Powerful Destiny

by Tricia McGill

  A small rap on the door heralded the return of the girl that he sent off to find suitable clothing for Brigid. He opened the door and gestured her inside. Meekly she stood before him, her arms overflowing with garments. “What is your name, child,” he asked. When he questioned Ingrid about a suitable servant for Brigid, she brought this one forward, saying she would be the right one for the task. Her mother recently died of a fever leaving her to fend for herself, and her father was one of the slain men that did not return from the last raid. Rather than give her to one of the men to become their bed mate Ingrid wisely considered this was better suited.

  “Astrid, master,” she mumbled, giving a small dip of the knees, head still bent.

  “Ingrid has made clear your duties?” She bent her knees again as she nodded her head. “You are to serve this lady here.” He gestured toward Brigid who now stared at him, he guessed in surprise. “You will do her bidding without fault. If I find that you have not obeyed, then you will be left for one of the men to do with as they please.” That thought terrified her as he guessed it would. There was little likelihood of that happening as one of the other women would have taken her as a helpmate, but Rolf knew that a threat worked well in such a case.

  “I understand. I will be happy to serve the lady.” She looked toward Brigid, bobbing her head, the first smile appearing on her face. Rolf knew that to be chosen as serving girl to his woman was an honour for her, one that she would boast about with the other young women. Doubtless, some of the older women would find it puzzling, but would not dare to venture an opinion in his hearing.

  She looked down at the garments in her arms and then over to Brigid, and asked in a small voice, “Where do you wish me to put these… mistress?”

  With a shrug and a questioning glance at him, and then back at the girl, Brigid said, “Put them anywhere, Astrid.”

  Rolf gestured to the chest at the bottom of his sleeping pallet. He had not considered such a trifle. No woman in the past shared his bed or his hut for longer than it took to satisfy his needs. The girl did as ordered, nodded at him before standing before Brigid again, asking, “What do you wish me to do now?”

  Brigid rubbed at her brow as if contemplating what to say. “You may fetch me the juice of fruit and find me a comb for my hair.” As the girl turned for the door, she added, “And my name is Brigid. You will call me that.”

  The girl’s head went up and down before she rushed out.

  Rolf sat in his chair and contemplated the Celtic woman. His natural thoughts as a man had been to take her to his bed as soon as she came to his hut. After all, she was his property to do with as he pleased. But now something deep inside told him that if he treated this woman with kindness she would be more likely to do his bidding. He wanted her in his bed as a willing partner, not as a slave.

  “The girl is to your liking?” he asked.

  “Does it matter?” Her response came with a small lift of the shoulders. “I am your captive to do with as you please, am I not?”

  He sighed, deciding not to answer that question. Of course, she was his to do with as he pleased, yet he would not treat her as he would a slave girl. Then again, perhaps that would be the best solution, for she could not protest and would have nowhere to run and hide. She cared too well for her fellow Celts and knew the outcome for them. Rolf decided the thought of winning her over pleased him more. If he ravaged her now, she would forever hate him and fight him, and this he did not wish to happen. This woman must come to him willingly if it took him until his last breath.

  Chapter Five

  Brigid sat rigidly at the table opposite this man who was now her master. The girl Astrid returned with the drink she asked for earlier, and then assisted her with changing into the provided clothing. Brigid had no desire to wear the Norse clothes, which had no doubt been worn previously by some unwashed Norse female, but her own clothes were filthy and becoming smelly. After helping her to change, Astrid left carrying her old garments, with a promise to have them returned once cleaned.

