Chapter 2: Day 2/What Doesn’t Kill You [2/7]

Mother's face settles into familiar lines of strained patience. "Child, I'll not tell ye again! This market trip puts food in our bellies come winter."

She shakes her head firmly, shifting the laden basket over her bony hip. "So hush now afore I take a switch to yer legs for willful complaining!"

I subside into sulky silence, scuffing dirty toes in the rutted path. But after a minute, curiosity compels me to ask softly, "Mama, did Papa say if the healer Colm might come by our house later?"

Mother's tired features gentle at my tentative question. "Why yes, yer father aims to seek out Colm this very day to discuss ye."

She reaches over to stroke my tangled hair. "If the Lord wills it, this evenin' that fine gentleman will arrive to take a look at his potential new bride."

I skip a little, clasping my hands eagerly. "Oh, I hope Colm likes what he sees and wants to marry me quick! I'll be the bestest wife for him, just wait and see!"

Mother chuckles at my girlish excitement. "Patience, lamb. These things take time."

"Mama, when the healer Colm marries me, is he gonna put his man-thing inside my privates afore I flower?" I ask innocently as we walk along the muddy lane.

Mother halts abruptly, the basket of eggs and vegetables dangling forgotten from her arm. She turns to face me, worry creasing her brow.

"Lile! Wherever did ye hear such coarse talk?" She grasps my shoulders almost roughly, faded eyes searching my face. Finding only wide-eyed curiosity, she sighs gustily.

"Ah child, ye know not the meaning behind those ugly words." Mother shakes her head, features softening as she resumes walking. "Once a lass flowers, she becomes a woman grown and ready for marriage bed sport and babes."

I skip a little to keep up with her longer strides, nose wrinkling. "But what if I don't wanna do that stuff with some stinky peasant boy's man-thing? It sounds awful!"

Mother presses her lips together, emitting another long-suffering sigh. "Oh poppet, 'tis a wife's sacred duty to accept her husband gladly, no matter how unpleasant it may seem to an innocent maid."

She pats my head gently. "Just pray Colm proves a tender lover when yer time comes. With luck and God's grace, ye may even find some sliver of joy in the marital act."

I gag theatrically, eliciting a weary chuckle. "Ew! Boys are so gross, Mama!"

Mother simply shakes her head, a tired smile playing about her cracked lips as we continue along the rutted path into the village...

So this era has no concept of childhood as a distinct developmental stage. Girls are considered ripe breeding stock the minute they flower...which likely happens obscenely early given the endless cycles of pregnancy and nursing endured by peasant women.

A ten year old serf girl bleeding from her nethers for the first time is deemed a woman - ready to be mounted by whichever flaccid cock can pay her father enough coppers and chickens. And once her maidenhead is sold off like so much chattel, she'll spend the rest of her brief life squeezing out mewling brats until her womb prolapses or she dies birthing yet another stillborn. What a glorious existence!

Maybe if I'm lucky this Colm will be a decrepit specimen and expire of old age before I've finished pushing out his dozen squalling offspring. Though by then my cunt will doubtless resemble a bloody hacked-up ham hock after enduring years of his enthusiastic rutting. But hey, at least I'll have given the bogtrotters plenty more serfs for their endless wars, right? Nothing says Christian family values like an eleven year old on her eighth pregnancy!

God almighty, this era makes the Duggars seem positively enlightened with their quaint courting rituals. Here it's just, "Yep, little Timmy can plow his sister's preteen quim without breaking canon law. Praise Jesus and pass the communion wine!" No wonder Mother Church is raking in tithes hand over fist if they've got the peasantry brainwashed that it's their religious duty to start breeding fresh serfs as soon as the girls sprout meager titty buds. Supply and demand economics at its finest! Now to indoctrinate the next generation of mindless chattel...

Hallelujah and shove a turnip up my ass! Just kill me now with a rusty crucifix and be done with it. This bog of eternal stench just keeps heaping fresh hells upon my head!

