Half Briton, half Pict, Aoife has been an outsider all her life. Rejected by her family, despite saving them from the Norse raid on Alt Clut, she is forced to marry one of the invaders to ensure her family’s safety and rid them of a cursed daughter, while putting her own life at risk.
Jarl Tormod intends to settle on the Clyde and to marry a Briton. One as high-born as Aoife ought to ensure the safety and prosperity of the Norse settlement. When their relationship grows beyond convenience, loving one another may prove to be disastrous.
All Aoife wants is a place to belong, but when her family’s deception is revealed, a near-fatal betrayal in Tormod’s past threatens to destroy all hope for a peaceful and prosperous future.
THE VIKING'S CURSED BRIDE
The Brothers of Thunder Series, #1
Mairibeth MacMillan
Published by Tirgearr Publishing
Author Copyright 2019 Mairibeth MacMillan
Cover Art: Cora Graphics (www.coragraphics.ie)
Editor: Lucy Felthouse
Proofreader: Sharon Pickrel
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This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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DEDICATION
To Euan, James, Eilidh and Marissa. All my love. Always.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
With many thanks to everyone who has helped me and supported me during the past few years, especially my family. It wouldn't have been possible without any of you.
There are too many to mention everyone individually, but an extra special thanks goes to my two writing groups, one past, one present, and particularly Julie Bissell for her unending support and helpful suggestions (I would not have finished this book without you!).
To Sara Israelsson for her advice on all things Norse, and also to my editor, Lucy Felthouse, whose patience while I fixed a hundred things I knew better than to do in the first place is much appreciated.
And lastly to Marguerite Kaye for all her support and many, many cups of coffee looking out onto the Clyde where the story is set!
THE VIKING'S CURSED BRIDE
The Brothers of Thunder Series, #1
Mairibeth MacMillan
Prologue
Alt Clut, Kingdom of Ystrad Clud, 870 AD
“Smile,” Aoife’s stepmother, Ula, hissed at her. “You don’t want King Artgal to think you are ungrateful you were invited, do you? He has been known to punish even his most loyal subjects for less. And for one such as you...” Ula’s cruel laughter made Aoife want to run far from here. Not that she had anywhere truly safe to go. She glanced towards the dais and managed to force her lips into some semblance of a smile, then returned her attention to the plateful in front of her.
All around her, the families of the richest, most important nobles of the kingdom of Ystrad Clud feasted. Every one of the long wooden tables was full, and the room was too warm for the fire burning in the grate, more to demonstrate the wealth of the king than from necessity on a summer night such as this one. The gathered nobles were richly dressed in heavy woollen kirtles, and with the excessive heat, the stench of their sweat only grew stronger as the feast wore on, making Aoife’s stomach churn. Not even the smell of roasted meats and vegetables could mask it.
Aoife pulled at the neck of her dress. She’d grown over the past winter and Ula had not yet instructed the servants to make a new summer dress for her. Ula’s four natural-born daughters always came first. There was also the fact she knew Ula did not wish her to look too attractive tonight — at least not in comparison to her half-sisters. Any suitor found at a gathering such as this one was of a higher status than Ula would ever allow Aoife to marry.
“Eat,” demanded Ula, nudging her elbow and smiling beatifically towards the king.
Aoife lifted a mouthful to her lips. Obediently she chewed and choked it down as fast as possible under her stepmother’s wrathful glare. It tasted like ashes. The noise of the revelry around her was giving her a headache, the smoke from the fire stung her eyes and the heat made her queasy. The room swayed around her. She closed her eyes, then felt a sharp elbow in her ribs. Her eyes flew open.
“If you bring dishonour to our family...” her stepmother whispered urgently, her cold expression and hands clasped as if in prayer making it clear where Aoife would be headed. A prisoner forever behind the bare stone walls of the abbey, with no family, no hope for a home, nor a husband and children.
Not that she was sure why she yearned for those things. Her own childhood had been far from idyllic. And there was little chance of any of them before Ula had secured decent marriages for Aoife’s half-sisters. But she wished for them nonetheless.
Across the room a gentleman caught her eye and inclined his head towards her. She thought she recognised him but couldn’t remember his name. She nodded at him.
“Keep your eyes down,” Ula said. “And if you have any ideas in your head about Lord Aethelfred, then forget them. He will not be for you.”
“And what if I am his choice?” Aoife replied before she could stop herself. Sometimes she found it hard not to answer her stepmother back, despite knowing it only ever made her life more difficult.
“Your father will give him short shrift,” Ula promised, hatred etched on her features. “Your father always does what I tell him.”