  The new clothing, consisting of a dress with long sleeves and an over tunic the colour of ripe apples was surprisingly fresh smelling and not at all as she suspected. The tunic had two ornately decorated brooches, with the appearance of gold, holding the straps in place at the front. There was also a small linen cap, rather like that worn by babies, with ties that fastened beneath the chin. Brigid decided she did not wish to wear such stupid headwear. Her feet were now comfortable in a pair of soft calfskin house shoes. Astrid insisted that Brigid sat while she used a comb to tidy her hair, all the while telling Brigid how soft her hair was. She then asked permission to braid it so that these braids now hung over each ear. Brigid decided that the girl would suit her well. Perhaps she could even arrange it so that the girl slept in the hut to be there to cater for all her needs. This seemed a foolish notion as she guessed that the lord and master would be eager to get her alone and into his bed. A thought that brought on a fresh state of nervousness.

  Once Astrid came back to assist Brigid, Rolf left the hut, a fact that pleased Brigid no end. He did not return until much later when Astrid laid out food on the table. This gave Brigid a chance to look around what must now be her home. Apart from the table, the large chair that Rolf always sat in, three stools, and of course the huge pallet where he slept, there were two large chests. Astrid looked into both and told Brigid one of these was empty, so she would use that for the belongings of Brigid. The girl seemed excited to know that she was in charge of caring for Brigid and all that she owned.

  Now she sat face to face with him across the table. Astrid, with the help of a young lad, set the food on the table and then left them alone. Rolf smelt fresh, his hair still damp, proof that while away he had bathed. “You do not like the food before you?” he asked, when Brigid sat with the provided spoon held over the dish before her.

  The mixture of meat and vegetables served in a wooden bowl gave off an inviting aroma and she realised that she was very hungry, but her stomach was also roiling as if she was back on the vessel again. “It smells delicious. I…” Her mouth dried, and she could not explain her feelings to him. With effort, she started to eat. After a few mouthfuls she said, “Your cooks are excellent.” This was true, the sheep meat was tender, and the variety of added vegetables and herbs made it tasty. It was comparable to the food enjoyed at home, prepared by her well-chosen cooks.

  Brigid wondered how they fared. Before her father ordered the women and children into hiding, some of the others fled to the hills, her cooks among them. How foolish that they all did not follow this route. If so, then she would not now be sitting facing her captor.

  At her small sigh, he asked, “Is something amiss?”

  Brigid refused to answer such a foolhardy question but shook her head. Everything in her life now was amiss. Would there ever come a time when she could explain to this man how painful it was to be dragged from your homeland, and then forced to suffer a horrendous sea voyage, before ending up in this barbarian’s homeland. And now beneath his roof. Would the ache in her heart ever ease? Since birth, she had only known the kindness and wisdom of her mother and father, living in a home where she had no doubt she was well loved, with servants to wait on her every need. Even the lowly peasants treated her with respect.

  In silence, they continued to eat. After his meat dish, he also ate food from a dish containing what smelt like fish, which she declined. She did not refuse the berry fruit served with cream. In truth, her nerves, already a mess, were now growing worse as it neared time for the sun to go down. The thought of what would follow once this meal was over made her feel as if she would bring up all she had eaten.

  He leant back in his chair and watched her, making her feel like a mouse or small creature that knew what fate was to befall it when the hunter pounced. To her surprise he said, “On the morrow I think it might be a good thing if you begin to teach your fellow Celts our tongue. That way they will be better served to understand my people.”
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  Brigid was so taken aback by his suggestion that she stared at him in silence. This was the last thing she had expected of him.

  “No, you think my plan ridiculous?” he asked.

  “No, no, I also thought it should be done. But I did not think to suggest it for fear that you would think me too…” She shrugged, at a loss to find the words in his language to explain that she felt he would never agree to such an idea.

  Standing, he walked away from the table, and stood before one of the window openings. Brigid had already noticed that one of them contained glass, something rare indeed back home. This man must be wealthy—or his people no doubt traded far and wide, to possess such a luxury she had heard of, but never seen before. When he turned he gazed down on her with a look she was becoming familiar with. A look that still confused her and made her uncertain of his intentions.

  “Brigid, in your homeland, when you were given in marriage to the man your father selected for you, would you then not be allowed to think for yourself, or do what you desire?”

