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“ E ileifr must have opted to return by the scenic route. We have been waiting here for almost two days.”

Ulfric Freysson complained into his jug of mead as he regarded the disembarkation of his female thralls.

He was starting to regret his haste in taking women as well as men.

It was strong male backs he needed to construct the granary and harbour at Skarthveit, his own settlement two days north of Hafrsfjord where he now quenched his thirst. He knew women to be a calming influence on male slaves and he had no wish to spend the next few years quelling one uprising after another, but his reasons were more complex than that.

Certainly the dark-haired wench who had sought to fell his men with her puny slingshot had fallen victim to impulse rather than any reason on his part.

“It has been little more than one day. Your man made good time given the rot-bucket of a craft he has somehow managed to navigate across the northern waters. And we have put our enforced idleness to good use.” His companion patted the bulging purse fastened to his leather belt.

“I trust you have no more silver you wish to offload. I should be delighted to oblige you.”

“You cheated,” announced Ulfric dispassionately. “No one is that lucky.”

Gunnar shrugged and lifted his cup of ale to his mouth, saluting his lord with it before drinking deep.

Ulfric watched the women emerge one by one to be received into the ungentle care of his slave master, Dagr Varllsson.

The man was not one of his favourites, but he was efficient and not unduly harsh.

The Celts were here to work and Dagr could get the required results out of them without losing too many of their number to escapes.

Slaves were valuable. Ulfric worked hard enough to acquire them and they could be used as required, then traded or sold.

A slave master who was over fond of the whip was a liability, as was one not prepared to enforce the rigid discipline needed to maintain order.

Dagr was about right, all things considered.

Ulfric lowered his jug when the dark-haired wench came into sight . Shit, she looks half-dead!

“Fuck,” he muttered and strode for the door of the tavern, his mead abandoned. Gunnar downed his own ale and followed him.

The wench still lay on her side on the jetty as he approached. Dagr had also seen her and was already advancing, his pugnacious jaw set. As his slave master bent to haul the girl to her feet, Ulfric spoke.

“Leave her to me.”

“Aye, Jarl , but—” Dagr peered at him, his expression bemused. Ulfric was not surprised. He normally preferred to leave all such tedious details to his servant.

“We need to be off as soon as possible. You attend to the rest, I can manage this one.”

“Aye, well, the smith is ready to fix the manacles. The men have been chained in line for hours…”

“I shall bring her over,” Ulfric assured him. “You secure the others.”

Dagr was still muttering as he hurried away.

Ulfric ignored him, instead bending one knee to lower himself closer to where the girl still lay.

She looked up at him but remained silent.

It was defiance and resentment he discerned in her eyes though, not fear.

And what eyes they were, every bit as grey as he remembered, their colour as deep as the sea and as stormy as a winter’s evening.

For a brief moment he was again captivated by that smoky gaze, then she winced and he returned to his own senses.

“The delights of seafaring are lost on you, I take it?”

She furrowed her forehead, obviously not taking his meaning.

“You have not much enjoyed the crossing.” He took her chin in his palm and turned her face up toward him. “You look quite green, little Celt. Are you able to stand?”

The wench nodded slowly. Ulfric offered her a sardonic smile as he leaned across to draw her hands in front of her.

“Fuck, you are very cold.” He rubbed the stiff, frigid fingers. “Is that better?”

She nodded, curling her hands into fists.

“Stiff?”

Another small nod. Ulfric reached for her shoulders and assisted her to a sit, then massaged both her small hands between his own. His actions were gentler than he intended. Something about this Celtic lass evoked an unexpected tenderness in him.

Behind him, Gunnar cleared his throat.

Ulfric turned his head. “Have you taken a chill, my brother?”

“No, but I expect we shall all succumb to an ague if we remain here much longer. Shall I take this one over to the smith to be fitted with her shackles?”

Ulfric rose to his feet, drawing the Celt girl up with him. “Yes. I will settle up our remaining affairs here and we can be away.”

Gunnar took the girl by the elbow and Ulfric was gratified to note that she offered no resistance as his brother led her away.

