Page 7 of A Song of Ravens and Wolves
I gripped her arm. ‘You were too young to remember. You did not see the light die in her eyes. I rocked you to sleep, night afternight, crying, for the want of food in your belly. She watched on, dead-eyed and glass-faced while we starved.’
‘God will punish you for not forgiving her.’
‘Do you hear what you are saying?’ I shook her arm. ‘God should punish me. Where was God when father’s men came calling? When our mother would do nothing to protect us. It was me who saved your maidenhood. Not mother. Not father and certainly not God. But don’t you worry, Donada, you will get to see what it feels like to be an adult, to look after the younger ones, to watch the men come to them at night. Sup ale and think of my body being desecrated by a beast while you sit around plaiting hair, learning of what it is to truly be an adult.’
I let go of her arm.
Sparks flew up from the embers of the fire as she slammed the door.
Then, silence.
I sagged forward my hands gripping my chest, and I cried silent tears. I had said too much. Such hurtful, hateful things. God would punish me for my sins and for that, I did not have to wait long. Donada never forgot what was said by that fire. The real truth of our survival. We will both take that secret with us when we become food for the worms and until that day comes, it will remain an unspoken bond between us.
Our lives and their consequences could not have turned out any other way. Donada was never meant to marry the Jarl. Beautiful, sweet Donada who spent her days helping the older women to braid their hair when it became too much of a chore. Donada, who would bring home sickly birds with broken wings and nurse them back to health. The Danes would have crushed her gentle spirit. I had given my whole life to protect hers I was not about to stop.
One day she would understand.
Then I heard her sobbing. The hairs on the back of my neck began to prickle. I hesitated. Wanted to go to her. To throw my arms around her and comfort her but those days were gone. If I was to survive, if we were both to survive, I had to do it on my own.
Chapter 3
Meeting the Northmen
Awife.
I had never thought of what it would be like to have a husband, in a marriage dictated by birthright. Perhaps I had never really wanted to.
I went to the window and stared out over our lands. My father’s lands. Rolling hills, speckled with pines, like black silhouettes against the setting sun. For the briefest moment, I yearned for something different. Something more. She may be truly wise who has travelled and knows the ways of the world but, I could never have fled, who would have taken Donada’s place?
Red kites soared, taking with them any hope. Beyond the horizon, across the Pentland Firth lay a land of rugged cliffs and heathen gods. The light of Christ did not shine there. It hung in the ocean like a tarnished coin. The Godly men had become fearful. I was a good Christian, then. Dutiful and fearful. I did not know then, what I know now. In my heart, I hated the pagans and everything that they stood for. In that moment, I knew I would plan my escape at the first opportunity.
I smiled to myself. Pleased.
Before the fire, there was a bath filled with hearth-warmed water. The woman that stared back at me from its surface, was a woman I no longer knew. Unsure and terrified. She would no longer be able to keep the promises she had made to herself all those years ago. She would leave for new lands and new customs and a life decided by fate.
The door groaned.
‘I cannot let you do this alone,’ said Bethóc, standing beneath the archway in a dress the colour of dried blood.
Some distant part of me felt disappointed that it was not my mother. That the thought of me marrying a Dane could not bring her out of her darkness. In the years that followed, I often wondered if it would have made a difference if Donada had been the one to marry the Jarl. I had always been a bitter disappointment. I can only hope that the God she loved more than her children had forgiven her because I could not.
I stared at Bethóc in bewilderment. Until that moment, I had not realised that the only person I had wanted to be standing in that archway was Donada. I wanted her forgiveness, but it was not mine to demand.
When God had given us our gifts, He had bestowed her with the most beauty, with flame-red hair and built like a willow tree. It was no wonder that Crinnin, Thane of Dunkeld had pursued her as he did.
‘Do not look at me like that, Olith.’
Seeing her there like that, it is hard to imagine what our brother would have looked like, had he survived. Would he have had Donada’s good looks? or my raven hair and stocky build? He would have been an old man now, no doubt with children of his own. He would have taken the crown and saved us from our fates. How different our lives would have been, but he would forever be that tiny baby.
Bethóc and I had never been close. Not in the way that Donada and I were. We tried to bury our crossed words that night by the fire given that we were both about to become wives, but you cannot un-ring a bell, despite what we tell ourselves and Bethóc, knowing the truth of our childhood would allow it fester for the rest of our lives like an open wound.
She helped me out of my mud-stained gown and into the water. I slipped below its surface, hiding my nakedness. She tookmy hair, black as a crow’s wing between her hands and washed it roughly, just like she did for the old women. I will never be able to thank her enough for the love she showed me that night, for not punishing me further for my decision.
‘They say he is a handsome man, the Jarl.’
‘What would you know of handsome men?’ I scoffed, focusing on my fingers and the tiny droplets of water dripping down and the steam rising from them. ‘Is this why you wanted so much to marry him?’ I blanched at my words.
‘Donada told me, she hears the women talk,’ she ignored me. ‘They say he has a body like a sculpture, tall and fearless,’ she said as though she was in awe of him. What did Donada know? No Danes had raided our land since her birth. She did not know what they were capable of. Those were not tales of women who remembered, they were the tales of foolish young girls eager to marry and would happily wed a hog if it gave them a large enough home.
