We approach a rickety wooden stall draped with stained burlap. A bent old man squints at us over a ramshackle display of woven sacks.
Mother clears her throat. "Good morrow, Bran. I'll take four stone of rye and all the oats these thirty coppers can buy." She empties her hidden pocket onto the scarred counter.
The old man grunts, scooping up the coins into his gnarled fist. Slowly he measures grain from the stacked sacks into a fraying burlap bag. Clouds of chaff swirl through the slanted sunlight as he works. My empty stomach twists painfully, watching our meager savings disappear.
Finally Bran shoves the bag toward Mother along with a single copper piece. "Thirty gives ye twelve stone of oats. The extra be charity for the wee bairn." He refuses Mother's stammered protests. "Winter's no season for swollen bellies. Now off wi' ye, mistress!"
Mother smiles gratefully through sudden tears. "Bless ye kindly for yer mercy, Bran." Hoisting the heavy bag onto her shoulder, she turns toward me. "Come along, Lile. Let's away home now."
I stare longingly at the grain merchant's bursting sacks, resentment simmering inside me. Our very survival depends on the fickle kindness of strangers whilst the powerful continue hoarding their plenty. Where is the justice? But I swallow my bitter complaints and trudge silently after Mother's faded skirts.
My thoughts churn as Mother and I retrace our steps along the muddy lane back to our tiny hovel on the outskirts of this wretched village. There must be more to Colm's evident fascination with me than simply my fleeting resemblance to his late wife Brigitte. After all, the man could likely take his pick of women from the surrounding homesteads - fair Norse maidens and comely Irish peasants alike.
Yet something in my uncanny yellow gaze gave him pause, I noted the flicker of startled recognition in those piercing emerald eyes. But what long-dead beauty from myth or legend could I possibly echo to spark such profound bewitchment in this virile widower?
Perchance in me Colm glimpses the specter of "Gullveig" - the legendary Norse sorceress whose name means "gold power." A witch-goddess of great renown and infamy in the old sagas. She who would not die despite the gods' attempts to slay her, rising again and again more powerful than before.
I know not what preternatural qualities Colm spies that compel him to choose me as his fated bride from amongst the teeming village maidens. But I intend to discover how this mysterious freeman is key to escaping the fetid bog of my present existence. He could take any woman in this district to wife - yet waits patiently for me to blossom into womanhood instead.
My unusual coloring makes me something of an oddity in this region - my milk-pale complexion, flaxen hair, and luminous yellow eyes stand out starkly amongst the ruddy, dark-haired peasants.
So yes, its unsurprising that even a worldly freeman like Colm would remark upon my uncommon beauty blooming amidst the muck and mire of rural peasant life. To him I must resemble some exotic hothouse flower entirely out of place in this harsh landscape.
Either way my unique looks clearly bewitched his senses beyond rational thought. For what sane man would offer a small fortune for the promise of a half-wild peasant girl's hand in marriage years hence when ample willing brides surround him?
Mother sets the heavy sack of grain on our crude plank table with a grunt of effort. I slide warily onto the rough bench, bare feet recoiling from the slimy dirt floor, and watch as she empties the dingy coppers back into her hidden pocket.
Worry creases her brow as she surveys our meager provisions. "May the good Lord see us through to spring on just this bit of oats and rye," she murmurs. "'Twould take a miracle to fill our bellies longer without touchin' the seed stock."
Mother sinks down beside me with a weary sigh, raking her fingers through lank, grimy hair. She takes my small hands in her own calloused ones, faded eyes searching my face intently.
"Now ye listen close and heed me words, Lile Ban. This business with the healer Colm tonight likely means life or death for us all."
At my mute look of childish incomprehension, she gives my hands a little shake. "Why, if that gentleman fancies yer strange eyes and makes ye his new bride, we'll be saved from slow starvin' or the plague cart when winter's full fury comes!"
