When Barra's warband attacked the sleepy southern village, they expected to be able to steal cattle and grain and be away before anyone could sound the alarm. What they didn't expect was to meet a well-armed group of villagers who slaughtered most of the warband who weren't able to run away. Barra was badly injured and left for dead. He was saved by Niamh, the local wise woman, who took the warrior to be her slave and tended his wounds.
Days passed and ran into weeks. Under Niamh's gentle care, Barra grew stronger, doing the menial tasks she set for him; but he found himself growing slowly less content, and angrier with every sunset.
One day she handed him a long-handled sickle with a curved blade and told him to go to the riverbed and cut new rushes for the floor and bedding. He refused.
"It's women's work," he protested. "I am a warrior, not a woman."
Niamh smiled, secretly delighted by his challenge. He must be feeling much stronger to be talking this way. She had left it too long to make him understand his new position. Now he must learn there was no choice any more. No choice unless she granted it.
"You are not a warrior, unless I wish you to be one, Barra. You are my slave. You will do exactly what I tell you to do until I tell you otherwise - as a slave should!" She kept her voice low and chilled, her blue/grey eyes never leaving his. Her long brown hair shone with auburn tints in the early morning sunlight. It fell to her waist as she stood before him. Though he was more than a head taller, she had a way of regarding him that was more intimidating than a whole army of warriors. His dark eyes burned with anger and he made to turn away from her, his expression changing to surprise as he found himself unable to move.
"You are mine, "she told him. "The sooner you understand your status, the easier it will be for both of us. But it will be hardest for you."
"I will never be yours. Never a slave. Never!" he spat at her.
"Very well, " she sighed and went to the wooden chest where she kept all her clothing. She took out an old ragged kirtle and threw it at his feet.
"Since you refuse to consider yourself my slave and do the work I give you , and you believe your task is womans's work, you will be dressed fittingly while you do this task." She gestured , releasing the holding spell and waited for him to realise he was free to move again.
Barra bared his teeth and snarled at her like an animal, preparing to pounce.
"Take off your plaid and put on the kirtle, Barra. I shall not tell you again."
He lunged forward, the sickle blade aimed towards her throat. She threw up her arm and caught his wrist in a vice like grip.
"Do you really think you can harm me?" she whispered to him. "Go on, try to cut my arm with that and see what happens." She let go of his wrist and bared her own arm in front of him. Savagely, in his anger, he drew the well-honed edge across her skin, jerking back in agony and disbelief, grunting, as blood welled from a cut on his own arm whilst hers remained whole.
"You see?" Niamh's voice was calm and controlled. "You cannot hurt me. We are linked, you and I, by the blood bond we made when I saved your life. If you wound me, you only end up wounding yourself. There is no sense in doing that, is there?"
He looked at her with a mixture of rage and fear in his eyes, his mouth busy sucking the blood from his oozing cut and spitting it out onto the floor. Once more she took his wrist in one hand and covered the cut with her other. Her small hands looked pale against his weather-beaten skin. He felt a familiar surge of heat against his arm and when she took her hand away, the cut was gone.
He took a step back from her. "Who are you?" he rasped. "Am I bound to the local witch or mad woman?"
"Neither I hope," Naimh replied, smiling sweetly, which she knew would annoy him further. "Now do as I say. Remove your plaid and put on the kirtle. Then you will go and cut rushes. You should realise by now that I can compel you to do it. It will be better for you if you do it for yourself."
Barra cursed in his own language then took off his ragged plaid, the last thing which marked him as a warrior of his tribe. He folded it respectfully and placed it on a stool. His powerful chest and shoulders showed how well he was recovering from the abuse of his imprisonment and the aftermath, muscles forged from years of fighting clenched and unclenched as he tried to control his surge of anger. . Even as he stood before her naked, there was a pride and defiant arrogance in his stance. Naimh ran a practiced eye over his body noting the absence of bruises on his flesh, making it easier to see the swirls of tattoos across his skin. She'd missed those that first night when she was treating him by firelight and hoped one day he would tell her their meanings. A wolf loped lazily down his right arm and strange signs were drawn along both his shoulders. Unconsciously, her hand went to the wool of her dress hiding the very different markings she bore.
Slowly, Barra picked up the kirtle and pulled it over his head, resentment glittering in his eyes, but she knew he would not strike her again. He looked ridiculous with the long skirts falling down to his ankles while his unkempt black hair and bedraggled beard fell about his shoulders. It was all Niamh could do to keep a straight face.
"Give me your boots." Naimh held out her hand. "You have forfeited the right to wear them." This was the final insult. She knew the path to the reed beds was fairly flat and stone free. He would not suffer too much on his journey there and back, but it might dissuade him from travelling further afield. Though she would not admit it, healing him had sapped much of her energy and she did not have the strength to go after him and bring him back should he try to escape.
He pulled them off and handed them to her, now more calm, but coldly defiant. This would not be the first winter he had gone barefoot. "Make me your laughing stock, Lady, " he said quietly, "Let others think I am a slave, it matters nothing to me. I shall remain a warrior, no matter what you do to me."
Niamh reached down and picked up the sickle, from where he had dropped it. "Bring back as many rushes as you can carry, slave-Barra. They will need to be dried beforethey can be used. Make sure you return well before sunset." She handed him the sickle, handle first. He took it, gathering up lengths of rope hanging by the door as he left.
By the time Barra returned, the sun was making its way towards the far horizon although there were several hours of daylight still remaining. He carried four heavy bundles on his back, breathing laboured as he trudged the uphill path towards the roundhouse. It had been harder work than he thought and he had greater respect now, grudging though it was, for the women who cut reeds in his own clan. It had been a hard day, and his hands were blistered from cutting and stacking the reeds, and then binding them for carrying. His feet were cut and reddened (blistering is a heat/burn reaction..)from slipping on the icy path. Some of his earlier anger had eased, but he felt it still, like a coal, smoldering, waiting for fuel before bursting into life again.
Niamh was talking quietly inside the round house to a young girl, her pretty face streaked with tears. Barra dropped his bundles carefully behind the door, waiting for permission to enter and hang them over the fire to start drying.
"Try not to worry, Dierdre. I shall think of something." He heard her say, "You'd better go home now, before Gwyn returns from the fields." The girl nodded, wiping her eyes and hugging the older women before she left. Niamh stayed where she was, staring into the fire of the central hearth. Several times Barra saw her shake her head vigorously as if disagreeing with something, but eventually she bowed her head and sighed.
He shook the door, to announce his presence. Niamh looked up, her eyes glazed as if she were deep in trance. "It's too soon, " she murmured to herself, looking straight through him.
"Brought the reeds."
"Hmmm?"
