by Ashe Barker
“Perfect is just right,” he affirmed. “I can attest to that. Absolutely fucking perfect.”
Chapter Sixteen
Fiona inhaled deeply. The crisp cool of the spring air was a balm to her senses. She had always loved this time of year, and even though the Norse lands lacked the soft, tentative warmth of her native Scotland she still relished the promise of the season. The newness, the burgeoning life, the sprouting of hope, of possibility, of a love she had never dreamed would be hers.
She sought him out, and found him, his elbows propped on a rough fence at the outer edge of the settlement. He leaned on the barrier, his forearms resting on the top as he gazed out over the choppy waves. Was he even now planning new raiding expeditions? His brother was already out there on the seas, no doubt balancing on the prow of his longship as he stalked foreign coasts ready to swoop and seize. She well knew how ingrained in the Viking culture was this behaviour; it was a need for them, a compulsion they could not shake.
Ulfric could not help himself. Her lover would surely be contemplating setting to sea.
Fiona moved to take up her place alongside him. He glanced at her, and reached for her hand.
“How many?” His tone was calm, conversational.
“Viking?”
“How many remain? I know our smith spent much of the last two days removing leg shackles, the forge rang with the sounds of it. Some left even before they could be properly freed. So now, how many of my thralls are still at Skarthveit?”
“Perhaps a dozen.” There was no point in understating the problem. At least twenty able-bodied men had departed, determined either to seek passage back to their old homes or to carve out a new life here in this untried land.
“So, when Olaf returns—and he will return, on that I have no doubt—we shall struggle to repel him. Even the thralls that remain may not choose to fight with my men.”
“They will. They must, if they continue to dwell here.”
He slanted a wry look her way. “They may take up arms if I command it since they will owe me the allegiance of any karl, but that does not mean I will have their hearts, their souls, their will to win. No, my little Celt, I cannot rely on them.”
“But what about Gunnar? When he returns—”
“Aye, he will come, I have no doubt of that. But will he return in time? We hurt Olaf, diminished his force but the Bjarkessons were not crushed, not by any means.”
“Next time we will inflict greater losses. We will have to.”
“And lose more of our own in the process?” He turned to face her, his expression saddened. “This is a senseless fight.”
“We have no other choice. We must defend ourselves.”
“At what cost? The Bjarkessons may have started this, though that would not be their view of matters, but I do not wish to finish it at the cost of their entire family. Nor of mine and I fear it will come to that. One or the other. We shared this land in the past, for generations all was amicable. There was peace and prosperity but the enmity has gone beyond that now. Peace will return, eventually, but at a price I am unwilling to pay.”
“Then, how…?” Fiona was bewildered. She could see but two solutions—fight or surrender. Surely her Viking did not mean to submit to the vengeful, irrational Olaf. His people would never accept that. She would obey him if this was what he demanded, but in her heart she knew that she could never truly accept it either.
His gaze was unwavering. “We could leave.”
“Leave? But where would we go? How long would we…?”
He turned to scan the seas once more. “There. Out there. Anywhere.”
“You would leave Skarthveit? But it is your home, you built it.” Whatever she might have expected from him, it was not this.
He shook his head. “My grandfather was the first Freysson to settle here, and he started the work. My father added to it, as have I. But we are a travelling people, we Vikings. We move, we settle, we move on again, re-settle. My grandfather did it, and so could I.”
“But, what about your people? You have followers, kin. What about Njal, and me?”
“You will come with me, I hope. And Njal, of course. Those who wish to remain may do so. I am certain that Gunnar will welcome any of my karls who choose to align themselves with him. So might Olaf, for that matter—his quarrel is with me alone. If they offer him their allegiance he will need new men to help replenish his ranks.”
“This is madness,” Fiona began. “You cannot just capitulate. You should not turn and run. We must fight, we must hold on to what is ours.”
“I will hold what is mine, but it need not be here. Free woman or not, you are mine. Njal is mine. Any thralls and karls who remain loyal to me, they are mine also. The rest, all of this this can be replaced. We can build it again in a new place, a place where there is no blood feud simmering, ready to ignite and destroy all that we work for. Or we may find a new home, a place already existing where we might settle, find a welcome of sorts.”
“Are you considering raiding in order to seize this haven you imagine? Will you descend upon some defenceless village, turn others weaker than you out of their homes?” She remembered vividly the utter helplessness of her family and friends at Pennglas when faced with Viking aggression, their speed, their ruthless efficiency. “I could not agree to that.”
He shook his head. “No, that is not what I had in mind. So, you may agree to my mad notion then? If the destination is to your liking?”
“I shall do as you command, you know this. I am your… your… karl? Is that correct?”
“Aye, but you are more than that. Have you forgotten so soon the bargain we struck yesterday when I had you strapped to the table in my longhouse? Did you not agree to be my wife?”
“I did, but… I was not certain you meant it. You have changed your mind on that? You told me once that we could not be married, that a Viking would never wed a slave.”
“You are no slave, and even if you were, I find my view on a great many matters has shifted somewhat. We shall be married before we leave this place though the usual days of feasting may need to be curtailed. Since you have no family here to negotiate your rights in the matter, or even to provide your dowry, we shall have no choice but to forgo that aspect of the union.”
