Her Celtic Captor by Ashe Barker EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
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- Authors: Ashe Barker
- Language: English
- Genre: Historical Romance
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The North Sea
1106
“Heave, one, two. Heave, one, two.” The rhythmic roar paused for a
second, then, “You! Yes, you. Pull. Pull!” The final word was accompanied
by the shrill hiss of a whip slicing the air, then a shriek as the lash found its
mark.
“Bastards,” muttered Taranc under his breath as he leaned in to drag
on the huge oar again. “Just shut up and row,” he rasped to the men on
either side of him in the crammed hull of the Viking dragon ship. “Our
chance will come, but for now they have the whips.”
Murmurings of resentful and fearful discontent surrounded him and
the occasional scream rose up as yet another of his Celtic countrymen
attracted the vicious displeasure of their Nordic captors. Taranc allowed
none of it to distract him as he bent his body back and forth, each powerful
stroke of the huge oar ploughing the unrelenting waves. He fought to retain
his temper, to not react to the bullying and swagger, the belligerent crowing
of the victorious Vikings as they pressed their newest slaves into the hard
labour required to carry them back across the North Sea to their home in the
cold and frozen North.
Many of Taranc’s friends and neighbours had perished in the swift
and violent Viking raid on their villages. Taranc recalled with vivid
accuracy the sight of Dughall, Lord of Pennglas weeping over the body of
his slain son. Adair was ever a foolish and headstrong lad, but he had died
seeking to defend his home and Taranc could not help but admire the young
man’s courage. It was a waste, though. A bloody stupid waste.
The Norsemen had swooped on them without warning, killing all
who resisted and herding the rest into a circle to be taken as slaves. Taranc
had been among those rounded up and had surrendered without much in the
way of apparent protest. He was but one man, and their Viking attackers
were many, and heavily armed.
Taranc might privately admire Adair’s
determination to put up a fight, but did not share his suicidal tendencies. As
chief of the village of Aikrig, Taranc saw his duty in seeking the survival of
his people rather than a glorious death. Under his leadership they would
await their moment, retaliate if and when an opportunity arose. Dead Celts
were of no use to anyone.
“Heads down. Just row and keep quiet,” he commanded. He glanced
from one side to the other, his stern glare calculated to quell any lingering
dissent. Taranc expected to be obeyed, and his people did not disappoint
him now. They bent their backs in unison, succumbing to the roared
commands of their cruel captors who seemed to believe they controlled the
situation.
Taranc knew better. At a word from him, the oars slaves would rise
up and attack the Vikings, but to what avail? Better to choose their moment,
when the odds were more in their favour.
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