Now I present to you... Silver and Spice!
View Prologue and chapter 1 HERE, chapter 2 HERE, chapter 3 HERE, chapter 4 HERE, chapter 5 HERE, chapter 6 HERE, chapter 7 HERE, chapter 8 HERE, chapter 9 HERE, chapter 10 HERE, chapter 11 HERE, chapter 12 HERE, chapter 13 HERE
Chapter 14
Roisin waited for the
tides to turn. Kristr had promised that
he would take her on a voyage to see her father, on the condition that she did
returned with him again. She could not bring herself to ask him about
the silver again. It was obvious that Halsrafjord was wealthy, and that any
ransom paid would not increase the coffers greatly. Just as Ciara and Patrick had
been pawns in a marriage transaction, she had been used as a pawn in an unfair
trade exchange. She wished that her father could procure the silver; she could
imagine it was a dowry and she could stay with Kristr of her own free will.
Perhaps when she returned to Donegal, Kristr would give her that choice. He had
assured her, that when the ransom was paid, she would be free to make whatever
choice she wanted. She would choose him.
In the meantime, she had
settled into a routine on the farmstead. Roisin loved to weave, and to sew, and
was happy to spend time mending the garments of her temporary companions, and
preparing patterned cloth on the broadloom. It felt good to be useful and to
share her skills. She liked to take a
little extra care over Kristr's clothing. She had been spending part of each
day carefully embroidering the rune from his tattoo into a new fine grey tunic.
She had not yet shown him her work as she wanted to have it completed before
they left for Donegal, and she was sure he would appreciate the gesture. Roisin
missed her small bone needles at first, but when Gertrude had presented her
with a little cylinder containing needles made of silver, she was delighted.
She was proud to have her small sewing pouch hanging from her apron brooch,
like a true Viking woman. Only Gertrude
had keys of the hall, the privilege of the Jarl’s wife.
Teaching Gertrude and
the other women the different ways of weaving, how to make small intricate
patterns in the fabric, gave Roisin a sense of pride and belonging. To share
her skills with others was a rewarding experience, as she had done on Dun na
shee. Her finely woven cloth had been part of the income for the clan when
Conall or Patrick went trading. She still missed her father and brother, and
was sure Ciara did too. Ciara. To see her friend so happy, so content made her
wonder if this had been part of the Lord's plan for her. Ciara was born to live
here, in the fjords. Her height aside, she would pass easily for a Norsewoman,
with her blond hair, blue eyes and steadfast approach to life. If she and Patrick
had married, it would have extinguished the life spark from them both.
To find happiness, Roisin
would never have believed that the modest quiet Ciara would have become the
concubine to a Jarl's son. But she also
would never have believed she would become a hostage, a captive who did not
want to leave her captor. Ciara, as Erik's concubine, now had status on the
steading. She did not dress as a married woman, and still wore her hair
unbound, like a Norse maiden, with the exception of a small kerchief covering
the crown of her head, held in place by her silver circlet. Its symbolism identified her as Erik's woman,
in every way but in marriage vows.
******
Under Marthe's tutelage,
her Norse was improving, with more new words creeping in every day. Each day it
sounded a little less strange, and she started to worry that she would forget
her mother tongue, especially where there was no word in Irish for the Norse
item. Maria's infectious good nature and humour continued to keep her spirits
up, and she knew she would miss Maria when she returned to her training as a
healer, further down the coast.
On Dun na Shee, Roisin
had avoided the cooking pots at all costs, preferring to scrub clothes or even
milk cows than be involved in the preparation of the meals. Here, she was still
mindful of her status as a hostage, albeit one who was fairly content, and she
was keen not to cause any offence to the people who had treated her so kindly. MacRonan
as her husband would hardly have fed or cared for her so well. Having spent so
little time at the hearth, she was surprised to realise that she enjoyed it,
especially since the spring weather was pushing out new leaves and shoots to
enjoy. She wondered if she would be here for harvest time, around the time of
Lunasa and the eighth moon.
Seeing the first early
blossoms of hawthorn, breaking though the warming clear spring sunshine
reminded her of Donegal, and of the upcoming festival of Bealtine. On Dun na
Shee they would have cut hawthorn blossom and decorated the house, the tiny
white flowers a symbol of new life after the long winter. Although frowned upon
by the Church, there was a certain tolerance for some of the ancient rituals,
as reflected in the Celtic Cross used by her people. By blending the old
worship of the sun and the new worship of Christ, helped the Irish to accept
the new faith. She and Ciara would have washed their faces in the first dew of
Bealtaine, said to have magical properties to add to a maiden's complexion. It
obviously worked on Ciara, her inner and outer beauty shining through as
brightly as a summer sun.
