Even so, Brandt looked uneasy. ‘He’s endangering our tribe by bringing in warriors we don’t know. Some were from Éireann.’
The island was several days’ journey across the sea. Sigurd had travelled there, years ago, and had brought back a concubine. She had given birth to Rurik and Danr a few months after her arrival and had never returned home, even after Sigurd set her aside. Although Saorla had died years ago, this was the first time any visitors had come from Éireann. Alarr wondered if there was some connection between the visitors and his half-brothers.
Regardless, he saw little choice but to let the foreigners witness the marriage. ‘They are already here now. We cannot deny them our hospitality.’ With a shrug, he added, ‘Sigurd likely invited them in the hopes of wedding one of their daughters to Rurik or Danr.’
‘Possibly.’ Brandt thought a moment. ‘We cannot deny them a place to stay, but we can deny them the right to bring in weapons. We will say it is to abide by our mother’s wishes.’
It was a reasonable request, and Alarr answered, ‘I will see to it.’ He reached for his clothing and got dressed.
‘Wait a moment.’ Brandt approached and held out a leather pouch. ‘A gift for your wedding.’ Alarr opened it and found a bronze necklace threaded with small pendants shaped like hammers. It was a visible reminder of Thor, a blessing from his older brother.
He stood so Brandt could help him put it on. Then Alarr looked back at his brothers, unable to cast off the sense that something was not right at all. Perhaps it was the unknown warriors, or perhaps it was the knowledge that he would be married this day.
A sudden premonition pricked at him, that he would not marry Gilla, as they had planned. Alarr knew not why, but the hair on the back of his arms stood up, and he could not set aside his uncertainty. He tried to dispel the restlessness in anticipation of the wedding. Like as not, every bridegroom had those feelings.
Sandulf trailed behind him. ‘May I join you, Alarr?’
He shrugged. ‘If you wish. But we are only exchanging the mundr and Gilla’s dowry. You may want to wait.’ The wedding activities would last most of the day, and there were enough witnesses without needing Sandulf there. ‘You could return when we make the sacrifices to the gods. That part is more interesting.’
His brother nodded. ‘All right. And in the meantime, I can watch over our guests and learn if any of them are a threat.’
‘Good.’ He understood his youngest brother’s desire to be useful, and it might be a wise idea to keep a close watch over the visitors.
Alarr departed the bathhouse and watched as his brothers went on their way. Brandt joined him as he approached the centre of the settlement. His older brother said little, but his face transformed when he spied his heavily pregnant wife, Ingrid. There was a moment of understanding that passed between them, along with joy. Alarr wondered if he would ever look upon Gilla’s face in that way when she was about to bear a child.
‘It won’t be long now,’ he said to Brandt. ‘You’ll be a father.’
Brandt nodded, and there was no denying his happiness. ‘Ingrid thinks it’s a boy from what the volva told her. I hope they are right.’
Alarr walked alongside his brother until he reached Sigurd and Gilla’s father. It was time to discuss the bride price and dowry. But before they could begin, they were interrupted by his mother. She hurried forward and whispered quietly to Brandt, whose face tightened. Then he gave a nod.
‘I must go,’ he said to Alarr. ‘There is a disturbance with tribes gathering to the north. I should be back later tonight for the wedding feast, but I’ve been asked to intervene and prevent bloodshed, if possible. I am sorry, but it cannot wait.’
Alarr inclined his head, wondering if this was the ill omen the volva had spoken of. It also struck him that his mother had spoken to Brandt and not to him or to her husband. She did not like Sigurd, but then again, it was possible that the king already knew and had ordered Brandt to go in his stead. Sigurd’s presence at the wedding was necessary.
‘Do not go alone,’ Alarr warned his brother.
‘Rurik will accompany me, along with a few other men,’ Brandt promised. His gaze fixed upon his wife, who was walking towards the other women, and his features softened. ‘I will return as soon as I can.’
‘Go then,’ Alarr said. ‘And return this night for the feasting.’ He clapped Brandt on the back before turning his attention back to the negotiations.
Sigurd was already bargaining with Vigmarr as the two exchanged the dowry and mundr. Since they had already agreed upon the bride price, it was hardly more than a symbol of the union to come.
Alarr saw Gilla standing behind her father. She wore a green woollen gown with golden brooches at her shoulders. Her dark hair hung below her shoulders, and upon her head, she wore a bridal crown made of woven straw, intertwined with flowers. Her smile was warm and welcoming, though she appeared slightly nervous.
Beside her, the volva was preparing the ritual sacrifice to the gods. The wise woman began chanting in the old language, supplications for blessings. Several of the guests began to draw closer to bear witness, and the scent of smoke mingled with the fresh tang of blood. The slain boar was offered up to Freyr, and the volva took a fir branch and dipped it into the boar’s blood. She then made the sign of the hammer, blessing them with the sacrificial blood, as well as the other wedding guests.
Although Gilla appeared amused by the ritual, the sight of sprinkled blood upon her face and hair made Alarr uneasy. He watched as the wise woman then sprinkled the boar’s blood on each of the guests. But instead of the guests revering the offering, there seemed to be an unspoken message passing among several of the warriors. Alarr could not shake the feeling that this was an omen of bloodshed to come.
Let my brothers be safe, he prayed to the gods. Let them come back alive.
Alarr watched the men, his attention caught by the tall Irish king. He didn’t know if Feann MacPherson had come as an invited guest, or whether he had arrived of his own choice. It might be that he wanted an alliance or a wedding for his daughter, if he had one. The king wore a woollen cloak, and there were no visible weapons. Yet the man had a thin scar along his cheek, evidence of an earlier battle. His dark hair was threaded with grey, but there was a lean strength to him.
