Barra's Slavery

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?"

"I brought the reeds, Lady" If she heard the sarcasm in his voice, she ignored it.

"Oh yes, " Niamh shook her head one last time, as if to clear it. "The reeds, good. Pull down the drying rack and spread them over."

Barra did as he was asked, turning over in his mind what could be worrying her like this. This was a powerful woman with untold skills and something was causing to act in such a distracted manner. It was connected with the girl, no doubt.

He wondered if this was his opportunity to run, but there was no point without his boots and weapons and wearing a woman's garb. He noticed his plaid, draped over a hazel bush outside the roundhouse. His first thought was she wished to discredit his tribe further and remind him of his dishonour, but when he investigated more closely, he saw she had washed the plaid and neatly mended the latest tears and holes and now it hung to dry in the afternoon breeze. It surprised him she should do this. The women who served the warband took care of washing and mending. They were slaves taken in battle. Just like he was, he reflected. It seemed strange for her to take on a role she had only just assigned to him. But then, did anything make sense any more? She said he was a slave, yet she fed him well and did not beat him, not even with her hand when he spoke out of turn, or tried to cut her. Yet he knew she had no need to. Look at what she'd achieved with only her voice. He was wearing a kirtle at her orders. Lugh only knew what else she had in store for him!

As it turned out, it was more women's work. She set him to grind wheat in the large quern stone, grumbling at him until he produced a flour fine enough for her liking. His back was breaking with the unaccustomed bending and turning and it was all he could do not to curse her to her face for causing his discomfort. Once he'd ground enough to surely last for the next few days, she sent him outside to chop logs for the fire, knowing he could take out his frustration safely with axe on the felled sycamore trees the Chieftain had sent for her the previous day.

Niamh was baking flat bread on the hot hearth stones and stirring their meal when he returned.

"Logs, " he grunted, "for the fire. Where do you want them?"

"Set them down by the hearth."

Barra delivered each heavy armful slowly and carefully, placing each log in its allotted slot so they were close to the hearth drying but not scorching and he was satisfied they had enough to keep them warm until morning. He could smell frost on the wind and there was a bitter chill now that the sun had gone down. He had no wish to freeze to death either outside or inside the roundhouse.

"Has the sun fully set?" Niamh asked as he finished piling the logs on top of each other.

"Aye, night is coming on and a hard frost with it." He winced as he straightened up. All his muscles seemed to be protesting after his day's work.

"Sit." Niamh pointed to one of the stools next to the hearth and handed him a bowl of tea.

"Aye. The hound will sit." Barra muttered, sniffing suspiciously. "What's in this?"

"Yarrow, meadowsweet and bogbean. "

He sniffed, "Aye, well, it is fit for a woman to drink, and as I am now made to do women's work, it is fit for me, too." There was no tension in his voice, now, and almost an air of dry amusement.

Niamh suddenly felt the tension of the past few days leave her and she laughed. It was an amused, playful, honest laugh suddenly grateful for both his comments and his companionship. "I have more old men ask me for this tea, "she told him, "than old women. They say it eases their joints."

Barra blew across the bowl then sipped cautiously, finding the taste not unpleasant for once. Most of the brews she gave him were bitter and made him gag, but this was positively soothing and reminded him of summer meadows and handfastings for some strange reason. "Well, it may serve me also, for my joints cry out this night." She already knew this, Barra realised, which was why she brewed this particular tea. Well, it wasn't difficult to tell what ailed him, the way he'd been puffing and blowing every time he bent down to place another log.

Niamh finished ladling out two large bowlfuls of thick pottage and handed one to him with some fresh baked bread. "Eat." was all she said but he needed no permission and began to gulp from the bowl greedily, wiping it round with the bread and devouring that also.

"Anyone would think you were never fed, " she teased him, taking back the bowl and filling it again for him, passing it back together with a decorated horn spoon. He took it from her, relaxing enough to return a grin with his thanks, while his thick, callused fingers deftly explored the decoration on the spoon.

"I am sorry to tell your Ladyship that your kirtle took some hurt this day. " He showed her the tears around the edges. "Your kinsmen thought my dress amusing and tried to feed me blows and laughter at the reeds; but I think they'll not laugh so much on the morn. Hard to laugh with a broken jaw." He reached forward and broke off another piece of flatbread, chewing it reflectively. "This is good bread..."

"You ground it well," Niamh praised him.

Barra flushed at the mention of the grinding, he still felt it was beneath him to do women's work, but it was good bread, so maybe she did know what she was doing. The warband's bread was always filled with grit and his teeth were the shorter for the chewing, but this bread was soft and light and tasted of the grains. If he had to be anyone's slave for the time being, he would not mind so much given this woman's many skills.

The fire hissed and crackled, spreading a companionable warmth around them Barra decided he would ask some of the questions which kept nagging him, but which he had not spoken of before. Even now, he found it hard to twist his tongue around some of her phrases, but she seemed to have no difficulty understanding him, unlike those serfs and peasants hanging around the rushes, laughing at his speech and clothes. They would be laughing on the other side of their faces now.

