Chapter Three
The Viking crumpled before her, his weight toppling across her good leg. With a despairing whimper Fiona dragged the limb free and turned to scramble up onto all fours. She tried to stand but her injured ankle gave way beneath her. Crawling was her one option, and she took it now.
The Norsemen who had been standing around shouted, one grabbed at the fur cloak draped across Fiona’s shoulders and it came away in his hand. The garment had offered little enough protection from the bitter elements in this frigid land, but it was gone now. She dragged her injured ankle behind her as she redoubled her efforts to escape across the scraggy grass that fringed the track. Perhaps if she could gain some cover, find a place to hide…
Footsteps were in pursuit, a heavy, purposeful tread and gaining on her fast. In mere moments the black leather boots and leggings of the dark Viking appeared alongside her, the man strolling casually as though to escort her to safety. Fiona harboured no such illusion. This was it. She had attacked their leader, injured him, possibly even killed him and her own life would be forfeit. She was to die here, in a damp meadow in a foreign land, her family never to know of her fate.
Fiona halted, her futile attempt at escape ending almost before it had begun. She collapsed onto the ground, her injured ankle throbbing mercilessly. She screwed her eyes tight shut and tensed as she waited for the man clad in black leather to conclude matters.
He laid his hand on her shoulder and pushed her over onto her back. Fiona drew up her knees into an instinctive defensive posture, and covered her face with her hands.
Nothing happened. She waited, held her breath, prayed.
Still… nothing.
Fiona cracked open her eyelids to peer up at the man who towered over her. His silhouette shimmered in the fading sunlight, the scar that marred his face vivid despite the half-light of approaching dusk. He would have been handsome but for that. Fiona checked herself. The man was handsome in a cold, detached sort of a manner. His lips were thin, and now curled almost imperceptibly as he assessed her. His near-smile was considering, as though he sought to unravel some mystery concealed about her cowering person. But it was his eyes that held her attention. They were black, cold as midnight, and quite merciless.
Suddenly and without warning his features split to form a genuine grin. His teeth flashed a brilliant white as he smiled down from his height, and those coal-black orbs seemed to soften, as though he had found what he sought and was satisfied with it.
He bent at the waist and scooped Fiona up in his arms. In what seemed to her no more than a couple of paces he had returned her to the side of the track where Ulfric still sat on the ground. He was surrounded by his men and one offered him a flask to drink from. The Viking leader refused the proffered refreshment and raised his hand to test the damage. His blond head was bowed and already Fiona could discern the vicious bruise on the side of his temple that appeared to swell before her very eyes.
She had done that, with the rock she had surreptitiously secreted in her skirt whilst the two brothers had been preoccupied with the fate of Mairead and her boy. She had hurt the Viking, and now he would hurt her. He had said as much, back there in the smoking ruins of her village. He had warned her not to offer further resistance, but in those desperate moments when he started to lift her skirt she had acted purely on impulse, without planning or thought. Such foolishness would have dire consequences.
The dark Viking deposited her beside Ulfric. He was gentle enough, she supposed, taking care not to place her weight on her bad ankle. The two men exchanged a few words as Fiona again curled into a protective ball.
“My brother believes I should keep you permanently bound if I care for my life.” Ulfric’s tone was bitter. He was angry, of course. “I suspect he may be right.”
Fiona groaned. Her shoulders still ached from the prolonged immobility she had endured on the crossing to reach this cursed land.
“A leather strap, if you please, Gunnar. And some linen for binding that ankle.” Ulfric reached for Fiona and patted her hip. When he spoke again his tone was softer, though not much. “So, where were we?”
She chanced a peek at him, and could swear that the angry bruise had worsened. Should she apologise? Certainly, she regretted her actions.
Her musings were cut short by the return of the dark one, Gunnar. He tossed a length of leather at his brother still seated on the grass banking, and held a roll of linen in his hand. He spoke again in that guttural Nordic tongue of theirs. Ulfric replied in Gaelic, which Fiona realised was for her benefit.
“No, I can manage, though I am glad of your assistance in the matter of returning my property to me.”
