Chapter Two
Kristin pulled her cloak close and sought to remain beside her father as he strode through the busy, narrow streets of the bustling port. She loved Hafrsfjord normally, enjoyed her visits here. The sights, the smells, the shouts of traders, the lap of the sea against the jetty, the creak of timbers as boats bobbed up and down upon the waves. She never tired of it.
But this day was different. Today they were not here to admire fine silks, nor would they sample aromatic spices or fine wines. They would not haggle over silver or squabble with some merchant over the fair price to pay for a shipment of fish oil.
They were here to purchase slaves.
Slavery was a fact of Viking life. Thralls were everywhere, toiling in the fields, at the oars of dragon ships, in every longhouse owned by those of the jarl. Some were born into slavery, the children of thralls who had known no other life. Such thralls were, she tended to observe, largely content with their lot. They caused no trouble, just got on with their appointed labours.
Others were captured in raids and brought to the Norseland by force. These latter class of slaves were invariably far from content. They tended to scream and wail, fight their captivity, would take any chance they could to escape, and could not be trusted not to murder their unsuspecting owners in their beds at night if an opportunity presented itself. As far as Kristin could tell, newly captured thralls were trouble and best avoided.
Yet, it was a consignment of just such unruly individuals that her father seemed intent upon inspecting. He had been told of a new batch of captives just unloaded, Celts in the main and among them several fine-looking females.
“Come, we must make our way to the auction before all the best wenches are gone.” He had summoned Kristin to his side and set off at a brisk pace, headed for the harbour.
They arrived to find the sale already under way. A male of perhaps thirty years old stood on a box. An enthusiastic throng of Viking men and women milled about him, asking questions and prodding at the man who glared this way and that. Blood trickled from a fresh gash on his cheek, and his face was bruised. Kristin could only assume he had not gone willingly to stand upon the box.
“Two silver pieces,” yelled one of the men.
“I’ll give three,” shouted another.
“Four,” came the response.
“Five.”
The bidding continued, until eventually the man became the property of his new owner for the respectable sum of seven silver pieces. He might have commanded an even higher price, in Kristin’s view, had he not insisted upon kicking out at every Norseman who approached to inspect the merchandise.
The man was hauled from the block and dragged away by his new master, while another Celt was shoved up onto the raised box and the bidding commenced again.
“Look, there are several wenches in the pen. They must have decided to start by selling off the males first.” Lofn Stianson pointed over the heads of the crowd that had assembled to observe the proceedings. “Come, we shall get closer. If I see one I like the look of I shall offer a decent price and avoid the auction. Four silver pieces should do it.” He started to shoulder his way through the throng to reach the corner of the pen where the women appeared to have huddled.
Four silver pieces seemed, to Kristin, to be an overly generous amount to pay for an untrained thrall that they knew nothing about. The wench might not be healthy, she might have no useful skills. It was unlikely she would speak their tongue and neither she nor Lofn spoke the language of the Celts. The more she thought upon this, the more ill-advised the entire venture seemed to her.
“Father, if we must purchase thralls, why not wait? Or perhaps approach other households who will surely have a wench or two to spare?”
“And part with good coin for a lass trained in someone else’s ways? No, this way is best. You can teach the girl all she needs to know. Hurry, before the best ones are snapped up.”
Kristin sighed and saw no option but to rush along in her father’s wake. All about her the crowd pushed and jostled, all seeking the best vantage point for a better view of the hapless captives. She put her head down and hurried after Lofn.
They reached the edge of the pen. It amounted to no more than a low, roughhewn fence, but escape was prevented by the vicious-looking guards who patrolled the perimeter and brandished their long whips at any slave foolhardy enough to attract their attention. Most of the Celts had worked out the wisdom of keeping their eyes down and their shoulders hunched.
Apart from one.
Perhaps it was the man’s dark, baleful gaze that caught her father’s eye. Certainly, it did not go unnoticed by the guard closest to them who muttered a curse and hurled the heavy lash of his whip across the thrall’s shoulders. The man flinched but did not avert his gaze as Lofn craned his neck to better see the defiant Celt.
“Father, we are not interested in males,” Kristin hissed. “Come, there are women further around.”
Her father shrugged. “What about that one?” Lofn pointed at a diminutive, dark-haired wench who stood immediately in front of the man who commanded Kristin’s attention. “She looks as though she might do.”
