Chapter Four
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 as well.
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?
These men were strangers to her country.
Men who had killed so many of her fellow Britons, including their king, 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. Hope flared again 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.
One man stood out from the rest due to his scars. Deep wounds covered all the skin visible on his face and hands. She shivered when she looked at them. What pain he must have suffered. And how strong must he be to have survived?
“Aoife?” She jumped at the sound of her name, although her husband spoke gently. “We are nearly home. I hope it will be to your liking.”
“Would it matter if it wasn’t?” she said, regretting the comment as soon as it had passed her lips. She steeled herself for a blow or harsh words. None came.
“I would have my wife happy,” he replied after a pause, his expression revealing nothing.
She opened her mouth to speak but could form no words.
“Is that not a husband’s duty?” Tormod asked her.
“Makes for an easier life,” the man who rode alongside them said loudly and laughed. “And Tormod is known for his ability to make women very happy.”
“Bjorn!” Tormod chided him, but the other man grinned. “My cousin has no manners.”
Aoife looked ahead, her cheeks heating.
“But if he keeps you happy, it will mean an easier life for us too,” Bjorn continued. “If your father keeps his word.”
Aoife glanced sharply at him. Her father keep his word? Unlikely, especially if her stepmother wanted something different. “What did my father promise you?”
Bjorn laughed loudly.
Tormod gave her an appraising look, as if trying to judge whether it was worthwhile answering her or not. “You, for a start.”
She stared at him for a moment. The tone of the laughter from both him and the others suggested it was simply a joke — not any kind of threat. He reached out a hand as if to cup her face, but let it fall back to his side when she involuntarily recoiled.
“We are allies and he has promised not to contest my ownership of this land,” Tormod said. “And to help us defend it if necessary. After all, what father would risk his daughter’s safety?”
Aoife wasn’t sure she wanted to answer the question. She could only pray he was right. “So, I am a sort of hostage?”
He shook his head. “No. Whatever else you are, you will be a jarl’s wife, with all the status and responsibilities that entails. You are still a free woman. You have choices. Even the choice of divorcing me. Although that seems a bit extreme already.”
“Divorce?” The Church never allowed such a thing. And what did he mean about being free? Married women were the property of their husbands.
“I think we should at least try being married first,” he said, grinning. “You may even enjoy it.”
The warriors around them laughed.
“But…” She couldn’t believe he was amused by the notion rather than anything else, and the knowledge she still had a choice made her feel better.
Still, they were married now. Bricius had performed the ceremony, albeit the shortest version Aoife had ever witnessed.
Her father had decided she was to marry this Norseman and there was no alternative.
Besides, no Briton would want a woman who had been married to a Norseman.
Not that any of them had wanted her in the first place, not after Alt Clut.
She could only pray Tormod was right about her father not wanting her dead.
A thought occurred to her—if her father was going to help them defend their land…
“You plan to stay here?” she asked.
“We do. Our village is nearly complete and there are many farms in the surrounding area.”
For a moment, only the footsteps of the men and horses and the trundle of the carts broke the silence.
“You do not intend to sail back to… the north?” She realised her ignorance about anything concerning these men. Where had they really come from?
“Perhaps one day,” Tormod replied. “But my father has many sons, too many to share his lands in the north, so I have lands here now. And this is where I will make my home. A native wife will help.”
“You are sure?”
“You can teach the others your language, share what you know about foodstuffs, herbs and animal rearing. Help us to make a successful living here. As the daughter of a lord, I expect you have been trained in the running of a large household.”
Aoife nodded, her hopes for the future leaping at his words.
She could do those things. She was going to be needed here, would have a role to play, and may in time come to be accepted by his people.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so different from the life she might have led had her mother lived and arranged a marriage for her to a Briton or even a Pict.
Unless… She would have to make sure they didn’t discover her presence, did not assure them the safety they expected.
Or maybe she should tell them now, so they were better prepared. She realised Tormod was looking at her.
“If you are worried I cannot provide for you, then let me assure you I am a richer man than your father. And my men are loyal… unlike your father.”
“What do you mean?” Shock ran through her. He thought her father disloyal?
“Your father abandoned his king, right before we attacked. Is that not true?”
“Yes…” Her heart raced. Her father’s misfortunes may, in fact, all stem from her if what this man said was true.
“He wasn’t fleeing because of that.” She frowned, remembering the beating she’d received—even after her family knew her vision had saved their lives.
Her stepmother had used it as an excuse to send her away.
She’d had visions at the abbey and been beaten every time—far worse than her stepmother had done.
The most recent only a few days hence. Brother Pasgen had claimed he was beating the demons from her, and her penance had been long hours spent on her knees, praying.
How would these men, known for their violence, react to finding out what had happened, what she had seen? What she was?
If civilised people beat her, then how much worse would the punishment be from these barbarians? Except so far, their treatment of her was better than anything in her past, even if it had only been a matter of hours.
Perhaps as a wife, she would have more status. And later as a mother. She pursed her lips. She was no na?ve innocent. She was aware of what happened between a man and his wife.
Her new husband tilted his head from side to side, then pulled off his helmet.
As he turned to face her, her breath caught.
His appearance, the jut of his nose and chin, the expression on his face, and his eyes—it was all so familiar.
She’d seen his face before. In one of her visions.
She felt the rumble of the thunder from her dreams echo through her body and heard the croak of a raven.
Yes, this was indeed her fate, for better or for worse.