Her Rogue Viking

by Ashe Barker

  Fiona watched him stroll away, his gait deceptively casual as he issued further instructions to his men as he passed. All scuttled to do his bidding, his authority absolute. She saw no cause to doubt his assertion.

  * * *

  The dark Viking, Gunnar, spoke no Gaelic but still his commands were readily understood by the captives who now fell to his responsibility. He ordered that the men be herded off first, allowing Fiona almost no opportunity to receive Taranc’s quick hug and hurried admonition to do as she was told and not attract attention from their captors.

  “I shall see you soon, I know it,” she whispered, though in truth she held no such conviction. They might not even be taken to the same destination.

  Fiona shivered as the men were hurried away, encouraged to make haste across the wasteland of their former homes by the jab of several swords and the occasional application of a switch if one among them seemed unduly tardy. The women left behind were few in number, just a half dozen or so. Fiona was acquainted with all of them, though not all came from Pennglas. She exchanged an anxious look with Mairead, the young widow from Aikrig, heavily pregnant, and Fiona wondered why she had been chosen since surely she could not work in her condition. Perhaps these savages just did not care. She acknowledged Quinn, another widow of middle age, also from Aikrig, who Fiona knew to be skilled in weaving. Briana, Quinn’s daughter clung to her mother and wept as their small group was prodded at sword point in the direction of the beach. Fiona recalled that Briana had been recently wed to Cedric, one of the men taken away with Taranc. Had she, too, been made to speak her goodbyes?

  Only Fiona was bound, and she almost stumbled to her knees as she tried to keep up the forced pace across the rough terrain. Mairead took her elbow to help steady her and Quinn stationed herself at her other side. Fiona was glad of their aid and thanked them quietly.

  “‘Tis nothing, lady,” muttered Mairead. “We must all seek to help each other now.” The woman paused, then, “Did you see my son? Was he taken with the men?”

  “No, I did not see him.” Fiona tried to summon a reassuring smile for the anxious mother. “I expect he managed to slip away. They were mainly seizing strong men, the most able-bodied.”

  “Aye, my Donald is but seven years old, a mere bairn. He would be of no use to them.”

  “Begja,” snarled the Norseman closest to them. Fiona could not understand his coarse Nordic speech, but even so she and the others took his meaning well enough. The women fell silent.

  * * *

  The next three days and nights were the stuff of nightmares. The women were forced onto a small cargo boat, where they huddled together on the floor as their Viking captors plied the oars. Neither the Viking overlord nor his dark comrade sailed with them, relinquishing the captives into the charge of a small crew of rough Norsemen. Fiona was surprised to realise she was more afraid as a result of their absence than she was by their presence.

  It was not yet fully the end of summer but the crossing was rough. A huge sail whipped and flapped above them, dragging the small craft across the choppy seas. Despite living her entire nineteen summers beside the sea, Fiona had never been fond of sailing. She felt nauseous from the moment she was slung on board and could hardly manage to keep down any of the hard, bland lumps of bread given to them by the barbarians who held them prisoner. Quinn coaxed her to eat, holding the bread for her since Fiona could not feed herself with her hands tied in the small of her back. At Quinn’s insistent pleading one of the Viking sailors freed Fiona’s wrists, though this small mercy did little to alleviate the discomfort of the voyage.

  The days on board the small boat were miserable, the nights even more so. None of the women had managed to grab warm clothing when the Vikings attacked so they shivered together until their captors relented and provided a few paltry furs for them to share. It was not much, but sufficient, barely, to stop them from freezing to death as the night-time temperatures plummeted. The bottom of the boat where the prisoners sat was damp and soon the wetness permeated their meagre clothing, adding to their ordeal.

  Fiona was convinced their misery could not become worse when the shout went up from one of the men at the oars. Land had been sighted. But what land? Where had they been taken? Fiona had but the vaguest knowledge of the frozen wasteland that she understood lay to the north and from whence came these fierce marauders. She had no idea what to expect of their destination, but feared the worst.

