Excerpt from Powerful Destiny by Tricia McGill

Powerful Destiny began life as a short story, then went on to become a novella, and all the time cried out to be a full-length novel. Vikings have always fascinated me. Many stories and myths have been written with differing opinions and outlooks. During my research, I found that a lot of these stories were likely not true. Part of the reason so many myths were created over the years was because a lot of opinions were based on speculation. One fact that surprised me during my research is that the Vikings were very family orientated and a lot of thought and haggling went into finding the right partners for their offspring. Their marriage ceremonies went on for weeks and guests came from far and wide to join in the celebrations. Whether they knew the meaning of true love is something we will never know, but I like to think that a love such as Rolf and Brigid share in my story was found by just as many Vikings and Celts. They were also great believers in Destiny or Fate as some like to call it and most of their actions were guided by this belief. I have always believed in reincarnation, so that is mainly where the idea for this story came from. If you believe that love can span time then I hope you will enjoy Powerful Destiny, a destiny that brought my lovers back together over centuries.

Click this link to purchase this book

Powerful Destiny Excerpt

Chapter One

Part One, East Anglia, Britain—circa 850 AD.

Leaping into the sea alongside his longship, as he’d done many times before, Rolf looked to the sullen sky. A good night for battle, for the moon kindly hid behind lowering clouds. The murky water swirled about his lower legs, but he took no heed of the coldness of the sea. Hardened by the many days, and often months, aboard ship on the heaving waves he had no thought of such a trifle, or indeed fear of the coming battle.

Rolf gave a silent gesture to his chosen warriors, and they followed him up the beach. The rest of his crew dragged the longship onto the sands beyond the tide line, in preparation for their expected hasty getaway this night.

Surely, the red haze of battle with the Celts would see some of his valiant Norse companions travelling to Valhalla. Like him, they knew no fear, for had they not lived their lives in the knowledge there would be endless merrymaking, willing females and wine to help them on their travels through the afterlife that was their destiny as brave fighters.

Many Celts fled to the west of Britain before the invasion of his fellow Norsemen, but one band defiantly settled in this area on the east coast. For many seasons, the Celtic leader fought and won against Norse invaders. Certainly, other warriors brought many tales back to Rolf’s homeland. Nevertheless, this time he was intent on overpowering them, and for once and all ensure his proud place in history.

This time he and his fellow warriors would become legends, and be heralded as the fiercest fighters among Norsemen. Although the tales proclaimed this leader of his band of Celts as fierce as any Norse warrior, Rolf did not believe that for one moment. This night he intended to prove that he was the mightier in any fight.

As Rolf turned to shout orders to his men, a bloodcurdling yell split the night air and a charging mass of bodies surged down from the trees fringing the beach. His spear at the ready Rolf aimed at the nearest enemy, his weapon sending the man, a startled look on his face, forward into the sand. As Rolf retrieved his weapon from the fallen foe, around him others fell beneath the onslaught of the spears of his Norse warriors. Then it was hand-to-hand combat as their swords and axes took over. There was little time for thought, only time to defend himself while also ensuring his trusted men did not die unnecessarily.

To Rolf’s surprise, their enemy seemed to gain the upper hand for a short while, slowly but surely pushing the Norsemen back towards the sea. However, with a shrill shout of encouragement, Rolf surged on with his axe at the ready, determined his warriors would win despite the setback.

Rolf lost all sensation of the passing of time as the battle raged on. His mighty sword and axe were covered in the blood of his enemies as they fell before him, some screaming in agony, some silently stumbling to the ground as they breathed their last.

As the stench of death grew and the roars of his men, and those they fought, filled the air, a mist descended, darkening the sky even more. The numbers of Celts dwindled until there were none left standing. Rolf let out a yell to his men to gather behind him, and when they did, it was clear their numbers had not decreased by many. Through the mist, the bodies he could just see strewn across the stretch of blood-soaked sand were mostly Celts, their bodies gruesome in death as they lay with twisted limbs and distorted faces.

He gave a whistle to the men who stayed with the ship, and when they joined his valiant warriors, he motioned for them all to follow him forward. This could be a ruse, and there was every chance that more Celts lay hidden, waiting to catch his fighters off guard. But it soon became clear that the way ahead was safe. When a sea bird screeched out, it seemed a signal to the rest of the flock that the danger had passed and the birds began to settle once again in their roosting places.

Stealthily Rolf and his men made their way up the beach, stopping now and then to give a man who still moved or groaned the blessing of a swift journey to wherever Celts travelled in their afterlife. It became blessedly clear that very few of his own men died in this skirmish. Before they left these shores, they would bury them and wish them good speed on their way to Valhalla.

First, something of importance needed to be done.

Rolf knew as well as his crew did that the Celtic men would have their womenfolk secreted nearby. They all looked to him—the light of eagerness clear on their grim, blood-spattered faces—as they made their way with care through the undergrowth, and then beneath the overhanging trees that lined the beach. As Rolf pushed back a branch, a night bird let out a mournful hoot and then there was a flurry in the bracken as if a small animal scurried away in fright.

