Odin's Shadow (Sons Of Odin Book 1) (9th Century Viking Romance) (2 page)

Where had he come from? How long had he been there? She was sure she had been alone when she sat down.

Selia turned to run but hesitated at the thought of the sausage. Would being raped or abducted be worse than going home without food and thus facing the wrath of Eithne? She grabbed the basket, stupidly holding it to her chest like a shield, as she gaped at the man.

The stranger was a Finngall, and bigger than any Selia had ever seen. She had to take another step back and crane her neck to get a clear view of his face. It was startling in its foreignness, with angular bones and bright blue eyes. Eithne had always maintained that Finngalls had the cloudy eyes of a corpse, but this man’s eyes were so intense they seemed to glow.

His pale hair was loose around his shoulders, his beard braided into two plaits. The Finngall’s clothing was cut in an unfamiliar style, but the red wool was of high quality and trimmed with silk. She saw the hilt of a sword at his hip, peeking out from the edge of his cloak, as well as a dagger hanging from his belt. He was smiling at her, but it was a peculiar smile—not the type that would put anyone at ease.

Don’t look at him. Don’t smile at him.
Her gaze again flickered to the sausage, and she flushed at the absurdity of it all. But if she didn’t bring it home, what could she tell Eithne that wouldn’t raise her suspicions?

“Go on, get it. I won’t hurt you,” the Finngall said in Norse.

Selia clutched her basket in a grip so tight she could hear the twigs creaking with her every breath. If she ran, how many strides would it take him to reach her? She was a fast runner but the giant had very long legs. She looked up at him, once, and quickly away. Did all Finngalls have eyes that blue?
Don’t look at him.

“You don’t speak Norse?” he asked after her silence. He paused for a moment and then continued in Irish with some difficulty. “Bad . . . no.” He pointed to his chest.

Selia wavered. The man stared at her with obvious interest, but not in a leering manner like the butcher had. And he didn’t move toward her or make any threatening gestures as she assumed a rapist would. Maybe Eithne’s stories about the Finngalls weren’t true after all.

She snatched the parcel from the ground, then shoved it back into her basket without brushing the dirt off. The man laughed. She ignored him, and instead turned to run down the hill. When she looked back up he was still watching her. The Finngall put his hand up in a wry wave, and despite herself, Selia smiled. What a story she would have to tell Ainnileas.

The sun was nearly setting when she finally reached home. Eithne's snores could be heard from outside the house, and Selia pushed down a twinge of guilt. The woman must have given up on the promise of willow bark tea and had moved on to the ale, or worse, to the wine—the cask her father saved for special occasions only. What would he do to Eithne if he learned she had allowed Selia to go to the market alone? Though cantankerous, Eithne was the closest thing Selia had to a mother, and she loved her. Usually.

But the encounter with the Finngall had flustered her more than she cared to admit, and at the moment she had no patience for the woman’s questioning. She needed time to think about it, to savor it in her mind, before any mundane conversation with Eithne had a chance to dull the memory.

The house consisted of three circular rooms. The main room in the front was where most of the daily living took place, and included the sleeping areas along the walls that could be curtained off for privacy. Through this main room the kitchen could be accessed, as well as a storage room for her father's wares. Following the sound of snoring, she found Eithne leaning against a wall in the kitchen, mouth slack, with a wooden cup of wine next to her on the floor. Selia rinsed out the nearly empty cup and put it back in the cupboard, then stirred the hearth coals for preparing supper.

Her thoughts wandered again to the encounter with the Finngall. How handsome he had been. And his eyes . . . she had never seen eyes quite that color. Did he gaze at everyone so intently or had he also found her pleasing to look at? Maybe not, since he hadn't tried to touch her and Finngalls were well known to be rapists. Maybe they preferred a sturdier sort of woman.

Just because the men of Baile Átha Cliath found her beautiful didn't mean a Finngall would. The shy youths of the village were usually struck dumb in her presence, while the bolder ones would sometimes preen and banter with their friends as though that would impress her. She found this amusing since she and Ainnileas had grown up with these boys, and they had seemed oblivious to her existence until a few years ago.

The men, however, were different. She had first noticed in church, the way one senses another's regard, and had looked up from her clasped hands to find the priest staring at her. After that it seemed the eyes of men were always on her, in the street, in the market, even in her home when her father's colleagues dined with them. Old ones, married ones. At Eithne's instruction, Selia learned to keep her eyes lowered and her face expressionless.

