by Jianne Carlo
Brand studied the crowded market and spied Étaín turning onto one of the paths leading away from the village. She headed in the direction of the blacksmith. A smile chased his lips. He had promised the blacksmith work aplenty, enough to fill his coffers for a lifetime and more, and gained a wealth of knowledge in return.
Princess Étaín.
The truthsayer of Caul Cairlinne, the daughter of King Mac Eiccnigh mac Dalagh, his wife to be, and the woman who would make him a ruler of this settlement.
Her innocence struck at the ugliness carved into his soul, the beast that had arisen within him and the other members of his demesne when the fire mountain on their isle began spewing its innards and dense clouds of acrid smoke and black ash.
Their herds died overnight. Hundreds of cattle carcasses littered the settlement. The stench had been overwhelming. A sickness spread through the population and sent those who were struck into a berserker killing spree. Then the dream weaving began in the survivors and threatened their sanity. Brand had been the first one to speak of it, and he became the leader of the reduced numbers left in the colony.
“Think you she will breed the dream weaving out of you?”
Brand shrugged. “Only time will tell.”
The sun bathed the crush of market goers and glinted off the axes of the fishermen hacking at their catch. He followed Étaín’s lithe form as she meandered between the throngs.
She brimmed with life spirit, the joy bubbling into her lithe fidgeting; the happiness she exuded glowed like ’twas a tiny bright sun following her, which shone only on her petite figure. She bristled with energy and had danced in place earlier while searching the throngs for him.
He smirked. It was him she looked for, it was him she sought, and tonight he would make her his.
Brand sidled into the shadows of the furrier’s cottage. He drew his cloak together and leaned against the rough wood staves of the dwelling.
Nikolas followed Brand’s example and withdrew from the swarm of people making their way to the shoreline. Nikolas propped a booted foot on the wooden planks and leaned his head against the cottage’s walls. He elbowed Brand. “That is her. The one with the golden curls and happy feet?”
Happy feet? Brand pondered his brother’s words. He grimaced. “Aye. That is she. Princess Étaín.”
“Are you cert of this, brother? ’Tis not an easy path you choose.”
Brand scanned the multitudes gathering for the last market day of summer. By the morrow, these people trooping about would either be dead or would have pledged allegiance to him, their new king. “I see no other way. She and this isle are ripe for the plucking.”
“Aye. I have ne’er seen the likes of it. There are no defenses. Why has not someone claimed this settlement afore? How has it withstood pillaging?”
“I have asked myself the same question since discovering this kingdom. ’Tis incredible that neither Gunnar the Godless or Fagan the Fire-eater have not invaded and claimed it afore.” Brand had examined every aspect of his plan for seizing the settlement over and over for the last fortnight and found no weaknesses.
“See you how they interact? Has this settlement seen naught of war and destruction? These people smile and laugh and make merry as if no enemies exist. Few of the men, even the young warriors, are armed. How is this possible?” Nikolas waved his hands at the masses packing the shoreline.
“The blacksmith speaks of a spell of protection. Of a fairy mound atop that hill, which will allow no invader to set foot on this isle’s soil.” Brand had learned of the friendship between the smith’s wife and Princess Étaín, and he had gained knowledge of the princess’s movements and intentions, not from the smith, but his new wife.
“We are invaders, are we not? And we are here. Fairies and gold, that is all these Celts speak of.” Nikolas stamped his feet. Clumps of sand quilted the cobbled stones with each downward trod of his boots.
“Aye, but Caul Cairlinne has ne’er been taken by Norse or others. ’Tis not an omen to my liking. I am wary of mine own plans.” Brand rolled his shoulder. The restlessness that always preceded a battle hounded him. He pushed away from the cottage and signaled Nikolas to follow him.
“I have ne’er heard you speak like this. Seek you your own defeat? We have no choice in this matter. Either we take Caul Cairlinne, or Gunnar or Fagan does.” Nikolas flipped his cloak forward and walked alongside Brand.
