As they rode away, an old beggar man emerged from the bushes. His long, grey hair was partially covered by a misshapen hat pulled tight onto his head, almost managing to conceal a lost eye.
“Alms for those less fortunate,” he begged.
Her father shook his head. As they passed the old man, two ravens screeched high above them, then came to rest on the old man’s arm. One tilted its head and stared straight at her. It was just like one of the ravens from her vision. But then, didn’t all ravens look alike? She reached for a crust of bread that lay wrapped in a sack beside her sisters and threw it.
The raven took off and swept in to catch the crust, then carried it straight back to his master.
“Aoife.”
It was little more than a whisper. She couldn’t swear she’d heard it. How could the old man have known her name?
When she had turned back to her family, her stepmother was staring at her, hatred and fear colouring her features. For a moment she had thought Ula was going to kill her. It had taken her months to realise the only thing stopping Ula was the fear that even in death Aoife might strike her down.
In the end it had taken four long months of a siege before King Artgal surrendered due to lack of water. Aoife had heard rumours of most of those captured in the fort being taken as prisoners to Ath Cliath and sold as slaves. Artgal had been amongst them and it was rumoured that Causantin of the Picts had effectively signed Artgal’s death warrant. Now Causantin’s daughter ruled the new kingdom of Strathclyde with her husband Rhun ap Artgal, son of the deceased king. Aoife always wondered exactly who had betrayed whom.
The amen sounded in the small chapel, bringing Aoife back to the present. She repeated it, not having heard a single word of the prayers. So let it be. She sighed. It was hard to believe that the God they spoke of was a loving one. But he was just like her father, absent and uncaring about the punishments inflicted on her in his name. She stood as the priest made his way along the row of nuns, followed by one of the monks. She repeated the necessary words and accepted the body and blood of Christ with as much humility as she could muster, but her gaze was drawn to the window and the ravens once more. They were watching her.
As the sisters filed out of the chapel towards the building housing their living quarters—more of a prison than a home in Aoife’s opinion—they heard the sound of hoof beats. No one was allowed to speak, but they exchanged worried glances. Still, horses were better than the raiders who appeared first from the sea in their dragon boats.
Brother Pasgen headed for the gates and greeted the new arrivals. Aoife was shocked when they entered the courtyard and she recognised them as her father’s men. What business could they have here? Brother Pasgen hurried over to her and took her arm, then led her towards her father’s steward, Rhydderch. He handed her up into the small cart driven by her father’s priest, Father Bricius. He gestured for her to sit, careful not to touch her or sit too close. She was almost grateful for the fact he feared her.
Sister Ninniaw handed her a small, familiar sack. Aoife’s only belongings, confiscated upon her arrival last year. Not that they were much, but she smiled to see them. Aoife rifled through it, disappointed to note the amethyst cross, given to her by her mother, was not amongst the meagre items inside. She remembered Father Bricius taking the sack from her to hand to the nuns when he had brought her here. Had he taken the cross? Her stepmother had always coveted it. He was watching her and his slight smirk made her think she was correct. She held tight to the sack, placing it on the seat furthest from him.
Rhydderch headed out and onto the road. Bricius took up the reins, turned the cart and followed. So that was it? She’d been handed from one person to another. If her father had sent for her, she had no doubt it was not to improve her situation for her own sake. He must have found a different way for her to be of use to him.
“Where are we going?” she asked Father Bricius as soon as the cart passed out of the confines of the abbey. Rhydderch rode beside them.
“Your father has decided you are to be married,” Father Bricius replied, then turned away from her as if there was nothing more to say.
“To whom?” Aoife asked tentatively. Most of her father’s friends had been killed or taken as slaves during the raid on Alt Clut, and the others regarded him with suspicion. None of them would have seen her as any kind of prize. They would have wanted one of Ula’s daughters as a bride, not her.
