Chapter 15
Conall looked around the
chaos of the rath. He and Diarmuid had
joined the other men in clearing up. Digging a shallow grave he buried the
hounds that had been killed the night before.
Tine and Sioc, his two favourite dogs named Fire and Ice, were now lifeless
in the ground. It could have been much
worse. The larger livestock were on the
back pasture where the boys normally played hurling, and were safe. With the
exception of a couple of slaughtered chickens and month old lambs there was no
other loss of life. Cleaning up the aftermath, Fergus was unusually quiet, but
when Conall had questioned him, he merely shrugged and continued filling in the
graves of the wolfhounds. The chieftain put it down to anger over the attack,
and without any reason, did not question him further. Conall had found it odd that Fergus had been
unscathed during the raid, yet Diarmuid had a nasty gash in his arm and
Patrick, his son, had been severely beaten.
Both would recover, and now was not the time to apportion blame.
******
The rain poured from the
skies. All day, all night. All the following day. The wind chopped up the
waters, the waves crashing down along the normally serene waters of the fjord. Roisin
was anxious lest the time to sail would pass, and another moon and tide would
go by before they could leave. She wanted to see her father, to tell him she
missed him, but to tell him she was happy. She got up from bed, and went to
fetch some water to wash her face and hands. She loved the Norse custom of regular
washing, and this would suffice until the evening.
Still lying under the
furs, Kristr watched her intently as she brushed her hair, the narrow white
teeth of the comb moving smoothly through the dark black waves, her fluid
expert motions the result of years of practice. Reaching behind, she separated
her tresses into three, and started to braid. He sat up and moved behind her, taking
the strands and continuing the plait, until the rope of hair ended just above
her slender waist. Running his hands softly over her curves, he delighted in
the sensuous feeling of her skin, and her sigh of appreciation to his touch,
before she stepped away, opening the trunk and pulling out a green linen
kirtle, the colour of her eyes.
'Will we leave
tomorrow?' she asked, hope in her voice, as she dressed, carefully pinning the
brooches of her apron dress into place, looking down, making sure they were
straight. He smiled inwardly at her Nordic dress, and how beautiful she looked,
clothed or not.
'It is unlikely,
Sweetling. If the rain ceases today, then we may sail before the waning moon.'
His voice was gruff, more so than was necessary. He was avoiding starting the
journey, and he knew it. Johan had assured him that Conall did not have the
silver, but holding Roisin to her word that she would return with him after all
that they had shared would be so difficult. Tethering her and bringing her
North once was unfair on an innocent party, to do it again would result in her hatred.
He no longer cared about his honour as a trader and merchant. His honour as a
man should be greater, and he would try to explain that to his father.
'All this rain reminds
me of home,' she sighed. 'It can be tiresome, but without it, we do not have
our fine green land.'
He could not disagree
with her. The lands of Ulster, known in Gaelic as Uladh, were varied with their
undulating gentle green slopes, majestic valleys, and purple heather topped
hills, the coastline craggy and wild, the grey mists that blew in from the sea.
On a rare clear day the lands of Albion could be seen to the East, to the west,
it was ocean for days, weeks and months. It reminded him of home. He could make
it his home.
The other provinces were
so different. Connacht was barren and craggy, stark in its beauty. Few men had
sailed there. Leinster was green and lush, the place where Dubh Linn was
founded. Munster to very far south was rocky yet green, warm yet wet, an
otherworldly place with high mountains and high tides, hardly accessible
without crossing the rough boggy land of the centre of the island. For such a
small place, the changes in landscape were extreme; no wonder the Irish never
gave up belief in the fairy-folk, or the Sidhe, as they were called in Gaelic.
*****
Stepping out of the dim
light of the hall, they were greeted by a wide glorious rainbow, the sun was
struggling to come out from behind the clouds, leaving the magical colours of
the arch in the sky. Marthe came slowly towards them, picking her way daintily
along the mucky path. Roisin laughed in amusement, slow and dainty were not
words usually associated with Kristr's tall lively sister.
'Hej! Kristr und Roisin!'
She sidestepped a brown pool of water, nearly landing in another one. 'The
weather has changed, and I have to go to the woods to see what new plants the
earth god Jord has left for me with the gift of his rain!' Obviously being
confined to the hall for three days did not suit Marthe's personality and she
was keen to be outside again.
'Marthe, I would love to
go to the woods with you, but maybe we can wait another day for the earth to
dry out a bit. I'm sure the gifts from nature will still be there tomorrow.' Roisin
hoped that the gentle refusal would be understood. 'Perhaps instead you can
show me some of your runes?' Ever since she had seen the angular shape on
Kristr's breast, she had been fascinated by the symbols, so unlike the fluid
letters of her own language. She had copied the rune as carefully as she could
for her embroidery, but would need Marthe's assistance to know that it was
right. Also, the day spent around the hall would give her a chance to pack her
newly acquired belongings for the trip; her precious rose oil, needles and hair
comb, as well as preparation of the food and ale for the crew.