Brand bit his tongue. He wanted Étaín to come to him willingly, to choose him, but never would he admit that to anyone, not even Nikolas. He liked naught that she stirred some part of him he considered long dead and buried.
“We have both seen magik at work in strange lands. From what I have learned during my past visits Princess Étaín is the reason Caul Cairlinne has ne’er been plundered. The people here believe she protects them in some way.”
Nikolas paused when they reached a fork in the path. “The castle or the langskip?”
“The langskip,” Brand replied. “We have much to do afore the feast begins this eve.”
It took the better part of the day before Brand was satisfied with their preparations and their new situation. The weather had changed during the day, and by late afternoon a thick fog rolled in from the sea. Their five langskips loaded with warriors were now concealed in a cove not half a mile distant from Cairlinne Castle.
The castle’s dramatic twin towers rose from the junction of the two rivers feeding into the sleepy bay. Most ships couldn’t enter the narrow channel leading to the gated kitchen entrance of the keep, but Viking langskips were built and designed for shallow-water, silent, deadly invasions.
All was in place at dusk and Brand, Nikolas, and five of his men mingled with the hordes swarming into the castle’s grounds. None glanced their way. Once inside the great hall, they stuck to the shadowed corners and waited for the signal to begin the feast.
A thin veil of smoke filled the packed great hall though the three hearths in the room were stacked for firing, but not set ablaze. The smoldering haze came from blazing torches attached to the walls and the flames of dozens of tallow candles situated on the trestle tables crammed into the long, narrow chamber.
Two lute players seated at the base of the dais struck up a lively tune.
Men, women, and children piled onto the benches bellowing loud greetings and settling in for the festivities. The din of low voices blossomed into vigorous, animated chatter as the crowd entering through the open double doors tripled in number.
As planned, the two brothers separated, Brand taking the right and Nikolas the left. Their five men fanned out through the room picking strategic positions at the tables immediately below the dais in the center of the room.
Brand glanced at the two arched entrances on either side of the dais. One led to the kitchens, the other to stairs leading to the floors above and the twin towers. ’Twas an ancient castle design to make the access to the second floor difficult.
Whoever built the keep had anticipated invasion from inland only as Castle Cairlinne had a clear view of not only the harbor, but the entire coastline for miles. None would be expecting assault from within or by sea.
’Twould be child’s play to sail his langskips up the river. Half would be destined for the curtain walls surrounded by lapping waters, and the other half would head for the kitchen entrance. The foray would be two-pronged. Those men at the walls would scale the walls, take out the meager guards on the ramparts, and wait at the top of the castle’s stairs. The warriors on the langskips at the kitchens, and those on the stairs, would attack simultaneously on Brand’s signal.
He had intended the raid to begin when the full moon divided the midnight sky. By then the feasting would be in earnest and the participants too sodden with food, mead, ale, and wine to counteract the swift incursion.
A momentary hush captured Brand’s attention, and he swept a glance around the crush of people scrabbling for seats. The cluster at the castle’s doors parted to allow a procession of prettily garbe
d young females to enter. Each woman carried a woven basket from which she tossed flower petals and small branches into the crowd.
Nikolas made his way to Brand’s side. He scrubbed his upper lip. “All is in place. Thorkell and the men await your signal. I repeated your warning that none are to be killed, if at all possible.”
Brand heaved a sigh. He wanted to avoid fatalities at all costs. These people were going to be his, and ’twas easier to conquer and rule when none was enraged over the death of a loved one.
“When begins The Choosing?”
“I know not if I will wait for it. I am loath to gamble on her choosing me.” Brand fingered the stubble on his chin.
Once every five summers on the last night of the festival of Lúnasa, the women of Caul Cairlinne could choose their mate. The church blessed the unions, which lasted a year and a day. After that time, the couples could decide to remain married or separate.
“’Twould be better if she picked you.”
“Aye, but what if she does not?” Brand’s gaze never wavered from the line of marriageable women weaving their way through the hall.
