The Viking's Cursed Bride

by Mairibeth Macmillan

  “Why?” Her heart started to beat faster.

  “A field was burned last night, across the sea-loch from your father’s lands.”

  The remnants of her dream crowded into her thoughts. She’d seen the flames leaping, felt the warmth on her cheeks, smelled the harsh smoke, felt it sting her eyes and cause them to water. “And… and you think this boy may have done it?”

  “It is possible.”

  “And my father might have ordered this?”

  “You may know who he is. Be able to tell us who it is that is attacking us. Or perhaps you will not recognise him and then we will know that this is nothing to do with your father.”

  She nodded, clinging desperately to the hope that Tormod might be right. “But the boy asked for me by name.”

  “That’s what Björn said.”

  Aoife watched Tormod, trying to discern what he might be thinking, but she could not. All that she knew was that she didn’t want him to think she was guilty of such a thing. Neither did she want her father to be guilty, although there was a sinking feeling in her heart that he was. She looked down at her hands, loosening her grip when she noticed that her knuckles were white, then back up at Tormod. “You think a child is attacking you?”

  “It is not too difficult for a child to set a fire.”

  That was true, but what kind of enemy would send a lone child to attack an enemy as formidable as the Norsemen? “I don’t know anything about this. It has been two years since I last saw my father or visited my home, although…” She sat down on the edge of the bed and she shivered, partly with cold and partly with… Not fear, more a profound sense of disappointment. She had hoped she might be accepted here, find a family, but already the fact she was an outsider meant her loyalties were being tested. A test she wasn’t sure she could pass as she simply knew nothing. Did Tormod blame her for this? If he did, it was unfair of him, although… What if it was her fault? What if her father was, indeed, behind it?

  She straightened. She would go and see the boy and hopefully be able to reassure both herself and Tormod that this was either a random attack or an attack by another Briton. After all, her father was not the only Briton who resented the presence of the Norsemen. She looked at her husband.

  He was staring at her. “This morning, before you woke…” He broke off.

  “What about it?”

  “You were talking in your sleep.”

  “Oh?” She tried to keep her voice steady. What had she said?

  “You spoke of fire and fields.” Tormod’s expression was blank. Her chest tightened and she found it difficult to breathe. “A strange coincidence.”

  “Yes.”

  Their gazes held. Aoife felt sure that if she dropped hers then Tormod would see through her half-truth, but she couldn’t tell him the whole of it. The risk was too great and the truth was that she really had not known this attack would happen, so her dream wouldn’t have helped anyone.

  “Come, we will see this boy and decide his fate,” Tormod stated. The earlier affection in his voice was gone.

  It was a challenge, to prove her loyalty. That should not be difficult to pass – she owed her father none. She glared at her husband. Perhaps she should tell him about her visions, the fact that she had seen the burning field more than once and… She stopped that train of thought. If she told him now, he would wonder why she had not warned them. There was no way to win in this situation. It was unfair of him to blame her for something not of her doing. She wished she could make him believe her, trust her. She sagged a little at the thought that that just might never be possible. No matter how much she wanted to fit in, she might always be regarded as the outsider here. People had a tendency to stick to their beliefs, regardless of how one tried to show that they were wrong. Still, she had to try.

  “You are my husband,” she said. “My loyalties are to you. Is that not the case for any wife bought and paid for by her husband?”

  Tormod didn’t move, didn’t change his expression. She shouldn’t have challenged him. They waited in silence. She feared he would cast her aside, send her back to her father or the abbey with no hope of any future. She held her breath.

  Finally, Tormod shrugged. “The sentiment ought to be true, yes. For some, however, betrayal is as simple as breathing. And I did not pay for you. I did not have to. Your father paid for me to take you.”

  As hurtful as that was to hear, she could believe it to be true.

  “I have not betrayed anyone,” she said, turning away from him. She closed her eyes. Outside she could hear the village sounds, the animals, voices, the clink of harnesses and the clatter of carts. Not her world, although not so very different either.

