Haunting Warrior (13 page)

She fell into step beside him, knowing he could quite easily drag her if she’d dallied. Was that not what they did in Rome? Capture their brides and haul them over the threshold of their new
homes
so that no risk would come of them tripping and bringing bad luck?

The walk to the church was long, as was custom. She looked the part of a bride, but there were no bridesmaids dressed in matching gowns to confuse the evil spirits who might try to snatch her on the way. There were too few women left of their people to risk jeopardizing any of them in such a pointless way. The evil spirits could not destroy Saraid’s happiness as they were wont to do. There would be no happiness for her—not today. Not ever. Nor would there be honeyed mead to last the first month of their union and assure the birth of a son. Saraid hoped there would be no children of this vile match at all, but what would be would be.

It seemed to Saraid that their steps became a march, a trudging climb that hammered home the dread in her heart. She felt the Bloodletter watching her as they went, and once he snared her glance in his. The eyes were no longer cold and the sneer did not curl his lip. Instead, his expression seemed stunned, bemused. Again she saw that glimmer of desire, only now it was mired by the clearness of his eyes, and it did not make her skin crawl.

This unsettled her even more. Did he think to lure her with false kindness? It would not work. She knew that at the heart of him was only cruelty and mercilessness. She’d seen too much evidence of it, the bodies cut in two, the eyes gashed out with his blade, the entrails twisted and eaten by the birds. This man was an animal, and she would do well to remember that when she stared into his guileless eyes.

At last they came upon the deep trench that circled Cathán’s
rath
and crossed over the bridge into the circular settlement. She’d heard that Cathán aspired to build a keep of stone, a strong fortress that would safeguard all who lived within its walls. For now, he’d taken over what had once been the village of her cousins. Saraid remembered happier times when they’d come here to visit friends and family. It looked much as it had then, and Saraid swallowed hard, realizing that for others, Cathán’s invasion had not been so devastating. The sound of a blacksmith’s hammer rang out, mixing with the shouts of children running to and fro. They moved past granaries, stocked for the winter, and armorers’ sheds, which no doubt bulged as well.

Cathán Half-Beard was a believer of the Christ God and he kept a priest at the
rath
, but he’d been called away on God’s business and Cathán had not wanted to wait for his return. In his stead, a young monk with clear eyes and a peaceful smile would perform the rites.

“You’ll be priest-wed when he returns,” Cathán declared. “Until then we’ll make do with the old ways.”

She and her brothers had no say in it, though Cathán knew well enough that their beliefs were of the old ways—the Gods of earth and water, fire and air. Being priest-wed would be no more binding to Saraid than the words they spoke in the simple handfasting ceremony. She only wished that the year and a day that the handfast signified would bring her freedom, though she knew that was a fool’s thinking. She’d call herself fortunate if she lived to draw breath when that day came.

The rest of Cathán’s people, men, women, and children dressed in their drab undyed homespun, waited beside the small stone church. What did they think of this union? Their faces were bright and expectant, but a wedding was cause for feasting, and that alone would bring joy to these poor folks.

There were too many to fit into the tiny church, so they gathered on the pathway before it. For a moment, no one moved or spoke. Then Cathán pulled a blue ribbon from his tunic and stepped forward, giving them both the signal to face one another. On wobbly legs, Saraid turned to the man she would wed. The monk in his long, coarse robes emerged from the small gathering and stood patiently waiting for Saraid to put her right hand in the Bloodletter’s left. Her left in his right, wrists crossed. With a satisfied grunt, Cathán began to twine the ribbon around their hands, over and under until the knot of eternity was complete. She was numb through the monk ’s speaking of the vows. If she did not know better, she would say the Bloodletter was feeling the same. There was a gleam of something that might have been panic in those blue, blue eyes. Did he dread this as much as she? But that would mean Ruairi the Bloodletter had feelings, and that could not be true.

