VIKING'S CURSED BRIDE, THE

by MACMILLAN, MAIRIBETH

  “Ah,” said Tormod, then placed a hand on Ragna’s shoulder. “Is that your only worry, you and all the rest of the village?” He glanced at his cousins. “The dowry has been paid in full. And their own priest and Cadell’s steward witnessed the Christian rites.”

  “Yes, although her family did not even accompany her then. How can you be sure she is, indeed, Cadell’s daughter? That this alliance will protect us?”

  Tormod frowned. “Cadell has paid the dowry. My bride is here and hale.” He stepped closer and hugged Ragna. “There is enough resemblance to Cadell that I believe she is his daughter. I think her stepmother does not care for her as she should. Her father looked to his wife for permission in all matters when we were there. If she did not want to come, he would so as he was told. We should not blame the girl. And I think they are afraid of us – something that is surely not a bad thing.”

  “No, it is no bad thing,” Ragna said. The tension in her shoulders eased and she smiled. “She told me about her stepmother. And it explains... Well, you’ll see. Now, let us begin. The villagers have worked hard these past months building the hall, their homes and their farms. It is time for a celebration—and what better way to celebrate than with the wedding of our jarl? It is a new beginning for all of us who chose to follow you.” With that, she hurried back in the direction of the hall.

  “Very well,” Tormod said, cleaning the sword with a cloth Ragna had handed him. Then he slid it into his belt as he heard the noise of cups and pots being banged and the villagers began to come out of their homes. Ragna hurried back to the main hall, followed by the women, while the men made their way to stand with Tormod. There was much laughter and a sense of joy in the air.

  Although he sensed an element of caution, he smiled to see his people so happy. And swore to himself he would make this marriage work, use it to ensure the village remained a safe and peaceful place. They would work hard and prosper here — an alliance with Aoife’s father would ensure a safe border, and it would give them access to trade and knowledge – things his people relied on for survival as much as farming. And if Cadell could not exist peacefully alongside them, then Tormod would pursue a different approach.

  The banging grew louder. The village women appeared, Aoife in their midst. He stared at her now dressed in a traditional Norse wedding gown, embroidery down both arms and thick rows of decoration along the hem. Her hair was both uncovered and loose. A jolt of lust ran through him. She was a striking woman. Her hair was red, an unusual shade the Gaels called ruadh and which he’d mostly seen on Gaels and Picts. If his new wife had ties to either of those peoples, then perhaps she was even more valuable than he’d thought. And yet a tiny, nagging voice of suspicion sounded in his ear. Why would her father have parted with her so willingly if she was so valuable? Mind you, after the raid on Alt Clut two years ago, the reputation the Norse had in this region was formidable. Perhaps her father appreciated that value, even if her stepmother didn’t.

  Now he saw her dressed in Norse clothing, smiling and laughing, it made him feel something he didn’t want to examine too closely. He pushed the feeling away. This was a business transaction, albeit one with pleasurable consequences, however, it remained purely business. He had no reason to love his bride, none at all.

  Aoife’s eyes met his own, then her gaze slid modestly downward. Whether her family were here or not, he had her dowry, he had her father’s promise of an alliance, and most of all, he had his daughter.

  As Tormod strode towards the hall, Björn, Ulf and Arne at his side, Ragna led Aoife around all the houses in the village, followed by a growing crowd. Those inside the houses came out and greeted her, giving her small gifts or flowers and then joining the group. Soon the whole village was involved in the noisy procession and the mood was one of jubilation.

  Tormod could smell the meat roasting on the spits in the hall and outside. His people had worked so hard, it was good they had this wedding feast to celebrate not only his marriage but the completion of the village.

  The procession turned onto the main street and Tormod found himself mesmerised by Aoife as she walked towards him. She was flushed and smiling, although her smile faltered every time she caught his gaze. He strode to meet her, the sword of his ancestors at his side, followed by Björn, Ulf and Arne.