Gunnar frowned, then answered, again in Nordic. Fiona could not comprehend his words, but whatever he had said seemed to amuse her captor.
“By all means, be on your way, brother. I wish you joy of your new thralls. All of them. And I thank you for the silver, naturally. I trust we shall do business again soon for I do so enjoy the satisfaction of a decent trade.”
Gunnar grinned and offered his hand to the man on the ground. Ulfric took it and Gunnar hauled him to his feet. The two embraced, then with no more than a final sideways glance in her direction Gunnar marched back to his horse.
Mairead waited for him there, her boy, Donald at her side. Gunnar picked up the lad and passed him to one of his guards, already mounted. He then assisted Mairead into his own saddle and mounted behind her. With a last wave to his brother he and his party of about a half dozen Vikings cantered off along the track. They were soon lost in the gathering gloom.
“What will happen to her? To Mairead?” Fiona feared for the woman left to the tender mercies of that heathen barbarian.
“I am really not sure,” confided Ulfric. “Perhaps he has need of a woman to tend his fires and prepare his food. Is she a decent cook?”
“I cannot say. I barely know her. Will I… Will I see her again?”
“Probably not. Gunnar does not share my home. He has his own stronghold to the north of Skarthveit and he will take her there I daresay.”
“Oh.” Fiona was sorry. She had come to like Mairead, and would miss her.
“So, you chose not to heed my warning. And this time I am the one nursing a sore head.” His tone remained gentle, but Fiona detected something more, a certain resolve. He meant to punish her.
“I am sorry. I did not think…”
“You will next time, I intend to make sure of that. But first, your hands, Fiona.”
“Please, I swear that I will not strike you again.”
“No, you will not. Your hands. Now. You may keep them in front of you this time, however.”
It was with some small measure of relief that Fiona extended her hands and allowed him to bind her once more. He concluded his task then placed his fingers beneath her chin to raise her gaze to his.
“You will receive ten strokes of the switch by way of punishment for your actions. It will hurt, but it will be quick and I trust you will find the experience memorable. Disobedience is not tolerated among our slaves, and attempting to escape will usually earn you a whipping. Any attack upon a free Viking, jarl or karl, is normally punishable by death. You will do well to keep all of that in mind, little Celt, should you be driven to resort to such extremes in the future. I will be lenient on this occasion, but do not try me again.”
Leniency was not the word Fiona might have chosen. Ten strokes! Sweet Jesus. Still, she well understood that matters could be worse. Much worse.
His gaze was stern, unwavering. He meant her to heed his words and Fiona knew she would receive no further warnings after this one. If the Viking chief intended to intimidate her, though, he had failed. If anything his terse threats only served to harden her resolve. Whatever Ulfric, son of Frey might choose to believe, she was not his property. One day, she would be free.
* * *
Ulfric assisted her into a sitting position on a slight rise in the ground. He knelt before her, the roll of linen beside him. This time when he pushed her skirt up to her knee she did not protest.
Her injured ankle was now hideously swollen and sported various shades of purple and blue where the bruising had bloomed. Fiona gasped when she saw it and jerked her foot away from Ulfric’s grasp.
“Be easy, little one. I shall be gentle, I swear.”
Fiona willed herself to relax, to allow him to tend to her. Certainly, with Mairead and the other women gone, there was no one else she would prefer to have aid her.
“It is fortunate that it was not the chained ankle which you turned. It would have been extremely painful for you had we needed to hammer out the pin to remove the shackle, but there would have been no other course, given the swelling. As it is, I believe if this is tightly bound you will find some relief.”
“It hurts…”
“I know. It will not bear your weight for some time, perhaps weeks. I do not believe it is broken though, so should heal with rest.”
“I am a slave, am I not? Slaves do not rest.” Fiona could not keep the bitterness from her tone.
Ulfric wound one end of the length of linen around her ankle just above the swelling. His grin was wicked, and for the first time Fiona acknowledged that he, like his darker sibling, was a beautiful male.
