In front of everyone he brushed his lips across hers, silencing her protest. He winked and then strolled away.
Kaireen threw the stew spoon at his head, but was too late. The spoon hit the stone arch and then clattered on the floor.
Her fist clenched as she strode to retrieve her weapon.
The cook’s coal eyes glared from underneath heavy lids. “For your behavior this evening, you will clean the kitchens tonight—every trencher, knife, and pan…everything.”
Kaireen tightened her grip on the spoon. The stew bubbled as she marched back to the kettle.
“Stir.”
As she raked at the muck glued onto the cast iron sides, Kaireen willed the grime into everyone’s stomach. With each pass of the spoon against the kettle set Kaireen’s teeth on edge.
The cook nodded her approval.
Every muscle in her body cramped. She knuckled her back with her free hand to ease the tension. She waited for this day to end when she would be asleep in her bed.
The cook mumbled final orders.
“Pardon?”
“Feed the stew to the swine; it’s been reused five times now.” The cook waved her arm and her rolls of fat jiggled. “Then clean the pan until it sparkles in sunlight.”
Kaireen nodded, and hoped she hid her glower. More days in the kitchens like this would have her begging for the pit.
She waited for the cook to leave, and then she dragged the kettle across the stone floor. The metal scraped an eerie sound as she struggled with the weight.
At the threshold, she anchored the back legs as she tugged the front forward. She tried to lift the kettle, but her arms did not reach around. The weight strained her until she thought her arms would fall off.
The kettle gave way and tumbled passed the doorway. Stew sloshed and she nearly screamed, seeing she would need to mop again.
Outside she huffed, pushing against the dirt and grass. For her trouble she stepped in a hole and lost her balance. She cursed and then snatched the kettle, smearing mud on her dress. The crescent moon hung high overhead. “I should have been asleep long ago,” she complained.
An elderly manservant rushed to her aid. He helped her tip the kettle into the pigs’ trough. His bald head glowed in the moonlight as he dragged the kettle with her back to the kitchens.
The leftover stew emptied, Kaireen bid him thanks. She dusted her hands, grimacing at the caked food and mud across her gown. She doubted soaking the burnt stew with lye would work to clean the kettle.
The servant bid her goodnight, and then huffed back outside.
Spying a metal spoon hung on the side of the hearth by a hook, she rolled her shoulders and then grabbed it. Glaring at the kettle as if it purposely caused her pain, she flopped down. With the spoon she raked the burnt stew from the kettle edges.
While she worked, she grew angrier that Bram had no punishment for yestereve.
Yet she was punished for saving him.
Chapter Eight
As he strolled down the hallway, Bram whistled. He hoped to lighten his mood with a song his father taught him on their sea journeys. The oak staff Elva gave him held well under his weight. His wound healed faster with her care then he would have believed.
He smiled at the thought of his future wife cooking and cleaning. He doubted she knew a carrot from a turnip. Aye, they would have strong warrior sons with her fiery temper.
Turning into the great hall, he saw a servant woman curled into a ball in the corner. Hearing her sobs bounce off the stone walls, he hobbled to her. “Are you unwell?”
She did not respond.
When he touched her shoulder, she shrieked. Her arms flew to cover her head.
Her brown eyes glanced at him and widened. She scrambled to her feet. And then brushed at imaginary dust on her livery for he saw nothing on the material. “Sorry, sir. I-I did not see you there.”
He noticed the left side of her face was swollen and her lip cut. Blood dribbled from the wound.
“Who did this?” His anger boiled inside.
“N-none, sir.” Tears welled in her eyes. “My clumsy feet flew from under me carrying the linens on stairs.”
“Who did this?” He kept his voice low for fear the rage would seep in his tone and frighten her.
She whimpered, wringing her hands.
He waited for her reply. His eyes warned he would not leave her alone until he had his answer.