  “Why were you beaten?” Tormod’s voice was soft. She opened her eyes to see him cross the room towards her and sit on the bed. He lifted her hands and kissed them. She stared at her hands as she tried to frame what she would say.

  “Aoife?”

  He placed a finger under her chin and forced her to look at him. She was not ready to explain to him why she had been beaten but neither would she lie.

  “I was sick because of something that I… that I saw.”

  Tormod searched her face, as if trying to discern whether her words were the truth or not. Then he frowned, pulled away from her. It was clear that what she had said was not enough to reassure him, however to say anything else was too much of a risk. To her. For her future. For her life.

  * * *

  Tormod opened his mouth to speak just as someone banged on the door, shaking it in its frame. He crossed to it and flung it open once more.

  “You must come now, herre,” Björn said. “The boy is here. For his own safety. Some of the villagers are growing aggressive.”

  “I just need…” Tormod looked at Aoife and sighed. He wanted to know more about this sickness. There certainly didn’t seem to be anything physically wrong with her. He needed to know what she had been about to say, how she had known about the fire. Had it been merely a dream? A coincidence? Or had she known that the attack was to take place and not told him? But then, why should she?

  Shouting from the main hall could be heard, however, and he realised Björn was right.

  “Ragna!” Tormod called.

  He was relieved when his aunt appeared quickly. “Help my wife to dress. Please.”

  Ragna hurried into the bedroom and Tormod stepped outside, giving Aoife some privacy.

  He spotted Ulf and Arne waiting close by, and frowned. “You think I need protection in my own village?”

  “No,” said Björn. “We think your wife does.”

  “But…”

  “And the boy.” Björn gestured towards Ulf and Arne. A small figure crouched on the floor between the men, both of whom had their swords drawn, despite the boy’s hands and feet being shackled. Neither of the men met his gaze.

  “He is just a child,” Tormod said. “He cannot be more than eight years old. Can he really have done such a thing?”

  “Håkon has accused him. And the boy has not denied it. The only thing he has said is your wife’s name,” Björn said. “And his hands and clothes are burned in places which proves that he set the fire.”

  “No,” said Tormod loudly. “It means only that he was there when the fire was burning, and that he wishes to speak to my wife. Nothing else.”

  Tormod hoped his words turned out to be true, although he wondered why. It would be no great loss to him if the child were killed, would it? And yet somehow he felt that he must save the boy if he ever wanted to earn his wife’s trust.

  The noise from the main hall grew louder and louder with every passing second. The doors to the hall banged closed at regular intervals and it was clear that a large crowd awaited him. The sooner the matter was dealt with, the better, although he feared what the outcome of any trial might be. He could wait no longer for his wife to be ready.

  “Ragna,” he called through the door, “when my wife is ready, bring her to the hall.”


  “Of course, herre.”

  A great lump of rock settled in the pit of Tormod’s stomach. If both Björn and his aunt were calling him herre, then something was very wrong. Perhaps settling here was a mistake. Perhaps they should just go home. He set his teeth. No. They had won this land fairly. The Britons had abandoned it long before they arrived. They had no more right to it than he and his men.

  At home all he had to look forward to were scraps from his many older brothers. Or to remain in service to another as a warrior his whole life. That was not what he wanted. Learning that was the only positive thing to come from his first marriage. He was a good leader, he could make difficult decisions.

  Tormod drew himself up to his full height as he strode into the main hall itself and settled into his customary seat on the dais with as much authority as he could muster. As he looked around the shocked and angry faces of his villagers, who yesterday had been celebrating his wedding, he mentally ran through his options for dealing with the matter. None of them sat well with a child so young.

  Björn had followed close behind him, and he knew when Ulf and Arne entered with the boy, for the attention of everyone in the hall was drawn to that small, lonely figure.

