Her Rogue Viking

by Ashe Barker

  “Twice widowed? She looks to be about your age though.”

  “She is twenty-four summers I believe, so a little older than me. Even so… she has seen much in her life. I hope Gunnar will be kind to her.”

  “I believe he will. He is besotted by his new bride, and by the baby too, though the little one is not his. I recall Mairead looked about ready to drop her bairn by the roadside.”

  “Yes.” She turned to face him. “You truly believe he will make her happy? Protect her and her children?”

  “I do, for it is clear to me that he loves her. I can well comprehend his fascination with Celtic females,” he bent to kiss her hair, “since I do share it.”

  “Not entirely.”

  Her tone had changed, she seemed… sad. “Fiona?”

  “Your brother became fascinated by a Celtic woman, so he made her his wife. Your fascination drove you to make a slave of me. There is a world of difference, as I am quite sure Brynhild has already pointed out.”

  It was true, his sister had had much to say on the subject when she was able to get him alone and Ulfric had eventually snapped at her, told her to hold her tongue or make herself scarce. It would seem that not only Gunnar was offended by her words.

  “You think he should not have wed her?”

  “I did not say that. I am pleased for Mairead, that she has a man who will respect her and take care of her, even if he is a Viking.”

  Her meaning was clear. “You believe that I should wed you?” His tone was incredulous and he made no attempt to conceal his astonishment. The very notion was preposterous, out of the question. A Viking did not take a slave to wife, however lovely the wench might be, however warm his bed with her in it.

  “What I believe, or want, has no relevance here. You have made that much clear to me. I will bid you a good night, Viking.” She rolled over to present her back to him, her spine stiff as though she dared him to so much as touch her. He considered it, but let his hand drop to the blankets. His thrall was tired, it had been a hectic and stressful day. He would allow her to rest.

  * * *

  Fiona had little to say to him the following morning. It was clear that she was still angry following their exchange the previous night but he had no time to address the matter now. Worse, he lacked his usual certainty in how to deal with his slave. Should he spank her for her insolence, for her unrealistic expectations and her ridiculous demands? The notion was tempting, certainly, but he was not entirely convinced it would yield the results he desired. Should he apologise instead, try to explain the vast difference in their status here? It would not be the first time he had apologised to Fiona, but he could not quite bring himself to the view that he was in the wrong here.

  He was master, she the slave. It was simple, and she must accept her situation. So, a spanking then. He would see to it as soon as their visitors left.

  Gunnar and his party were to depart by noon so the two brothers and their men took advantage of their final few hours to indulge their shared passion for hunting. When they left the longhouse, Mairead and Fiona were seated together enjoying a cup of mead. Brynhild glowered at them from her position at the loom, but Ulfric had made it clear that Fiona was to be left in peace with her friend so he did not anticipate interference from that quarter. Still, his sister made her feelings plain enough.

  He shook his head, baffled and frustrated by her intransigence, and strode off to mount his horse.

  The hunt was successful. The men returned to Skarthveit with three fine stags slung across their horses. One carcase was to go to Gunnarsholm, the other two would be butchered and salted here to provide food during the coming winter months. Ulfric was pleased with the morning’s work, and genuinely sorry to wave farewell to his brother when Gunnar and his family were ready to leave.

  “Mind my words, watch out for Olaf Bjarkesson. He is a vengeful bastard, and quite beyond reason. He will attack you, the first chance he has.”

  “I know. I will inspect our fields to check for any signs that he has been around. And even though I believe you to be correct in your assessment of him, I shall endeavour one last time to make peace with Olaf since we are neighbours and must inhabit this land together.”

  “Good defences and vigilance will keep you safe, not negotiations. But you must do as you think best, brother. I am intending to remain at Gunnarsholm over the winter, then resume raiding as soon as the weather clears enough. If you need me, send word and I will be here as quickly as I can.”

  “Thank you. Be safe, and take care of your family.”

  “I intend to, brother, you may be certain of that. You also.”