Before she opened her mouth, he knew the answer. “My lord husband.” She seized his arm as he turned away. “But he means it not. Always he is sorry come morning.”
“The one with dark hair and moustache? With ale glistening in his eyes?” He thought for a moment remembering the man’s name. “Owen?”
Her silence answered him.
He nodded, but continued forward. Instinctively he knew which servant this was. Many men who beat their wives had the same temperament in front of others.
Smooth talkers, better at joke telling than others, and a sneaky evil crept through their eyes when they thought no one watched.
• • •
Half a side of blackened stew was removed when Kaireen needed to sneeze. She scooted back so her head would not bang against the side, like she did the first three times. Her sneeze sounded pitiful to her ears. Kaireen rubbed her nose with her forearm.
This was all Bram’s fault. If he had not wanted to see the lands so soon. If he had ridden back with her to warn her father instead of insisting to stay and fight.
Climbing back inside the kettle she scoured the encrusted blackened stew.
Chapter Nine
Bram found a servant boy scuttling after a toad. “Where is Owen?” He knew the man’s name and what he looked like by the battered woman telling him.
The boy stared at him dumbfounded, but then pointed to a man laughing with another in the hall.
“Tell him to come to my quarters now.” Reaching in his coin purse, he placed a silver coin in the boy’s hand.
The boy grinned, showing a broken front tooth. Coin tight in his fist, the boy raced down the hallway.
With the staff for support, Bram shuffled to his quarters.
Inside, he removed his belt and sword. He laid both across the stool, for he did not want the temptation now of his weapon.
Candles flickered, lighting the room. He was surprised Elva was not there waiting for him. She came every evening to apply fresh salve and linens, though he told her the old linens be fine. She ignored him, slapping his hands away, and did her work.
His room was narrow, but long. The hearth was small and he let the fire smolder on a log, but he liked the coolness of the nights. It reminded him of home in western Scandia. He wondered if Kaireen would like to visit his homeland sometime. No one would think it strange, like here, for him to practice sword fighting with Kaireen. Here Christian propriety got in the way of adventure.
He recalled when he first saw Kaireen. It was weeks before she knew he was there. Damn the vow he made to her mother, perhaps if he had not made it, things would be better between him and Kaireen.
His bed, with linens replaced, lay a foot from the back wall. Underneath the window in the room he had placed the stool. Next to the wooden shelf bolted along the wall faced the far side of the bed.
Another shelf cut across the wall to the right, a washing pitcher and bowl cluttered on one side with a hand towel draped over the ledge. Lit candles lined the other side.
Moments later a rap sounded. Bram stepped forward, leaning on the oak staff more than necessary. “Enter.”
The servant man came in and bowed. “You need my services?”
“You are Owen?” Bram attempted to smile at the man’s nod, but supposed it came across as a grimace. “Close the door, please.”
The servant followed his orders. When he turned around he was then pinned against the wall with Bram’s staff pressed to his neck.
“H-Have I offended you, sir?” His mouth quivered.
Bram twirled the staff, clipping the man un
der the chin. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. The servant lay in a heap on the floor.
Bram gripped the staff in his hands, his wrath wanting more. Instead, he took deep breaths to calm himself. Striking the stone floor with the staff eased the anger, some.
He had control again. He leaned on the staff and then hobbled to the shelf along the wall in front of his bed. He grasped the stone pitcher of water and carried the water back to the crumpled man across his floor. He doused the unconscious man with water, and he came to, sputtering and groaning. He rubbed his jaw, eyeing Bram warily.
Bram placed the empty pitcher on the floor away from the man’s reach and then stepped forward.
The servant flinched.
“If you hurt another woman,” he smiled, but knew his eyes spoke the truth of his fury, “I will finish you.”
“You mistake me for someone else, my lord.” Owen held out his hands.
“The serving wench,” Bram ran a hand through his blond hair, wanting to ring this man’s neck. “The one with cut lip and black eye? She is your wife?”
