“I wish you were not here,” she told them. “But since my husband has been injured, perhaps it is a good thing. What is your name?” she asked, poking Haskell in the chest.
“Haskell,” he replied.
She turned to Brendan. “And you?”
“Brendan.”
“Hmmm, you are Írskr too, are you not?”
“I am. But I understand the language of this land.”
She looked as if she’d just spat out a bug. “I have no idea what my stupid husband was thinking, buying Írskr slaves,” she muttered. She approached Tara and her eyes narrowed. “And you, you filthy Írskr, I know not what to do with you.” She paused, thinking. “You shall be nowhere near my husband,” she declared. “Here is what will happen. Haskell will come to live in the house with me. He will be responsible for caring for my husband’s needs as long as Taft is unable to rise from his bed. Brendan will go to live in the slave-house with the field slaves. And you …” she stabbed a finger at Tara. “You will be banished to the barn to live in the loft. The kitchen servant will feed you. And you will work with the field slaves, where the work is hard and you will know what it means to be a slave.” Satisfied with herself, she smirked. “You will never get the chance to be near my husband. Not in my house.”
Tara shuddered. Did that mean that Gunilla would try to kill her? She had no idea.
“Come!” Gunilla barked. “I will show you where you are to sleep. Tomorrow, Holger will tell you what you must do.”
She led the way to a small slave-house. It was almost time for the evening meal and an old woman was inside, stirring a pot that smelt incredibly good. Three field-slaves looked up fearfully as Gunilla entered. Tara caught their looks and guessed that she was as cruel as her husband.
“You will sleep here with the other field-slaves,” Gunilla told Brendan. “Inger is the kitchen servant who prepares the meals. She will feed you.”
Brendan smiled at the old woman stirring the pot; she glared at him but he caught a softening in her hard gaze a moment before she dropped her eyes. He made up his mind that he would do his best to win her over. A little Irish charm might be enough to persuade her that he was worthy of the occasional treat from her cooking pot. It was worth a try.
Gunilla hadn’t finished. “What is your name?’ she barked at Tara.
“I am Tara.”
“Come with me,” she snapped and led the way towards the barn. She opened the creaking door and stalked into the gloom. It smelt of dust and animal dung, even though it was summer and the animals were living in the pasture. She pointed to the loft with its rickety ladder. “You will sleep up there,” she said. “And if you cause me the slightest bit of trouble, I will sell you to the first person I can find.”
Tara didn’t understand all the words but she was certain that Gunilla had just threatened her with punishment if she caused trouble. This was better than she could’ve hoped for; a smelly, dusty barn was far preferable to being Taft’s bed-slave. Living in the barn would not be easy but it was a reprieve from a worse fate.
“Thank you, God,” Tara breathed silently.
“Go to Inger now,” Gunilla ordered. “She will feed you and find you some bedding.”
“Thank you,” Tara almost whispered. Perhaps Gunilla was not entirely heartless.
Gunilla simply glared at her then stalked out the door, leaving Tara to gaze around her new home. It would be freezing in winter; of that she was certain. She would have to find some way of making it a little more draught-proof. And somehow, she would need to find some warm clothes. She had been stolen on a warm spring day, when it was not necessary to wear a coat. The spare clothing that Meara had given her was not enough on its own to defeat the cold. She was certain that this household would not be generous in handing out warm clothing and blankets to slaves, especially ones that were banished far from sight. She would be on her own unless she could persuade someone to help her.
She climbed the rickety ladder to look at the loft. It was almost empty save for some leftover hay from the previous year. It would make a comfortable bed and Tara began to feel better about sleeping up there. She climbed down again and headed for the slave-house, hunger gnawing ferociously at her belly. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a decent meal and Inger’s cooking pot had smelt so good. She couldn’t wait to eat.
CHAPTER 8
As the days lengthened into weeks, Tara’s life settled into a rhythm of eating, sleeping and working hard. Fieldwork was a small price to pay for the relative freedom that she enjoyed. Once she had eaten at night, she retired to the barn and her time was her own. During the long summer evenings, she got out the cloth that Meara had given her, several pieces that would make a fine tablecloth or wall hanging. With painstaking care, she stitched elaborate patterns onto the cloth, turning it into a thing of beauty. She was satisfied with her work; not only did she enjoy creating something, but she felt as if she were taking small steps towards earning her freedom. She tried to push aside the memory of what Taft had paid for her; it would take a long time until she could earn that much. Still, she had to keep on trying.
Brendan and Inger kept her informed of Taft’s condition; Brendan was sometimes called to help Haskell move Taft or do other odd jobs around the house and the two became friends. Inger cooked for the slaves and the master’s house and she willingly shared whatever she knew. Tara had won their hearts and they were hoping as much as she was that Taft would never be able to claim her.