  As his guests disappeared from view over the crest of the hills to the north, Ulfric considered his brother’s parting words. With every day that passed, he reflected, taking care of his family became ever more challenging. There was much to be said for Gunnar’s far simpler approach.

  * * *

  Fiona did not take her spanking well. He was obliged to drag her across his lap and secure her hands in the small of her back before he could lift her skirts and apply his palm to her delightful bottom. She squirmed and squealed and dared to call him a vile Viking bully, which earned her several additional swats. Only when she at last lay spent and weeping over his knees did he cease to punish her. He lifted her in his arms and lay with her on their bed as she sobbed against his chest.

  As he finally extricated himself from her clinging embrace and drew the blankets up around her, she muttered something into the mattress. He did not quite catch it, could not have for her words made no sense.

  “Why could you not just love me?”

  Chapter Eleven

  She was forbidden to leave the longhouse, apart from to visit the privy. Ulfric insisted the restriction was for her own safety, but Fiona was convinced it was more of the punishment he had been so determined to mete out.

  He had declared her belligerent and troublesome and told her she was to be spanked to remind her of her place here. It was done to show her that he could, and to reinforce the vast gulf between her status and that of Mairead, Fiona knew it. Had she realised he would react thus, she would never have breathed a word of her discontent, her growing disappointment that he bore no real affection for her. Ulfric might tell her that she was more than a mere wench to fuck, but his actions said otherwise. Even when his brother demonstrated that another way was possible, Ulfric scoffed and dismissed her hopes.

  Well, she entertained no such aspirations now. She did not want his affection, would fling it back at him were it offered. He was a Viking, a savage, a brute, and she hated him.

  Ulfric had explained that he must visit Bjarkesholm, the settlement of his erstwhile friend and kinsman in order to seek a peaceful solution to the blood feud that simmered between them. She knew he did not harbour any real optimism for the outcome, but felt it necessary to try. He would be away overnight, and until his return she was to remain indoors.

  He had been gone for several hours now and still her anger and sense of injustice remained undiminished. Fiona sat at the table, a pile of prepared vegetables in an iron bowl before her, ready to be tossed into the cauldron in readiness for the nattmal, the meal they always ate in the evening at the end of the day’s labours. She and Hilla might do some spinning later, their contribution to the weaving process. There was method in her planning, since the more yarn they made available the more Brynhild could be gainfully employed at her loom and not prowling the longhouse seeking faults to pick with Fiona. It was a strategy that seemed to work well enough as the Viking woman had largely left her alone for the last couple of weeks or so. Fiona feared though that Brynhild’s hostility would have been rekindled by her anger at Gunnar’s marriage.

  “Aunt, my tummy hurts.” Njal was seated with them at the table sipping at his mug of buttermilk with an uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm. Fiona would concede the boy looked a distinct shade of green.

  Brynhild abandoned her loom and came to crouch beside him. She laid
her palm on his forehead. “You feel hot. Come, you need to lie down for a short while.”

  “I am going to—” Without further warning the boy lurched forward and deposited a pool of undigested buttermilk on the floor of the longhouse. The women leapt to their feet and Hilla scurried for a mop.

  “Poor baby. Come, I will look after you, though I am not in the least surprised that you are ill. You ate too much, you and that Celt brat guzzling honey all of yesterday morning.” She glanced at Fiona. “You, fetch a bucket in case he is sick again.”

  Fiona rushed to the outhouse where such items were stored and grabbed the first pail that came to hand. By the time she returned to the longhouse Njal was installed on his pallet and Brynhild was seeking to coax him with a little chamomile tea, which she swore was efficacious in the treatment of digestive disorders. Fiona was of the opinion that a bit of peace and quiet and a decent nap would be equally beneficial, but held her tongue. She assisted Hilla in dealing with the mess on the floor, and the pair returned to their task while Brynhild tended to the sick child.

  “I need to visit the privy,” Fiona murmured to Hilla. “I will be but a few minutes.”