The mist was less dense here away from the ocean, so that he could make out a small clearing ahead. Pushing his bloodstained sword securely down into his belt, Rolf kept his axe ready in his hand as he gave a nod to his men before leading them across the clearing.

When a sudden cry splintered the silence, Rolf put up a hand to halt his men. “That was the cry of a child, not that of an animal,” he whispered, and immediately another plaintive cry followed, causing birds to fly off again in fright. As Rolf jerked a hand to his side—to the direction the cries came from, his men fanned out to form a line. Heads low, they crept forward.

The mist lifted even more, until Rolf could make out a sheer cliff face not far ahead of them. As he hissed a warning, a child of no more than perhaps eight winters came flying as if from the rock itself and, hands fisted, ran full speed at Rolf. One of his men brought his axe up high, prepared to slay the child, but when Rolf shouted, “No! We do not kill their children,” he dropped his arm to his side, while sending Rolf a defiant wrathful glare.

Rolf heard his mutter of protest and knew his men would likely think him strange in the head. More than a few of them had slain Celtic children in the past. Truth was, Rolf never had, and never would. It sickened him to see a female or a child killed for any reason.

The child seemed stunned by the shout and stumbled to a halt, now looking confused. When Rolf moved towards him, the boy stood his ground, an admirable trait in one so young. But Rolf had not missed the quiver of his lips as he sent a sneer their way. Then he began to yell, words Rolf could not understand, but guessed at their meaning well enough. The child's curses filled the night air as his small fists waved about in an unmistakable warning.

When the boy turned and began to run back the way he had come, Rolf motioned for Ragnar, his youngest warrior, to catch him. As Ragnar reached the boy, now struggling against his hold, a female appeared like a wraith out of the darkness of the cliff face. Rolf guessed she emerged from a concealed cave.

“Would you kill a child as well as our menfolk?” she challenged clearly, her voice ringing out across the distance, bouncing off the cliff and resounding with an echo.

Rolf stared as if struck, feeling suddenly as confused as the child, for her words were spoken in his native tongue. Then, as the moon drifted out from behind a cloud, Rolf let out a gasp.

The woman stood straight and proud, long hair as black as the night falling to her middle. A band around her forehead secured its flowing beauty. Her clothing was no different from that worn by any other Celtic female encountered in his past, but something about her bearing proclaimed that she was very different in some way. As she touched some sort of talisman at her belt, she muttered what could have been an incantation. Perhaps she was praying to her gods.

In all his life and many travels, never had he seen such a vision of loveliness. Then Rolf cursed beneath his breath. What was he thinking? This was a Celtic female, only fit for becoming a slave. Nevertheless, there was something about this female that told him she would be no man's slave, no matter how he tried to break her spirit.

Then a thought hit him like a thunderbolt. He had no wish to enslave her, but perhaps he could capture her heart. That idea astounded him so, that he turned away and took a few steadying breaths. As he did, he could clearly see that some of his men were casting odd looks his way as they awaited orders. Who could blame them?

What childish nonsense was this? Never in his many summers was his head filled with such ridiculous notions. Norse warriors did not bother with such fancies—so where did these thoughts spring from. For the first time in many moons, Rolf felt uneasy, more like a boy untutored in love and life.

Stiffening his shoulders, Rolf turned to face her and asked, more to conceal this confusion than anything else. “How is it you speak our language?”

Ignoring his question, she asked one of her own. “How is it you think it your right to invade our country and kill our menfolk?” As she moved a step or two away from the rockface, he noticed she carried a sword with confidence. A confidence unusual for a Celtic female. A few Norse women carried weapons with bravado and these shield maidens were well skilled in battle, but the Celtic women were not known to be so brave and capable in sword battles. In his curious fascination with her beauty, he had failed to see the weapon. Unwise in such circumstances. Celts were not to be trusted, be they male or female.

Rolf gripped his axe handle tighter, as he said curtly, “Perhaps if your menfolk did not put up a fight we might have learned to live side by side in harmony.”

Without flinching, she pressed the blade of her sword into the ground in front of her and as the cloud lifted further, he could see her expression. A small sound of disgust left her perfectly shaped lips. In fact, now he could view her clearly, Rolf wondered if she were a goddess—for she was nigh on perfect in every way. Surely only the gods attained such perfection. The Norse gods and goddesses dwelt in Asgard, so it was believable that the Celts possessed their own haven for their gods.

“You think we could ever reach such harmony?” Her beautiful mouth curved down into a smirk of disdain. “You kill our men; take our women and children as slaves.” Tugging the sword from the ground, she held it aloft. “We are prepared to die before we allow you to take us as your slaves.” At these words, she turned the sword until its hilt hit the sandy ground, and then bent forward until the blade pointed to her body, right below her breast. Clearly all she had to do was fall forward and she would be lost to him forever.

Rolf let out a cry. “No! Stay your hand.”