He remained where he was and watched them as the pair crossed the hard-packed soil toward the rest of her countrymen and women who were waiting to commence the two-day trek to Skarthveit.

Even at this distance though he caught the expression of horror that crossed her delicate features as she realised she was to be chained to the rest, an iron band to be secured around her slender ankle.

Gunnar remained at her side until the process was completed then he returned to where Ulfric still stood.

“A pretty one,” his brother observed, “not happy to be shackled, though.”

“She did not fight you. I was watching.”

“She did not, that is true, and it would have done her no good in any case. But you can still tell, can you not? Something in the eyes…”

Something in the eyes indeed . Ulfric mused on that as he and Gunnar, and the rest of the jarls who were to ride to Skarthveit with him mounted their horses and made ready to depart Hafrsfjord.

The slaves had left some two hours before, shuffling off along the rough track that led further up the coast toward his own settlement.

Dagr’s harsh commands rang out as the men led the way, chained together in pairs, a sorry convoy as they were led off to a life of hard labour and captivity. The few females brought up the rear.

Ulfric had watched as that mane of dark, wavy hair lifted in the breeze, those curving hips swaying awkwardly as his Celtic thrall sought to keep her footing on the uneven ground, encumbered as she was by the heavy shackles. She would get used to it, they always did. Eventually.

He gazed up at the sky, the weak sun just starting to dip.

They had perhaps an hour’s daylight left, plenty of time to catch up and probably overtake the slave convoy.

The journey would take the captives at least two days.

He and his escort would be home by the following morning.

Ulfric dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and they were away.

The rear of the straggly procession came into view soon enough, though they were still a good two or three miles ahead.

Ulfric picked her out at once, his dark-haired little slave.

She would be wasted on heavy labour, and he was even less inclined to allow her to offer comfort to the male thralls.

Especially that so-called betrothed of hers.

The man made Ulfric uneasy. The Celt held himself too straight, was too proud, altogether too fucking sure of himself to ever make a decent slave. Ulfric regretted now not leaving the man behind; he just knew the Scottish thrall would be more trouble than he was worth.

Ulfric and the others on horseback gained ground and soon enough came up alongside those on foot.

He took the opportunity to once more observe the girl at close quarters as he passed.

Her head was bowed, her features concealed behind the curtain of raven-hued hair that fell almost to her waist. She wore stout boots, he noted, and was glad of that, for her sake as she dragged her feet over the inhospitable terrain.

The shrill scream brought him to a sudden halt.

Ulfric swivelled in the saddle to see what had caused the commotion behind him.

Dagr sprinted from the head of the line back along the column to the rear.

Ulfric could make out bobbing heads at the back of the convoy and the squeals of pain continued. Instinctively he knew it was her.

He pulled on the reins to turn his mount and cantered back the way he had come. Dagr was already casting about him with the switch he kept constantly to hand, separating the women to expose the one in distress. The slave master leaned in and extricated the offending thrall.

The wench shrieked as his servant dragged her from the line and onto the verge beside the track. She writhed on the ground, sobbing. Even from a distance Ulfric could see her features contorted first in pain, then in horror as Dagr drew his dagger.

The man seized the front of her woollen smock and dragged her forward, his intent clear.

“ Létta !” The shout rang out as Ulfric kicked his mount into a canter. “What is the problem here?”

Dagr swung his head around to regard his master. “Turned an ankle, Jarl . The wench is useless now, she can’t even get to Skarthveit. I’ll not have the rest held up…”

“I see. Very well, I shall deal with it.” Ulfric dismounted.

“I wouldn’t be expecting you to do that, sir.

I shall just dispatch her now, nice and quick.

She’ll not suffer.” The man adjusted his grip on the dagger, clearly ready to do what was needed.

Ulfric could not fault his slave master’s alacrity and devotion to his duty, even if the man was sorely lacking in mercy.

“That is quite all right. I appreciate your diligence but it does seem to be a waste of a decent slave.”

Dagr was unmoved. “If she cannot walk, she cannot work. ‘Tis simple enough. I cannot be having one of the others carrying her…”