Chapter Fifteen Warrior and Bride
Chapter Fifteen
Warrior and Bride
Dundurn, The Kingdom of Fortriu
The handfasting took place at noon.
It was a blustery day, full of the promise of spring, although the wind that blew across the hills had a bite to it. Bridei stood upon the banks of the burn beneath his fortress and wrapped a length of plaid around the joined hands of the man and woman before him.
Heolstor and his bride Ciara both beamed at him, while Bridei attempted to keep his expression neutral—noble—as was befitting a king.
Heolstor had dressed for the occasion in his finest leather vest and plaid breeches. Swirling patterns of blue decorated his bare arms, adding to the blue tattoos that traced one side of his face. The color contrasted deeply with his bright red hair.
The warrior had grown over the years into a giant of a man.
He was taller and broader than most of the Picts he lived amongst and looked as different as a cuckoo in a nest of sparrows.
Still, the folk had accepted him long ago as one of their own.
Ciara, a comely lass with a mane of dark brown hair and sea-green eyes looked lovely today in a long, sleeveless plaid tunic, and with heather in her hair.
Ciara shifted her attention from the king to her husband-to-be, gazing at him with open adoration.
Bridei stifled a smile. It was just like Heolstor to capture the heart of the most winsome lass in Dundurn. Years earlier, Bridei had even considered pursuing Ciara himself. Seeing Heolstor and the girl together so happy now, so well matched, gladdened his heart.
The ceremony was coming to its conclusion. Heolstor and Ciara stood barefoot on the edge of Allt Ghoinean burn, where clear water trickled over stones and birds darted overhead. A crowd had gathered around the warrior and his bride. All that was needed was for Bridei to complete their handfasting.
Bridei finished tying the plaid and stepped back.
“Heolstor, warrior of Fortriu, I join you to Ciara daughter of Arnor mac Durn,” he began, his voice carrying over the crowd.
“May The Mother light your way. May The Warrior protect you. May The Maiden grant you healthy children.” He paused here, letting his words echo high above them before continuing.
“And may The Hag bless you with long, healthy lives—and keep The Reaper from your door.”
The wedding party feasted outdoors. A haunch of venison had been slowly roasting on a spit all morning, and the women had prepared breads and braised vegetables to serve with it.
Long tables lined the edge of the burn, and the aroma of roast meat, accompanied by the pungent odor of peat, drifted across the hillside, carried by a brisk wind.
Bridei sat at the head of the longest table, his gaze surveying his surroundings. He loved this place—the great hill with the River Earn to one side and the Allt Ghoinean burn on the other.
His fort, Dundurn, reared above them, commanding a view for many furlongs in every direction.
A very different structure to Bebbanburg, his fort was a great circular building: a broch.
There was very little wood used here; instead, even the huts surrounding the base of the fort were made of local stone, with turf or thatched roofs.
Over the years, both Bridei and his father had added to the fort’s outer defenses, and now stone walls eight feet high ringed the base of the hill.
A path, cut into the side of the hill, wound lazily up to the broch, in-between a patchwork of cultivated terraces and cottars huts.
To Bridei’s left, one of his warriors—Fearghus—filled a drinking horn with mead and thrust it across the table at Heolstor. “Here, Fire Hair, down this!”
Heolstor grinned back at him before reaching across to claim the horn. “Aye, the first of many.”
Bridei shook his head. It was not just a boast; he had never met a man who could drink like Heolstor. Most Angle warriors he had met had hollow legs.
Platters of venison, braised onions, mashed carrot with honey and butter, and boiled turnip arrived at the table then, and the feasters fell upon it.
Bridei helped himself to some bread studded with walnuts and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully.
Around him, his people laughed, joked, and made merry, but he felt slightly apart from them.
His mood had been introspective of late.
He had no need for brooding. Everything was going well, yet an emptiness had taken up residence within him that he could not shake.
He had thought that today would cheer him up, for he had been looking forward to seeing Heolstor wed his sweetheart, but now that the ceremony was over, and the wedding feast was underway, a nagging sense of loss settled over him once more.
Curse her … can she not leave me in peace?
He had believed thoughts of Hea would cease shortly after leaving Bebbanburg, that by the time he reached his stronghold she would be little more than a pleasant memory.
He had never been more wrong. Instead, the opposite had occurred.
He could not stop thinking about her; she had become an obsession.
Months had now passed, and still memories of her assailed him with every quiet moment.
At first, he had done his best to distract himself.
He had lain with another woman on his return to Dundurn—Una—a serving wench who had long drawn his eye.
But his sense of loss, of emptiness, had only increased afterward.
Annoyance surged through him. Hea, that witch, had ruined all other women for him.
Cursing her once more, Bridei took a long draft from his cup, his gaze travelling over the table to where Una was filling the feasters’ cups. She carried a ewer of wine in one hand, a jug of mead in the other, and was laughing with one of the warriors.
Sensing someone’s gaze upon her, Una glanced up and boldly met Bridei’s eye. She then favored him with a slow, seductive smile.
Una was there for the taking, he knew that. Months had passed since Bridei had last lain with her, and his body cried out for a woman. Yet he knew the urge would only lead to disappointment … for them both.
Una was comely, but he found himself comparing her unfavorably to Hea. Una was too tall, too thin, her skin sallow in comparison, and her walnut-color hair drab. In the furs, she was lifeless compared to his red-haired Angle temptress.
Bridei knew Una deserved better, and in fact, she had appeared hurt when he did not invite her to his bed again. It was better that way though—there was little point bedding a woman he did not want.
It was like drinking a barrel of ale when only one cup of wine was what he thirsted for.