Earnestness lends Mother's habitual timidity a rare intensity. "I'll not tolerate any willful antics or sass from ye then. Be biddable as a lamb when Colm calls, and mind that spiteful tongue!"
Her sharp look brooks no argument. "And if I spy even a hint of yer usual stubbornness, by God's wounds I'll take a strap to yer legs soon as he leaves. Likely lash ye nigh unto death for spitein' our one chance to escape this wretched life!"
I gape up at her, eyes round with feigned anxiety and confusion over her unprecedented harshness. "I won't never be naughty for the healer man, Mama, I promise!" I blink back crocodile tears, lower lip wobbling. "Don't want no whippin's..."
Mother's severe expression softens. She enfolds me in her embrace, the faded floral scent of her body displacing the surrounding miasma of smoke and piss that permeates the cramped hovel.
"There now, dinna fash yerself." Her voice regains its habitual mixture of weariness and gentle humor. "I shouldna fright ye so with me loose tongue. Yer a good girl and I've faith ye'll mind yer courtesies tonight."
She releases me, attempting a wavering smile. "Now help me grind some oats for supper pottage afore yer father returns, aye?"
I nod obediently before following her to the crude hand mill tucked in the corner.
"There now, that should be fine meal enough for a nice pottage," Mother says approvingly, pouring the powdery oats into a crockery jar. She wipes her brow, leaving a pale streak through the grime on her forehead.
"My poor old joints can scarcely manage hand grinding these days. Soon as yer big enough it'll be yer chore keepin' the meal jar filled, Lile."
I make a face, nose wrinkling. "But Mama, grindin's hard work! Can't we just buy oats and grain from old Bran instead?"
Mother snorts, stacking the empty sacks in the corner. "And what would we purchase it with, silly lamb? D'ye think coppers grow on trees out back?"
She shakes her head indulgently. "Nay, we've no choice but to toil grindin' our own grains into meal and flour. 'Tis what keeps peasant folk alive - our labor and sweat and tears."
I scowl down at the dirt floor, resentment simmering just below my false childish mien. But before I can craft a suitable retort, Mother continues briskly, "Now, best get these oats bubblin' in the pot afore yer father returns hungry as a bear from the fields."
She swings the blackened cauldron over the sputtering hearth flames on an iron hook, tendrils of steam already rising from the vessel's scarred surface. As I slide warily onto the rough-hewn bench at the plank table, Mother scoops a few handfuls of powdery oats into the pot where they hiss and plunk.
"We'll sup plain this night so there's more left for tomorrows bread," she explains. "Mayhap I can convince yer father to snare a rabbit on the morrow if his snares prove lucky."
I watch resentfully as she tends the bubbling gruel, resentment simmering. Our very survival depends on meager oats and small game caught in crude traps. If the endless labor in muck and mire doesn't kill us peasants, the starvation and disease eventually will.
"Chin up now, lamb. No use grumblin' over what can't be helped." Mother forces a note of cheer into her tired voice. "Why, tomorrow we'll wash off weeks of grime in the stream! Won't that be a fine treat?"
I perk up slightly, intrigued by the promise of bathing for the first time in recent memory. But I'm swiftly crushed by her next words.
"Mind ye stay close by me though. Can't have yer father returnin' early from the fields and findin' us womenfolk gone." She shudders slightly. "Why, there's no tellin' what he'd do then in his rages..."
Her voice trails off bleakly. I open my mouth to protest the injustice but Mother continues briskly, "Best check on the chickens afore full dark. Go on wi' ye now, Lile!"
Her sharp look brooks no argument. With a gusty sigh I rise from the crude plank bench and make my way slowly outside, bare feet recoiling from the foul barnyard muck coating the ground. Tomorrow's promised bath in the stream seems lifetimes away. I can scarcely endure another moment crawling with filth, the misery compounding my bleak existence. Will this wretched peasant life never improve?