His men were all now grumbling, and cursing beneath his breath Rolf turned to glare at them. Although they quietened, their looks of resentment said they tired of this game. No doubt they were wondering why he stood discussing the situation with this female instead of immediately taking her and the others who obviously hid in the cave behind her as slaves.

As Rolf took a step towards her she bent more, ever closer to the tip of the blade. Would she take her own life? Rolf feared she would, for the Celts were mysterious people—well known to have beliefs and practices beyond the understanding of any Norseman or woman, and hard to imagine.

Suddenly the boy kicked Ragnar on the lower leg, surprising him by his childish strength. In his fascination for the woman Ragnar allowed the child his freedom then cursed his foolishness as the boy ran towards her screaming, “Brigid!” Rolf could not understand the string of words that followed, but it was clear that the child pleaded with the woman not to take her own life.

In the instant she turned her attention to the child, Rolf pounced, kicking her sword to the ground. He then pulled the woman named Brigid into his arms, her back pressed to his front. Her breasts heaved as she let out a string of words in her Celtic tongue. No doubt willing him to a disastrous and painful fate. His heart pounded in his chest at the feel of her young protesting body pressed against his.

“Let me go!” Although she was certainly tall for a female, he stood taller. Rolf had been the largest man in his clan since his father handed over his prized weapons to him, being his only son, while on his deathbed. Few men were stronger, and this woman stood no chance of escaping from him, no matter how hard she kicked, scratched and struggled. All three she did—in fact she put up a very good fight while sending him a string of Celtic, but well understood, curses that willed him to a fate worse than death.

“Be still woman and no harm will befall you.” Rolf loosened his hold, but instantly tightened his grip when, with another string of abuse from her tongue, she tried to escape. There would be no escape for her—he fully intended to keep this prize as his own.

His men now laughed and cheered, their words abusive, as befitted a victorious warrior. “Let us now take the other women,” one cried, waving his sword above his head, while Rolf thanked his gods that his men dared not make a move without his consent.

When Rolf pressed his mouth against Brigid's ear, she squirmed away, but relentlessly he held her fast. “Tell your womenfolk to come out willingly and no harm will come to them this night,” he said, taking the opportunity to taste her skin before she pulled away, twisting her neck aside. Her scent filled his nostrils. She smelled of bracken, lavender, but mostly female. His body reacted instantly, and she froze like a wild animal that knew it was in the sights of its hunter.

“You think they will believe that any more than I do?” she hissed, a tremble in her voice. “They have probably already taken their own lives.”

“And the lives of their children?” Rolf knew very well that Celtic women valued the lives of their children as much as any Norse mother did. Perhaps the virgins might be tempted to end their lives rather than submit to his Norse warriors, but he doubted a mother would leave her children undefended.

When he moved his arms until one hand rested beneath the soft swell of her breast, she spat another Celtic word at him. Rolf swallowed hard and closed his eyes at the rush of sensation surging through his blood. In all his life no woman had ever caused such a reaction. Usually he took what the willing females of his clan offered and shared the spoils of victory with his men.

But this was different. This woman would be shared with no man—he would kill them before they set a hand on her. He wanted this woman to succumb willingly. If it took him until his dying breath, he would make her his own.

When she kicked at the front of his lower leg, it caught him so off guard that he almost toppled sideways, but he held her fast and at the last moment righted himself. “Do that again and I will show you no mercy,” he lied.

“I will fight you to my last breath.” With that fervent vow, she twisted away from him and scratched at his arms. His clothing protected him from her nails, the sturdy fabric of his over shirt covering him to his wrists. Doubtless, the chains of his armour were hurting her tender skin, and his sword would also be pressing into her side.

Relaxing his hold, while still ensuring she could not escape, Rolf whispered, “Why fight?” His men were now shifting restlessly, while brandishing their weapons and mumbling curses, and Rolf knew he must do something—and quickly. “Accept your fate. Tell your clanswomen to come out peaceably and none will be harmed this night. We have no reason to fight you or harm your children.”

She made a small sound of derision before muttering, “You have already harmed us by taking away my father and our brothers and kin.” The forlorn note in her voice made him want to console her.

But even if he wanted to, Rolf knew that he must not show this woman tenderness in front of his fighting men. “We are men; it is our way to fight. Your men knew this fact also and fought valiantly. And be warned, my men will take what is rightfully theirs if you do not order your women to come out now. I am sure none wish to die, and you will find that Norsemen are not wicked.” Some were, but he was not about to admit to that. The other Celtic women must take what was their fate and make the best of it.

Men of any race were varied—some good, some with the darkest of evil souls. In his travels he had seen men commit many crimes—crimes far worse than any Norseman was capable of performing. All he cared about right now was claiming this female for his own.

“If you are a sensible woman, I suggest you do what is best for them.”

“What is best for them is for you to now set us free.” Although she said those words in a low voice, he knew the moment her decision was made. Like a wild animal that sensed imminent death, she wilted in his arms. She shouted a few words in her own tongue and then silence descended over the clearing before a woman came from the cave carrying a babe in her arms—then another appeared, a small boy clinging to her skirts. All their faces showed terror.

