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Except – he wanted to touch her. Mairead could only assume her captor wished to feel for himself the insistent wriggling and kicking from within. He could have simply laid his hands on her body and there would have been nothing she might do to prevent it, but instead he sought her consent.

Baffled, Mairead nodded.

The Viking placed his palm on her belly, then grinned widely as the babe executed what felt to Mairead to be a fair rendition of a Scottish jig.

He adjusted his stance, looking from her face to her belly and back again as the child shifted in her womb.

He said something else to her but she could not understand him.

She did, however, know that the baby had altered position and much movement was now taking place lower down. He would miss it if she did not…

Mairead took hold of the Viking’s leather-clad wrist and shifted his hand down her belly to the spot where he would find more activity. No longer afraid, she waited, motionless, as he pressed his large palm against her.

The babble which surrounded them, the chaos and confusion, the terror and despair melted into a vague and distant fog for Mairead as she and the dark Viking stood together in silence, united in their shared experience of the baby’s kicking.

Long moments passed, until at last the child went still once more, clearly exhausted.

With a wry smile the Viking offered her what might have passed for a polite bow, and he strode away.

Mairead glanced about her. Just a handful of women remained, all fairly young and none but her with children. Was she to be taken after all? Did it not count that her babe was as yet unborn?

She found herself next to Fiona, who remained bound. The lady's face was ashen and despite her own concerns Mairead sought to offer comfort.

"We will survive, I know it. We must remain calm, do as we are told..."

"My brother is dead. They killed him." The other woman's voice was little more than a shocked whisper. Mairead's heart went out to her despite her own terrors.

"I know, I saw. But he died swiftly, I am certain of it."

"My father...?"

"I saw him, earlier. He was alive then."

"Oh! Are you certain? He was not among those captured and taken."

"I saw him, it was definitely Dughall." Mairead saw no reason to mention that when she last saw Lord Dughall he had been weeping at the side of his dead son. The fact that he had not been among those brought to the middle of the village did not bode well, but neither woman wanted to voice that.

The dark Viking spoke again, raising his voice to gain their attention. His words were unknown, but his meaning clear as he gestured with his sword and the few remaining warriors shoved the women in the direction of the route to Aikrig. They were to follow the men to the beach.

Fiona struggled to keep her footing as they were bundled along the rough track, but Mairead took her elbow.

Another woman, Quinn, a weaver also from Aikrig stationed herself at the other side and between them they aided the bound girl.

Mairead dismissed Fiona's whispered thanks.

They must all help each other at a time like this.

Apart from Quinn and her daughter, Briana, Mairead did not know the other two women with them but names seemed unimportant.

None of the women captured with her had seen Donald.

Mairead began to hope, believe, that her son might have made it to safety.

His father dead these four years, and his stepfather lost at sea just three months ago, Donald would be alone.

Would the kindly neighbour take care of him?

Surely she might for he was a fine boy and the middle-aged widow had no young children of her own now.

The beach came into view and already three of the dragon ships were bobbing on the waves several hundred yards out to sea.

Just a rough cargo vessel and one dragon ship remained.

The women were directed to the cargo boat, a slower craft but powered by a sail rather than brute force.

Mairead was relieved, she had dreaded being forced to row.

One by one the women were lifted bodily and carried through the shallow waves to be bundled into the small craft.

There they huddled together in the bottom of the boat, damp, cold, and utterly terrified.

The vessel put to sea, the crew of just four rough Norsemen handling the rigging with practised ease.

For the most part they ignored the shivering captives, although one did think to toss them a blanket as night fell.

Neither the dark Viking nor the other one, the man who had captured Fiona and who also appeared to be a chief of some sort, came with them. Mairead assumed they were aboard the other dragon ship and would be off to mount further raids on unsuspecting communities along the Scottish coast.

She hated them, Mairead decided. She hated every last one of them for separating her from her son and for endangering her unborn child.

Despite the gentle concern of the Norseman who had appeared so fascinated, he had not seen fit to leave her safe in her home, among those she knew.

Surely her baby would struggle to survive its first few precarious months of life as a slave to the cruel Nordic raiders.

What had they done to deserve such a fate, any of them?

Least of all the unborn innocent she carried.

She hated the Vikings for their uncaring cruelty, their greed, their arrogance that they considered all before them fair game.

They stole, they murdered, they raped and they ruined lives.

They tore communities apart, wrecked families, left children as orphans, and all for their own selfish ends.

May their ships flounder, their wells sour and their crops rot in the soil.

Mairead despised them all, and she loathed the dark Viking the most for wrecking her na?ve fantasy that he might be a kind and merciful warrior, a man of honour.

She had learnt this day that he was no better than the rest, a barbarian, a killer, a vicious savage.

The voyage took three days and three excruciating nights.

Despite the blanket and huddling together for warmth, the women were freezing cold, damp, hungry, and aching with fatigue by the time land was sighted.

Yes, she was right to hate these Vikings, they were cruel, unfeeling, quite without mercy.

The crew became excited as they neared their destination, waving and calling to those on the shore.

Mairead ventured a peep over the rail of the boat and could make out a shoreline not that dissimilar to the Scottish coast. Tall pines swayed in the breeze, sandy coves were dotted at intervals, and towering cliffs dropped into the churning waves.

This was a land of some beauty, she had to admit as she raised her gaze to take in the snow-capped mountains in the further distance.

The landscape was harsh but majestic, a vibrant kaleidoscope of colour and shade.

And it was cold, much colder than her native Scotland though it was still not yet quite the end of summer. She shivered and hugged her arms across her swollen abdomen and wondered what it would feel like to be warm and dry again. Would she ever know?

The boat docked at a bustling harbour, a busier place than any Mairead had seen before.

Men called out, laughed, jeered and women yelled back in the strange Nordic language which was starting to sound familiar after three days of listening to the crew of their small boat.

Children scampered between the boats lined up in the port, and animals mingled freely among the human occupants.

There were buildings, many more than in Pennglas and Aikrig combined, most with thatched roofs.

They were built of wood for the most part, with stone walls at the base.

Mairead picked out one structure, larger and more imposing than the rest and with a many layered roof constructed of wood.

She assumed this to be a place of greater significance, perhaps intended for worship or trade, but she could not ask as no one here would understand her Gaelic tongue.

The men who had sailed the craft back now barked orders at their confused captives.

"They mean us to climb up the side and onto the dock," guessed Quinn. "Come, Briana and I shall help you."

Mairead was glad of their assistance as she clambered clumsily up the planking to grab the rail at the top.

A hand under each of her feet propelled her up still further and at last she was able to scramble onto the wooden decking which made up the quayside.

She offered her hand to Quinn to aid her up, but the other woman refused with a tired smile.

"No, lass, you can't be lifting my weight. You save your strength, you never know when you might need it."

Quinn scaled the side of the boat more easily that Mairead expected, and Briana was even more nimble.

Her hands were stiff from the cold and Fiona had not the slightest chance of making the climb, a fact not lost even on the rough sailors.

One of them grabbed her about the waist and hefted her over his shoulder, then climbed the side of the craft until other Viking males could grab her from the dock.

She tumbled down beside them, gasping for breath.

Both Mairead and Briana stepped forward to assist her but were grabbed before they could offer aid.

Rough hands shoved all the women along the dock and behind a low building into a small enclosure.

Here Mairead was both startled and relieved to spot the Celtic males they had last seen three days previously in Pennglas, along with other men she had not met before.

All appeared to be either Celts or Saxons.

It would appear the slave-harvesting mission had encompassed other villages also.

She spotted Taranc at once, and he made a beeline for them.