Thorsten’s broadsword came down on the table with a bang. In one swift movement, coins and drinking vessels were swept to the floor.

“It’s not the gold I wanted! It’s the woman! And what did they do? They plundered her home and killed her family! Now when she looks at me, hatred glows in her eyes like smouldering embers! I gave orders to have them brought to me—not killed!”

He was a giant of a man, bred for war, every muscle and sinew fired with passion to conquer. His red-gold mane gleamed in the firelight, like the pile of gold coins that Egbert had been counting. He’d wanted the Pictish woman ever since the day when he first led his raiding party to the islands. On that occasion, anticipating good pickings from the Christian church, he was indeed more interested in treasure. His first encounter with Ethelreda changed that.

It had been springtime when Thorsten first led his men to the door of the tiny kirk on the island of Papa Westray. He was forced to bend his huge frame considerably to make his entrance. Once inside, he blinked, but not for lack of daylight penetrating the narrow windows. Kneeling before the altar was the figure of a woman, her dark blue cloak falling from her shoulders and flowing like a waterfall into a pool around her feet. The other islanders fled by boat and he’d assumed the church would be empty.

He stopped short as the woman continued to pray in her native tongue unmoved by their intrusion. Her voice filled the room, as silence fell on the onlookers. Finally, she stood and faced the intruders. He wondered why she hadn’t fled with the others. Maybe she hoped to conceal the valuables. If she hoped to be safe in the sanctuary of the church, she would be disappointed. Neither he nor his fellow raiders had any respect for the Christian God or his place of worship.

Thorsten ordered his companions to stay by the door while he strode towards her. His eyes were riveted on her face, but she remained composed. This had the effect of slightly unnerving him. He knew what to do with women who cowered and screamed, but she held steady, while he paced in a close semi-circle in front of her, like a lion inspecting its prey. Since neither could speak the other’s language, he looked for outward clues to her behaviour and found none. He put his sword back in its sheath and folded his arms, rocking back on his heels as he waited for her composure to crack.

He motioned to his men to search for booty. There was a shout of victory when one man discovered a locked wooden chest. In the instant when Thorsten’s gaze was off her face, and with his men now away from the door, the woman seized the moment to slip away and bolted through the door before any of them had time to react.

“Leave her!” Thorsten commanded. “I will not take her by force. Let her come of her own free will or not at all.” He would not embarrass himself further by pursuing her, but he did watch her running fleet-footed across the thin moorland grass, her blue robe flowing behind her, and the desire to have her began to burn in his heart.

From that day on he was obsessed with the young woman who’d escaped like a bird from a snare. It wasn’t just for the sake of his bruised ego. He was fascinated by her valour and intrigued that she had been able to escape his clutches. More than anything he desired to possess her, but not just her body. He wanted her respect and admiration in the way she had his.

Thorsten decided to establish his headquarters on Papa Westray. Having lost a power struggle in his homeland, here he could be a chieftain again and establish his own kingdom. On rare sunny days it lay like a green jewel in a sparkling azure sea. More often it was shrouded in mist and pounded by turbulent seas, but it made a good base from which to reach out and conquer the other islands that were ‘west-over-sea’ from his native Norway. He could settle here on this fertile land and populate it with his own people. This native woman was part of his plans. She was bold like the Norwegian women. From her would come warrior sons.

His plan was to present himself as saviour and friend. He would be neighbourly and protective. He would learn their language, and he would lure her—fascinate her in the same way she fascinated him.

His plan had been working: the woman and her parents stayed on the island. However, things went horribly wrong the day Erik and Gorm had observed them carrying a large wooden box up from the beach. Ever on the alert for booty, they reported it to Thorsten. He dispatched them with orders to bring the chest and the family to his own dwelling, but his men took it upon themselves to kill the older couple and bring just the girl.

Thorsten ran his fingers through the coins still glistening in the chest. They were inscribed with a foreign script—someone’s lost bounty, maybe washed up in the strong North Sea currents. The islanders would no doubt have used it to create ornaments for the kirk. He intended to have a fine torque made for himself as a sign of his new status.

He shifted his gaze from the gold to the woman he desired to impress. Having been made to leave home at the pointed end of a sword, she stood before him clad only in a brown woollen dress, flaxen hair falling in disarray around her shoulders, blue eyes wet with tears. He motioned to her to sit on the skin-covered stone bench that ran along the length of the central fire. Glad of the warmth, she did so but kept her eyes on the flames. Desperate to show her that the gold was less important to him than winning her favour, he took a handful of gold coins and pressed them into her palm. He wanted to gain her respect, to see admiration in her eyes—not fear. He had waited, not taking by force what he desired, as he usually did.

Ethelreda felt the gold coins hard against her soft flesh. The gold was not what she wanted either. She also had paid too high a price for it—the lives of her parents. In her grief, the coins burned into her flesh. They were of neither comfort nor interest to her. The bitter moment was made worse by the irony and injustice of being given a fraction of what had been all hers, before Thorsten’s men had so violently taken it.