Ulfric’s features were rugged, his jaw square and clean-shaven, and his lips were full. The lower one protruded ever so slightly, and his cheek sported a dimple when he smiled, which made him appear almost playful. She had never seen hair paler than this Viking’s and wondered if the shoulder-length strands were truly as soft as they appeared. He wore his locks loose and they now framed his face, all but glowing in the fading light. The deep blue of his eyes had been the first thing Fiona had noticed about him when he took her prisoner, and now she found herself comparing their vivid hue to the plumage of the kingfishers that inhabited the river close to her home… her old home, the home she might never see again.
“I am quite sure I can find duties for you which you may perform whilst seated, or even on your back.” He continued to bind her swollen limb, his movements deft and capable.
“What duties? Oh. Oh!” Fiona reddened as his meaning became clear.
His dimple deepened as Ulfric just grinned at her. He continued to tend to her ankle, the barbarian obviously enjoying her mortification.
“You would force me.” It was a statement, not a question. Fiona might be unmarried, but she knew well enough the likely fate of a female captive.
“I doubt that will be necessary. The life of a bed-slave is not onerous, and can yield pleasure if you let it.”
“A bed-slave?”
“Aye. I have decided that you shall warm my bed and spread your delightful thighs for me when I command it. In return I offer you food, warmth, a life of reasonable comfort, and more pleasure than I believe you currently comprehend.”
“I comprehend perfectly well that you mean to abuse me, to take me by force. You will have to, for I shall never yield to you, Viking.”
He paused in his ministrations, his gaze solemn as he regarded her. Fiona could not look away, though she badly wished to.
“You are mine now, little Celt, my property, by the laws and customs of this land. I may do with you as I wish. Your body is mine, to explore, to punish, and to pleasure as I see fit. But I shall make a deal with you, Fiona. I swear I will not take your virginity by force, as I will have no need to. You will ask me to fuck you. No, you will beg me to do so, and only then will you experience the satisfaction of my cock filling your sweet cunt. Do you understand my words, little virgin slave?”
Fiona was incredulous. Her cheeks blazed with embarrassment at the tableau he described. “I do and you are quite deluded, Viking, if you think I shall ever say such a thing to you.”
“Ah, but you will, my slave.”
“Never. I shall die a virgin first.”
He laughed out loud at that. “Have no fear, my fiery little Celt, I can be quite persuasive when I set my mind to it. I promise, it shall not come to that.”
* * *
The sky was darkening by the time Ulfric concluded his binding of her ankle. He glanced up at Fiona, one blond eyebrow raised. “How does that feel, my little Celtic captive? Better?”
Fiona tested her injury by slowly circling her foot. It hurt, but was bearable.
She nodded. “Yes, it is easier, a little. Thank you.”
“Remember, you are not to place any weight upon it. Which offers me something of a challenge given the need to see to your well-earned chastisement.” He looked about him as Fiona’s heart sank. She had harboured the small hope that he might even now relent. She had apologised, after all, and sworn not to lift a hand against him again. It appeared her hopes were in vain.
“Ah, yes, that will do nicely.” Fiona turned to see where his gaze had landed. A large tree lay on its side some twenty paces from where they sat, its trunk offering an obvious support against which a Viking bent upon imparting discipline might lay a recalcitrant thrall for a thrashing.
She groaned as Ulfric called to a passing guard. “Yngvarr, throw a fur over yonder tree if you would, and bring me a switch. A good one, nice and supple and stripped of any sharp twigs. In fact, make that two switches. And be quick about it, the light is fading fast now and I prefer to be able to see what I am doing. I would not wish to be forced to delay until the morning since we need to be on the road at first light.”
Two switches? Dear Lord, what does he mean to do to me?
Ulfric allowed Fiona to remain where she was as the tree trunk was readied for her switching. She watched in mounting horror as the man, Yngvarr, did his master’s bidding. A thick fur was slung over the rough bark, then a blanket too, at Ulfric’s command. Yngvarr was quick to select several potential switches from the trees still standing, and there were many to choose from. He lounged a few feet from Fiona as he used a ferocious-looking dagger to whittle away any sharp points. Satisfied, he passed the first of the switches to his chieftain for inspection.