I halt in my tracks, pulse racing wildly. Sweet merciful lord, am I to understand that rutting with prepubescent children is only frowned upon in this era? Not outright condemned as the vile criminal act it would be judged in any righteous society?

Nausea rises in my throat as I glance at Mother's slender back just paces ahead on the muddy lane. She seems oblivious to my building distress in the lingering haze of predawn. I take a few hurried steps to close the gap, laying a tentative hand on her faded wool sleeve. She pauses, turning back with a questioning look.

"Mama," I whisper urgently, "what...what happens if a grown man tries beddin' a young maid afore her flowering time?"

I hold my breath, searching her kind, weary features for any glimmer of outrage to match my own. But Aislin merely sighs, a familiar sadness welling in her faded eyes.

"Why, 'tis a grievous sin indeed for a scoundrel to rob an innocent of her virtue too early." She shakes her head reprovingly. "The clergy might order public lashings to punish the lustful fiend...if he weren't careful to keep his vile deeds hidden."

My lips part soundlessly as I struggle to articulate my horror. Lashings? As if such inadequate chastisement could atone for the devastation of a stolen childhood!

Oblivious to my churning emotions, Mother pats my shoulder gently. "But fret not, lamb. Once ye've a husband, he'll take measures to safeguard his bride's honor." Her cracked lips twist bitterly. "'Tis a wife's duty to accept her marital fate with grace, no matter how difficult it may prove."

She gestures for us to resume walking.

We arrive at the bustling marketplace - a sprawling mass of peasants in drab homespun clothing milling about makeshift wooden stalls draped with fraying burlap awnings. The air hangs heavy with woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, and livestock stench. Braying mules and lowing cattle mingle with vendors loudly hawking their pathetic wares.

Mother clears her throat before bellowing at the top of her lungs, "Fresh eggs here! Carrots, onions, turnips too! Come see, come see!"

I cringe at her volume but a few curious peasants drift over to inspect our basket. Mother adopts a cajoling tone. "Why, feel the heft of these fine onions, mistress! And ain't these carrots bright as a new copper?"

A stooped old woman with three teeth picks up an egg, squinting critically before shaking her head. "Two coppers for the lot."

"Now that's robbery for such fine goods!" Mother protests. "Why, his lordship's own table ent laid with better."

They haggle shrilly back and forth until settling on four coppers for half the vegetables and one egg. I watch resentfully as the coins disappear into Mother's hidden pocket. This is how we must scrape and grovel just to keep starvation at bay awhile longer...

"Lile, be a good lass and call out for me," Mother says briskly, wiping sweat from her brow. "Me poor throat is near gone already."

I stare up at her in dismay but she cuts off my protest. "Go on now, yell it loud and clear - carrots, onions, turnips! Best price only four coppers!"

I take a deep breath, then scream at the top of my lungs, "Carrots, onions, turnips for sale! Just four coppers only!"

Several villagers glance over in surprise at the unlikely bellowing urchin. A few drift closer, peering dubiously into our basket. Mother pats my shoulder in approval.

"Just four more coppers for the last turnips, mistress!" I cry, waving the limp vegetable enticingly. "A fine price for a fine specimen!"

A stooped old crone peers at our basket with rheumy eyes before shaking her head. "Nay, child, I've spent me last coins on new shoes for the winter." She hobbles away muttering under her breath.

I slump down on an upturned bucket, scowling. "Useless old besom wouldn't know quality if it bit her arse!"

Mother clicks her tongue reprovingly as she empties the four coppers from her hidden pocket. "Mind that spiteful tongue, Lile Ban! The Lord teaches us to show charity, even when it pinches."

Eventually, we manage to sell out our entire basket of vegetables and she counts out the pile of dingy coins again and sighs. "Thirty coppers total...not enough to fill our bellies through winter."

Worry creases her brow as she surveys our empty basket. "May the good Lord take pity and send some miracle to spare us from starvation..."

