The Viking's Cursed Bride

by Mairibeth Macmillan

  “Ah,” Tormod said, then laughed so loudly Björn turned to see what the matter was. “So, all this time I have been worried about treachery, when the truth is far simpler. The jealousy of one woman for the daughter of her husband’s first wife. And that is why you were sent to the abbey?” He turned back to her. “But you really are your father’s daughter?”

  “Yes,” she said, grateful he’d asked a question she could answer entirely honestly.

  “I had suspected worse trickery.” He lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

  Aoife’s gut churned. Her new husband had indeed been deceived and she wasn’t willing to risk his wrath and perhaps even her life by admitting to it. Maybe when her position was more secure here, she could warn him. Although surely her father did not hate her enough to attack her new home and put her at risk? Surely he still had some love for her, despite her stepmother’s hatred? So much was happening so fast and she was struggling to know what to say and do simply to keep herself alive. Exhausted from the stress and from travelling through the night, she closed her eyes just for a moment, hoping she was safe for now.

  The rocking of the cart must have caused her to doze because she was roused by shouts in the distance. She gripped onto the closest thing to her, which she discovered was Tormod’s thigh when she opened her eyes and looked up to see him grinning down at her.

  “Are you so eager to touch me?” he said. “I’ll not complain.”

  She blushed and turned away from him. His presence beside her was comforting while at the same time unsettling. Would he be rushing her off to his bed? Maybe it would be best if he did, then at least it would be over with. The anticipation was unnerving.

  As they trundled into the village, she distracted herself by observing it closely. It was different from the settlements she was familiar with, although there were many similarities. Most structures were built of wood rather than stone, rectangular rather than circular, and were arranged in a semicircle with the focus being on the sea rather than the largest of the buildings. There was also no raised fort at present and no surrounding wall or palisade. Perhaps they planned to build these in the future. A large fire burned in the centre outside the largest building. A number of villagers stood around it, talking and working. She could hear the clank of metal being worked and the sound of wood being chopped from other buildings. The smell of the two large beasts slowly roasting over the fire made her clutch at her stomach. She hoped Tormod could not hear it grumbling.

  The cart rolled to a halt before they passed the first of the houses, almost all of which had smoke coming from a central chimney. Villagers started to appear from the doorways and, while she couldn’t understand their language, it was clear they were pleased to see Tormod and his men. When they merely stared at her, it made her realise just how badly she wanted to fit in.

  Tormod climbed down from the cart, and the villagers began to draw closer. Many of the men who had accompanied them were being greeted by wives and children, although some of the others, Björn and the scarred man included, were not. They headed straight for the largest building together. Tormod greeted some of the villagers, then turned to help her down from the cart. Although help was not quite the right description. He slid an arm under her legs, put the other under her arms, and lifted her as if she weighed nothing.

  Her heart began to race. Was he taking her straight to his bed? What would happen if she didn’t or couldn’t please him? And not just to her. What about her family? Would he kill her, then mount a war party and…

  “You have nothing to fear from us,” he said as he let her legs drop to the ground.

  She hadn’t been expecting him to set her down, so she wobbled a little and grabbed onto him for support. There was laughter from those who witnessed it, however, it seemed good-natured and certainly Tormod was grinning. Her heart slowed a little. Tormod didn’t seem to be dragging her anywhere and she was grateful he hadn’t let her fall on her face in front of the villagers. She also appreciated his support when surrounded by so many strangers whose language she could not understand. She had, however, caught a couple of words similar to the language of the Northumbrians. The accent was different, but yes, she definitely recognised some of the words. She had a basic knowledge of that language. Perhaps she could use it to learn this one.

  Tormod kept his arm around her shoulders as he steered her towards the door of the main hall. They were followed by a gathering crowd. She felt a tug on her cloak and looked down to see a small boy touching the white robe she wore beneath her cloak. A woman ran forward and grabbed the child. From the gestures and tone, she guessed the woman was apologising, although she, too, stared at the fabric.

