Winn’s ragged breath was a roar amongst the sounds of the surf, the Chief’s frustration louder than the words spoken between them.
“It is. Your word is enough,” Makedewa finally answered. He noticed Chetan’s shoulders relax, and the way Winn’s stagnant glare softened. Not one of them acknowledged the acquiescence; it was a given that they would resolve their differences.
“Tonight we will feast. My children have new names, and if the Gods are willing, my brother will have a wife. We have much to celebrate. The others wait for us.”
Makedewa nodded, wordless. They walked back to the Northern Hall, three astride in a line, all equals in the journey for the time being. Makedewa knew it was not the last they would speak of it, but for now he would obey his brother’s command.
There was a maid waiting for him, and he would not leave her alone any longer.
CHAPTER 9
Rebecca
“THEY’RE HIDING SOMETHING,” Maggie insisted.
Rebecca rolled her eyes at her friend. Even though Rebecca knew Maggie had grown up in a future time, it still made her nervous when the other woman would question the matters of men. Rebecca had rejoined her friend after Makedewa bid her to leave, and she had found Maggie sitting with a strained look on her face. With the newborn babe feeding at her breast, Maggie rocked back and forth with every outward appearance of quiet acceptance, but Rebecca could hear her whispered complaints as they watched the men return to the Northern Hall.
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Maggie,” Rebecca answered.
“What did Makedewa say? And why didn’t Benjamin return with him?” Maggie asked.
Rebecca shrugged.
“He said naught. I think ye should just talk to yer husband. Ye always have his ear.”
“I did ask him,” Maggie mumbled. “He just said a few of the men need to go into Elizabeth City soon. He said not to worry.”
“Then listen to him,” Rebecca suggested with a smile. Maggie muttered something Rebecca could not quite decipher.
“You know I worry,” Maggie said quietly, her voice wavering despite her bluster. Rebecca patted her friend’s hand. She knew Maggie had a soft heart underneath the tough façade she wore, and that the Chief’s wife was especially emotional after giving birth only a few weeks before.
As Rebecca soothed her friend, she looked down at the baby nursing happily. The boy had one chubby hand pressed against her skin, looking up with round blue eyes at his mother. With an ache squeezing her chest, Rebecca wondered if she would ever have such joy in her life. She had renewed hope now that since Makedewa had returned, things would be different.
She surely felt like a different woman. It had been difficult to watch him leave, but even then she knew he was doing what was best for them both. He took her fear and uncertainty upon his own shoulders, cast it upon himself, and gave her space to find herself. She had not been ready to be a wife to him, nor any other, and to pretend that it did not matter would have made life miserable for them both. Seeing him again made emotions surge within, the pleasant twinge of desire and need filling her to bursting.
Yes, she was ready to be a wife to him. If he would ask her, of course. Although they had discussed the future and spoke of marriage as if it was part of their shared life, he had not actually asked her to marry him.
“How is Young Dagr, cousin?”
Rebecca looked up as Cormaic approached. He smiled broadly when she met his gaze.
“He’s perfect,” Maggie answered, kissing her infant son’s dark hair. “What mischief are you up to?” she added. Cormaic grinned wider and held his hand out to Rebecca.
“None, my lady. Just begging one last dance is all. May I?” he said. Rebecca put her hand into his without hesitation. He had become a friend and confidant over the last few months, always full of laughter and life when she needed it most. She was curious of what he meant, and she knew he would tell her the truth.
Her skirts swirled as he twirled her in a circle, eliciting her laughter as he pulled her back in close to his chest. Cormaic suddenly looked serious, holding her a bit more snugly than they usually danced. She probably would not have noticed if she were not acutely aware of Makedewa watching from across the room. When she dared a glance at him around Cormaic’s shoulder, she did not see the fierceness she expected, but Makedewa’s jaw was tighter and he no longer sipped from his tankard as he watched them.
She raised her chin and looked up at Cormaic. No, she would not feel bad about dancing. She enjoyed dancing, and Makedewa hated it, so he could hardly fault her for a few turns on the floor. After all, they had both changed in the time they spent apart.
