Powerful Destiny

by Tricia McGill

  “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 skilfully 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 colou
r 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.