  * * *

  Ragna halted the procession of the village women and urged Aoife to walk forwards to meet Tormod who stood with three men behind him. One was Björn, one was Arne—the scarred man—and she assumed the other was Ulf. As she started to move, she realised three warriors were following her. She turned to look at them and froze. All were armed, and one of them held a sword in front of himself, its tip pointing directly at her. Had she misunderstood? Was she a sacrifice rather than a bride? She turned to Tormod, who was also carrying a large sword. She gulped and took a step away from both men.

  “Do not fear,” said Tormod. “The warriors are there for your protection. Not to harm you. It is just a symbol, the bride’s men. You are not in any danger here.” Tormod stepped towards her when she still hesitated and held out a hand. After a moment, she took it, wishing she had asked Ragna more questions about the ceremony and what she would be expected to do.

  “Take the sword,” Tormod said. He gestured to the man behind her, who was now holding the sword flat across his arms. She looked from the sword to Tormod and back again. The warrior held it out to her, and she lifted it. It was heavier than it appeared. Her knees buckled a little, and so the warrior steadied her and helped her to settle the weight. Her arms started to shake, not just with the weight of the sword, but with the worry that she would make a mistake.

  “Give it to your husband,” the warrior whispered to her.

  She nodded at him, pleased there was another person who spoke her language. She turned to Tormod and handed him the sword. He took it and placed it in his belt, then knelt in front of her and presented his own sword to her. She noticed traces of dirt around the hilt and wondered if she, too, should have knelt, but it was too late now. She took the sword. This one was even heavier, but that was the least of her problems.

  As her hands closed on the pommel, her vision blurred. Her curse was upon her. She shook her head, trying to subdue it. Not now. Not in front of all these people who might do anything to her once they found out about her visions.

  Despite Tormod telling her about their seer, she was worried. She leaned on the sword for balance as the familiar blackness dulled her earthly vision. A seer was one thing, someone who lived on the fringes of society. It would surely be different for a woman, the jarl’s wife, to be cursed in such a way… there was no telling what they might do to her.

  She blinked and looked cautiously at her new husband. Perhaps she could claim it was merely the heat, but it was not her husband’s face she saw. Instead a field burned in front of her. She could smell the thick, black smoke, feel it filling her lungs, stinging her eyes and making them water. The smoke gathered and formed into the hissing face of a wildcat. Claws came sweeping from the sky towards her and she gasped, inhaling the smoke deep into her lungs. She started to choke and jolted back to reality.

  Slowly her vision cleared, and there was nothing except darkness in front of her. Feeling returned first and she knew Tormod held her. She rested against him for a moment, terrified that once she lifted her head she would be beaten. He must have sensed she was awake again and set her back on her feet before holding firmly to her shoulders.

  She lifted her gaze to his, unsure what she might see there. Only concern etched his features. Ragna was beside him. The woman placed a cool hand on her brow then took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

  “There is no need to be afraid,” Tormod said.

  Aoife swallowed and nodded, or at least tried to.

  “Come,” Ragna said. “Let us finish the handfasting. Our jarl’s new wife needs a good meal and a drink.”

  There was a moment of silence before Björn cheered. The villagers joined him and s
oon the knot of fear in her belly released. They thought she was just nervous about her wedding. That was a relief. She tried to smile while one of her hands was bound with Tormod’s and then each of them promised to be faithful during their marriage. Tormod smiled at her as they placed the rings on their own fingers, then hand in hand they walked together to the door of the hall, where Tormod carried her over the threshold. There was a great cheer from outside. He led her to a seat in the centre of the dais as the villagers followed them in and settled down, ready for the feast.

  As they went into the hall, thralls scattered and started to carve the meat from the hog roast over the central fire. There were plenty of vegetables and fish. Aoife hadn’t seen this much food since the feast at Alt Clut and her plate was refilled more than once, although she barely remembered eating any of it. She could still smell the acrid smoke, feel it burning her lungs.

