by Mia Marlowe
Her father’s words hit Brenna like stones tossed on a grave mound. When Brenna’s brother was accidentally killed, Brian Ui Niall had forced Domhnall to sacrifice the life of his first born to keep peace between their clans. Now he could scarcely deny the Ulaid a bride of his choosing for his remaining heir. In a way, the request evened the score. Domhnall was depriving the Donegal of his cherished daughter. Brian couldn’t gainsay his neighbor. To do so would mean open war, and, given the opportunity, Brian Ui Niall was a man for peace.
Brenna had no more choice in the matter than her father. “Aye, Da, I understand.”
“Ye must needs wed, daughter,” Brian said simply. “Connor McNaught pressed me for ye—”
“I’d sooner marry a toad.”
The king grinned. “I thought as much. That’s why I offered ye to the Northman.”
“And does the toad have any say in the matter?” Jorand asked dryly. He leaned back, massive arms crossed over his chest.
“No slight was intended, boy-o. Ye’ve missed me meaning,” the king said hastily.
“No, I think I understand your situation pretty well. You have a daughter you can’t place in the marriage market for some unnamed reason, and I’m available. If I accept, you’ve gained an ally against further raids from my countrymen, married off Brenna, and freed up Moira to seal the peace with your neighbor,” Jorand said, his level gaze piercing Brenna to the bone. “If I insult you by declining, Brenna will end up marrying a man she detests even more than me and you’ll have given your people one more reason to hate my kind. I think that about tallies it up, doesn’t it, or have I missed something?”
Blood drained from Brenna’s head. Her vision swam uncertainly. It was one thing for her to protest this match in private. For Jorand to refuse her now after he’d accepted her in public would disgrace her beyond bearing.
Brian narrowed his eyes at the Northman. “Does this mean ye’ll not have me daughter?”
“Now you’ve missed my meaning,” Jorand said. “I just want everything clear and in the open. You said we’d agree to terms in private. So be it. Here are my terms. Once Brenna and I are wed, I’m free to go wherever and whenever I choose.”
“Ye expect to wed a daughter of the house and make a sea widow of her in the selfsame day?” the king demanded.
“Not at all,” Jorand said. “Brenna can come with me if she wishes. In fact, I hope she will. She told me some Northmen have set up a town on the river Liffey. Dublin, she called it. I mean to go to this Dublin to find out if I have kinsmen there.” A frown spoiled the even line of Jorand’s dark brows. “I know my true name now, but not my true self yet. I hope finding some familiar faces will bring back my memory.”
“And what if your memory includes a wife elsewhere?” Brenna asked softly.
“No need to borrow trouble, daughter,” the king said, then turned back to Jorand. “A wife must follow her husband if he wills it, but if me daughter wishes to stay here, ye must swear to allow it. Brenna has a home within me keep as long as I hold Donegal. Are we in accord?”
Jorand nodded.
“Is that all then?” Brian asked.
“No,” the Northman answered. “I need to speak to Brenna in private before I give my final answer.”
The king nodded and strode to the door. “Speak your piece then. I’ll be back directly.”
Brenna felt as though all her support trailed Brian Ui Niall out of the keep. “No, ye’ll not bargain me away like a heifer with a blemish! Surely there’s some other way,” she called after him. “Don’t make me do this, Da.”
Her legs went limp and she sank to the stone pavings in a small heap. To be haggled over instead of wooed, to have her future dictated to her without a choice—it was unbearable.
Her shoulders quaked in silent sobs. She covered her face with her hands and wept.
Then she felt a hand slide over the crown of her head, warm and gentle. Brenna opened her eyes and looked up.
“It’s not so bad as that, princess.” Jorand squatted beside her and offered her a small square of cloth. “I won’t be such a bad husband. You’ve no need to fear. I’ll not be harsh with you, I swear it.”
Brenna gulped and wiped her eyes. Then she blew her nose like a trumpet.
“I’m not afraid of ye.” Her voice quaked uncertainly. “But it does me heart no favor to be wedding a man who thought he was agreeing to marry me sister.”
