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She might have succeeded were it not for the loud shouts which reached her from across the meadow.

She paused, shaded her eyes to look, and was unable to miss the tall, solid from of the brown-haired Celt leader who had so shaken her on the day of their arrival.

His name was Taranc, she had learnt, and he had been the chief of this particular group in their village in their own land.

His leadership was undiminished by captivity since the rest clearly looked to him for direction.

Brynhild had no doubt whatsoever that regardless of who held the swords and whips, the Celts would do Taranc's bidding before any other.

That he and Fiona should have been married was a detail upon which Brynhild chose not to dwell.

Taranc was the one whose voice she heard.

He marched up and down a long column of his men as they formed a chain and passed large lumps of stone along their ranks.

The Celtic chief directed them, urging them on and every so often stepping into the line himself to take over when one of the thralls needed to drop out to rest or to seek the privacy of the soil pit which the Celts had dug at the rear of the barn.

She had no intention of wasting her day watching him.

She was a busy woman, with far better things to do with her time than stand here gazing at some lowly thrall however beguiling the view might be.

But there was something about this Celt which drew her attention and held it fast. He was tall, she had discerned that much during their confrontation on that first day, but that was not unusual.

Most males were at least a head taller than she was, and Brynhild was not short in stature.

His eyes were a deep shade of green which put her in mind of the mosses which adorned the north-facing side of the Nordic pine trunks on the hillside above Skarthveit, and his hair was a deep shade of brown.

His locks were thick, curling slightly around his neck.

He wore his hair hacked to shoulder length, as did most of the Celtic males, and she imagined it would feel soft under her fingers though that was not a theory she would ever put to the test. His shoulders were solid, his torso muscular, but she would not describe him as heavy set.

He had strength, she had felt that power ripple through his limbs as he bore her to the ground, then the unyielding weight of him as he lay on top of her.

Despite the speed and purpose of his movements he had not been rough with her, though as she fought him in those moments of blind panic he had been unmoving.

She would not have escaped him had he chosen not to let her go.

In the brief interlude before she was seized by hysterical dread she had even been conscious of the steady thump of his heart beneath the soft leather jerkin, though she preferred to bury those memories.

It did not do to think on such things. Male strength was dangerous, she knew this well enough, and these Celts with their base, uncontrolled urges were especially so. She must avoid them

Despite the many tasks awaiting her attention Brynhild permitted herself a few minutes more to observe the progress of the building. It was the project she needed to assess, of course, not the thralls working on it.

The new Celts, along with her brother's existing thralls who had been brought from places as far afield as England and Ireland, had already been at this task for several days now.

The pile of building materials was growing at a rate which she knew pleased her brother and she could not help but be impressed herself.

Previously, the practice had been to heave the materials up from the beach as they were needed.

Each man would struggle up the steep incline carrying a chunk of the rock which they had collected, dump his burden at the build site, and stagger back down to the beach for more.

The stonemasons would fit the pieces in where they might, and continue on.

Now, under Taranc's leadership, the construction itself was halted whilst all the materials were to be gathered and transported.

Once all the stone required was assembled, they would commence the building again and from there the work would be completed quickly.

By forming this line and passing the rocks from one to another they avoided the need for each of them to struggle up the hillside carrying the heavy rocks.

The work was not light, not by any means, but Brynhild could appreciate the merits of this approach.

So could her brother. Brynhild knew that he had over-ruled Dagr's ridiculous posturing when the slave master attempted to flog the thralls into more forced marching up and down the cliffs.

Instead, Ulfric told the karl to heed to the advice offered by the Celt and to try it this way.

The new method was clearly better, and the disgruntled Dagr had been sulking for days.

Idiot man. She flattened her lips in annoyance as the resentful karl wrapped the lash of his whip around the shoulders of one hapless Saxon who had not shifted fast enough for his liking.

The unfortunate man staggered forward and dropped the huge lump of granite cradled in his arms. It took a moment or two for the scream to reach her across the distance, but Brynhild did not need to hear the shriek of agony.

Even from where she stood she could see full well that the huge boulder had crushed the Saxon's toes.

"Oh, sweet Freya," she murmured and set off across the meadow at a run.

By the time she arrived at the scene the angry thralls were advancing upon Dagr, a menacing mob of resentful, vengeful slaves intent upon wreaking their justice on the man who had pushed them too far.

Dagr lashed at them with his whip while other Viking guards circled the rioting slaves, their swords and axes drawn.

It would be a bloodbath.

"Stop. Stop this, all of you." Brynhild rushed to stand between the two groups and faced the Vikings. "Put up your weapons, there will be no bloodshed here today." She pointed to Dagr. "Take him and secure him in the stocks until my brother returns. Ulfric shall decide what is to be done with him."

Dagr had other ideas and lunged for Brynhild. "Lady, stand aside. I will not have some meddlesome fool of a woman siding with thralls who need to be punished. I am master here and?—"

"Seize him," repeated Brynhild, this time addressing her command directly to the warrior closest to her. "My brother is master here, and he will settle this matter."

