Chapter Twenty-seven Slave and Savior
Chapter Twenty-seven
Slave and Savior
Rinan entered the broch, stooping to prevent himself from cracking his head on the low lintel. Like Heolstor, he stood nearly a handspan taller than many of the Pict warriors.
Hea watched him cross the floor, flanked by two of Bridei’s men.
Despite being dressed in the tattered remnants of his battle gear, his blond hair lank and greasy, Rinan still walked with the same swagger she remembered.
However, his face was grim, his eyes guarded.
He glanced around the interior of the broch, taking in his surroundings, as Hea had a day earlier.
Then, his gaze swept over the inhabitants, resting on Hea—who sat at the foot of the high seat—before his attention shifted to Bridei who stood awaiting him.
Watching the two men’s gazes meet, Hea thought on all that had passed between them over the years. They had always been rivals growing up.
Despite everything, Hea knew Rinan’s childhood had not been easy—in many ways he had always been an outsider.
He had later found his place at Ecgfrith’s side and proved himself as a fighter.
Only on the journey north, Hea had witnessed the rift developing between Rinan and his king.
The campaign had never sat easily with Rinan.
Like Hea, he had suspected a trap, even when Ecgfrith had not.
Not that it mattered now … for he was Bridei’s theow—his slave.
Rinan halted at the foot of the wooden platform, ignoring Hea, his attention fully upon Bridei. The Pict king stared back at him. It was folly for a slave to eyeball a king in such a fashion—Hea had seen Ecgfrith beat theows for less—but Rinan refused to back down.
Still holding the slave’s gaze, Bridei eventually gave a tight smile. “Not cowed yet, I see.”
Rinan’s lip curled. “If you think you can break me, go ahead.”
The challenge made Heolstor, who stood behind Bridei, step forward. The red-haired warrior’s face was hard. “It would be my pleasure,” he growled.
Around them, the hall went silent. No one here besides the four of them knew what Rinan and Heolstor had just said, but their tone of voice betrayed that it had been a challenge.
Fearghus scowled, while two older women behind him whispered among themselves.
Hea noted the female servant who had glared at her the day before watched the scene unfold with interest.
Bridei flicked Heolstor a warning look. Then he glanced back at Rinan.
“I’ve no quarrel with you,” he said gently, although there was iron just beneath. “Whatever dispute we had in the past matters not to me now. However, you know the rules of war. You know what becomes of captives.”
Rinan nodded, his mouth thinning. “Aye—and I’d prefer you killed me.”
Bridei shrugged, although his expression was not without sympathy. “It would be a waste, for we require your skills here. Rinan son of Broga, you now serve me. You will work under the instruction of my iron-smith Tolarggan, and will sleep at his hearth.”
Silence followed Bridei’s words. Hea watched Rinan’s face and saw the man struggle. Rinan, who had apprenticed with his father, knew the craft of smithing well—yet the knowledge he would be making weapons for his enemy was difficult to accept.
Bridei saw Rinan’s conflict and gave him a hard smile. “I’m not offering you a choice. This is your new life now, Rinan. Fight it at your peril.”
Hea stepped outdoors and pulled a woolen shawl around her shoulders. It was a bright, breezy day, and despite that it was summer, the wind had a slight bite to it. Even so, the sun felt good on her skin after nearly two days indoors, and Hea turned her face up to it.
A few steps ahead, Heolstor turned, beckoning to her. “Come on—this way.”
She followed him across the wide yard, past where a girl was throwing grain for a cluster of clucking fowl, and through the thick wall rimming the base of the fort.
The rumpled green landscape of Fortriu spread out around her.
It was different to the rolling farmland surrounding Bebbanburg.
The land this far north was a deeper shade of green; a jumble of valleys, dark woodland, and tilled fields stretching out to a hazy southern horizon.
Below, she saw the lazy flow of two rivers meet, their waters sparkling in the sunlight.
As much as she hated to admit it, this was a beautiful land.
Heolstor led her down through two levels of the hill fort.
Hea was still getting used to her new attire.
Gone was her old, green wealca and the tunic she wore underneath.
She now wore a long, plaid skirt that swished around her legs as she walked, and a tight, sleeveless, leather vest laced down the front.
She and Heolstor drew many gazes on the way. Folk called out to Heolstor or waved, but with Hea, they stared. She heard them chatter amongst themselves and tensed, glancing across at Heolstor. “What are they saying?”
“They’re speculating whether you’re my sister, since we’ve both got red hair.”
Hea frowned. “Anyone can see we’re not—yours is a much more garish shade.”
Heolstor laughed. “That’s what that woman over there just said.”
Hea huffed. “I hate not knowing what folk are saying … it makes me nervous.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “That’s easily remedied. Ciara will teach you the Pictish tongue.”
“She will?”
“Aye—she has suggested it.”
Hea had met Ciara that earlier morning, a dark-haired beauty with eyes the color of the sea.
The woman had seemed friendly, although vaguely amused by everything.
The way she kept glancing between Bridei and Hea with a knowing smile as a group of them broke their fast together had irritated Hea.
Of course folk would be gossiping about her; they probably all thought she was Bridei’s bed slave …
and since she slept upstairs with him she did not blame them.