“A Norseman now holds the peninsula on the western edge of your father’s lands,” Rhydderch said. “You are to be married to him. The fool thinks it will seal an alliance with your father.” His mocking laughter made her cringe.
A Norseman? One of the enemy? Why would her father… of course, Ula. Her stepmother would never offer any of her daughters to one of the Norsemen, but it would be no sacrifice to marry Aoife to one. Then another, more chilling thought struck her. If her stepmother didn’t care whether Aoife lived or died…
“Does… does my father plan to go back on his word?” She didn’t expect an answer, certainly not a truthful one, but neither could she simply sit in silence.
“It is not a sin to break your word to a barbarian,” Father Bricius stated, signalling an end to the discussion.
Was her father planning to reclaim his lands? What would happen to her then? When the Norsemen realised they had been tricked… She shuddered. They were not a people rumoured to be kind to those they conquered. Artgal was proof of that. Would her father send his men to rescue her? She looked at Rhydderch and doubted it. Then she turned to stare at the priest. Father Bricius refused to meet her eye. How could a man of God allow her to be treated like this? However, Aoife knew for a generous donation to the Church, these holy men would turn a blind eye to many things. She drew her cloak tightly around her and shifted as far away from the man as the seat would allow.
Aoife tried to make sense of it all as the cart trundled along. If this man, this Norseman, thought she was part of an alliance, what would happen when he found out how little her family cared for her? Perhaps if she told him before they were wed, he would understand and send her back. Did she want to go back, though? And to where? The abbey? There was nothing for her either there or at her father’s home. She would just have to ensure the Norseman didn’t find out the truth, and try to make the best of her new life. Aoife was determined to survive this, as she had survived in the past.
* * *
Tormod strode backwards and forwards across the pass. The sun had reached its height some time before. Tormod had not expected Cadell to be on time and had been proven correct.
“The Britons are late,” Björn muttered beside him.
Tormod’s fists clenched at the thought he’d been betrayed again. Not that Cadell would live to regret it. Tormod had noted many weaknesses in the man’s defences when they’d visited the fort the day before yesterday – the most unforgivable of which, in Tormod’s opinion, was Cadell’s overconfidence.
Steep cliffs rose at either side of the pass, easily defensible for a force such as his own. Eventually all of this land would be theirs, the land and all the riches that lay within them. This was the northernmost edge of the kingdom of Strathclyde. Dal Riata lay to the north and the borders were often contested by the Britons in the south and the Gaels in the north. Occasionally the Picts invaded from the east, although now there was an ever-strengthening alliance between Pictland and Dal Riata. He had as much right to claim it as any of the others, and for as long as he could hold it, then it was rightly his. The Norse controlled the rivers and seas far more successfully than these Britons had ever done, and there was no other way onto his land other than through this pass, which he had well defended.
Tormod’s men spoke in low voices as they ate freshly caught fish by the fire. He knew they were aware of their surroundings and watched as carefully as he himself did. Armed with swords and shields as well as their axes, they were more than a match for the Britons, despite their heavier armour. The Britons’ heavier chain
made it awkward for them to move, never mind fight. Tormod preferred his more flexible chain over leather, giving him greater freedom of movement. Rarely did these Britons get close enough for him to need the armour anyway.
He’d heard the rumours about Cadell’s escape from the attack on Alt Clut two years ago led by Ivarr the Boneless and Olaf the White. Cadell and his family had left mere hours before the Norse fleet had sailed up the Clyde. The Britons suspected he’d been in league with the Norsemen. If it were true, however, he’d yet to find a Norseman who would admit to it. Most seemed as ignorant as the Britons about what had caused Lord Cadell to leave when he did. The only explanation seemed to centre around talk of demons, which Tormod was apt to dismiss. The Britons often blamed anything they didn’t understand on demons when most likely it had been the actions of a coward unwilling to fight and die with his people.
The looks exchanged between Cadell and his wife still nagged at him, though. Was there something wrong with the girl? Surely after everything that had happened here, Cadell would not be foolish enough to risk his wrath? The man had few allies to support him in a fight against the Norse.