After the healer came to set his leg, Taft remained in a stable condition for several days. At last, he awoke for long enough to eat and drink and then went to sleep again. Since then it had been a familiar pattern; Taft slept for long periods, awoke briefly to eat and drink, and slept again. After arranging the appropriate spells, the healer had announced that Taft might not survive the winter, declaring that she had seen others with similar injuries who had lived for a while, then died. No one held great hopes that he would fully recover and Tara found herself hoping that he didn’t, then felt guilty. It was wrong to want someone else to suffer, she reasoned, yet if Taft recovered, her own life would not be worth living. She rarely saw Gunilla; the woman preferred to let Holger arrange the fieldwork and tend to the outdoor chores. It was a lonely life in many ways, but Tara wasn’t about to complain, although she was concerned about how she would survive the intense cold of winter in the barn. She was unaccustomed to large quantities of snow; Brendan assured her that the land of Norowegr experienced harsh, snowy winters.
One day, as the haust approached, Tara retired to the barn after the evening meal, as was her custom. She was hoping to do some more needlework by the light of the candle that Brendan had smuggled from the house for her to use. She sat down on the broken stool she’d found at the end of the barn and got out her cloth, but she had barely made two stitches when something caught her ear. At first, she thought it was only the mice squeaking as they played around the barn but then it became louder and more insistent.
Tara arose from her seat and descended the rickety ladder to the barn floor. The squeaking grew louder and her mouth dropped open in surprise as she noticed a tiny kitten huddled in the corner of the barn. Its eyes had only just opened and it was grey and fluffy.
“Oh, you poor little thing!” she exclaimed, her heart going out to it.
The kitten sat still as she walked slowly over, unwilling to scare it off. She reached down and touched it; it flinched but didn’t attempt to run away. She picked it up, a tiny handful of fluff, and could feel it shivering with cold or fright, she wasn’t sure which. She held it close and it nestled against her for a few minutes, then began to cry again.
“Are you hungry?” she asked aloud. “You poor baby. We will go to the kitchen and see if there is some milk for you.”
Inger had retired to her room at the end of the slave-house and the men were playing a board game when she entered. They were engrossed and barely looked up, leaving her free to poke around the kitchen to
find the kitten something to eat. She discovered a small amount of milk left from the evening meal. Picking up the bowl, she took it to the barn and set it in front of the kitten, who didn’t seem to know what to do with it at first. She dipped her finger in the milk and then into its mouth, trying to show it that the milk was good. At last, the tiny creature figured it out and started to lap from the bowl, its little pink tongue flicking in and out as it lapped the warm milk. When it had finished, it had milk around its chin and on its whiskers.
Tara laughed. “Your table manners need some improvement,” she told it. “But at least you are not hungry now.” She picked it up and held it out to examine it. “Where is your mother, little one? Why are you all alone in the world?”
As Tara cradled the kitten close to her chest, it began to purr, softly at first, then loudly and rhythmically until it suddenly fell asleep. Tara laughed. “You are a little champion,” she said. “I am sorry that your mother is not with you but if you are to live with me, you need a name. I think I shall call you Kappi. It means champion.”
That night, Kappi slept beside Tara in a small wooden box she’d found at the other end of the loft. She put some hay in the bottom and Kappi curled up in his cozy little nest as if he’d always slept there. He awoke once in the night, hungry again, and Tara got up and fed him. When she left to work in the field, she wondered if he would still be there when she returned and was overjoyed to hear his plaintive voice telling her that he was hungry. She went to the kitchen for some more milk, this time taking him with her to show Inger.
“Poor little thing,” she said, her motherly instincts taking over. “He is a forest cat.”
“A forest cat?”
“Yes, they are wild cats that live in the forest. But sometimes, they live with people, too. His mother was most likely sick or injured and she probably brought him here hoping that someone would care for him.” Inger reached out to touch the tiny creature and he started to purr. She was won over completely. “I will find her some milk,” she said.
“I think it is a boy. I have named him Kappi,” Tara said. “He slept beside me in a box I found last night.”
“Kappi is a good name,” Inger said. “You shall never go hungry while I am here to feed you!” She stroked the soft fur protectively. “You come to Inger whenever you want food.”
Tara smiled. She was happy to share Kappi and bring a smile to Inger’s face. The elderly woman had been a slave for a long time and had no family to care for her in her old age. Now, she said that the other slaves were her only family; Tara could see that it would mean a lot to her if she had Kappi to love as well.
That night, Tara went to sleep listening to Kappi purring in his little bed beside her. Although this was not the life she would’ve chosen for herself, it had some unexpected bright spots and blessings and she was grateful. She had no idea what the future held, but for now, she was safe, had enough to eat, and had someone to love.
Erik felt weary as he reached the last stop on his return journey from Más Mýrr. Many of his customers had welcomed a second visit; some of them had even sent goods with him to sell on their behalf at the markets, earning him a commission. He’d stopped at many places on his way back to pay his clients what he owed them and to sell more goods that he’d picked up at the markets. It had been a profitable trip and he felt a sense of achievement as he pulled up outside the last house on his run.
