The man stepped forward to claim the token for the woman’s purchase and Erik gasped aloud as he came into view. It was Taft! Older for sure, with more lines on his face, but there was no doubt it was Taft. He glanced towards Erik but there was no recognition in his eyes and he looked away again.
Erik realized that he’d been but a youth the last time Taft had seen him. Since then, he’d grown a beard and become taller and stronger; it was no wonder that Taft hadn’t recognized him. He felt sick to his stomach as he thought about the beautiful young woman going to live with the man who had callously destroyed their village and killed his parents. Anger boiled through his veins; Taft was the cruelest, most vile person Erik had ever met and now he would own the only slave Erik had ever cared about. It was a staggering blow.
But Erik was not about to give up. He realized the prudence of staying out of sight for now; he was alone and Taft may well have armed men or plentiful allies surrounding him. It would be foolish to attempt to detain him or bring him to justice here. Erik quickly hatched a plan; he would blend in with the crowd and follow Taft to glean what information he could. Then he would decide what his next step should be.
CHAPTER 6
Feeling satisfied with himself, Taft left the slave auction and turned to go back to the booth where his wife was selling their goods. Breaking free of the past was the best thing he’d ever done, he mused as he made his way through the crowded rows of the marketplace. He’d established himself in a new location and had done well at trading and farming. With hard work and shrewd business dealings, he had built up his wealth and could afford to buy more slaves to add to the three he already owned. And now, he had been able to afford to buy a bed-slave, the first one he’d been able to own. He licked his lips as he thought about the beautiful young woman who would soon be joining his household. She had gone for a steep price but he liked the look of her and had been willing to pay it. He’d left her in the slave quarters until they’d finished their business at the markets. He would collect her the following day, after they were ready to leave. They had sold almost all of the goods they had brought with them and there was no point lingering.
He felt secure enough now to freely visit the markets; once upon a time, he had feared retribution for the destruction of Myrkvior Fjall, but time had passed and no one had taken revenge. He guessed that he was living far enough away from any survivors that it was unlikely anyone would find him. Not that there would have been many survivors; his men had done a good job of completely destroying the village. Anyone left alive would soon have perished from their injuries or from cold and hunger. He had no regrets; he’d had a score to settle with Halvar and destroying his enemy’s village had felt satisfying, even if he didn’t find Halvar himself. The thought of Kaarina’s treachery still rankled; he should have been able to find her and punish her for leaving him and returning to Myrkvior Fjall.
But as time passed and he threw himself into creating a new life, he began to think that it was better to start afresh. Anyone who had been part of the past should stay there. Including his daughter.
“You are in fine spirits,” Gunilla said sourly as he arrived at their booth.
“I have bought more slaves,” he said proudly. “We will be able to acquire greater wealth through their labor.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Did you buy a bed-slave?” she asked with menace in her tone.
Taft decided that he might as well get the truth over and done with. After all, the woman would soon be part of the household. “I did,” he answered candidly.
Gunilla’s features contorted with rage. “You bacraut!” she screeched.
Leaping from her place beside the booth, she launched herself at him, fingers curled into claws. He tried to evade her attack but he was too slow; her fingernails raked the side of his face, leaving bloody scratches.
“Bikkja!” he spat, and slapped her hard across the face.
She screamed and swore again, attracting a crowd who liked nothing better than to watch a fight, but Taft was ready for her this time. He grabbed her wrists and held them tightly so that she couldn’t attack him again. She was left with nothing but her mouth, which she used to pour forth a torrent of foul-mouthed abuse. The crowd shrieked and yelled in delight when she managed to kick Taft and he responded by kicking her in return.
Erik stood watching the fight in amazement. He had seen plenty of arguments between husbands and wives but this wife was one of the angriest he’d ever seen. He’d heard Taft announce that he had bought a bed-slave, as Erik had feared. The red-haired woman would be Taft’s plaything, to be used and abused however he pleased. The thought made Erik feel sick to his stomach. Somehow, he had to stop it from happening.
The fight ended when Taft grabbed his wife by the hair and dragged her back to the booth. He pushed her behind the table and threatened her with a raised fist. She lashed out at him again but he dodged her and disappeared into the crowd. She sank onto the stool behind the table and rubbed her face with her hands. Her hair was messed up and she looked as if she might cry. With nothing to see, the crowd melted away and everyone went about their business.
Erik suddenly had an idea. He hurried back to his wagon, where he still had some trinkets left from his last journey. He was sure that Taft’s wife might like something he had to offer.
“Greetings, lady of the house,” he said cordially as he approached her booth with his box in his hand.
She looked at him suspiciously and said nothing, but she didn’t order him to go away.
“I have an offer for you to consider,” Erik continued. He opened the box to show her the fine metalwork trinkets inside. There were hair ornaments, belt buckles and brooches. He was pleased to see a look of interest cross her face.
“What do you want?” she asked ungraciously, even as she leaned closer to peer into the box.