  Looking around, Aoife saw few of the garments here were bleached. Most were dyed in neutral tones with occasional items in brighter hues. The most noticeable difference was women’s heads were covered with scarves rather than veils, and were dressed in two layers — a long dress topped with a more colourful apron embroidered with colourful and intricate designs. All had keys and other pouches tied to their belts and paired brooches fastening their aprons. Her own clothing, novice’s robes, seemed plain and dowdy in comparison.

  As they entered the main hall, she wondered if this was just a general meeting place or Tormod’s residence. When many of the crowd followed them inside, she decided on the former. Inside, the hall was large, with a fire pit in the centre. Benches lined every wall, on which Björn and many of the other men who had accompanied her here were already settling themselves with platefuls of food.

  Tormod called across the room to an older woman who had been standing close to Björn. As she moved towards them, she gestured for two other women to accompany her. Both of these other women wore wide, metal collars and Aoife assumed they were thralls. She’d heard the Norsemen kept a lot of thralls, many of them from her own people, although these two had the dark hair and blue eyes of the Dal Riatans – perhaps they had been purchased in Ath Cliath or captured on the islands north of here.

  The woman looked her up and down, then nodded approvingly at Tormod. She took her arm and led her though a door in the back of the hall into a short corridor. The thralls followed a short distance behind.

  Aoife tried to look back to see where Tormod was, however, he was now surrounded by the villagers and the woman was guiding her onwards. The room they stepped into was smaller than the hall, although spacious enough to prove her husband was a man of status. She shivered, despite the wooden walls and thatched roof making the space much warmer than the bleak stone walls of either her father’s fort or the abbey had ever seemed.

  “You will see him soon enough,” the woman said. Aoife smiled at the sound of her own language. She was surprised the woman spoke Brythonic so well. “You did not expect me to know your language?”

  “No. I know nothing of yours,” Aoife confessed. “Although I have heard a few words that sounded like Northumbrian. I know a little of that language.”

  “Then I will have someone teach you. It is only right that the jarl’s wife can speak to her people. What is your name?”

  “Aoife.”

  “Aoife.” The woman repeated it a few times, then nodded as if satisfied she had got it right. “And I am Ragna. Björn, Arne and Ulf are my sons. Tormod my nephew. Everyone refers to the four as the brothers of thunder.”

  “Why?”

  “The four of them are inseparable, and Tormod is their leader,” Ragna explained. “He is named after the thunder god.”

  “I see. I have met Björn.”

  “Ulf and Arne were there as well to accompany you here. You will get to know them soon enough. Björn will be a loyal friend to you as long as you and your husband get along together. The others… they may take some time to accept you. Arne is the scarred man.”

  The way in which the woman spoke made her think there was more significance to this than she was currently grasping.

  “We will feast later to celebrate the wedding of our jarl. Before then, you will bathe
and we will find you nicer clothes.” Ragna let go of her arm and stepped back to look at her carefully. “Why are you dressed like a holy woman? I thought they were not allowed to marry?”

  “These are novice’s robes. My stepmother sent me to the abbey, but I had not yet taken my vows,” Aoife explained. “My mother died when I was young, birthing my brother.”

  A sly grin spread across Ragna’s face. “Ah, so it was your stepmother who sent you to the Church? And married you to a Norseman?”

  “Sort of, yes.” It seemed like an easier explanation, and it wasn’t as if it was completely untrue.

  “That explains much. Well, you will not need those clothes again,” she said, gesturing for the two thralls to assist her. “Now we will get you ready for your wedding.”

  Aoife froze for a second. Surely Ragna wasn’t expecting her to undress in front of them? Ragna clapped her hands and the two thralls began to help loosen her cloak and then her robes, ignoring all her attempts at covering herself.