Mother straightens abruptly from packing away our empty reed basket, eyes fixed over my shoulder. "Lord above, there walks Freyr himself in mortal form!" she exclaims.

I turn curiously to see a tall, broad-shouldered man with long flaxen hair moving through the bustling marketplace. His azure cloak marks him as foreign, likely one of the Norse traders who occasionally pass through these parts. As we watch, he pauses to examine tools at a tinker's stall, flashing white teeth in a charismatic smile at the gaping vendor.

"Why, 'tis the healer Colm as I live and breathe!" Mother smooths her lank hair and skirts before calling loudly, "Good morn to ye, sir! Might I beg a brief word?"

The man turns, keen emerald eyes finding our faces in the crowd. With confident strides he approaches, inclining his golden head politely. "Good morrow, mistress. How may I be of service?" His voice holds the lyrical accent of the Northmen.

Mother drops a clumsy curtsy, color rising in her smudged cheeks. "Me humblest apologies for the bold address, sir, but I'm Aislin, wife of Father the peasant farmer. He told me of your recent loss, which saddened my heart tremendous."

Colm's mien sobers. "Ah yes, my Brigitte and the babe she died birthing. I appreciate your kind words."

He surveys our shabby clothing and meager basket. "Are you and your daughter hoping to sell wares in the market then?"

Mother nods eagerly. "Aye sir, though we just sold the last. This here is my Lile." She nudges me forward. "The lass my husband told ye of, I hope, good sir."

The Norseman's piercing emerald gaze swings down to assess me.

The Norseman kneels before me in the muddy lane so our faces are level. His brilliant green eyes seem to stare directly into my soul. I stand frozen, pulse racing wildly.

"So you are the little Lile I've heard such tales about." Colm's lyrical voice holds warmth and humor. He takes my grubby hand in his broad calloused one. "Well met, tiny one! I am called Colm."

I risk a hesitant peek at his smiling face. "H-hello sir. Mama said you lost your wife Brigitte?"

Pain flashes across Colm's rugged features. "Aye, my fair Brigitte died birthing our stillborn son this spring." He sighs heavily. "I confess I still mourn them both most bitterly."

He regards me closely and I see recognition kindle in his emerald eyes. "By Thor's hammer, the resemblance is uncanny! Why, those flaxen locks and luminous eyes could belong to my Brigitte's younger sister."

Colm shakes his head in wonderment. "Truly the gods mean to taunt me with this extraordinary likeness in such an unlikely place."

He rises swiftly to his full towering height. "But coincidences only stretch so far. This child resembles my lost beloved, yes, but remains an innocent babe." His jaw tightens. "And I am no defiler of children."

Colm turns to address Mother, who hovers wringing her hands.

"Aye mistress, your husband already approached me regarding the girl earlier," Colm says gently. "And I confess, her uncanny resemblance to my lost Brigitte stirred my grieving heart."

He smiles down at me, emerald eyes crinkling. "Such mysterious beauty blooming in the mud and muck! She shall indeed make a fetching bride once properly tended."

Clasping Mother's work-roughened hands in his broad calloused ones, he continues warmly, "Have no fear, good woman - I shall pay Oisin's price for this exquisite little flower."

Mother sags against him, relief slackening the strain etched prematurely on her face. "Bless ye kindly, sir! Our Lile will be the perfect wife, just see if she ent."

Colm chuckles, the sound rich and deep. "Well now, let us not get ahead of ourselves. This precious bud has years of growing before she blossoms into womanhood."

He smiles down at me, tucking a wayward blonde strand behind my ear with surprising tenderness. "Custom decrees I must wait until the child flowers before wedding such a prize. And by Odin's decree, no man may breed babes before sixteen winters - else curse their wives to barrenness."

I blink up at him in surprise. Sixteen? Most peasant girls here are long dead from childbirth before reaching such advanced age!

Mother flushes, wringing her hands. "Forgive me ignorance of yer people's ways. Of course we shall abide by yer guidance in this." She risks a hesitant smile. "Might we still rely upon yer word though, good sir? Three silvers to claim our Lile's hand once she flowers?"