Even so, Ciara’s thinly veiled delight had stretched her already ragged nerves tight.
At the western edge of the tier, Heolstor led her to a low-slung stone house. A thin stream of smoke rose from a hole in the turf roof.
“This is where the healer, Modwen, lives,” Heolstor told her.
As they approached the dwelling, a small woman of around forty winters emerged.
Her face split into a grin when she spied Heolstor, an expression which lifted the years off her.
She had a dark mane of hair, threaded with grey, braided in two long plaits, and large dark eyes.
The woman’s gaze shifted to Hea, and her smile faded. She glanced at Heolstor.
“Cò tha seo?”
“What did she say?” Hea whispered to Heolstor.
“She asked who you are,” he replied before smiling back at the healer, answering her. He spoke the local tongue with ease and confidence.
The woman’s face relaxed, before she asked Heolstor something else, in a rapid-fire succession of lilting words that made no sense to Hea.
Heolstor inclined his head to Hea. “She wants to know where you learned your herb lore.”
“Mo mhàthair,” Hea replied, using one of the only phrases she knew in their tongue—one she had learned from Bridei as a child. My mother.
Modwen nodded, considering her. The woman’s gaze was so intense that Hea felt pinned to the spot.
After a few tense moments, Modwen glanced back at Heolstor and spat a few terse words. Then she turned and marched back inside her cottage. Hea watched her go, frowning. She looked over at Heolstor. “She doesn’t look pleased to meet me. I thought she wanted help?”
Heolstor smiled. “She does … don’t mind her. Modwen’s had a hard life—lost her husband and two sons in battle—but she’s got a good heart. You two will get on fine.”
“I don’t know how that’s possible, since we can’t communicate.”
Heolstor laughed and slapped Hea on the back, propelling her toward the stone cottage where Modwen disappeared. “Go on, she’s asking for a demonstration of your talents.”
The shadows were lengthening, a golden light bathing the darkly wooded hills and glens of Fortriu, when Hea finally emerged from Modwen’s dwelling.
Her back ached from bending over a workbench all afternoon, and she blinked owl-like in the sunlight after the dimness indoors.
However, her mood felt considerably lighter than it had been this morning.
Working side-by-side with Modwen, she had almost forgotten her unhappiness.
She had shown Modwen her mother’s favorite remedies, including a paste for lacerations made from yarrow, or ‘woundwort’ as many folk knew it.
She had also shown her a tincture made from nettles, which Lewren had sworn by for bladder or joint complaints, and a liver tonic made from mugwort.
Heolstor had remained for most of the day, patiently translating Modwen’s stream of questions. Later, when it became clear that the healer had warmed to Hea, and that the newcomer could make herself understood by a series of clumsy hand gestures, he had finally muttered an excuse and left.
Massaging a stiff muscle in her left shoulder, Hea made her way up the curving path that led back up to the broch.
Like this morning, folk stared at her, but she found she minded it less.
She had already picked up a scattering of new words during her afternoon with Modwen and decided she would take up Ciara’s offer to teach her.
Life here would be very lonely indeed if she could not communicate.
Slightly out of breath, she reached the broch, passing under the great stone arch into the wide yard beyond.
A wide set of stone steps led up to the entrance to the round tower and the brown-haired servant girl was making her way down them, carrying an arm-load of rushes.
Hea spied Rinan climbing up the steps toward her, his head bowed.
For the first time, Hea noted the glint of metal around his neck: Rinan now wore an iron slave collar.
As Hea watched him, noting the tense set of his shoulders, a scream echoed across the yard.
The young woman had been halfway down the steps when she tripped. Rushes flew in all directions, and she toppled forward, plunging toward the sharp stone steps below.
An instant later, Rinan bounded forward and caught her.
Hea swallowed a cry of her own—for if Rinan had not been there, the girl would have surely broken her neck—and rushed across the yard toward them.
“Be still, I have you,” Rinan told the girl as he set her on her feet. “You’re safe.”
Not understanding a word he had just said, the servant gazed up at him, her eyes huge on her ashen face. She hung there a moment in Rinan’s arms, and the pair of them stared at each other. Hea slowed her step, realizing that neither of them needed her assistance and that she was intruding.
A heartbeat later, an older female servant bustled up the steps toward them. Like Hea, the woman had seen the incident unfold and rushed to the girl’s aid.
“Una!” the woman clucked, collecting rushes as she approached. “Dè cho teann!”
Hea did not need to speak their tongue to know that the older woman was chiding the servant for dropping rushes everywhere.
Rinan released the quivering Una and stepped back from her.
“Tapadh leat,” she murmured, still holding his gaze. Then, the older woman swept upon them, grasped Una by the arm, and hurried her away. Rinan watched them go, his expression stunned.
He was still standing there, looking up at the entrance to the broch where the servants had disappeared, when Hea reached him.
If Hea had not been wary of him, she might have laughed at the stunned look on his face. “Rinan … are you well?”
He nodded, tearing his gaze away from the broch and scowling at her. “Aye—what’s it to you?”
Hea smiled back. “In case you’re wondering … she said ‘thank you’.”