Unfortunately this only served to fuel the fire for many of them, as her demure behavior seemed proof of her piety and virtue. Ainnileas thought this ridiculously funny, and would mime the old men after they left, mocking their moon eyes.

Many of these men, and even a few of the boys, had approached her father with an offer of marriage; some, more than once. Niall had considered each suitor with care but always refused, stating she was too young yet. Maybe in a year or two he would reconsider. But she was by now well past the typical age of betrothal, so this line of reasoning wouldn't work for much longer.

She only learned of the proposals, and of Niall's responses, from Ainnileas. Selia knew she would have little to no input into the final decision. Although her consent to her eventual marriage was necessary, to refuse her father's choice of husband for her would be considered the worst form of disrespect.

Most other girls her age—unless destined for the convent—had been married for several years and had a child or two. So the fact that her father had not accepted an offer by now was suspicious. Ainnileas, of course had his own theory; their father wanted her to marry Buadhach Ó Donnagain, who had been a close friend of their now-deceased grandfather.

Old Buadhach was nearly eighty, with a hump on his back and not a tooth in his head. His hands were as dry as dead leaves and they shook when he clasped Selia’s hand. As much as her brother liked to tease her about this possibility, she knew there was a grain of truth to it. The old man had been widowed this past winter, and had spent a good deal of time at their home since then. And there seemed to be more of a spring to his aged step of late.

None of the perspective suitors appeared to mind that Selia was not Niall Ó Murchú’s daughter by birth. As a trader of fine fabrics, Niall was in the merchant class, and most of the suitors thus far were also men of comfortable means. But it was no secret that Selia and Ainnileas were not his natural children. There had been whispers early on, rumors they were actually changelings; fairy children. One would think any prospective husband might have some concern over this, but apparently youth and beauty won out over better judgment.

What would it be like to be married to the Finngall? Or not him, specifically, since it was nonsense to consider marrying a foreigner, and a heathen at that. But no, someone
like
him. Tall, handsome, and in the prime of his life, with eyes
the color of a cloudless sky.

Someone whose hands didn't shake with palsy when he touched her. Someone her brother couldn't laugh at.

Selia's reverie was interrupted as her brother and father entered, shaking the dust from their cloaks. Ainnileas laughed to see her cooking. He gave the air a cautious sniff as though expecting the worst.

Selia pushed him out of the kitchen before he noticed Eithne asleep on the floor. As the men settled around the table, she brought them mugs of warmed ale and plates of sausages, crusty bread and goat cheese. They both startled as a loud, guttural snore emanated from the kitchen.

Niall raised an eyebrow.

"She's ill," Selia said. She felt a bit responsible for Eithne's present condition, and tried to distract her father with a larger helping of sausage.

Ainnileas took a bite, grimacing as he chewed. "The sausage tastes of dirt."

Selia glared at him. Was he simply mocking her culinary skills or did he really know something about the encounter with the Finngall? His clear gray eyes were all innocence as he smiled at her.

Ainnileas was much too handsome for his own good. His black hair curled around his face in a rather girlish fashion, despite his attempt to keep it secured at the nape of his neck. His eyes—which, when the light caught them appeared to be silver rather than gray—glittered behind their dark frame of lashes. His top lip was slightly fuller than the bottom and his mouth arched up at the corners, which caused him to perpetually look as though he was about to burst out laughing. And he was, usually at Selia’s expense.

He and Selia had always been small and fine boned, but she had stopped growing several years ago and he hadn't. Now, for the first time in their lives, Ainnileas was significantly taller than she was. Black hairs sprouted from his chin and upper lip, and his voice would still crack at the most inopportune moments.

These things gave Ainnileas admission into the world of men that Selia would never have. Sometimes she hated him for it.

"Did you enjoy yourself today, working with
Dadai
?" she asked sweetly. As a textile merchant, their father was gone frequently, but when he was home he would occasionally bring Ainnileas along while he transacted business. These occasions were now happening more often and becoming more formalized as he prepared to join Niall in the business. Selia knew her brother found the trade of fine fabrics excruciatingly dull, and she smiled to herself as she poured her father another cup of ale.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I did. We actually had quite an interesting day."

"Did you now?”

Ainnileas gave her a smug look. "Three of the Finngalls approached us looking for silk. We're lucky to have escaped with our lives after Father insulted them."

She nearly splashed the remainder of the ale on the table. "
Dadai
," she asked, "Is this true?"

Niall gave her hand a pat. "Ainnileas is exaggerating as usual, my lass. No blood was spilled."