"Those people that come to you,"

"Aye?"

"Are they all sick?"

Niamh finished her pottage and set the bowl and spoon down in a woven grass basket to wash later. Barra suddenly realised how little she ate compared with him. Were all slaves fed more than their masters in this tribe? It was not so where he came from, everyone else ate their fill before the slaves could eat. Another mystery for him to solve! Then he realised she was speaking and turned his attention back to her.

"By and large," she said thoughtfully, "something ails them, although it may not be of their body that they come to me."

"And you ... make them better?"

"If it is their time to heal, yes."

Barra fell silent, continuing to eat, steadily, methodically, like a man used to taking nourishment when he gets it, but also musing on her words. This woman did not claim to heal everything. She knew the importance of fate and gaes, that everything was ordained by a higher power and when the time came, humans danced to another's tune as the Gods decreed.

"Surely you have a healer in your tribe?" Niamh asked him, chewing her way thoughtfully through one of last season's apples and a dried pear.

"We have a Druid."

"You are fortunate," and she threw the apple core towards the door where the hens would find it in the morning. They were fond of apples.

Barra looked up with a half-smile. "He calls himself a Druid. Our chief calls - called - him a Druid. He was very skilled at poetry, and he could perform divinations with all manner of animals and plants, but I would not take a sick hound to him!"

Niamh was surprised at his condemnation. "Did he not study on the Hidden Isles? Twelve years they kept me before I was allowed back to my tribe."

Barra shrugged, "I know little of that. For twenty years I have known the spear, the sword, the shield, the salmon-leap, and the bolgae. I leave magic to the ones who would have it. Twelve years is long, though."

"You honour the Gods?"

"We do," Barra was not going to have her think his people ignorant savages. "Bel, the Shining One, some know him as Belatucadros, Lugh of the Long Arm."

Niamh got up and poured another herbal tea into his bowl that had been steeping by the fire. She smiled at him as she handed him the bowl

"Aye, I know Lugh. Soon it will be time to wake him from his slumbers."

As he took it from her, he paused and slopped a little of the tea on to the hearth. "For the Gods..."

Niamh nodded, but her next question nearly sent his tea down the wrong way and he almost choked. "How many bairns have you fathered?"

When Barra finished coughing, he gasped. "I had a son. He'd be... thirteen, if he'd lived. And there are a couple of fine lasses. I think they're mine. They have my temper."

"Any others?"

"Who's to say? Women come and go. I always said that I'd settle down sometime and get fat and raise cattle and children. What about you, Lady Wise Woman?" he countered.

Niamh's voice was cold. "A slave does not ask questions of his mistress if he wishes to save himself from a beating." But Barra smiled into his bowl, knowing here was more mystery for him to unravel.

"Your slave, of course, humbly craves his Lady's pardon."

Niamh's mouth twitched, this man was revealing so much more of himself tonight. It was a long time since she felt relaxed enough to banter words with another man, or found one who was not constantly in awe of her powers. This was a good night. The fire sprites had spoken truth when they chose him to perform the sacred task. Tonight was a mere shadow of what would be expected of him then, but he would be tested enough. She got up and went over to the tool rack above the large wooden chest under the eaves.

"Pull the pallet into the middle of the room and light the lamp, Barra. You can heap the furs on the other pallet and leave just one there, inner side on top"

He stretched, carefully, "Ah, good. More work...." Taking a spill from the fire, he lit the lamp, blinking a little as the glow lit up the centre of the roundhouse.

"These are good pelts, " he commented, smoothing them down with his hand and admiring the thickness of the fur. "What beast was this?"

"A bear who was ravaging the flocks."

Barra whistled appreciatively. The beast must have stood six foot or more on its hind leg, for the fur stretched his full length and he was not a small man. He pulled the pallet into the centre of the floor, as instructed, laying the fur across the bedding, before he returned to his stool by the fire. He sat watching Niamh cut down some roots hanging on the drying rack, laying them down by a sharp flint knife and a pair of clippers. Then she poured some warm water into a wooden bowl. He wondered if she were going to wash her hair, which now hung in a long braid down her back. He'd noticed she liked to keep it clean, but usually she did this outside during the day, so it had a chance to dry before nightfall. He'd not seen her wash anything in the roundhouse after dark.

"Take off the kirtle."

There was no mistaking the power behind her words this time. Barra stood, clutching the thin material with both hands.

"What do you mean to do?" Suddenly the presence of the stone knife and clippers took on a more sinister meaning. The memory of a young slave from his village being sold to traders who decided to cut him before they travelled rose unbidden in his mind and the blood drained from his face. The boy's screams and entreaties still haunted his dreams when things were bad. Barra had been eight years old, the boy a year older and his playmate.

"You are my slave and you must learn the ways of a slave," Niamh told him firmly, noticing his sudden fear and wondering the cause. "If you hate me now, you will thank me later."