Handfasted to the Bear
Reformed Rogues Book 2
By Elina Emerald
Copyright
Copyright ©2020 by Elina Emerald
Handfasted to the Bear
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests contact via links below; [email protected] or www.elinaemerald.com
Cover design by 100covers
Disclaimer
This is a work of FICTION. Although some characters are based on true historical figures and time periods, their depictions are fictitious. Please refrain from pointing out historical inaccuracies found in a made-up love story that happened between two people who never existed. Also, please DO NOT try any of the battle moves at home. I made those moves up using an invisible sword on an imaginary ninja warrior while listening to an 80s mixtape in my kitchen. Which is like playing Hendrix on an air guitar while standing on a fold-out sofa bed. If you play with actual swords, daggers, shotels and battle axes you will hurt yourselves. Finally, please do not lock anyone up in a Castle dungeon against their will. Outside of a romance novel, it is not a very sociable thing to do and frowned upon in most countries.
Dedication
To my Great grandaunt Reapi, a Warrior Queen who raised Warrior Queens. Your legacy lives on.
Chapter 1 – The Beginning
1016–Royal Palace–Lake Hayq, Wollo Province, Abyssinia
Queen Gudit paced the hallways of her palace. Worry and sorrow driving her repetitive behavior. She wore the signatory Habesha kemis made of white chiffon with a richly woven netela shawl draped across her shoulders.
Despite the simple attire, no one would mistake her for anyone other than the Warrior Queen.
Gudit had reigned sovereign over a vast Kingdom for over thirty years and was close to destroying an Axumite Empire twice the size of her own.
To her detractors she was a ruthless usurper, a rebel. To her supporters, she was a legitimate ruler from a dynastic family.
Whatever the preconceptions, none could deny she was born to lead, and she did with fire and military acumen.
But the Queen was first and foremost a mother who cherished her children. Losing her youngest daughter, the thing she mourned the most. At twenty-one, Izara had vanished after travelling to Yemnat. Months of searching had proved futile… until now.
Gudit’s pacing ceased when Zenabu her trusted advisor approached. He bowed in reverence before saying, “My Nigisiti, I have received word from Ajani.”
Zenabu ushered the messenger forward. He was a young, attractive man, dark-skinned with the lean physique of a runner who could cover long distances without rest.
“Speak,” Gudit said in an authoritative voice.
The messenger bowed. “Master Ajani says Li’iliti Izara was captured from the Port of Zeila by Norsemen.”
Gudit turned to Zenabu. “What is these Norsemen?”
“They are white, golden-haired raiders from a land called Norway,” he replied.
The Queen whipped her head back to the messenger. “Continue.”
“The li’iliti was seized as a gift for their King. A man called Ol… af Harald… sson.”
“Ol… af? What kind of name is this? What are his demands?”
“He made no demands, my Nigisiti. She was to become one of his thralls.”
Gudit tried to school her features, but her rage got the better of her. She shouted, “Do you mean to tell me my daughter, a descendant from a thousand, year old dynasty is to become the slave of some… Olaf?”
Gudit threw the cup of wine she was holding at the wall. It narrowly missed the messenger’s head.
The messenger said, “Yes, my Nigisiti.”
“What do you mean ‘was’? What are you not telling me?” Her hand shot out, grabbing him by the throat with intent to squeeze.
Zenabu intervened before the Queen lost all composure. He dismissed the relieved messenger and explained the rest. “It seems the li’iliti never arrived in Norway. Her captor…” he hesitated.
“Her captor did what?” The Queen tensed, knowing that if her daughter were dead, she would reign fire upon these Norsemen.
Zenabu cleared his throat. “Her captor took her with him. He did not return to his king.”
The Queen visibly relaxed before confusion marred her features. “Then where did he take her?”
“He took her to a foreign land surrounded by sea. They call it… Orkney.”
***
1018–Birsay, Orkney Isles
Izara Mezmer watched the raging sea from the castle wall-walk. Her raven black hair and iridescent dark skin glistened in the wintery sunlight. The signatory robes marking her as a thrall billowed as the icy winds lashed the material across her protruding belly.
She was thousands of miles from her beloved homeland, staring at the vast expanse of ocean. She was in a foreign landscape as striking and terrifying as the Norse Jarl who had captured her on a Viking raid.
“Git inside, it’s cold.” A deep voice rumbled from behind her before she felt a fur-lined coat being draped across her shoulders.
Izara turned towards her captor.
He was a fearsome-looking man with a firm jawline and rugged facial features. Fair skin with a head of thick black unruly hair. He looked so different from the other golden-haired Vikings, yet to her he was striking. He towered above her. Violence and brutality pulsed from his very being. None of it had ever touched her.
She had witnessed his rage unleashed upon others if they dared to cross him. But to her he was always a protective lover with an abundance of kindness… but only to her.
“I just needed air,” she said with a reassuring smile.
“Whitna' bout the bairn?”
“The bairn is fine.”
“Did ye have another vision?” he asked.