Ainnileas laughed. "The heathens said they wanted silk to bring home to their wives, but Father didn't understand the Norse, and thought they said they wanted it for themselves—"

"I understood the Norse well enough. What you don't know, boy, is that the Finngalls are the vainest race of men and would wear silk every day if they could. Their men are even worse than their women. Why, they probably bathe and wash their hair more than our lass here."

Selia raised her eyebrows at him. Eithne had always claimed Finngalls bathed only once a year, in ice water, and never washed their clothes. But the Finngall today had been dressed very agreeably. His hair had looked soft and clean. Selia shot a dark look in the direction of the kitchen. How many more of the maid’s tales had been fabricated?

"So, what happened?" she asked.

Her father scowled. "I just told you—did you hear nothing of what I said?"

Selia blushed, shaking her head. As usual, she had missed a chunk of the conversation.

Niall sighed. "Nothing more happened, my girl. They wanted silk, we had none to trade, so they left. Not quite as exciting as Ainnileas would lead you to believe." He belched as he pushed his plate away.

Selia knew full well her father had plenty of silk to trade—there were a dozen or more bolts of it in their storage room. Niall clearly had not wanted to do business with the Finngalls. He didn't like them, and he didn't trust them.

Silly, to imagine men wanting silk for their own clothing, such as the foreign princes their father had once told them about. What would the handsome Finngall on the hill look like dressed head to toe in silk? She bit back a giggle and felt her brother's gaze on her as she cleared the table.

Selia gave him a sly smile, savoring the knowledge that for once her day had been more exciting than his.

Chapter 2

She waited for her brother in the darkness, listening to the slow, regular breathing coming from her father's sleeping bench across the room. Eithne's snores still rattled from the kitchen. Selia had covered her with a blanket but otherwise left her alone. The woman would be sore in the morning, and most likely in a foul mood.

Where was Ainnileas? Surely he hadn't stolen away again to see the fishmonger's daughter. Not when he knew his sister had a secret. Though he would always make her wait when it was
he
who had an interesting tidbit to tell her, away from their father’s ears. The boy enjoyed teasing her, drawing out her impatience until she was in tears. Selia smiled a little at the unaccustomed feeling of power she felt as she waited.

A bit later, Selia heard the soft sound of the door closing, followed by Ainnileas' footsteps. He shoved her over as he climbed onto the bench with her. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of him—obviously he had been passing time with the fishmonger's daughter. If he wasn't careful he would end up having to marry the girl. She feigned sleep to punish him for making her wait so long.

"Selia," Ainnileas whispered, shaking her. "I know you're awake."

"Go away."

"Not until you tell me what you've been grinning about all night."

She smiled but didn’t answer. Ainnileas pinched her and she squealed.

There was a sound of rustling straw as their father rolled over on his bench. They lay very quietly, waiting until Niall's breathing returned to normal, and then Selia elbowed her brother. "Leave me alone," she hissed. "I'm tired. And you smell like a rotten fish."

"Well, I did have something important to tell you. But since you're being cross . . ."

Selia turned over and gave him a sharp look. Was he telling the truth? One never knew with Ainnileas.

"All right," she said finally. "I'll tell you. But you have to promise not to tell
Dadai
."

In a whisper, Selia told him of her visit to Dubhlinn. She blushed as she spoke of the unexpected encounter with the Finngall on the hill. It was good that Ainnileas couldn't see her face clearly in the darkness. Just the thought of the big foreigner made her heart beat faster and brought a flush to her cheeks, and she had difficulty hiding her excitement from her brother.

But Ainnileas gripped her arm. "Selia," he said in a tight, hard voice, "
never
do that again. Do you understand?"

She tried to shake him off, but he refused to let go. "You're lucky you didn't get killed,” he chastised. “Or worse."

She snorted. "Worse than killed?"

"It's nothing to joke about. You know as well as I do what those men are capable of. Promise me you won't go back there."

She glared up at him. "Fine . . . yes, I promise. Now let go, you stupid boy."

He did, and lay on his back, staring at the rafters, uncharacteristically quiet. Selia rubbed her arm and refused to look at him. Who did he think he was, talking to her like that? He was letting the silly wisps of hair above his lip fool him into believing he was already a man.

Finally Ainnileas spoke. "Father met with Old Buadhach today."

His voice was serious—he didn’t sound as though he was teasing about Buadhach this time. She sat up. "That doesn’t amuse me, Ainnileas."

