Chapter Thirteen
Fiona pulled on her warm leather sandals and tied them around her feet. The heat from the small fire in the sleeping chamber cheered her spirits, not least because spring was already softening the harsh features of the landscape surrounding Skarthveit. She longed for the return of the sunshine, had found the almost unrelenting darkness of the winter months depressing and hard to bear. Matters had not been helped by Njal’s misery at the loss of his beloved aunt, and even now, several months later, he still asked after her frequently.
Fiona remained mystified by Brynhild’s disappearance. It was possible, of course, for a person to be dragged away by wolves or even brigands, but there had been no sightings, no other losses reported by other settlements up and down the coast. She half-expected a ransom demand, had suggested as much to Ulfric, but none came. There was nothing, no clue at all as to the Viking woman’s whereabouts.
She emerged from behind the curtain into the main room to find Njal waiting for her, his eager little face bearing the remains of his dagmal.
He sprang up from his seat at the huge table. “Come, it is time to go. We must be quick, while it is still warm enough to swim.”
Welcome though it was, Fiona considered the spring thaw to amount to nothing remotely resembling suitable weather for swimming, but the boy had begged her to accompany him to the small inland lake about two miles from Skarthveit. She had reluctantly agreed, but on condition he did not expect her to dip more than a toe in the water. So they had struck a bargain, and she was committed.
Two of Ulfric’s men were to accompany them as her Viking had not forgotten his brother’s warning about the continuing threats from the Bjarkesson homestead. All had been quiet over the winter months, since as Ulfric pointed out, even blood feuds required some daylight in order to be pursued well. But with the onset of warmer weather he fully anticipated the resumption of hostilities and he saw no reason to court danger.
Ulfric appeared through the door and fixed the pair of them with his sternest expression. “You will remain at the lake for no longer than an hour. I shall expect to see you back here by mid-afternoon, well before it starts to drop dark again.” He paused. “Maybe you should postpone this excursion until a day when I can come with you…”
“No, please, we have to go today. The lake could freeze again and—” Njal hopped from one foot to the other and summoned up his most pleading expression.
“We shall be fine.” Fiona kissed Ulfric’s mouth. “I have my slingshot with me, and your men are armed. We shall return in plenty of time, I promise.” Then, before he could find further objections, she hustled the excited little boy outside to join their escort.
* * *
The lake was even colder than she had imagined. Fiona endured just a few minutes of paddling and hated every moment of it but Njal seemed oblivious to the icy temperatures as he danced and splashed in the shallow waters at the edge. Fiona absolutely forbade him to venture further, and he was still sufficiently mindful of his dipping in the fjord that he was happy enough to obey. Fiona had been glad of the chance to grant him this day out; it would help to strengthen the fragile relationship she was working to build with her Viking’s son. The boy had lost his mother suddenly a little over two years previously, and now his aunt was gone also. He was naturally reluctant to become attached to a third woman in his life, preferring to spend as much time as he could with his father. Ulfric was tolerant and patient, but both he and Fiona were convinced that Njal needed a mother.
And it seemed, for want of a better candidate, that she was it. Fiona did not mind, she found the lad charming and he made her laugh. She supposed it would not be long before he had a younger half-sibling, though as yet she had not conceived despite Ulfric’s fervent efforts in that regard. She pondered the prospect of possible motherhood as she watched Njal’s antics and decided it might be quite nice… if she were a wife rather than a mistress.
Ulfric remained adamant that a marriage between them was out of the question though in every way he behaved toward her as though she was his wife. Fiona had settled for that and she had not broached the subject again. This apart, she was happy enough living as they did. Her Viking was kind, attentive, he gave her pleasure beyond her imagining, and his creative wickedness in their bedchamber knew no bounds. Neither, it seemed, did hers as together they explored sensual fantasies Fiona had not known she harboured.
She had discovered a tolerance for a decent spanking, and this had built to become something of a craving. She was astonished that she actually found the pain exhilarating, and her release following a few minutes across Ulfric’s lap would leave her breathless and begging for his cock. She was not completely certain that she liked him to fuck her arse, and would usually protest and seek to dissuade him. It never worked. Once he had decided to take her rear hole, he would do so and any objections on her part would be met with a delicate yet relentless finger applied to her clit, or a sharp slap to her buttocks. Either would yield the desired result and he would have his way.
All in all, Ulfric was a generous lover; she could imagine none better.
