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EPUB 978-0-2286-0332-0
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BWL Print ISBN 978-0-2286-0335-1
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Copyright 2018 by Tricia McGill
Cover art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
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.
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.