“Too young,” Kristin pronounced, “and too thin.”
“She is about the same age as you, daughter. Eighteen summers, perhaps a little more.”
Kristin eyed the Celt female and decided her father’s eyesight must be failing. The wench looked to be no more than sixteen, and she clung to the man at her rear as though her very life depended upon him.
“What about that one?” She pointed out a woman of perhaps thirty, a stout, sturdy individual who appeared relatively calm amid the chaos of the auction. “She looks as though she would be reliable.”
Lofn appraised the second woman with a critical frown. “Do you not think she might be a little old? And she is pregnant.”
A sharp pang of sympathy for the woman twisted within Kristin. She wondered if her father’s relatively calm and undemanding household might be just the place for a newly enslaved female about to give birth. “You would get better value, Father. Two thralls for the price of one,” she encouraged.
“Aye, well, you do have a point there. Maybe we shall take both.” Lofn gestured to the guard with the whip. “I want to take a closer look at that one. And the one over there. Yes, her.”
The guard removed a bar from the low fencing and strode across the pen. He grabbed the pregnant female first and shoved her over to where Lofn and Kristin waited on the edge of the enclosure, then he reached for the young, dark-haired girl. At once the man beside her knocked the guard’s hand away. The Celt snarled something incomprehensible in his native tongue and pushed the wench behind him.
Kristin let out a startled cry as the angry guard raised his whip. “Father, stop him…”
It seemed that Lofn was no more enthusiastic about the sudden upsurge of needless violence than was his daughter. He let out an angry shout, but not before the lash landed again, catching both thralls and several more, unlucky enough to find themselves in close proximity. The enraged guard was indiscriminate, swinging the whip about him as he sought to establish his authority and restore order.
The thralls screamed and pushed against each other as they attempted to avoid the vicious onslaught. A gap opened up around the guard and as the prisoners were forced back against the barrier the rickety fencing that made up the pen gave way. Kristin and Lofn found themselves surrounded by milling, panicking Celts, several of them intent upon escape.
The man who had first attracted her attention was one of those ready to take his chance and make a run for it. He grabbed the girl’s hand and started to pull her from the mêlée. Kristin stepped back as the mob of fleeing slaves surged toward her, only to find that she was stepping into thin air. She had not realised how close she and Lofn had come to the edge of the harbour wall. Her arms flailing, she reached for something, anything to steady herself. There was nothing, she was falling…
An arm about her waist halted her rapid, and in all likelihood, fatal descent. She would have landed in the water that lapped between the boats in the harbour, probably to be crushed as they rocked into each other, or drowned if she ended up beneath one of the hulls and could not find the way back to the surface. Desperate, she grasped at the arm that encircled her body. Her fingers found the rough fabric of a torn woollen tunic and she hung on tight.
She was lifted from her feet and swung around before being deposited back upon the stones of the jetty. For long moments she clung on to her rescuer, uncertain that her legs would support her, despite the solid foundation beneath her feet. Her eyes were closed, she barely dared to breathe, knew only that as long as he held her, she was safe.
“Kristin, you are unhurt. Oh, thank all the gods. I saw… I thought you were falling…” Kristin had buried her face against a muscled shoulder, the unfamiliar but comforting aroma of hard, unyielding male filling her nostrils. She turned her head at the familiar tone. The next moment she found herself enfolded within Lofn’s relieved embrace.
“I thought I lost you. I could not reach you in time. I…” He broke off to kiss her hair. “It all happened so fast. That brainless brute, I shall have him flogged for endangering you…”
“No, Father. He saved me.” She had yet to open her eyes, but Kristin had no doubt, none at all to whom she owed her deliverance. “The Celt grabbed me as I fell.”
“One of them barged into you. I saw it. They are all as bad as each other.”
Kristin shook her head but Lofn seemed not to notice.
“You almost killed my daughter. You are animals, all of you, no better than swine.”
“Father, no, you are mistaken…”
Lofn was not listening. Nor were the guards who seemed to appear from every direction. There were shouts, a scuffle, Kristin wriggled free of her father’s protective embrace, then clutched at her father’s cloak as the Celt was dragged away by two warriors.
“No! Let him go. He saved me…” Her pleas fell on deaf ears.
