Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series (6 page)

On they bickered while, soundlessly, Hakon entered the house and took up a place on the settle opposite Ailinn. Half-reclining, he listened amusedly to the squabble while he drifted his gaze over Ailinn. She
trembled beneath his hungry perusal as he grazed the curves beneath her gown and lingered over her bare legs.

Ailinn diverted her attention back to the warring couple and to the bridal mantle. Rhiannon
’s mantle.

What if Rhiannon
had been right? The thought nettled. What if the Norsemen believed her to be a valuable hostage of royal lineage? And what would become of her when they discovered that she was only a poor relation of a vanquished tribe — Ailinn of the Érainn?

Still,
‘twas like fitting together shards of broken pottery. ‘Twas hard to match the edges. Pieces were lacking and she could scarce make sense of those she held. If the heathens thought to gain ransom, why then their concern that she be a virgin? An unravished bride would be worth more than one spoiled, true. Yet, her instincts told her more lay behind Skallagrim’s interest in her virtue.

Ailinn massaged her forehead. She unde
rstood little of men’s dealings, their barterings for power and wealth . . . and hostages. Rhiannon understood. ‘Twas why she first cast her net for Domnal of the Raithlind Eóganachts, certain that he would be next to rule from the Rock of Cashel. ‘Twas why they exchanged places that fateful morn . . . .

Her thoughts spiraled back to that grim morning, only
‘twas not grim at its outset, but rather a day of high cheer and merriment — Rhiannon’s wedding day.

Ailinn, Deira, and Lia, and all the other maids who attended the bride awoke before dawn, restless in their sleep, having captured fair little of it.

They rose, giddy for the day to come when Mór would make the traditional “bridal ride” with Rhiannon, and Domnal would appear with the Raithlind and abduct her. Afterward, all would return to the compound to fulfill the ceremonies and feast away the remainder of the day and night.

Lia had laughed so gaily, Ailinn recalled, and proposed they slip out of the compound to roll in the morning dew for good luck. Good luck, Ailinn thought bitterly. Before they could even dress fully, they heard the clash in the courtyard.

“Bran!” Rhiannon screamed. “The Dalcassian! He has come to seize me. He vowed as much.”

Rhiannon wrung her hands, eyes darting from wall to wall as though she looked for a weapon to seize upon. Then a thought sparked to life in her eyes.

“Help me, Cousin,” Rhiannon pleaded, gripping Ailinn. “Bran must not find me. His manhood was sore offended when I chose Domnal over him and rejected his offer of marriage. But he does not seek me this day to soothe his bruised pride alone. ‘Tis insult he issues — and challenge — to Raithlind and Caisil and all Eóganachts alike.”

Ailinn tried to pull from Rhiannon
’s hold, heedful of her blurring of falsehoods and truths, and wary of her reference to herself as
cousin
— a relationship Rhiannon loathed to acknowledge unless she have desperate need of Ailinn for some self-serving end.

“
Bran knows that, in time to come, Domnal will claim the throne of Cashel,” Rhiannon continued, undeterred. “Long have the kings of Munster sprung from our line, and Domnal is favored to succeed. The Dalcassian views him as Domnal’s foremost rival; for he covets the crown himself.”

The din mounted in the hall.

Ailinn winced as Rhiannon’s nails stabbed into her.

“
Bran must not succeed. ‘Tis
me
he wants, to strike at Domnal.
Please,
Ailinn,” Rhiannon’s voice rose with urgency. “Take my gown, my mantle. He does not know my face. Let him think you are me, and go with him. When he discovers his error, ‘twill be too late. I shall get word to Domnal at once, I promise. He camps nearby awaiting the bridal ride.”

Steel rang on steel without.

Alarm filled Rhiannon’s eyes. “Quickly, Ailinn. ‘Twill be strife for all Munster and a warring of tribes should Bran succeed and spoil Domnal’s bride.”

Ailinn snatched free of Rhainnon
’s grip, her temper flaring. “Yet you would see him spoil me? ‘Twas your own sharp tongue that brings Bran down on us now, not challenge to Domnal, and well you know it. Far more than male pride and injured manhood drives Bran. Rather, ‘tis the grave insults you hurled at his people when he offered for your hand. Still, you would preserve yourself at my ruin that you might sit in queenly splendor at Cashel.”

