by Ashe Barker
* * *
“I have made matters much worse then.” Later, safe in their longhouse, Fiona was tearful as she regarded Ulfric’s solemn features. “They have even more reason now to hate us.”
Ulfric shook his head. “It is not your fault that one of the men you killed was Olaf’s youngest brother. Ivarr was but fifteen summers old and his jarl should have either curbed his hot-headedness or trained him better.”
“Fifteen? Oh… oh, no.”
“Old enough to wield a sword and attack women and children who he believed to be defenceless, so old enough to face the consequences. Again, little Celt, the harm is not of your doing. I would rather it was the Bjarkesson pup lying dead out there and not you or my son. If you had done as Ranulf suggested and left your guards to hold them off, you and Njal might have made it back to Skarthveit but I would have lost two fine men.”
“Erlend will survive, then?”
“Probably, provided his wounds do not become infected. And Ranulf will have a sore head for the next few days at least. They, and I, owe you our gratitude, and our admiration.” He smiled at her, his pride evident. “I understand your aim was true.”
“I have been practising. I thought perhaps my skill would prove useful.”
“It did, and your sling is an effective weapon. Perhaps you can share your talents with others here.”
“I would be pleased to, if it will help.” She hesitated, then, “Do you think they will attack Skarthveit?”
His mouth flattened in grim acknowledgement. “Aye, I cannot imagine otherwise. I have sent to Gunnarsholm seeking my brother’s aid and we must hope reinforcements arrive in time. The Bjarkessons are a large family, and if they summon their followers and supporters they can probably muster over a hundred men.”
“And we have…?” She paused to tally the numbers in her head.
“Thirty-two. Perhaps that could stretch to forty if some of the old ones can manage to swing an axe. Gunnar has two dozen. Our men are the more skilled in battle, but the numbers are not in our favour.”
“When will they come?”
He shrugged. “I have lookouts posted to the north, south, and east. An attack from the sea is unlikely as it is not possible to land a longship here, and the Bjarkessons are but mediocre raiders.”
“How long before we might expect aid from your brother?”
“It is a two-day journey each way.”
“Four days then.”
“At best.”
“He will not be in time.”
Ulfric did not answer. His grim countenance spoke for him.
* * *
“Viking, how many thralls do you have?”
“Thralls? What does that have to do with anything?” Ulfric had been assembling his men in the middle of the settlement in readiness to defend their homes but he turned to answer Fiona’s question. “I have offered as many as it might take in recompense for the losses for which Olaf holds me accountable but he is not interested.”
“I do not mean you to barter with them. You should free them and have them fight alongside your men.”
“Slaves? Against trained Vikings, men armed to the teeth and set on killing all before them? They would be slaughtered.”
“Not necessarily. They would be of little use, I agree, in hand-to-hand fighting, but it may not come to that. You know that I managed to best those who attacked us at the lake, and I did it from a distance of over fifty paces. What if we were to be ready for the assault and could pick off at least a number of them before they could reach Skarthveit? We might hold them off long enough for Gunnar to arrive, or even deter them altogether.”
“We may have as little as a few hours, not enough time for you to train my men, Vikings or thralls, in the use of a sling. They would need to be accurate, deadly shots.”
“Many of the slaves already are. Celts often use the sling to hunt, they can take down a rabbit or even a duck in flight. The thralls will be out of practice, but in the few hours we have we could—”
“We do not possess these weapons, not in the numbers we would need.”
“You possess rope and leather. The items could be made readily enough.”
He narrowed his eyes, obviously considering, then he shook his head. “A fine idea, sweetheart, but the thralls work for us because they have no choice. They will not fight for us. Why would they? And I would be a fool to free my slaves, and then arm them.”
“In the circumstances you would be a fool not to.” She waved her hand at him, exasperated. “You may well glower, Viking, and please feel free to take a switch to me at your earliest convenience for my temerity in speaking to you so, but I repeat, you are a fool if you do not make use of what you have to hand. The thralls might agree to help, you will not know until you ask them. Offer them their freedom in exchange. You are fond of trading, so let us go down to the slave shed now and strike a bargain.”
“Us? What is this ‘us’ who will barter with my property?”
“You are right, the thralls may not do this thing for you. They may not even believe you when you offer them their liberty in exchange for their aid in this battle, but they will believe me. I may convince them when you could not.”
“Celt, I…” He hesitated. “A switch you say? At my earliest convenience?”
She gulped. “Yes, if you consider it necessary.”
“You called me a fool. Twice. You may be quite certain I will find it fucking necessary.” He turned and strode off, then halted and looked back over his shoulder. “Well, are you coming then? The sooner we can have these Celts sharpening their aim in yonder meadow the better.”
* * *
“Jarl, men have been sighted approaching from the south.” Ranulf, one of the men who had accompanied Fiona at the lake and had been posted as a lookout, yelled the warning from the edge of the settlement.
Ulfric raised his hand in acknowledgement and paused to survey his beleaguered domain.
It was less than an hour after the first rays of light had penetrated the cloying blackness. For an entire day and night, the men of Skarthveit had waited, alert, poised to fight for their homes and families. Fiona scurried beside Ulfric as he paced the settlement offering words of encouragement and praise, fortifying his Viking force for the battle to come. They both halted at Ranulf’s warning and exchanged a knowing look.
