Open Writing

Hair Like Fine Gold

My slave Aoife is actually a beautiful woman. The thought hit me like a blow from Thor’s hammer. Her hair is loose at the moment, and lies like fine gold across her shoulders. My dog Boris watches her with intent reverence.

Aoife is weaving a fine net with dried reed that she has woven and twisted into a light string.

She works deftly, knotting the strings.

“There are shrimps in the burn,” she told me. “You will have some for supper tomorrow.”

Boris wagged his tail.

“I’ll peel three for you, Boris, one for each of the holy trinity.”

If he could have done, Boris would have crossed himself. Instead, he wagged his tail with a thump on the kitchen floor.

I reached over and touched her hair. It was soft and shiny, and smelt of flowers.

She put down her weaving shuttle and asked was there something I wanted.

I indicated that she should go over to my cot.

She fell to her knees immediately. “Rik, lord, please do not ask this of me.”

“How not? It’s the most natural thing between a man and a woman. You’re not a maid.”

“To give myself to you as a wanton would condemn my soul to hell for eternity.”

I looked at her, astonished. She remained on her knees, her head bowed, her hair flowing golden across her face.

“Putting to one side the fact that you are my slave, I thought you might actually love me.”

She looked at me through a curtain of hair. Her eyes were full of tears.

She had never been so precious to me. My heart went out to her.

“That has nothing to do with it. For a Christian woman, slave or free, to give herself to a man, the Christian vows must be said. Else it’s a mortal sin.”

There was more. “Your people made me a slave. They stole me from my own land where I was the valued daughter of a free man, with his own steading. I can read and write. I have from God a gift of healing. The priest wanted me to found a hospice of healing sisters before my father gave me in marriage to his sword brother.”

Aoife has always been a truthful slave.

“What is this gift of healing? This is news to me.”

“It’s written in my hand. My grandmother showed me. She has it, too.”

“Where, show me?”

She put out her hand. I caught her long, cool fingers and noted how well kept they were, a pretty hand.

“I see a woman’s hand. Where’s the sign?”

She pointed to the top of her palm.

“I see nothing there.”

“Look closely and you will see marks, like a gate in your fence. That is the mark of a healer, the stigmata.”

There’s always a surprise or two in Aoife.

“I’ve given my word that no one will take you without your consent. What would you have me do?”

“I’m your slave, sir, not your harlot.”

Odin gonged me and I realized what she needed. She’s more than a slave already, and now I have a healer in my household. A very pretty healer, at that. I’m thrice blessed.

I knelt down in the rushes beside her, and took her hand again.

“Beautiful Aoife, fair lady of Erin, would you honor me by becoming my wife, my consort, my love, and the Lady of the Isle?”

She threw back her hair and laughed. Then she placed her hands behind my head and softly kissed me on the lips. It was a sweet little kiss, a loving kiss. I inhaled her breath noting that she had recently eaten an apple.

“Does that mean yes?” I asked.

“Yes, lord, yes. Yes. Yes.”

She took my hand and led me to my cot. Deftly she unlaced my trews, drew them off, and cast off her own smock with a graceful upward twist of her arms.

She climbed into the cot with me and gave herself to me beautifully. It was rapture. I was in heaven.

The last thing I remember before falling asleep that night was the thump, thump, thump of Boris’ tail, wagging his approval against the floor. In my dream, the old god signaled his approval with the banging of his hammer. Thump, thump, thump.