Keeping Brigid safely within his hold Rolf turned to shout to his men, “No man will harm any female. That is my order. Disobey it and you will die by my hand.”

A few of his crew muttered curses while one openly sent Rolf a defiant scowl, but he knew they would not disobey him—even while probably suspecting he had lost his mind. Rolf was aware he was known to be a fair leader, but unyielding when his orders were disobeyed, and hoped that was enough to curb any vicious urges they might feel right now.

Within a short time, a bedraggled group of women of all ages stood before them. A few cradled babes in their arms, while another two had children at their knees, crying as they clung to their mothers’ clothing as if it offered protection. Some children huddled together, obviously motherless. Every face clearly showed terror. Two of the females were not yet of child bearing age and a couple were long past childbearing, their wrinkled faces showing disdain along with their fear. If they were unable to work once back in Rolf’s homeland perhaps they could be sold on as slaves—although it was doubtful if they would be worth anything in the slave market as most buyers wanted young concubines or women able to work alongside the men.

“Tell your women that if they do not fight us, they will be treated with gentleness.” Rolf was not wholly certain that would be the case. Once they reached the shores of their homeland and his men left the longship, he would have less control. His crew were handpicked because they were mighty warriors and he could depend on them in a fight, but he could not expect every one of them to heed his warning once they returned home and were out of his sight.

Brigid turned her head to scowl his way, and then said a few words to the worried women, who now looked furtively around as if expecting one of their gods to appear and come to their aid.

Rolf shouted orders to three of his men to search the cave and they disappeared inside, brandishing their weapons. A short time later they came out, one shaking his head. “Some are in there dead,” he said, holding up three of his fingers.

Rolf shrugged. There was nothing to be done for them now. The woman in his arms let out a soft wail and some of the other captives huddled before them sobbed quietly. It puzzled him why there were not more females of this clan, but it could be that their leader saw fit to secure others in another hiding place. It would be useless to question this Brigid. He was certain she would lie or admit ignorance. There was little time to search for them anyway, for he was eager to be away from these shores. What he set out to do on this voyage was done, and that was enough for now. The Celtic woman who had captured his attention was prize enough to take back to his homeland. The others would likely prove a nuisance.

“Let us go.” Rolf gestured to the women and children. “Tell them to go before us and not to think of escaping,” he said to Brigid, giving her a small shake. “Be warned, my men will slay the first one who tries to run away. It is of little importance to us if they live or die.”

She passed this message on in a quiet and dignified voice. Rolf shouted the order to his men, who formed a line behind the women and children, herding them before them like dumb creatures. When Brigid stumbled, Rolf, who still held her captive, stopped her from falling. With a Celtic curse he knew well, she went rigid in his arms.

Chapter Two.

Brigid sent thanks to her God that he had at last stopped encircling her body, mercifully, but instead now had his fingers firmly gripping her upper arm. It did not hurt, but ensured she knew quite well that now she was his slave. Now the initial terror of their capture had dulled and there was time to think over the events of this day, it puzzled her why this leader did not allow his men to ravage the women of her clan as soon as they were discovered. From the many stories passed down about previous raids by the Norsemen, they were nothing but savages with no feelings of remorse, so who knew what the future held for them.

Glancing from side to side she realised it was too late now to consider thoughts of escape, and the children must be considered. These heathens would no doubt take out revenge on the innocent babes who were useless to them, if she or one of her fellow Celtic women took this last chance at freedom.

An immense sorrow filled her at the thought of the men who died this night, and fear for what lay before the survivors. Perhaps the large man who was the Norse leader was not as moderate as he appeared to be. What would happen to them once they were aboard his vessel? That did not bear thinking about. Fear made her want to vomit, and not just fear for her own safety. The women who lost their husbands or fathers of their children this day also had grief to add to their overwhelming heartache.

As they reached the line of trees fanning out along the edge of the beach one of the women let out a loud wail. It was Margret, and she took a few faltering steps before she fell across the body of her husband, her small son still clinging to her skirt. The boy snivelled, his round, dirty face crinkling until he looked like an old man. Another woman followed her and before long most had found their menfolk and soft keening sounds filled the air, along with the louder weeping of their children.

Brigid saw her father’s body and nodded to the lifeless man lying near the sea, beseeching, “May I go to him?”

Her captor hesitated, and then jerked his head. “But be warned. I have been merciful so far, but try to escape and you will be dragged back here and treated like a slave.”

Brigid did not doubt that for one moment. Still mystified at just why this Norseman had treated them so kindly thus far, she ran to kneel at her slain father's side. From all the tales she was brought up on, the invaders showed no mercy for their captives, ever. It was no lie when she said that rather than be taken as slaves most of the women of her clan—herself included—would rather die by their own hands and rot in hell than succumb to a Norse. It surprised her that only a few of the women chose to end their lives, but guessed that might have been because they were childless.