“Jarl Tormod!” A young lad came running from further up the pass. “Cadell’s men approach. Ten carts carrying the tools and grains agreed upon. There are many guards with them.”
“Very well,” said Tormod. “Most of our men should remain hidden while we greet our guests. Attack if there is any sign of treachery.”
“Yes, herre.”
“My bride...?” Tormod stopped himself from asking what she looked like. Her appearance was irrelevant. Provided she was capable of bearing him strong, healthy sons, he cared not whether Cadell thought he was cheating him in any other way.
“She is in the first of the carts,” the boy replied. “With a holy man.”
Tormod dismissed the boy, who ran off to spread the word.
Less than half an hour later, the procession of carts trundled into the pass.
“Lord Cadell?” Tormod called to the group.
“Lord Cadell sends his deepest regrets.” A tall man, whom Tormod recognised as Cadell’s steward, rode towards them. “I am his steward, Rhydderch—Lord Cadell has sent me in his stead.”
When Tormod didn’t react, Rhydderch halted his horse and inclined his head towards Tormod in a show of some respect although Tormod suspected it was not heartfelt.
“I bring everything that was agreed,” Rhydderch assured him.
“Bring forward my bride,” Tormod demanded, signalling to his men to check the items in the carts.
“Lady Aoife!” Rhydderch called.
Tormod saw a figure in a pale dress stand up. She climbed down from a cart, followed by a man dressed all in black. One of the Christian priests, no doubt sent to marry them. He waited, forcing them to come to him, noticing the priest didn’t touch or help the girl, even though she was clearly exhausted and frightened. Had they travelled all night without allowing her to rest? She was dressed all in white, her hair covered by a veil. She looked like one of the Christian God’s followers. Weren’t those women forbidden from marrying and kept from men all their lives? Was this the joke Cadell and Lady Ula had shared? Tormod couldn’t quite work out at whose expense the joke had been played.
At any rate, his worries about his bride having some kind of affliction were at least appeased. When he got close enough to see her face, he smiled. Despite her pallor and the slenderness of her figure, she seemed hale and whole. Her eyes were a strange shade of blue and a few wisps of red hair curled around the sides of her face. She was pretty, he would grant her that—maybe not beautiful, but certainly not the hideous troll he had begun to imagine.
When her gaze came to rest on him, her eyes widened and she drew in a sharp breath, then it slid to the ground. Her hands trembled and he fought an urge to reassure her. He would show no weakness in front of Cadell’s men. Besides, he had made a terrible mistake before when he had allowed his feelings for a woman to cloud his judgment. He had sworn to himself he would not do that again.
“My lord.” The priest gestured for Tormod to move forward, which he did.
Tormod stretched one hand out towards the girl, but she merely stared at him. Then, at a word from the priest, she let him take her hands and lift them to his lips. Her hands were cold and she was shivering. He waited for her to meet his gaze. When she did, he saw fear in her eyes. He smiled at her. Her fear would soon pass when she came to understand the status and riches he was offering her.
Keeping his gaze on hers, he kissed her fingers. “I am Tormod, jarl of the Norse settlers here. I am pleased to welcome you as my bride.” When she smiled shyly at him and nodded, he turned to the priest. “We are ready.”
The priest hurried through what seemed to pass for a marriage ceremony, then scurried back to where his cart stood and took up his seat again.
“Everything is there, herre,” one of his men reported.
“Very well,” said Tormod. “Send our carters forward.”
Within a few minutes Tormod’s carters were seated in all but the first of the carts. The holy man was seated in that one and it had turned to face back towards Cadell’s lands, ready to return.
Rhydderch nodded at Tormod, then all the Britons turned and left, the holy man’s cart trundling along behind the mounted guards, the remaining carters walking at the rear. No one even spared a backward glance at the girl. Was she really Lord Cadell’s daughter?