  The cargo ship hugged the rocky shoreline for several miles so Fiona and the other women had ample opportunity to study their new home. Green forests of towering pines covered much of the landscape, backed by mountains of deep grey capped in pristine white. Autumn had yet to arrive but already the air was chilled and snow fell on the higher peaks. Fiona saw many narrow inlets, perhaps a hundred paces in width though some seemed narrower, but all sliced deep into the land. Their sides were steep, the cliffs towering. The sea trapped between them churned and crashed against the rocks.

  Occasional sandy beaches hugged the coastline, and here and there Fiona discerned signs of habitation—a wisp of smoke curling above the trees, a rough mud or wooden hut, a small boat bobbing close to the shore.

  Eventually, the man at the helm of their own craft turned toward the coast. As they drew closer Fiona could make out the cluster of buildings, larger than the huts she had seen thus far, and a roughly constructed harbour nestling within a narrow bay. As their boat entered the harbour she could see the people on the shore, men and women scurrying about their business in this bustling little port. It was busier than any place she had seen before, and all the inhabitants seemed as fearsome as those she had already encountered.

  She had longed for this miserable voyage to end; now she prayed to remain at sea.

  Their boat collided with the harbour wall and the women were hurled to the damp planking beneath their feet. Ropes were flung over the side and the craft was secured by others waiting on shore. All too soon the women were ordered to climb up the side of the boat into the rough embrace of men waiting to haul them ashore.

  Fiona tried but could not climb as her fingers were numb so one of the sailors flung her over his shoulder and scrambled up until another man could grab her and drag her unceremoniously onto the rough jetty. Once ashore Fiona lay on the unsteady planking gasping for breath and wondering if she would ever feel warm again.

  Chapter Two

  “Eileifr must have opted to return by the scenic route. We have been waiting here for almost two days.”

  Ulfric Freysson complained into his jug of mead as he regarded the disembarkation of his female thralls. He was starting to regret his haste in taking women as well as men. It was strong male backs he needed to construct the granary and harbour at Skarthveit, his own settlement two days north of Hafrsfjord where he now quenched his thirst. He knew women to be a calming influence on male slaves and he had no wish to spend the next few years quelling one uprising after another, but his reasons were more complex than that. Certainly the dark-haired wench who had sought to fell his men with her puny slingshot had fallen victim to impulse rather than any reason on his part.

  “It has been little more than one day. Your man made good time given the rot-bucket of a craft he has somehow managed to navigate across the northern waters. And we have put our enforced idleness to good use.” His companion patted the bulging purse fastened to his leather belt. “I trust you have no more silver you wish to offload. I should be delighted to oblige you.”

  “You cheated,” announced Ulfric dispassionately. “No one is that lucky.”

  Gunnar shrugged and lifted his cup of ale to his mouth, saluting his lord with it before drinking deep.

  Ulfric watched the women emerge one by one to be received into the ungentle care of his slave master, Dagr Varllsson. The man was not one of his favourites, but he was efficient and not unduly harsh. The Celts were here to work and Dagr could get the required results out of them without losing too many of their number to escapes. Slaves we
re valuable. Ulfric worked hard enough to acquire them and they could be used as required, then traded or sold. A slave master who was over fond of the whip was a liability, as was one not prepared to enforce the rigid discipline needed to maintain order. Dagr was about right, all things considered.

  Ulfric lowered his jug when the dark-haired wench came into sight. Shit, she looks half-dead!

  “Fuck,” he muttered and strode for the door of the tavern, his mead abandoned. Gunnar downed his own ale and followed him.

  The wench still lay on her side on the jetty as he approached. Dagr had also seen her and was already advancing, his pugnacious jaw set. As his slave master bent to haul the girl to her feet, Ulfric spoke.

  “Leave her to me.”