I make my way slowly across the muddy livestock pen, nose wrinkling at the overpowering stench of animal waste. The chickens are pecking listlessly in the bare dirt, a few scrawny hens roosting atop their dilapidated coop. I push open the rickety wooden gate and creep inside, eyeing the rooster warily. But he just ruffles his feathers menacingly from his perch, beady gaze following my every move.
The feed sack still looks half full from yesterday so I just top it up with another scoop of oats. As the chickens mob the bin, feathers flying in frenzied competition, I lug the brimming bucket from the trickling rain catch over to their enclosure. I carefully refill their drinking trough, taking pains not to spill too much and further muddy the already filth-encrusted interior.
As I'm placing the bucket back in the corner, a fat speckled hen waddles into the coop, emitting soft clucking sounds. She settles atop her straw nest, more brown-speckled eggs cradled protectively beneath her breast. I reach slowly underneath to steal away today's still-warm bounty.
The rooster eyes my full hands resentfully but seems unwilling to challenge me for the eggs. Clutching my prize, I retrace my steps back across the muddy livestock pen into the cramped hovel. Mother glances up from stirring the bubbling porridge pot over the sputtering hearth flames.
"Ah, back already? Did ye give the chickens more feed then?" At my nod, she asks, "And did their nesting box yield any more eggs today?"
I hold out my bounty with a grin. "Yes Mama, three nice fat ones! We can sell these at market tomorrow."
Mother smiles approvingly. "Bless ye, child, that's wonderful! Here now, let's get them settled proper afore yer father returns."
She takes the still-warm eggs and packs them gently into an empty sack, cushioning them with straw. As she places the bundle by the doorway, I slide onto the rough-hewn bench at the crude plank table. The bubbling porridge fills the gloomy interior with fragrant steam that momentarily overrides the usual miasma of smoke, piss and unwashed bodies. My empty stomach gurgles painfully in anticipation.
As evening quickly arrives the warped wooden door creaks open, stirred air gusting into the cramped hovel along with the barnyard stench from outside. Father lumbers through the entrance, his hulking frame casting long shadows across the dirt floor in the dimming light.
He scowls down at the meager hearth fire barely warming our crude dwelling. "Damn this wretched peat, still wet as piss from last week's storm." Father spits contemptuously onto the packed earth. "Useless muck burns nigh as slow as yer woman's wits."
Mother keeps her gaze averted submissively as she stirs the bubbling pot of watery porridge hanging over the struggling flames. "Welcome home, husband. Shall I serve yer supper now?"
Father grunts, lowering himself onto the rough-hewn bench at our plank table. The wood groans alarmingly beneath his weight. "First I'll know what market pennies remain after ye fed half the village from our larder."
He narrows his bloodshot eyes. "The grain tithe weren't near enough to satisfy that poxy priest. So what've ye to make up the difference, woman?"
Mother's shoulders hunch beneath her faded woolen shawl. She dares a hesitant glance at Father's scowling face. "I've one copper left, husband. After the oats and rye, only a single coin remained. But the chickens laid three fine eggs today-"
"Damn yer useless fowl!" Father slams his fist onto the crude table, making the weathered wood jump. He spears Mother with an accusatory glare. "Because of yer wasteful female stupidity we've barely enough coin to meet the church donation, never mind the seed stock we'll need come spring!"
Mother flinches, color leaching from her careworn face. She gropes at the small silver cross hanging around her throat. "Husband, we've naught left to give beyond what little I've saved from the market..."
Father barks a harsh laugh. "Not so, woman! While ye were swannin' about playin' merchant, I drank with men who understand true hardship." He thumps his broad chest. "Why, Hamish felt so sorry for me he chipped in two copper coins!"
Digging in his grimy tunic, Father retrieves two dingy coppers and slaps them triumphantly onto the plank table. The coins glint dully in the firelight amidst the prevailing gloom.
"There now, that makes three coppers total thanks to the charity of good Christian men." Father's lips split into a mirthless grin. "Enough to satisfy that bastard abbot and his poxy monks until the next tithe."