  Another question she never expected to come from the mouth of a Norseman. When would he cease to surprise her? “Of course, I would. And also, I would have chosen the man I wed, and not my father.”

  He seemed interested in that answer and came to sit again. “Tell me, was there a man of your choice that you were promised to? I did not see you rush to grieve over the body of anyone but your father on the shore that day. Were you betrothed to a man from another clan who did not join him in battle?”

  “No.” In truth, no man had pleased her sufficiently to gain her love. There were a few who came visiting in the hope of receiving her regard, and one or two were favoured by her father, but none came anywhere near her expectations of a perfect mate. Most thought more of themselves and her possessions. Only one of them was near to the life mate she might desire, but even he proved to covet her father’s wealth above her affections. And that one was a mere boy compared to this man opposite her.

  Now he seemed surprised. “You are beyond the age of marrying. Most of our females are wed or have their mates well before they reach the maturity you have gained.”

  Brigid had to smile at that. “You think me an old crone past the age of child-bearing?”

  “No, I do not, but I am simply wondering why you chose to wait. I thought women were more likely to wed the first man who took their fancy, perhaps more for security and comfort than anything.”

  This was becoming such a strange conversation that Brigid wondered at his thinking. Did he expect her to produce a child for him? Was he now worried that she was beyond the age for doing such? Could it be that now he was considering casting her aside in favour of one of the younger captives who were barely out of childhood? That thought should not worry her as much as it did. “Some might, but I was freely allowed my choice by my father. He was a good man and knew the wisdom of letting me choose my own future.”

  A future that was now taking a different path to the one her dear parent envisioned. Brigid stared down at the dish before her on the table as she sighed. What would her father now think of how her circumstances had changed? “Why do you ask?” she dared to question.

  He spread his hands in a small gesture. “I would wish you to believe that you have freedom now as my woman. Others of my clan will now treat you with the respect you deserve as the wife of their chieftain.”

  “Wife? I am not your wife, simply your slave, no better than the lowliest thrall, so why would they consider me anything more.” This she said with a small twist of derision to her lips. Now she thought him mad.

  With a finger jerked in her direction he said, “You will become my wife as soon as it can be arranged.” At that announcement, he rose and walked to the door, which he opened. Astrid must have been outside for she came in hurriedly, followed by the boy who helped her bring the food, nodded towards Brigid, and began to clear the leftover food and empty dishes from the table.

  Brigid was so stunned and angry that she still sat, not sure what to do next. His words should not have surprised her. After all, she was his property to do with as he wished. But marriage with him was something that never entered her head. Truth was, she was led to believe that the Norse people were far too uncivilised to go through a ceremony as sacred and binding as marriage. It seemed she had much to learn about the habits and rituals of his people. Could there be a chance that marriage was not as sacred to the heathens as it was to the Celts. She would forever be tied to this man anyway, no matter what ceremony they went through, so what did it matter what he chose to call it?

  When she turned, he was gone, and she breathed a sigh of relief. With luck, he would go to the large hall where she learnt earlier from Astrid the men liked to sit and drink while they discussed the affairs of the town, and Brigid presumed the next raid they planned. How she prayed he would overfill on the strong ale and mead they loved and be incapable of walking back here. She had seen many men in the past back home get in such a condition that they slept where they sat, sometimes for hours.

  Once Astrid and the boy finished clearing the remains of the meal and he went away to she knew not where to take the dishes, she presumed to the kitchen, Astrid lit two lamps. Brigid went to the outhouse behind the hut. She was pleased earlier to find it tucked away behind his home and not inside as the one in the hut the captives shared. On her return, she found the servant had set a bowl for washing, and also laid out a shift of fine cloth on the sleeping pallet such as Brigid had never seen before.

  “Our Chief bought the cloth from a merchant who passed through,” Astrid said, answering Brigid’s unasked question. “I believe he said it was from a place called Arabia—or the merchant was an Arab, but I cannot be sure. It is beautiful is it not?”

