Page 7

T he sound was the worst. The clanking, clattering grind of metal on metal, the rattle of links scraping against each other as the weary, dejected party made their way north.

The prisoners tramped along the rough trail in the direction of the settlement which was apparently their final destination and lay some two days hence, the home of their Viking captor who had seized them for his own use.

Mairead dragged her weary limbs onward, her huge abdomen weighing heavier with every step she took.

She wrapped her arms beneath the swell in the hope she might support the weight of her pregnancy, but it made little difference.

As her weary steps faltered the bad-tempered little slave master appeared alongside her. "You. You walk fast. No stop, not slow others."

Mairead picked up her pace and stumbled on.

Quinn threaded her arm through Mairead's. "Come, I shall help you. We can make it, together."

She estimated they had been on the road for perhaps two hours, and in another hour or so it would be dark.

Surely the march would have to stop then, surely they must be allowed to rest for a few hours.

She could manage until nightfall. She had no choice.

Already the hateful little Viking had returned several times to stride alongside her, always shouting, always threatening.

Once he actually struck her with the switch he always carried, the harsh blow falling across her shoulders and causing her to almost fall to her knees.

But she didn't. Somehow, she kept her footing and continued the relentless march.

Mairead was glad of Quinn's quiet encouragement and support during her ordeal and wondered that they had not really been friends before this.

Perhaps they might have been, had Alred been different.

Her husband had never cared for socialising much and had not permitted his wife to mix with the other women of the village.

He considered them a disturbing influence, flighty even, and they would distract her from her duty which was to care for him and his home.

And to bear his children, naturally. He had been a stern man, uncompromising and joyless.

She had tried hard to gain his approval but had failed utterly.

She should have been more grief-stricken than she was when the sea claimed him.

They had been wed just six months when Alred died.

Barely a bride, she was already a widow, and for the second time.

Her first husband, Donald's father, had died of a fever when the boy was just four years old.

Niall had been a good man, and a kind one.

She missed him still, but a dead man cannot put food on the table nor logs on the fire.

With a son to provide for she had felt she had no option but to remarry so had succumbed to her family's urging and had left her home on the outskirts of Dundee to move to Aikrig where Alred had offered for her.

He was an acquaintance of her mother's brother, and she had understood him to be a man of wealth and standing.

He was neither as it turned out and her marriage had proved a bitter disappointment in every respect.

It was surely better than this miserable existence though, she reflected as she trudged on in the gathering gloom.

The monotonous clanging of chains was drowned out by the beat of hooves.

Several Vikings cantered past on horseback, and Mairead glanced up in time to recognise her dark Viking captor among them.

He met her gaze again, though his face did not bear a smile this time.

He scowled at her and she wondered how she might have contrived to anger him.

It would not do to attract unwelcome censure.

She well knew these Vikings would not hesitate to deliver a whipping for any transgression.

She had endured enough such treatment at her husband's hands, she certainly had no wish to be subjected to Viking discipline.

The men on horseback had barely disappeared from view when a fierce scream rent the air and one of the captives shackled in the row behind her stumbled and hit Mairead hard in the middle of her back. Mairead staggered forward and would have fallen but for Quinn's steadying arm. The pair turned.

Fiona lay writhing and sobbing on the ground.

She grasped awkwardly at her ankle, the one not sealed within the merciless grip of the iron shackle, and rolled onto her side.

Willing hands, including Mairead's, reached to assist her to her feet but Fiona was unable to right her manacled ankle, and the free one was clearly injured and unable to take her weight.

She screamed again as she attempted to put her foot to the ground.

The women who had clustered about the injured girl scattered as the slave master hurled himself among them, his vicious switch striking all who did not shift quickly enough.

"What happens? Why stop? Why all this din?" He reached Fiona and took one look, then let out a torrent of Norse abuse which none of them understood. The general gist was clear enough – he did not appreciate this interruption to their progress and he clearly held Fiona responsible.

He crouched and loosened the links in the chain which tethered the slaves together, then opened it to slip Fiona's shackle free of the rest. He turned to issue a curt command to another guard who had appeared at his rear, leaving the man to secure the prisoners again whilst he dragged the casualty clear of the rest.

Mairead winced as Fiona screamed again. The Viking was without mercy as he tossed the injured woman onto the grassy verge beside the track and stood over her to assess the damage. He reached his conclusion in mere moments, and his features were set as he drew his dagger.

Mairead was stunned, speechless. Surely he did not intend to?—

He did. The slave master bent to grasp the front of Fiona's woollen smock. The girl was ashen as she shrieked again, but was helpless to protect herself.

A sharp shout, then hoof beats interrupted the macabre scene.

The Viking chieftain who had passed them but moments earlier cantered back into view, the dark Viking with him.

Both dismounted. The chief spoke to the slave master, the exchange quick and angry.

The Viking crouched to better peruse his damaged property, then said something else to the man under his command.

The slave master started to argue then seemingly thought better of it.

He shrugged, his pudgy features sullen as he relinquished the sobbing prisoner to the mercy of his chief.

He started back towards the prisoners, breaking into a run as unrest surged among the men who had watched the scene unfold.

Taranc's voice rose above the general shouting and babble. "Let her be, you animals. I shall carry her. I will?—"

The odious slave master laid into the Celt, wielding his ever-present switch with determined enthusiasm but that merely served to incite the angry and now mutinous captives into yet more raucous defiance.

Voices raised, men fought to be free of their chains.

The mood was angry, but Mairead feared this would only end in tragedy as the Viking guards closed in, clearly ready to apply whatever force might be required to quell this uprising.

The blond Viking chieftain strode across to the protesting slaves and at first Mairead believed he, too, intended to join in the melée.

Instead he gestured his guards to back off, whilst he confronted the furious Taranc alone.

The men stood nose to nose, the one all powerful, the other snarling his rage at his captor.

From where she stood Mairead was unable to hear their low-voiced conversation, but she was struck by the expression on the Viking's handsome features.

He was utterly calm, his self-assured confidence absolute.

He did not posture or threaten, but his words gave Taranc pause.

The Celt answered, and whatever he said seemed to satisfy the Viking.

Their exchange at an end, the Norseman turned on his heel and marched back to where Fiona still lay on the ground.

The dark Viking with the scarred face had watched all of this with apparent amusement.

His stern features split in a wide grin as the blond man strode back to where he stood beside Fiona and something twisted low in Mairead's belly.

Despite the scar, or maybe because of it, the man was beautiful when he smiled.

Utterly terrifying, of course, but still quite beautiful.

The blond crouched beside Fiona. His dark companion offered some remark or other.

His chief seemed irritated but the dark one grinned yet more.

He was clearly enjoying all of this, a fact which should have angered Mairead but instead she found herself fascinated.

The blond seemed to be their leader, but the dark warrior was not in the least subservient to him.

Surely Fiona was in no danger now. These men had prevented the slave master from murdering her at the roadside. But what exactly were their intentions?

She had little opportunity to ponder that. Already the slave master was shouting at the prisoners to get back into their lines and move off. He sought out Mairead in particular to prod her with his switch.

"You, you will walk faster. Not slow others."

She nodded, determined not to draw further unwelcome attention, then clutched her belly as her baby chose that precise moment to deliver another sharp kick.

"Oh, ouch!" Mairead gasped and lurched forward, but not before the slave master spotted her distress.

"Halt. Wait," he barked. In moments he had loosed the chain once more and this time removed Mairead's shackle from the rest. He straightened and grabbed her arm. "Too slow, too heavy. No use." He dragged her out of the group, his grip brutal as he jerked her forward.