“Good boy,” she crooned. “You are such a good boy. You stood so still. You surely deserve a treat.”
The horse bent its head against her and she knew she’d made a friend. Holger climbed back into the driver’s seat and picked up the reins. Gunilla climbed in beside Taft to steady him and they set off at a slow pace, Holger trying to drive as carefully as he could to avoid jostling the patient.
Haskell, Brendan and Tara fell into step behind the cart and yet again, Tara felt fear of the unknown rising in suffocating waves. For now, she had escaped becoming Taft’s bed-slave, but what would happen to her now that he was injured? Would Gunilla sell her yet again? The woman clearly hated her presence and what she represented: a threat. Each time she thought she knew the fate that awaited her, circumstances changed and she faced the unknown yet again. She was fast becoming its favorite victim.
“Is this your work, God?” she asked silently. “You have so far kept me from harm and I am grateful. But I would really like to know what is to become of me.”
The landscape around her was silent; no voice thundered from the heavens; no little voice whispered an answer in her ear. But once again, she found herself at peace. God was proving to be trustworthy and she was grateful.
“Holger, you must go and fetch the healer,” Gunilla said, rising from Taft’s bedside.
They had carefully carried him from the cart and placed him in his bed; he had moaned several times but he had not awakened.
“The healer will be able to set the bones in his leg if we do not leave it too long,” she added.
Holger nodded and turned to leave, and Gunilla spotted the three slaves standing at a respectful distance, waiting to be told what to do next. She walked up to them with a look of distaste on her face.
“I wish you were not here,” she told them. “But since my husband has been injured, perhaps it is a good thing. What is your name?” she asked, poking Haskell in the chest.
“Haskell,” he replied.
She turned to Brendan. “And you?”
“Brendan.”
“Hmmm, you are Írskr too, are you not?”
“I am. But I understand the language of this land.”
She looked as if she’d just spat out a bug. “I have no idea what my stupid husband was thinking, buying Írskr slaves,” she muttered. She approached Tara and her eyes narrowed. “And you, you filthy Írskr, I know not what to do with you.” She paused, thinking. “You shall be nowhere near my husband,” she declared. “Here is what will happen. Haskell will come to live in the house with me. He will be responsible for caring for my husband’s needs as long as Taft is unable to rise from his bed. Brendan will go to live in the slave-house with the field slaves. And you …” she stabbed a finger at Tara. “You will be banished to the barn to live in the loft. The kitchen servant will feed you. And you will work with the field slaves, where the work is hard and you will know what it means to be a slave.” Satisfied with herself, she smirked. “You will never get the chance to be near my husband. Not in my house.”
Tara shuddered. Did that mean that Gunilla would try to kill her? She had no idea.
“Come!” Gunilla barked. “I will show you where you are to sleep. Tomorrow, Holger will tell you what you must do.”
She led the way to a small slave-house. It was almost time for the evening meal and an old woman was inside, stirring a pot that smelt incredibly good. Three field-slaves looked up fearfully as Gunilla entered. Tara caught their looks and guessed that she was as cruel as her husband.
“You will sleep here with the other field-slaves,” Gunilla told Brendan. “Inger is the kitchen servant who prepares the meals. She will feed you.”
Brendan smiled at the old woman stirring the pot; she glared at him but he caught a softening in her hard gaze a moment before she dropped her eyes. He made up his mind that he would do his best to win her over. A little Irish charm might be enough to persuade her that he was worthy of the occasional treat from her cooking pot. It was worth a try.
Gunilla hadn’t finished. “What is your name?’ she barked at Tara.
“I am Tara.”
“Come with me,” she snapped and led the way towards the barn. She opened the creaking door and stalked into the gloom. It smelt of dust and animal dung, even though it was summer and the animals were living in the pasture. She pointed to the loft with its rickety ladder. “You will sleep up there,” she said. “And if you cause me the slightest bit of trouble, I will sell you to the first person I can find.”
Tara didn’t understand all the words but she was certain that Gunilla had just threatened her with punishment if she caused trouble. This was better than she could’ve hoped for; a smelly, dusty barn was far preferable to being Taft’s bed-slave. Living in the barn would not be easy but it was a reprieve from a worse fate.
“Thank you, God,” Tara breathed silently.
“Go to Inger now,” Gunilla ordered. “She will feed you and find you some bedding.”
“Thank you,” Tara almost whispered. Perhaps Gunilla was not entirely
