“Aoife.”
It was little more than a whisper. She couldn’t swear she’d heard it. How could the old man have known her name?
When she had turned back to her family, her stepmother was staring at her, hatred and fear colouring her features. For a moment, she had thought Ula was going to kill her. It had taken her months to realise the only thing stopping Ula was the fear that even in death, Aoife might strike her down.
In the end, it had taken four long months of a siege before King Artgal surrendered due to lack of water. Aoife had heard rumours of most of those captured in the fort being taken as prisoners to Ath Cliath and sold as slaves. Artgal had been amongst them, and it was rumoured that Causantin of the Picts had effectively signed Artgal’s death warrant. Now Eithne, Causantin’s daughter, ruled the new kingdom of Strath Clut with her husband Rhun ap Artgal, son of the deceased king. Their son, Eochaid, now heir to both thrones. Aoife had always wondered exactly who had betrayed whom.
The amen sounded in the small chapel, bringing Aoife back to the present. She repeated it, not having heard a single word of the prayers.So let it be. She sighed. It was hard to believe that the God they spoke of was a loving one. But he was just like her father, absent and uncaring about the punishments inflicted on her in his name. She stood as the priest made his way along the row of nuns, followed by one of the monks. She repeated the necessary words and accepted the body and blood of Christ with as much humility as she could muster, but her gaze was drawn to the window and the ravens once more. They were watching her.
As the sisters filed out of the chapel towards the building housing their living quarters—more of a prison than a home in Aoife’s opinion—they heard the sound of hoof beats. No one was allowed to speak, but they exchanged worried glances. Still, horses were better than the raiders who appeared first from the sea in their dragon boats.
Brother Pasgen headed for the gates and greeted the new arrivals. Aoife was shocked when they entered the courtyard and she recognised them as her father’s men. What business could they have here? Brother Pasgen hurried over to her and took her arm, then led her towards her father’s steward, Rhydderch. He handed her up into the small cart driven by her father’s priest, Father Bricius. He gestured for her to sit, careful not to touch her or sit too close. She was almost grateful for the fact he feared her.
Sister Ninniaw handed her a small, familiar pouch. Aoife’s only belongings, confiscated upon her arrival last year. Not that they were much, but she smiled to see them. Aoife rifled through it, disappointed to note the amethyst cross, given to her by her mother, was not amongst the meagre items inside. She remembered Father Bricius taking the pouch from her to hand to the nuns when he had brought her here. Had he taken the cross? Her stepmother had always coveted it. He was watching her, and his slight smirk madeher think she was correct. She held tight to the pouch, placing it at the side of her, furthest from him.
Rhydderch headed out and onto the road. Bricius took up the reins, turned the cart and followed. So that was it? She’d been handed from one person to another. If her father had sent for her, she had no doubt it was not to improve her situation for her own sake. He must have found a different way for her to be of use to him.
“Where are we going?” she asked Father Bricius as soon as the cart passed out of the confines of the abbey. Rhydderch rode beside them.
“Your father has decided you are to be married,” Father Bricius replied, then turned away from her as if there was nothing more to say.
“To whom?” Aoife asked tentatively. Many of her father’s friends had been killed or taken as slaves during the raid on Alt Clut, and the others regarded him with suspicion. None of them would have seen her as any kind of prize. They would have wanted one of Ula’s daughters as a bride, not her.
“A Norseman now holds the peninsula on the western edge of your father’s lands,” Rhydderch said. “You are to be married to him. The fool thinks it will seal an alliance with your father.” His mocking laughter made her cringe.
A Norseman? One of the enemy? Why would her father… of course, Ula. Her stepmother would never offer any of her daughters to a Norseman, but it would be no sacrifice to marry Aoife to one. Then another, more chilling thought struck her. If her stepmother didn’t care whether Aoife lived or died…
“Does… does my father plan to go back on his word?” She didn’t expect an answer, certainly not a truthful one, but neither could she simply sit in silence.
