Powerful Destiny

By Tricia McGill

It is 850AD and Norse warrior Rolf lands on the shores of East Anglia determined to take revenge on a Celtic clan. Following a fierce battle, where the Celts are savagely killed, Rolf comes face to face with the daughter of the slain Celtic leader. So stunned by the beauty, along with the courage of Brigid, he is convinced that his Three Fates of Destiny brought them together. Resolved to make this woman his own, he spares the lives of the captured Celtic women and children and takes them back to his homeland across the ocean.

Strangely drawn to the Norseman who is so sure they are destined to be together, Brigid must fight against succumbing to the wishes of the man who killed her father. Nevertheless, to save her fellow Celtic captives from slavery or worse, Brigid must keep a bargain with the Norse leader—a bargain that will see her tied to him forever.

In present day Cornwall, naturally shy Rolf shares his secluded lighthouse with his wolfhound. An artist, he delights in the rugged scenery and ever-changing weather. While in the nearest bookshop one day, he meets a newcomer to town. Brigid’s unusual personality strikes a chord with him. Not only are both convinced they have met before, but their fascination for Viking and Celtic history forges an unusual bond between them. Outspoken and forthright, Brigid sets out to break down the barrier of reserve and caution Rolf has erected over the years. Is it simply whimsy or can lovers across centuries be reunited?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Jun 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9780228603320

Book preview

Powerful Destiny

By Tricia McGill

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-0-2286-0332-0

Kindle 978-0-2286-0333-7

BWL Print ISBN 978-0-2286-0335-1

Amazon Print 978-0-2286-0334-4

Copyright 2018 by Tricia McGill

Cover art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Chapter One

Part One, East Anglia, Britain—circa 850 AD

Leaping into the sea alongside his longship, as he’d done many times before, Rolf looked to the sullen sky. A good night for battle, for the moon kindly hid behind lowering clouds. The murky water swirled about his lower legs, but he took no heed of the coldness of the sea. Hardened by the many days, and often months, aboard ship on the heaving waves he had no thought of such a trifle, or indeed fear of the coming battle.

Rolf gave a silent gesture to his chosen warriors, and they followed him up the beach. The rest of his crew dragged the longship onto the sands beyond the tide line, in preparation for their expected hasty getaway this night.

Surely, the red haze of battle with the Celts would see some of his valiant Norse companions travelling to Valhalla. Like him, they knew no fear, for had they not lived their lives in the knowledge there would be endless merrymaking, willing females and wine to help them on their travels through the afterlife that was their destiny as brave fighters.

Many Celts fled to the west of Britain before the invasion of his fellow Norsemen, but one band defiantly settled in this area on the east coast. For many seasons, the Celtic leader fought and won against Norse invaders. Certainly, other warriors brought many tales back to Rolf’s homeland. Nevertheless, this time he was intent on overpowering them, and for once and all ensure his proud place in history.

This time he and his fellow warriors would become legends and be heralded as the fiercest fighters among Norsemen. Although the tales proclaimed this leader of his band of Celts as fierce as any Norse warrior, Rolf did not believe that for one moment. This night he intended to prove that he was the mightier in any fight.

As Rolf turned to shout orders to his men, a bloodcurdling yell split the night air and a charging mass of bodies surged down from the trees fringing the beach. His spear at the ready Rolf aimed at the nearest enemy, his weapon sending the man, a startled look on his face, forward into the sand. As Rolf retrieved his weapon from the fallen foe, around him others fell beneath the onslaught of the spears of his Norse warriors. Then it was hand-to-hand combat as their swords and axes took over. There was little time for thought, only time to defend himself while also ensuring his trusted men did not die unnecessarily.

To Rolf’s surprise, their enemy seemed to gain the upper hand for a short while, slowly but surely pushing the Norsemen back towards the sea. However, with a shrill shout of encouragement, Rolf surged on with his axe at the ready, determined his warriors would win despite the setback.

Rolf lost all sensation of the passing of time as the battle raged on. His mighty sword and axe were covered in the blood of his enemies as they fell before him, some screaming in agony, some silently stumbling to the ground as they breathed their last.

As the stench of death grew and the roars of his men, and those they fought, filled the air, a mist descended, darkening the sky even more. The numbers of Celts dwindled until there were none left standing. Rolf let out a yell to his men to gather behind him, and when they did, it was clear their numbers had not decreased by many. Through the mist, the bodies he could just see strewn across the stretch of blood-soaked sand were mostly Celts, their bodies gruesome in death as they lay with twisted limbs and distorted faces.