  “Aye, Jarl, but—” Dagr peered at him, his expression bemused. Ulfric was not surprised. He normally preferred to leave all such tedious details to his servant.

  “We need to be off as soon as possible. You attend to the rest, I can manage this one.”

  “Aye, well, the smith is ready to fix the manacles. The men have been chained in line for hours…”

  “I shall bring her over,” Ulfric assured him. “You secure the others.”

  Dagr was still muttering as he hurried away. Ulfric ignored him, instead bending one knee to lower himself closer to where the girl still lay. She looked up at him but remained silent. It was defiance and resentment he discerned in her eyes though, not fear. And what eyes they were, every bit as grey as he remembered, their colour as deep as the sea and as stormy as a winter’s evening. For a brief moment he was again captivated by that smoky gaze, then she winced and he returned to his own senses.

  “The delights of seafaring are lost on you, I take it?”

  She furrowed her forehead, obviously not taking his meaning.

  “You have not much enjoyed the crossing.” He took her chin in his palm and turned her face up toward him. “You look quite green, little Celt. Are you able to stand?”

  The wench nodded slowly. Ulfric offered her a sardonic smile as he leaned across to draw her hands in front of her.

  “Fuck, you are very cold.” He rubbed the stiff, frigid fingers. “Is that better?”

  She nodded, curling her hands into fists.

  “Stiff?”

  Another small nod. Ulfric reached for her shoulders and assisted her to a sit, then massaged both her small hands between his own. His actions were gentler than he intended. Something about this Celtic lass evoked an unexpected tenderness in him.

  Behind him, Gunnar cleared his throat.

  Ulfric turned his head. “Have you taken a chill, my brother?”

  “No, but I expect we shall all succumb to an ague if we remain here much longer. Shall I take this one over to the smith to be fitted with her shackles?”

  Ulfric rose to his feet, drawing the Celt girl up with him. “Yes. I will settle up our remaining affairs here and we can be away.”

  Gunnar took the girl by the elbow and Ulfric was gratified to note that she offered no resistance as his brother led her away. He remained where he was and watched them as the pair crossed the hard-packed soil toward the rest of her countrymen and women who were waiting to commence the two-day trek to Skarthveit. Even at this distance though he caught the expression of horror that crossed her delicate features as she realised she was to be chained to the rest, an iron band to be secured around her slender ankle. Gunnar remained at her side until the process was completed then he returned to where Ulfric still stood.

  “A pretty one,” his brother observed, “not happy to be shackled, though.”

  “She did not fight you. I was watching.”

  “She did not, that is true, and it would have done her no good in any case. But you can still tell, can you not? Something in the eyes…”

  * * *

  Something in the eyes indeed. Ulfric mused on that as he and Gunnar, and the rest of the jarls who were to ride to Skarthveit with him mounted their horses and made ready to depart Hafrsfjord. The slaves had left some two hours before, shuffling off along the rough track that led further up the coast toward his own settlement. Dagr’s harsh commands rang out as the men led the way, chained together in pairs, a sorry convoy as they were led off to a life of hard labour and captivity. The few females brought up the rear.

  Ulfric had watched as that mane of dark, wavy hair lifted in the breeze, those curving hips swaying awkwardly as his Celtic thrall sought to keep her footing on the uneven ground, encumbered as she was by the heavy shackles. She would get used to it, they always did. Eventually.

  He gazed up at the sky, the weak sun just starting to dip. They had perhaps an hour’s daylight left, plenty of time to catch up and probably overtake the slave convoy. The journey would take the captives at least two days. He and his escort would be home by the following morning. Ulfric dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and they were away.

  The rear of the straggly procession came into view soon enough, though they were still a good two or three miles ahead. Ulfric picked her out at once, his dark-haired little slave. She would be wasted on heavy labour, and he was even less inclined to allow her to offer comfort to the male thralls. Especially that so-called betrothed of hers.