This man, called Rolf by his men, was quite different from the savages she had been led to believe were nothing but bloodthirsty animals, worse even. Then again, few men captured by them ever returned to their homeland, so the tales of savagery could be myth invented by the storytellers.

Blood was already drying on her dear father's garments, and below his throat the sand was dark with his spilled blood. He lay sprawled at an odd angle, and with difficulty she straightened his limbs. Sweet God, how she hoped his death was swift. Taking his bloodstained hand in hers, she bent to kiss it as her tears dripped onto his wrist. “Father. I wish you happiness now that you are with my mother, your dearly loved wife,” she whispered, sobs choking her. Glancing over her shoulder, she looked for the Norse leader. Perhaps he would grant them the chance to bury their dead.

A few of his warriors watched the women, on guard as if prepared to pounce should they take a chance on escape. Of the others, some were digging a large hole with their axes and bare hands just inside the line of shrubs at the top of the beach, while others were collecting rocks and large pieces of tree stumps. These collected logs were laid out around the hole in what Brigid realised was the shape of a ship, coming to a point at both extremes.

The slain Norsemen—far fewer than Celts—were carried to this tomb and then laid in with care, their weapons left at their sides or placed in their hands. How strange—why would they have need of them now they were dead?

Their leader watched for a while as his men covered the bodies with soil, and then rocks, she guessed to protect them from roaming wild animals. When he came across to where Brigid still knelt, she kept her face averted but said in a clear voice, “May we also bury our dead?” The thought of foraging creatures feasting on the bodies of their fallen kinfolk made her want to vomit. There were stories told of giant crabs marching from the sea to scavenge along the shoreline. She shuddered at the thought of this fate befalling her dear parent.

“No.”

Brigid jerked her head up at his abrupt answer.

“We have not time. Doubtless, others of your kind will find your menfolk where they lay and take care of them. We must go now. Say your final farewells and tell your women to walk to our ship.”

“But...”

His hand came up with a jerk to stem her plea. “Do not try my patience, woman.” He gestured for her to rise. “Come, we leave. Now.”

Brigid touched the face of the man who had been her teacher and advisor since childhood, whispered, “Goodbye and rest in peace, my beloved father,” and rose on legs that shook. Already his death mask and slashed throat made him appear more like a savage than the kind and gentle man he had been in life. Truly, the Norse leader had treated her with a certain amount of gentleness up to now—but she sensed an unrelenting band of iron beneath his exterior. Short of killing herself and leaving the other women to their fate, there was little she could do now but obey.

The longship sat in the shallows, looking menacing as they neared it. Brigid bent to wash the blood of her father from her fingers in the sea before, with little ceremony, the women and children were hoisted aboard by the crew. The heathens all seemed jubilant as they passed rude comments back and forth, while roughly handling their unfortunate prisoners. Brigid was glad that her clanswomen could not understand the language. She noted that their leader also washed the blood from his hands and weapons, something his crew did not bother to do. Doubtless, to carry the blood of the conquered on your body was, to them, a mark of a victorious battle.

Using hand gestures amid shouting, the prisoners were ordered to the middle of the ship and then to lie low. Some of the smaller babies, and the orphans, began to cry plaintively at the strange surroundings. Like herded cattle, they obeyed, for there was little else to do. Terror was clear on their faces. It was likely that most of them had never been aboard such a large vessel. Some of them may have spent time infrequently on the small fishing boats used off shore, but the men of their clan did most of the fishing. The women were the ones who did the cleaning and preparing of the catch.

Brigid tried to keep calm and show no fear in the hope it would instil them with courage—a courage she did not feel at all. Bjorn, the boy who risked his own life to save hers, kept close by her side, looking to her as his leader, she guessed, now that his father was dead. His mother journeyed to her maker some years ago after a difficult birthing where the baby also died. This was probably a blessing; in that she was spared this present torment. The other motherless children, one so young he was still unsteady on his small feet, also huddled near to her, his face streaked with dirt where he had wiped away his tears of anguish. Brigid encouraged them to sit and make themselves as comfortable as they were able in the confined space.

Thankfully, they were all clothed in the skins of sheep or goat that would ward off the cold, and wore their sturdy shoes made of cowhide. Winter frosts were ending and they were all preparing to welcome spring as news of the raiding party reached their small settlement a few miles inshore. The men wisely ordered them to carry as much warm clothing as they were able, in case they had to hide out for any length of time in the cave or later in the hills.

They barely had enough time to ensure all the children were safely with the women before being hustled out of their homes to follow the men to the secure hiding place they selected for them in anticipation of another raid. Brigid wiped at a tear as she thought how insecure this turned out to be. If their menfolk and her father especially, knew what the outcome would be, he would certainly have ensured them of a more secure hiding place, perhaps further inland towards the forest.

As they prepared to leave, one of the lads nearing manhood was sent off to their neighbouring settlement with a warning message. He was weak limbed and so not considered able enough to join them in battle. Brigid prayed that they were luckier and wiser with their hiding place and would eventually find Brigid’s father and clansmen before the wild animals got to them. Oh father, she moaned silently, I must keep up my strength to prove to be the daughter you always wished me to be.