He held his breath when Étaín came into view. Her glorious golden curls hung in glistening tendrils clear to her knees. She had a habit of flaring her nostrils and firming her chin when all eyes were upon her. He knew in his gut she hated being the center of attention.
’Twas her obvious vulnerability that stirred him.
’Twas her startling beauty that had him hard and aching in a heartbeat.
He had studied her these past months searching for flaws, for the arrogance and conceit that always accompanied females of royal birth, and found naught. She spoke to beggar and princes alike with the same gentle inquiry, gifted all with a sparkling smile that twisted his belly into coils, and appeared unaware of the rough sailors and traders who stared at her with blatant, greedy lust.
A slight draft molded the fine linen of the leine she wore around her firm breasts. She blinked and unerringly swung her head and met his stare. A smile fluttered around her rosy lips.
Those haunting eyes the color of rich molasses spoke to him.
He fisted his hands, the urge to reach for her nigh overwhelming.
Mine.
She halted for a moment as if hearing his silent declaration, and the sheer joy lighting her features dazzled him. All the blood in his body pooled in his groin. Desire speared him.
Taking a deep breath, Brand inclined his head and smiled.
Her teeth gleamed snowy white under the flickering candles when she beamed at him. Giving a little shake of her head, she dipped into her basket and threw petals and green-needled twigs high into the air. A couple of skips and a hop later, she arrived at the dais, the last female to line up below the table, and made a graceful curtsey.
King Mac Eiccnigh mac Dalagh had taken his place on the dais and stood smiling benignly at the women standing before him, his gaze lingering on Étaín. The pride on his face could not be denied, nor the love.
Brand inspected the others present at the high table. He had made it his business to know who was who in Caul Cairlinne.
Étaín’s two younger sisters stood on either side of the king. Irvin, a distant relative, stood at the left end of the table speaking with a couple of his warriors. To the right of King Mac Eiccnigh mac Dalagh, three of the men who stood as Caul Cairlinne’s elderly council watched the assembly while sipping from brass goblets. Five women who had seen at least two score summers stood whispering and grinning at the line of young women before the high table.
Two men on either side of the dais put long curved trumpets to their lips and blew. A series of triumphant, melodic blasts echoed around the great hall.
“Hear ye, hear ye,” one of the elders on the dais yelled.
“The ear of corn has been planted, the bull slaughtered,” another declared.
“’Tis time for The Choosing,” the last shouted.
“Princess Étaín, do you choose or not?” King Mac Eiccnigh mac Dalagh asked, his sole focus on his daughter.
The hall fell silent. Every pair of eyes in the packed chamber trained on the petite Princess.
“I do.” Étaín gave her basket to a young girl. She gathered her skirts, spun about, and glided in Brand’s direction.
The throngs parted. Loud shushes ricocheted around the cavernous chamber.
Brand edged away from the wall and under the light of an overhead torch. His chest burned with the effort to draw breath. He could not haul his gaze from her and was aware of only her, his princess.
She halted two paces in front of him and tilted her head back.
The silence was absolute. Nary a cat meowed, nor a person muttered, not even the wind dared whistle.
His seed nigh burst from his cock when she placed her tiny hand on his forearm and said, her voice ringing and clear, “I choose Brand of Bärvik as my husband for a year and a day.”
Chapter Two
Étaín’s declaration reverberated through the hall and resonated in Brand’s ears.
She had chosen him.
Inordinate pleasure coursed through Brand, and a blast of energy akin to the one that preceded every battle spiked a blood rush straight to his cock.
Her palm scorched his forearm, and the faint pink of her trimmed fingernails formed a marked contrast to the sun-bronzed skin of his wrist. For a heartbeat, the sensuous sight of her flesh on his paralyzed him, but the gathering in the hall began a buzzing conversation, and his warrior discipline kicked in.
Brand dropped to one knee, captured her wrist, brushed his lips slowly over each knuckle in turn, and repressed a grin at her sharp little gasps. He stood and locked their stares together. “I am honored, Princess.”
