Chapter Eleven
Aoife was relieved Ragna was in the room when Tormod returned.
She’d never been so intimate with anyone before and her stomach was in knots, wondering how she was now expected to behave towards him.
The warm water she stood in had soothed most of the aches from the night before, however a deeper ache made her keenly aware she had changed, had been changed, by what they had done together.
She glanced towards the bed, only to find Tormod staring at her.
His gaze was intense, and for a fleeting instant, she fancied that she could see deep into his very soul.
Last night she had felt such a strong physical connection between them — a connection that left her hoping for more.
She had been alone since her mother’s death, both in her father’s house and at the abbey.
She yearned for something more from her life here.
Her husband would not have changed physically the way she had, although still she searched his face for some evidence of a deeper connection between them, but there was nothing.
She was fooling herself. The only connection between them was physical.
They barely knew each other, and he had made it clear last night he did not want to give her a child.
She bit her lip. What did that mean? Perhaps he did not want to sully his bloodline with foreign blood.
So why had he married her? If she wasn’t to fulfil such an important role for a wife, then what did he want from her?
Maybe she was destined to never truly belong anywhere and her curse would always set her apart.
Ragna picked that moment to tip a bucket full of water over her head and begin to rub her hair with soap. Gratefully, Aoife closed her eyes, forcing herself to keep breathing in and out, in and out. Hands scrubbed her hair and then more water was poured over her.
“Out you get now,” said Ragna.
Aoife waited, her eyes still closed. A large cloth was wrapped around her, then two things happened.
She heard the door click shut, and she was lifted off her feet into a pair of strong arms. She opened her eyes to find Tormod looking down at her as they moved towards the bed.
He set her down on its edge and she pulled the cloth around herself more tightly.
He stared at her for a moment and then took a comb from his belt and began to comb out her long hair.
“I…I can do that myself.”
“I know,” was all he said as he continued.
Gradually she relaxed and her eyes drifted shut as he combed through the long, wet lengths.
For now, she could pretend that he might care for her — if not now, then perhaps in the future.
A future she could only pray they would have.
His other hand caressed her head and then stroked the back of her neck and around her shoulders.
His lips touched her own just an instant after he stopped combing her hair.
She opened her eyes, looking at this man who she barely knew and yet who knew her more intimately than any other person had ever known her.
He brushed her hair away from her neck and dropped a kiss at the spot where her jaw ended. A delicious shiver raced through her and she reached for him, uncaring that the cloth fell open.
A knock on the door made her pull back from him and gather the cloth tightly around herself once more.
Tormod cursed, then marched to the door.
He flung it open and stepped into the doorway.
Aoife twisted her head to see who was there.
Bjorn. Again. He made no attempt to come into the room, but she could hear every word.
“We caught the culprit,” she heard Bjorn say. “A boy. A Briton.”
“Where was he?”
“H?kon found him hiding in his byre,” Bjorn said, then added, “He’s asking for your wife.”
“H?kon?”
“The boy.”
The two men turned to stare at her. She realised they’d been talking in Brythonic. They looked at each other and then back at her.
“For me? Why? Who is he?” Aoife frowned. Why would a child be asking for her? Especially one who had done such a thing as set a field on fire.
Her breath caught as she remembered her dream.
“Well?” Tormod asked Bjorn.
“Well?” Bjorn frowned.
“Who is the boy?”
“Why does your wife not come and see for herself?”
“You didn’t ask him his name?”
There was silence. Bjorn waited.
Aoife’s heart sank. “You didn’t… You haven’t… Is he dead?” She stood and backed against the wall, pressing herself farther and farther into the corner. If they had killed a child… She felt sick.
“No,” Bjorn said. “He is not dead. He will say nothing except ‘Lady Aoife’ over and over again.”
“We will come and see him,” said Tormod. “Go and make sure nothing happens to him in the meantime.”
“It won’t. Arne is making sure of that. What do you think we are?
” Bjorn sounded angry, although she could see guilt etched on his features.
Killing the child for his crime was a thought that had occurred to them.
“I’ll wait for you outside.” Tormod pulled the door closed, leaving Bjorn in the corridor.
After a short pause he heard his cousin leave.
Tormod turned to stare at her. She couldn’t read his expression. “Will you come and see the boy?”
“Why?” Her heart started to beat faster.
“A field was burned last night, across Loch Garw from your father’s lands.”