“It is time.”
She nodded. “I will get them.”
Fiona reached for his cheek and delivered a quick kiss, then she was running toward their longhouse, which now teemed with Celtic ex-captives. All were armed with hastily produced slingshots and most were elated at their sudden change in fortunes.
They were free men. The Viking had said so, and his lady backed him so it must be true since she was also a Celt. They had been promised their liberty and boats to take them home should they so desire, or they might remain in the land of the Norsemen as karls. All they had to do in return was wield a slingshot in defence of their captor’s homestead.
Many declared it a strange enough bargain, there were some mutterings about letting the vicious Viking bastards get what they deserved, but most saw the benefits of throwing in their lot with Ulfric. If the Bjarkessons were to prevail, they would simply take possession of the slaves along with all other property they took a fancy to. The Celts would be no better off, and their lives may be considerably worse since Ulfric was a less harsh master than many. It was true he had dragged them from their homes and enslaved them, but he also fed them, sheltered them, even permitted them to marry and raise their children. The thralls also had much to lose, so were ready to consider Ulfric’s offer.
At Fiona’s urging, those who were skilled in the use of this weapon fashioned rudimentary slings from the materials supplied by the Vikings, then tested them on a variety of targets. The results were somewhat haphazard initially, but improved as they practised. The slaves who were not able to handle a slingshot were set the task of scouring the surrounding terrain and gathering suita
ble stones to use, and the pile of missiles amassed in readiness for the coming fight was impressive.
Only when darkness descended did they come inside to sleep. Ulfric insisted that they make use of his longhouse since it was the only one large enough to accommodate them all but Fiona was not fooled by this apparent generosity. Ulfric did not fully trust the Celts and had no wish to see the ex-slaves disappearing into the night. He had preferred to keep them together and under some semblance of control, at least for as long as the threat remained.
She burst into the longhouse. “Everyone, up. Now. They are coming.”
Men leapt to their feet, scrabbling for garments, for weapons, for the mugs of mead that she and Njal hurriedly poured. Moments after she had started to rouse the men, Ulfric followed her through the door.
“Go to the southern meadows, just beyond the woodland. Your men can hide themselves in the trees and launch their attack unseen from there. Take down as many as you can, and we shall be waiting on this side of the woods for any that manage to get past you.”
Fiona nodded and turned to issue the necessary commands. By unspoken agreement, she was to lead the assault with slingshots. Ulfric was already drawing his sword as he returned to his men but he stopped and pivoted on his heel. “Be safe, little Celt.”
“And you, Viking.”
* * *
The freed slaves followed Fiona to their position at the edge of the woods that ringed Skarthveit’s southern boundary. From there they could just make out the bobbing heads of the approaching force, numbering at least a hundred by Fiona’s quick count. It appeared that Olaf Bjarkesson had called on all his followers to aid him in this attack.
Fiona gauged their numbers and speed of approach and did a quick calculation in her head. The enemy would be within range in a few seconds. There were eighteen men at her back, all armed with slingshots. She made a nineteenth, and each of them could fire off three, possibly four shots a minute. If all were on target, they would be able to cripple this attacking force within the first sixty seconds. Of course, not all would hit their marks, and as soon as the Bjarkessons realised that they were under attack they would start their charge on the settlement itself and a fast-moving target was much harder to hit.
The stand of trees in which they hid was slightly elevated so this would offer further advantage to her marksmen. She was glad of anything in their favour. The more they might fell in the very first wave, the better. That could be the deciding factor in ultimately winning this skirmish.
“Take careful aim,” she reminded them. “Choose your mark, one you know is within your range, and take your time. Once you have loosed your first shot, reload and keep up the attack for as long as they remain in sight. Then, when they have passed, we will leave the shelter of the trees and follow them back to Skarthveit. We will keep up the assault from their rear and the Vikings will deal with any that actually reach the settlement. These Norsemen prefer to fight hand to hand, so we stay out of reach. Is everyone ready?”
Her answer came in the form of murmurs and nods. All appreciated the vital part that surprise would play here so none would alert the approaching horde to this unorthodox defence. They crouched in silence as Fiona stood, her arm upraised, each one awaiting her signal that the battle was on.
“Now,” she hissed, and stood to swing her sling around her head.
The Celts leapt to their feet and did likewise. Moments later a volley of stones hurtled from the trees and rained down upon the unsuspecting men lower down the hillside. With a chorus of startled shouts and oaths the Viking force started to break ranks. Many broke into a run whilst others crumpled where they stood.
Six. They had dropped just six. She had hoped for more.
“Reload. Again. Keep at them.” She was yelling now, no longer seeking to conceal their presence.
Her raggedy little army rose to the challenge and a hail of stones pursued the now utterly confused Bjarkessons. The attackers were in chaos, some turning back as though to abandon their mission, others stopping to attend to fallen comrades. Most though just ran forward, unknowing where the assault was coming from but seeking to escape the deadly onslaught.