  Tormod stood. The noise in the hall quieted instantly. He hoped this situation would not work out the way he feared. “Who accuses this boy?” he called out.

  Håkon pushed to the front of the crowd to stand in front of Tormod, who glared down at him from the dais.

  “I do,” Håkon stated. “Last night one of my fields burned, deliberately set on fire. This morning I found the boy hiding in the byre with the animals. He set that fire. He has burns on his hands and clothes which prove it.”

  The crowd shouted and yelled, many calling for the death of the boy.

  Tormod raised his hand for order and turned to Håkon. “Did you see him do this thing?”

  “No,” replied Håkon, narrowing his eyes at Tormod. “But there was no one else there. And who else apart from the Britons would have wanted to burn my field?”

  A general shout of agreement went around the room. Clearly the man had not expected to be questioned and thought that a sentence would simply be handed out—but Tormod could not help seeing the boy as one of Aoife’s people. That, coupled with the fact the boy was similar in age to his dead wife’s son, and Tormod was struggling to believe a child had managed to do this alone. And for what reason? Why not run away? Why wait to be found? How had he got there in the first place?

  Tormod held up a hand again and the hall fell silent as the villagers waited for him to speak. “He’s just a boy. Can one small child really have done so much damage all by himself? Where were our guards? And what does he have to say for himself?”

  “Nothing, herre, save for the Briton’s name.” The distaste in Håkon’s tone was clear.

  “My wife’s name?” Tormod retorted. He caught and held Håkon’s gaze until the farmer was forced either to look away or risk challenging Tormod.

  Håkon looked away. “Your wife’s name, herre,” he finally mumbled.

  So, the situation was not just about burnt fields or captured boys. He had known his choice of wife might cause some concern, although he had hoped for some time for her to settle before facing an obstacle such as this. However, they couldn’t possibly think she had anything to do with it. Especially on her wedding night.

  “How can you be sure this child was responsible?” Tormod was careful to emphasise the word “child.”

  “His burns,” Håkon said, quickly trying to re-establish himself. “And he is one of… them. A Briton.”

  “I see,” Tormod replied, sitting down without taking his gaze from Håkon. “The boy is not even old enough for arm rings, and yet he was able to row across the sea-loch and set fire to your field alone. He was not, however, capable of leaving the field before burning his arms.”

  “Herre…” Håkon scratched his head and frowned. “Who else would do it except for the Britons?”

  “Who else indeed?” Tormod said. “But tell me, what is that I see on your arms?”

  Håkon put his arms out in front of him and frowned at them. “Burns, herre.”

  “Burns?”

  “Yes,” Håkon agreed.

  “So, did you set the fire?”

  “No, herre, I tried to beat the fire out.”

  Tormod stared at Håkon for a long moment, hoping the man would work out what he was getting at by himself. However, before that happened, Tormod heard footsteps enter the hall from the direction of the bedroom. Tormod’s heart sank. If only she had taken a few minutes longer. Perhaps it was better to face up to the fact that his wife was a Briton and not allow feeling against her to fester. It would only grow worse with time.

  As Aoife swept into the hall, most of the villagers turned to stare at her. Tormod couldn’t help but smile when she lifted her chin and walked straight towards him, and he was grateful that Björn and Ragna followed close behind her. When she reached Tormod, he gestured for her to sit in the seat beside his, which she did. Then she noticed the boy.

  “Elisedd!” she cried and stood. Before she could take a step towards him, however, Tormod stopped her. She reluctantly sat down again.

  The boy had raised his head and now sat up, reaching his bound arms towards Aoife. Tormod could see the nasty burns on the boy’s hands and noted that someone had tended to them. Probably Håkon’s wife, Magda. She had only daughters who were now almost grown. Tormod believed she would have cared for this boy no matter what she thought he might have done.

  “Lady Aoife,” the boy sobbed. “I tried. I really tried.”