“Come, we will conclude our business here and be gone.” Lofn grasped her elbow and sought to hustle her from harm’s way but Kristin broke free and ran toward where the tall Celt now stood, flanked by Viking guards. She managed to get within two feet of him before her father caught up.
The Celt regarded the Vikings calmly, undisguised distaste burning within his dark eyes, his broad, muscled chest still bearing the imprint of her cheek where she had pressed against him in her panic and relief.
“Come away, my daughter. The dolt cannot harm you now.”
“He saved me,” Kristin repeated. “Why will you not listen?”
The Celt lifted one dark eyebrow when she spoke. He met her gaze, held it. Despite not having entered the water, Kristin believed she might still be drowning.
Lofn wrapped his arm about her once more. “Kristin, come with me. Now.”
The Celt narrowed his eyes, broke her gaze, and regarded her father once more. He tipped up his chin and Kristin thought he might be about to speak, though she would not have understood his tongue.
The warrior who had started the commotion cracked his whip again. The Celt turned his head at the sound, hatred crackling within his ebony glare as the warriors flanking him grabbed him by the arms. He was dragged away, the slender wench never leaving his side as two guards lashed him to a post.
Horrified, Kristin let out a low moan. They are going to flog him. She continued to protest but in his haste to see her safe Lofn hustled her away from the slave pen, away from the horror unfolding, away from the sound of the lash whistling through the air, the sharp crack as it met flesh.
“Father, wait! We must—” She clutched at Lofn’s arm, forcing him to slow down.
“It is none of our concern, daughter. Come, this is no place for you. It will only make matters worse for the man if you try to interfere.”
“But…”
“For once, will you do as I say? Come, quickly, before there is any more trouble.”
Distraught but at a loss, Kristin reluctantly followed her father as he hurried away into the crowd. Riddled with guilt, she left her rescuer to his fate.
Later that night as she lay sleepless on her pallet Kristin relived the vile events of that day A chill racked her body—remorse mixed with anguish at the injustice wrought, as well as the delayed shock of her near brush with death. As long as the tall Celt had been close to her, touching her, she had felt warm, secure even.
He had helped her, selflessly. His strong arms and quick reflexes all that saved her from disaster, and he had been flogged for his trouble. It was her fault. She should have made them listen, but she had been powerless to aid him.
She would never forgive herself.
* * *
Bowdyn tugged at the leather straps that lashed him to the post, but they were solid. Beside him, Deva sobbed and wrung her hands, pleading with the grinning Vikings to spare him, to let him go. Their raucous laughter offered no hope of reprieve. Bowdyn was under no illusions, they intended to enjoy their sport this day.
Why had he intervened? He should have left the Norsewoman to her fate, made good his escape while he could. He was an idiot. He deserved what was about to happen, for his stupidity.
The shrill whistle of the lash alerted him, an instant before white-hot agony snaked across his shoulders. His tattered tunic offered little in the way of protection. Bowdyn’s body jerked under the assault and he wondered that his knees did not give way. There was yet time…
He let out a grunt. Deva wailed piteously. The lash whistled once more.
After the third stroke he could no longer prevent himself from crying out. If anything, this seemed to amuse his tormentors more. The warrior with the whip readied himself to strike again.
A voice rang out, loud, authoritative, followed by answering shouts among the Vikings. An angry exchange ensued, though Bowdyn could comprehend none of what was said. Then, incredibly, he was cut down from the post and would have dropped to his knees had not Deva flung her arms about him. For long moments he leaned on her, steadying himself, remembering to breathe.
Their fun over, the Vikings returned to the main business of the day. They quickly restored order following the commotion. The slave trader righted the box that had been kicked over in the confusion and urged the next thrall who was to be sold to clamber up onto it. The rest were herded into a group, and Bowdyn found himself and Deva on the edge of it. She was shaking, her terror heightened by the events of a few minutes ago.
Bowdyn attempted to reassure Deva, though in reality it was already perfectly obvious how powerless he was to affect her fate or his own. Even so, he thought of Deva as his sister and the urge to protect her was strong. What he had not expected to experience was an equally powerful—and as it turned out, self-destructive—urge to protect a Viking female. He had done so without thinking—and paid a high price for it.