  Sitting beside Tormod on the dais, she observed all the villagers and tried to adjust to thinking of this as her new home. Everything had happened so quickly.

  “Why so sad?” Tormod held out a horn filled with mead, which she took. “Drink,” he urged her. “It will calm your nerves.” He watched as she sipped at the sweet, potent liquid, then leaned forward to kiss her. Cheers sounded in the hall. As soon as his lips left hers, she pulled back and stared at her plate, unable now to eat another mouthful.

  Someone, she thought it might have been Björn, started to sing, although she couldn’t understand the words.

  Suddenly, the events of the past two days swept over her and all her energy drained away. She shouldn’t have drunk the mead. It had relaxed her, and the tension that had kept her going was fading.

  Tormod said something to her. She just stared at him, unable to make sense of the words. He stood and pulled her up beside him, held her close. She leaned into his strength, grateful for his support, given how badly her legs were trembling. One of the thralls filled his horn with mead. The noise in the hall quieted as he began to speak.

  “I thank you for your attendance on my wedding day and for the welcome you have given my wife.” There were cheers and some applause. “But I believe she is tired, so we will take our leave of you for tonight. Please, continue to eat, drink and enjoy yourselves.”

  * * *

  The shouts and whistles grew in volume as they made their way through the hall to the door leading to Tormod’s room and many comments were hurled towards them. Most she couldn’t understand, although she could guess at what they referred.

  Aoife took a deep breath as they stepped through the door hand in hand. The wedding celebrations were over and her duties as a wife were about to begin. She shivered. As her eyes swept the room, she noticed the barrel she’d bathed in had been emptied and there was no sign of her old robes. When her gaze came to rest on the large bed strewn with an assortment of furs, she took an involuntary step back.

  Tormod took her arm before firmly walking her further into the room and kicking the door shut. She blushed at the sound of raucous whooping from the room behind them and pulled away from him. Studiously avoiding looking at him, she hurried across to a chink in the wall and peered out. Dawn had already broken and the silvery sky tinged with peach was beautiful.

  Was it only two mornings since she had looked out into such a pale morning light and heard the horsemen approach? Now that life was over and a new, strange one beginning, and yet the morning was just the same. The sound of the waves of the sea-loch lapping, the mountains rising jaggedly from the sea all along the coastline—all that was the same.

  “It looks very much like my father’s land,” Tormod said, startling her. He’d moved to stand right beside her and she hadn’t noticed. How could such a large man move so quietly, or had she blocked out his presence from her awareness on purpose? She couldn’t do so anymore. Heat radiated out from him and the leather scent of his clothing reached her nostrils. Under that was her husband’s own unique smell. She breathed it in, then closed her eyes, and yet still couldn’t escape his presence.

  “Help me,” he said.

  She opened her eyes and turned to see what he needed help with and froze as she realised he wanted her to help undress him. She stared at the fastenings on his clothing, unable to move. She tried to swallow, her mouth dry. She had some idea of what was about to happen, knew as a wife she couldn’t refuse her husband. She was, however, afraid of the pain her stepmother had warned her about when cautioning her to remain chaste.

  A single tear slid out the side of her eye. She tried to turn away from him, and he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. The backs of his fingers gently brushed her face. “There is no need to weep,” he said softly. “Tell me what you fear.”

  She was shocked he was asking, but touched that he even cared enough to ask. “This,” she said, indicating the bed. “Will it hurt?”

  He cupped her face and shrugged. “Perhaps a little, and only at first. I will try not to hurt you. It can be good, you know, between a man and his wife. Pleasurable. It shouldn’t be a duty or something to be feared. I do not intend to hurt you or force you.”

  “My stepmother said even with my husband it would hurt, and I wasn’t to cry out or you would beat me or cast me off. And the priests... They talk about sin and the evils of the flesh and...”

