Chapter Eight
Ragna halted the procession of women and urged Aoife to walk forward to meet Tormod, who stood with three men behind him.
One was Bjorn, one was Arne—the scarred man—and she assumed the other was Ulf.
As she started to move, she realised three warriors were following her.
She turned to look at them and froze. All were armed, and one of them held a sword in front of himself, its tip pointing directly at her.
Had she misunderstood? Was she a sacrifice rather than a bride?
She turned to Tormod, who was also carrying a large sword.
She gulped and took a step away from both men.
“Do not fear,” said Tormod. “The warriors are there for your protection. Not to harm you. It is just a symbol—they are the bride’s men.
You are not in any danger.” Tormod stepped towards her when she still hesitated and held out a hand.
After a moment, she took it, wishing she had asked Ragna more questions about the ceremony and what she would be expected to do.
“Take the sword,” Tormod said. He gestured to the man behind her, who was now holding the sword flat across his arms. She looked from the sword to Tormod and back again.
The warrior held it out to her, and she lifted it.
It was heavier than it appeared. Her knees buckled a little, and so the warrior steadied her and helped her to settle the weight.
Her arms shook, not just with the weight of the sword, but with the worry that she would make a mistake.
“Give it to your husband,” the warrior whispered to her.
She nodded at him, pleased there was another person who spoke her language.
She turned to Tormod and handed him the sword.
He took it and placed it in his belt, then knelt in front of her and presented his own sword to her.
She noticed traces of dirt around the hilt and wondered if she, too, should have knelt, but it was too late now.
She took the sword. This one was even heavier, but that was the least of her problems.
As her hands closed on the pommel, her vision blurred.
Her curse was upon her. She shook her head, trying to subdue it.
Not now. Not in front of all these people who might do anything to her once they found out about her visions.
Despite Tormod telling her about their seer, she was worried.
The tip of the sword thudded into the ground, and she leaned on it for balance as the familiar blackness dulled her earthly vision.
A seer was one thing, someone who lived on the fringes of society.
It would surely be different for a woman, the jarl’s wife, to be cursed in such a way…
there was no telling what they might do to her.
She blinked and looked cautiously at her new husband.
Perhaps she could claim it was merely the heat, but it was not her husband’s face she saw.
Instead, a field burned in front of her.
She could smell the thick, black smoke, feel it filling her lungs, stinging her eyes and making them water.
The smoke gathered and formed into the hissing face of a wildcat.
Claws came sweeping from the sky towards her and she gasped, inhaling the smoke deep into her lungs. She choked and jolted back to reality.
Slowly, her vision cleared, and there was nothing except darkness in front of her.
Feeling returned first, and she knew Tormod held her.
She rested against him for a moment, terrified that once she lifted her head, she would be beaten.
He must have sensed she was awake again and set her back on her feet before holding firmly to her shoulders.
She lifted her gaze to his, unsure what she might see there. Only concern etched his features. Ragna was beside him. The woman placed a cool hand on her brow, then took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
“There is no need to be afraid,” Tormod said.
Aoife swallowed and nodded, or at least tried to.
“Come,” Ragna said for all to hear. “Let us finish the handfasting. Our jarl’s new wife needs a good meal and a drink.”
There was a moment of silence before Bjorn cheered.
The villagers joined him and soon the knot of fear in her belly released.
They thought she was just nervous about her wedding.
That was a relief. She tried to smile while one of her hands was bound with Tormod’s and then each of them promised to be faithful during their marriage.
Tormod smiled at her as they placed the rings on their own fingers, then hand in hand they walked together to the door of the hall, where Tormod carried her over the threshold.
There was a great cheer from outside. He led her to a seat in the centre of the dais as the villagers followed them in and settled down, ready for the feast.
As they watched, thralls carved the meat from the hog roast over the central fire.
There were plenty of vegetables and fish.
Aoife hadn’t seen this much food since the feast at Alt Clut and her plate was refilled more than once, although she barely remembered eating any of it.
She could still smell the acrid smoke, feel it burning her lungs.
Sitting beside Tormod on the dais, she observed all the villagers and tried to adjust to thinking of this as her new home. Everything had happened so quickly.
“Why so sad?” Tormod held out a horn filled with mead, which she took.
“Drink,” he urged her. “It will calm your nerves.” He watched as she sipped at the sweet, potent liquid, then leaned forward to kiss her.
Cheers sounded in the hall. As soon as his lips left hers, she pulled back and stared at her plate, unable now to eat another mouthful.
Someone, she thought it might have been Bjorn, started to sing, although she couldn’t understand the words.
They ate and drank, different people singing or telling stories as the evening wore on.
Patiently, Tormod whispered to her what the stories were about, rarely letting go of her hand, and she began to calm down.
He seemed to have no immediate plans to harm her, nor to rush her into his bed.
Eventually, the events of the past two days swept over her, and all her energy drained away. She shouldn’t have drunk the mead. It had relaxed her, and the tension that had kept her going was fading.
Tormod said something to her. She just stared at him, unable to make sense of the words.
He stood and pulled her up beside him, held her close.
She leaned into his strength, grateful for his support, given how badly her legs were trembling.
A thrall filled his horn with mead. The noise in the hall quieted as he spoke.
“I thank you for your attendance on my wedding day and for the welcome you have given my wife.” There were cheers and some applause. “But I believe she is tired, so we will take our leave of you for tonight. Please, continue to eat, drink and enjoy yourselves.”