  The other girl nodded and Fiona drew on the shawl she usually favoured for such excursions. It was late afternoon, the light was already fading and the air was chilly. She scuttled around the outside of the longhouse and concluded her business there as quickly as she might. As she made her way back she glanced up into the night sky. It was clear, the stars just becoming visible in the inky blackness above her head. She paused to admire their perfect beauty, their mysterious all-seeing power as they hovered above this tiny, insignificant world.

  “You, what are you doing out here? My brother instructed you to remain inside.” Brynhild stood a few feet away, her hands on her hips as she regarded Fiona with undisguised loathing.

  “I was just on my way back. I paused to look at the stars, that is all.”

  “And what makes you think you have time to gaze at the stars? Do you expect others to do your work for you?”

  “No, but we had finished, and—”

  “I shall say when your work is concluded, not you. And you know the consequences of disobedience. Do you require another thrashing this day?”

  Brynhild, along with everyone else in the longhouse, had heard the commotion as Ulfric sought to exert his authority over her. It was common knowledge that he had spanked her, but Fiona knew full well that Brynhild was not permitted to do likewise.

  “You may not beat me. In any case, I was just coming in…”

  “My brother prefers to whip you himself, I grant you that. But there are other methods at my disposal. Since you seem to enjoy the outdoors so much, perhaps I should allow you to remain here. I think a spell in the stocks will teach you the benefits of obedience and hard work.”

  “The stocks? Are you quite mad? You cannot—”

  “Harald, see that she is secured well.”

  The thrall shuffled over, clearly uncomfortable at this latest instruction from his mistress. “Lady, I do not think—”

  “I shall do the thinking, your task here is to obey. See her set in the stocks, at once, or be prepared to take your place alongside her there.” Brynhild moved in close to Harald and leaned toward him. Fiona heard the low murmur as their Viking mistress spoke only to the other slave, but she could not make out the words. No doubt Brynhild was issuing yet more dark threats, hinting at even more fearful retribution if he did not obey.

  Harald took several moments to consider his options, and in that time Fiona contemplated making a run for it. She might well outrun the lumbering servant, but she knew others would pursue her. Ulfric’s words had not been lost on her; she well understood the perils facing a runaway slave.

  Harald seized her elbow. “Come, wench, let us not make this difficult. It will not be for long…”

  “No, please. It is cold, and… and … Ulfric would not permit this.”

  “Ulfric is not here, so you answer to me in his absence. Harald, you know what you have to do. See to it. I am needed inside to tend to Njal as his sickness has worsened but be assured I shall check that you have done exactly as I have instructed.” Brynhild turned on her heel and swept away, her chin high. Fiona could have sworn the woman was smiling.

  Harald tugged her around to the front of the longhouse, into the open, central area where domestic animals roamed and the people of Skarthveit gathered during the daylight hours as they went about their errands and chores. The space was deserted now. The stocks were situated at the far end, between the tanning shed and the forge. They consisted of two heavy oak beams each with two semi-circles hewn out of their edge in order to accommodate the victim’s ankles. Handling her more roughly now, Harald shoved Fiona into a sitting position and opened the stocks.

  “Put your feet in, girl. Be quick about it.”

  “Ulfric will have your hide for this. He will never permit you to treat me in this way.”

  “The master shall take it up with his sister. I am a slave, just as you are.” Harald grabbed the shackle that still adorned Fiona’s ankle despite Ulfric never having made use of it, and he shook the metal band hard enough to make Fiona yelp. “This is it, the symbol. We do as we are told, as we must.”

  “But—”

  Harald slammed the stocks shut and secured them with an iron loop threaded over the two opening jaws to secure them together. The fastening was well out of Fiona’s reach so she could only wait for someone to free her. The other slave stood over her, a smirk on his ruddy features.

  “So, not so high and mighty now, are we? You could do with learning a bit of humility, girl, instead of swanning around this place queening it over others as if you had have been here for years.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait! Where are you going? You cannot just leave me here.”

  “Who is to say I cannot? I have a wench and a decent jug of ale awaiting me in yonder longhouse. You will come to no harm here and you shall be released soon enough.” He offered Fiona a jaunty grin as he sauntered away.