“I am a trader,” Erik told her. “I travel around offering fine goods to my clients. I am here at the markets to source more of the finest cloth, leatherwork and metal goods to fill orders for my customers.”
“What does that have to do with me?” she asked in a surly tone.
“These fine trinkets are the last of my stock from a previous trip,” Erik told her. “I am offering them as samples to ladies such as yourself who clearly have discerning tastes in metal goods.”
“Discerning tastes?” she asked, tempted by the flattery.
Erik seized the advantage. “It is apparent that you are a woman of distinction,” he said smoothly. “You like to look your best, am I right?”
She nodded.
“And if I am not mistaken, you like fine foreign goods, is that so?”
She nodded again, eagerly this time.
Erik pointed to her tunic. “I can tell that your tunic is made from fine foreign cloth. Is it not?”
“Yes, it is. You are very observant,” she said, won over at last. “What is your offer?”
“I am offering you a choice of one of these metal goods,” he said. “Something for your hair, perhaps? Or a set of magnificent tunic brooches?”
“What will it cost me?” she asked, suspicion returning.
“All I am asking in return is your permission to call on you at your home on one of my future trading journeys. When I do, I will show you a selection of the goods that I have available.”
Gunilla thought about what the young trader said. Taft had always told her to tell no one where they lived. She didn’t know why, and right now, she didn’t care. She was so angry at him that she hoped something bad would happen to him for the way he’d treated her. Besides, she had her eye on a magnificent hair comb in the box the trader was holding.
“Very well,” she said finally. “You may call upon me at our farm. It is on the road to Aurvangr. It is the farm that has three large stones at the front. If you get to the river crossing, you have gone past it.”
“Then it pleases me to offer you a sample from my box,” Erik said. “I shall look forward to call
ing upon you when I next take a trading journey through your area.”
As Erik walked back to his wagon, a sense of hope crept through his heart. He might have failed to set the red-haired woman free but now he had learned where she was to live, not to mention his discovery of Taft’s whereabouts. Now that he had that information, he could plan his next move.
As he walked, a plan began to form in his mind. He would stock up with as many goods as he could fit in his wagon and then go to see his customers. Rather than turning around for the return journey at his usual location, he would continue to the markets at Más Mýrr and restock his supplies. He could probably call on some of his customers a second time and sell more goods, and then he could continue on to Jerrik’s lands with whatever was left. He was certain that this journey would give him the money he would need to buy the red-haired woman from Taft. Assuming of course, that Taft didn’t recognize him and kill him. It was a gamble in so many ways. He risked not arriving at Más Mýrr in time to restock at the markets. Taft might refuse to sell the woman. He might not make enough sales on the journey, leaving him without the funds he needed. He could only hope that all the obstacles cleared from his path.
“Get moving!” Taft barked, hitting one of the male slaves across the back with a staff.
The man grunted and shuffled forwards, his hands tied behind his back. Tara had discovered that his name was Haskell and he was a native of Norowegr. The other slave, Brendan, was from her own homeland. The finngail usually captured women as slaves, he’d explained; he was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, alone and unarmed. The finngail raiding party that found him had overpowered and captured him. He had arrived in Norowegr a few months earlier than Tara and had learned more of the language. Although both men were older, she’d already begun to form a friendship with both of them, especially Brendan. He often helped her to understand the words flowing around her when her grasp of the language failed her. He reminded her of a kindly uncle, much like her Uncle Cathal.
“Get away from me!” Gunilla spat when Tara accidentally walked close to her. “You are nothing but a filthy Írskr bikkja!”
Brendan waited until she was out of earshot and Taft was ahead of them, trying to calm the new horse he’d bought. It was proving to be flighty. “Do not be concerned about Gunilla,” he whispered. “She is jealous because her husband has bought a bed-slave. I understand that he has never bought female slaves in the past and Gunilla has had him all to herself.”
Tara shuddered. Brendan had just confirmed what she suspected would be her fate: the cruel-looking man who had bought her intended to use her for his pleasure. Her despair must have shown on her face because Brendan cast her a sympathetic look a moment before Taft swore loudly as the horse shied at an overhanging tree limb.
Brendan’s face wore the faintest grin. “That horse may prove to be your best friend,” he whispered. “It is keeping him so busy that he will be unable to pay you any attention.”
Tara returned the faint smile, happy to have an ally, even if only for the journey. After that, she assumed that she would see little of Brendan and Haskell. They would be put to work on the farm while she would probably be assigned household duties. She shuddered as she imagined being forced to share Taft’s bed. She had never been with a man before and had no idea how she should please one. Her mother had only seen fit to give those instructions to her daughters the night before they were to marry; it was considered a sin among her people to be intimate with a man before marriage and improper for young ladies to know such things before they needed to. Now, her innocence may well prove to be her downfall. She dared a glance at the spiteful features of Gunilla. Her brow was creased in a permanent scowl and her mouth looked pinched and mean. Tara was certain that she would be a formidable enemy and there was nothing she could do about it. She had not chosen to be bought by Taft to be his bed-slave; she had no desire to steal his attention or affections from Gunilla. Not that Gunilla would ever believe that. She would forever hate Tara simply because of her role in the household, considering her to be a threat. Tara was afraid; she was certain that Gunilla would be a dangerous foe.
