Chapter Seven
Tormod looked across the table at his friends.
He’d eaten well and then fallen asleep on the benches in the main hall — something he hadn’t done since his own rooms had been completed.
He hoped this was not an indication of how his marriage would be, however, Ragna had insisted on him giving Aoife the use of his room to prepare for the ceremony.
Now it was evening and Ulf and Bjorn had woken him earlier to go and bathe and dress in his finest clothing.
Now that he was ready, he noticed them exchange glances more than once and wondered what they had planned.
Nothing about the day was as it should really be.
He was so far from home. Too far to follow many of the wedding traditions, but at least the most important aspect was in place—he had a bride.
A bride who had given him an ally in this strange place and would, in time, give him sons.
His mouth curved. Aoife had not shrunk from his touch in the cart.
Nor had she encouraged him, exactly. However, he knew he could make her crave his touch and was patient enough to take his time.
After all, he had a lifetime in which to do so.
However long that might turn out to be. No matter how the Britons saw him, he was not a barbarian.
And he had seen them treat their own women in ways no Norse woman would tolerate.
He drained his horn of mead before covering it with a hand when a thrall scurried over to refill it.
“Don’t want to risk not being at your best tonight?” Bjorn said, slapping him on the back and grinning lewdly.
Tormod rolled his eyes. Just then, Arne entered the hall through the main doors. The sight of his scars stirred the usual feelings of guilt in Tormod. Ulf nodded over at him, and Bjorn stood.
“Come,” said Bjorn. “Let the celebrations begin. You must claim the sword of your ancestors.”
“But…” Tormod began.
“You think we wouldn’t ensure our jarl was wed with all proper tradition?” Ulf said. “Ragna brought our grandfather’s sword with her from home and we have done our best, even if the gravesite does not contain any of your ancestors.”
Tormod was pleased Ulf seemed to be coming round to the idea of this marriage. Until Ulf added, “Even if the fact your wife’s family are not here worries some.”
“There are reasons for that.”
“I hope they are genuine, herre.”
“Ulf…” Tormod warned. It always disturbed him when any of his cousins addressed him as “herre.” It was a term of great respect amongst their people, used to address a superior.
They had always been friends, equals, and although Tormod had aspired to become more, he knew his cousins were all different.
Bjorn, the oldest, was a warrior at heart, not a leader.
At least he was not a rival. Tormod would not want to risk their friendship for anything.
They had been through too much together in their lives already.
Ulf, however, was a different story. Tormod knew if any of his friends ever challenged him, it would be Ulf—even though he was the youngest of his cousins.
And Arne… Now, Arne was a different story altogether. Tormod pushed away the guilt that accompanied thoughts of Arne.
Tormod followed the three of them out of the hall.
So, he would get to claim the sword of his ancestors.
He swallowed, not wanting to let his cousins see how much the gesture affected him.
According to Christian rites, he and Aoife were already married, but the villagers would enjoy a proper Norse wedding.
It would be as much a celebration of their new village as anything else, so that was what Tormod was determined to give them.
He knew the others were right to be suspicious of Lord Cadell’s motivations — he, himself, was — and although it startled him to admit it, he was not suspicious of Aoife’s.
Yes, he felt she was holding something back and was determined to discover what it was.
At the same time, he was sure she was exactly what she appeared to be — a young, scared bride, sent away to live amongst strangers for her family’s gain.
It was a common enough situation in every society and she seemed to want to make the best of it.
A wish he was happy to accommodate, within reason.
The four of them marched down the street to the edge of the village. There they stopped at a mound of fresh earth. Tormod looked questioningly at Bjorn, who shrugged.
“We had to improvise a little,” Bjorn said, handing him a spade.
“You didn’t bury anyone in here, did you?” Tormod asked as he dug the spade into the mound.
“No,” Bjorn said as Ulf and Arne chuckled. “Although…”
Arne elbowed him in the ribs and shook his head.
“What?” asked Tormod.
“Nothing,” said Bjorn. “Just something my mother mentioned. You can deal with it later. Go on.”
Tormod glared at him for a moment. He could tell from Bjorn’s expression the conversation was over, so he started to dig.
After only three or four shovelfuls, metal clinked against metal.
As soon as the hilt was uncovered, Tormod knelt and drew the sword.
He stared at the careful construction and ornate decoration, which made it a valuable piece as well as an effective weapon.