“Are ye happy, my lady?” Cormaic murmured. His lips were unusually close to her ear, his breath causing a shiver to skitter across her skin. She drew back but could not go very far due to his hand on her waist.
“Of course I am. Why do ye ask?” she replied.
“Ye must know I worry over ye,” he said. “I worry that Indian will make ye cry again, now that he’s back. You know ye can refuse his courting.”
“I thank ye for yer kindness, but I will abide. I’m happy to see him,” she insisted. It was not unusual for Cormaic to refer to Makedewa with a touch of bitterness in his voice.
“I will tear out his spine if he hurts ye again,” Cormaic whispered fiercely. Rebecca could not help smiling at his gallant gesture, causing his face to redden.
“It willna be necessary, my friend. But thank ye,” she laughed. He growled something uncharacteristically roguish in Norse as he twirled her again and she continued to giggle.
“May I?”
They stopped abruptly at the sound of Makedewa’s voice. Rebecca glanced around the floor in a panic. Makedewa did not dance, he had made that abundantly clear on various occasions. Cormaic seemed just as shocked as she was.
“If my lady is willing, of course,” Cormaic said evenly. She saw the eyes of the two men locked for a long moment. Jovial, fair-haired Cormaic stood straight upright facing the dark haired, black-eyed brave, and she suddenly felt like the air stood still around them.
“That would be lovely,” she answered. She put her hand into Makedewa’s outstretched palm, and after giving Cormaic a quick smile she let Makedewa move her away. His warrior jaw was still tight, his eyes cautious, but there was none of the rage she expected. And to her utmost surprise, he guided her across the dance floor as if he enjoyed it as much as she did.
“Ye learned to dance while ye traveled?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity. His lips loosened into a grin as he nodded, matching her steps with grace and skill.
“An English lady took pity on me, and showed me a few steps,” he murmured close to her ear. An unwelcome thought surfaced of Makedewa dancing with another woman when he had never danced with her, and she quickly averted her eyes to stare at his chest.
“So ye spent yer leisure time with an English lady,” she said, unable to stop the jealous barrage as it spewed from her mouth.
“Only a few nights,” he replied. She felt his fingers under her chin, urging her to look up at him. His dark eyes gleamed with a teasing light as he smiled. “She was as old as Finola, but quite light on her feet. Her husband could no longer dance, and he thought it kind that I made his wife happy.”
“Not too happy, I hope?” she sniped, feeling like a harpy. She had no idea why it riled her so much. After all, she had been dancing with Cormaic as well.
“Why, my lady, does that trouble you?” he teased. She felt his lips brush her ear as her face filled with color. She had been calm and confident while he was gone, and suddenly she felt like a quivering idiot in his presence. Makedewa making jokes? How on earth was that happening?
“Of course not,” she stammered. “No more than it troubled you when I danced with Cormaic.”
She felt his arm tighten on her waist as he pulled her against his chest.
“It was always you I saw in my arms as I learned to dance.”
She looked
up at him, her breath coming in short bursts as he captured her gaze. The music had stopped and the murmur of voices commenced around them, but they stood there as if alone in the hall. Something feral hid beneath his gaze, controlled yet simmering, a composure she had never seen in his eyes before.
“That pleases me to hear,” she whispered. He did not smile, his face composed and serious.
“I think I will claim all your dances from now on,” he replied.
“Then you shall have them,” she smiled. He lowered his lips to her ear and she felt the warmth of his breath against her skin.
“I must leave soon on a task for my brother,” he said quietly. “I do not know when we will return. I asked you once to be my wife, chulentet. Tonight, will you say yes?” he asked. “If you would have me kneel, you only need to ask. If you would have me beg, then demand it so. Whatever you ask of me, I will do. I cannot leave without this promise between us.”
He bent his knee and lowered his head, but she pulled him up by grasping his tunic before anyone saw them. She shook her head as tears threatened to fall.
“No, please, don’t kneel!” she insisted. Her fists stayed clenched at his chest as she stared into his eyes, smiling through her tears. “I will. I will be yer wife. I want nothing more,” she breathed, letting out a sigh as he kissed her and silenced her remaining words.