“I am to have no rights?”
“And I no dowry, alas. Since we are to leave here neither one of us will bring much property to the match, so I consider it as fair as we might manage in these straightened circumstances.” He turned to her and took both of her hands in his. “I swear to protect you, and to love you. And to punish you only when absolutely needful.”
“And I swear to love you, and your son, and to be an obedient wife. When I am able.”
“There now, our union is all but complete. Will you see to the feasting? I need to make preparations for our departure.”
“So soon?”
“I do not wish to engage in battle with Bjarkesson again if I can avoid it. Now that my mind is made up I will avoid unnecessary bloodshed.”
She shook her head, still not quite able to comprehend the enormity of what he proposed to do, nor the alacrity with which he would carry out his plan. “I believed all Vikings relished a fight.”
“It is true we are a warlike race, but I hope we are also one not entirely without sense. I prefer to choose my battles with care. The Bjarkessons were friends once, and kin for a while. I will not see their blood needlessly shed for this futile quarrel. Olaf lacks the wit to see where his true interest lies but I do not. I relish a fight, that is true, but I also relish a challenge. I have no doubt that what lies ahead will prove to be a challenge greater than any we have faced yet.”
She stood on her toes to kiss him. “You are right. I shall inspect our stores and start preparations for the wedding feast.”
“Aye, little Celt. You do that, and I shall talk to my karls.”
* * *
The table groaned under the weight of dishes. Platters of roasted and boiled meats were passed aro
und, thick stews, bowls laden with buttered root vegetables and sharp, sweet greens, fruits and nuts. The women of Skarthveit had rallied, and the fare included a vast variety of freshly baked breads, cheeses as well as vats of mead and ale.
A trestle had been set up outdoors in the middle of the settlement and long benches ranged down each side. Their entire community was present on this the final night before they were to depart for Hafrsfjord. There they would board Ulfric’s longships, which had been readied for the voyage. Such food as was not to be consumed here was stowed on the swift vessels in barrels, sacks, and crates to sustain them on the voyage and upon first disembarking.
Somewhat to Fiona’s surprise, almost all of Ulfric’s followers had opted to accompany him. The handful who preferred not to leave their native shores were to accompany Mairead back to Gunnarsholm where she promised a welcome would await. Her sister, of sorts, had arrived at Skarthveit within days of hearing the news of their impending marriage. Gunnar was still away, but would be well represented at this auspicious occasion.
None had any doubt that Gunnar would prove a fine and noble Jarl, and since his homestead was suitably distant, it was unlikely that Olaf would take the fight to him there. More likely the Bjarkessons would colonise Skarthveit as soon as they realised the settlement was abandoned. They would no doubt pat themselves on the back and proclaim a mighty victory. Fiona suspected this would rankle with her new husband, but he kept his own counsel on that.
The dozen or so ex-thralls who remained had all declared it their wish to accompany Ulfric. He had not stated their definite final destination, but it was to be the land of the Celts and Picts and those who wished could make their way home overland from there.
It had been a little over a fortnight since Ulfric first voiced his intentions to Fiona but once the plan was agreed all had thrown themselves into the preparations. All in all, it was a hopeful, exuberant gathering as the people of Skarthveit assembled to toast their leader’s happiness, to wish him a longhouse packed with fine, healthy sons, and themselves a safe crossing over often treacherous seas.
Fiona winced as she took her seat beside her soon-to-be husband. Ulfric cast a knowing smile her way.
“Sore, little Celt?”
“You have a heavy hand, Viking, and a mean way with a switch. I am pleased that your shoulder is fully recovered, though.”
“I would not have pressed the matter. ‘Twas a game, at heart. You knew that.”
“We agreed upon six strokes.”
“You arrived at six, I believed the tally to be just four since that final release was at my request.”
“You had your way. Just the four.”
“And you insisted they be delivered.” He leaned close to murmur into her ear. “Your bottom bears the stripes beautifully, my love.”
She flushed but did not reply, recalling instead the exquisite burn of her whipping the previous evening as they had readied themselves for bed. She had indeed insisted that he carry out the terms of their bargain. Then she had cried out, her screams muffled by the gag he so helpfully provided, her body writhing in delicious agony as he laid the strokes slowly, deliberately, across her bare bottom. She had been caught up in the wonder of it as the pain transformed into soaring lust, as her sex quivered and throbbed and wept with desire. She had lifted her hips to offer him her buttocks to spank, then her pussy to fuck.
He had taken all of it, all of her. Only then had she slept, curled within his arms, her cheek pressed against the slow, steady beat of his heart.
Now she reached for his hand and together they shared a platter as they surveyed the assembled folk of Skarthveit.
Dagr sat a few places down on her husband’s right. Ulfric lifted a hand to him, a signal that he wished to speak with the ex-slave master privately. The man nodded and slipped away from the table.
“Please excuse me, my sweet. I would give Dagr a message to impart to my brother on Gunnar’s return. It is important, but I shall be back soon.”