Once the crew settled into their places along either side of the vessel, it took no time at all for them to clear the beach and shallows. Their rowing was carried out skilfully, but noisily. No doubt now that they were well away from the beach, they held little fear of reprisals. Full of the pride in their victory they boastfully shouted praise at each other across the width of the vessel, while their leader stood at the front of the ship, his eyes on the sea, not joining in their rejoicing.

When they reached deeper water, he shouted orders and the oars were downed and the sails hoisted. This they also did skillfully and with little fuss. Without doubt, these men were expert at their sailing skills. The vessel soon gained great speed, and as the longship ploughed headlong into the surging waves, Brigid truly wanted to die. Surely, she would.

True to all the tales Brigid garnered over the years about Norse ships, it moved swiftly through the water. Soon the waves that started out as a small swell were sending the ship rocking so hard she feared they would all perish before this night was over. Most of the children whimpered in fear and sickness, and the women were not in a much better condition, so had little strength to quieten or comfort their offspring. Brigid tried her best to comfort those children nearby but feared sickness would also render her useless to offer aid. Her best advice was for them all to lie down and try to sleep. Something she knew few would have the will or inclination to do.

The Norsemen were all unbothered by the rise and fall of the ship, in fact were jovial, some now singing loudly. The bawdy shanty they bellowed was about the sea and its peculiarities, which brought back memories of the old days when her father returned from scouting the area for attackers. If the trip proved successful then his fellow fighters would sing a boisterous ballad about their victory. She brushed away a tear, or was it sea spray? Now was not the time for self-pity, she must show a brave face to the other women sharing this horror voyage.

To give her mind something other to think about beside her roiling stomach, Brigid recalled her father once telling her that the Norsemen were skilled ship builders and sailors and this was the main reason they were able to attack and plunder parts of Britain with such success. Because their longships could tackle rivers with the same ease that they sailed the oceans, they could then be dragged onto beaches, which enabled them to attack with little warning. Something they achieved often according to stories she heard, and something that surely reaped them success this terrible night.

At least the lookouts provided them with enough warning to get the women and children hidden, but now Brigid began to wonder if that proved a blessing or a curse. No doubt her fellow captives were thinking, as she was, that death might have been more merciful than the present horror of this journey.

Brigid prayed once again to her God that the bodies of the brave clansmen would be found soon. It did not bear thinking about that they might lay where they fell until their bodies rotted, or became mangled and eaten by some creature, or worse still, until the tide washed them out to sea to be carried about like useless waste until a sea monster consumed them. 

Clouds rolled across the already darkened sky, obscuring the moon, and a fine drizzle began to fall. No part of the vessel provided cover of any sort and all the women and children huddled together in the centre, shivering with fear or possibly fever. Brigid shivered too as, despite her warm clothing, her body grew colder.

Each rower sat in his position on a box until the sails were unfurled. Now some of these chests were opened, and amid more shouting and hilarity the men dug out what Brigid soon realised were sleeping sacks. Of course none of these or any form of covering was offered to any of the women. After a while, some men climbed inside these sacks and were soon snoring and snorting like swine.

Their leader still stood at the front of the ship, his eyes searching for some sort of sign, perhaps from his gods. After giving a few commands, that she failed to hear above the noise of the wind, to the two men watching the sea alongside him, he made his way towards the cowering, shivering women. Their clothing, which protected them well against the weather onshore, had become little protection against the wind howling about the sails, its moans matching those of the captured women.

“How are you faring?”

Startled by the sound of the leader's voice, Brigid jumped, and stared up at him. His question was asked gently, as if he really cared for her feelings or for those of any of the other captives. The babies had long since ceased crying and were probably now in a stupor of sickness as were most of the smaller children. A couple of the mothers managed to breast feed their babes, keeping themselves well concealed as they did so, which had quietened them.

“I will likely throw myself off this hideous vessel of yours.” Brigid had to raise her voice to be heard above the wind. Lifting her head, she tried to read his expression, but it was impossible in the dimness.

“No, you will not.” He went down on his haunches beside her and Brigid flinched away. “Tell me, how is it you speak my tongue?” He patted the head of the child at her side and as the smaller boy whimpered in fear, the older boy Bjorn, pulled him into his arms and away from the Norseman.

The man’s beard and flowing hair were the colour of ripe corn, but in the darkness and with sea spray or rain dampening them, both looked almost as black as her own. Brigid was brought up to believe that the hearts of all Norsemen were as merciful as stone—but something deep inside told her that this man's heart was not like that. Would he have spared the life of a child if that were so? Because of him, the women now huddled in this vessel had not been dragged aboard and ravaged...yet. But what fate awaited them when they reached the foreign shore, the home of these savages? Up to now, the crew members were too preoccupied with ensuring the vessel was safely away from the shores of her homeland.

