Far After Gold (2 page)

“A woman can make a man’s life a misery to him if she dislikes something.” Skuli Grey Cloak’s voice held a warning tone.

Flane shook his head. “No woman will make my life a misery.”

Skuli snorted. “If you think that then you’ve a lot to learn about women. You need someone like my Gudrun, now. She never meddles in how I run things, and never has a sharp word on anything. She eases my life, keeps my bed warm and sews gowns for Katla. Not a hint of trouble.”

Emer wondered if Katla might be Skuli’s daughter, and then concentrated on Flane as he shifted from foot to foot and darted a swift, sideways glance at Skuli. “Gudrun is an excellent wife and mother, Skuli Grey Cloak. I have felt her kindness over the years.”

Skuli clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “We know you still miss her, lad.”

Emer frowned, unsure if Flane missed Gudrun or some other woman. She had the impression that the two men spoke of someone else entirely, and from Flane’s stiff reluctance and Skuli’s awkward kindness, wondered if they spoke of Flane’s mother. She would wager a knuckle bone to a gold cup that Flane’s mother was dead.

***

Half a day later the coastline emerged slowly out of the sea. The ship turned and appeared to sail straight into the heart of mountainous country. Peeping over the edge of her blanket, Emer saw high hills fringed with trees, but not a single dwelling. The inlet narrowed and the bustle of the crew announced that landfall was imminent. She rose to her knees and peered over the high gunwale. The land ahead could not be Africa. They had not sailed long enough to reach it.

The water was browner than the indigo of the open sea, and weed decorated rocks at the water’s edge, which indicated that the loch was tidal a long way inland. Steep mountainsides rose to one side, with no breaks for landfall. On the other, mountains backed bright meadows that ran down to the shore, and a smooth, shallow headland jutted out, pimpled with a cluster of buildings and bright colours where wives and children waited to welcome their men home from the sea.

Orders rang out, the sail rattled down, and oars took the ship in an arc towards the jetty. Fear of the unknown rose and lodged like a lump of dry bread in Emer’s throat. She sank back in her corner, hauled the blanket over her head and ignored the screams of excited children and women. The glad cries of homecoming were something she could not share, and instead made her want to weep for what she had lost.

Gangplanks rumbled out, boxes and sacks were heaved onto shoulders and barrels trundled ashore. When everything grew quiet, she squinted out over the folds of the blanket. The older lord and many of the crew had gone. Flane stood by the mast. She hoped he would forget about her. She closed her eyes and prayed to St Patrick as hard as she had ever prayed in her life.

Emer never heard the soft footsteps, and when a hand yanked the blanket away she jerked back so fast she banged her head against the stern post. “Ow.”

“Get up.” He was laughing at her, but his rich voice was firm and authoritative.

She ignored him. When his foot drew back, she guessed his intention and scrambled to her feet rather than be kicked. He was so much taller now that she was close to him. After one glance, she refused to look up, which meant her eyes were level with the smooth brown skin of his chest. The laces of the leather jerkin were open and he wore no tunic or undershirt. Muscles and tendons moved and flickered beneath the brown skin only a finger’s width from her nose. The scent of him curled into her nostrils.

“Come with me.”

Emer stood rooted to the deck. Flane reached the gangplank, turned and beckoned.

Emer scowled and did not move.

Flane clicked his fingers. Astounded, Emer lifted her chin, turned her head and stared pointedly out to sea. From the corner of her eye she saw one sailor nudge another and both stopped what they were doing to watch what would happen next. Memories of the overseer and his cane flashed through her mind, and she decided moving might be her wisest choice even though he treated her like his favourite hound. Pride stiffened her spine as she halted before him.

“My name is Flane.” He tapped his chest and repeated the words, as if she were stupid, and then sighed. “Trust me to pick a girl who doesn’t understand the language.” He drew his dagger, and the fierce blade flashed silver in the sunlight.

Emer’s heart leapt into her throat. Would he kill her because she could not speak his language? What other reason could he have? Should she speak now, before it was too late? She met his blue glance for an instant even as she took a swift step back, ready to run, heedlessly, in any direction.