  The man made Ulfric uneasy. The Celt held himself too straight, was too proud, altogether too fucking sure of himself to ever make a decent slave. Ulfric regretted now not leaving the man behind; he just knew the Scottish thrall would be more trouble than he was worth.

  Ulfric and the others on horseback gained ground and soon enough came up alongside those on foot. He took the opportunity to once more observe the girl at close quarters as he passed. Her head was bowed, her features concealed behind the curtain of raven-hued hair that fell almost to her waist. She wore stout boots, he noted, and was glad of that, for her sake as she dragged her feet over the inhospitable terrain.

  The shrill scream brought him to a sudden halt. Ulfric swivelled in the saddle to see what had caused the commotion behind him. Dagr sprinted from the head of the line back along the column to the rear. Ulfric could make out bobbing heads at the back of the convoy and the squeals of pain continued. Instinctively he knew it was her.

  He pulled on the reins to turn his mount and cantered back the way he had come. Dagr was already casting about him with the switch he kept constantly to hand, separating the women to expose the one in distress. The slave master leaned in and extricated the offending thrall.

  The wench shrieked as his servant dragged her from the line and onto the verge beside the track. She writhed on the ground, sobbing. Even from a distance Ulfric could see her features contorted first in pain, then in horror as Dagr drew his dagger.

  The man seized the front of her woollen smock and dragged her forward, his intent clear.

  “Létta!” The shout rang out as Ulfric kicked his mount into a canter. “What is the problem here?”

  Dagr swung his head around to regard his master. “Turned an ankle, Jarl. The wench is useless now, she can’t even get to Skarthveit. I’ll not have the rest held up…”

  “I see. Very well, I shall deal with it.” Ulfric dismounted.

  “I wouldn’t be expecting you to do that, sir. I shall just dispatch her now, nice and quick. She’ll not suffer.” The man adjusted his grip on the dagger, clearly ready to do what was needed. Ulfric could not fault his slave master’s alacrity and devotion to his duty, even if the man was sorely lacking in mercy.

  “That is quite all right. I appreciate your diligence but it does seem to be a waste of a decent slave.”

  Dagr was unmoved. “If she cannot walk, she cannot work. ‘Tis simple enough. I cannot be having one of the others carrying her…”

  Ulfric crouched beside the wench who was already shaking violently, her face pallid. It was the shock of her injury, he had no doubt, compounded by the prospect of impending death at the hands of his pitiless karl.

  “Thank you, Dagr,” affirmed Ulfric. “You may return to your duties.”

  The
man complied, shaking his head. Ulfric watched him amble away, the karl’s pace quickening as unrest began in the ranks of male slaves. Even from here Ulfric could recognise the tawny locks of the man who had claimed to be the betrothed of his recent acquisition. The Celt was straining to be free, oblivious to the strike of the switch wielded with enthusiasm by one of the guards. Dagr was clearly ready to add his own efforts to subduing the male who was yelling threats and curses at the top of his lungs.

  “Let her be, you animals. I shall carry her. I will—”

  “Silence, cur,” Dagr snarled in their Nordic tongue and of course the Celt could not understand. The slave master raised his switch, but far from subduing the unrest other slaves, both male and female, were now joining in. The angry shouts of protest grew, accompanied by the clank and rattle of chains as more and more added their voices to the protest.

  “For fuck’s sake,” muttered Ulfric as he rose to his feet. He made straight for the man at the centre of the trouble. “You, listen to me and heed me well.”

  He spoke in Gaelic and was gratified to note that several of the slaves did indeed seem inclined to hear his words. Even so, he addressed himself to the tall, brown-haired man. “What is your name, Celt?”

  “I am Taranc.” The reply was delivered with not the merest hint of servility. On the contrary, the belligerent slave glared at him, his every sinew bristling with anger.

  Again, Dagr made as though to step in and assert his authority. Ulfric forestalled that with one upraised hand. The man fell back obediently.