The man’s pear-shaped face changed from shock to calm within moments. He grinned, but then took two steps back seeing Bram’s blue glare. “I know where the mistake is now. Always she is clumsy. Yesterday, she fell down stairs. They can be unforgiving.”
Bram grated his teeth. “Bruises like that do not come from stairs, they come from a fist.” He took three strides forward. Concealed his pain with what he hoped was a snarl of anger.
He tapped the staff against his palm, staring into the other man’s eyes. “Do you know of the blood eagle?”
“An e-eagle sir?” Sweat beaded across the other man’s forehead.
“Many say ’tis a myth, but ’tis as real as both of us.” The slapping of the staff echoed. “Many Norsemen refuse to tell a foreigner of how ’tis done.” For effect he held the staff with both hands. Then dropped one hand, he whirled the staff straight and hit end against the stone floor.
The man jumped, his gaze locked on the staff.
“But I will tell you of the blood eagle, so you know I speak truth. The blood eagle is a slow death.” Each word vibrated through the chamber. He wanted every word understood. “First, strap a man to a tree, his back exposed. Then the knife cuts him along here.” He used his free hand to jerk quick motions along his back. “Then the ribs are broke open to reveal the lungs.
“With each breath you are in agony. With each breath your lungs cover in blood. Like an eagle’s wings they flutter, until you die.” He leaned forward. “Harm your wife, or any other woman,” his stare locked into the other man’s frightened eyes, “and I will carve you into a blood eagle.”
Owen blubbered apologies.
But Bram glared at him and the servant snapped his mouth shut.
Then Elva swung open the door, a basket full of linens and medicinal herbs in her arms.
At the intrusion the servant crouched in a corner.
“Are you done with Owen, sir?” she asked sweetly.
Bram nodded leaning on the staff.
She held the door open as Owen crawled by. “And mind your manners. Lucky for you, your wife refused to allow Sir Bram to kill you this time.” She closed the door and then faced her charge. “Well, off with your tunic. I do not have all night while you gape at me.”
• • •
Kaireen’s shoulders slumped as she continued to scrub the kettle. Her annoyance had long been replaced with anger gnawing at her stomach. Inside the kettle she sneezed; the sound echoed through her ears. She longed to crawl into her bed and never wake again.
She thought she heard a rhythmic thump in the distance. She ignored it. Probably it was the cook coming to give her another list of tasks to finish.
Kaireen quickened her pace scrubbing, so the woman would think she worked hard enough. But she doubted the cook ever got her hands dirty with cleaning or scrubbing this infuriating kettle.
At least Kaireen had finished all of the other chores, save this one. She had cleaned everything else. Her eyes and hands burned from the lye soap.
Now, this kettle refused to cooperate. She scraped the sides with the metal spoon. The handle engraved marks into her palms.
“Are you trying to make the pot sorry that it met you?” Bram said.
Kaireen jumped and banged her head against the side. Rubbing the back of her head, she eased out the rest of the way.
With a grin, he leaned forward, his hand outstretched.
She glared at him and scooted back.
Instead of arguing, he nodded. Then he balanced with the staff until he sat on the stone floor with her.
She smelled the aroma of Elva’s healing herbs on him. Myrrh, hyssop, pine, and strong wine radiated through the air.
“I have work to do, sir. So if you please, take leave.” The memory of his kiss angered her. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, smearing dried stew there. She saw his quick smile and huffed. “If you have come to laugh at me, then have your fill now and leave.” She squared her shoulders refusing to budge.
“Why do I anger you so?” His voice was gentle.
Her thoughts drifted of her sister’s laments of her husband who lingered into other women’s bedchambers crawled through her mind. How would Bram be any different? His kind raped and pillaged for amusement. “Your affairs,” the word tasted bitter on her tongue, “are no concern of mine. You may love whomever you wish. Only leave me alone and this ridiculous idea of us marrying.”
“I will have you trust me if we are to marry.”