He paid the woman of the house for the tapestry she’d sent with him and bought her remaining wooden pegs that hadn’t sold at the markets. She was pleased and bought two wooden bowls from him. He liked to keep his customers happy; once they realized that he was honest and would treat them fairly, they trusted him. He’d kept meticulous records of everything he sold and took on commission and no one felt that he had wronged them in any way. It was a good way to do business. More importantly, it was a faster way to earn the money he needed. His desire to set the young red-haired woman free from Taft had not wavered; he only hoped that she was still there and still alive. Many slaves did not live to be old, either through illness, hardship or mistreatment.
As Erik said goodbye to his last customer, he felt elated that he had achieved his goal. He had earned the money he needed and he had completed the daunting task in a tight timeframe. His next task was to restock his wagon and take the route that led past Taft’s farm. It would be a lot harder; he knew no one on that route and it went through difficult terrain with many water crossings or detours around the fjords. Many people who travelled through that part of the country went by water but that would mean that he was unable to take his goods to the farms. He would be forced to travel overland just as the farmers who lived in those isolated places often did.
But first, he had to stop at his home village for a couple of days. He needed to repair the wagon and restock with some of the goods he had stored there until he needed them. And he had to go to Merilant with a special request.
“Leopolda, greetings!” Erik said when she opened the door.
“Young Erik! What brings you to my door?” asked the elderly widow.
“I am passing through Merilant on my way home to Leið Lykð. I will stop there for but a few days before my next journey.”
“Winter is coming,” Leopolda agreed. “Travel is more difficult then.”
“Only if you want to get about in a wagon,” Erik grinned. “Many of the people in other parts of the land travel easily across the lakes and rivers when they are frozen. In some ways, it is easier to travel then.”
“But not for you,” Leopolda pointed out. “There is no sled big enough to carry all your goods.”
“No. But winter is still productive. I use it to make repairs to the wagon and create spare parts that I might need later in the season and if there is any time left over, I can make things to sell.”
“There is never an idle moment,” Leopolda agreed.
“I am not here to make small talk,” Erik said seriously, changing the subject. “I have something I wish to ask you.”
“Then ask.”
“On my next journey, I am hoping to find a young female slave that I saw at the markets at Fram Hváll. I wish to purchase her and set her free.”
“Has she captured your heart?” Leopolda asked knowingly.
Erik blushed. “I think not. But she is special and I saw her sold to a man that I know to be a cruel master. I wish to save her from a life of misery under his rule.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
“I came to ask if she can lodge here with you, at least until she has time to decide what she wishes to do next.”
Leopolda looked at him thoughtfully. “Well, it is true that I live alone,” she said. “I have no sons to help me or care for me. The other villagers are good to me and I am not complaining,” she added hastily. “But I could use some help to grow my vegetables and make things to sell during the winter.”
“I can give you a small amount of money towards her keep,” Erik said. “Of course, there are many reasons why this plan might not come to life. I might not find her or she might not agree to it. But if it works, can she come here to stay with you?”
“Yes. I can take her in,” Leopolda decided. “What is her name?”
Erik hung his head. “I know not,” he admitted.
Leopolda was astonished. “Are you telling me that you are on this perilous mission to rescue a woman whose name you do not know?”
“That is the truth.”
Leopolda shook her head with a wry grin. “It is foolishness,” she said. “You must be in love with her to even think about it.”
Erik shook his head. “I know not what it is to be in love,” he said. “All I know is that this woman does not deserve to live with the owner that bought her. She is from Írland.”
Leopolda gasped. “This tale grows stranger by the moment,” she said. “A woman from Írland? Do you know if she even understands our tongue?”
“I know not how long she has been in our
land,” Erik replied. “Perhaps we shall have to teach her.”
“This is an odd matter you have brought to my ears,” Leopolda said.
“One other thing I ask of you,” Erik said.
“What is that?”
“That you will tell no one of this tale until I return. It might put the woman’s life or mine in danger if the word spreads around.”
“I will tell no one,” Leopolda promised, but Erik wasn’t convinced.
“Leopolda!” he said sternly. “I really must have your word. It is important!”
She looked him in the eye. “I promise,” she said. “And because I am a Christian, it is important for me to keep my word. I will tell no one.”
Erik was satisfied. “Thank you,” he said. “I will see you when I return. I know not how long the journey will take but it will be some weeks before I am back.”
CHAPTER 9
Erik slowed the wagon as he drove towards the village of Aurvangr. What had Taft’s wife said? The farm had three large stones at the front but in this rocky landscape, spotting three particular stones was like trying to find three grains of sand on the beach.
Then he saw them, rising out of the land like giant sentinels. A faint trail wound around them and Erik felt sure that he had found Taft’s hiding place, far away from the rest of the world. He turned the horses onto the path, excitement pulsing through his veins. Would Taft recognize him and harm him? Would he find the red-haired woman?
He hadn’t gone far when he saw her. She was working in the field near the trail, raking cut grass to tie into bundles to feed the animals during the winter months. Erik was surprised; bed-slaves usually worked closer to home.
“Heill!” he greeted her.
She raised her head in surprise, her hands still on the rake. Erik jumped down from the wagon and walked towards her.
Tara: Taken (Viking Guardians Book 5) Page 5