He caught her wrist and dragged her in close.

Her heart thudded wildly at the sudden contact of chest, hip and thigh. Mesmerised by his steady blue gaze, she stood there in the thin sunlight with the sound of water lapping against the ship and the smell of seawater and seaweed in her nostrils. She drew a swift, choked breath of air. Her last moment in the world had arrived, and she could not free her tongue to speak.
Dear God
…. She shut her eyes, awaiting the bite of cold steel at her throat.
Dear Lord, accept my soul this day
…

He hooked one finger under her leather slave collar. Surprised, she opened her eyes and flinched at the sight of the steel blade flashing wickedly in the sunlight.

“Steady, steady,” he murmured, as if to a nervous animal. “I thought you’d rather be free of this.” He gave a couple of gentle tugs on the leather collar at her neck, and before she grasped his intention, the steel sliced through the hated thing. She never even felt the coldness of the blade.

He dangled the strip of leather with its attendant piece of rope in front of her. “Do you want to keep it?”

Furious at being frightened and then gentled like a nervous horse, Emer seized the hated collar and hurled it far out over the loch.

He laughed. “Good for you. Now, come with me.”

A mixture of shame and indignation burned through her as she followed Flane over the heavy timbers that made up the jetty. Head down, dodging coils of rope, gaps in the wooden planks, empty sacks and closed kegs, Emer told herself the removal of her slave collar was a positive thing, and that if she were clever, more would follow. She did not realise Flane had stopped walking until she almost collided with the pale leather of his jerkin.

“You understand me,” he stated.

She backed off a pace or two, and looked up warily. “Yes.”

Did he think she was stupid? Many islanders now spoke Norse with their once war-like neighbours. Dutifully sewing tunics and chemises under her mother’s watchful eye, she had learned the language by listening as her father taught it to her brother. She had teased Donald because she picked it up faster than he did. Her chin wobbled at the warmth of the memory and she pressed her lips together to keep the tears at bay.

“That’s good. We’ll deal well together.”

Emer doubted it, but did not dispute his statement.

“Your life will not be hard here.”

A tingle of hope ran through her, and she hoped he meant it. But…he was a Viking, and he…owned her. It was her duty to escape if she could. She ventured a question in his language. “Where is this place?”

“It’s called Skuli’s Steading—about sixty miles from the Alban king’s settlement at Inverness.”

He seemed to understand her stilted speech. “I do not know Inverness.”

“Sixty miles as the crow might fly would take you to the eastern seaboard and Inverness, but Skuli’s Steading is my home.”

If she concentrated, she understood him easily enough. “Home!” Emer let out a snatch of bitter laughter. “How far is Skuli’s steading from
my
home? From an island called Pabaigh?”

“Pabaigh?” He shook his head, frowning. “Is it close to Skye?”

Emer shrugged. “I don’t know. My aunt is there.”

“Skye lies to the south of here. Maybe someone there will know of your island.”

He never knew the impact of his words. As realisation dawned, tears pricked her eyes and she stared at the sky through a sudden blur.
Thank you, Lord
. She’d guessed they were sailing north, away from Africa, but fear still gripped her that the ship headed to some distant part of Gotland or Russland. She looked round. This was the destination. They had sailed only for a day, and Skye was nearby. There would surely be a chance to escape now. Elation streamed through her at the thought she might see home again.

Flane took hold of her arm. Very much aware of the warmth of his hand on her skin, she waited as and he drew breath to speak and then changed his mind. They stared at each other in silence.

Stubble pricked through the skin of his jaw, and sunlight glanced off a single gold earring in his ear. The breeze blew a wisp of straw-gold hair across his mouth and in a casual, habitual gesture he hooked the hair behind his ear, but what held her still was the intensity of his eyes.

In a small voice, Emer asked a question. “Why me?”

The smile that grew slowly across his face was confident, knowing. He let go of her arm, lifted his hand to her face, let it hover in the air for some moments before he touched her cheek. The back of his bent fingers glided gently down to her jaw. “You are lovely.”

“Because you like how I look, you paid silver for me?”

