Page 14

The whistle of leather slicing the air, followed by a shrill, agonised scream dispelled any lingering illusions. Some hapless soul was being flogged close by. Despite her trepidation Mairead could not help it, she had to look. She had to know.

She crept back the way she had come, past the privy and into a cleared area on the edge of the settlement. There, a couple of dozen villagers had gathered to witness the proceedings.

In the centre of the group a stout pole had been erected, and to this was tied a young man.

He was naked to the waist, and his shoulders already bore the vicious marks of the whip.

Beside him, Gunnar poised to strike again.

The Viking was also stripped to the waist, his torso glistening in the late afternoon sun.

It would have been a truly glorious sight but for the long whip which hung from his right hand, the lash snaking about his booted feet.

As she watched, her fist pressed against her mouth to stifle her own breath, Gunnar flexed and swung the whip again.

The lash landed on the unfortunate victim's shoulders and he let out another cry.

The Viking flicked his wrist to ready the whip for another stroke and Mairead could bear it no longer. “No!” she shrieked, dashing forward to grab at Gunnar’s arm.

He halted and glowered at the sobbing woman at his side. “Nei,” he snapped and shook his arm to loosen her grip.

“Please, you must not do this. He is just a young man, you will kill him…” She did not know why she pleaded for a stranger, but she did so anyway. “This is brutal, barbaric?—“

Gunnar cut of her entreaties with a torrent of rapid Norse. She did not need to understand his words to grasp his fury and she backed off in alarm. What had she done? He would not mitigate his behaviour just because she asked him to, and now he would probably punish her too for her insolence.

As she retreated Gunnar pursued her. Mairead considered turning and running from him, but her feet were rooted to the spot. He caught up and stood before her, towering over her, the loathsome whip still in his hand.

His features might have been hewn from granite. His dark eyes were like flints, harsh, unforgiving. He had never appeared more terrifying to her. Mairead opened her mouth to apologise, to beg him not to hurt her.

He reached for her and cupped her chin in his free hand. His grip was not rough or painful but she could not move as he forced her to meet and hold his gaze. When he spoke next his tone was low and even, his expression cold. She could not comprehend his words, but even so his meaning was clear.

Do not interfere. Do not gainsay me. I am master here and you will accept, and obey.

She nodded, and he released her. With a sharp tilt of his head she was dismissed, commanded to leave him. With a sob she whirled on her feet and fled.

Once around the corner of the longhouse and out of sight of the proceedings in the clearing she leaned against the outer wall and fought not to be sick.

Bile rose in her throat but she willed her stomach to settle.

For reasons she could not start to fathom she felt compelled to witness whatever might happen.

She made her way cautiously back to the edge of the dwelling and peered around the corner again.

Gunnar had returned to the man who now gripped the pole with his fists.

Their heads were close together, the Viking was speaking to the bound slave.

As she watched Gunnar paused, shook his head as though in disgust, then proceeded to deliver two more punishing strokes.

The man jerked in his bonds, kicked his feet and wailed piteously.

The watching crowd seemed as unmoved as Gunnar by the man's plight.

They observed, impassive, as the punishment was doled out.

It seemed to take an eternity but in reality it must have been just a minute or so, but eventually Gunnar lowered the whip and issued a curt command to Weylin who hovered close by.

The slave rushed to release the other man from the post. Two more thralls rushed forward to assist, and together the trio helped Ferris from the clearing.

Gunnar narrowed his eyes as he watched them go, then bent to retrieve his tunic which he had laid on the ground while he delivered the whipping. As he shrugged back into it he glanced up, right at Mairead.

Their eyes met, his the colour of midnight and every bit as terrifying. The dark irises seemed to glint at her as though issuing a stark warning.

I can be gentle when I choose to be, but do not cross me.

With a strangled sob Mairead whirled again and this time fled back to the dubious sanctuary of the longhouse. There, she grabbed her baby from her startled son and hugged both her children to her.

Whatever it took, whatever she had to do, she would protect those she loved from these barbaric Vikings. She must learn never to trust the darkly handsome one with the scar and eyes which conjured up her wildest fantasies and evoked her deepest fears.