To None But Me

The Viking

Brigid had yet to figure out why she'd been the only woman allowed to keep her lengthy, dark hair, but she was far from upset by that fact. She stared at her blackened feet, clutching the pair of too-big shoes that had been shoved into her arms upon entering the cathedral. All the women were shackled, wrists and ankles, and the sound of the metal clanking together was near deafening as they crept forward.

The woman in front of her was bald, thin and tall, while the one behind her was busty and squat. They'd both glared at Brigid, jealous of her hair—of the semblance of femininity she still had. With a sigh, she bit her cheek and slowly followed, mind wandering to her little mouse. She'd stashed enough bread for the damn thing to live off of for a year, but for some reason the thought of leaving him behind tugged at her cold heart.

She realized, then and there as she stopped in the cathedral, that the mouse had been a companion, and one of the few things she'd ever let herself become attached to.

The mouse, though, was indeed small in the face of this new threat. Her stomach felt as leaden and heavy as an anchor, and she found herself picking her nail beds until she drew blood. Every woman in line shifted and shuttered in the drafty space, awaiting their fates. Brigid felt faint, clammy, as though she'd vomit at any given moment. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, clouding her vision, as the women were ushered back against the stone wall.

For a church, there was hardly any decor, an ode to the hospital's hellish nature, she supposed.

A priest stood at the pulpit, conversing in hushed tones to the unctuous Doctor Moreau, while the Scotsman stood beside the two, his attentions focused on his small journal. She recognized this man as the one who'd been helping the Duke that fateful evening. A steady tremble took root in her core; she was so very afraid, so very alone. Tears welled in her deep blue eyes as she wished for her mother. The woman had barely been there for Brigid through her childhood, but no matter the circumstance, when held to the flames, Brigid always wanted that maternal protection.

She craved it, yearned for it now with everything she had.

The doors to the cathedral opened once more, allowing sunlight to stream forth for a brief moment, before it was replaced by a heavy rain cloud. The sound of more chains greeted the women's ears, and hushed whispers erupted all around her.

An equal amount of men filed in, their grimy appearances and jeering faces all-too excited, for their tickets to freedom now stood chained just a few feet away.

Brigid's eyes slipped close, a few tears escaping and leaving a clean trail through the dirt on her pale cheek. A vision of her mother and grandmother formed in her mind for a moment, until the doors clanged closed, whisking her desires away before she could reminisce further. It was replaced, instead, with all the pain and fear and torment she'd endured with her husband. She set her jaw, looking past the men and to the crucifix, cursing the almighty himself for the hand he continued to deal to her. She knew in her bones that if she somehow didn't find her way back home, her life would end altogether. Would God continue to punish her, then?

***

"I apologize, friend, but we must keep up this little charade. If any other convicts sense you've received special privileges, you will have a massive target on your back," the Duke said to Erik as their carriage rolled to a bumpy stop.

Erik nodded once, holding out his wrists to aid the Duke in cuffing him once more. The metal rings back around his wrists, he felt the weight of his decision. Had he been a fool to choose this? How would his mother have ever approved of him marrying a whore or thief? He grit his teeth together, uncharacteristic embarrassment flooding through him at the thought of bedding his new wife.