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She placed a hand on her stomach. She had to stop hearing ghosts. This objection had no merit. False and unfounded. But logically it would have to be heard.
Giving in to her temper seldom solved anything. In fact, it often made things worse. Over the past few years, she’d learnt the value of appearing calm and collected even if her insides were churning.
A little delay now would save a lifetime of innuendo and false rumour. Clinging to that thought, she attempted to breathe.
‘Make your objection known,’ the priest intoned. ‘Show your proof. This woman claims to be free.’
The crowds parted and the speaker came forward, walking with a distinct limp. His fine cloak swung about his body, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders and trim line of his waist. The deep blue colour set off his reddish-gold hair perfectly. There was something in the way he moved. Her stomach roiled as the scent of incense grew overpowering.
Kara shook her head, wished the crown was lighter and that the priest in the corner would stop waving his brazier about.
What her eyes saw was impossible. She dug her nails into her palm. Impossible.
The dead could not walk on this earth and Ash was dead. The ship had gone down without any survivors.
Ash’s uncle had brought back the intricately carved sternpost from Ash’s ship, charred from a fire, and laid it at her father-in-law’s feet. The day was etched on her brain. Her father-in-law had made a dreadful noise and collapsed in a heap. She had had to nurse him back to health along with Rurik, who had been suffering from one of his dreadful colds. There hadn’t been time to breathe, let alone grieve for the man whom she’d once made her whole world.
For a few days, both her father-in-law’s and Rurik’s lives had hung in the balance while Ash’s uncle had strutted about the hall, issuing orders and proclaiming how the hall would be his. Finally she had ordered him out and he’d gone with bad grace, promising his vengeance.
Was this some ghastly dream and she’d wake up in her bed with Rurik slumbering close by? She knew she was awake from the growing pain in her head and the nausea in her belly.
A conjurer’s trick? An apparition?
An insistent whisper went around the hall, growing in strength. Ash. Against all reason and expectation, it had to be. But utterly impossible. It had to be a trick, a way of sowing dissent and preventing the marriage. Harald Haraldson had to be behind it. She refused to allow this pathetic outrage to happen. This time Harald Haraldson had overreached. He would regret it when she was finished with him, but first she needed to be married with a warrior who’d defend her land.
Kara shut her eyes tight and opened them again. The man stood in the centre of the hall, no more than a few feet away from her. Broad shouldered and red-gold hair. His clothes were finely cut and of Viken rather than Raumerike origin.
The man raised his arms. Kara attempted to peer through the heavy smoke and see his face. A number of emotions raced through her—fear, anger and a wild sense of hope—but mostly she felt as if she were watching the events unfold from far away.
‘Hear me, good people, and listen well. Kara Olofdottar is my wife.’ He turned to face the room. ‘I dare any man to deny it. I have a prior claim over her and I will enforce my claim with my sword if necessary. I, Ash Hringson, claim Kara Olofdottar as my lawful wife!’
Chapter Two
The stranger’s words bounced off the temple walls, echoing round and round. The entire hall ceased to breathe, waiting for her reaction. Kara knew she had to do something, make some sort of defiant gesture, but her entire being was paralysed with shock.
She stared at the man with his fine clothes and burnished red-gold hair, searching for a sign that the words were true, that he was indeed who he claimed to be, that it wasn’t some sort of twisted trick from Harald Haraldson. Yet she knew it must be.
Anything else was utterly impossible. Ash had drowned. The entirety of Raumerike knew of the tragedy. The lament her father-in-law had commissioned about his only son’s tragic end was sung every year on the anniversary of his death.
She glanced at Valdar under her lashes. The big warrior stood stony-faced, his eyes trained on the priest’s face. The knots in her stomach tightened. She had thought Valdar would understand immediately what was happening and leap to her defence. But, no, once again, she’d have to fight alone. Luckily she knew how to.
‘You believe you have a prior claim to this woman?’ the priest asked with heavy scepticism in his voice.