Determined not to speak to him, Brigid stared at the mass of overcast sky above the distant horizon, her mouth set mutinously. He made no move and she could feel his eyes on her. After a long stretch of silence, his sigh was audible. “You gain nothing by your silence and everything to gain by being civil towards me. I can understand you bearing feelings of hatred for me, but believe me it will serve you well if you do not upset me.” He glanced over his shoulder. “These men are warriors and it would take one simple word from me for them to take the first opportunity to attack your womenfolk and perhaps kill your children and toss them into the sea.”

Brigid gasped in horror, as with a shrug he prepared to rise. It was clear that although he seemed to have treated her kindly so far, there was truth in his words, for his men obeyed him slavishly.  This much she had gathered, and at a nod from their leader, they would not think twice about tossing the children and babies overboard, and taking what they wished from the helpless women.

“My father was the leader of our clan and a knowledgeable man. He taught me many things, one being the language of the Norsemen,” she said hurriedly. How she wished her dear parent had taught her how to be brave enough to kill herself rather than be captured by these heathens!

“But how did he learn our language?” He went down on his haunches again, and appeared interested in her answer. “I have heard of no Celt before with this knowledge.”

Brigid shrugged. “I have no notion.”

Of course she did. Her beloved mother spent a small part of her early years as a slave of the heathens. Her father rescued her and brought her back to her homeland. How Brigid loved hearing the story of how he found her starving on an island. While out fishing, a storm blew up, forcing them to take refuge on a small rocky isle to wait out the wrath of the weather. After her mother jumped from a Norse longship, the Norsemen presumed her drowned, and did not bother to take time to see if she was dead or alive. However, by good fortune she was a good swimmer and managed to get to the island without being seen. The isle was bare of trees and plants so without nourishment she was very near death when Brigid’s father stumbled across her hiding place.

One of Rolf's large hands reached toward her and Brigid shrank back. He muttered something beneath his breath, before saying, “Do not fear me. I will never harm you.”

“You have already harmed me by killing my father and kinsmen and dragging me onto this ship of yours.” After a wrathful glance about them at the cowering women and children, she glared at him.

He also looked at the huddled captives but then said, “Men fight battles—it is our way. Some come out victors, some must lose the fight.” His hands lifted in a small gesture of acceptance.

Did not her dear father say something like that to her years ago, after returning home from one fierce battle? Brigid let out a small sob. How she hated to show her cowardice in front of this Norseman, but the pain of her sorrow was almost too much to bear. Pressing a hand to her chest, she stared down at the now sleeping small boy beside her. Bjorn had also gone to sleep and he cradled the smaller child in his arms as they both slept fitfully.

Pointing to her belt, he asked, “What is this talisman you wear?”

It seemed this man was intent on learning all about her. Much as she had no desire to tell him anything more, Brigid sensed that it was to her advantage to go along with his wishes. She placed the intricately carved wooden cross that was attached to a chain around her middle onto her open palm. “My father gave it to my mother on their wedding day, and it was passed to me upon her death. It is meant to protect me from harm.” She sneered at him. “So it is useless.”

“Not so. You are alive, while your kinsmen are dead.” For a brief moment he looked as if he would touch her again but then he rose, stood looking down on her for a moment with a small frown on his brow, before striding back to his lookout spot at the front of his ship.

As Brigid pondered the strangeness of this Norseman who seemed so different to the stories she had heard most of her life about their vicious and plundering ways, a loud wail startled her. It came from Asa, a woman nearing old age who had not only lost her husband but also two of her sons in the battle that raged earlier. She stood shakily amid the other women, and as two of them tried to restrain her, the vessel pitched about and she stumbled. Letting out another pitiful howl of despair she pushed the women aside, and once free of their restraining hands, lunged for the ship's side, put one leg over the barrier and, as if time stood still, toppled into the sea.

Brigid cried, “No!” as she rose swiftly and headed for the ship’s rail. The children awoke and in their confusion started to scream along with all the women. Out of the corner of her eye Brigid saw Rolf racing from his position at the front of the ship and he too stared at the sea where Asa had plunged. A few of the men lifted their heads above their sleeping sacks, grunting their disgust before flopping back down just as suddenly, unconcerned. The other men shrugged with disinterest and turned aside.

Without further thought, Brigid tore off her cloak, pushed two stunned women who had joined her at the rail aside, and in one swift movement climbed onto the chest nearest Rolf and dived into the swirling ocean where Asa disappeared. When Brigid surfaced to drag in a deep breath, she heard one of Rolf's crew clearly shout, “Let her go,” before she dove again beneath the murky waves.

The sea heaved around her and her limbs felt as heavy as rocks, her movements slow and restricted. The water was icily cold and she realised that she could not feel her hands or feet. Her shift and kirtle were dragging her down, as were her water-filled leather boots. Frantic now, Brigid swam as best she could, thankful her mother taught her when young how to swim. Although she could stay afloat for a long time there was never a reason to swim in seas such as this, and she would never possess her mother’s skill in the water. She surfaced, drew in another deep breath and mumbled a short prayer before going under again.