“Yes, this is fine work. Thank you, Yngvarr. Now, another just as good, if you please.”
The man bent to his task once more as Ulfric turned to regard his fearful captive.
“In the future, little wench, and when your injury is quite healed of course, I shall require you to keep me well supplied with switches. You will be responsible for selecting and preparing them, and I will expect at least a couple to be at hand at all times as I expect to make frequent use of them as you adjust to your new station in life. If any fall below my standards I shall prepare the replacement myself, and your intended punishment will be doubled. Is that perfectly clear?”
Fiona did not deign to respond.
“Wench, do I make my instructions quite clear?” His tone had hardened. He expected an answer.
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good. You will do well to obey. Ah, thank you, Yngvarr.” The second switch was ready and Ulfric declared himself satisfied with that also. Ulfric offered a cold smile in Fiona’s direction. “I shall carry you over to the tree trunk, and aid you in assuming the necessary position. Your skirts will be raised as I will always deliver a switching on your bare bottom. Usually, I will expect you to make yourself ready for punishment, but on this occasion I am prepared to assist you. You may thank me if you so wish.”
Hades would sprout icicles before she would do any such thing. Fiona glowered her resentment and stiffened as her captor reached for her.
“Your resistance will cost you in the long run. The sooner you submit to the reality of your situation, the better it will be for you.” He lifted her in his arms and rose easily to his feet. It would seem she had not hit him nearly hard enough because apart from the angry-looking bruise he appeared to suffer no lingering effects. Did all Vikings possess skulls made of granite?
Ulfric carried her to the fallen tree and set her down beside it, taking care to allow her to lower her good leg first. Then, still ensuring that her weight remained on her uninjured foot, Ulfric helped Fiona to turn and face the trunk, then eased her torso forward until she was balanced across it. The furs and blanket provided a soft cushion. Fiona could find no reason to complain that her comfort was not considered as Ulfric patted her soon-to-be-punished bottom.
“I will lift you a little higher, to ensure that your feet are off the ground and taking no weight, and to offer me a better target, naturally.” He did not wait for any further comment from Fiona. In moments she was dangling over the tree trunk, her feet inches from the bare earth and her head and shoulders balancing her weight on the other side. The grass and a light dusting of fallen leaves were just inches from her nose but she could just make out their shapes in the gathering gloom as she quivered in this unfamiliar and vulnerable position.
Her father had been no disciplinarian. In all her nineteen summers no one had ever so much as slapped her wrist, let alone bent her over a fallen tree for a public switching. Fiona wondered if it was possible to die of humiliation.
She managed not to whimper as her skirts were raised above her waist, then tucked under the woven braid that served as a belt. Fiona was acutely aware of the half dozen or so Viking warriors who had gathered to observe the proceedings. They were all now afforded a fine view of her upturned, naked buttocks. She was glad she could not decipher the exact meaning of their calls and remarks, though the general gist was plain enough.
The jocularity ceased abruptly at a word from Ulfric. The men remained in place, watching, but they no longer offered their lewd observations.
Fiona was accustomed to harsh winters, but the bitter chill of this Nordic early evening was equal to anything she could recall in her own country. She shivered as the icy breeze caressed her bare backside and could not help clenching as Ulfric bent to select the first switch.
“Fear not, little wench. You shall soon be feeling a good deal warmer.” He swung the switch in an experimental arc, slow at first, then fast enough to produce an ominous whistle. Fiona shrieked.
Ulfric chuckled and moved in close. He laid the palm of his free hand on her bottom, the caress almost affectionate. “Try not to clench, though I realise it is difficult. Are you ready?”
There was nothing to be gained by delaying matters. Fiona nodded, then clenched her bound hands into fists as she tensed for the first stroke.
“Aagh!” She let out a shrill scream as fire exploded across her right buttock. Her entire body jerked with the force of the blow, though she had been expecting it. This hurt though, more than she had ever imagined.
“One,” Ulfric intoned. “Be still, Celt. Settle down and we shall continue.”
