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Ulfric crouched beside the wench who was already shaking violently, her face pallid. It was the shock of her injury, he had no doubt, compounded by the prospect of impending death at the hands of his pitiless karl.

“Thank you, Dagr,” affirmed Ulfric. “You may return to your duties.”

The man complied, shaking his head. Ulfric watched him amble away, the karl’s pace quickening as unrest began in the ranks of male slaves.

Even from here Ulfric could recognise the tawny locks of the man who had claimed to be the betrothed of his recent acquisition.

The Celt was straining to be free, oblivious to the strike of the switch wielded with enthusiasm by one of the guards.

Dagr was clearly ready to add his own efforts to subduing the male who was yelling threats and curses at the top of his lungs.

“Let her be, you animals. I shall carry her. I will?—”

“Silence, cur,” Dagr snarled in their Nordic tongue and of course the Celt could not understand.

The slave master raised his switch, but far from subduing the unrest other slaves, both male and female, were now joining in.

The angry shouts of protest grew, accompanied by the clank and rattle of chains as more and more added their voices to the protest.

“For fuck’s sake,” muttered Ulfric as he rose to his feet. He made straight for the man at the centre of the trouble. “You, listen to me and heed me well.”

He spoke in Gaelic and was gratified to note that several of the slaves did indeed seem inclined to hear his words. Even so, he addressed himself to the tall, brown-haired man. “What is your name, Celt?”

“I am Taranc.” The reply was delivered with not the merest hint of servility. On the contrary, the belligerent slave glared at him, his every sinew bristling with anger.

Again, Dagr made as though to step in and assert his authority. Ulfric forestalled that with one upraised hand. The man fell back obediently.

Ulfric stepped closer to the unruly slaves, intent upon showing not the slightest trepidation. He stopped before the man, Taranc. “She is mine now. I told you this. My property.”

“You will not harm her! I?—”

“No, I will not. I take care of what is mine. She will be safe.” Ulfric paused, then, “You have my word on this.”

“Your word? What is that worth? The word of a murdering, robbing savage impresses no one.”

“I have offered you the word of Ulfric Freysson, Jarl of Skarthveit. You may rely upon it.” Ulfric stood his ground, his steady gaze unwavering.

Taranc returned his glare. The pair stood almost nose to nose, waves of frustrated fury rolling off the Celt though Ulfric thought the man might be at least considering what he had heard. Long seconds passed before the slave offered a curt nod.

“If you harm her, I shall kill you. You may rely upon that. This is my promise to you, Viking.”

Ulfric offered no response. Instead he turned on his heel and marched away without looking back. He knew he had achieved what he set out to do when the sound of trudging footsteps confirmed that the procession had started on their way once more.

Now for the wench…

Gunnar watched with undisguised interest as Ulfric crouched beside his property.

“You do not need to wait. I can handle this.”

“Without doubt, brother. Even so, I find I am in no particular hurry and we know this wench to be ferocious when riled. You may yet require my aid.”

“Very well. Since you insist upon remaining, perhaps you will make yourself useful and find something with which to bind this ankle.”

Gunnar chuckled as he turned to return to the saddlebags slung across his horse’s back, then let out a low oath.

Ulfric looked up to see that the convoy had stopped again.

Dagr was dragging another of the females from the group, this time a woman whose belly was distended with the final stages of pregnancy.

“Now what?” he muttered. The woman looked to be a little older than the wench on the ground before him, and this one sported hair of a vivid red. Her clothing was rough, indicating that she was not a woman of wealth. He supposed none of them were, not now.

The flame-haired slave stumbled, her knees buckling. She clutched her rounded abdomen and cowered away from the raised arm of the slave master. The switch whistled as it sliced the air.

“ Neinn !” This time it was Gunnar who issued the command to stop, though not in time to prevent the first stroke from landing across the woman’s shoulders. She let out a sharp cry as Gunnar strode toward the pair.

“What is the problem here, karl ?” Ulfric observed that Gunnar appeared fit to tear Dagr’s arm from his shoulder, but instead his brother settled for relieving the slave master of the switch.

A good thing too. The man might be rather harsh in his dealings with these females but decent slave handlers were still hard to come by.

Dagr’s explanation was simple enough. “Look at her. She will not make the journey unaided and will be of no use when we get there. She should not have been taken.”

Ulfric had reached that conclusion unaided.

“Then leave her with us.” It appeared Gunnar concurred.

Dagr was again reaching for his dagger. “I will?—”

“I said, leave the female with us and fuck off.” Gunnar was ever blunt in his dealings with those he considered his inferiors, but on this occasion Ulfric could find no cause to fault his brother’s approach.

Dagr was becoming tedious and the callous brutality he was showing of late was not conducive to efficiency.