“If that’s what you think, you shouldn’t worry,” Jorand said. “If I were given my choice, believe me, Brenna, it would be you.”
He was being polite, nothing more. She supposed she should be grateful. To start a marriage of convenience with courtesy was surely not a small thing.
Then why did her chest still ache?
He ran a hand through the length of her hair again and she trembled.
“You’re sure you’re not afraid?”
She shook her head. “Ye’ve given me no cause to fear ye.”
Yet.
“Good,” he said, still smoothing down her mass of curls with his long-fingered hand. “That’s a start, at least. But I need to know something.”
“What?”
“What was it you almost said tonight? Something about your father not still blaming you for... what?”
Brenna sat up straight and met his gaze directly. “Ye may as well know from the first, then.” Her voice faltered but she forced herself to keep looking at him. “If ye marry me, ye’ll not be wedding a giddy innocent. I know full well what passes between a man and a woman.”
“That explains a thing or two.” If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Brenna looked away. Did unholy knowledge leave a mark? A visible sign for all the world to read like too much sun left freckles?
“I can’t say for sure,” Jorand went on, “but if we marry, you might not be wedding a virgin either.”
Saints and angels, he’d misunderstood her. Just because she knew what men were, he thought her unchaste.
If it were only that simple...
The truth was too painful to explain. He’d learn soon enough. “That’s different. Ye are a man and ‘tis expected a man have... experience.”
“If I do, I have no memory of it. Answer me this, Brenna.” His voice dropped to a low rumble. “Do you love this other man?”
“Ye don’t understand.” She balled the soiled kerchief in her fist. “When I think on him at all, ‘tis only to wish him dead.”
She stared across the room, her eyes not focusing on anything in Brian Ui Niall’s keep. Her sister Sinead’s screams echoed in her mind.
“Ye’ve been given a gift, Jorand. Have ye never thought that not remembering could be a boon? Blessed forgetfulness. I yearn for it with all me heart.”
The tears erupted afresh and Jorand settled himself beside her on the pavings. He wrapped his arms around her, rocked her slowly, and let her cry.
“A man who can’t remember and a woman who wants to forget,” he said softly when her sobs subsided. “Aren’t we a pair?”
“Aye.” Brenna laughed in spite of herself and swiped at her eyes. “I guess we are.”
“Then you’ll have me for a husband?”
“Aye, if ye still wish to take me to wife.”
Jorand cupped her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. “More than anything.”
“Then we’ll marry,” Brenna said, trying to control the strange quiver in her gut. “But I place on ye two conditions.”
“Name them.”
“One, ye take me to Clonmacnoise Abbey on the way to this Dublin ye seek. I have some ... doings there I must needs finish.”
“Easily done. And the other?”
“Our marriage will be a handfast only.” When he arched an inquiring brow, she explained. “We wed for a year and a day. At the end of that time, we may make the marriage permanent, or part company with no ill will.”
“This handfast is a true marriage?”
“Aye,” she said with a slight flutter in her chest.
“A true marriage in all its parts, save only in its brevity.”
“Why do you wish it so?”
“Ye don’t know what ye’ll find in Dublin. Da may be willing to dismiss it, but ye can’t say for certain ye don’t already have a wife and family waiting for ye. I need to remember that, and so do ye.”
“True enough. It seems sensible to swear only to what we know we can keep,” he agreed and held out a hand for her to clasp. “A handfast it will be.”
“For a year and a day.” Brenna gripped his palm and made the mistake of looking into his eyes. She knew she must guard her heart or else when he parted from her at the end of the appointed time, there’d be nothing left of it.
Chapter Twelve
“Here now,” Moira said as she swept back one of Brenna’s curls and tucked it under the elaborate plait of braids crowning her head. Her sister slipped another sprig of flowers into the mass of hair above Brenna’s left ear. “Much better. Ye are the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen, Brennie, and that’s God’s truth.”
“Wait till your own wedding a month hence,” Brenna said. “I’ll be a crow to your dove. Ye’ll be made not only a bride, but a queen as well.”
