The Viking's Cursed Bride

by Mairibeth Macmillan

  She gulped, unsure what the right answer to this was. “No.” She tried to pull away but he held her firm. “I didn’t know. I thought that maybe Ula might have…” She tried to twist in his arms and this time he let her. She wasn’t sure it helped. Now they were pressed against each other, his face close enough to hers that it seemed their breaths mingled and their bodies were almost as one. “I thought my father cared for me, that he would protect me, then…”

  “Then he made you marry me.”

  “I wondered what his motives were but I didn’t think he would let me die. I knew Ula wanted me out of the way of her own daughters but I thought my father... I fear that everything has changed since I lived at Dun Cadell. I do not think my father is still… I cannot believe he is still in control, or that he would order them to kill me. I just can’t.” She tried to laugh, but it ended up as a choked sob.

  “You are not disposable to me.” His mouth closed over hers, hard. He sought to possess her, devour her, steal her will away from her.

  She felt him harden against the softness of her stomach, then broke their kiss and blinked up at him in confusion. How could he be thinking of that when he was about to fight? She heard a noise and realised how much closer their attackers were. She had to leave him. Here she was a distraction—she must let him turn his passion to fighting. She took a step away from him. “I will be in the hall with the others. Come back to me.”

  “I will.” He kissed her again and pushed her away towards the village.

  Aoife crept back to the hall. Just as she reached the main door, she heard a boat scrape on the shore and many feet splash into the water. She heard voices and thought she recognised at least one of them. The knowledge made her feel sick. How could her own kin turn on her like this?

  Praying Elisedd was safe at Håkon’s farm, she whispered through the door and Ragna opened it for her. Quickly she slid though the gap and helped to close the door and drop the bar in place. Near the fire, the youngest children lay sleeping. Everyone else was awake and armed. Even children. Ragna pressed a long-bladed knife into her hand and offered her a shield for the other.

  As their eyes met, they heard shouting from the beach, followed by screaming. Aoife had never been so close to battle before. Her father and his men had fought with others many times, but it had always been at a distance. She had only heard these sounds before in her visions and she was finding it increasingly hard to separate out the real from the imaginary.

  Everyone tensed when they heard screams of pain rather than of anger. The same worry was reflected on all their faces. Who had been injured or killed? Was it a father, a husband, a son, a kinsman… a lover? Ylva was standing next to her. She glared at Aoife.

  “You have brought this upon us,” Ylva said.

  “No, Ylva,” Ragna intervened. “You think they would not have come anyway?”

  “But she… Björn…”

  “And who is the jarl’s wife here?” Ragna demanded.

  Ylva stared at Ragna before lowering her head.

  Aoife knew she could let it pass, but the pain of what she had overheard earlier whipped through her. She turned to the villagers. “Ylva may be right.” She was not sure if her Norse was good enough to say what she needed to, but she had to try. Ragna could translate when she ran out of words.

  “These men may have attacked because of me, but not only because of me. They want this land back. They see it as theirs. They tried to trick Tormod by giving him me as a bride, knowing they would not hesitate to kill me, but I knew nothing of this. I am as much their enemy as you yourselves. They want me dead as much as they want you dead. And to that I say to you that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I will stand with you. If you will allow me to.”

  Ylva took a step towards her.

  Ragna stepped between them, but Aoife pushed her aside. “You do not need to protect me, Ragna, but I thank you. If Ylva has something to say, then she should say it.”

  Aoife’s attention was drawn by a slight movement at Ylva’s side. Her knife. But she did not raise it higher than her side.

  “How do we know you are not a traitor?” Ylva said.

  “You do not, not for sure. But if I were really going to betray you, why would I do it like this? Why not simply murder your jarl in his bed? In our bed.”

  Ylva frowned. “You were supposed to bring us safety. But Björn said he thought even your own people hated you. And I see now that it is true. If anything happens to either of them tonight—”

  “Enough,” said Ragna. “The battle will be won by the victors and if any die then they will feast in Valhalla and be happy. You know that, Ylva. It will be a time for rejoicing.”

  Aoife tried to understand what Ragna was saying, but struggled with the concept. “They would be happy to die?”

  “In battle, yes. A glorious death.”

  Ylva smiled at her—not a cruel smile, but one of superiority. “It is why our enemies rarely win. Even in death we are victorious.”

  Aoife was beginning to understand that the mindset of these people was entirely different from her own. And while she couldn’t quite grasp it, it did make many things understandable.

  She thought of the night at Alt Clut. She had taken her family away so they were not there for the fight. Tormod must see her as a coward for that action. She regarded all the women in the hall; the children too. All armed, all ready to fight. Not bound by a society which kept them helpless and at the mercy of the most powerful man.

  She took a step towards Ylva. “Tormod was ready to fight tonight. He will not fail any of you. I will not fail my husband. I will not fail this village.”

  Ylva smiled and put a hand on Aoife’s shoulder. “No, he will not fail this village, and perhaps you will not either.”

  It was a better result than Aoife had hoped for.

  The women and children turned and faced the door together.

  * * *

  Once the boat had made landfall, the Britons seemed to hold position for a while. Perhaps they were securing it or simply waiting to see if their arrival had raised any alarms.

