The Viking's Captive(3)

Much worse.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she turned back to the ocean.

There was the longboat again, way out in the distance.

Or was it another longboat slicing through the waves, sails aloft, and packed full of Vikings with their iron swords and sharp axes? Were there scores of longboats out there?

Nausea clenched her belly. These were bad men, with bad intentions. They had no respect for people, or for land that wasn’t theirs. The stories she’d heard about war and rampage, theft and slavery were true, she knew it, in the very core of her.

Quickly she turned away. Perhaps if she didn’t look then it wouldn’t be true; they wouldn’t be getting closer each time they passed by.

“Duna, come in. Let’s cook these mussels to go with the broth,” her father called.

“I’m here now.” She stepped back into the house and tried to push thoughts of the menace out at sea to the back of her mind.

But as she feasted on the mussels, she couldn’t shift the frustration that no one was taking her seriously. She’d heard a few of the villagers talking about the gossip from the mainland. So why did Shet Isle believe itself to be immune?

It was only a matter of time.

With her belly full, she started on a leather tunic she’d been commissioned to make for the Laird. She was an expert at her craft, a skill passed on from her mother. It was enjoyable, creating clothing, bags, and occasionally shoes, boots, and tack. Also, Dougal McBray, the tanner on the island was exceptional at his job. The hides always came to her soft and pliable; getting the needle and thread through the leather didn’t make her draw blood from her fingers.

Her father threw another log on the fire, beech this time, then drew the curtain at the small window. “Have you shut away the hens?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Then put a coat on, it might be early summer but it’s cold now the sun has gone.”

“I’m not that old and delicate, don’t fuss.”

She looked up and raised her eyebrows at him.

“Well, I’m not.” He chuckled then shook his head. “You have to stop worrying about everything, Duna. We might not be rich, and we both carry our grief, but we’re surviving. We have a roof over our head, food on the table, and a fire to keep away the chill.”

“I know, Father, we’re surviving.”

He slipped from the cottage.

She sighed. Surviving. Was that the best she could hope for in life? What about happiness, thriving, and dare she even think of it… love?

“You’re a fool,” she muttered. “Love and happiness isn’t for girls like you.” She pulled her thread taut. “That’s for the daughter of the Laird, for the fancy women in their castles on the Borders, not for you.”

Listening to her father cajoling the hens past the window, she tried to beat down the sense of wanderlust that often gripped her. She’d heard of the Highlands and the Borders, and great settlements where people flocked to trade. What would they be like? How would she feel to be around so many others? What delights would she see?

Esca had told her, when she’d brought the subject up with him, that it was natural to wonder about far-off lands, but it wasn’t natural to travel to them. She was born here, this was her island, and where God wanted her to stay. And of course she knew she must always do what God had planned for her.

Even if it was a destiny that didn’t hold any excitement.





Chapter Two


Halvor pulled on his oar. His shoulders ached; the North Sea had soaked through his boots and he’d be damn happy to get off the longship he’d called home for weeks.

But that wouldn’t be for a while yet. Not with a captain who’d already made one detour to collect slaves and raid grain. It seemed if an island was on the horizon, the Jarl would claim it and everything on it.

“Fuck, this weather is enough to freeze the nipples off a Valkyrie.” Gustav grimaced and swiped at the sea spray collecting on his beard.

“And she’d whip your behind for saying such a thing,” Halvor replied.

Gustav huffed. “I reckon that would be better than being on here.” He nodded forward as he heaved on the oar. “Have they stopped bringing up their food?”

He was referring to the slaves they’d captured on a small strip of land situated on the northern coast of the Hebrides, mainly women, but a few men too. Currently they were huddled together beneath the prow. Occasionally bitterly cold water sloshed over them.

“They’re not seafarers, it takes a few days,” Halvor replied.

The longship lurched to the left as the sails billowed in a squall.

“Heave,” shouted the Jarl, as he held the mast. “Heave on the right.” He’d spoken in Norse, and Halvor’s brain easily slipped back to his native tongue. But as he obeyed his order, Halvor translated it into Anglo-Saxon dialect, something he and Gustav had learned in order to better communicate on their travels.

He dug his feet onto the wooden bar in front of him, and tensed as the boat pitched even further. All he could do was hope the keel would do its job.

“We need to get the damn sails down,” Gustav said, battling to hold his oar.

“I agree, my friend.”

But the Jarl was stubborn, and continued to allow the dragon ship to roll on the waves, jostling the Viking crew and their captives to the point their bones rattled and their bellies clenched. The sails flicked and flacked, barely knowing which way to billow.