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.
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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.
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