  Tormod kept his eyes on the spot where he knew them to be, although the Britons had chosen their landing place well. Well enough that Tormod guessed at least one of them was a previous resident of the peninsula.

  Three, four, five sets of feet splashed into the water, then a sixth. The men huddled for a moment, low voices no longer carrying. They didn’t duck or head for the rocks, as they seemed certain no one was watching them.

  Tormod froze when he heard movement from behind him and a seventh man made his way down the jagged rocks to join the others.

  “Their guards are dead,” this man said when he arrived at the group. “The villagers are mostly in the hall. It is a feast night. They celebrate Midsummer like the pagans they are. Oh, and I saw their jarl and the Lady Aoife outside, heading for near here I believe, but there is no sign of them now.” The man laughed. “They did not seem happy with one another. If she is killed, it will be easy to blame the Norse for it. And we can use that to justify our actions in defence of her.”

  Tormod noticed one man did not laugh with the others and indeed stood a little way off to the side. The dissenter from the boat, perhaps.

  “I waited north of here in case they found that the guards were dead. I was nearly caught by one of the scum rutting like a beast with his woman.”

  Björn and Ylva, no doubt. Tormod held his breath.

  “It meant I couldn’t watch the village, but they are still feasting, although it seems to have grown quieter in the last while. They are drunk most likely, in their hall, waiting for their dead guards to warn them.”

  Tormod clenched his fists at the mocking laughter.

  “Now, start with the livestock and then burn the houses, quickly and quietly. Try not to let anyone raise the alarm. We are outnumbered and they fight like the very devil himself.”

  “And the Lady Aoife?” the man who stood to one side asked.

&n
bsp; “We are to spare no one.”

  “But…”

  “No one.”

  Much as Tormod detested this man, he could tell the idea of killing a kinswoman did not sit well with him. Finally he grunted in what Tormod took for agreement and the men set off towards the village.

  He did not think their plan was a good one. Were they so confident they would win? It seemed a foolish thought, given that in less than a hundred years these people had lost more and more of their land to invaders from every direction. Perhaps this was why. It was likely each man carried a knife and a long sword with a shield that was heavy, far heavier than those used by the Norse. It made them slow and often the shields were useless as it took so long for them to get into place that Norse axes and swords had already done their job.

  Tormod offered up a prayer to Thor, his namesake.

  Even at this darkest point of the night, there was still a glimmer of light as dawn fought to pull its way over the mountains to the east. He could see the men still moving as a group. They would be completely surrounded once he moved into place between them and their boat. He waited just a moment longer, then moved quietly across the shingle, his own footsteps masked by those of his enemy.

  One of them must have heard him and started to turn. Tormod crouched low to the ground, waiting. He was sure it was the one who had not wanted to harm Aoife but he couldn’t be sure. When he turned back and followed the others, Tormod stood and took two heavy steps forward. Around the edge of the beach he saw Ulf, Björn and Arne and many other warriors. The group in the centre panicked, and with loud yells ran at the Norsemen. One even turned and saw him.

  Tormod wondered why they did not hold their tight circle in the middle—it would have been a far more defensible position, but the fear in the eyes of the man who charged him answered that.

  Raising his shield to block the man’s sword, he swung his axe and cried out with the passion for fighting that had been bred into his people for generations, the thrill of battle emptying his mind of other concerns. At his cry, the Norsemen attacked. All ready to die and be assured of their place in Valhalla.

  The battle, such as it was, did not rage long. Winning or losing was never the question for Tormod. He knew his people would win. He had seen the signs and Aoife had confirmed them. This place was his. The Britons were too concerned with living and not concerned enough with winning. They fought as individuals, none truly willing to die.

  He swung his axe once more at the man in front of him. Only the man’s last-minute attempt to dodge saved him. The side of his head made contact with the shaft of Tormod’s axe and he fell to the ground, not dead, merely unconscious. Tormod stepped over him to carry on fighting, but found that no other was left alive. Björn moved to stand over the survivor and Ulf placed his sword at his throat.

  “Chain him!” Tormod ordered. He caught a glimpse of disappointment in Ulf’s eye. Björn’s expression was almost impossible to read. “He may have much to tell us.”

  “Very well,” Ulf said, his tone not matching his words.

  * * *

  Locked inside the hall, Aoife jumped at every clang of weapon upon weapon, every thud of weapon upon wood. She cringed at every scream. She kept her eyes firmly on the door, her knuckles white around the handle of the axe she held. She was aware, however, of Ylva, sensed the other woman watching her, sensed her suspicion, but she ignored her. Her loyalty lay with Tormod, and she would prove it.

  The sounds of the battle outside ceased after a while. Aoife had no idea how much time had passed, and they all jumped when someone banged on the door.

  “Who’s there?” called Ragna.

  “Björn.”

  Ragna and Ylva hurried forward and unfastened the bar.

  Björn strode in, his clothes soaked in blood, and with a wild look in his eye. He was smiling. Aoife couldn’t move. What if the Norsemen had won, but at the expense of Tormod’s life? What would happen to her then? She watched as warrior after warrior entered the hall, resisting the desire to rush forward to see where he was. When he walked through the door grinning from ear to ear, she didn’t know whether to hug him or slap him.