A roar exploded from onlookers and others began clapping, with men slapping Makedewa on his back as they passed. His cheeks reddened as he grinned but he kept his focus on her.
“Erich will marry us tonight. With our family, here in the village,” Makedewa said.
“Tonight?” she squeaked. “Were ye so sure I would accept yer bid?”
“Yes,” he replied. His face returned to his normal disposition of controlled simmer, but she felt his hands tighten on her arms. “I had no doubt. Now, go. Go with Maggie and Gwen. They are waiting to help you get ready. I will meet you soon.”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, and then handed it to Maggie, who had come to stand beside her. Rebecca watched as Makedewa joined his brothers.
“Not yet, Indian.”
The hall fell silent at Cormaic’s voice. He stood in the glimmer of moonlight from the doorway, his body outlined in a silver glow. Draped in the furs of the esteemed MacMhaolian, his shoulders flexed as he raised his sword up and pointed it at Makedewa. Rebecca was shocked to see Winn and Chetan fall back from Makedewa’s side as Cormaic began to shed his ceremonial garb.
The hulking Norseman unsheathed the bryntroll from the harness on his back and tossed his fur mantle aside. Cormaic shook his copper-topped head, taunting Makedewa with a few brisk waves of his outstretched hands. Men quickly gathered and moved the great long table aside. The crowd pulled back to give them a wide berth as Makedewa slowly approached.
“If you wish to take her to wife, you’ll go through me to do it,” Cormaic announced. Makedewa pulled his tunic over his head and tossed it toward Winn. Rebecca could not help but notice that Erich had come to stand by Winn, and the two men had their heads bent together in quiet conversation as they watched the spectacle.
“Gladly,” Makedewa replied. He bent at the waist into a crouch and the two men began to slowly circle each other.
Maggie squeezed her hand.
“What is going on?” Rebecca asked, unable to keep her eyes off the circling warriors. Maggie uttered a giggle, a gesture that did not serve to endear her at that moment.
“Oh, Cormaic challenged him. If Makedewa loses, he can’t marry you,” Maggie replied flippantly. Rebecca turned toward her friend, her voice rising to a squeal.
“But Cormaic doesn’t want me!” she insisted.
“He would have married you in a second, if you gave him half a chance,” Maggie snorted, her eyebrow raised as she tilted her head toward Rebecca. “But no, this isn’t about that. It’s about family. You’re my family, and you should have a man stand up for you. Cormaic missed the chance to fight Winn for me, so he decided to champion your honor for this match. Don’t the English fight for their women?”
“Fight? No! I mean, well, my father would have spoken with him, but nay! No fighting! This–this is barbaric! And unnecessary!” Rebecca hissed. She meant it with every breath of her being. She saw no reason why anyone should fight over her. After all, she was not truly family, as much as Maggie proclaimed it. She was an orphaned English lass with no blood kin to speak for her, a fact she had accepted the day she rode away with Makedewa from the ruins of her home.
“Maybe it is. But that is your warrior out there, fighting for you. He shows that he would stand up to the most fearsome Norseman in this village–for you. Straighten up, be proud, and watch them fight,” Maggie replied. Maggie wrapped her arm through Rebecca’s and held her tight. They stood at the edge of the crowd, and Rebecca could feel the stares of the others upon her.
Maggie was right, for once. This was a Norse ritual, one they had chosen to include her in. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps she and Makedewa were not outsiders. As she watched her man fight and felt the warm hands of passersby pat her shoulders, she softened to the thought of true belonging. No, she was not Norse by blood, and neither was Makedewa. Yet blood seemed to mean very little as they stood among those who would shelter them.
Gentle Cormaic, the trustworthy friend who had stood by her side during the long months of Makedewa’s absence. She vaguely recalled Cormaic once pecking her cheek after a night of dancing, but it seemed awkward and strained and she thought he meant it only in jest. Whatever conclusion he had taken from that attempt, it had not dissuaded his friendship, and certainly not dimmed his distaste whenever she spoke of Makedewa. Cormaic was an honorable man. Somehow she had earned both his devotion and loyalty, something she had never felt in all the years of her life in the English community.