His eyes looked sad. "Buadhach made a fine offer. Father even told him . . . about you . . . and Buadhach said he wasn't concerned about it."

The bile rose in Selia's throat. Why hadn't her brother stood up for her? How could he let this happen? With the strength of fury, she shoved Ainnileas off the bench. He landed hard on the dirt floor.

"Stay away from me," she managed to choke out. He reached for her in a rare expression of tenderness but she slapped his hand away.

Ainnileas slinked back to his bench, then lay in silence. She didn't attempt to muffle her tears, hoping her brother found satisfaction in being right.

Selia opened her eyes, blinking at the unfamiliar, pale light of morning. On a typical day the family would be up and at their chores before dawn. Why had Eithne allowed her to sleep so late? Unless she was feeling guilty. The woman must be in on her father's plan to marry her off to Buadhach.

Selia's suspicion was confirmed as she rose from her bed and reached for her gown hanging from a hook on the wall. Her old one was missing, and in its place was the new lavender gown Eithne had been sewing for her. The woman was wonderfully skilled at needlework, and had embroidered tiny purple and white flowers on the bodice and sleeves. Selia fingered the delicate embroidery, torn between a desire to wear the beautiful gown as well as shred it to pieces.

The door shut and Selia turned to find Eithne watching her. "You've been crying." The maid tisked at the sight of Selia's puffy eyes.

Eithne looked more contrite than Selia had ever seen her, but she refused to be pacified. Did Eithne actually think a new gown could distract her from knowing her father schemed to marry her off to a feeble old man?

She glared until Eithne dropped her gaze.

"How could you let him do this to me?" Selia’s voice sounded raw. She had cried for most of the night and would have thought she had no tears left, but she could feel them building up again, thick in the back of her throat.

Eithne sighed and opened her arms. "Oh, my girl . . ."

Selia's strength of will broke and she ran to the woman, throwing her arms around her ample body. Eithne was nearly as wide as she was tall, and her embrace enveloped Selia. The maid stroked Selia's hair until her sobs turned into hiccups.

"Why, Eithne?" she whimpered. "Why would he marry me to Buadhach? I can't do it. I
won't
do it
.
"

Eithne didn't answer immediately, but instead drew Selia to the table and sat her down. She brought a bowl and a pitcher of water to the table, then soaked a cloth in the cool water, which she used to press against Selia's eyes.

"You know about your father's wife?" Eithne asked quietly.

"Sile? Of course."

"I was there when she died, mind you. It was the most horrible thing I have ever seen, the suffering of that poor woman. Enough to make your blood run cold. Your father loved her very much. As he loves you."

"What does that have to do with—"

"It has everything to do with it," Eithne cut her off. "He's protecting you."

Selia snorted. "Protecting me? Giving me to a disgusting old man is
protecting
me?"

Eithne dropped the cloth and gripped her shoulders. "Selia, you are of an age to be married. The fact that your father hasn't accepted an offer for you yet has begun to raise suspicions. If things weren't as they are, you could enter into a convent. But of course that's not possible. So your father
must
choose a husband for you."

"But why does it have to be Buadhach? I know there have been other offers."

The woman flushed, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. "Old Buadhach is unable to fulfill the obligations of the marriage bed. Do you understand?"

Selia frowned as she considered the question. Of course she knew how babies were conceived—it would be impossible not to know, living in close quarters with animals—yet she didn't quite understand what Eithne was getting at. She shook her head.

Eithne sighed. "Well. Um . . . you've seen the horses, then?"

“Yes.”

"The stallions cannot mount the mares unless their members are erect. The same is true for men. Old men sometimes . . . just cannot, I don't know why. Old Buadhach is unable. Your father has made sure of this.”

Selia was thoughtful for a moment. She wouldn't be expected to lie with the old man, thankfully. "So . . . I'll never have children?"

"Not as long as you're married to Buadhach."

No children. According to the priest, it was the sacred duty of a wife to bear her husband's children. For Selia's entire life she had expected to become a mother. Now she contemplated the loss of that and nearly choked up again.

"But why would he want to marry me, then?"

Eithne shook her head with a rueful smile. "Well. I suppose even a man of his age can't be blamed for wanting what he can't have, my girl."

Eithne sent Selia out to collect firewood for the day. She headed toward the woods behind their house, taking her time, thinking about this new predicament.