He gave a whistle to the men who stayed with the ship, and when they joined his valiant warriors, he motioned for them all to follow him forward. This could be a ruse, and there was every chance that more Celts lay hidden, waiting to catch his fighters off guard. But it soon became clear that the way ahead was safe. When a sea bird screeched out, it seemed a signal to the rest of the flock that the danger had passed, and the birds began to settle once again in their roosting places.

Stealthily Rolf and his men made their way up the beach, stopping now and then to give a man who still moved or groaned the blessing of a swift journey to wherever Celts travelled in their afterlife. It became blessedly clear that very few of his own men died in this skirmish. Before they left these shores, they would bury them and wish them good speed on their way to Valhalla.

First, something of importance needed to be done.

Rolf knew as well as his crew did that the Celtic men would have their womenfolk secreted nearby. They all looked to him—the light of eagerness clear on their grim, blood spattered faces—as they made their way with care through the undergrowth, and then beneath the overhanging trees that lined the beach. As Rolf pushed back a branch, a night bird let out a mournful hoot and then there was a flurry in the bracken as if a small animal scurried away in fright.

The mist was less dense here away from the ocean, so that he could make out a small clearing ahead. Pushing his bloodstained sword securely down into his belt, Rolf kept his axe ready in his hand as he gave a nod to his men before leading them across the clearing.

When a sudden cry splintered the silence, Rolf put up a hand to halt his men. That was the cry of a child, not that of an animal, he whispered, and immediately another plaintive cry followed, causing birds to fly off again in fright. As Rolf jerked a hand to his side—to the direction the cries came from, his men fanned out to form a line. Heads low, they crept forward.

The mist lifted even more, until Rolf could make out a sheer cliff face not far ahead of them. As he hissed a warning, a child of no more than perhaps eight winters came flying as if from the rock itself and, hands fisted, ran full speed at Rolf. One of his men brought his axe up high, prepared to slay the child, but when Rolf shouted, No! We do not kill their children, he dropped his arm to his side, while sending Rolf a defiant wrathful glare.

Rolf heard his mutter of protest and knew his men would likely think him strange in the head. More than a few of them had slain Celtic children in the past. Truth was, Rolf never had, and never would. It sickened him to see a female or a child killed for any reason.

The child seemed stunned by the shout and stumbled to a halt, now looking confused. When Rolf moved towards him, the boy stood his ground, an admirable trait in one so young. But Rolf had not missed the quiver of his lips as he sent a sneer their way. Then he began to yell, words Rolf could not understand, but guessed at their meaning well enough. The child's curses filled the night air as his small fists waved about in an unmistakable warning.

When the boy turned and began to run back the way he had come, Rolf motioned for Ragnar, his youngest warrior, to catch him. As Ragnar reached the boy, now struggling against his hold, a female appeared like a wraith out of the darkness of the cliff face. Rolf guessed she emerged from a concealed cave.

Would you kill a child as well as our menfolk? she challenged clearly, her voice ringing out across the distance, bouncing off the cliff and resounding with an echo.

Rolf stared as if struck, feeling suddenly as confused as the child, for her words were spoken in his native tongue. Then, as the moon drifted out from behind a cloud, Rolf let out a gasp.

The woman stood straight and proud, long hair as black as the night falling to her middle. A band around her forehead secured its flowing beauty. Her clothing was no different from that worn by any other Celtic female encountered in his past, but something about her bearing proclaimed that she was very different in some way. As she touched some sort of talisman at her belt, she muttered what could have been an incantation. Perhaps she was praying to her gods.

In all his life and many travels, never had he seen such a vision of loveliness. Then Rolf cursed beneath his breath. What was he thinking? This was a Celtic female, only fit for becoming a slave. Nevertheless, there was something about this female that told him she would be no man's slave, no matter how he tried to break her spirit.

Then a thought hit him like a thunderbolt. He had no wish to enslave her, but perhaps he could capture her heart. That idea astounded him so, that he turned away and took a few steadying breaths. As he did, he could clearly see that some of his men were casting odd looks his way as they awaited orders. Who could blame them?