  His footsteps disappeared into the gathering gloom and Fiona was left alone in the eerie silence. All around her people ate, worked, tended to their children, their animals, but none would willingly venture outdoors after dark. Even if it were not for the threat posed by the Bjarkessons, Viking folk preferred the safety and warmth of their dwellings after the sun set.

  Fiona could well understand why as she clutched her meagre shawl about her shoulders. She was glad that Harald had not thought to remove her shoes before locking her in the stocks or her feet would already be turning blue. The temperatures would plummet to below freezing soon. The vengeful Viking woman had said that she would return, to check that her orders had been carried out. Surely even Brynhild would not leave her here for more than a few minutes.

  Fiona’s teeth chattered and she could not control her shivering as the minutes crept by, lengthening to a half hour, she estimated, then an hour.

  Brynhild was not coming. She would be here by now if she meant Fiona no real harm.

  As the reality of her situation dawned, Fiona sank into a despondent weeping. Ulfric’s slender protection was gone, if only for one night, but that was enough. Brynhild meant to kill her. She had planned for this, had waited for her opportunity, and when it came, she seized it. The Viking woman might even pass Fiona’s death off as an accident, tell Ulfric that his slave had disobeyed his orders, that she had wandered off and became lost, died of the cold. Only Harald knew any different, and he would hardly be likely to tell the truth.

  Fiona did what she might to remain warm, clapping her numb hands together and shifting as much as she could. It was hopeless. She called out, pleading for help, but the closest longhouse was at least thirty yards from where she sat on the frozen earth. The forge and the tannery were both deserted at this hour, and by the time the smith emerged, yawning, into the dawn light she would be just a stiff corpse. No one could survive a night outdoors, without shelter,
without warm clothing.

  Fiona closed her eyes and allowed her frantic mind to drift, seeking peace at last as she sank into unconsciousness.

  Ulfric, why did you leave? I need you, please, please, I will never speak out of turn again. I shall obey, be the meek little bed-slave…

  * * *

  “What the fuck…?”

  Fiona was dreaming, her imagination conjuring up that which she wanted most in the world. Ulfric, his strength, his warmth. There was a scrape of iron against wood, then a clatter as the stocks were thrown open. Gentle hands about her waist, under her stiff knees, lifting…

  “Hilla! Harald! I want hot water, a bath. Now!” Ulfric’s angry bellow echoed about the settlement. Footsteps, running. Voices, questions, the pounding of his feet as he sprinted across the settlement with her in his arms. Fiona tried to lift her hand, to reach for his chin to check he was real, not another illusion. She cracked her eyelids apart and inhaled deeply. The warm, familiar tang of his leather tunic, the soft rub of his fleece cloak. These were so achingly real, so familiar. Perhaps…

  “Ulfric, you are here…”

  Fiona flinched at the hated tone of her adversary. She turned her head to see Brynhild emerging from the longhouse, her cloak gathered about her as though thrown on in a hurry. The woman seemed rooted to the spot now, her expression stunned as she took in the enraged Viking before her.

  “Brother, I can explain. She was—”

  “Not a word, Brynhild. Not a fucking word. I have heard enough from you.” Ulfric never so much as broke stride as he brushed past as though his sister did not stand in his doorway seeking to bar his way. Fiona clutched at his cloak whilst Brynhild followed. The woman reached for his elbow, but Ulfric shook her off. “Leave us. I shall hear an account of this in the morning, and believe me, Brynhild, there will be a reckoning.”

  Once inside, Fiona lay shivering on the bed as Ulfric himself made up the fire in their sleeping quarters. Hilla rushed back and forth with buckets of water, but Harald was nowhere to be seen. Fiona was glad of that, even though it meant more work fell on Hilla’s shoulders. Not for long, though, Ulfric summoned more thralls and soon her bath was ready for her. He helped her to undress, or rather he managed to remove her clothing despite her own inability to move her fingers or limbs to aid herself. Then he lifted her into the bath and sat behind her to support her head.