He examined her while her gaze remained fixed on the disappearing carts. Yes, he thought so. The set of her jaw and the line of her nose were certainly similar enough, although her eyes... her eyes were unlike any he’d seen before. He smiled at her again and squeezed her hands. She turned to him, appearing no less frightened than she’d been a moment ago, and her steps were hesitant as he led her across to his own cart. He lifted her into it, ignoring her look of surprise and settled himself beside her.
“We will be home in under an hour,” he promised her. “And there will be a proper wedding tonight. You may rest beforehand.”
He had meant the comment to cheer her; instead, it made her recoil from him. At least it seemed likely she was a virgin, nervous about what would happen after the wedding. Unless… And now he let his own fears colour his thinking. Was she already planning to betray him? No, that was unfair. Not all women were as treacherous as his first wife, and this time he would be watching for signs of deception. His traitorous heart would not hide the truth from him again.
Chapter Two
Aoife glanced over at the man she’d been given to. Her new husband. A sliver of fear crept down her spine. Everything about him was different from the men of her previous acquaintance. He wore a helmet, as did all his men, so she couldn’t see his face properly. He was taller, tanned from time spent outdoors. His blond hair was long and braided tightly down his back, his beard braided also. His ruggedness contrasted directly with the more pampered nobles she knew, who often expected their men to do their fighting for them. This man was clearly a warrior, broad-shouldered and strong. He’d lifted her easily into the cart and had many scars on his face and hands, presumably from battle.
She’d only ever seen men of his people. What were their women like? Would she be accepted as his wife, or even more ostracised than she had been in the past? Would she even live long enough to find out?
She couldn’t stop shaking and her gut churned with an odd mix of fear and anger at being married off to a man she’d never met. A man whose people had attacked their lands for years, killing indiscriminately and sacking the monasteries over and over. How could her father have agreed to this?
She clenched her fists and frowned. A marriage arranged to suit her father’s purposes was only to be expected. However, until now, she’d always assumed she would have the option of refusing a suitor. And to be sent to live amongst the Norsemen — strangers to her country, who had killed so many and kept others as slaves, people whose language she didn’t even know. What would become of her?
He must have felt her gaze on him because he turned to look at her. And smiled. She glanced away and then back. It had been a pleasant smile. Perhaps he didn’t intend to kill her immediately.
She sighed. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had simply smiled at her. As the daughter of a lord she should have expected more from her life, however, fate had never been on her side. Not since her mother had died. Hesitantly, she smiled back at him. He reached for her hand and took it in his own. Their eyes met and she found herself unable to look away.
“I look forward to showing you your new home, introducing you to our people,” he said. He spoke in her own language of Brythonic, strangely accented but understandable. The knot of worry in her chest loosened slightly.
“Thank you,” she said. She swallowed, trying to quell her fears. He knew her language. It was a small comfort, one which gave her hope for her future with this man.
The cart reached the crest of the hill and passed by a clump of trees. On one of the branches, two ravens sat staring at her. One of them tilted its head to one side and croaked. Were these the same birds she had seen at the abbey? Were they following her?
Both creatures took flight and soared above her. For an instant the inkling of hope flared within her. Maybe this was her fate. She looked again at the wild-looking, heavily armed war band around the cart and sighed again. If it wasn’t, there was certainly going to be no escape anyway.
Strangely, she felt safer with them than with her father’s men—not least because none had cast a single lecherous nor fearful glance toward her. Curious stares now and again, however, all had averted their eyes when she looked at them. Of course, none of them knew about her curse—her father would hardly have mentioned that.
She got the distinct feeling they believed she had some value, undoubtedly tied to the fact they thought her father cared enough about her to not want her dead. Would they feel differently when they discovered this was not the case? Not that she was going to be the one to tell them. She was certain these were not men who were afraid of killing anyone. She would have to simply hope and pray her father honoured the alliance.
VIKING'S CURSED BRIDE, THE Page 2