Perhaps Ulfric should consider replacing him…

Dagr might have protested, but Gunnar’s glowering countenance was sufficient to quell any such misguided impulse. He shrugged and stormed off back to where the slaves waited. “Get moving. We have wasted enough time here. Onward. Now!”

The guards hurried to do the slave master’s bidding, prodding the thralls into motion once more.

The pregnant woman on the ground let out a cry of despair and sought to rise. Gunnar offered his hand and she took it, allowing him to aid her to her feet. Then she set off in pursuit of her tormentor. Gunnar grabbed at her elbow.

“Wait. You will remain here.”

He spoke in their Nordic tongue so Ulfric knew the woman could not understand Gunnar. He, however, could follow her rapid Gaelic as she grappled with his brother in her desperation to escape his grasp.

“My son! My boy, he needs me. He is but a baby. Please, let me go! I have to remain with him. I can manage…”

What? Ulfric stood and scanned the ranks of slaves but could not pick out the reason for such grief. He turned to the girl who lay at his feet. “What is she saying? What boy?”

“Her son. He is among the men you took. He is just seven summers…”

“She fears for her son. The lad is but a child and is with the male thralls.” Ulfric translated the explanation for Gunnar’s benefit.

Privately he regretted having devoted so much of his attention to the loading of the goods they had plundered rather than overseeing the taking of slaves.

Neither this red-haired woman nor her child should have been among those seized.

“A boy?” Gunnar tightened his grip on the struggling woman. “Then I shall have him too.”

Ulfric regarded his brother with a mix of surprise and amusement. Gunnar was not known for his finer feelings nor for his tenderness toward women and children. Certainly, he harboured no sympathy for slaves.

Theirs was a harsh society, sharply divided between the class of jarls to which he and Gunnar both belonged despite his brother’s illegitimacy, the karls who were the tier below, and the slave class or thralls who languished at the bottom of the class system.

Slaves had no rights, thralls barely any more though they might, if they could accrue the necessary wealth, purchase their freedom.

That was rare. Certainly, slaves did not dictate to their masters.

This woman had no right to demand that her son remain with her.

She could be whipped for her impertinence though one look at Gunnar’s angry countenance convinced Ulfric that it would be folly to suggest such a thing.

Still, he could turn this situation to his advantage.

“The woman is yours, if you want her. You may buy the lad from me, too, if you so wish.”

“Buy him?” Gunnar’s eyes narrowed. “You would sell him? To me?”

“Aye, if we can agree a price. That purse of silver dangling from your belt would be about right, I daresay.”

“You bastard!”

Ulfric shrugged. “I believe you will find it is you who is the bastard among us, but let us not haggle over details. Very well. I expect the boy will fetch a decent enough price when I offer him for auction. Do not forget, I offered you first refusal.” He spoke in Nordic and was glad his own little captive could not comprehend his words.

She would not understand the banter between the brothers.

Gunnar untied the purse from his belt and hurled it at Ulfric. “Greedy cur. You were ever a poor loser.”

“Perhaps. I confess I get little enough practice.” He turned to Dagr who had witnessed this exchange with a look of pure bewilderment. “It seems my brother will be having the boy as well. Release him from the shackles.”

“But—”

“Now, if you would, Dagr. You really do need to be getting on your way.”

A few moments later Dagr produced a small boy from among the throng and shoved him in the direction of Gunnar and the woman. The lad stood, uncertain as the rest of the men moved off behind him.

“Donald!” The woman still secured in Gunnar’s embrace held out her hands to the confused and frightened child.

Gunnar let her go and she stumbled along the rough track to take her son in her arms. She knelt beside him weeping, clinging to her child as she murmured words of love and devotion and eternal hope.

Ulfric allowed himself a private grin as he bent to retrieve the purse of silver coins and attached it to his own belt. Without a doubt, there was something oddly alluring about these Celtish females.

“What is your name, wench?” Ulfric deliberately softened his voice as he addressed the ebony-haired girl again. He was once more crouching at her side and needed to ascertain the nature and extent of her injury. First, he had to calm her.

She did not reply. Instead she used her good leg, still sporting the heavy iron shackle, to attempt to scramble backwards and out of his reach.

Her efforts were futile. She could not get away. Ulfric repeated his question, this time cupping her chin in his palm.

“I am Ulfric, son of Frey, Jarl of Skarthveit. And you are…?”

“F-Fiona. Daughter of Dughall, of Pennglas.” The wench whispered her name as though she feared relinquishing even this small part of her.

Ulfric nodded, and reached for her injured ankle.

Fiona let out a startled scream as he lifted the damp hem of her woollen skirt.

He glanced up in time to glimpse the rock in her hand as she swung it toward his head.

The blow bounced off his temple. The last thing Ulfric remembered was the beautiful stormy shade of her eyes and an instant later his entire world went similarly grey.