“
What?” Rhiannon shrieked. “Would you have seen me accept Bran to my marriage bed? Taint the blood of the Caisil with that of a baseborn Dalcassian forevermore?”

“
Baseborn, Rhiannon? Bran is a Dalcassian prince.”

“
There is but one kind of Dalcassian,” Rhiannon sneered. “Swine, not fit to tend me in my chambers.”

Ailinn took a swift step forward, causing Rhiannon to fall back a pace.

“And ‘twas the very fullness of those sentiments that so inflamed Bran and now brings him beating down upon our door. Do not deny it. I was present when you vented your spleen to the Dalcassian envoy and rejected their prince’s proposal. Did you think Bran would countenance such insult and swallow it meekly? Now we
all
suffer the blight of your words. I bear no wish to hazard defilement because of them.”

“
But you need to help me.” Rhiannon clutched at Ailinn.

“
I shall take your place, Rhiannon,” Deira offered quietly and came forth to stand before them.

Rhiannon whirled
around, eyes flashing. Though three years younger, Deira nearly matched her for height. “Mayhap so!” Her voice filled with renewed hope.

“
Ní hea
, Deira,” Ailinn protested, her stomach clenching at the thought.

“
‘Tis all right, Ailinn,” Deira comforted. “Domnal will come for me. But Rhiannon is right. The Dalcassian must not seize her, or so much more bloodshed will follow. ‘Tis best for all that I go with Bran. He’ll not harm me once he realizes his mistake.”

Ailinn held no such confidence. As ever, Deira placed others before herself. But thi
s time, overtrustful and uncomprehending of the full of the situation, she put herself at risk. That, Ailinn could not abide, though Rhiannon appeared eager for her to do so.

Ailinn looked on while Rhiannon set out her jewels and spread her wedding gown. White. It struck Ailinn as singularly odd that, where most brides chose bright-colored gowns, Rhiannon should insist upon white as though to attest to her purity. Ailinn held her own opinions on that matter.
Mayhap, what Rhiannon truly feared was what Bran would discover of her. Or how he might use that knowledge.

Bran. What had she heard of him? A brave and fierce warrior? Prudent and fair? She had seen him once, a solid-built man with fiery curls covering head and chin, favorab
le enough to look upon. Should she go with him, feigning to be the bride, ‘twas likely he’d be angry when he discovered the ruse. But should he decide to keep her . . .

Ailinn watched Rhiannon unfold the shimmering bridal mantle, a heavy brocade of white woven with emerald green and shot through with threads of gold.

Mayhap, ‘twould not be so terrible a thing, she pondered. In the next moon’s turning she would be eighteen. At times Ailinn wondered if her uncle ever intended to find her a husband. But though she loved her stepfamily, and Deira and Lia as sisters, she held no true place among the Eóganachts.

‘
Twould be with considerable chance, to go with Bran, she deemed. Perchance, he would take her to wife to right his offense — if there be one. Or perchance, he would keep her as his concubine or mistress. ‘Twas allowable under Brehon law, though not a station she desired. Yet, if he spoiled her, she reasoned, ‘twas probable he would keep her at his side in some wise to amend his wrong. She might still find more acceptance among the Dalcassians under Bran’s banner than ever she had among the Eóganachts.

As Ailinn looked to see Deira take the gown from Rhiannon, she realized that naught truly mattered save her stepcousin. She could not allow Deira to
risk herself.

“
I will take your place, Rhiannon.” Ailinn swept the snowy dress from Deira’s hands with gritty determination.

Shouts heightened on the other side of the door. Blades clashed and scraped.

Hurriedly Ailinn slipped into the gown. A flurry of hands attended her, the maids white-faced for all they heard. The rich mantle weighed heavily upon her shoulders as the attendants secured it in place with gleaming silver brooches.