Moira’s smile held an understandable lift of smugness. “ ‘Tis a good match Da has made for me, isn’t it?”
“Fearghus of Ulaid has the best of the bargain, I’m thinking. Ye know nothing of him, sister. How can ye be so blithe about this marriage ye are pledged to?”
“And what do ye know of Jorand save that he has a pleasing form and a stout heart?”
Brenna shrugged. “Not much, I grant ye. His past is a closed book, even to himself.”
“Then ye must write his future with your own fair hand.”
“For a year and a day, at least,” Brenna said.
“And here is the crowning piece.” Moira fished in the pocket pinned to her tunic and drew out a shimmering silver chain. “Mother sends this to ye.”
An ornate cross dangled before Brenna’s eyes. It was the silver necklace her mother had worn for as long as she could remember. She’d always told her daughters it would go to the first bride among them. Of course, Brenna always expected Sinead would receive it, but her older sister set her heart on a religious life when she was a very little girl. The passage of years did nothing to dissuade her.
Brenna flushed with pleasure as she slipped the symbol of faith over her head. The silver chain was cool on her skin ad the cross nestled snugly in the hollow between her breasts. The necklace was the finest thing she’d ever owned. It felt like her mother’s benediction and she was grateful for this tangible evidence of her distant mother’s care. “Mother knows I’m to wed, then.”
Moira’s smile trembled. “She knows there’s to be a wedding in the keep at least. Last evening when I helped her to bed, she took it off her neck and asked me to give it to the bride.” Moira wrapped her arms around Brenna. “Oh, Brennie, she wouldn’t know either of our names if her hope of heaven depended upon it.”
“Then we must be grateful it doesn’t,” Brenna said.
Moira was unable to sustain melancholy for more than a handful of heartbeats. She grinned wickedly and leaned down to whisper in Brenna’s ear. “Just think, this very night ye’ll lie with a man, sister. Ye must tell me all after ye have been with your Northman. If it’s left to Mother, I’ll go ignorant to me bridal bed.”
“As ye should,” Brenna said primly, her face coloring with heat. She’d avoided thinking of that aspect of her impending marriage. But each time the vision of Jorand naked in the stream loomed up to haunt her. She felt her spine wilt.
Lord above, grant me courage to go through this ordeal and may I not hate the man hereafter, she prayed silently.
“Brenna, wipe that pained expression off your face,” her sister scolded. “Honestly, ye’d think ye were destined for a bog instead of the arms of an exceedingly fair man. I’m not privy to all the particulars, but from the little I’ve heard, the marriage bed is not at all an unpleasant prospect.”
Brenna was saved from making a reply by a soft rap on the door. Father Michael’s gentle voice asked for admittance. Brenna scurried to let her old friend and teacher into the cramped cell.
The priest made signs of blessing over both the girls. Then Moira slipped out, with eyes rolling, to allow Brenna the privacy of the confessional.
“Since ye were a wee girl I dreamed of saying mass over your marriage. Then when ye went to Clonmacnoise to become a bride of Christ, I thought never to see ye wed. And now this.” The thicket of wrinkles around Father Michael’s eyes deepened with concern. “Ye are certain ye wish it thus, my child?”
“Aye, I do.” Brenna adjusted the enameled silver brooch holding the blue brat at her shoulder. She fumbled with the catch and pricked her finger. A bright red drop welled up and Brenna let a curse slip from her lips before she bound her fingertip with a small strip of cloth. “Forgive me, Father.”
The priest made the sign of the cross in the air. “There are two kinds of folk I always absolve of unclean speech with no penance at all—women in labor and brides about to wed.”
“I thank ye.” Brenna grinned and hugged her mentor. “And thank ye for agreeing to the handfast. ‘Tis best, believe me. But it does ease me heart to know ye’ll be saying the blessing over us.”
“Any girl set to marry a pagan Northman is in need of blessing.”
“What a thing to say! Did ye not baptize Jorand yourself with your own hands?”