Taranc had been right. Her Viking was a rare find and Fiona was glad to share his bed, his life, and his son.
“Yeeargh!”
Fiona was dragged unceremoniously from her musings by the deafening battle cry. She leapt to her feet as at least a dozen Vikings charged from the cover of the nearby trees. All brandished weapons—swords, axes, daggers—and their faces were murderous as they descended upon the unwary group beside the lake.
“Lady, quick. We are attacked!” The superfluous warning came from one of her guards as he rushed at her, the reins of her horse in his hands. He tossed Fiona into the saddle, then threw Njal up behind her, the lad still dripping wet. “Ride hard for Skarthveit and send aid. We will hold them off whilst you escape.”
“What? No, there are too many…”
Already her other guard was rushing to meet the oncoming horde, yelling his own battle cry as he swung his sword around his head.
“Go, lady. Now!” The guard slapped the horse’s rump and the animal broke into a gallop. Fiona had to cling on for dear life as her mount lurched forward. Njal plastered himself to her back as she leaned forward in the saddle and fought to regain control of the dangling reins.
At last she had the straps between her fingers. Not daring to slow down she peered back over her shoulder and was relieved to see that none of their attackers were yet in pursuit. Ulfric’s men were putting up a valiant defence. Fighting back to back, they were managing to fell any who came close, but they were surrounded and hopelessly outnumbered. Fiona knew they would not be able to fend off so many, not for much longer.
Her mount reached the cover of the trees and was forced to slow. She glanced back again in time to see one of her guards drop to his knees.
Oh, no. Dear sweet Jesus…
She hauled on the reins to pull the horse up.
“Njal, can you reach that branch there, the one hanging across the track?”
“Aye, I can,” the lad replied quickly.
She nudged the horse forward until they were immediately below the bough in question.
“Grab the branch and climb up into the tree. Get as high as you can and stay quiet. And hidden.”
“But—”
“Please, do it quickly. Remember, do not come down for anyone but me. Or your father.”
Mercifully the boy did not ask any further questions. He grasped the bough and swung easily onto it, then scrambled along until he reached the wide, solid trunk. In moments he was lost to her sight, up among the dark, thick branches of the tall pine. She was satisfied no one would find him there.
Fiona slithered from the horse and ran back to the edge of the woodland. Her remaining guard was still on his feet but surrounded by the vicious raiders. He would be down in but moments, then the mob would come after Fiona and Njal.
“I believe I might even up the odds somewhat,” she muttered as she reached inside her cloak to retrieve the slingshot. She selected a stone from among those she had stashed in her pocket before they set out, and she placed it in the sling. It took her but a moment or two to sight her first target, swing the weapon around her head a couple of times, then she let fly the small rock.
A bellow of pain erupted from one of their assailants as he toppled forward to crumple to the ground. One or two others looked around, perplexed and uneasy, but Fiona allowed them no time to assess this new threat. She was already reloading for her next shot.
The second stone was just as true as the first, taking out another of their assailants. Several now paused to scan the trees, clearly nonplussed at this unexpected attack. Fiona remained concealed as she loaded her sling again, then let fly.
A third man clasped his hand to his face and sank to his knees. A few of the raiders broke off their attack on Ulfric’s remaining guard and started to make for the trees that concealed her, but Fiona let fly a fourth missile and dropped another man before he had taken more than three paces.
“It must be Ulfric. He is coming.” The warning cry went up. It was clear the raiding party had no appetite for meeting the Viking warlord himself. Already several had turned and were running back in the direction they had come. Others limped behind them, glancing fearfully over their shoulders as though they expected a vengeful, marauding Ulfric to emerge from the trees at any second and cut them down where they stood.
Fiona would have dearly loved to do just that, but settled for firing several more stones at their retreating backs, scoring two more direct hits before the last of their assailants disappeared into the undergrowth.
Fiona counted ten men lying on the cold ground, and knew that two of them were their own. She grabbed her horse’s reins and remounted, then set the animal to a gallop back across the open land toward the site of the skirmish.
One of her guards, the first to have fallen, lay motionless, face down in the dirt. The other was just managing to struggle to his feet.
“Thor’s fucking hammer,” he murmured. “You felled eight of them, just like that.”
“Not all eight, you and Erlend took care of several. But my weapon did enough to scare them away. For now. Quick, we must take Erlend with us…” Fiona leapt from the horse, intending to sling the injured man over her saddle and lead the animal back to Skarthveit.