What childish nonsense was this? Never in his many summers was his head filled with such ridiculous notions. Norse warriors did not bother with such fancies—so where did these thoughts spring from. For the first time in many moons, Rolf felt uneasy, more like a boy untutored in love and life.

Stiffening his shoulders, Rolf turned to face her and asked, more to conceal this confusion than anything else. How is it you speak our language?

Ignoring his question, she asked one of her own. How is it you think it your right to invade our country and kill our menfolk? As she moved a step or two away from the rockface, he noticed she carried a sword with confidence. A confidence unusual for a Celtic female. A few Norse women carried weapons with bravado and these shield maidens were well skilled in battle, but the Celtic women were not known to be so brave and capable in sword battles. In his curious fascination with her beauty, he had failed to see the weapon. Unwise in such circumstances. Celts were not to be trusted, be they male or female.

Rolf gripped his axe handle tighter, as he said curtly, Perhaps if your menfolk did not put up a fight we might have learned to live side by side in harmony.

Without flinching, she pressed the blade of her sword into the ground in front of her and as the cloud lifted further, he could see her expression. A small sound of disgust left her perfectly shaped lips. In fact, now he could view her clearly, Rolf wondered if she were a goddess—for she was nigh on perfect in every way. Surely only the gods attained such perfection. The Norse gods and goddesses dwelt in Asgard, so it was believable that the Celts possessed their own haven for their gods.

You think we could ever reach such harmony? Her beautiful mouth curved down into a smirk of disdain. You kill our men; take our women and children as slaves. Tugging the sword from the ground, she held it aloft. We are prepared to die before we allow you to take us as your slaves. At these words, she turned the sword until its hilt hit the sandy ground, and then bent forward until the blade pointed to her body, right below her breast. Clearly all she had to do was fall forward and she would be lost to him forever.

Rolf let out a cry. No! Stay your hand.

His men were all now grumbling and cursing beneath his breath Rolf turned to glare at them. Although they quietened, their looks of resentment said they tired of this game. No doubt they were wondering why he stood discussing the situation with this female instead of immediately taking her and the others who obviously hid in the cave behind her as slaves.

As Rolf took a step towards her she bent more, ever closer to the tip of the blade. Would she take her own life? Rolf feared she would, for the Celts were mysterious people—well known to have beliefs and practices beyond the understanding of any Norseman or woman, and hard to imagine.

Suddenly the boy kicked Ragnar on the lower leg, surprising him by his childish strength. In his fascination for the woman Ragnar allowed the child his freedom then cursed his foolishness as the boy ran towards her screaming, Brigid! Rolf could not understand the string of words that followed, but it was clear that the child pleaded with the woman not to take her own life.

In the instant she turned her attention to the child, Rolf pounced, kicking her sword to the ground. He then pulled the woman named Brigid into his arms, her back pressed to his front. Her breasts heaved as she let out a string of words in her Celtic tongue. No doubt willing him to a disastrous and painful fate. His heart pounded in his chest at the feel of her young protesting body pressed against his.

Let me go! Although she was certainly tall for a female, he stood taller. Rolf had been the largest man in his clan since his father handed over his prized weapons to him, being his only son, while on his deathbed. Few men were stronger, and this woman stood no chance of escaping from him, no matter how hard she kicked, scratched and struggled. All three she did—in fact she put up a very good fight while sending him a string of Celtic, but well understood, curses that willed him to a fate worse than death.

Be still woman and no harm will befall you. Rolf loosened his hold, but instantly tightened his grip when, with another string of abuse from her tongue, she tried to escape. There would be no escape for her—he fully intended to keep this prize as his own.

His men now laughed and cheered, their words abusive, as befitted a victorious warrior. Let us now take the other women, one cried, waving his sword above his head, while Rolf thanked his gods that his men dared not make a move without his consent.

When Rolf pressed his mouth against Brigid's ear, she squirmed away, but relentlessly he held her fast. Tell your womenfolk to come out willingly and no harm will come to them this night, he said, taking the opportunity to taste her skin before she pulled away, twisting her neck aside. Her scent filled his nostrils. She smelled of bracken, lavender, but mostly female. His body reacted instantly, and she froze like a wild animal that knew it was in the sights of its hunter.

You think they will believe that any more than I do? she hissed, a tremble in her voice. They have probably already taken their own lives.

And the lives of their children? Rolf knew very well that Celtic women valued the lives of their children as much