Fiona smiled at him and nodded, too caught up in her own fears and excitement to puzzle overmuch what word her new husband might wish to leave for Gunnar. Mairead had been appraised of their intentions and the reasons for it; she would explain this unusual turn of events to her husband. As Ulfric disappeared into the shadows of their longhouse, she turned to the woman seated at her left.
“Quinn, you will be pleased to see our homeland again. It will not be long now.”
“I will. You too, I daresay.”
Fiona nodded. “Of course, I have missed Scotland dearly though I shall remain with Ulfric rather than look to return to Pennglas. We can seek out an isolated spot where we might plant crops and raise cattle, or perhaps we shall discover an unoccupied isle on the western coast.”
“I will miss you. And Ulfric too. He was a fair master, I suppose…”
Fiona patted the woman’s hand. She understood Quinn’s mixed feelings. No matter how fair the master, slavery was abhorrent. Ulfric had taken all of them against their will, made war on their villages, their families. It was hard to forgive, though not impossible. She had forgiven Ulfric, but she did not necessarily expect others would find it so easy.
Chapter Seventeen
Fiona’s heart fluttered as the shores of her beloved Scotland came into view. They had already passed the Isles of Shetland, pointed out by Ulfric, so this must be the mainland. Her home lay there, many miles to the south, but she was closer to it than she had been since the day she was shoved onto that foul fishing craft and brought to the land of the Norsemen. So much had happened to her since that fateful day, her previous life such a distant memory, yet so vivid too. She could almost touch it, taste it, feel the soft grass of the Scottish highlands beneath her toes.
With a sigh she turned away. Ulfric had not said, but she believed it was his intention to drop the ex-slaves off if they so desired, then to continue on in search of their new home. He would never apologise for their abduction, she was convinced of that, but he understood gratitude and obligation. They had aided him when he needed it, and this was part of their recompense for that service.
The longship on which she sailed was at the head of their convoy. Four more dragon ships followed, commanded by Ulfric’s trusted men. Her husband stood on the prow of their ship, his eyes shielded under his hand as he surveyed the distant shore. Fiona was surprised at the swiftness of the crossing. She had expected to be days at sea, whereas they had spent but one night bobbing on the waves. The weather was calm, the winds brisk, which aided the rowers who occupied the ranks of benches crossing the craft from one side to the other.
She made her way forward to stand beside her husband.
“Do you see a suitable landing place? A beach, perhaps?”
“Yes, there are several such coves. I have a particular spot in mind, however and that place will not be in view for several hours yet.”
“A place you have been to before? A place you have raided?” There could be no other purpose for a visit by her Viking husband.
He smiled and draped his arm across her shoulders. She turned to wrap her arms around her husband.
“I love you.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I know. I am relying on that.”
She leaned back to peer up at him. “You are? Why?”
“You will see, soon enough.” He returned his gaze to the far horizon and pulled her close. “Just trust me, please. And try to understand.”
“I do trust you. What do I need to understand?”
“Please, not now, little Celt. Let us just see what this day brings.”
Fiona knew when to press and when to let him be. She remained at Ulfric’s side as the longship soared across the waves, carried along on a swift southerly breeze. The sails billowed above them and the grey waters of the North Sea surged below. Along with the rest of the party she observed the shoreline grow closer, the details crystallising before her eyes. A beach, a stand of trees, a farm, a cluster of dwellings. She even spotted
a group of startled Celtic villagers scurrying away from their fishing boats, presumably in mortal fear of an imminent attack.
“I am sorry,” she mouthed.
Ulfric’s jaw was set firm as he watched the peasants’ frantic retreat. He said nothing.
An hour passed, then another. Never much travelled prior to the arrival of the Vikings, even Fiona began to recognise landmarks. The contours of the hills, a stretch of shingle beach, a small island inhabited only by puffins and sleek grey seals. As these familiar places slid past to her right she began to have an uneasy feeling. Surely Ulfric did not intend to return to Pennglas.
As he signalled the instruction to turn and head direct for the shore she knew that he did. He must intend to let the Celts off here and continue on. He would never attack her home again, not with her present to witness the destruction. He was a warrior, but he was not cruel.
“Ulfric…” she began.
He laid his finger across her lips. “Please, little Celt. Trust me. I believe we may be expected.”
“Coastal villages always expect a Viking attack.” She could not entirely banish the bitterness from her tone.
His answering smile was wry. “Aye, I daresay. Ah, I believe we have been sighted.”
Sure enough, a frenzy of activity unfolded before them as the fishermen of Pennglas and of nearby Aikrig raced for the shore then scrambled up the beaches toward their homes. They would be grabbing their shovels, their pitchforks, their hoes and ploughs, and anything that might be pressed into service as a weapon. Some might even hope to gather stones for their slingshots, though that would take time—a luxury the Vikings were not known for affording their victims. An attack by the Norsemen was swift and deadly. The best chance lay in fleeing, which appeared to be the strategy adopted by most.
The longships slid up onto the beach with a sickening scrape as rough sand connected with the smooth underside of each craft. As the boats shuddered to a halt Fiona expected the Nordic warriors to swarm over the sides and charge, yelling ferociously, for the closest village. That would be Aikrig, she thought.