“Aye, but we shall take our horses too.” The guard pointed to where the other two mounts and Njal’s pony grazed quietly a hundred yards from where they stood. “Do you think you can round them up, lady, as I fear I am seeing rather more beasts than I know to be there.”
“Oh, yes, of course…” She remounted and cantered off in the direction of the horses, while the guard dragged his comrade from the ground.
By the time Fiona returned with the three mounts in tow the unconscious guard was moaning softly as his companion supported him in a position not far off upright. Between them they managed to get the more badly injured man onto a horse.
“If any of these others still live we should take them as prisoners,” the man pointed out. “Our Jarl will wish to question them.”
Fiona considered that an excellent point. “Yes, we shall do that.”
The closest of her victims lay prone on the ground. The man was young, a lad really. His unseeing eyes were wide open, as though even in death he could not bear to shut out the final rays of light. The centre of his forehead bore the pink mark where her stone had struck him. “This one is dead,” she announced unnecessarily.
She should have felt more regret at having taken lives, but she knew full well that had these raiders prevailed none of her party would have survived. Her instinct had been to protect Njal, and she had done what she must. She moved on to examine another man.
He lay on his side, groaning and holding his hand to his temple. Blood seeped between his fingers. She had no way of knowing how badly he was injured, but would not be tarrying here to find out. “Help me to sling this one over the pony,” she called to the guard. “Njal can share with me.”
“Where is the lad, lady?” Her companion scanned the surrounding moorland, only now realising that Fiona had returned alone.
“Hiding. We shall collect him on the way. Hurry, we need to be gone before these bandits regain their courage and attack us again.”
“Not bandits, lady. These were Bjarkessons. I recognised several of their faces.”
The group clattered into Skarthveit shortly after, and the people of the settlement came running. Feeling distinctly lightheaded now that the danger was passed, Fiona clung on until she caught sight of her Viking as he charged toward her from the direction of the harbour. Only then did she slither from her mount and collapse in his arms.
* * *
“I have made matters much worse then.” Later, safe in their longhouse, Fiona was tearful as she regarded Ulfric’s solemn features. “They have even more reason now to hate us.”
Ulfric shook his head. “It is not your fault that one of the men you killed was Olaf’s youngest brother. Ivarr was but fifteen summers old and his jarl should have either curbed his hot-headedness or trained him better.”
“Fifteen? Oh… oh, no.”
“Old enough to wield a sword and attack women and children who he believed to be defenceless, so old enough to face the consequences. Again, little Celt, the harm is not of your doing. I would rather it was the Bjarkesson pup lying dead out there and not you or my son. If you had done as Ranulf suggested and left your guards to hold them off, you and Njal might have made it back to Skarthveit but I would have lost two fine men.”
“Erlend will survive, then?”
“Probably, provided his wounds do not become infected. And Ranulf will have a sore head for the next few days at least. They, and I, owe you our gratitude, and our admiration.” He smiled at her, his pride evident. “I understand your aim was true.”
“I have been practising. I thought perhaps my skill would prove useful.”
“It did, and your sling is an effective weapon. Perhaps you can share your talents with others here.”
“I would be pleased to, if it will help.” She hesitated, then, “Do you think they will attack Skarthveit?”
His mouth flattened in grim acknowledgement. “Aye, I cannot imagine otherwise. I have sent to Gunnarsholm seeking my brother’s aid and we must hope reinforcements arrive in time. The Bjarkessons are a large family, and if they summon their followers and supporters they can probably muster over a hundred men.”
“And we have…?” She paused to tally the numbers in her head.
“Thirty-two. Perhaps that could stretch to forty if some of the old ones can manage to swing an axe. Gunnar has two dozen. Our men are the more skilled in battle, but the numbers are not in our favour.”
“When will they come?”
He shrugged. “I have lookouts posted to the north, south, and east. An attack from the sea is unlikely as it is not possible to land a longship here, and the Bjarkessons are but mediocre raiders.”
“How long before we might expect aid from your brother?”
“It is a two-day journey each way.”
“Four days then.”
“At best.”
“He will not be in time.”
Ulfric did not answer. His grim countenance spoke for him.
* * *
“Viking, how many thralls do you have?”
“Thralls? What does that have to do with anything?” Ulfric had been assembling his men in the middle of the settlement in readiness to defend their homes but he turned to answer Fiona’s question. “I have offered as many as it might take in recompense for the losses for which Olaf holds me accountable but he is not interested.”