Rhiannon directed that Ailinn
’s auburn tresses be drawn back and hidden beneath the cloud of veil, lest Bran know her own to be raven. Lia quickly fashioned a crown of wild hyacinth from sprigs waiting in the crocks and set it upon Ailinn’s head.

“
Non. Non. Ma chere,
Ailinn,” Bergette implored, breaking her silence. “ ‘Tis evil, I feel in my bones. You must not go with him.”

Ailinn looked on her Frankish nursemaid, surprised she had forgotten her till now. Before she could reply, a man screamed out in pain, and she heard his bulk clump against the other side of the door.

Fear rippled through her. This was more than simple abduction. Bran would not strike Mór’s compound and slay the wedding guests to wreak vengeance for Rhiannon’s insults.

A great blow fell upon the door, so hard the boards shuddered. Several more blows followed, accompanied by the cracking and splintering of wood. Bergette rushed forth to
place herself between Ailinn and the portal, her arms outstretched in a protective gesture.

Ailinn braced herself, her nails biting into her palms. She prepared to confront the flame-haired Dalcassian, but when the door burst open,
‘twas not Bran who entered in. . . .

Ailinn withdrew from her reverie, her gaze traveling to Hakon. He watched her, fires banked in his eyes.

Fresh pricklings of fear coursed through her. She averted her eyes to find Skallagrim folding the bridal mantle back into the sea chest. Just as Ailinn became aware of the room’s uncommon silence, Thora’s bulk moved before her and blocked her view.

Face dark with anger, Thora yanked the
fine cordage of Murieann’s girdle from Ailinn’s grasp. She lumbered back across the room with the prize, then on a sudden, inspired thought, retrieved a leather strap from the side floor and flung it at Ailinn’s feet.

Ailinn recovered the strip, realizing Thora intended she
should belt her gown with the piece, then recognized the strap to be the tether that had bound her wrists.

Mayhap
, ‘twas a more fitting girdle, she reasoned with a twinge of despair. She was a slave now. A slave with an uncertain future. But, then, what future was ever certain?

The hours dragged slowly as the day aged to evening. Skallagrim saw that Thora set Ailinn no
task too strenuous or that might cause her injury. Thora took unkindly to his interference but, in the end, busied Ailinn with simple chores — setting the loom to rights, twisting thread, tending the hearth fires, and replenishing the men’s cups.

Ailinn felt Hakon
’s burning gaze trace her every movement. She grew uncomfortable beneath his interests and breathed relief when at last he departed.

Meanwhile, Skallagrim sat in his carved chair without remark as he shaped a portion of bone into a gaming piece.
‘Twas not until he rose that Ailinn spied the battle-ax resting against the chair’s side.

Skallagrim moved to the end of the room, where a frame bed sat upon the elevated flooring. When he beckoned she join him, Ailinn
’s heart rose to her throat.

Warily she crossed the hall. But as she reached the platform, Skallagrim tossed several fur robes to the floor, then bid her step up onto the planking. Slipping an iron ring about her ankle, he chained her to the foot of his bed.

Long afterward, Ailinn lay awake in the dark while Thora snored softly upon her pallet and Skallagrim rattled out long, deep breaths. Embers glowed red within the hearth, partially illuminating the room.

Ailinn fixed her gaze upon the gable end of the hall, to the triangular opening just beneath the slope of the roof. There she could view a sprinkling of stars.

In all Creation, did God know she was here? Did He heed her prayers or abandon her among the pagans?

Her thoughts went to Thora. The Norsewoman would
subject her to every hardship, if allowed, deeming her no more than a common slave to be exploited and abused at will.

Hakon, too, would clearly use
— and abuse — her, but in more vile ways. He was a black-hearted heathen, and only Skallagrim stood between him and his desires.

Yet,
‘twas the chieftain’s own designs that preyed most heavily upon her mind. What bitter fate did he cast for her? What faceless destiny waited on the morrow?

Inexplicably her thoughts turned to the white-haired Dane, as ever they had this day. She
did not regret her insult to him, she told herself, for he was a godless Norseman like the rest. Yet, she could not help but wonder whether her life would have been better had he succeeded in purchasing her and she lay this night beneath his roof.