“It was nothing.” She lied.
His worried eyes assessed her as he frowned.
Izara furrowed her brow in return. It was a look she gave him when she was trying to read his mood.
His eyes softened before he gathered her into his arms. Her back to his front, one hand gently caressing her stomach, cradling their unborn child.
“I mis return to Caithness in the morn. There is trouble brewing with my half-brothers. Ah’ll need to go to Norway to petition King Olaf about their territories.”
“Should I come with you?” Izara set her troubled eyes on him.
“No love, ye are safest here. But I promise ah’ll return in time to meet our bairn.”
Izara relaxed once again into his warm, comforting embrace as they stared at the Atlantic Ocean in silence.
Clutching the rosary beads in her hand, she uttered a silent prayer that her premonition was false. But deep down inside, she knew she would not live long enough to watch their child grow.
***
1023–Lerwick, Shetland Islands
The wind picked up its pace as five-year-old Orla curled up in her warm bed. She had been through much upheaval in her brief life. Abandoned at birth, she had moved from one household to another. Always hidden away.
Orla learnt to adapt and adjust to any circumstance, but no matter how much she tried, she could not shake the loneliness of being an orphan and having no last name to speak of.
Startled by a sound, she opened her eyes to see Runa; the
woman caring for her.
“Wake up, peedie bird. Ye’re aboot to go on a journey.”
“Where to?” Orla asked in a loud voice.
“Shh quiet, no one must ken ye are leaving.” A familiar voice spoke behind her.
It was Hagan, Runa’s husband. Orla had been living with the couple and their son Torstein for some time.
Hagan was already gathering her things together while Runa started dressing Orla in warm clothes.
In hushed tones Orla asked, “Can I take Mira?”
“No, lass ye cannot take yer puppy, it will make much noise,” Hagan said.
“Whitna bout Tor, can he come?”
“No, he is still away at sea,” Runa said, giving her a hug.
Orla hugged her back but looked confused when Runa started wiping tears from her eyes.
“Why are you weeping Runa?”
“Because ah’ll miss ye. Now mind on yer prayers daily and try to keep out of trouble.”
Orla nodded. Then Hagan crouched down beside her. “Remember the silent game we played when ye were a bairn?” Hagan asked.
“Aye.”
“We mis play it again now, sweeting.” He stretched out his hand towards her.
Orla placed her tiny hand in his big calloused one and followed him through the darkened tunnels below the homestead that led to the ocean.
When they arrived at the opening, Orla saw a longboat on the shore with men on board.
Hagan picked her up, his loosened blonde hair flying behind him as he ran towards the sea.
“Where are we, gan?” Orla asked, holding on tight as they moved faster.
“To Scotland.”
“Why?”
“We must hide ye again, lass.”
“Hide me? Who from?”
“A monster.”
***
1024 - MacGregor Land, Glenorchy
The Bear
Orla hated Scotland. The children were mean because she looked different and talked strange. They laughed and poked fun at her hair, her skin color, her clothes.
Because she did not know who her parents were, they also called her, ‘Orla the Orphan.’ That slur hurt the most. To be reminded daily that she had no last name, and no kin was like pouring salt on a festering wound.
The kids also teased her because she lived with Morag ‘the Oracle.’ Although Morag looked scary with her long white hair and eerie eyes, Orla felt a powerful bond with her.
She tried not to cry when the others said mean things, but she was only six summers old, and everything about the place and its people was strange to her.
When the taunts became too much, Orla would run into the woods and sit near a large rowan tree. Its branches she imagined were the arms of a loving parent reaching out to console her as she sheltered in its embrace.
On one particularly bad day, feeling so alone, Orla was sobbing by the tree when a large boy stepped out from behind it. At first, she was terrified, thinking he meant her harm, but he told her not to be afraid. He just needed to sit and rest a while in the shade.
Orla noticed he had cuts on his arms and when he turned his face fully to her, she gasped to see one side swollen and bruised.
“Are you all right?” Orla asked tentatively as he winced when he sat down beside her.
“Aye… just a wee bit sore tis all.”
“What happened to you?”
“I… fell off a horse.”
They sat in silence for a while until he asked, “Why are ye crying lass?”
“The children here are very mean.”
He nodded in understanding, then told her he came to the tree too sometimes when people made him sad.
They talked for a long time about many things, and soon Orla realized she did not feel so alone anymore because that day she made her first real friend. His name was ‘Brodie Fletcher’ and because of his size, they called him ‘the Bear’. He became her protector.
From then on, whenever the village children teased her, Brodie would threaten them, and they would stop. Brodie even let her go hunting with him sometimes.
Orla decided she wanted to be a hunter just like him.
Brodie introduced Orla to his friend. A boy named ‘Beiste’. He was the MacGregor Chieftain’s son, and he was kind to her. Beiste became her second friend.
***
1026–Handfasted
When Orla was eight years old and Brodie twelve, he told her he and Beiste were leaving to foster with the Murrays. They would be gone a long while.