“I do not mean you to barter with them. You should free them and have them fight alongside your men.”
“Slaves? Against trained Vikings, men armed to the teeth and set on killing all before them? They would be slaughtered.”
“Not necessarily. They would be of little use, I agree, in hand-to-hand fighting, but it may not come to that. You know that I managed to best those who attacked us at the lake, and I did it from a distance of over fifty paces. What if we were to be ready for the assault and could pick off at least a number of them before they could reach Skarthveit? We might hold them off long enough for Gunnar to arrive, or even deter them altogether.”
“We may have as little as a few hours, not enough time for you to train my men, Vikings or thralls, in the use of a sling. They would need to be accurate, deadly shots.”
“Many of the slaves already are. Celts often use the sling to hunt, they can take down a rabbit or even a duck in flight. The thralls will be out of practice, but in the few hours we have we could—”
“We do not possess these weapons, not in the numbers we would need.”
“You possess rope and leather. The items could be made readily enough.”
He narrowed his eyes, obviously considering, then he shook his head. “A fine idea, sweetheart, but the thralls work for us because they have no choice. They will not fight for us. Why would they? And I would be a fool to free my slaves, and then arm them.”
“In the circumstances you would be a fool not to.” She waved her hand at him, exasperated. “You may well glower, Viking, and please feel free to take a switch to me at your earliest convenience for my temerity in speaking to you so, but I repeat, you are a fool if you do not make use of what you have to hand. The thralls might agree to help, you will not know until you ask them. Offer them their freedom in exchange. You are fond of trading, so let us go down to the slave shed now and strike a bargain.”
“Us? What is this ‘us’ who will barter with my property?”
“You are right, the thralls may not do this thing for you. They may not even believe you when you offer them their liberty in exchange for their aid in this battle, but they will believe me. I may convince them when you could not.”
“Celt, I…” He hesitated. “A switch you say? At my earliest convenience?”
She gulped. “Yes, if you consider it necessary.”
“You called me a fool. Twice. You may be quite certain I will find it fucking necessary.” He turned and strode off, then halted and looked back over his shoulder. “Well, are you coming then? The sooner we can have these Celts sharpening their aim in yonder meadow the better.”
* * *
“Jarl, men have been sighted approaching from the south.” Ranulf, one of the men who had accompanied Fiona at the lake and had been posted as a lookout, yelled the warning from the edge of the settlement.
Ulfric raised his hand in acknowledgement and paused to survey his beleaguered domain.
It was less than an hour after the first rays of light had penetrated the cloying blackness. For an entire day and night, the men of Skarthveit had waited, alert, poised to fight for their homes and families. Fiona scurried beside Ulfric as he paced the settlement offering words of encouragement and praise, fortifying his Viking force for the battle to come. They both halted at Ranulf’s warning and exchanged a knowing look.
“It is time.”
She nodded. “I will get them.”
Fiona reached for his cheek and delivered a quick kiss, then she was running toward their longhouse, which now teemed with Celtic ex-captives. All were armed with hastily produced slingshots and most were elated at their sudden change in fortunes.
They were free men. The Viking had said so, and his lady backed him so it must be true since she was also a Celt. They had been promised their liberty and boats to take them home should they so desire, or they might remain in the land of the Norsemen as karls. All they had to do in return was wield a slingshot in defence of their captor’s homestead.
Many declared it a strange enough bargain, there were some mutterings about letting the vicious Viking bastards get what they deserved, but most saw the benefits of throwing in their lot with Ulfric. If the Bjarkessons were to prevail, they would simply take possession of the slaves along with all other property they took a fancy to. The Celts would be no better off, and their lives may be considerably worse since Ulfric was a less harsh master than many. It was true he had dragged them from their homes and enslaved them, but he also fed them, sheltered them, even permitted them to marry and raise their children. The thralls also had much to lose, so were ready to consider Ulfric’s offer.
At Fiona’s urging, those who were skilled in the use of this weapon fashioned rudimentary slings from the materials supplied by the Vikings, then tested them on a variety of targets. The results were somewhat haphazard initially, but improved as they practised. The slaves who were not able to handle a slingshot were set the task of scouring the surrounding terrain and gathering suitable stones to use, and the pile of missiles amassed in readiness for the coming fight was impressive.