“I will not marry you. I told you afore.”
He ran his fingers through his blond hair. “I have always told you the truth.” His dimple vanished when he frowned. “And I will forever do so.”
She glanced away, but his fingers lifted her chin until their eyes met.
“I have no interest in any other woman.” His thumb brushed across her lips. “Since you crossed my path.”
She rolled her eyes, and jerked her head away from his touch.
“’Tis true.” His voice sent shivers down her spine. “And you will feel the truth of my words.” He leaned forward, and then caressed her lips with his.
She did not succumb to the heat spreading through her. Instead she clenched her fists.
His nibbling on her lips drove her to madness. She thought about punching him.
He pushed back and winked. “Our marriage night will chase away your lack of belief.”
“I have told you, we will have no wedding or marriage.” Perhaps she could get Rebecca to play proxy for her. She would have to convince them both that it was not by proxy afterwards.
She could run away. There were enough jewels in her possession to pay for a journey to Scotland and a small cottage with a few servants at least.
“Aye.” He chuckled and used the staff to stand. “You will believe come the morning after.” With a slight bow of his head, he turned to leave.
Her mouth worked but no sound came as he limped out of the kitchens. Aye, Bram was dangerous.
Chapter Ten
The Lochlann would cause trouble, Feoras thought as he cut the roasted duck on his trencher. The high table stretched before him, Bearach at his father’s right hand, and he on his father’s left.
His spy heard rumors in her circles with the Lady Liannon. The Lochlann rushed his men from across the seas to work on Kaireen’s holding. They would arrive after the wedding feast.
No doubt, Feoras and his men must strike before this. Otherwise a score or more warriors would descend upon the O’Neill clan, swaying the battle in Bram’s favor. The less men, especially Vikings, that the Liannon clan had on their side the better his outcome.
Battles never succeed exactly as planned. Feoras hoped to renew the bitter resentment of his clan against the Liannon’s. Pity his father wanted peace and had worked so long to grasp its slippery garment.
Feoras’ marrow boiled to rule both clans. His mother told him that although the young
er son, he would accomplish great things.
Did not Jacob from the bible surpass his elder brother? She had asked when he questioned her. Would not Abel have the inheritance if he had slain his brother first?
Kaireen. How he hated the chit. This clan rejuvenation of unity was her fault. Women must be taught their place, lower than man and chattel, lower than slugs, which oozed from underneath his boots in the morning. Kaireen dared to fight with the men as though she were equal. She would be shown her place soon enough.
Resentment festered in his blood at the sight of her waving his father’s sword at the Lochlann enemy. And the memory of her arrows shooting through the air turned his bowels.
He gulped his wine to quench his dry mouth. When he won the battle, he longed to smell her blood, in its pungent metallic aroma. Her defiant blood.
If he were given a moment alone with her after the battle days ago, she would have begged for death.
As though it were Kaireen in his hands, he tore pieces from the turkey leg. He stuffed the pieces in his mouth, his eyes rolling into his head at the pleasure of wishing this so.
For touching the weapons, he would rip her arms from their sockets. For speaking against him in front of his father he would carve out her tongue.
“Another leg of turkey, Feoras?” His father broke his concentration and he wrestled with not displaying his anger. “No father, ’tis enough for me here.”
“We were wondering,” Bearach added.
Always his brother had to contribute to anything his father said. As though he feared their father would forget his first born and allow Feoras to usurp his position. “We must compliment the cook, Feoras.” He grinned. “For I have never seen you enjoy your food as much as now. But I have a liking for my meal as long as ’tis not alive.” He patted his stomach and the others at the table laughed.
“We will see, brother,” Feoras whispered during their joking. “Who is the victor of the battle.”
“Wench!” Bearach bellowed, addressing their servant. “Tell the cook she has Feoras’ heart through her cooking. Does she have need of a husband?”
“No.” Feoras clenched his teeth. “She be too fair for me.”
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