Erinsong (13 page)

She took a deep breath. She could do this.
She had to.

“Brenna, me love,” Brian Ui
Niall called up the
ladder. “ ‘Tis
time.”

It seemed to Brenna that
time expanded and con
tracted in a
writhing pattern. She somehow managed
to
climb down the ladder and then the world rushed
at her senses in a jumbled mass. She was aware of the
fresh scent of heather thrust into her hands,
the
rough brush of her father’s lips on
her temple, a blur
of colors as she
floated on Brian Ui Niall’s arm
through
the throng to the waiting circle of stones and
flower petals. The squeal of flutes suddenly hushed when she
came to a stop before the big Northman.

Her husband. For a year and a day.

Her lover. Her vision tunneled at the
thought. She couldn’t dwell on that now.

Looking into Jorand’s face, his features so
damnably perfect, his eyes impossibly blue, his mouth slightly
turned up at the corners as if he’d read her secret thoughts,
Brenna feared she might faint dead away.

Breathe,
she ordered herself.

Father Michael’s prayer droned on in Latin,
as if he was intent on Christianizing this rite as much as humanly
possible. The heads of all the guests were bowed, and Brenna tried
to follow their example, but she felt Jorand’s eyes on her and had
to look up again.

He flashed his teeth at her and winked.

“... of your own free will?”

Had someone said something? With a start, she
realized she was expected to answer.

“Aye,” Brenna said softly.

“And ye, Jorand.” Brenna heard the slightest
catch in Father Michael’s voice. “Do ye come also into this circle
of your own free will?”

“
Ja.”
His voice was deep and strong.

Father Michael presented a jewel-handled
dagger to Brenna. She took it and, after a brief hesitation,
punctured her palm with the sharp tip. Then she handed the weapon
to Jorand. He closed his right fist around the blade and yanked it
through with his other hand without so much as a flinch.

“Join hands,” the priest ordered.

Brenna raised her hand and Jorand pressed his
palm against hers. Their fingers interlocked, blood mingling, as
Father Michael bound a red cord around their wrists.

“With this binding I tie
ye, heart to heart, together
as one. With
this knot, ye are joined in sacred union.
May God smile upon thee, and bless thee with health
and joy.”

The priest pulled the knot
tight. “Let the bride and
groom recite the
vow.”

Brenna and Jorand had been
given instruction on
the proper wording,
but now the rite suddenly flew
right out
of Brenna’s mind. She couldn’t think how to
start.

“You are blood of my
blood,” Jorand began, trig
gering her
memory.

“And bone of me bone,” Brenna answered.

“I give ye me body, that we
two might be one.” She
faltered a bit on
that line, but Jorand’s voice was strong enough for the two of
them.

“Hand in hand, and blood in
blood.” Brenna even
managed a tremulous
smile.

“Let this green land witness our love,”
Jorand finished.

A tiny ribbon of red tickled down her wrist.
Was it her blood or his? There was no way to tell.

Father Michael offered them
Communion, placing
a small bite of barley
bread on their tongues. “Let this
be your
first meal as man and wife. May Christ bless
this union and may ye never know hunger.”

The priest raised a chalice of wine. “Let
Christ’s blood be your first drink as man and wife. May ye never
know thirst.”

Brenna sipped the stinging liquid, then
handed it to Jorand, who drank while never taking his eyes from
her. He was playing the role of devoted swain convincingly, she had
to give him that. She blessed him for his thoughtfulness.

Father Michael handed the
dagger to Jorand. “Let
this be your first
task as man and wife. Sever all ties
with
the past, cut off the bindings of the old, and sweep them
away.”

Jorand—now her husband, she
realized with a start—sliced away the red cord, taking care not
to
nick her with the sharp blade. The
binding fell to the
earth, but he didn’t
release her hand immediately.

His other hand closed on
her waist and he pulled
her to him. Then
his mouth met hers in a soft but not
quite
chaste kiss. When he released her, there was fire
in his blue eyes only Brenna could
see.

Flutes and pipes sounded
and the crowd erupted
in cheers. The
eldest daughter of the house was made
a
wife and all Donegal rejoiced with its king.

The merrymaking that had
started in the wee
hours of the morning
now began again in earnest.

Once the ceremony was
finished, Brenna finally spared an eye for the decorations
festooning the yard. Gay pennants embroidered with the
Donegal
crest—a sprig of heather on a bed
of green—flapped
overhead. Brenna
recognized her sister’s hand in the
sprays
of heather affixed to nearly every doorway,
even over the lintel of the listing cattle byre. The
air
was perfumed with crushed petals
stamped underfoot by all.

A small group of
musicians—two flutes, a harp and a slightly out of tune
sackbut—launched into a lively song. Every young heart lifted and a
twirling dance started on the lush green grass. The elders drank
their pints, looking on with indulgence and
wry expressions tinged with a touch of envy for the
sprightliness and high spirits of youth.

“I’m sorry, princess,” Jorand said. “I don’t
think I know how to dance.”

“Don’t be troubling your
head about it,” she said.
“I
was never one for dancing much
meself.”

But even as she spoke the words, she was
swept into the fray by Connor McNaught as he tripped past.

“Come, me Brenna,” he said.
She caught a strong whiff of whiskey on his breath as he leered
toward
her, flashing his yellowed teeth.
“If that great Norse
slug ye married
hasn’t the sense to dance with ye, al
low
me to do ye the honors.”