  “We are not afraid of our own bodies here,” Ragna said, smiling at her in amusement. “Now step into the water and let us wash you after your journey. You Britons do not wash nearly enough – and you have the cheek to call us barbarians. The bathhouse is not yet finished, so this will have to suffice for now.”

  Aoife hid a smile. She had noticed that very thing about Tormod as they’d travelled here. He lacked the stench of so many of her father’s men and even some of the monks.

  She was urged to climb into a large half-barrel and found herself standing in warm, soothing water. Once she was clean and her hair washed she did, indeed, feel much better.

  Ragna busied herself laying out new clothes and undergarments and removed the brooch from Aoife’s cloak before casting it into the pile of unwanted robes. When she turned to look at Aoife, her hands flew to her mouth.

  Too late, Aoife realised that, although the pain had now gone, her skin still bore the marks of her latest beating. She’d been at Mass when she’d had a vision of a burning field, the stench of the smoke strong enough it had made her sick to her stomach. Brother Pasgen had not been amused.

  “You have been beaten,” Ragna said. She spoke to the thralls and one of them hurried out of the room while Ragna walked in front of her and gasped.

  Aoife glanced down and saw the dark blue-black bruising on her knees.

  “Why was this done?” Ragna touched one of the bruises, causing Aoife to wince. She didn’t feel she could refuse Ragna’s demand to explain, and neither she could she tell them the truth, not yet. Maybe when she became a wife, the curse would leave her? She hoped so.

  “I was sick during Mass… and it angered the priest.” That was true, just not the whole story. “And my knees are bruised from praying.”

  Ragna regarded her for a long moment, then tsked. “If Tormod gets his hands on the man who did this to you... He would never treat a free woman this way, nor allow it in his village.”

  “Truly?” Aoife asked before she had thought it through.

  Ragna’s eyes narrowed. “For being sick? Of course not. Our punishments fit our crimes here. And Tormod is a fair man.”

  “What if I displease him?” Aoife wasn’t sure why she asked. This woman was Tormod’s aunt and more likely to side with her husband than with herself, however, in the absence of any other support she couldn’t be a beggar.

  Ragna smiled and put a hand on her shoulder, then gave it a gentle squeeze. “It would not befit his position as jarl to mistreat his wife. Welcome him to your bed and give him strong sons and you will not displease him.”

  Aoife couldn’t express the feeling of relief that swept over her at Ragna’s words. One of her concerns about her marriage had been laid to rest even as she still worried what welcoming him to her bed would actually be like.

  By the time she was clean and dressed in an ankle-length dress, sitting by the fire with Ragna combing out her long hair, she felt better than she had in years, even if her gut was churning with anxiety about her wedding night. The thrall had brought ointment for her bruises which had helped with the pain. These people were showing her more care than she had experienced before and she felt safer now than she ever had in her father’s fort since her mother’s death, and far, far safer than at the abbey.

  “Now,” Ragna said. “You must rest before the wedding feast begins.” She indicated the furs piled thickly on the bench at the side of the room. “I will return later and help you dress.”

  Aoife didn’t think she’d be able to sleep, however, as soon as she lay down and pulled the furs around her, warmth and exhaustion overtook her.

  Chapter Three

  Tormod looked across the table at his friends. He’d eaten well and then fallen asleep on the benches in the main hall — something he hadn’t done since his own rooms had been completed. He hoped this was not an indication of how his marriage would be, however, Ragna had insisted on him giving Aoife the use of his room to prepare for the ceremony.

  Now it was evening and Ulf and Björn had woken him earlier to go and bathe and dress in his finest clothing. Now that he was ready he noticed them exchange glances more than once and wondered what they had planned. Nothing about the day was as it should really be. He was so far from home. Too far to follow many of the wedding traditions, but at least the most important aspect was in place – he had a bride. A bride who had given him an ally in this strange place and would in time give him sons.