I’ve a hand, he thought sourly. I’ll have to use that for the time being.
Bridei looked away, to find Heolstor watching him. His friend had just downed his second horn of mead and was waiting for it to be refilled and passed back to him. Ciara was perched on his lap, nibbling a piece of venison.
“You look glum for such a day,” Heolstor observed with a wicked grin. “What’s wrong—did you want me for yourself?”
Bridei laughed before raising his cup to them both. “I’d rather wed a goat. Ciara is welcome to you.”
Still grinning, Heolstor raised his own cup to his lord. “So why the long face?”
Bridei shrugged. “Just the cares of a man who rules, nothing worth speaking of.”
The mood changed at their end of the table. Heolstor’s face grew serious and his bride’s brow furrowed.
“When will you march south to face the Northumbrians?” Ciara asked.
“Soon,” Bridei assured her.
“How will it start?” Heolstor asked. “Shall we name a time and place and meet, shield wall to shield wall?”
Bridei shook his head. “The shield wall is your way—in the north, we prefer to lay an ambush for our enemies.”
Heolstor’s gaze grew intense. He took the drinking horn Fearghus passed him but did not yet drink from it. “Go on.”
Bridei favored his friend with a sly smile. “I lived amongst the Angles long enough to know the types of warfare they excel at, and which they do not. Long have I lain awake at night deciding on the best way to confront Ecgfrith.”
“And …?”
Bridei’s smile widened. “I think it’s time we traveled south again and stirred up more trouble.”
Heolstor raised an eyebrow. “Poke the adder with a stick?”
“Aye—I intend to rile him, so he has no choice but to come after me.”
“What will you do then?” Ciara leaned forward, riveted by the men’s discussion. “Turn and fight?”
Bridei leaned back in his seat and lifted his cup, saluting them both once more. “Only when I’ve got him where I want him.”
Dusk settled over the hills of Fortriu, a rosy sunset that painted the sky in ribbons of mauve and pink. The feast had long since ended on the banks of the burn below, and folk had made their way back up to the fort—where the eating and drinking continued.
Soon after dark, the music and dancing began.
Two musicians, one playing a bone whistle, the other a harp, set themselves up on the wooden platform at one end of the circular space inside the great stone broch. Men and women pushed back the tables, so the area around the central hearth was clear, and began to dance.
Bridei, groggy and sated from a surfeit of rich food and mead, did not join them.
Instead, he took his seat upon the raised platform, at the other end from the musicians.
He sat upon a carved oaken chair, decorated by a massive pair of stag antlers—his father’s throne—and stretched his long legs out before him, crossing them at the ankles.
It had been a good day, but he was content to watch the revelry, rather than take part in it.
Una had been observing him all afternoon. She glanced up at him now, from where she danced in a circle with the other unwed men and women who lived within the fort, her gaze coy.
It was his fault; he should not have caught her eye earlier.
Pretending he had not seen her glance his way, Bridei leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers on the armrests, in time with the music. After a few moments, he gave a great yawn, his jaw cracking.
He had been busy of late, rallying his men and training and arming them for battle.
Most days he was awake before dawn and often the last to retire.
However, it felt as if the long days had caught up with him.
If he remained seated here, he would surely fall asleep like an old man, caught dozing after the noon meal—not a kingly sight.
Best he retired to his quarters instead.
Bridei rose to his feet, just as Una broke free of the dancers. She leaped nimbly upon the platform, blocking his exit.
“Lord Bridei,” she greeted him, breathless. “Will you not join the dancing?”
“Not tonight, Una. I am weary.”
Her pretty face creased in disappointment. “But surely, just one dance.”
Bridei held her gaze and smiled. Then he slowly, and deliberately shook his head, stepping around her. “Good eve, Una—enjoy the revelry. There have been too few handfastings here over the last year.”
He felt her gaze follow him as he stepped down from the platform.
He skirted the edge of the hall, passing the curtained alcoves where his relatives and retainers slept.
Bridei then crossed to the stone steps that led up to the second level of the broch, to where he slept.
She would not follow him, not without an invitation.
It was a relief to climb the stairs and enter the solitude of his chamber. This space was his refuge. Thick furs covered the floor and tapestries hung from the damp stone walls, creating a welcoming feel. It was a masculine space; there was no woman’s touch here.
Bridei heaved out a sigh and yanked off his boots before crossing the floor to his furs.
He stretched out upon their softness and stared up at the rafters for a short while, listening to the laughter and music that drifted up from below.
The celebrations would no doubt go on for much longer—although he had noted that Heolstor and Ciara had disappeared early into the night, to celebrate alone and in private.
Bridei envied them their happiness.
He lay there for a while longer, waiting for sleep to claim him—yet despite his weariness, it would not come. If anything, the merriment beneath him had gotten louder. The sound of a man’s drunken singing rose up, followed by shrieking and laughter.
The noise almost drowned out the sound of the wind, whistling against the exterior of the stone broch.
The wind song of Dundurn—how he had missed it all those years in Bebbanburg. Usually, the lilting sound of it calmed him, but this evening it brought him little solace. Instead, his thoughts shifted once more to Hea, and the angry words that had passed between them the last time he had seen her.
Months on, he wished he could take those things he had said back. Heolstor had been right, Hea deserved better.
Irritated at the direction his thoughts were taking—once again—Bridei rolled over.
Muttering a curse, he covered his head with a fur, almost as if by doing so he could smother his thoughts.
He needed to stop thinking about her. He needed to move on with his life.
There would be other women … he would forget Hea eventually.
Yet as the wind called to him across the hills, he wished he had behaved differently on that ill-fated visit to Bebbanburg.