It was true and becoming more true as each year passed. Ula’s influence over her father’s decisions was not a good thing. Not for the first time, she wished her own mother was still alive to care for her and protect her. What Aoife would have given for her to have lived through her brother’s birth. But they had both died, and her father, Lord Cadell, had remarried. And now she had Ula as a stepmother. Most of Cadell’s people had been happy to see him marry another Briton rather than a Pict. Aoife had often regretted that her father had not sent her back to her mother’s family in Pictland, but Cadell wasn’t willing to give up anything belonging to him – even an unwanted daughter.
Aoife picked up her cup of wine and took a sip. A wave of dizziness swept through her. The cup clattered onto the table, wine spilling like blood and seeping into the wood. She clutched at the edge, trying to keep her balance. She glared at her stepmother. Had the woman finally poisoned her, hoping she could blame another?
“What are you doing?” Ula demanded, talon-like fingers gripping Aoife’s elbow. “Stop this at once.”
But Aoife’s eyes no longer saw the woman, nor the room, nor the walls of the hall at Alt Clut. At first, she didn’t know what she did see. She smelt the salt tang of the sea and heard the whoosh of waves and the cry of gulls. It was night, dark out on the water, and yet in front of her were the heads of hundreds of serpents. They approached Alt Clut in the darkness just before the dawn and swept onto the land, slithering up the walls of the rock and on into the fort. Above them, two ravens circled, watching the progress
of the serpents, their frantic screeching serving to encourage the invaders. Blood-curdling screams sounded and she realised they were her own.
“They’re coming! The sea serpents are coming!”
A slap from her stepmother was hard enough to jar her neck and her head hit the back of the wooden chair, sending her down into darkness.
Chapter One
Dun Cadell, Loch Lomond, Kingdom of Strathclyde, 872AD
Tormod glanced from Lord Cadell to his wife, Lady Ula, and couldn’t help but grin. From the giveaway turn of Cadell’s head towards his wife at every question posed to the man, it took little to guess it was Lady Ula who controlled the decisions in this household. And what a bitter household that must make it.
“So, an alliance between us,” Tormod stated. “Sealed with the hand of one of your daughters and my word that my men will seek none of your land for their own as long as a truce between us remains in place.”
“An alliance,” confirmed Lord Cadell, raising his tankard of ale after only the slightest of glances at his wife. The woman’s expression was hard to read. He’d have expected regret at giving one of her daughters to a barbarian such as himself, but instead it was more like... glee.
For a moment he wondered if there was some trickery in their agreement, but having a Briton in his village could only help with trade negotiations and reduce the likelihood of attacks from these people. As long as the daughter was capable of warming his bed and bearing his sons, he cared for little else from her. Beauty was certainly not a prerequisite.
His first wife had been the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, but her heart had been black and deceitful. He would give his heart to no other in this lifetime. That way led only to betrayal and despair. It had been a hasty marriage, which had accomplished nothing more than to prove he was a fool.
He straightened. The past was the past. He had grown and learned since then and would not be taken for a fool by a woman again.
He caught Lady Ula’s smirk and wondered if it would be best to see this girl before the final agreement was made, but Lord Cadell pushed himself to his feet.
“Lady Aoife is not within Dun Cadell at present. She will need to be sent for,” Cadell announced. “I will also need to gather together the other items we have agreed to... exchange.”
Tormod smiled inwardly at the man’s reluctance to admit to having no other choice than to agree to Tormod’s demands. The siege and capture of Alt Clut two years previously had reduced the power of the Britons in Ystrad Clud and Norse settlers were pushing their advantage, forming settlements and trading posts all along the coasts of the great river. Under Artgal’s son, Rhun, the power centre had moved further up the great river to Govan where Doomster Hill now signified the centre of government of the new kingdom of Strathclyde – the successor essentially to Ystrad Clud.
Tormod himself had liberated a substantial peninsular area near the mouth of the firth from its original owner. Liberated may be too strong a sentiment — by the time his men had made landfall, the inhabitants were gone.
Their new settlement was nearly built and as jarl he was determined to make it more prosperous than anything the previous owners had accomplished. The extra tools, seeds and animals from Lord Cadell would contribute to the success of the growing village, and a wife and sons for Tormod would ensure his future as jarl.
“Two mornings hence, then. When the sun has risen to its full height, at the pass between our lands.” Tormod smiled again, amused by Cadell’s frown. Tormod had usurped some of Cadell’s land, abandoned or not. But with no resistance, why should Tormod feel even the slightest twinge of guilt? If these Britons were not strong enough to hold their lands then they didn’t deserve them and this alliance with Cadell was only a means to a more peaceful future. Many of Tormod’s people were tired of raiding — after all, what good were riches if you didn’t get to enjoy them? But he and his men would hold the land by force if need be.
The most worrying thing about this particular alliance was that Lord Cadell had few friends. For some reason he was regarded with distaste by many of his fellow Britons. The only possible reason Tormod had managed to unearth was that he was the only nobleman present at Alt Clut at the start of the siege who had escaped. It had taken the Norsemen four months – the whole summer – to capture Alt Clut, but Lord Cadell and his family were rumoured to have simply left as the longships were sailing up the river.