He takes a long pull from the crude clay jug sitting before him, wiping stray droplets from his scruffy beard. "And if they dare insist on more gold for their fancy robes and wine, I'll gladly crack some skulls in the name of the Lord!"
Father laughs raucously at his own jest. I force my lips into a timid smile despite the anger simmering beneath my biddable facade. So we must degrade ourselves begging charity from his wretched drinking companions just to satisfy the church's insatiable greed! Where is the justice?
As Father continues chuckling at his own wit, the warped wooden door creaks open again. We all turn in surprise to see a tall, broad-shouldered man with long flaxen hair ducking under the low lintel. Straightening to his full towering height in our cramped hovel, the newcomer inclines his head politely.
"Good eventide to you all. I am Colm, come at your husband's invitation." His lyrical accent and fine woolen garments mark him as Norse. Keen emerald eyes find my face where I sit motionless on the dirt floor.
"Welcome to my home, sir! Do come in, come in. I've ale or mead to offer should ye be thirsty after yer journey here."
Father gestures expansively around the cramped, foul-smelling interior. "I know 'tis quite humble compared to yer own dwellin' no doubt, but we make do well enough."
Colm halts just over the threshold, nose wrinkling slightly as the fetid miasma assaults his senses. He glances at the heaps of soiled straw pallets, the crude hearth with sputtering peat fire, the warped planks comprising table and benches. His piercing emerald gaze takes in every detail, lips thinning beneath his golden beard.
Finally he inclines his head politely. "You have my thanks for the hospitality, good man. Your family and home are...not quite what I anticipated in truth."
Father's smile falters briefly. "Er, I do apologize for the disorder, sir. Had I known yer relations might bring such a grand personage to my door—"
Colm raises one broad hand. "Please, no need to stand upon ceremony. I am but a humble merchant, no nobleman." He gestures to the crude bench. "Shall we sit awhile and discuss this charming daughter of yours?"
Father clears his throat gruffly. "Ah, yes of course!" He shoves aside a heap of filthy straw to make room at the table. "Come, come, best we talk here."
Colm's lips tighten as he eyes the proffered seat's grimy surface before gingerly sitting. He seems to fold his tall frame carefully to avoid brushing the crusted table's edge.
Father drops onto the bench opposite Colm, the wood creaking alarmingly. He takes a long swig from his clay jug, wiping his mouth with the back of one broad hand. "Now then, sir! What think ye of my little Lile here?"
He reaches out to chuck my chin fondly but I shy from his touch, edging closer to Colm. Father frowns but continues boisterously. "Why, I'll wager ye ain't seen a fairer maid in Eire, eh!"
Colm smiles politely. "The child does have a certain...ethereal beauty, yes. Yet she seems somewhat, ah, grubby at the moment." His keen gaze sweeps the cramped interior. "Do none of you bathe regularly? This dwelling emits a rather pungent odor."
Father's genial expression falters. "Er, well...we've a stream nearby serves for washin' clothes and suchlike. But haulin' buckets for regular baths ent feasible for poor folk, sir."
Colm nods thoughtfully. "And have you considered mixing lye soap with sand to scour these walls and flooring? Why, some areas seem quite encrusted." He scrapes a fingernail across blackened grime coating the table's planks.
Father forces a hearty laugh. "Soap? Lye? Where might the likes of us get coin for such fripperies, sir?"
His smile fades beneath Colm's piercing stare. Clearing his throat gruffly, he continues in a subdued murmur, "Truth is, friend, we've barely enough coppers to pay the church tithes after meetin' all the other endless taxes and rents."
Father spreads his calloused hands helplessly. "We break our backs laborin' from dawn to dusk, yet still our bellies stay half empty whilst them robed leeches grow fat off our blood and sweat." He spits bitterly onto the dirt floor. "Where's the blessin' in that, I ask ye?"
Colm smiles politely at my parents. "Might I take a closer look to properly assess if she resembles my lost Brigitte?"[...]