Somehow, through the haze of pain, she heard his words and managed to obey. Moments later fire snaked across her left cheek.
“Ooh!” Sweet Jesus, can I bear this?
“Two. Now relax, you do not wish to drag this out, I am sure.”
He was right, she did not. Fiona willed her tense muscles to soften and drew in a shuddering breath.
“Three. Four.”
She was managing the pain just slightly better now, no longer so shocked by the intensity of sensation. She managed not to cry out, and needed no further reminders to keep her buttocks soft.
“That is good. Five. Six. Seven.”
Fiona writhed against the blanket. Despite her determination to bear this ordeal with fortitude she was unable to remain still, nor could she contain her tears that flowed unchecked across her face.
Ulfric paused to once again lay his palm over her throbbing backside. Her bottom was on fire and she flinched under his touch though he was not rough with her.
“You are doing well. Just three more to go. Shall I continue, Fiona?”
No! Enough! “Yes. Please, just finish this and let me get up.”
He squeezed her flaming buttock briefly and resumed his stance. The switch whistled through the air and landed full across both buttocks.
“Eight. The final two will be on your thighs. These will really hurt.”
Dear Lord in Heaven…
“Nine.” The switch split the frigid air again and pain blazed across her right thigh. Fiona screamed and gasped for breath. One more. Just one last…
“Aagh!” The final stroke landed on her left thigh and despite her best intentions Fiona kicked back hard. The leg-iron rattled as she writhed and wriggled but a firm hand in the small of her back pinned her in place.
“We are done, but you will remain where you are until I help you to move.”
Sobbing, Fiona could barely manage to bob her head to indicate her obedience. She lay still, suspended over the fallen tree, though she flinched as the weight of her rough skirts settled on her punished bottom. Still, she was relieved to be covered once more and grateful that her Viking captor had not seen fit to extend her mortification by leaving her on display. He could have, she well knew that.
Strong hands rolled her over and cradled her behind her knees. Unthinking, Fiona reached her bound hands up and looped them about Ulfric’s neck as he stood with her in his arms. He murmured to her in his own tongue, soft-spoken words of comfort and reassurance, words she did not understand but drew strength from even so.
He carried her over to where the other men had built a fire, and laid her on a pile of furs beside the cheery flames. The warmth caressed Fiona’s chilled face and hands as she lay on her side, her body still trembling. Ulfric dropped another fur over her shoulders and turned away as if he meant to simply to leave her.
“Wait.” The word sprang from her lips before she could think, before she could stop herself.
Ulfric halted and crouched beside her. “I will bring you food. You need to eat now, then sleep.”
“Do not leave me. Please.” She was weeping again as she reached for him with her bound hands. “Please, stay. Just for a few moments.” She could not bear the thought of being left here alone among these fearsome warriors, hurting and humiliated, beaten and humbled before them all. Fiona needed her Viking to stay, to surround her in his warmth and his approval. She needed to know she had his forgiveness now.
“I am sorry that I… that I hurt you.”
He cupped her chin in his right hand, his fingers stroking her damp cheek.
“I know that. And it is over. We will not speak of it again.”
“Over?” She could not quite believe that it would be so simple. “You forgive me?”
“Of course.” He gathered her into his arms and pulled her into his lap. Fiona did not complain as her tender bottom rubbed against the coarse fabric of her skirt. All that mattered was that he was close to her, and that he must not abandon her. She grasped the front of his tunic, curling her fingers around the brass cloak pin holding his warm outer clothing in place. Ulfric pulled the garment forward until it enveloped her too and drew her close in to his chest as she shook and sobbed in his arms. He nuzzled her hair and rubbed his large hand in slow circles around her back and shoulders until her trembling subsided and at last she was still.
“Better?”
Fiona managed another small nod. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome. You will learn, little wench, that I will punish you when you deserve it. Always. But I will also be there to comfort and protect you when you need me. You are mine now, you see, my property, and my responsibility so I will take care of you.”
Fiona might have again contradicted his proprietorial claims, but could find no real inclination to do so at that moment. Instead she leaned against him and closed her eyes.