The Northman had become a nominal Christian at least. It was the only way Father Michael would consent to officiating, but the way her heart hammered against her ribs, Brenna couldn’t say the old priest wasn’t right. Jorand was so different from the men of Erin—larger, full of foreign eccentricities, and not quite safe. What was she thinking when she agreed to this match?
She took a deep breath. She could do this. She had to.
“Brenna, me love,” Brian Ui Niall called up the ladder. “ ‘Tis time.”
It seemed to Brenna that time expanded and contracted in a writhing pattern. She somehow managed to climb down the ladder and then the world rushed at her senses in a jumbled mass. She was aware of the fresh scent of heather thrust into her hands, the rough brush of her father’s lips on her temple, a blur of colors as she floated on Brian Ui Niall’s arm through the throng to the waiting circle of stones and flower petals. The squeal of flutes suddenly hushed when she came to a stop before the big Northman.
Her husband. For a year and a day.
Her lover. Her vision tunneled at the thought. She couldn’t dwell on that now.
Looking into Jorand’s face, his features so damnably perfect, his eyes impossibly blue, his mouth slightly turned up at the corners as if he’d read her secret thoughts, Brenna feared she might faint dead away.
Breathe, she ordered herself.
Father Michael’s prayer droned on in Latin, as if he was intent on Christianizing this rite as much as humanly possible. The heads of all the guests were bowed, and Brenna tried to follow their example, but she felt Jorand’s eyes on her and had to look up again.
He flashed his teeth at her and winked.
“... of your own free will?”
Had someone said something? With a start, she realized she was expected to answer.
“Aye,” Brenna said softly.
“And ye, Jorand.” Brenna heard the slightest catch in Father Michael’s voice. “Do ye come also into this circle of your own free will?”
“Ja.” His voice was deep and strong.
Father Michael presented a jewel-handled dagger to Brenna. She took it and, after a brief hesitation, punctured her palm with the sharp tip. Then she handed the weapon to Jorand. He closed his right fist around the blade and yanked it through with his other hand without so much as a flinch.
“Join hands,” the priest ordered.
Brenna raised her hand and Jorand pressed his palm against hers. Their fingers interlocked, blood mingling, as Father Micha
el bound a red cord around their wrists.
“With this binding I tie ye, heart to heart, together as one. With this knot, ye are joined in sacred union. May God smile upon thee, and bless thee with health and joy.”
The priest pulled the knot tight. “Let the bride and groom recite the vow.”
Brenna and Jorand had been given instruction on the proper wording, but now the rite suddenly flew right out of Brenna’s mind. She couldn’t think how to start.
“You are blood of my blood,” Jorand began, triggering her memory.
“And bone of me bone,” Brenna answered.
“I give ye me body, that we two might be one.” She faltered a bit on that line, but Jorand’s voice was strong enough for the two of them.
“Hand in hand, and blood in blood.” Brenna even managed a tremulous smile.
“Let this green land witness our love,” Jorand finished.
A tiny ribbon of red tickled down her wrist. Was it her blood or his? There was no way to tell.
Father Michael offered them Communion, placing a small bite of barley bread on their tongues. “Let this be your first meal as man and wife. May Christ bless this union and may ye never know hunger.”
The priest raised a chalice of wine. “Let Christ’s blood be your first drink as man and wife. May ye never know thirst.”
Brenna sipped the stinging liquid, then handed it to Jorand, who drank while never taking his eyes from her. He was playing the role of devoted swain convincingly, she had to give him that. She blessed him for his thoughtfulness.
Father Michael handed the dagger to Jorand. “Let this be your first task as man and wife. Sever all ties with the past, cut off the bindings of the old, and sweep them away.”
Jorand—now her husband, she realized with a start—sliced away the red cord, taking care not to nick her with the sharp blade. The binding fell to the earth, but he didn’t release her hand immediately.
His other hand closed on her waist and he pulled her to him. Then his mouth met hers in a soft but not quite chaste kiss. When he released her, there was fire in his blue eyes only Brenna could see.