Orla ran to her rowan tree weeping because she would miss Brodie. He was her one loyal friend. He had been there for her when she had no one, and she had kept him company when his father hurt him. Over the years Brodie’s father hurt him a lot.
“What’s wrong, Orla? Dinnae cry. I’ll return some day,” Brodie said when he found her by their tree.
“Brodie, you are my one true friend. What if you never come back? I will be alone forever.” Orla sobbed.
“You’ll not be alone forever. There’ll be many men trying to court you, for you’re a bonnie catch.”
“Not when I am different.”
“Och, when I return, you’ll be married to a handsome man. But none as braw as me you ken.” He winked at her to break the somber mood.
“No one will marry me Brodie.”
“Dinnae say that Orla.”
“Tis true.”
“Well, how about we agree that if no one marries you, I will?”
“Really? You promise?”
“Aye. I do. Here. We can use my hair tie to create a handfast.” He held her hand and released the leather tie that bound his long hair. He then tied it around their wrists, securing it in a knot.
“What does it mean?” Orla asked.
“My aunt says tis what couples do if they want to be together but are not ready for marriage.”
“All right lets hand… past?”
“Handfast Orla. With our hands together bound fast like this.” He lifted their entwined hands.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Well, there are always words spoken.” He cleared his throat. “I Brodie the Bear take you Orla as my wife if no one marries you.” Brodie nudged her. “Now you say it.”
“I Orla the Orphan…” She paused awkwardly.
Brodie interrupted and shook his head. “No, Orla. Dinnae call yourself that. How about… Orla the… Huntress?”
Orla nodded and smiled. “I Orla the Huntress take you Brodie as my husband in case no one marries me.”
“Done. Feel better now?”
“Aye, Brodie. Thank you.” Orla beamed at him.
“Och, tis alright lass. Here, you take the tie and keep it as a reminder.” Brodie untied their hands, giving her the leather tie to hold.
“Will you come and say goodbye to me before you leave Brodie?”
“Of course, we’re handfasted.” He winked at her.
***
Owen Fletcher
After leaving Orla by the tree, Brodie realized the time was late and sprinted home. He could see a storm approaching and he still had chores to complete before dark. His dad was easily angered, so he ran with trepidation. If he snuck in through the barn, he would be safe.
As he rounded the fence line, fear gripped him. His father, Owen, was standing beside the barn. Brodie could tell he was well into his cups and the look on his face promised retribution.
Owen Fletcher was a goliath of a man with heavy-set arms and enormous fists. Fists he had no compunction unleashing when inebriated. The force of his swing could cripple a grown man, but to a boy half his size, the carnage was devastating. It was pure luck he had not killed his son in one of his rages. That luck was about to run out and Brodie knew it.
Brodie knew he was courting trouble when he saw the strap his father was holding, and from his angry demeanor, he was livid.
“Weil, where ha ye been? Yer chores are not done.” Owen sneered.
“I’ve been training with the lads.�
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“Dinnae lie to me! Ye’ve been sniffing around that black-moir orphan.”
Brodie clenched his fists, and his entire body stiffened. He did not like anyone aiming slurs at Orla.
“No, I was training.”
Without warning, Owen back handed Brodie across the face. Then followed it with a hard punch to his stomach.
Brodie buckled and fell to his knees, winded.
“Ye stay away from her, she’s cursed like that Cailleach witch, Morag.”
“She’s just a lass Da.”
“A Viking whore’s bastard, that’s what she is and ye’ll no taint our blood line with the likes of her.”
Brodie blocked his father’s strap from hitting him in the face.
That only angered Owen more.
“Yer aunt Muriel saw ye in the woods, said ye was handfasting with that orphan.” His father spat on the ground like even thinking about her was abhorrent.
“Twas nothing.” Brodie could hear the panic in his own voice.
His father dropped the strap and deferred to his weapon of choice. His fists. He began cursing and swinging. Beating his only son in between drunken slurs. “Women will ruin you, remember that!”
“Aye Da—”
“They make ye weak. Dinnae let them control you.” Owen beat Brodie with vigor.
“Never love a lass, she will rip your balls asunder!” His father was yelling now and kicking Brodie in the ribs.
Brodie knew to take the beatings. To resist was akin to suicide. He curled himself into a tight ball and prayed it would be over soon.
“Dinnae fall in love ever, you hear me?” Owen ranted.
“Aye,” Brodie mumbled as the heavens burst open with icy rain.
Brodie cowered in the wet mud. Beaten and bruised, he tried hard not to cry as his father then launched into kicking his back.
Brodie saw Orla staring at him through the trees. What was she doing here? He saw her pick up a large rock and move towards his father. Brodie’s heart lurched. In that moment he cared nothing for his own safety but only to protect her.
He could not let her come closer she would get hurt. Brodie realized then Orla was his weakness. He had placed her in danger. His father was right, women made you weak.
Handfasted to the Bear: Reformed Rogues Book 2 Page 1