“What else could it be? I saw you huddled against the stockade in the slave market and…I don’t know. I felt that…I wanted to do this.” His palm cupped the back of her head, pulled her forward and his mouth descended on hers. His warm tongue probed her mouth.

With a grunt of shock, Emer recoiled and struggled against his broad chest. He let go of her.

“Don’t tell me you’re shy.” His lazy grin mocked her.

“I do not allow men to handle me.”

“We’ll soon see about that. Why do you think I bought you?” One fair eyebrow tilted up. “How did you get into the slave market?”

Emer took another step away from him, poised to run if he should try and grab her again. “Vikings seized me, dragged me to their ship – I still have the bruises, look – and sold me. Satisfied?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, girl. I didn’t snatch you. I paid out good silver for you and brought you here.” His arm indicated the steading and the hillsides. “Is this not better than the slave market? You ought to be grateful, so get rid of that pig-headed look. You could have done a lot worse.”

“Pig-headed! Worse? My father is chieftain of Pabaigh!”

He leaned close, blue eyes sparkling. “I have only two words for you.” He spoke slowly and with emphasis. “Moorish Africa.”

Emer recoiled, and then inhaled slowly. She should not let him see he frightened her, even if her heart beat like a mad thing and her knees trembled beneath her gown.

“You may not like where you are, but you would like Africa a lot less. We passed a Moorish galley just as we left the Liffey. You escaped Africa by that much.” He indicated a tiny space between his thumb and forefinger. “I can always sell you on to the Moors if you don’t please me.”

Emer shuddered. No one ever got home from Africa. It was even worse than Russland.

“Well? Will you please me?”

She met the laughing challenge of his blue eyes, and something opened and warmed within her. It was an odd sensation, totally unexpected, as if she stood before a huge glowing fire and the heat reached out and enveloped her. She could not remember any man having such an effect on her.

Perhaps…he was certainly more handsome…better looking than…anyone on Pabaigh. She caught at her thoughts. He should be her husband, not her master. “My father would repay the silver, if you returned me to Pabaigh.”

He shook his head, grasped her arm and walked her towards a wooden hut built out over the loch. “Soon everyone will know you belong to me.”

The words echoed in her ears as Flane pulled her into the warm, dim interior of the hut that was full of dark corners, firelight and steam.

Shadowy women in various states of undress clustered around a central hearth. No one seemed unduly disturbed at the interruption, though some discreetly covered themselves.

Flane addressed one of the women. “I brought a girl back from Dublin. She needs to get rid of the lice. I don’t want to be scratching like a dog fox tomorrow.”

Emer glared at him.

He caught her look, and must have interpreted it correctly, for he reached out and held up a strand of her snarled, tangled hair. “It was a slave market. You couldn’t have avoided it.”

He left, and Emer stared wide-eyed around the shadowy hut.

Chapter Two

Flane strode away from the bathing hut and hadn’t gone far before his good friend Skeggi met him on the path to the main settlement, grasped his arm and steered him towards the barns and outbuildings.

“What’s the matter?” Flane asked.

Skeggi squinted from beneath the dark, tumbling curls hanging over his brow. “What have you done now?”

Flane glanced sideways. “What makes you think I’ve done anything?”

“The men are talking in the hall. Something about a beautiful slave?’ Skeggi’s eyebrows moved up and down suggestively, and his clean-shaven, wide cheek-boned face broke into a wide grin. ‘When you start avoiding your future bride, there has to be a reason.”

“Who says I’m avoiding her?”

Skeggi’s dark eyes danced with amusement “You’ve been away at Dublin nearly a week, and you come back with a slave girl. Either you don’t give a sailor’s cuss about your intended bride, or you’re avoiding her.”

Flane’s mouth pulled to one side. “The trip to Dublin went well. Nothing unusual happened. Except that I purchased a female slave on the very last day.”

“What’s she like?”

“Young, attractive.”

Skeggi broke into open laughter. “Katla’s going to take your knife and slice your nose off with it if you’re not careful.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Flane growled.

“What’s she look like?”

“Small, up to here.” Flane’s palm indicated a spot level with his collar bones. “Brown eyes, brown hair and you know—” He indicated curves between his two palms.