She winced at the thud of bodies hitting the ground. The crowd let out a groan as the men wrestled in the dirt. She glanced to Maggie, swallowing hard as the fists continued to fly.
“Well, how long will they carry on like this?” Rebecca whispered. Maggie shrugged and adjusted the babe in her arms.
“Not too long. They both had plenty of mead, they can’t possibly keep it up. Oh, look! I think you’ll have a husband yet!” Maggie laughed. Rebecca turned her attention back to the grappling men.
Makedewa did not look to be winning from where she stood, his body pinned beneath Cormaic’s with the arms of the Norseman clenched firmly around his neck. Not yet undone, however, Makedewa suddenly twisted in the grip, swinging his hips around so that his knee fell squarely across Cormaic’s throat. Makedewa held the larger man down with his knee and his fist, both of them panting with exhaustion. Makedewa’s lip was swollen and his dark skin scattered with bruises, but Cormaic fared no better. The Norseman would wear a blackened eye and a gashed brow for his troubles.
The murmurs of the crowd quieted to a whisper, and every member of the village could hear Makedewa’s clear words.
“I will marry her. I will honor her. She. Belongs. To. Me,” Makedewa announced.
“Égóska til hamingju þú,” Cormaic wheezed through his narrowed airway. Makedewa drew back to allow him to breathe, and a grin spread across the Norseman’s bloodied face. “Then I congratulate you,” he called out.
The men exploded into a barrage of shouts as Makedewa extended his hand and helped Cormaic to his feet. Winn greeted the two men with a solemn grin on his own face, then raised Makedewa’s hand for the crowd to inspect. Onlookers broke into a gleeful celebration, and a group of women surrounded the defeated Cormaic to console him as Makedewa was escorted from the hall by the Chief.
She knew her mouth still lay agape when Makedewa met her eyes across the room. His lips was bloodied, and his jaw looked to be swelling, but he grinned back at her like a champion and raised his chin to her. Both she and Maggie giggled when Chetan slapped Makedewa playfully in the ear as the men dragged him away.
“They’ll ready him for the wedding. And
you? It’s time we did something to liven you up,” Maggie laughed.
“I think I’ve had enough fer one night, thank ye,” she muttered.
Gwen gave Rebecca a pat on the back.
“Oh, no, lass, yer night is just beginning. If ye think ye’ll slumber tonight, then perhaps we should give ye some advice. Nothing makes a man more randy than fightin’, that’s fer sure!” Gwen laughed.
“Gwen!” Rebecca and Maggie both shouted simultaneously.
“Well, ach now, no need to git so uppity. That’s the truth, speak it or not,” Gwen retorted, her cheeks flushing a bit with the jest. Rebecca felt the sting of wetness threaten and hurriedly brushed the tears from her eyes.
Maggie noticed her falter and put her arms around her. “What? What is it?” Maggie demanded.
Rebecca shook her head.
“This feels like a dream,” she explained.
Gwen snorted. “Well, dream on with ye, but git yer arse moving. We need to get ye ready fer yer wedding, and the men be already waiting fer us. Hurry now, it’s past my sleeping time,” Gwen grumbled.
They all laughed as they left the Northern Hall to prepare for her wedding.
They exchanged vows beneath an ancient Cyprus tree, the shadow of Spanish moss creating a magical enclave around them as it swayed gently in the nighttime breeze. In the glimmer of light from the full moon she could see his face as they said the words, and it was then she felt she could see through him to the depths of his soul. It was a simple ceremony, witnessed only by the few involved, and before she could collect her racing thoughts, it was over and he carried her to a waiting Long house.
It was a tiny house close to the clearing, one of the older homes that had been unoccupied for some time. A fire burned in the hearth, and fresh flowers sat in bunches scattered around the room. There were few pieces of furniture inside, only a table with two chairs, a large chest, and of course, a wide bedding platform piled with thick furs.
As he lowered her down and her feet touched the floor, he looked anxiously at her.
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