“It was… My father thought he’d never find a suitable husband for me.”
Tormod put his fingers on her chin and turned her to face him. “Why not?” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. He raked his gaze up and down her body. “It doesn’t look like there’s anything wrong with you. And you’re pretty.”
She gaped at him. He thought she was pretty? It shouldn’t have concerned her, although somehow it did. She felt a tiny spark of hope deep inside that perhaps with this man as her husband, she would finally have a place she belonged. Someone who might come to care about her and see her as more than just a burden. She smiled. He thought she was pretty.
“So, what is wrong with you?” And with that, her dreams crashed around her once more. “Your mother seemed almost anxious to be rid of you. In fact, from her reaction, I had expected some kind of troll. You are indeed a pleasant surprise.”
Aoife pulled away from his touch and gazed out over the side of the cart. He didn’t really think she was pretty — it was just that he had been expecting something worse. Ula had probably made sure to give as bad an impression of her beforehand as possible. “She’s not my mother. She’s my stepmother.”
“Ah,” Tormod said, then laughed so loudly Björn turned to see what the matter was. “So, all this time, I have been worried about treachery, when the truth is far simpler. The jealousy of one woman for the daughter of her husband’s first wife. And this is why you were sent to the abbey?” He turned back to her. “But you really are your father’s daughter?”
“Yes,” she said, grateful he’d asked a question she could answer entirely honestly.
“I had suspected worse trickery.” He lapsed into a thoughtful silence.
Aoife’s gut churned. Her new husband had indeed been deceived, and she wasn’t willing to risk his wrath and perhaps even her life by admitting to it. Maybe when her position was more secure here, she could warn him. Although surely her father did not hate her enough to attack her new home and put her at risk? Surely he still had some love for her, despite her stepmother’s hatred? So much was happening so fast and she was struggling to know what to say and do simply to keep herself alive. Exhausted from the stress and from travelling through the night, she let her eyes drift shut, hoping she was safe for now.
The rocking of the cart must have caused her to doze because she was roused by shouts in the distance. She gripped onto the closest thing to her, which she discovered was Tormod’s thigh when she opened her eyes and looked up to see him grinning down at her.
“Are you so eager to touch me?” he said. She blushed and turned away from him. “I’m not complaining.”
His presence beside her was comforting, while at the same time unsettling. Would he be rushing her off to his bed? Maybe it would be best if he did, then at least it would be over with. The anticipation was unnerving.
As they trundled into the village, she distracted herself by observing it closely. It was different from the settlements she wasfamiliar with, although there were many similarities. Most structures were built of wood rather than stone, rectangular rather than circular, and were arranged in a semicircle, with the focus being on the sea rather than the largest of the buildings. There was also no building that might be a fort, raised above the height of the others, and no surrounding wall or palisade. Perhaps they planned to build these in the future. Now they had rounded the curve and entered the semicircle of buildings, she could see this one was far larger than any of the others. A large fire burned in the centre outside it and she guessed it must contain their hall. Villagers stood around it, talking and working. She could hear the clank of metal being worked and the sound of wood being chopped from other buildings. The smell of the two large beasts slowly roasting over the fire made her clutch at her stomach. She hoped Tormod could not hear it grumbling.
The cart rolled to a halt before they passed the first of the houses, almost all of which had smoke coming from a central chimney. Villagers started to appear from the doorways and, while she couldn’t understand their language, it was clear they were pleased to see Tormod and his men. When they merely stared at her, it made her realise just how much she would like to feel at home, and here was as good a place as any.
Tormod climbed down from the cart, and the villagers began to draw closer. Many of the men who had accompanied them were being greeted by wives and children, although some of the others, Björn and the scarred man included, were not. They headed straight for the largest building together. Tormod greeted some of the villagers, then turned to help her down from the cart. Although help was not quite the right description. He slid an arm under her legs, put the other under her arms, and lifted her as if she weighed nothing.
Her heart began to race. Was he taking her straight to his bed? What would happen if she didn’t or couldn’t please him? And notjust to her. What about her family? Would he kill her, then mount a war party and…
“You have nothing to fear from us,” he said as he stood her carefully down on the ground beside him.
She hadn’t been expecting him to set her down, so she wobbled a little and grabbed onto him for support. There was laughter from those who witnessed it, however, it seemed good-natured and certainly Tormod was grinning. Her heart slowed a little. Tormod didn’t seem to be dragging her anywhere, and she was grateful he hadn’t let her fall on her face in front of the villagers. She also appreciated his support when surrounded by so many strangers whose language she could not understand. She had, however, caught a couple of words similar to the language of the Northumbrians. The accent was different, but yes, she definitely recognised some of the words. She had a basic knowledge of that language. Perhaps she could use it to learn this one.
Tormod kept his arm around her shoulders as he steered her towards the door of the main hall. They were followed by a gathering crowd. She felt a tug on her cloak and looked down to see a small boy touching the white robe she wore beneath her cloak. A woman ran forward and grabbed the child. From the gestures and tone, she guessed the woman was apologising, although she, too, stared at the fabric.
Looking around, Aoife saw few of the garments here were bleached. Most were dyed in neutral tones with occasional items in brighter hues. The most noticeable difference was women’s heads were covered with scarves rather than veils, and were dressed in two layers — a long dress topped with a more colourful apron embroidered with colourful and intricate designs. All had keys and other pouches tied to their belts and paired brooches fastening their aprons. Her own clothing, novice’s robes, seemed plain and dowdy in comparison.
As they entered the main hall, she wondered if this was just a general meeting place or Tormod’s residence. When many of the crowd followed them inside, she decided on the former. Inside, the hall was large, with a fire pit in the centre. Benches lined every wall on which Björn and many of the other men who had accompanied her here were already settling themselves with platefuls of food.
Tormod called across the room to an older woman who had been standing close to Björn. As she moved towards them, she gestured for two other women to accompany her. Both of these other women wore wide, metal collars and Aoife assumed they were thralls. She’d heard the Norsemen kept a lot of thralls, many of them from her own people, although these two had the dark hair and blue eyes of the Dal Riatans—perhaps they had been purchased in Ath Cliath or captured on the islands north of here.
The woman looked her up and down, then nodded approvingly at Tormod. She took her arm and led her through a door in the back of the hall into a short corridor. The thralls followed a short distance behind.
Aoife tried to look back to see Tormod, but he was now surrounded by the villagers and the woman was guiding her onwards. The room they stepped into was smaller than the hall, although spacious enough to prove her husband was a man of status. She shivered, despite the wooden walls and thatched roof making the space much warmer than the bleak stone walls of either her father’s fort or the abbey had ever seemed.
“You will see him soon enough,” the woman said. Aoife smiled at the sound of her own language. She was surprised the woman spoke Brythonic so well. “You did not expect me to know your language?”
“No. I know nothing of yours,” Aoife confessed. “Although I have heard a few words that sounded like Northumbrian. I know a little of that language.”
“Then I will have someone teach you. It is only right the jarl’s wife can speak to her people. What is your name?”
“Aoife.”
“Aoife.” The woman repeated it a few times, then nodded as if satisfied she had got it right. “And I am Ragna. Björn, Arne and Ulf are my sons. Tormod, my nephew. Everyone refers to the four as the brothers of thunder.”
“Why?”