The Norsewoman was lovely. A beauty. He could not recall another woman who had affected him so, and on such short acquaintance. Bowdyn gave himself a mental shake, but then shrugged. He was a man and despite the best efforts of these Nordic savages, he was not dead yet. He could allow himself that much. He had looked at her, his gaze appraising and he knew that she noticed him staring. Bowdyn did not care. Any perceived lack of manners was the least of his troubles right now.
Then all hell had broken loose and all he could think of in that moment was that here was a chance to escape, He might not get another. He had grasped Deva’s hand and started to run. As he passed the Nordic beauty another man to his left barrelled right into her and she started to fall. Bowdyn did not hesitate, he never stopped to think, simply reacted. He flung out his arm and caught her, then held her to him as he swung her out of danger.
He could have let her go at once. Should have. But she clung to him, curled her slender fingers in his tunic, pressed the lush curves of her body against him. Even now he fancied he could still feel the soft swell of her breasts pressed against him. He had but to lift his hand to stroke her. She had but to tip her face up, and he might have kissed her…
The older man—husband, possibly, father more likely—had clearly blamed him for his daughter’s mishap and the guards had taken little persuasion to string him up and flog him. The woman had tried to protest, he saw that much, but to no avail. She should have tried harder. He was lucky to have survived.
Saving the Viking woman was an impulse, and one he might yet live to regret. Had he not abandoned his opportunity to escape in saving her? But it was done now, he lived still though he could not fathom why or how, and he would waste no more time thinking of it, or of her. His priority was to take care of himself, and of Deva.
Deva was pretty, and of an age to be married. He had little optimism that she would end up as other than a bed slave to some lustful warrior who would treat her with contempt. Rage boiled within him. Should he make some attempt at defending her, however fruitless? Was mere survival worth the dishonour of leaving her to her fate? After all, he had to die sometime…
A voice to his right interrupted Bowdyn’s self-destructive musings. The man who stood beside him was richly dressed and exuded an air of authority, though he did not appear to be armed. His words were directed to the merchant conducting the auction. A brief conversation ensued, then the newcomer handed over a purse. Clearly, he was making a purchase. The merchant tilted his chin in Bowdyn’s direction.
“You will wait over there.” The well-garbed man spoke in the language of the Celts. “You are now my property.”
Bowdyn did not move. One of the guards prodded him with the butt of a whip and Bowdyn swing around, his fist raised.
“Hold.” The man stepped between Bowdyn and the guard. “I have purchased you to deliver you from one whipping, and you have already cost me dearly. I do not believe I could find the funds to save you again. Now, I have other purchases to make so if you would await me over there…?”
At a loss, Bowdyn could but glare. His back throbbed, his throat was parched. Beside him, Deva clung to his arm.
“Please, do not take him. Please…” she whimpered. “We must remain together.”
The Viking glanced at her, appeared to take stock, then arrived at his decision. “Then you may.” He turned to the slave merchant who hovered at his shoulder. “I will take this one also, as well as five more males.”
The trader nodded, his enthusiasm for the deal apparent. He waved his arm expansively at the assembled slaves, as though inviting his latest customer to take his pick.
The man did. He strolled among the Celts, fearless and confident, tapping first one, then another on the shoulder. His selections were all males, young, strong, healthy and as each was chosen the Vikings led that man away to stand beside Bowdyn and Deva.
His selections complete, the man returned to cast a critical eye over his purchases. He seemed well satisfied when he spoke again, this time directly to Bowdyn.
“I saw what you did.” The man spoke in the Celtic tongue, his words slow but distinct.
Bowdyn glowered. He had no desire to converse with one of them.
“You deserved to be rewarded for your actions, not flogged. It is a pity that the woman’s kinsman did not realise that.”
Bowdyn shared that sentiment but did not say so. None of these Norsemen were to be trusted. The man continued.
“You could have escaped, but you did not.”
“More fool me,” growled Bowdyn. “Next time.”
“An escaped thrall is as good as dead. It is better for you that you did not run away.”
“Better to die fighting than under the lash of Viking scum.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Have a care, my friend. It is fortunate for you that none of the Norsemen within earshot understand your words.”
“You will understand when I say that I do not feel that Fortune has smiled upon me of late.”
“Perhaps not, but that could change. I admire your courage, and I have already intervened to aid you. I could continue to help you.”
“You will give me my freedom? Return me to my home? Restore my father to life, unburn our farm?”
“Alas, no. But, you are my property now so you will be safe. You and the female.”