Darkness was falling
later and later this far north, and evenings were spent in the hall, listening
to skalds weave their stories; the sagas were fascinating and the skill of the
storyteller had her every bit as enthralled as the rest of the assembly. She
did not need Kristr to translate so much, but she loved having him so close as
he whispered the words in her ear. Having him so close, only made her think of
having him under the furs, and she often settled herself on his lap, wiggling
her bottom and innocently teasing him. He obviously agreed with her sentiments,
because on more than one occasion they left the hall for some cool night air,
and to allow Roisin to admire the magical green and purple lights that lit up
the sky on occasion. Nobody was fooled at the antics of the young lovers.
The tales were different
to those of home. She loved the Mythological Cycle, fables of the Tuatha de
Danaan, royal fairy folk who inhabited Ireland before her Celtic ancestors,
who, despite the best intentions of the church were still believed to live in
the woods, streams and mountains.
She missed the sorrowful
tale of the Children of Lir, Fionnuala and her three brothers, Conn, Aed and
Fiachra, who were transformed into swans by their jealous stepmother. They
spent four hundred years under the curse until they were freed from the spell
by a hermit who followed the new faith, and its message of love and
forgiveness.
She wished she were a
seanchai, the Irish equivalent to the skald, so that she could do justice to
the epic Tain Bo Cualinge, The Cattle Raid of Cooley. The hero Cuchulainn, the
Hound of Ulster, singlehandedly fought and won against Queen Maeve of Connacht,
only to lose his own life in the process.
****
Kristr continued to set
aside part of the day so that they could practice with the dagger. She was
becoming much better and agile in her actions, as her confidence grew. He still
despaired that she had no training in knife play as a young girl, but each
training session generally ended with him overpowering her in mock play and a
tender kiss on the lips. However, he knew it was time to take her to get the
blade sharpened when their mock struggle did not end in a kiss, but in a deft
move from Roisin when she spun around behind him and smacked him on his
backside with the flat of the blade.
His initial reaction of
shock was replaced by mirth when he was faced with a view of a smirking Roisin,
delighting in her victory. Giving a long low growl, he picked her up and threw
her over his shoulder. Grinning in delight as she feigned a protest, he mjgave her a light smack on her own delectable
rump and immediately wished he hadn't as he practically ran back to their hall,
Roisin laughing as she bounced on his shoulder, her braid nearly touching the
ground as it swung below her.
Entering the hall, and
striding down to the chamber, Kristr laughed in glee as Roisin pummelled his
back, 'Put me down, Kristr! What will people think if they see you carrying me
like a sack of turnips!' He grunted as he threw her down on the bed furs.
'Irish wench!' She
rolled her eyes as he wrestled her onto his lap as she tried to squirm out of
his grasp, but the enjoyment of having her laugh and wriggle as her skirts
hitched up below him was becoming too much to bear. 'Did you think you could
best me in knife play?'
'Viking maurader!' She
finally allowed herself to be subdued on his lap. Her kicking legs were trapped
between his and her hands were pinioned behind her back. She could feel his
erection firm and proud below her, his free hand caressing her bare flesh under
her bunched kirtle. She groaned softly in anticipation, as he continued to
circle over her soft tender skin.
'How shall I punish you,
wench? I remember a very cross little piglet on our journey here. She rolled
her eyes at me, and I remember telling her that I should put her over my knee.'
He smacked her lightly, and she gave a low moan. 'Do you remember?' Another
caress, another playful smack, a further caress moving from her sweet rounded
bottom to between her slightly parted thighs.
'Aye, I remember' she
moaned, the heat growing within her, warmth sweetness preparing to welcome him.
'And I also remember a demanding Viking beserker calling me a sea cow as well
as a piglet!' She knew exactly what her audacious retort would bring.
As he looked at her
delicately pinked cheeks of her behind, he noticed the colour reflected on her
sweet face and pouty lips. She desired
him as much as he did her. 'I think you have learned your lessons for today,
sweetling,' he whispered, as he lifted her up to sit on his lap, freeing her
wrists from his gentle grip. 'We have a long journey that will start soon, and
you will need your rest.'
'Ah, but have we
finished?' Roisin interjected, as she pressed her palm against his groin, the
outline of his desire easily in view. Listening to his quiet hiss of pleasure,
she knew she was learning to handle more than one dagger. She wanted another
night of love play, of memories stored for her future, where ever it may be.
****
The sun was barely
breaking over the grey horizon when the three boats glided into the hidden cove
on the north side of the lough. They followed the flickering light of a single
flame, guiding them to their harbour. The cloaked figure extinguished the
hog-fat candle, its acrid smoke filling the cool air.