The mention of Ulfric's ultimate authority seemed to convince the man who flung his arms about Dagr and lifted the smaller man from his feet.

The slave master's already ruddy visage was puce as he kicked his feet and heaped obscenities upon Brynhild, upon the man who held him, and most particularly upon the thralls who he promised to skin alive then leave what was left out on the hills for the wolves to devour.

"The stocks," reminded Brynhild. "Let him cool his heels there for the rest of the day. And the rest of you can stand back. There will be no fighting here." She hoped.

Brynhild allowed herself a sigh of relief when the Viking who held Dagr set off across the meadow, his reluctant burden wriggling and kicking in his arms. The man was built like the side of a mountain and seemed oblivious to his squirming captive.

Satisfied that at least one of her instructions had been carried out Brynhild deliberately turned to face the angry thralls.

Their features betrayed their anger, and their fear that any one of them might be the next to fall victim to the violence and sadistic cruelty of their Nordic overlords.

Brynhild could not really fault them for that. Dagr was a lackwit, pure and simple. Surely Ulfric would be rid of him after this.

Beyond the throng of furious men a small cluster had gathered around the one who was injured.

Taranc was among those who tended him and having prevented further violence Brynhild was sorely tempted to leave them all to it.

She had no desire to face the enigmatic Celt ever again if she could help it.

But Brynhild Freysson was no coward. The injured man required help and it was her responsibility to see to it. She squared her shoulders and skirted the band of slaves to reach the man on the ground.

"How bad is it?" She addressed her query to all of them, but it was Taranc who turned to glare up at her.

"Bad enough. His foot is broken. Your needless Viking cruelty will do nothing to speed the building of your precious granary, lady." His words were delivered in a cold, angry tone, his contempt for her and her people all but palpable

She bristled, but did not back away.

"I saw what happened. Dagr was the one at fault and I shall ensure that Ulfric knows this."

"And how will this help a thrall who is unable to work? We have seen at first-hand how Viking murderers dispose of useless slaves."

Brynhild was at a loss, but would not lower herself to seek an explanation for his comment. The injured man at her feet was moaning, his face ashen with pain and she preferred to invest her energies there where they might make a difference.

"I shall need two or three of you to help carry him down to the village. We have a healer?—"

Taranc stood up and rounded on her. "He cannot work. He cannot even walk. He may lose that foot. At the very least he is likely to never walk without a limp again."

Hands on her hips Brynhild glared back at him. "I can see that, Celt, but find no useful purpose in drawing this man's attention to that possibility until we are sure. If you do not wish to help then you will stand aside and allow me to aid him as best I might."

The Celt narrowed his mossy green eyes and his mouth thinned to a narrow, angry slash across his face. Even in his anger he was handsome, she had to acknowledge. She dashed that unruly thought aside. He was a Celt, and they were all handsome bastards. That was part of the problem.

She bent to examine the mangled foot in greater detail.

It did not improve upon closer inspection and she suspected the Celtic chief's prognosis would be correct.

They must just hope that the injured limb did not become infected, for that was where the true danger lay.

Without doubt this man would be of no further use in building the granary, though he might well possess other skills.

They would find out, she supposed, once the limb was healed.

If it healed.

Ulfric would be furious at the waste of a good, able-bodied thrall but perhaps this would be sufficient to convince him to find other duties for Dagr. The man was not fit to have the care of valuable assets such as slaves.

"What is his name?" she demanded.

Taranc briefly consulted men from the Saxon contingent. "Selwyn."

Brynhild nodded and addressed her next words to the slave on the ground.

"Selwyn, I am sorry this has happened. My brother will be sorry also, and he will wish me to care for you now.

I am going to take you to the village where our healer will do what she may to alleviate your pain.

" She turned to Taranc again. "So, will you help or will you step aside? "

The Celt narrowed his eyes at her and she thought he intended to refuse.

Instead, he shook his head in bewilderment.

“I do not understand you, lady. Such cruelty and arrogance presented in a truly beautiful package, but I know you to be dark at the core. Yet you show concern and compassion for an injured Saxon slave. Perhaps your hostility is reserved just for we Celts. Am I right?”

“You are insolent, Celt, and you are in my way.” Brynhild resisted the impulse to step back in the face of his unerringly accurate assessment and piercing gaze.

Somehow this vile thrall possessed the ability to look at her and see right through her, to peel away her carefully constricted layers and observe what lay beneath.

If she was not careful he would strip her bare and know all her secrets.

Brynhild was the first to lower her eyes.

The Celt glowered at her, but gestured to another man to come over and move to Selwyn's other side. Then the pair bent at the waist and looped their hands together behind the injured man's knees. Selwyn draped his arms around each of their necks and they stood up, lifting him between them.

"Where is the healer, lady?" Taranc regarded her, his hostility barely muted.

"Follow me." Brynhild turned on her heels and marched off, her chin tilted high.