  Brigid felt inclined to tell the girl to take it away and keep it for herself if she treasured it so much. Had she been given orders to provide the gown for Brigid—or perhaps taken it upon herself to fetch it for her mistress? “Who made such a shift, or did it belong to someone else?” she asked. The thought that one of his other women might have worn the garment sickened her.

  “Oh no, mistress, the Jarl gave orders for it to be stitched just this past day, by the woman who possesses a great skill.”

  Another surprise. Why did her father not tell of these skills of the Norse people when he was telling of their vicious ways and their slaughter of children and taking of slaves? It could be he had no notion. He certainly did not know that they traded with these strange Arabs Astrid mentioned. And where was this Arabia?

  “Would you like my help bathing, mistress?” Astrid asked.

  Brigid waved her offer away. “No, I will take care of myself now. You go to your home.”

  The girl looked doubtful. “Are you certain my lady? The master said I was to assist you.”

  “I am quite sure. I will not need you anymore this night.” It was clear the girl did not wish to disobey her chief, as she lingered near the door. “Where is your home now,” Brigid asked. “I hear your father was slain and your mother is no longer here to take care of you.”

  Astrid looked sad for a moment and then brightened. “I will be sleeping in the hall of Ingrid and her family. With kindness, she offered me a pallet there. But she also gave me instructions to stay with you mistress for as long as I am needed.” Still she hesitated.

  If only she could stay here all-night long. For a brief moment, Brigid contemplated it—for surely Rolf would never touch her if the child were in their presence. Of course, it was likely he would not care, for Astrid mentioned earlier that entire families occupied some of the larger halls in the town. Brigid knew this also happened in parts of Britain, where the poorer folk shared a humble house. This kept them warm in winter and, so they thought, offered them a certain security. Of course, in the house of her father she always had the privacy of her own chamber.

  Brigid could not bear the thought of the shame she would feel if he lay with her with the girl nearby. “Well, I am giving you instr
uctions to leave. I can manage well on my own. I will see you at the break of day.”

  Picking up the washing bowl, Astrid nodded her head in a small movement, before going out. Brigid chewed on her lip as she looked down on the beautiful shift. What would he say if she refused to wear the garment? And what would he do if he returned and she was not here but had gone back to the hall with the other Celtic women. As fast as that thought flashed through her mind, reason returned. So far, he had treated her with reasonable care, but if she disobeyed him, she had no doubt that he would simply keep to his pledge to send them all to the slave market, her included, or give them to the men of his clan.

  The thought of being forced to lie with any one of the crew of his longship, even the youngest, sickened her. She would rather die by her own hand. With a huge sigh, Brigid hurriedly stripped and bathed, using a tablet of soap she was surprised to find beside the bowl. She had been taught to believe that the heathens never bathed and stunk worse than their filthiest cattle. However, had not Rolf already proved this fact wrong, because he smelt fresher by far than some of the men in their household back home.

  After drying with a linen cloth, she pulled the shift over her head. As the garment slithered across her skin, she trembled. Not knowing what to do next, she walked over to the small window and looked out. Smoke now floated above the huts, filling the night air. A few lonely stars were just visible through the overcast sky.

  Tears dampened her cheeks when an owl hooted nearby, its mournful cry reminding her so much of the last night in the home where she always considered herself safe. With a shudder, she brushed them away and rubbed at her bare arms. A small sound by the door heralded the return of her captor, and she turned to face him, head held high. Never would she show him meekness or cowardice.

  * * *

  Rolf closed the door behind him and stood looking at the woman whose presence in his life had changed the way he thought, the way he acted, and the way he now viewed life. All of this not only confused him, but also angered him. How was it that a Celtic female from another part of the world could have this effect on him? The Celts were enemies of the Norse people and thus she should be his enemy, but from the first moment he set eyes on her it was as if she held him under a spell.