She threw the offending coins into the fire. Sparks flew in all directions as the coins hit. Thorsten shrank back, the sudden outburst taking him by surprise. She glared at him, hatred and anger burning in her eyes like hot embers, then sobbed uncontrollably as her emotions broke loose.

The big man seated himself on the bench on the opposite side of the fire, his hands on his thighs, as he leaned forward and watched the coins glowing between the embers. Finally, he seemed to make a decision and looking across at Ethelreda, he pointed to the door, inviting her to leave. At once she rose and made her exit without glancing back.

It was a sad homecoming. The bodies of both her parents still lay in their blood on the earthen floor. She knelt beside them and removed their blood-stained clothes, washed them and wrapped them in the coverings from their bed. Unable to carry their bodies up to the kirk by herself, she would be forced to bury them near the house, but that was unconsecrated ground. Exhausted by the traumas of the day, she fell into a fitful sleep until day broke, and the first fingers of light poked in through the low door. 

Ethelreda threw back the sheepskins and climbed out of the stone cot just as a shadow darkened the doorway. Then Thorsten stood before her, blocking her only exit. Instinctively she drew the sheepskins around her. Two men followed him: Egbert and another that Thorsten called Hadwin. Thorsten motioned to the bodies on the floor and Hadwin spoke haltingly in her language,

“We carry… kirk… bury them.”

Ethelreda turned away, unwilling to accept their help. Reluctantly she nodded slowly and silently. Just as silently the men picked up the bodies and carried them to the kirk.

Apart from the plaintive cries of gulls, the only sound was the occasional ring of metal on flint as they dug shallow graves in the thin soil. Before the cold shroud of the morning mist had lifted, the bodies of her parents were unceremoniously interred. No readings of scripture. No formal prayers. Only her simple words committed them to their Maker. Her only comfort was that they were, at least, buried in consecrated ground. Numb with cold and grief, she turned to leave for home, and Thorsten dismissed his men and escorted her.

They trekked back to her home, a chill silence, more oppressive than the mist, pervading the atmosphere between them. Ethelreda could not tell whether he accompanied her as captor or protector. They reached the round house just as the sun finally broke through and lit up Thorsten’s flame-coloured curls as he nodded a brief farewell.

Ethelreda hurried into the sanctuary of her home and sank down on her cot, relieved that he had left her to grieve in peace. But how long would it be before he came and took what he wanted?

Days went by—days when she wrestled with the urge to risk sailing solo to the neighbouring island in the small family craft. She recalled tales of monks who stepped into tiny round coracles and commanded the waves to take them to the place of God’s appointment. She shuddered at the thought. Papa Westray’s seas churned with whirlpools and racing currents, as the waters of the Atlantic met those of the North Sea. Uncertain of the safest course of action, she prayed for a sign. Should she trust God to take her safely over the waves, or trust him to keep her safe here?

The next day she woke to a wind that chased angry storm clouds across the sky and whipped up breakers in the bay below. Any attempt of escape across the water would be impossible. She was herding her few sheep into the walls of the animal enclosure, when she saw Thorsten striding towards her. Was this her sign? Did he come in peace? As he came near, she saw he was carrying the wooden chest from the kirk. She pulled her cloak tight and braced herself.

Thorsten greeted her in her own language. She was stunned to hear him speak her native tongue—he must have learned it from Hadwin. He remained outside the wall of the enclosure and placed the chest on top of the wall, then remained where he was. He watched her face, just as he had that first day in the kirk, but gone was the intimidation, replaced now with curiosity to know if his plan was working. He shifted from one foot to the other, lifting his hands in a gesture that said, “Please take it.” She nodded her appreciation.

Ethelreda picked up the chest and noticed the lock had not been forced. Had he come for the key? She waited, unsure of the motive for his visit. Obviously not. He spoke to her in his Norse tongue, nodded, and departed. She watched him striding away over the land—land that had once been hers and was now his, but it seemed he wanted to be neighbourly. Ethelreda knew where the old monk had kept the key. Obviously, they hadn’t found it, so the silver chalice and paten would still be in there, together with the item she prized the most—the white stone that the monks had brought to the island. She had her sign. It seemed that God was leading her to stay, and the white stone would be there to encourage her when she lacked courage—a visible sign of God’s presence when her faith needed a boost. She made her decision: if Thorsten wanted to populate the island with his sons, then let them be her sons too. She would keep her island. She would teach their sons the ways of her God. That way she would tame the dragon men.

Biography:

Jacqueline Waters lives on the beautiful Fleurieu Peninsula in South Australia. She is just completing a Master of Creative Writing and Communication.

A native of England, she emigrated to Australia in 1973. For many years she taught in primary schools, then completed a degree in theology and missions and ministered in many nations encouraging believers, teaching on prayer, and hosting conferences and prayer schools in the UK.