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" D oes your father know that you are here?"

Taranc leaned against the outer wall of the slave barn and managed not to laugh out loud at the guilty expression on the small boy's face as the lad emerged from the wholly inadequate cover of the undergrowth.

He had watched the boy for the last few minutes.

The Viking child, Njal, he had learnt, and son of Ulfric Freysson, was regularly given to creeping around the edges of the thrall quarters and observing the activities of the slaves.

The child appeared fascinated and terrified all at once, and Taranc would not have minded betting that the latter response owed at least something to the aunt who had the day to day care of the boy.

She had made her revulsion perfectly clear and would have no doubt conveyed it to the child.

Taranc repeated his question, but the boy just stared at him, uncomprehending. Taranc switched to a halting Norse and tried again. This time the lad frowned, obviously catching at least some of his meaning.

"You can speak my tongue?" The boy could not have looked more impressed had the god Thor materialised before him, silver hammer in hand.

"A little," conceded Taranc. "I have been practising."

"My father speaks the language of the Celts. So does my aunt, and now Fiona who lives in our longhouse. Will you teach it to me?"

"Your father could teach you."

"He is busy. And he is a Viking. I am, too and we speak the Norse tongue. My aunt says I have no need of other languages."

"Perhaps she is right."

"Will you teach me," pleaded the small boy as he hopped from one foot to the other. "I will teach you a word, and you will give me one. We shall swap our words."

A reasonable enough bargain, conceded Taranc to himself. "Very well. My name is Taranc. Who are you?"

"I am Njal. Son of Ulfric Freysson. You know who I am. You asked about my father."

Sharp boy . "Yes. I did. Now, in my language..." Taranc repeated his introduction in Gaelic.

Njal beamed and attempted to repeat the words. Taranc coached him and soon the boy managed a decent enough rendition. It would have been pleasant to continue the lesson, but Taranc had a granary to build.

"I must get back to work. Thank you for your company, Njal."

"But I have not given you a word yet."

"Perhaps next time you are here."

"My aunt says I am not to come to the slave quarters. She says you are dangerous, but that you do not have blue tongues. She is not sure if you can see in the dark."

"Your aunt is correct."

"About your tongue?"

"About everything. And we see well enough in the dark, I daresay. Now..." Taranc rose from the tree stump he had been sitting on.

"You will not tell them I was here, will you? I promised, you see..."

"A promise is important. You should keep your word."

"I know. But I wanted to speak to you."

"We will speak again, that is my promise to you, Njal, son of Ulfric. For now, you should return to your longhouse so that your aunt need not worry over you."

Several weeks had passed since their arrival at Skarthveit and Taranc had adjusted to the life of a thrall as much as he was prepared to.

For now. The work was hard, but not overly so since he had managed to convince the Viking Jarl that a better method of organising the task might be had.

As a result, the granary was nearing completion ahead of schedule and they were already turning their attention to the harbour.

Ulfric had declared himself well pleased since he had not intended to commence that project until the spring.

Dagr had not been relieved of his duties but his violent tendencies were much curbed these days so Taranc had to assume his chief had warned him of the consequences if any more slaves were lost due to needless ill treatment.

Selwyn still shared the slave quarters but his labours were restricted to looking after the sheep on the neighbouring hillsides.

It suited him well, apparently, since he had been a shepherd in his native Ireland.

He had not lost his foot, but did hobble around with a pronounced limp using a crutch which Fiona had given him.

Taranc recalled that she had injured her ankle on the forced march to reach Skarthveit so assumed the crutch had been provided for her use originally by her Viking protector.

Ulfric baffled him. The man was a thief, a murderer, a killer who lived by violence and thought nothing of slaying those who stood between him and what he wanted.

Yet he had spared Fiona's life and from what Taranc had observed since, the Viking had treated her well.

There had been no occasion to speak with Fiona herself, but the female thralls came and went freely between the village and the slave barns and he had ample opportunity to ask them how she fared.