Marthe seemed to be glad
of any activity, and her noisy exuberant approval would waken the dead. She
hugged Roisin, 'What a magnificent idea! I shall make sure Ciara joins us too!'
She danced off, only managing to avoid half the puddles as she went in search
of Ciara and Erik, not aware of Roisin's giggles.
'Your sister's attitude
to life would bring a smile to the face of even the most sour old crone.' Roisin,
squeezed Kristr's hand. 'I think her smile might be one of her most potent
potions in her store of healing skills.'
Kristr followed his
sister's movements until she had made it back to the hall, her calls for Ciara
cutting through the quiet morning. 'Ja,' he grinned. ' I love her dearly, but I
pity the poor man who takes her as a wife.' He did not believe that at all. His
sister was coming of age, and there would be no shortage of suitors for the
lively, intelligent, kindhearted Jarl's daughter. It would be a fortunate man
who succeeded in wooing Marthe as well as her father, mother and brothers.
The following day was a
perfect Spring day. The sea was calm, there was only a few wispy clouds in the
sky and there was even a bit of warmth in the sun as it stretched its rays over
the fjord. The torrential rain of the previous days was forgotten in the bright
light of the morning. Shortly after the dagmal, Marthe, Ciara and Roisin left
for the woods, with instructions from Kristr to keep to the path, and to be
aware of boars. He had tucked her new sharpened dagger in its sheath, and
fastened it on to her girdle. Marthe brought her basket to gather fresh herbs
for her healing potions, and Ciara was keen to find some cloudberries; she had
never tasted them before and Erik spoke longingly of the first tart fruits of
Spring. Roisin packed her sewing into a little satchel. She could find a dry
spot to sit and finish her embroidery whilst the other two foraged for their
ingredients.
As they walked along,
listening to Marthe and her stories, songs and mimickry of her menfolk, Roisin
felt that if she was not training to be a healer, she would be known throughout
the fjords as a skald and entertainer.
Marthe's mischievous
side was not far under her skin. 'Tell me, Sisters,' she swung her basket
casually from arm to arm, 'what is it like being with a man?' Roisin blushed
crimson and Ciara giggled in amusement.
'We cannot talk about
such things, Marthe,' Roisin chided. She did not want to start talking of
Kristr and their bed play. Her mind
drifted to Kristr’s naked form, his body muscular from years of sailing and
farming. She broke out of her reverie when Marthe's voice rang in her ears.
'But I am still virgin,
and how will I know what is love?' Marthe pouted. 'I know nothing of the ways
of the world, and now that I have found women for my brothers, I want to know
what to expect! I'm not a child, and as my sisters you should tell me what I am
to expect!' She threw her arms in the air in mock despair, her basket almost
launched through the air. 'By the time I meet a suitable mate, Erik, Kristr and
my father will have scared him so much, I shall be a maiden forever, with grey
hair and stooped over a walking staff!'
Ciara put her arms
around Marthe, 'Sister,' she said, proud of Marthe's acceptance of her, 'all I
can tell you is that you will know when it is the right man for you.' Ciara
knew that better than most. 'It will be most pleasurable to share yourself with
a man you love, and who loves you.'
Marthe did not appear to
be satisfied with the response, and continued her interrogation. 'But how can something that causes pain give
pleasure?' Roisin blushed further, thinking of her recent evening spent
wriggling on Kristr's lap, her audacious lust as she initiated further play.
'Why do your cheeks pinken so, Roisin?' queried Marthe. 'I thought there was
only pain the first night.' Roisin opened her mouth and closed it again, the
words would not form.
Finally she managed to
compose herself and sputtered, 'It only hurts for a short time, but after that,
it is pleasant.' For reassurance, she looked to Ciara, who nodded in agreement.
'Do not think your
blushes will save you from further questions, Sisters!' Marthe laughed at the
modesty of the pair, even after nearly a full moon on the steading with the Halsrason
family. Shyness with nudity and flesh must be a Irish or a Christian custom.
She would leave it for now.
They spent most of the
day in and around the edges of the woods, Ciara and Marthe were busy digging
roots and cutting plants. Roisin found a log, the space left by the fallen tree
affording plenty of light to work on her sewing. She was so proud of her
embroidery creation, a Norse pattern sewn with her new silver Norse needles. As
the sun started to move down in the sky, she squinted at the light, and called
to the others. 'Perhaps we should think about heading to the steading now.'
'But it will not be dark
for ages yet,' Marthe was engrossed in carefully lifting a piece of lichen off
a rock, 'and I have so many more places to look.'