More fell, and their comrades just leapt over their prone bodies to rush headlong in the direction of Skarthveit as though they might find sanctuary there. Fiona urged her men to reload and shoot again and again, delighted when she estimated that at least twenty of their attackers were down and those remaining on their feet were in total disarray. They would be easy enough prey for the well trained and disciplined men of Skarthveit.
“Come, we will pursue them. Keep letting off shots from behind.” Fiona stepped from the cover of the trees and sprinted after her quarry. Her men followed, now whooping and cheering as yet more of their would-be attackers dropped under their barrage of rocks.
By the time the nimblest of the Bjarkessons reached the first buildings that marked the edge of the settlement, their numbers had been depleted by half, and several of those still upright were walking wounded. Fiona saw Ulfric charge forward at the head of his men and cut down the first two himself. Then she lost sight of him in the mêlée and in any case, she knew her part in this was to harry from the rear, not observe proceedings from a distance.
“Pick them off,” she commanded. “Select your targets now, only those at the back. Do not risk hitting any of our men. Once they reach the first longhouses, they are Ulfric’s.”
Chapter Fourteen
Fiona entered the longhouse just as Ulfric emerged from their sleeping chamber, his chest bare. She winced at the ugly wound that traversed his right shoulder, the result of a lucky strike by one of Olaf’s men. Or unlucky, depending on how the matter was to be viewed. Ulfric had slain the man for his trouble, adding one more to the tally of his enemy’s losses. One more reason for the Bjarkessons to pile fuel upon the already crackling fire of their hatred, one more crime for them to heap at her Viking’s door.
She knew that Ulfric deeply regretted the souring of relations between the two families. By contrast, Fiona was scathing in her reaction. At best she considered Olaf Bjarkesson a fool; at worst, a would-be murderer. She strongly suspected he was responsible for Brynhild’s disappearance, though Ulfric stubbornly refused to lay that at Olaf’s door.
She smiled at Ulfric. “Mairead is with Quinn and Briana. They are friends, from before…” She broke off, uncertain. ‘Before’ seemed such a long time ago now, a different life, different loyalties.
Ulfric nodded, unperturbed. “I see. And Njal?”
“Donald is here also, he accompanied his mother. Njal asked if he might remain with them this night. I saw no harm. Cedric, Briana’s husband, is there also, and—”
“Yes, that will be perfectly fine. I am glad Donald and Njal are friends.”
“Gunnar would have come to our aid too had he been at his home when your summons arrived. Mairead brought all the men who remained at Gunnarsholm with her, though, and insisted on coming herself even though she is again pregnant.”
“I know. My messenger missed my brother by just two days. How long will Mairead stay with us?”
“She hopes to return home tomorrow. Will she be safe, do you think?”
Ulfric shrugged but did not appear unduly worried. “Bjarkesson lost many of his men. He will require time to recover, to regroup. I do not expect any further trouble from him for a while.”
“I expect you are right.” She sat at the table. “Does your wound pain you?”
He flexed his arm and rolled his shoulder. “A little. It will heal and there is no sign of infection.”
“Thank the Lord. Shall I re-dress it for you?”
“Aye, if you will.” He came to sit beside her. “We shall talk as you do it.”
“Talk?” She scooted to their chamber to find the clean linens she would use, and hurried back to stand before him. “Is there a matter we should discuss?”
“There is. You called me a fool. Twice. I promised to reacquaint your bottom with my
switch as punishment for your impertinence. Surely this had not slipped your mind, little Celt.”
Her heart lurched. “It had not, Viking, but the words were spoken during a heated exchange. I am quite sure that neither of us really meant what we said.”
“At least one of us did, I can assure you. Ouch! Did you do that on purpose?” He glared at her, his kingfisher-blue eyes narrowing.
“There is no need to look at me like that. I did not, though I should have.” She wrapped the binding around his wound with care, pulling the ends tight and securing them beside his neck. Then she tipped up her chin and sought for courage to stand up to him and his unjust dictates. “You may not beat me, Viking. I am not your slave any longer.”
“I am still master here. I may have anyone whipped if I judge them needful of the chastisement.” He lowered his tone. “I do consider you needful, little Celt.”
“But, I helped you. And I was right, about the thralls.”
“Indeed you were, and I will readily own that they, and you, turned the fight in our favour. We were victorious because of you.”
“Then—”
“But that does not excuse your belligerence. I require a meek and submissive woman by my side, not one who will squawk insults at me in the middle of my own settlement, within the hearing of my men.”
“Squawk? I will have you know I do not squawk. I never have.” Outraged, Fiona faced him, her fists planted on her hips. “And if you do not wish to be called a fool within your men’s hearing, you should ensure that your lackwit behaviour is restricted to private settings. I only said what—”
He silenced her with one uplifted finger. “Enough, my sweet. Let us not compound matters.”
“But…”
He lifted his injured shoulder again. “As you can see, my switching arm is somewhat impaired so I fear I will not be able to afford you the exquisite experience you truly deserve. I could make you wait, of course. A couple of weeks would make no real difference, and when I am fully restored to health I could lay a couple of dozen fine stripes across your delightful behind. I doubt you will be so ready to insult me in public again.”