy slop of some description. A broth, perhaps, though she could not determine what, if any, meat it contained. A few hunks of hard carrot floated within, and slivers of turnip, but she could recognise nothing else. The soup was tepid, and the bread stale, but hunger drove Fiona to persevere with it.
She had managed to swallow perhaps half the fare when the curtain was swept aside and Brynhild returned, this time with a young lad in tow. He carried a large half-barrel, which he deposited on the floor at the foot of the sleeping platform. Two more youths arrived, each carrying two pails of water, which they emptied into the tub before retreating.
Her bath. Fiona attempted a tentative smile and thanked Brynhild. It would be good to feel clean once more. Perhaps she might contrive to wash her clothes too.
The Viking eyed her stonily and merely watched as all three lads trooped back and forth fetching water. When the tub was half full she dismissed them with a few words in her Norse tongue and turned to regard Fiona.
“You will undress and bathe. We have no use for a filthy Celt here.”
Fiona bristled, but knew better than to offer a retort. She perched on the edge of the platform, her injured foot resting on the floor, and wondered if she might request help in undressing. One glimpse of Brynhild’s unsympathetic countenance quelled that notion.
“Thank you. I… I believe I can manage.”
“I know that you can. Get on with it.”
“You must be busy. I would not wish to delay you…”
Brynhild leaned forward, her eyes glittering with menace. “I said, get on with it. Now. Or would you prefer I take a whip to you?”
“A whip? But…”
“You are nothing but a dirty little slave. A whore-thrall. Do not think I would hesitate to show you what happens to worthless little sluts who disobey their betters.”
“Ulfric would not—”
“You heard what my brother said. I run this home, you will obey me or become well acquainted with the whip.”
There was no point in protesting further. The woman’s baleful gaze was implacable and Fiona knew she would carry out her threat. It had been awful to be punished by Ulfric, but instinctively she had known he would do her no lasting harm. Brynhild was different. For some inexplicable reason the Viking woman had hated Fiona on sight. She would do well to fear her.
Fiona managed to stand and balanced on her good foot to pull her loose smock over her head. Under it she wore just a simple linen shift. She had not worn shoes since the previous evening when Ulfric had removed them to attend to her ankle so the cold earth chilled her bare feet. She shivered and willed the Norsewoman to retire and leave her to perform her ablutions alone.
It was not to be. Brynhild was going nowhere and after several moments Fiona pulled the shift over her head too. She stood naked before the other woman but for the binding that still protected her ankle and the shackle on her other foot.
“That too.” Brynhild pointed to the bandage.
Fiona sat back on the sleeping platform and reached down to unfasten the strip of linen from around her foot. The moment the binding loosened she was aware of the difference it had made. Her ankle throbbed angrily and Fiona blinked back tears.
“In the tub. Now.”
Fiona managed to hop the few feet to reach her bath and leaned over to grip the rim. No steam rose from t
he water. Miserably Fiona dipped her fingers in to test it. The water was freezing.
She turned to face Brynhild. “No, I cannot. It is too cold and—”
“Get in or I shall have my other thralls come back and help you. My brother wishes you to be clean, and we will not disappoint him, will we?”
“He did not intend this…”
“Of course he did. Do you imagine we treat our slaves to a hot bath? You are fortunate not to be made to wash in the river, you filthy little slut.”
Already Fiona shivered from the chill in the room. The warmth of the fire did not penetrate the outer chambers, and with her few items of clothing now gone the cold seeped into her. She stood, balancing as best she might without putting her weight on her bad ankle, and regarded her tormentor.
Brynhild took a step forward, then another. She bent to scoop up Fiona’s discarded clothing.
“These will be burnt. I shall count to five, then if you are not submerged to the shoulders in your bath I shall summon thralls to ensure your obedience.”
“Those things belong to me. I shall wash them—”
“One.”
“Please…”
“Two.”
“I cannot. Please do not do this.”
“Three.”
Fiona’s shoulders slumped as the reality of her situation sank in.
“Four.”
She turned to face the tub of frigid water and drew in a long breath.
“Five.”
Fiona lifted her bad ankle and lowered it into the water. She gasped as the cold gripped her lower limb.
“And the other.”
She took her weight on her hands, grasping the edges of the tub tightly as she lifted her other leg into the bath. Fiona stood there, bent at the waist. Her hair hung down and the ends trailed across the surface of the water. She looked over her shoulder at Brynhild, and was mortified when the woman actually smiled at her. She was enjoying her victim’s misery and would play this out to the end. Her options exhausted, Fiona lowered herself into the tub.