  Tormod smiled, then slid his hand around to cradle the back of her head. He angled her face towards him, placed a gentle kiss on her lips, then drew back. “Do not listen to them.”

  After a long moment, he tipped her chin up with his finger and smiled. “What they have not been telling you is about the pleasure. It is a feeling like no other, and even your god does not disapprove of married couples bedding.” He leaned in, kissed her again. This time his lips lingered on hers, moving gently and sensuously. His tongue parted her lips, and he groaned as he began to explore her mouth.

  Slowly she began to respond, terrified of making a mistake, but this was more care and attention than she’d ever been shown before. She would be a fool not to respond to his gentleness.

  He swept his hands down her shoulders and pulled her against him. As he deepened the kiss, she spread her hands across his chest, feeling the solid muscle underneath, the warmth of him. She found his belt and started to unfasten it.

  He pulled back from her, smiling. She stilled. What was she doing, helping him with this? Her stepmother’s warning came flooding back as Tormod let the belt fall to the ground, then pulled his kirtle and shirt over his head, leaving him dressed only in his breeks. His skin glowed with a golden tinge in the firelight.

  Tormod loosened her belt, allowing it to drop onto the floor. He ran his hands up her sides and took a step closer. As he kissed her thoroughly, his hands moved to undo the brooches that fastened the heavily embroidered apron at each shoulder. Before she could grab hold of it, her apron slithered down her body onto the floor, leaving her only in her dress. He didn’t try to remove that yet, though. Instead, he ran his hands through the length of her red hair. She shivered at the feeling.

  “You didn’t get this from your father,” Tormod remarked, separating out a handful of strands and allowing them to flow over his palm.

  “My mother was a Pict.”

  “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “This marriage can be more than just a political union. Your presence here will safeguard us from your father’s men and his allies in Strathclyde, and maybe also from the Picts?”

  She swallowed. Should she tell him now not to trust that her father would not attack the village just because of her presence here? No, she should wait until the marriage was consummated.

  She began to realise the impact of the trick her father and stepmother had played. Not only had they rid themselves of an unwanted daughter, but they had also lulled the Norsemen into a false sense of security.

  “Your mother’s people?” he prompted. “They won’t seek to harm you?”

  “No,” she managed to say. “My mother’s people wish me no harm.” That at leas
t was true. As for the other... If she told him the truth, he might reject her and send her back to her father. Her punishment for failing in this would surely be far worse than being sent to the abbey. She’d never make it back home alive – murdered along the way, or even on her arrival—her death blamed on the Norsemen.

  No, she would find a way to tell him, to warn him of the danger—but not now. Once her place here was more secure. If she did everything possible to make herself necessary, do everything he asked of her, then maybe, just maybe, she could have a value to him that wasn’t built on her father’s lies.

  “I would like to kiss you again,” he said.

  For a moment she froze, then nodded. She tilted her head up to meet his. Their breath mingled and the heat of his body warmed her. His arms encircled her as their lips touched and she gasped as he lifted her and carried her to the bed. Without taking his eyes off her face, he placed her carefully down and smoothed his hands down the length of her dress. She stared at the expanse of well-muscled chest beside her. The scars which crisscrossed it seemed to add to his masculinity rather than detract from his beauty. Could a man be beautiful? She’d never considered it before.

  One scar across his heart was particularly deep and she reached out, ran her fingers along it. “What happened?”

  “My wife’s brother challenged me.”

  She drew back, frowning. “You’re already married?”

  “Was married. She’s dead.” He took her fingers in his own and kissed the tips. “Loki was at work in that family, so Odin made me the victor.”

  His expression had turned fierce and she hesitated to provoke him further. His hand went to the oddly-shaped cross hanging around his neck on a leather thong. He flipped it over and she realised it wasn’t a cross at all, but a hammer.

  “Thor was with me when we fought.” He smiled. “Your priests prefer it when it seems as if we believe the stories of their Christian god. And they seem also to have an unquenchable lust for gold.”