CHAPTER 7
“We are nearing the end of our journey,” Haskell whispered. “I heard them mention Aurvangr. I know the area quite well and we are not far from there. I am sure we will soon reach our destination.”
Tara opened her mouth to ask him if he recognized any landmarks but before she could get the words out, there was a yell ahead of surprise as three runaway sheep suddenly darted across the road, right in front of Taft’s horse. Instantly, it reared on its hind legs with a scream of terror before bolting into a maddened gallop. Caught by surprise, Taft was thrown from the saddle; one of his feet caught in the stirrup as the horse leapt forwards. Undeterred, the horse hurtled across the rocky landscape, dragging Taft by one foot.
Tara watched in horror as Taft’s body bounced and jarred, his head unprotected. Finally, his foot came free and he lay still, some distance from the shocked and horrified onlookers. The horse continued its crazed charge and was soon lost to view among the large boulders that littered the landscape.
“Get him!” screeched Gunilla, sitting at the front of the cart while Holger drove.
Holger sprang into action. Tara watched as the leading servant sprinted towards the still form of Taft, lying with his leg beneath him at an awkward angle. Gunilla followed at a jog. Brendan and Haskell looked at each other. Should they go over to help? Brendan made up his mind.
“Let us see if there is anything we can do,” he said to Haskell. “They will need help to carry him from where he is lying.”
The two slaves made their way over to where Gunilla and Holger bent over Taft. Holger looked up as they approached.
“He is alive,” he said. “We will need to get him into the cart so we can take him home. We can bring the cart a little closer but there are too many rocks to get it to here.” He looked at Haskell. “Can you bring the cart a little closer?” he asked.
“I will go get it,” Haskell said, and set off to the cart where Tara was holding the horses, speaking softly to them and rubbing their noses to calm them down. They had also been alarmed by the sheep and by the crazy behavior of their new stablemate.
“It is a good thing you have them,” Haskell said. “They were also alarmed and ready to run away. The mistress has asked us to bring the cart over as close as we can get it. The master is alive but he is badly injured.”
“Will he survive?” Tara asked.
“I know not,” replied Haskell gravely. “But we cannot leave him in a field of stones, no matter if he is dead or not.”
The men spent time considering the best way to lift Taft into the cart, finally deciding to carefully slide him onto a blanket. He was unconscious but when they straightened out his broken leg, he moaned. Then two of them got the corners of the blanket at his head and Gunilla joined Brendan in lifting the corners of the blanket at his feet. They moved slowly and carefully until they reached the cart. Placing him on the ground beside it, they tied ropes to the corners of the blanket. Then Gunilla and Brendan got into the cart while Haskell and Holger, the two tallest, stood beside him. Each person took a rope and started to pull, slowly raising Taft until he was level with the bed of the cart. Then Holger and Haskell put their shoulders beneath him to support his weight while Gunilla and Brendan hauled on the blanket. Taft’s body slid gently over the edge of the cart as they pulled and finally, he was lying flat on its floor. Tara rubbed the horse she was holding on his nose.
“Good boy,” she crooned. “You are such a good boy. You stood so still. You surely deserve a treat.”
The horse bent its head against her and she knew she’d made a friend. Holger climbed back into the driver’s seat and picked up the reins. Gunilla climbed in beside Taft to steady him and they set off at a slow pace, Holger trying to drive as carefully as he could to avoid jostling the patient.
Haskell, Brendan and Tara fell into
step behind the cart and yet again, Tara felt fear of the unknown rising in suffocating waves. For now, she had escaped becoming Taft’s bed-slave, but what would happen to her now that he was injured? Would Gunilla sell her yet again? The woman clearly hated her presence and what she represented: a threat. Each time she thought she knew the fate that awaited her, circumstances changed and she faced the unknown yet again. She was fast becoming its favorite victim.
“Is this your work, God?” she asked silently. “You have so far kept me from harm and I am grateful. But I would really like to know what is to become of me.”
The landscape around her was silent; no voice thundered from the heavens; no little voice whispered an answer in her ear. But once again, she found herself at peace. God was proving to be trustworthy and she was grateful.
“Holger, you must go and fetch the healer,” Gunilla said, rising from Taft’s bedside.
They had carefully carried him from the cart and placed him in his bed; he had moaned several times but he had not awakened.
“The healer will be able to set the bones in his leg if we do not leave it too long,” she added.
Holger nodded and turned to leave, and Gunilla spotted the three slaves standing at a respectful distance, waiting to be told what to do next. She walked up to them with a look of distaste on her face.
Tara: Taken (Viking Guardians Book 5) Page 4