Colm grasps her shoulder firmly. "You have my solemn vow. Oisin shall have his price this very eve." Glancing at the angle of the sun, he adds, "I must take my leave now. Please convey my regards to your lord husband. I look forward to our continued negotiations."

With a courtly bow, Colm strides off into the bustling marketplace, his azure cloak billowing behind. I continue staring after his towering frame until he disappears from view, pulse racing wildly.

By Thor's gilded codpiece, this Colm is truly a gift from Asgard! Not only does he meet the bare minimum standards of basic human decency by not desiring to plow a toddler, but he actually mandates waiting until I'm full grown at sixteen before breeding! Why, the man deserves a solid gold statue erected in his honor for such restraint. Please, someone alert the Vatican - we've got ourselves a bonafide saint over here!

Truly, I never dared dream my escape from this festering bog might come giftwrapped in such a glorious package. Just look at him - towering and broad-shouldered as a young oak tree, with warrior's muscles rippling beneath that fine tunic. And that mane of sunlight woven through his rakish emerald gaze...Loki's ballsack, I'd spread my childish thighs right now if it meant basking in the golden glory of this Norse Adonis!

But slowly, he decrees we must wait for my womanly flowering before our panting naked bodies can join in holy matrimony. Eleven long years of yearning painfully for the fated moment when Colm the Virtuous finally sheathes his Excalibur deep in my maidenhead upon my sixteenth nameday! I suppose if King Arthur could quest that long for a peek at Guinevere's wizard sleeve, I can restrain myself from tearing Colm's leggings off with my teeth.

Patience is a small price to pay for escaping this boghole to be thoroughly plowed by my flaxen warlord. Why, I'll gladly spend every day for the next six years meticulously grooming my nethers into a topiary garden worthy of imperial Rome if it means finally experiencing Colm's "healing hands" working their magic!

This towering oak tree of a man will be my salvation from this fetid bog of eternal torment. No more choking down bowls of gruel or getting bred to whelp an army of mewling brats for Father's ambitions. Just imagine me lounging on fur blankets inside a sturdy timber longhouse, my tall golden warrior husband returning from raids to ravish me senseless.

Fate has gifted me a second chance for a better life. I swear to almighty God that I WILL escape this wretched mudpile with my "beloved" Colm. And once I'm safely out of reach, I'll return under moonlight to slaughter that shit-eating peasant Father like the pig he is. No one will miss one more drunken brute moldering in the barley fields. You and I have a glorious future ahead, my "love"! Just wait and see.

Mother counts out the small pile of dingy coppers again, worry creasing her brow. "Barely thirty in total we made..."

She surveys our empty reed basket despairingly. "If only yer father's barley crop weren't so meager this year. Mayhap the church will show mercy and lower their blessed donation demands."

I scowl down at the muddy lane. "Why should we give all our coin to the poxy priest? Don't he have enough gold chalices and silk robes already?"

Mother presses her lips together reprovingly. "Mind that spiteful tongue, Lile Ban! 'Tis only through the abbot's prayers that we common folk are shielded from demons and dark spirits."

She shoves the coins back into her hidden pocket with a weary sigh. "We must use this paltry sum to buy oats and rye for bread. 'Tis the only way we'll last out the winter now that the larder is bare."

My stomach twists anxiously at the thought of choking down coarse bread and watery gruel for months on end. But I swallow my complaints and simply nod. No amount of wheedling can change the stark reality facing us.

Mother straightens her shoulders, assuming a brisk tone. "Right then, let's away to old Bran the grain merchant afore he sells out his stock. Pray he takes pity and doesn't rob us blind."

I trail after Mother reluctantly through the bustling marketplace, bitterness churning in my empty belly. We must scrape and beg just to eke out another season's survival on our feudal lord's land. But the Church continues reaping tithes aplenty to fund silken vestments and golden chalices. Where is the justice?[...]