  It was all but an admission of guilt. Tormod thanked the gods that Håkon couldn’t understand the language. There was more to this situation, he was sure of it. And the way the boy’s hands and clothes had been burned made Tormod wonder at Håkon’s version of the story.

  Aoife looked at Tormod. When he nodded, she turned to speak to the boy. “Elisedd. Why are you here? What has happened to you?”

  Elisedd opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to realise he was surrounded by enemies and cowered back down, shaking his head.

  “The farmer, Håkon, found him hiding in the byre near the burned field,” Tormod explained. “They think he set the crops on fire. You can see the burns.”

  “He is only a child. Why would he do such a thing?” She looked around at the other villagers, then at Elisedd. “What did you do? How did you get here?”

  Elisedd said nothing, still shaking his head.

  “You must tell us the truth, Elisedd. No one will hurt you,” Aoife said, sending a pleading glance towards Tormod.

  He couldn’t give her the reassurance she desired. Ulf and Arne were watching the boy carefully.

  The child shrank away from Ulf and Arne and, with his gaze fixed on Aoife, he began to talk. “I heard them talking about you last night, so I followed them. Hid in their boat. They were saying how you would be blamed for the fire and the Norsemen would kill you. When they left, I tried to put it out…” He stretched his arms out in front of him and winced.

  Aoife stood and took a step towards him but Tormod placed a hand on her arm. She sighed and sat back down. “They left in a boat?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Who was it?” Aoife asked. “Who gave the order for the field to be burned?”

  At that question the boy baulked and pulled back. “They said you would be blamed. I hid on the boat and crept out after we arrived on the shore. I couldn’t stop them from lighting the fire, but I tried to put it out. It spread too quickly.” The boy put his face in his hands and started to cry. “They said the Norsemen would kill you. I didn’t want the Norsemen to hurt you. I only wanted to help you.”

  “Elisedd, does your mother know where you are?”

  He nodded at Aoife, tears running down his face. “I told her what I had heard. She sent me. She wanted me to find you, to keep you safe. My father is dead and…”

  “What?” He
r hands flew to her face. She turned to Tormod, who shrugged.

  “I do not think my mother is safe there anymore. Without my father—”

  “Elisedd. What happened to your father?”

  “Dun Cadell was attacked,” Elisedd replied. “More than once since Alt Clut. My father was killed. There have been… a lot of deaths. With you gone and without my father there to protect her, I fear for my mother’s safety.”

  “My father will see that she comes to no harm. He has always protected his own people.”

  Elisedd stared at her. “Lord Cadell, he… Lady Ula makes most of the decisions now. Father Bricius advises her. And she knows of your friendship with my mother. She wishes to punish her for it, I think.”

  Aoife gasped, then turned away from Tormod. He tried not to be disappointed that she had not turned to him for help.

  “Ulf, Arne, unchain the boy,” Tormod said, stepping down from the dais. Ulf and Arne unchained the boy, who tried to run towards Aoife. Björn stopped him at the edge of the dais.

  Aoife looked at him, a pained expression on her face.

  Then Tormod spoke in Norse to ensure all the villagers understood. “The boy knows who burnt your field. He tried to put it out. The Britons wish for you to turn on my wife. Are you going to give them their wish? Or shall we all work together and make the true culprits pay for their transgression rather than an innocent child?”

  There was a lot of murmuring around the hall. None of the villagers dared to challenge their jarl. Perhaps the first flush of anger was wearing off and they were beginning to realise the unlikeliness of this one child having bested them and their defences.

  “The boy walks free this day and none of you shall harm him. Do we all agree?”

  There was a general, if unenthusiastic, shout of agreement.

  “Do we all agree?” Tormod repeated loudly. He would brook no disagreement on this.

  A louder shout was more reassuring.

  “What will you do with the boy?” Aoife asked, looking down at Elisedd.

  Tormod turned to the farmer. “Håkon, will you take the boy in?”