Relief eased the knotted tendons in his neck. Brand signaled Nikolas to tell his captain, Thorkell, to stand down, and realized with a start he knew not what happened next.
As if she read his thoughts, she whispered, “You must also choose me before all.”
He glanced down at her, squeezed the small hand he held, and bellowed, “I choose Princess Étaín to be my wife for a day and a year.”
After a moment, he added, to ensure all knew his immediate intentions, “From this moment onwards.”
Delight darkened the tawny hue of her eyes. She peeked up at him from under lush brown lashes. “’Tis the custom to bind our wrists.”
He accepted the silvery stream of ribbon she offered him and looped the fabric around both of their wrists before knotting it.
Brand twined their fingers together. “My lady wife?”
“We wait for the rest to choose, and then we sit at the dais and enjoy the feast until my da dismisses the assembly.”
Where their flesh met, he burned. ’Twas as if she branded him with her touch. The throngs packing the great hall dissipated. He could not concentrate on anything but her, was aware of only her.
She took swift breaths. The low, scooped neckline of her leine revealed the swells of her plumped breasts, and the way her chest rose and fell mesmerized him. She kept sliding sidewise peeks at him. Her dainty nostrils flared when she caught him staring.
As each female picked her mate, the multitudes packing the chamber grew rowdier with catcalls, shouted hurrahs, and loud whistles. Brand’s patience thinned as the evening progressed. Images of Étaín naked, her gold curls strewn on dark furs, creamy flesh glistening in the flames of dozens of torches, mouth swollen and ruby-red from his kisses, danced in his head.
He, warrior trained to avoid distraction from a boy of four summers, could not see, hear, or feel any but her.
To his surprise, Étaín gave him concise backgrounds on those at the high table. Though she thrummed with excitement and rocked from one foot to the other, his new wife described each female participating in the rite and her chosen mate in a low, composed, musical voice.
Halfway through the line of females below the dais, he recognized from the slight nuances in her tone those women she counted as friends and
those mates who did not meet with her approval. He memorized the names and faces of any who gave her pause.
When her thumb absently stroked the heel of his palm, a red haze of lust blazed across his groin. He shook his head, but the violent action did naught to banish the lewd visions fueling an unbearable stiffening of his cock.
Nikolas, standing to the left and behind them, cleared his throat and murmured in their particular Norse dialect, “That one is none too pleased at her choice.”
The warning inherent in his brother’s voice vaulted Brand back to battle attention. He studied the man, Irvin, who Étaín had described as a distant relative. Irvin conversed with the king in short bursts. He appeared angry and several times jutted his head in their direction.
Brand estimated Irvin to be a score and five summers. He had the height and build of a Norseman, and his powerful forearms and wide shoulders spoke of daily swordplay.
“It matters not what Irvin says. ’Tis my right to choose and none can deny me, not even Da.”
Startled, Brand swept Étaín a hard glance. “How come you to speak our dialect?”
A dusky rose stained the elegant line of her cheekbones.
Were her nipples the same color? Would they darken to a delicious cherry after he had suckled them long and hard?
“Does it displease you, my lord? I seek only to learn your ways and believed ’twould be beneficial if I understood your tongue.”
She would learn his tongue this night, for he intended to lick her from tiny toes to arched brows. By Loki’s mischief, she distracted him.
He abruptly released her hand, hooked a thumb on his sword belt, and forced his thoughts to the matter at hand. “Who taught you our dialect?”
“A monk who traveled your lands.” She stared at the stone floor and he knew her answer to be deceitful.
The trumpets sounded shrill and piercing, signifying the end of The Choosing.
Brand worked his jaw to loosen the sudden tension tightening his muscles. Somewhat was amiss. His nape prickled.
“I feel it too,” Nikolas muttered, speaking now in Farsi. “I will scout the keep during the feast. Your new father by marriage bids you approach the high table.”