'All the same, I think
we should turn back. The light still fades fast in Spring here. We can come out
tomorrow, if Kristr and I have not sailed.' Marthe scrunched her nose in
disapproval but shrugged in acceptance. She called to Ciara and they picked up
their baskets to head towards the steading, excitedly talking about what each
had achieved that day.
'Oh no!' Roisin stopped
in her tracks. 'My needles!' She had to go back for them, they were a precious
gift from Gertrude. 'You two go on, I shall catch up with you before you know
it.' She turned around and hastened back to her sewing spot, and the log on
which she had sat. She picked up the little leather cylinder of needles, and
prepared to fasten them to her brooch with their silver chain.
She thought the shadow
of the sun was falling quickly over the trees, and she made her way back to the
path, when the shadows moved and the long light caught the quivering leaves.
That was peculiar. She started to walk briskly, then, her imagination getting
the better of her, she started to run, when she tripped over a tree root.
Wincing, as she got up, she realised she must have strained her ankle. Marthe
would be able to help her when she got back to the hall. Unless it was a boar,
she should be able to fend off a smaller animal like a fox. Perhaps it was just
a rat. She pulled out her shiny sharpened dagger for protection, the metal just
catching the last rays of light. She
scolded herself for letting the long shadows of the afternoon sun scare her.
That was until the
shadow cast over her body. She turned around and lunged, hearing a man's voice
howl in pain and outrage. 'Bitch!' The language was Irish. Another shadow came
from the opposite direction and pushed her to the ground, one knee on her back,
the other crushing upon her dagger arm, forcing her to release her weapon. She
screamed as loudly as she could, but choked as the knee pressed harder on her
back, pushing the air from her lungs. 'Hold her there, Lorcan. She shall not
cause me further damage.' She tried to scream again. She knew that voice. He
came closer to her, squatting on the ground as she lay prone before him. 'I see
your lover has been teaching you well. He held up his arm, the gash evident on
it, blood congealing in a sticky mass around the lurid saffron coloured fibres
of the sleeve. You will pay for this.' His breath was rancid, and she resisted
the urge to vomit. He ran a leather thong through his fingers, but rather than
reaching for her hands, he pulled on her hair, binding the leather tightly
halfway down the length of the braid before pulling out his own knife. 'Shall
we leave your lover a present?' He spat the words at her, spittle flying onto
her cheek.
She heard the rasping
sound of the knife, and her eyes filled with tears of rage as he waved three
hand lengths of braid in front of her. 'He will kill you for this insult!'
Throwing the plait on
top of her satchel, he issued another order. 'Lorcan, silence her and get her
onto the boat.' Roisin felt a slap to the back of her head, felt dizzy and then
felt nothing.
****
Ciara and Marthe were
nearly back at the outbuildings of Halsrafjord when they met Kristr and Erik
coming towards them. Kristr's eyes narrowed. 'Where is Roisin?'
'She forgot her needles
when we were at the edge of the woods, and she went back to retrieve them,' Ciara
confirmed. 'She said she would catch up with us.' Frowning, she realised that Roisin
should have caught up with them long before now, but herself and Marthe had
been so involved in their chatter that they had not noticed.
Kristr took off running
in the direction of the woods, shouting for Roisin, and followed closely by Erik.
With each stride he became more and more panicked. What if she had fallen? Was
she injured?
When he came upon the
scene in the clearing he howled in rage.
In a heartbeat he was stabbed with guilt. Now he knew exactly how Conall
of Dun na Shee must have felt when he found the ransom note stabbed through the
tree. Kristr fell to his knees as he saw the satchel, the dagger with blood on
it, and the length of her beautiful hair, so carefully plaited by him that
morning.
His heart tightened and
his stomach lurched. This was not the work of Roisin's menfolk taking her back
by stealth. MacRonan had been here. He stared at the disturbed earth, evidence
of a struggle. Horror was replaced by anger, and fear of what had become of
her. Erik caught up to his brother, and roared in outrage at the small pile of Roisin's
belongings before them.
****
Roisin tried to shake
herself awake. She realised that she
must be on a boat, the undulating movements were of the sea, not land. Boats
did not normally make her feel so ill; and her head was throbbing. She heard men’s
voices but they were speaking in Gaelic, not Norse. She tried to open her eyes,
but something was stopping her. She reached to her head and felt a rough piece
of material. Tugging furiously at the blindfold, she screamed for Kristr , but
was rewarded with a foul-smelling hand clamped over her mouth, and the
horrifying familiar voice. 'Your precious Viking is not here!' Another dirty
pair of hands pressed a wine skin to her lips, but when she tried to turn away,
the sticky sweet liquid poured down her throat. She choked, swallowed, and all
was dark again.
Be sure to come back next week for chapter 16!
Thank you to:
E. Paterson for the Viking painting and the Viking hall
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.
~*"No portion of this story may be copied or shared without the direct permission of the author."*~
Author: Nikki Prince