She took a deep breath when he lowered his head to kiss her, feeling dizzy and sickened and something else she could not define. As if sensing the turmoil inside her, he caught her gaze and held it for a moment, his searching, probing. She felt as if he were trying to say something with those enigmatic eyes, and for a flashing instant she felt again that sense of another lurking behind the sky blue of them. What a frightening mystery this man was, she thought.

And then his mouth settled over hers and thought fled. His kiss was warm and soft when she’d expected cold and hard. The touch of his lips gentle and coaxing when she’d prepared for rough and invasive. The kiss was brief, and yet it felt that time stopped for the length of it, giving her the chance to feel every nuance, every unexpected instant. It seemed he tried to pull back and then hesitated, allowing just another moment of the contact that shocked her like a hot ember popping from a blazing fire to burn her. With their hands bound and trapped between their bodies, Saraid could do little more than allow it. She’d be allowing so much more later, when they were alone.

He pulled away, just enough so that he could look into her eyes again, and she saw something there that she did not understand. Confusion that matched her own. A need—but not the kind she’d expected. Not lust, but longing.

Then he was stepping back and a mask came over his features once more. His father stared at him for a moment, the look hard and warning, the message unmistakable. It was only then that it occurred to her that the Bloodletter might be as much a pawn as she.

Around them the people of the Dark Forest sent up a cheer that made her want to cover her ears and scream. Her brothers were somber and quiet, gazes moving warily over the jostling crowd. Once again she gave them her brave smile, but inside she was quaking.

She’d imagined the moments of this ceremony to be frozen and unfeeling. She’d imagined herself shielded by her own hatred. But she’d seen something in the Bloodletter’s eyes that had stolen that from her. He’d seemed a man awakened from a nightmare to find he was still fighting for his life, only now the dream-pain was real. It unsettled her, this glimpse that made him more than an effigy for her contempt.

Still bound by the ribbon and its symbolic eternity, the two followed the procession for what seemed miles, though in fact it was no distance at all. A large thatched dwelling stood in the center of the
rath
, and it was big enough to hold them all. As they made their way, more people joined, laughing and teasing and talking of the pig, the deer, the swans that had been prepared for the wedding feast. Meat pies and tarts, sweetmeats and candied fruits. In spite of herself, Saraid’s mouth watered at the thought of the banquet. She only wished she could let herself believe, as these people did, that this union meant peace.

Inside the long house, clean rushes had been spread on the floor mixed with flowers that released a sweet scent as they were crushed beneath the tromping feet. Dogs darted around the edges, and children scampered away from their parents. People laughed as they found seats, unaware of the spiraling tension inside Saraid and her brothers. The setting felt bizarre—as displaced as the visit from Colleen she’d had only a few nights before. So long had it been that carefree chatter had abounded around her that now it seemed contrived and jarring.

Servants and slaves hurried to bring out the platters of roasted meat, placing trenchers to be shared at the tables. All had brought their own eating knives, for not even one as wealthy as Cathán Half-Beard had enough for a crowd this size.

Saraid noted all the empty seats as the guests quickly lined the tables, and she realized they’d been set for her people—the people of the Favored Lands. So Cathán Half-Beard thought there were still enough of them to fill those places at the tables. He knew not at all how few were their numbers. If he had, he would not have offered this match.

“Where are your men? Your women and children?” Cathán demanded, hefting a mug of ale at her brothers. “Is my food and my ale not good enough for them?”

Eamonn and Michael stared straight ahead without answering, leaving Tiarnan to speak for them. They looked young and uncertain, and not one of Cathán’s men failed to note it.

“They’ll be along,” Tiarnan said, head held high and gaze level. He made her proud, the way he stood as if their very lives were not dangling over disaster. “They come from far and with many.”

Saraid might have laughed had her insides not been icy with fear. Tiarnan had also noted the empty seats and was smart enough to take advantage of Cathán’s ignorance. He’d steadfastly clung to the idea that once the marriage was consummated, the risk would be gone, but he would not send for the others until he was sure they would be safe. Saraid thought that would be never.

Cathán scowled, and for a moment the laughter and good wishes of the gathering waned. Noticing, Cathán lifted his mug again.