“I had the blacksmith sharpen it,” said Bjorn, not taking his eyes from it as Tormod stood and raised it, watching as the sunlight glistened off the blade.
“Thank you,” he said to his cousins.
Ragna came towards them, smiling. “Your bride is ready, herre. And all are eager to begin the celebrations.” She looked at her sons.
“What is the matter?”
The three of them glanced at each other.
“We are concerned her family is not here,” Ragna eventually said. “Surely any parent wants to see their daughter wed, especially to a powerful man, and yet…”
“Ah,” said Tormod, then placed a hand on Ragna’s shoulder. “Is that your only worry, you and all the rest of the village?” He glanced at his cousins. “The dowry has been paid in full. And their own priest and Cadell’s steward witnessed the Christian rites.”
“Yes, although her family did not even accompany her then. How can you be sure she is, indeed, Cadell’s daughter? That this alliance will protect us?”
Tormod frowned. “Cadell has paid the dowry. My bride is here and hale.” He stepped closer and hugged Ragna.
“There is enough resemblance to Cadell that I believe she is his daughter. I think her stepmother does not care for her as she should. Her father looked to his wife for permission in all matters when we were there. We should not blame Aoife—she has had little say in the matter, I suspect. And it shows they are afraid of us—something that is surely not a bad thing.”
“No, it is no bad thing,” Ragna said. The tension in her shoulders eased, and she smiled.
“She told me about her stepmother. And it explains… Well, you’ll see.
Now, let us begin. The villagers have worked hard these past months building the hall, their homes and their farms. It is time for a celebration—and what better way to celebrate than with the wedding of our jarl?
It is a new beginning for all of us who chose to follow you.
” With that, she hurried back in the direction of the hall.
“Very well,” Tormod said, cleaning the sword with a cloth Ragna had handed him.
Then he slid it into his belt as he heard the noise of cups and pots being banged and the villagers began to come out of their homes.
Ragna hurried back to the main hall, followed by the women, while the men made their way to stand with Tormod.
There was much laughter and a sense of joy in the air.
Although he sensed an element of caution, he smiled to see his people so happy.
And swore to himself he would make this marriage work, use it to ensure the village remained a safe and peaceful place.
They would work hard and prosper here — an alliance with Aoife’s father would ensure a safe border, and it would give them access to trade and knowledge—things his people relied on for survival as much as farming.
And if Cadell could not exist peacefully alongside them, then Tormod would pursue a different approach.
The banging grew louder. The village women appeared, Aoife in their midst. He stared at her, now dressed in a traditional Norse wedding gown, embroidery down both arms, and thick rows of decoration along the hem.
Her hair was both uncovered and loose. A jolt of lust ran through him.
She was a striking woman. Her hair was red, an unusual shade the Gaels called ruadh and which he’d mostly seen on Gaels and Picts.
If his new wife had ties to either of those peoples, then perhaps she was even more valuable than he’d thought.
And yet a tiny, nagging voice of suspicion sounded in his ear.
Why would her father have parted with her so willingly if she was so valuable?
Mind you, after the raid on Alt Clut two years ago, the reputation the Norse had in this region was formidable.
Perhaps her father appreciated that value, even if her stepmother didn’t.
Now he saw her dressed in Norse clothing and smiling, it made him feel something he didn’t want to examine too closely.
He pushed the feeling away. This was a business transaction, albeit one with pleasurable consequences, however, it remained purely business.
He had no reason to love his bride, none at all.
Aoife’s eyes met his own. Then her gaze slid modestly downward. Whether her family were here or not, he had her dowry, he had her father’s promise of an alliance, and most of all, he had Cadell’s daughter.
As Tormod strode towards the hall, Bjorn, Ulf and Arne at his side, Ragna led Aoife around all the houses in the village, followed by a growing crowd.
Those inside the houses came out and greeted her, giving her small gifts or flowers and then joining the group.
Soon the whole village was involved in the noisy procession and the mood was one of jubilation.
Tormod could smell the meat roasting on the spits in the hall and outside. His people had worked so hard, it was good they had this wedding feast to celebrate not only his marriage but the completion of the village.
The procession turned onto the main street and Tormod found himself mesmerised by Aoife as she walked towards him. She was flushed and smiling, although her smile faltered every time she caught his gaze. He strode to meet her, the sword of his ancestors at his side, followed by Bjorn, Ulf and Arne.