Gunilla simply glared at her then stalked out the door, leaving Tara to gaze around her new home. It would be freezing in winter; of that she was certain. She would have to find some way of making it a little more draught-proof. And somehow, she would need to find some warm clothes. She had been stolen on a warm spring day, when it was not necessary to wear a coat. The spare clothing that Meara had given her was not enough on its own to defeat the cold. She was certain that this household would not be generous in handing out warm clothing and blankets to slaves, especially ones that were banished far from sight. She would be on her own unless she could persuade someone to help her.
She climbed the rickety ladder to look at the loft. It was almost empty save for some leftover hay from the previous year. It would make a comfortable bed and Tara began to feel better about sleeping up there. She climbed down again and headed for the slave-house, hunger gnawing ferociously at her belly. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a decent meal and Inger’s cooking pot had smelt so good. She couldn’t wait to eat.
CHAPTER 8
As the days lengthened into weeks, Tara’s life settled into a rhythm of eating, sleeping and working hard. Fieldwork was a small price to pay for the relative freedom that she enjoyed. Once she had eaten at night, she retired to the barn and her time was her own. During the long summer evenings, she got out the cloth that Meara had given her, several pieces that would make a fine tablecloth or wall hanging. With painstaking care, she stitched elaborate patterns onto the cloth, turning it into a thing of beauty. She was satisfied with her work; not only did she enjoy creating something, but she felt as if she were taking small steps towards earning her freedom. She tried to push aside the memory of what Taft had paid for her; it would take a long time until she could earn that much. Still, she had to keep on trying.
Brendan and Inger kept her informed of Taft’s condition; Brendan was sometimes called to help Haskell move Taft or do other odd jobs around the house and the two became friends. Inger cooked for the slaves and the master’s house and she willingly shared whatever she knew. Tara had won their hearts and they were hoping as much as she was that Taft would never be able to claim her.
After the healer came to set his leg, Taft remained in a stable condition for several days. At last, he awoke for long enough to eat and drink and then went to sleep again. Since then it had been a familiar pattern; Taft slept for long periods, awoke briefly to eat and drink, and slept again. After arranging the appropriate spells, the healer had announced that Taft might not survive the winter, declaring that she had seen others with similar injuries who had lived for a while, then died. No one held great hopes that he would fully recover and Tara found herself hoping that he didn’t, then felt guilty. It was wrong to want someone else to suffer, she reasoned, yet if Taft recovered, her own life would not be worth living. She rarely saw Gunilla; the woman preferred to let Holger arrange the fieldwork and tend to the outdoor chores. It was a lonely life in many ways, but Tara wasn’t about to complain, although she was concerned about how she would survive the intense cold of winter in the barn. She was unaccustomed to large quantities of snow; Brendan assured her that the land of Norowegr experienced harsh, snowy winters.
One day, as the haust approached, Tara retired to the barn after the evening meal, as was her custom. She was hoping to do some more needlework by the light of the candle that Brendan had smuggled from the house for her to use. She sat down on the broken stool she’d found at the end of the barn and got out her cloth, but she had barely made two stitches when something caught her ear. At first, she thought it was only the mice squeaking as they played around the barn but then it became louder and more insistent.
Tara arose from her seat and descended the rickety ladder to the barn floor. The squeaking grew louder and her mouth dropped open in surprise as she noticed a tiny kitten huddled in the corner of the barn. Its eyes had only just opened and it was grey and fluffy.
“Oh, you poor little thing!” she exclaimed, her heart going out to it.
The kitten sat still as she walked slowly over, unwilling to scare it off. She reached down and touched it; it flinched but didn’t attempt to run away. She picked it up, a tiny handful of fluff, and could feel it shivering with cold or fright, she wasn’t sure which. She held it close and it nestled against her for a few minutes, then began to cry again.
“Are you hungry?” she asked aloud. “You poor baby. We will go to the kitchen and see if there is some milk for you.”
Inger had retired to her room at the end of the slave-house and the men were playing a board game when she entered. They were engrossed and barely looked up, leaving her free to poke around the kitchen to find the kitten something to eat. She discovered a small amount of milk left from the evening meal. Picking up the bowl, she took it to the barn and set it in front of the kitten, who didn’t seem to know what to do with it at first. She dipped her finger in the milk and then into its mouth, trying to show it that the