“Then you’ll have to drink their share until they make it here, won’t you now?” he said.

The threat held little disguise, but to his credit Tiarnan showed a face as calm and unconcerned as any Saraid had ever seen.

“That I will, Cathán Half-Beard. And with pleasure.”

He and her brothers accepted cups from a servant and lifted them in toast. Saraid doubted anyone else saw the guarded flicker in Tiarnan’s eyes.

“
T
O the happy couple,” Cathán called, and the men all lifted their mugs.

Cathán drank to his own toast and then caught the bound hands of his son and his new wife and used them to tow the pair forward, hauling them across the floor to a curtained area just behind the head table. Saraid’s panic increased with each stumbling step she took. Something was not right here. She looked at the Bloodletter and he, too, had an expression of bafflement.

The people gathered on the floor beneath them and watched with interest, as if she and the Bloodletter were mummers about to perform. Saraid’s brothers shifted uncomfortably, glancing around with suspicion.

Cathán pulled back the curtain with great flourish and a smile that turned her blood to icy water. Beside her, the Bloodletter sucked in a surprised breath.

Behind the curtain was a wooden bed with leather stretched over the frame. It held a mattress that looked soft enough to be down with a bright crimson blanket topping it. There was a table in the corner with two cups and a jug. A tapestry hung on one wall and a banner with Cathán’s spiraled insignia hung on another. There was nothing else in the room.

“What is this—” Tiarnan said angrily.

“There’ll be no talk later that this is not a real marriage,” Cathán told them all, his voice booming with authority. He turned that raw anger and power on Saraid. Putting a finger beneath her chin, he tilted her head until she was forced to look at him. “You understand, Saraid of the Favored Lands? You will do your wifely duty and get yourself with child by my son. The sooner, the better.”

The threat had no veil or disguise.

“And you,” he said to the Bloodletter, “will do as you’re told. You’ll fuck the girl and do it prompt.”

A dark red flush crept up the Bloodletter’s face, but he gave a quick, jerky nod. Apparently satisfied, Cathán turned to the assembly and raised his hands, signaling silence. He spoke loudly, his words reaching every ear in the room.

“I’ll have this wedding consummated now. There’ll be no call that it’s not legal later.”

The Bloodletter cast a look at his father that spoke of a hatred deeper than the dark of the forest—as deep as her own, but Cathán Half-Beard did not even acknowledge the glare, which surely burned where it touched.

“Get to it,” he said jovially. “I’ll be expecting my grandson in nine months.”

This brought laughter from the avid onlookers. Without a word, the Bloodletter urged her behind the curtain as best he could with their hands still bound together. Cathán followed them, pushing his face between them until his hot breath made Saraid want to fight her way free. He took Saraid’s chin in a rough grip and twisted it until he was nose to nose with her. “I’ll be back for the sheets, and do not think to fool me with fakery. I’ll know if it’s a woman’s true blood.”

Saraid stared back with cold eyes and said nothing, but her heart pounded against her ribs like a wounded bird in a cage. Could he really know a woman’s virgin blood?

As soon as Cathán disappeared on the other side and drew the curtain shut, a raucous cheer went up from the men. No doubt he’d emerged with some crude and blatant gesture.

The Bloodletter cursed under his breath and struggled to free his hands from the knotted ribbon, but Cathán had tied it unusually tight. At last he used his teeth to loosen the knot. The feel of his lips against the sensitive underside of her wrists sent a tremble through her. Soon that mouth would be touching her in other places, those hands roaming at will.

How would she endure it?

Finally free, he stepped back, and so did she, their silence made louder by the ruckus on the other side of the curtain. Ruairi looked as if there might be something to say, but he did not speak. He appeared suddenly as young and as uncertain as she felt.

“I don’t hear the sound of rutting,” Cathán shouted. “Or do I need to show you how it’s done?”

Bawdy laughter erupted from the room, and it was not just the men enjoying this bit of sport. Saraid felt strangely betrayed that the women had joined in.