  “We have a prisoner,” Tormod said. “But the others are dead.” He was filthy, sweat soaked, and with sand clinging to him. His clothes were splashed with blood from head to toe with areas where it had soaked in in huge amounts.

  Aoife gulped at the sight, but she was happy to see him alive and ran towards him.

  His eyes glowed with excitement, that same lust she’d seen in them earlier, magnified now from the frenzy of battle and the joy of victory. She pushed the thought from her mind that they had been her own people that had been killed, their conversation in the boat almost enough to convince her that she owed none of them any loyalty. Apart, perhaps, from the one who had hesitated about killing her — but she would have never wished any man dead.

  Tormod grabbed her as she reached him and pulled her against him. He kissed her long and deep, then lifted his head and began shouting orders at the assembled group. She understood only a small amount of them, but there were to be more watchmen on the shore and a patrol out on the water. No one was to go anywhere unarmed or alone.

  She noticed Ylva tending to Björn in a quieter corner of the hall, turned away when he pulled her down beside him and kissed her. There was little worry that much of the blood he had been covered in was his own, although he did have a nasty gash on one arm.

  When she looked back at her husband, she realised he had noticed her watching the pair. She blushed as he laughed.

  Tormod grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the back of the hall, then through the door leading to their room.

  As soon as they were through it, he closed it and pushed her up against it. He kissed her urgently as one hand pulled up her skirts while the other fumbled with the fastenings of his breeks. She gasped when he lifted her and held her in place against the door. His fingers probed, testing her readiness, then he guided himself inside her and thrust deep, kissing her roughly, filling all of her senses. She could smell the sweat and the blood, sense his passion, his desperate need to bury himself in her and celebrate the fact he was alive. Briefly she wondered if any woman would have done, then she pushed the thought from her head and accepted that here, tonight, he had chosen her, and as his wife she could only hope he always would.

  He cried out as he came, and her own release followed swiftly. He seemed in no hurry to withdraw, just held her there, panting, trying to catch his breath. Finally, he lifted his head. For a long moment he stared at her.

  An emotion stirred deep inside her, an emotion she didn’t want to put a name to.

  “I didn’t mean to do that…” he said.

  Her heart sank.

  As soon as he had lowered her feet to the floor, he pulled away and hurried from the room. She blinked, wondering what had caused such a sudden change. Even if she asked him, he might not know himself.

  She shook her head. Would it have been so hard to understand a husband from among the Britons? She drew in a breath. She couldn’t imagine finding a husband among the Britons. Her father and Ula had probably tried before sending her to the abbey.

  Tormod had wanted her, truly wanted her. Whether that was merely as any woman or for herself, she would never know. Wasn’t that just lust, the kind slaked with any woman, perhaps unworthy of a wife? And yet it had made her feel… wanted. That when he had been fighting, it had somehow been for her, because of her. To keep her safe. After the battle, he had come to her, been so desperate for her that he hadn’t even waited to bathe and…

  Her hands flew to her mouth. She knew what he had done differently, knew what was bothering him. He had spilled his seed inside her. She ran a hand over her stomach.

  He had wanted to wait for a child, and now he may not get his wish. She looked towards the door, wondering whether she should follow him and speak to him, or wait for him to return. Then, remembering the sounds of the violent fight from outside, and wi
th no real idea of where exactly Tormod had gone, she decided to stay where she was.

  She removed her clothes, then slipped into a clean dress and wished she had a basin of water. She curled up on the bed, intending to stay awake until Tormod returned, but sleep soon claimed her.

  * * *

  Tormod strode through the hall. The thralls and other women scattered as he passed. Even Ragna took one look at him and left him alone.

  Outside dawn was breaking. He leaned against the door. What had possessed him to do that? No, that at least was clear. The lust of battle had still been on him, the joy of victory. He had been careless, too overcome by lust to remember that he meant to wait, so that it would be clear to all the villagers any child Aoife birthed was his own. The appearance of that was important, not because of Aoife, but because of the past. Nor could he even admit the reasons why it was significant without undermining his position as jarl. He sighed. The impact of Ingrid’s deception was neverending, or so it often seemed. And he didn’t want a child’s life ruined because of his mistakes, no matter how much easier it would make his own to do so.

  There was a chance now of a child, whether he wanted one yet or not. He tried to push from his thoughts the hurt on her face when he’d said he had made a mistake. How could he explain to her about Ingrid? About how he’d been taken for a fool? None of that was Aoife’s fault, and yet… He could barely admit to himself what had happened in the past, so how could he explain it to her? He didn’t want her to know how foolish he had been in the past. His poor judgment had nearly been the death of him, and those around him. All he had to do was look at Arne to remind him how important it was to trust the right people. The decisions he made as jarl were important — not just for himself, but for the villagers who depended on him. And especially for the other Brothers of Thunder.

  He stopped short, realising with surprise that the reason he didn’t want her to know how foolish he had been was that he cared what she thought of him. Maybe it was something else? Maybe he loved her and wanted her to love him in return?