He learnt that Ulfric protected her, that she shared his bed and his home, and appeared happy with him.

This was borne out by his own observations on the rare occasions he went into the village.

On one such visit he was at the forge when Fiona sauntered past outside.

She did not see him. Her attention was focused on the Viking chief who she had spotted across the way.

Taranc watched as she trotted up behind her Viking and poked him in the middle of the back then made to run away.

Ulfric caught her within three paces and lifted her, squealing, in his arms. Still laughing, Fiona flung her arms about his neck and kissed him on the mouth as he lowered her back to the ground.

The kiss deepened as Taranc watched, then Ulfric lifted his head and whispered something in her ear.

She smiled and took his hand as he led her back to their longhouse.

Yes, matters looked to be fine between his once betrothed and her Viking captor, and Taranc was glad of it. He did need to speak with her, of course, to be certain, but he was coming around to the belief that he might safely leave her here when he made his escape.

It had been his intention from the outset that his captivity would be a short-lived affair.

Had he chosen to do so he could have eluded the Viking guards and left Skarthveit at more or less any time.

These arrogant Norsemen were complacent, believing that their superior might and brawn rendered them invincible, that their swords were all the surety they required.

They were fools, but they were dangerous too and would seek to hunt him down were he to run.

He would need to pick his moment with wisdom, and plan his return to his homeland.

The matter of procuring a ship was the most challenging obstacle, but he would find a way.

Brynhild Freysson continued to perplex and baffle him.

The woman was lovely, to be sure, and the mere sight of her as she moved with both grace and purpose about the settlement never failed to stir his rampant cock in a manner he found both disconcerting and utterly delicious.

He allowed himself to savour the fantasy of sinking his hard length into her warm, welcoming cunt, though he knew better than to imagine that might become reality.

She made her distaste for him, and for all Celts, painfully obvious.

Taranc might lust after the Viking noblewoman, he was a male and drew breath so how could he not?

But he did not like her, and he had never yet fucked a woman he disliked.

He spoke often with Njal as the boy sought him out on a regular basis.

The lad was an avid pupil and constantly pestered Taranc to teach him more Gaelic words.

Their conversations ranged from exchanging opinions on the relative merits of carrots or turnips to who was the most skilled at the game of kingy bats.

Njal showed Taranc how to pass the ball made of tied rags from one round bat to another, and they spent much convivial time thus occupied.

In return Taranc taught Njal to play skittles, a game he had much enjoyed as a small boy in Aikrig.

"My father plays a game called hnefatafl . It is complicated, with many pieces which must be moved about on a board." The boy crinkled his nose in disgust. "Running about is not allowed whilst playing, however, so I do not care for it."

Taranc shrugged. "Perhaps it is similar to chess, which is a fine game and one you must learn should you ever master the art of remaining still for long enough."

Njal was clearly not convinced. "Are you permitted to come to the river this evening? There are fine salmon to be had there, and trout. I will show you. It is best to fish at night..."

The day's labours were over so Taranc saw no serious objection, though Dagr always insisted upon locking the thralls in the slave barn as evening fell.

Taranc and the other thralls were compliant enough since they found little difficulty in slipping the lock and letting themselves out as they pleased.

"I shall see you there later," he promised.

The night was cool. Summer had more or less given way to the onset of autumn, and Taranc shivered as he made his way to the river.

He had yet to experience a Nordic winter and did not relish the prospect.

His homeland offered a harsh enough climate, but these frozen lands to the north would be far less hospitable. He hoped to be gone soon.

Njal was already at the river bank, his short fishing pole secured at an angle so the line dangled in the water. He leapt to his feet when he saw Taranc's approach, no doubt scattering any trout curious enough to have seen fit to investigate the wriggling worm impaled on the sharp hook at the end.

"You came!"

"Did I not say that I would? How has the fishing been so far?"

The lad knelt to peer into the fast-flowing water. "Nothing so far. This is the best spot, though. I caught a huge pike here in the spring."