Only when darkness descended did they come inside to sleep. Ulfric insisted that they make use of his longhouse since it was the only one large enough to accommodate them all but Fiona was not fooled by this apparent generosity. Ulfric did not fully trust the Celts and had no wish to see the ex-slaves disappearing into the night. He had preferred to keep them together and under some semblance of control, at least for as long as the threat remained.
She burst into the longhouse. “Everyone, up. Now. They are coming.”
Men leapt to their feet, scrabbling for garments, for weapons, for the mugs of mead that she and Njal hurriedly poured. Moments after she had started to rouse the men, Ulfric followed her through the door.
“Go to the southern meadows, just beyond the woodland. Your men can hide themselves in the trees and launch their attack unseen from there. Take down as many as you can, and we shall be waiting on this side of the woods for any that manage to get past you.”
Fiona nodded and turned to issue the necessary commands. By unspoken agreement, she was to lead the assault with slingshots. Ulfric was already drawing his sword as he returned to his men but he stopped and pivoted on his heel. “Be safe, little Celt.”
“And you, Viking.”
* * *
The freed slaves followed Fiona to their position at the edge of the woods that ringed Skarthveit’s southern boundary. From there they could just make out the bobbing heads of the approaching force, numbering at least a hundred by Fiona’s quick count. It appeared that Olaf Bjarkesson had called on all his followers to aid him in this attack.
Fiona gauged their numbers and speed of approach and did a quick calculation in her head. The enemy would be within range in a few seconds. There were eighteen men at her back, all armed with slingshots. She made a nineteenth, and each of them could fire off three, possibly four shots a minute. If all were on target, they would be able to cripple this attacking force within the first sixty seconds. Of course, not all would hit their marks, and as soon as the Bjarkessons realised that they were under attack they would start their charge on the settlement itself and a fast-moving target was much harder to hit.
The stand of trees in which they hid was slightly elevated so this would offer further advantage to her marksmen. She was glad of anything in their favour. The more they might fell in the very first wave, the better. That could be the deciding factor in ultimately winning this skirmish.
“Take careful aim,” she reminded them. “Choose your mark, one you know is within your range, and take your time. Once you have loosed your first shot, reload and keep up the attack for as long as they remain in sight. Then, when they have passed, we will leave the shelter of the trees and follow them back to Skarthveit. We will keep up the assault from their rear and the Vikings will deal with any that actually reach the settlement. These Norsemen prefer to fight hand to hand, so we stay out of reach. Is everyone ready?”
Her answer came in the form of murmurs and nods. All appreciated the vital part that surprise would play here so none would alert the approaching horde to this unorthodox defence. They crouched in silence as Fiona stood, her arm upraised, each one awaiting her signal that the battle was on.
“Now,” she hissed, and stood to swing her sling around her head.
The Celts leapt to their feet and did likewise. Moments later a volley of stones hurtled from the trees and rained down upon the unsuspecting men lower down the hillside. With a chorus of startled shouts and oaths the Viking force started to break ranks. Many broke into a run whilst others crumpled where they stood.
Six. They had dropped just six. She had hoped for more.
“Reload. Again. Keep at them.” She was yelling now, no longer seeking to conceal their presence.
Her raggedy little army rose to the challenge and a hail of stones pursued the now utterly confused Bjarkessons. The attackers were in chaos, some turning back as though to abandon their mission, others stopping to attend to fallen comrades. Most though just ran forward, unknowing where the assault was coming from but seeking to escape the deadly onslaught.
More fell, and their comrades just leapt over their prone bodies to rush headlong in the direction of Skarthveit as though they might find sanctuary there. Fiona urged her men to reload and shoot again and again, delighted when she estimated that at least twenty of their attackers were down and those remaining on their feet were in total disarray. They would be easy enough prey for the well trained and disciplined men of Skarthveit.
“Come, we will pursue them. Keep letting off shots from behind.” Fiona stepped from the cover of the trees and sprinted after her quarry. Her men followed, now whooping and cheering as yet more of their would-be attackers dropped under their barrage of rocks.
By the time the nimblest of the Bjarkessons reached the first buildings that marked the edge of the settlement, their numbers had been depleted by half, and several of those still upright were walking wounded. Fiona saw Ulfric charge forward at the head of his men and cut down the first two himself. Then she lost sight of him in the mêlée and in any case, she knew her part in this was to harry from the rear, not observe proceedings from a distance.
“Pick them off,” she commanded. “Select your targets now, only those at the back. Do not risk hitting any of our men. Once they reach the first longhouses, they are Ulfric’s.”