The remnants of her dream crowded into her thoughts. She’d seen the flames leaping, felt the warmth on her cheeks, smelled the harsh smoke, felt it sting her eyes and cause them to water. “And… and you think this boy may have done it?”
“It is possible.”
“And my father might have ordered this?”
“You may know who he is. Be able to tell us who it is that is attacking us. Or perhaps you will not recognise him and then we will know that this is nothing to do with your father.”
She nodded, clinging desperately to the hope that Tormod might be right. “But the boy asked for me by name.”
“That’s what Bjorn said.”
Aoife watched Tormod, trying to discern what he might be thinking, but she could not.
All that she knew was that she didn’t want him to think she was guilty of such a thing.
Neither did she want her father to be guilty, although there was a sinking feeling in her heart that he was.
She looked down at her hands, loosening her grip when she noticed that her knuckles were white, then back up at Tormod.
“You think a child was sent to attack you?”
“It is not too difficult for a child to set a fire.”
That was true, but what kind of enemy would send a lone child to attack an enemy as formidable as the Norsemen?
“I don’t know anything about this. It has been two years since I last saw my father or visited my home, although…
” She sat down on the edge of the bed and she shivered, partly with cold and partly with…
Not fear, more a profound sense of disappointment.
She had hoped she might be accepted here, find a family, but already the fact she was an outsider meant her loyalties were being tested.
A test she wasn’t sure she could pass as she simply knew nothing.
Did Tormod blame her for this? If he did, it was unfair of him, although…
What if it was her fault? What if her father was, indeed, behind it?
She straightened. She would go and see the boy and hopefully be able to reassure both herself and Tormod that this was either a random attack or an attack by another Briton. After all, her father was not the only Briton who resented the presence of the Norsemen. She looked at her husband.
He was staring at her. “This morning, before you woke…” He broke off.
“What about it?”
“You were talking in your sleep.”
“Oh?” She tried to keep her voice steady. What had she said?
“You spoke of fire and fields.” Tormod’s expression was blank. Her chest tightened, and she found it difficult to breathe. “A strange coincidence.”
“It was just a dream.”
Their gazes held. Aoife felt sure that if she dropped hers, then Tormod would see through her half-truth, but she couldn’t tell him the whole of it. The risk was too great, and the truth was that she really had not known this attack would happen, so her dream wouldn’t have helped anyone.
“Come, we will see this boy and decide his fate,” Tormod stated. The earlier affection in his voice was gone.
It was a challenge to prove her loyalty.
That should not be difficult to pass—she owed her father none.
She glared at her husband. Perhaps she should tell him about her visions, the fact that she had seen the burning field more than once and…
She stopped that train of thought. If she told him now, he would wonder why she had not warned them.
There was no way to win in this situation.
It was unfair of him to blame her for something not of her doing.
She wished she could make him believe her, trust her.
She sagged a little at the thought that that just might never be possible.
No matter how much she wanted to fit in, she might always be regarded as the outsider here.
People had a tendency to stick to their beliefs, regardless of how one tried to show that they were wrong. Still, she had to try.
“You are my husband,” she said. “My loyalties are to you. Is that not the case for any wife bought and paid for by her husband?”
Tormod didn’t move, didn’t change his expression. She shouldn’t have challenged him. They waited in silence. She feared he would cast her aside, send her back to her father or the abbey with no hope of any future. She held her breath.
Finally, Tormod shrugged. “The sentiment ought to be true, yes. For some, however, betrayal is as simple as breathing. And I did not pay for you. I did not have to. Your father paid for me to take you.”
As hurtful as that was to hear, she could believe it to be true.
“I have not betrayed anyone,” she said, turning away from him. She closed her eyes. Outside she could hear the village sounds, the animals, voices, the clink of harnesses and the clatter of carts. Not her world, although not so very different either.
“Why were you beaten?” Tormod’s voice was soft. She opened her eyes to see him cross the room towards her and sit on the bed. He lifted her hands and kissed them. She stared at her hands as she tried to frame what she would say.
“Aoife?”
He placed a finger under her chin and forced her to look at him. She was not ready to explain to him why she had been beaten, but neither would she lie.
“I became unwell. Like I did at the wedding. That’s all.”
Tormod searched her face, as if trying to discern whether her words were the truth or not. Then he frowned, pulled away from her. It was clear that what she had said was not enough to reassure him, however, to say anything else was too much of a risk. To her. For her future. For her life.