“It has been some time
MacRonan.” The cloaked figure spoke. “I
thought you would have had more sense than to lose your betrothed to a Viking.”
MacRonan shrugged. “I
underestimated Halsrason.”
The other figure removed
his cowl. “You are more of a fool than I
thought. I went to great trouble
convincing Conall to give his daughter to you, and this is how you repay me?”
“Fergus, when I finally
claim Roisin, and I will claim her,” MacRonan continued, “You can have your
reward.” He waved his hand
dismissively. “This land does not
inspire me. You can take it.”
“I have spent all my
life here, I think it is only right that I should claim it. Breda should have been mine. Her father’s lands should have been
mine. Dun na shee is the next best
thing.” Fergus turned on his heel. “The hounds have had their throats cut. The gates have been unlocked. I hope that you do not –sabotage- this
opportunity.” With that, he
disappeared.
Silently the crews departed
the ships, and crept through the still dark woods, fanning out as they came to
the rath. MacRonan sneered in the
shadows. This was too easy. It was easy to find Irish mercenaries from Munster.
It was easy to sail down the lough under darkness without being sighted. And to arrive at Dun na Shee with the help of
one of Conall’s own men was the easiest thing of all.
He signalled to Lorcan,
his longest serving warrior and highest paid gallowglass. With a war cry Lorcan
and his men descended on the rath in a flurry of arrows, as MacRonan strode
confidently behind them.
Through the wooden
spiked gates, now ablaze, the people of Dun na Shee were in a state of
disarray, the women fleeing to the centre roundhouse, with the infants and
children, the men seeking their arms and drawing their blades. The clanging of
steel rent through the once silent dawn morning.
Conall came storming
through the hall, swinging his sword at any man who dared to come near him. MacRonan,
you whoreson! He pointed his blade. 'You cause me to lose my daughter by your
underhandedness and you now come to ransack my rath!'
Looking over MacRonan's
shoulder Conall dropped his sword to his side. MacRonan held his ground. 'Aha,
you must love your children more than your land. Fool. He is not even your own
flesh and blood, 'tis obvious to all,' he hissed, watching Conall's face as
Lorcan threw a young man to the ground. His hands were bound and his face was
bloody. Pulling Patrick by his hair, raising his head, he held his dagger to Patrick's
neck, the blade pressing against his smooth olive skin.
Call off your men,
Steele, and I might have mine show some mercy. If not. He pressed the knife
further against Patrick's throat, a tiny trickle of blood in a rivulet forming
below the blade. 'Or I shall show none.'
Conall had no option but
to capitulate. He did not care if he died, but to allow MacRonan's men to take
the lives of those around him would be a mortal sin. 'I will not sacrifice the
life of my son to you. You have had my daughter taken from me, and for that I
hope you burn in the fires of Hell.'
Every man, woman and
child in the rath was rounded up and counted. MacRonan had his men search every
hut and dwelling, taking each piece of silver they could find. Coin, goblet,
jewellery, hacksilver, it didn't matter. Even the small silver crucifix that
belonged to Breda, Conall's wife.
'Let us see if you can
gather enough silver to rescue your daughter now.' MacRonan gave a hollow laugh
as he crushed the precious pieces together, 'consider this as Saxon wergild for
breach of contract.'
Turning to the now
smouldering entrance, he yelled to his man. 'Lorcan! Summon your men. Burn
their boats before you go.' Without looking behind, he shouted to the shaken
group, 'Come after us and I shall decimate your people, Steele. You have been
lucky this day, tomorrow you may not.'
The three boats left as
silently as they came, and headed further north.
Be sure to come back next week for chapter 14!
Thank you to:
copyright unknownswilly (unknownswilly.wordpress.com)
copyright Pat McCandless (www.buncranacameraclub.com)
E. Paterson for the Viking painting
Bio
Maria MacAuley is from Derry, Ireland and has a degree in Celtic Languages. She is married to the love of her life, and they live in relative peace with two cats.
She has a secret wish that her husband will investigate his Nordic family tree further and whisk her off on a longboat to Hammerfest to view the Northern Lights.
If Maria were to choose her favorite tense, it should be the subjunctive, and is always keen to discuss same over a pint of Guinness.
She has a secret wish that her husband will investigate his Nordic family tree further and whisk her off on a longboat to Hammerfest to view the Northern Lights.
If Maria were to choose her favorite tense, it should be the subjunctive, and is always keen to discuss same over a pint of Guinness.
email: banbha@hotmail.com
~*"No portion of this story may be copied or shared without the direct permission of the author."*~
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