Tormod’s life would be far more peaceful if he were not fighting constantly. He suspected that, despite any alliance, Lord Cadell and Lady Ula would seize any opportunity to attempt to recover the land. But he would be watchful, and surely with their daughter as his wife they would hesitate to attack his village.
“Do you wish to stay here tonight, my lord?” Lady Ula asked. “Appropriate lodgings can be found for you and your... men.” The look she gave him confirmed she saw the Norsemen as barbarians, far beneath her own civilised status.
Tormod’s hand clenched on the hilt of his sword and he felt Björn tense beside him. He was grateful he stood here with three of his cousins at his back. Cousins by blood, but they regarded each other as brothers. The brothers of thunder. He knew none of them would ever let him down in the face of an enemy – even if one had every right to doubt him.
“Our best rooms, of course,” Lady Ula assured them, smiling sweetly after a nudge from her husband.
“Our thanks, my lady,” replied Tormod. “But we have been too long from home already and it is not more than a few hours’ ride. Until noon two days hence then, Lord Cadell, and the penalty for failing to honour our agreement will be… fierce.”
Tormod swept from the room, followed by his men. He’d brought only a small group of those he trusted most. No one spoke until they were clear of the fort’s palisades.
“Well?” asked Björn. “Do you think he will abide by the agreement?”
“If not, then we will return,” said Tormod. “And our lands will grow.”
His men laughed—all except Ulf.
“There’s something about the daughter,” Ulf said. “I don’t know what it is, but I sensed no reluctance in either of them to part with her. And why was she not within these walls?”
“Ulf,” said Tormod. “We will find out two days from now. But my needs when it comes to a wife are simple enough.”
Ulf merely nodded at him and Tormod was relieved he did not mention Ingrid by name. Yet Tormod rode the rest of the way home, disturbed by thoughts of what could possibly be wrong with the girl and realising it mattered to him more than he would have cared to admit.
* * *
Aoife shifted slightly from one knee to the other, desperate for morning prayers to be over. She had barely slept, her dreams filled with the rumbling of thunder as they had been now for weeks. The low booming echoed around every part of her body and from the depths of the sound came a vision — the same every time — a bear and a wolf walked side by side on the land while a hawk flew high above them. Three creatures were all she had seen but… there was a fourth. She was sure of it. Someone she’d been running from, but the faster she ran, the closer he got. One whom she could not see, could simply feel his presence in the thunder. It was as if the thunder itself was a living being, intent on consuming her.
A raven croaked and her eyes shot open, her gaze drawn towards the window where weak sunlight trickled in. Her lips curved into a smile, which then faded. What she wouldn’t give to be outside this morning, or any morning. She missed walking by the loch with her maid, Rhiannon, and the sounds of the fort. Even the smells. The food here was plentiful but basic, and she missed the excitement of the men returning from the hunt followed by the smell of roasting meat.
It had been almost two years now and she couldn’t bear the thought of another summer stuck behind these dreary stone walls, where any hint of comfort was soon taken from her. She’d thought living under her father’s roof had been miserable until she’d been sent here. At least there she’d had pretty clothes a
nd jewellery and games to play with her sisters. Here, she had nothing. Nothing but time to think. At summer’s end, she would be expected to take her vows as a nun – something which every part of her rebelled against. She knew she had no vocation and she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life imprisoned here.
Two ravens fluttered down to sit on the window ledge and stared directly at her. Then they tilted their heads, exchanged a glance and took off. She closed her eyes in prayer once more, trying not to think about the freedom enjoyed by the birds but denied to her. The ravens were also a reminder of Alt Clut.
Despite her attempts to ignore the memories, the sights and sounds of the attack on Alt Clut assailed her. Despite opening her eyes, she could still see the past. As they had reached the crest of the hills on their journey home, they had looked back to see hundreds of ships heading up the firth. Wooden ships with dragons carved at the prows, the square sails of the Norse raiders striking terror into all their hearts.
The boats had moved swiftly, cutting easily through the deep water of the river towards the rock on which Alt Clut stood. The warriors flooded onto the land at its base while others surrounded the rock in their boats, cutting the inhabitants off from any source of supplies.
“We must warn them,” Ula had said.
Cadell closed his hands over his wife’s and stared at her. His skin was pale and fear was etched on his face. “Aoife already did. They didn’t want to listen. There is nothing more we can do. We should return home and prepare for an attack.”
They had turned back along the road through the hills, the sounds of battle carrying on the still air behind them. The clatter of swords and shields and axes and the screams of the dying. Tears slid down Aoife’s face. If they had only listened to her... But they hadn’t.
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