Asa was nowhere to be seen. The water was so dark it was like swimming in mud and Brigid doubted she would see the old woman even if she were nearby. Perhaps Asa was right and this would be the best way. It would be so easy to just give in and let the sea take her to join her beloved parents and her baby brother who died soon after his birth.

As Brigid made the decision to let herself sink, a pair of arms clamped about her, and then she was being dragged to the surface. She fought for a moment but then allowed the foolhardy rescuer to drag her upwards. As they surfaced, gulping in air, she realised it was Rolf. Of course it was the leader—none of the others would spare a thought for a drowning Celtic woman. So why did he? His hair and beard clung to his skull and neck. Dragging in great mouthfuls of air Brigid clung to his shoulders.

“Fool of a woman!” He sounded annoyed but not angry.

Between gasps for breath, Brigid managed to cry, “Asa?”

“Gone. The woman was too frail and old to survive.”

His arms were about her middle still and he supported them both while moving his legs about in the water. Brigid could feel his hard chest beneath the wet shirt that was his only top covering. He must have discarded his armoured vest. Which was a good thing—surely, he would have sunk like a rock to the bottom of the ocean had he not thought to abandon it before diving in after her. Still puzzled, she stared at him. Would she ever understand this man?

Brigid let out a moan of sadness for the old woman. Forced to rest her head against his jaw while she struggled to gain her breath, she thumped at his shoulder, crying, “Why did you save me?”

His large hands about her waist tightened as he gave her a small shake. The waves were now tossing them about as if they were sea kelp. Brigid could see over his shoulder that the longship was now a fair distance from them. The sails had been lowered which meant that his crew would be using the oars to turn the ship around and come back for their master.

“Do you not know?” he asked. If she did not know better, she would suspect him to be clearly surprised that she asked such a question of him.

“Because you are a fool,” she muttered. Now he would probably let her go, let her sink to the bottom of the ocean.

“Perhaps I am.” A deep frown creased his brow. “But from the moment I set eyes on you I knew that it was our destiny to be together.”

Startled, Brigid pushed back far enough to get a clear look into his face. Yes, he surely was a fool, talking a fool’s gibberish. “I did not think Norse warriors gave thought to destiny and fate,” she spluttered.

“You truly do not know anything about us. We believe in the Norns. The Three Fates of Destiny are more powerful than our gods and goddesses, and likely more powerful than your Celtic gods.”

The moon rode high in the sky now and she could clearly see his eyes. Was that puzzlement she read there in their depths? Well, she was surely just as puzzled. And more than that—so stunned was she by his words she knew not what to say.

Then he did the strangest thing. He covered her mouth with his. The waves washed over them and Brigid clung to his shoulders. With his arms about her, he pressed her body to his, and the strength of him kept them both lifted above the water.

Although sure his mouth would be hard and ruthless, it was not so. His lips were soft, gently enticing her to open to him. Brigid knew in that instant that she would be tied to this man for the rest of her days—would follow him willingly into the gates of hell if he so bid her.

Brigid heard a shout and vaguely registered that it must be from one of his crew. Rolf drew back slowly and the smile that curved his mouth contained promise, joy and utter satisfaction—the satisfaction of a male who had found immense treasure. Bewildered, Brigid pushed at him. What foolishness was she thinking now? Because he saved her life and took one kiss, it did not mean that she was somehow tied to him forever. Perhaps she was suffering some sort of ague from swallowing seawater. She could not give her heart to one such as he. “You are wrong,” she spat.

Her defiance did not seem to worry him. “Did I not say it is our destiny to be together?” Before she could retort to that he turned her about and with his hands on her waist hoisted her high so that the man named Ragnar could haul her aboard the longship.

Once back aboard, the other women crowded round, sadness filling their features. Brigid rigidly went back to sit with the children. The crew were sending their leader odd glances, no doubt wondering at his sanity to waste time and energy saving a couple of slaves. He silenced the few comments with a slice of the hand and a reprimand, and they hastily prepared the ship’s sails once more and were soon again threading their way through the waves as if none of the past few events took place.

Soon after, the Norse leader brought Brigid a pair of breeches and a shirt, plus a woollen cape, of which she was grateful. These he handed to her silently before going back to his position at the front of the ship. Brigid was shaking as if with the ague now, no doubt with the cold, but she knew that it was also likely shock at what happened in the sea.

The women did their best to shield her from the eyes of the crewmen as she stripped off her sodden clothes and pulled on the garments. They were very large, and obviously belonged to Rolf, the strange leader. Doubtless no member of his crew would be so charitable towards her. She rolled the bottom of the breeches up, and also the sleeves of the shirt, and by the time she was clothed her wild shivers had not ceased so she lay down beside the children. Pulling the cloak over her in the hope that she would sleep for a while, she snuggled down with the boys held close, taking comfort from their little bodies.

Her last thought before she fell into a deep sleep was that perhaps Rolf was right and her God or his Norse gods surely did smile on them this day. Or, could his powerful Three Fates of Destiny have intervened.

 Purchase here