When he saw Alarr staring, his expression tightened before it fixed upon Sigurd. The hard look was not of a man who wanted an alliance—it was of a man itching for a fight.
Someone needed to alert the guards, but Alarr could not leave in the midst of the ceremony. He searched for a glimpse of Danr or Sandulf, but they were nowhere to be found. He only saw his aunt nearby, and she could do nothing.
You’re overreacting, he tried to tell himself. But no matter how he tried to dismiss his suspicions, his instincts remained on alert. He could not interrupt the ceremony, for it would only humiliate his bride. This was meant to be a day of celebration, and Gilla’s smile was bright as she looked at him.
She was a kind woman, and as he returned her smile, he forced his thoughts back to the wedding. Friendship was a solid foundation for their union, and he inwardly vowed that he would try to make this marriage a good one.
He stood before her, and Sigurd brought the sword of Hafr that they had dug from his uncle’s grave. Alarr presented it to Gilla, saying, ‘Take this sword as a gift from my ancestors. It shall become the sword of our firstborn son.’
She accepted the weapon and then turned to her father to present their own gift of another sword. ‘Take this sword for your own.’
The blade had good balance, and he tested the edge, noting its sharpness. Gilla knew of his love for sword-fighting, and she had chosen a weapon of quality. It was a good exchange, and he approved of her choice.
Alarr placed the ring for Gilla upon the hilt of the sword, and was about to offer it, when he caught a sudden movement among the guests. F
eann cast off his dark cloak and unsheathed a sword from where it had been strapped between his shoulder blades. His men joined him, their own weapons revealed. The visible threat made their intentions clear.
Sigurd’s face turned thunderous at the insult, and he started to reach for Alarr’s sword.
He handed the weapon to his father and commanded, ‘Take Gilla to the longhouse and guard her.’ The last thing they needed was his father’s hot-headed fighting. ‘Vigmarr and I will settle this.’
He took back his uncle’s sword from Gilla, and her face turned stricken when she murmured, ‘Be safe.’
His father heeded his instructions and took Gilla with him, along with a few other men. His aunt joined them, running with her skirts clenched in her hands. He heard his mother scream as she fled towards another longhouse in the opposite direction. Only when the women were gone did Alarr breathe easier.
It was a mistake. Chaos erupted among the guests as his men hurried towards the longhouse where they had stored their weapons. King Feann uttered a command in Irish, and his men surged forward, cutting down anyone in their path.
Alarr ran hard, and iron struck iron as his weapon met an enemy’s blade. He let the familiar battle rage flow through him, and his uncle’s sword bit through flesh, striking down his attacker. The weapon was strong, imbued with the spirt of his ancestor. Alarr swung at another man, and he glimpsed another warrior behind him. He sidestepped and caught the man in the throat before he slashed the stomach of his other assailant.
The volva was right, he thought. It was an ill omen.
Already, he could see the slain bodies of his kinsmen as more men charged forward in the fight. Alarr searched for his brothers, but there was no sign of Sandulf or Danr. By the gods, he hoped they were safe. If only Brandt and Rurik had been here, they could have driven off their enemies. He caught one of his kinsmen and ordered, ‘Take a horse and ride north as hard as you can. Find Brandt and Rurik and bring them back.’ The man obeyed, running hard towards the stables.
A strange calm passed over him with the knowledge that he would likely die this day. The shouts of kinsmen echoed amid the clang of weapons, only to be cut short when they died. The Irish king started to run towards the longhouse, but Alarr cut him off, swinging his sword hard. The older man caught his balance and held his weapon against the iron.
Feann paused a moment. ‘Stay out of this, boy. The fight isn’t yours. Sigurd has gone too far, and he will pay for his crimes.’
‘This is my wedding, so the fight is mine,’ Alarr countered. He swung his weapon, and the king blocked his blow. ‘And I am not a boy.’ He was beginning to realise that Feann had travelled seeking vengeance, and his intent was to slaughter Sigurd. But what crimes was he talking about?
They sparred against one another, the king toying with him. Alarr struck hard, intending to stop the man. But with every blow, he grew aware that Feann was stalling, drawing out the fight. It was then that he saw men surrounding the longhouse where his father was protecting his bride. Gilla’s father, Vigmarr, was fighting back, trying to defend them.
And then Alarr caught the unmistakable scent of smoke and fire.
He renewed his attack, slashing with his sword as he fought to find a weakness. Feann parried each blow, and when the screams of the women broke through, Alarr jerked his attention back to the longhouse.
A slashing pain struck him in the calves, and he saw the king withdraw a bloody blade, just before his legs collapsed beneath him. Alarr met the man’s gaze, waiting for the killing blow. Instead, Feann’s expression remained grim as he wiped his blade. ‘If you’re wise, boy, you’ll stay on the ground.’ Then he strode towards the longhouse.
Alarr tried to rise, but the agonizing pain kept his legs from supporting him. He called out to his men to attack and defend the longhouse. But a moment later, he watched in horror as the fire raged hotter. Someone threw open the doors, and Sandulf staggered out. Four other men emerged from a different door, and Alarr struggled to his knees. He spied the slain bodies of his father... Gilla... Vigmarr and his wife...
His stomach lurched, and Alarr turned his gaze back to the sky, hating the gods for what they had done. A lone raven circled the clouds, and he could only lie in his own blood while his enemies cut down the remaining wedding guests and returned to their ships.
In the dirt beside him, he saw the familiar glint of a golden brooch.
Copyright © 2020 by Michelle Willingham
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ISBN: 9781488065538
The Passions of Lord Trevethow
Copyright © 2020 by Nikki Poppen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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The Passions 0f Lord Trevethow (The Cornish Dukes Book 2) Page 23