Buadhach.
Marriage
to Buadhach. Even if she didn't have to lie with him, she would still be his wife. She would still be expected to cook his meals—boiled to a pulp and then mashed so he could gum his food down. She would still be expected to converse with him. Buadhach was stone deaf in one ear, so whenever anyone spoke to him they either had to shout or lean in very close to his good ear. And after Ainnileas had pointed out that Buadhach had white hairs sprouting from his ears, Selia had been unable to force herself to get close enough for the old man to hear her. So she shouted.

Niall's reasoning was sound, even if Selia didn't agree with it. Women with her slender build typically did not fare well in childbirth. And Niall had watched the woman he loved die an agonizing death, a death he himself must feel somewhat responsible for. But it was quite a leap to go from understanding Niall's protective fatherly instincts to her acceptance of marriage to a man sixty years her senior.

Entering a convent would be much preferable to marrying Buadhach, and she already knew a good deal of Latin simply from listening in church. She had never learned to read or write, however—in any language—even though Niall had attempted to teach both the children some rudimentary skills. Ainnileas had picked up enough to satisfy their father, but to Selia the markings looked like gibberish.

No amount of practice could make her mind memorize the letters or her hand to make the strokes. And only nuns who could read and write were exempt from the most menial labor in a convent. Selia would end up emptying slop buckets and mucking out the stables.

But this wasn't the reason Niall wouldn't send her to a convent. The real reason was his reluctance for anyone—the church in particular—to discover Selia's shameful secret. Although Niall was not a superstitious man, she knew her problem made him uncomfortable, and he feared for her safety if anyone found out. So a life as a nun was out of the question.

And that left Buadhach. According to Ainnileas, the old man knew her secret and was still willing to marry her. That meant something, at least. And how bad would it be to be married to Buadhach, after all? The old man was affluent. She would live in a large home with numerous servants to help her run the household. When he died, she would be left a wealthy widow with much more freedom and independence than she would ever know as a daughter or a wife. Or a nun. She would finally be able to make her own decisions. She could walk into Dubhlinn without a second thought, her hood down and her head held high.

Selia pushed the uncharitable thought from her mind. What kind of a person looked forward to the day she would be made a widow?

She heard the rustle of footsteps behind her and turned to scowl at Eithne. "I'm going as fast as I can—"

She stopped in mid sentence. It was the Finngall from the hill, not Eithne, coming toward her. The sheer size of the man was startling, and the way the morning sun glinted off his pale hair and the breeze stirred his deep red cloak around his body made him appear not quite human. Almost like one of the heathen gods the Finngalls worshipped. She stared, unable to move or speak. Shallow breaths seemed almost more than she could manage.

The Finngall met her gaze and smiled. He had a beautiful smile—a flash of white teeth and a boyish dimple on his left cheek—but as yesterday, something about it struck her as unusual. What was it?

Then she knew. His smile didn't reach his eyes, and they looked hard.

Selia shook herself back into reality. The Finngall stood between her and the house, so there was no way she could get around him and home quickly enough to bolt the door. And outrunning him was unlikely in any case. She could scream for help to bring Eithne to her aid. But what could their maid do against a man such as this? If the Finngall was bent on violence, she could not bring herself to put Eithne in harm's way.

Making her decision, she dropped the firewood save for one stout stick, which she held at the ready, then glared at the huge man with a fierceness she didn't feel. "What you want?" She demanded in broken Norse.

The Finngall's eyebrows went up in surprise. "So you do speak Norse." He took another step toward her, and she raised the stick threateningly.

He looked amused at this, but remained still, at least. "What's your name, little one?"

How had this stranger found out where she lived? Had he been watching the house so as to approach her when she was alone? And what could he possibly want with her? No man of honorable intentions would approach a woman in this manner. Surely even a Finngall would know that. But if he were bent on rape, would he stand here asking her name?

Frustrated with her own limited grasp of the Norse language, she repeated her original question. "What you want?"

"My ship sails in the morning. I wanted to see you again."

He moved toward her. Selia tried to sidestep to avoid him, but he grabbed her arm. She whacked him hard with the stick. Instead of letting go, he just looked annoyed. He pried the stick from her fingers, then threw it aside.

The man gripped her shoulders and leaned in close. Selia found herself again mesmerized as he locked his gaze with hers. She smelled him, wood smoke and fresh male sweat . . . and something else, like flowers. His hair fell around his face and shoulders, clean and shiny, and a silvery lock of it was inches from her nose. So her father had been right about the Finngalls' peculiar grooming habits, after all. The realization would have been amusing if the situation were different.