  His mouth curved. Aoife had not shrunk from his touch in the cart. Nor had she encouraged him, exactly, however, he knew he could make her crave his touch and was patient enough to take his time. After all, he had a lifetime in which to do so. However long that might turn out to be. No matter how the Britons saw him, he was not a barbarian. And he had seen them treat their own women in ways no Norse woman would tolerate. He drained his horn of mead before covering it with a hand when a thrall scurried over to refill it.

  “Don’t want to risk not being at your best tonight?” Björn said, slapping him on the back and grinning lewdly.

  Tormod rolled his eyes. Just then, Arne entered the hall through the main doors. The sight of his scars stirred the usual feelings of guilt in Tormod. Ulf nodded over at him and Björn stood.

  “Come,” said Björn. “Let the celebrations begin. You must claim the sword of your ancestors.”

  “But…” Tormod began.

  “You think we wouldn’t ensure our jarl was wed with all proper tradition?” Ulf said. “Ragna brought our grandfather’s sword with her from home and we have done our best, even if the gravesite does not contain any of your ancestors.”

  Tormod was pleased Ulf seemed to be coming round to the idea of this marriage.

  Until Ulf added, “Even if the fact your wife’s family are not here worries some.”

  “There are reasons for that.”

  “I hope they are genuine, herre.”

  “Ulf...” Tormod warned. It always disturbed him when any of his cousins addressed him as “herre.” It was a term of great respect amongst their people, used to address a superior. They had always been friends, equals, and although Tormod had fought to become more, he knew Björn would not. His friend was a warrior at heart, not a leader. At least he was not a rival. Tormod would not want to risk their friendship for anything. They had been through too much together in their lives already.

  Ulf, however, was a different story. Tormod knew if any of his friends ever challenged him, it would be Ulf.

  And Arne… Now, Arne was a different story altogether.

  Tormod followed the three of them out of the hall. So, he would get to claim the sword of his ancestors. He swallowed, not wanting to let his friends see how much the gesture had affected him. According to Christian rites, he and Aoife were already married, but the villagers would enjoy a proper Norse wedding. It would be as much a celebration of their new village as anything else, so that was what Tormod was determined to give them.

  He knew the villagers were right to be
suspicious of Lord Cadell’s motivations — he, himself, was — and although it startled him to admit it, he was not suspicious of Aoife’s. Yes, he felt she was holding something back and was determined to discover what it was. At the same time, he was sure she was exactly what she appeared to be — a young, scared bride, sent away to live amongst strangers for her family’s gain. It was a common enough situation in every society and she seemed to want to make the best of it. A wish he was happy to accommodate, within reason.

  The four of them marched down the street to the edge of the village. There they stopped at a mound of fresh earth. Tormod looked questioningly at Björn, who shrugged.

  “We had to improvise a little,” Björn said, handing him a spade.

  “You didn’t bury anyone in here, did you?” Tormod asked as he dug the spade into the mound.

  “No,” Björn said as Ulf and Arne chuckled. “Although...”

  Arne elbowed him in the ribs and shook his head.

  “What?” asked Tormod.

  “Nothing,” said Björn. “Just something my mother mentioned. You can deal with it later. Go on.”

  Tormod glared at him for a moment. He could tell from Björn’s expression that the conversation was over, so he started to dig. After only three or four shovelfuls metal clinked against metal. As soon as the hilt was uncovered, Tormod knelt and drew the sword. He stared at the careful construction and ornate decoration which made it a valuable piece as well as an effective weapon.

  “I had the blacksmith sharpen it,” said Björn, not taking his eyes from it as Tormod stood and raised it, watching as the sunlight glistened off the blade.

  “Thank you,” he said to his cousins.

  Ragna came towards them, smiling. “Your bride is ready, herre. And all are eager to begin the celebrations.” She looked at her sons.

  “What is the matter?”

  The three of them glanced at each other.

  “We are concerned her family is not here,” Ragna eventually said. “Surely any parent wants to see their daughter wed, especially to a powerful man, and yet...”