Chapter Two
Aoife shifted slightly from one knee to the other, desperate for morning prayers to be over.
She had barely slept, her dreams filled with the rumbling of thunder as they had been now for weeks.
The low booming echoed around every part of her body and from the depths of the sound came a vision — the same every time — a bear and a wolf walked side by side on the land while a hawk flew high above them.
Three creatures were all she had seen, but there was a fourth.
She was sure of it. Someone she’d been running from, but the faster she ran, the closer he got.
One whom she could not see, could simply feel his presence in the thunder.
It was as if the thunder itself was a living being, intent on consuming her.
A raven croaked and her eyes shot open, her gaze drawn towards the window where weak sunlight trickled in.
Her lips curved into a smile, which then faded.
What she wouldn’t give to be outside this morning, or any morning.
She missed walking by the loch with her maid, Rhiannon, and the sounds of the fort.
Even the smells. The food here was plentiful but basic, and she missed the excitement of the men returning from the hunt, followed by the smell of roasting meat.
It had been almost two years now and she couldn’t bear the thought of another summer stuck behind these dreary stone walls, where any hint of comfort was soon taken from her.
She’d thought living under her father’s roof had been miserable until she’d been sent here.
At least there she’d had pretty clothes and jewellery and games to play with her sisters.
Here, she had nothing. Nothing but time to think.
At summer’s end, she would be expected to take her vows as a nun—something which every part of her rebelled against. She knew she had no vocation, and she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life imprisoned here.
Two ravens fluttered down to sit on the window ledge and stared directly at her.
Then they tilted their heads, exchanged a glance, and took off.
She bowed her head in prayer once more, trying not to think about the freedom enjoyed by the birds but denied to her.
The ravens were also a reminder of Alt Clut.
Despite her attempts to ignore the memories, the sights and sounds of the attack on Alt Clut assailed her.
Despite opening her eyes, she could still see the past. As dawn had broken, they had looked across their lands to the firth only to see hundreds of ships heading towards Alt Clut.
Wooden ships with dragons carved at the prows, the square sails of Norse raiders striking terror into all their hearts.
“We must warn them,” Ula had said.
Cadell closed his hands over his wife’s and stared at her. His skin was pale, fear etched on his face. “Aoife already did. They didn’t want to listen. There is nothing more we can do. We should return home and prepare for an attack.”
The boats had moved swiftly, cutting easily through the deep water of the river towards the rock on which Alt Clut stood. The warriors flooded onto the land at its base while others surrounded the rock in their boats, cutting the inhabitants off from any source of supplies.
They had turned back along the road through the hills, the sounds of battle carrying through the still air behind them. The clatter of swords and shields and axes and the screams of the dying. Tears slid down Aoife’s face. If they had only listened to her… But they hadn’t.
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 in her vision.
But then, didn’t all ravens look alike? She reached for a crust of bread that lay wrapped in a pouch 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 Eithne, Causantin’s daughter, ruled the new kingdom of Strath Clut with her husband Rhun ap Artgal, son of the deceased king.
Their son, Eochaid, now heir to both thrones.
Aoife had 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 pouch.
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 pouch 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 pouch, placing it at the side of her, 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. Many 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 a Norseman, 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.