“Please, do not trouble yourself.”
“The matter is decided. You have earned your life, whether you appreciate my assistance or not.” The merchant signalled to the slave trader, brief words were exchanged, more coin passed between them. He nodded, the deal seemingly concluded.
Bowdyn was perplexed and fearful. This wealthy man had purchased both him and Deva. He cared little about his own fate and did not believe for one moment the fanciful tale of being rewarded for his rescue of a female in distress. That was some sort of Nordic trickery, it could be nothing else. As for Deva, it was likely that the Viking had but one purpose in mind for her. Bowdyn was powerless to protect the woman he considered a sister, though he would do everything he could.
Meanwhile, their new master had concluded his business at the auction. He scrutinised his latest acquisitions. Bowdyn bristled but remained silent. For now.
“I can only apologise for the treatment you have received thus far. My name is Torsteinn, and you now belong to me. All of you.” Did Bowdyn imagine it or did Torsteinn’s gaze remain marginally longer upon Deva? “I hope you will find your new accommodations more comfortable. But first, you will require food. Follow me.” He turned and marched away, only to halt after a few strides. He turned back. “Did you not understand me? Come. You will be fed and given an opportunity to rest before we journey to my home.”
Bowdyn did not detect malicious intent in their new master’s words, though he knew that no Viking was to be trusted. Still, no better alternatives presented themselves. He slung a possessive arm across Deva’s shoulders and stepped forward.
Torsteinn led them to a rough shelter and bade them be seated at a long table. He positioned himself at the head and called for food and ale to be brought. Within minutes a bowl of not especially appetising stew was placed on the table, along with a loaf of bread. Torsteinn eyed the stew with little enthusiasm but broke off a piece of the loaf and dipped it into the broth. He tasted it, scowled, shrugged, then invited his companions to join in.
They were ravenous and given that this was their first real meal in days the Celts were a lot less choosy than Torsteinn. Bowdyn made sure that Deva had a share of the bread, then tucked in himself. He would not have described the fare as delicious, but it was one of the most welcome meals he had ever eaten. More bread was brought when Torsteinn called for it, and mugs of decent ale appeared beside each of the slaves.
At last all were satisfied, for now. Torsteinn eyed them, his gaze passing from one man to the next, and finally alighting on Deva. His expression when he looked at her was distinctly different, warmer, less appraising now, thought Bowdyn.
Torsteinn cleared his throat. “We leave tomorrow, as I have already explained. I shall make arrangements for your transport. You will spend the night in the slave stockade here, I am afraid. It is basic, but weathertight and you will fare well enough. Apart from you.” Now he fixed his gaze upon Deva. “You will come with me.”
“No!” Bowdyn started to get to his feet, only to be shoved back onto the bench by one of Torsteinn’s men who had been stationed behind them. “She stays with us. With me.”
Torsteinn lifted his eyebrow again, his calm stare unwavering. “She is your wife?”
“No. My sister.”
“She is mine now, to do with as I please.”
“Oh, no, she is not. You are not to touch her.”
Torsteinn lifted his hand, and at first Bowdyn thought the gesture was intended to quell his protestations. The sound of footsteps behind him told a different story as the man who had approached backed off again.
The Viking took his time before responding to Bowdyn’s outburst. “I, too, have a sister so I understand your concerns. However, there is nothing you can do to change matters. I will, though, give you my word that she will not be harmed.”
“If you lay a hand on her, I shall kill you.”
“Please do not threaten me. I like you and you know already that I respect your courage. That is why I bought you. I would not wish our… association to end badly though I fear it must if you continue in this manner, or even worse raise your hand against me. I repeat, your sister will come to no harm, though I do have every intention of laying my hands on her.”
Bowdyn started to rise to his feet again.
“Please, it is all right.” Deva placed her hand on his arm. “He has promised not to hurt me and I believe him.”
Bowdyn was incredulous. “Why? How can you believe he is to be trusted? They are all vicious, barbaric savages. You saw what happened at the farm.”
“I did see. And because I saw, I know that we have no choice. You know it too. Things are different here…”
Bowdyn seethed, but the truth of her words, at least for now, was beyond dispute. He cast a baleful glance at Torsteinn. “If you harm her, be certain I shall kill you.”
Torsteinn inclined his head in a bow. “You have my word, Celt. I will take care of her.”