He twirled her so
violently, Brenna’s world seemed
to
continue to swirl even once they’d begun a circular promenade with
the other dancers.

“In fact, there’s somewhat
else I’d be happy to do
for ye. Tip me the
eye if your husband ruts ye no bet
ter
than he dances.” The hand on her waist crept up
under one of her breasts, his thumb strafing her softness.
“I’ve been a married man, as ye know, and can
teach ye a trick or two. Just give the word, Brenna me
dear, and I’ll service ye with
pleasure.”

She struggled to free herself from his grasp,
but Connor latched on to her with the tenacity of a wolfhound on
the last bone. Then suddenly Connor’s feet left the ground,
forcing him to release Brenna.

Jorand had grabbed him by the scruff of the
neck and lifted the smaller man till they were nearly nose to nose.
Her husband bared his teeth at Connor. There was no mistaking
Jorand’s expression for a smile.

“This is Brenna’s
celebration, so I’ll not mar it by thrashing you as you deserve.”
Jorand’s voice was low, but the menace in the tone was so potent
even
Connor in his drunken stupor couldn’t
fail to mark it. “But by your Christ, if you ever lay so much as a
fin
ger on my wife again, I’ll split you
from gills to gullet
in one
stroke.”

Jorand’s strong fingers
closed over Connor’s throat.
The
Irishman’s eyes bulged like a codfish flopping on the
beach.

“Nod if you understand me,” Jorand urged.

Connor’s head bobbed with alacrity.

Jorand set him down, none
too gently. “Now, you
may beg my wife’s
forgiveness for the discourtesy you’ve shown her,” he ordered. “And
be careful to convince me you mean it.”

Connor stammered out his apology and beat a
hasty retreat through the crowd.

“Thank ye,” Brenna said. No one, not even her
father, had ever championed her so publicly.

“I can see defending you
from other men will be a
frequent chore,”
Jorand said. “I suppose it’s just part
of
being the husband of so lovely a lady.”

Warmth surged in her chest
and spread downward, clear to her toes. The way he smiled at
her
made her feel lovely for the first
time in her life.

“It’s plain I need to dance with you, Brenna,
whether I remember the steps or not.”

“Perhaps ye know more than
ye think. Just like the
woodworking, it
may come back to ye if we take a turn or two.”

“I may tread on your toes,” he warned.

“ ‘Tis a risk I’m prepared to take.”

As they joined the ring of
dancers, Brenna’s heart was lighter than it had been in longer than
she could
remember.

The celebration flowed from
dancing to feasting to
drinking until
torches were called for and, one by
one,
pinpricks of stars showed on the black vault
of the night sky.

“The garter!” someone cried out.

The chant was taken up by
all the young men in the crowd. The bravest of the lot made to
approach
Brenna, making several
ineffective snatches under her
skirt. The
lad intended only to reach under her hem
and retrieve the coveted trophy, but the murderous
look in Jorand’s eye backed the youth up against
the
line of his companions.

“They mean no harm. Ye must
give them me garters,” Brenna whispered, turning her back to him
and lifting her hem high enough to bare the delicate bands of blue
tied in neat bows at the back of her
knees. “Untie them and toss them to the lads.”

Jorand knelt and tugged the ribbons free, his
thumb brushing the crevice behind her knee. A shiver tingled up her
thigh and Brenna thought her legs might buckle on the spot.

Her husband tossed the
garters to the waiting
crowd and was
roundly cheered for his generosity.

‘
Tis nearly
time.
The realization spread
panic
through her veins. Brenna swayed on
her feet.

“Are you well?” Jorand put an arm around her
waist to steady her.

“Oh, aye,” she answered,
willing the shiver in her soul not to work its way out to her
muscles. “‘Tis
only now I cannot keep me
stockings up.”

“Then we’ll have to remedy that by taking
them off,” Jorand said with a smile. Before she could protest, he
scooped her off her feet and carried her toward the round hut that
had been prepared for their use.

The bridal pair was hailed
all around, and a small procession of well-wishers dogged them on
their
way. Lewd suggestions and offers of
lascivious assis
tance were shouted after
them good-naturedly.

“If you would truly help a
man in desperate straits, then open the door,” Jorand bellowed.
“As
you can see, I’ve quite a handful
here.”

Approving laughter erupted
from the crowd and
Padraigh scurried to
swing the portal wide.

“I’m in your debt,” Jorand
said to him as he carried
Brenna into the
waiting darkness. “See that you shut
it
behind us, friend.”

Padraigh winked broadly and did as he was
bid.

Once they were inside the wedding bower,
Jorand stood holding her in his arms as if she were light as
thistledown. Brenna scarcely breathed. He moved to kiss her but she
turned her face away.

“Ye can put me down now.”

He lowered Brenna to her feet and turned back
to slide the heavy brace on the door. The noise of feasting went
on beyond the opening, but it was muffled. The riot of merrymakers,
her dear family, the priest who’d said the blessing over them—they
were all shut off from her and she was alone with her handsome sea
warrior, her Keefe Murphy.

Man and wife.

The short months since she’d found her
Northman on the beach whirred through Brenna’s mind in a blink.
From hated stranger to wedded husband in less than the turning of a
season. How was it possible it could have come to this?

Her gut churned with nervousness.

It was one thing to imagine being a wife.
Even the ceremony had a hazy, dreamlike quality, as though it had
happened to someone else, not to Brenna herself. Now reality
crashed into her with no mercy at all. Why had she ever agreed to
such an arrangement? Brenna could hear the pounding of her own
heart.