“It is not a sin to break your word to a barbarian,” Father Bricius stated, signalling an end to the discussion.
Was her father planning to reclaim his lands? What would happen to her then? When the Norsemen realised they had been tricked. She shuddered. They were not a people rumoured to be kind to those they conquered. Artgal was proof of that. Would her father send his men to rescue her? She looked at Rhydderch and doubted it. Then she turned to stare at the priest. Father Bricius refused to meet her eye. How could a man of God allow her to be treated like this? However, Aoife knew for a generous donation to the Church, these holy men would turn a blind eye to many things. She drew her cloak tightly around her and shifted as far away from the man as the seat would allow.
Aoife tried to make sense of it all as the cart trundled along. If this man, this Norseman, thought she was part of an alliance, what would happen when he found out how little her family cared for her? Perhaps if she told him before they were wed, he would understand and send her back. Did she want to go back, though? And to where? The abbey? There was nothing for her either there or at her father’s home. She would just have to ensure the Norseman didn’t find out the truth and try to make the best of her new life. Aoife was determined to survive this, as she had survived in the past.
Chapter Three
Tormod strode backwards andforwards across the pass. The sun had reached its height some time before. Tormod had not expected Cadell to be on time and had been proven correct.
“The Britons are late,” Björn muttered beside him.
Tormod’s fists clenched at the thought he’d been betrayed again. Not that Cadell would live to regret it. Tormod had noted many weaknesses in the man’s defences when they’d visited the fort the day before yesterday—the most unforgivable of which, in Tormod’s opinion, was Cadell’s overconfidence.
Steep hills rose around the loch-side plain at Ffos-y-Lan, making it easily defensible for warriors such as his own. Eventually, all this land would be theirs, the land and all the riches that lay within them. This was the westernmost edge of the kingdom of Strath Clut, north of the firth. Dal Riata lay to the north, and the borders were often contested by the Britons in the south and the Gaels in the north. Occasionally the Picts invaded from the east, although now there was an ever-strengthening alliance between Pictland and Dal Riata which currently shared a king. He had as much right to claim it as any of the others, and for as long as he could hold it, then it was rightly his. The Norse controlled the rivers and seas far more successfully than these Britons had ever done.
Tormod’s men spoke in low voices as they ate freshly caught fish by the fire. He knew they were aware of their surroundings andwatched as carefully as he himself did. Armed with swords and shields as well as their axes, they were more than a match for the Britons, despite their heavier armour. The Britons’ heavier chain made it awkward for them to move, never mind fight. Tormod preferred his more flexible chain over leather, giving him greater freedom of movement. Rarely did these Britons get close enough for him to need the armour, anyway.
He’d heard the rumours about Cadell’s escape from the attack on Alt Clut two years ago, led by Ivarr the Boneless and Olaf the White. Cadell and his family had left mere hours before the Norse fleet had sailed up the Clut. The Britons suspected he’d been in league with the Norsemen. If it were true, however, he’d yet to find a Norseman who would admit to it. Most seemed as ignorant as the Britons about what had caused Lord Cadell to leave when he did. The only explanation seemed to centre around talk of demons, which Tormod was apt to dismiss. The Britons often blamed anything they didn’t understand on demons when most likely it had been the actions of a coward unwilling to fight and die with his people.
The looks exchanged between Cadell and his wife still nagged at him, though. Was there something wrong with the girl? Surely, after everything that had happened here, Cadell would not be foolish enough to risk his wrath. The man had few allies to support him in a fight against the Norse.
“Jarl Tormod!” A young lad came running from further up the pass. “Cadell’s men approach. Ten carts carrying the tools and grains agreed upon. There are many guards with them.”
“Very well,” said Tormod. “Most of our men should remain hidden while we greet our guests. Attack if there is any sign of treachery.”
“Yes,herre.”
“My bride…?” Tormod stopped himself from asking what she looked like. Her appearance was irrelevant. Provided she was capable of bearing him strong, healthy sons, he cared not whether Cadell thought he was cheating him in any other way.
