Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

“But, Sir, please, I beg ye, let me do me job like the laird has instructed,” Rory MacLennon pleaded as he stood on the threshold of Ivar’s chambers early the following morning. “He says I must prepare ye tae greet yer bride-tae-be today.” The manservant was holding a large jug of steaming water and a stack of clean cloths, and his open, freckled face was contorted with consternation.

“And I’m tellin’ ye I dinnae need yer help. I’ve been dressin’ mesel’ since I was a wee bairn. Now bugger off and leave me in peace, will ye?” Ivar growled from where he was sitting on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands.

“But what about a shave, Sir? I have yer hot water here.” He indicated the jug. “And ye must dae somethin’ with yer hair, surely?” He eyed Ivar’s tousled blond locks skeptically. “D’ye nae want a wee trim before yer lady sees ye?”

“I’ll shave mesel’. Ye can leave the water on the washstand and go.”

“Ach, but Sir!”

“Rory, if ye dinnae get out of here right now, ye and me are going tae seriously fall out,” Ivar suddenly roared, looking up to glare at the unfortunate servant. He instantly regretted the movement and the shouting, for they sent daggers of pain shooting through his head. He clutched at it as he added in a more restrained but equally impatient tone, “I said go and leave me in peace!”

Rory tutted with obvious frustration, but he left the water jug on the washstand as he was bidden and exited the room with a sigh.

“By the Wee Man,” Ivar groaned once the door was shut, and he was alone once more.

I kent it was a bad move tae go out intae the woods last night, but I didnae bargain on bein’ kicked in the head and knocked out by some wee slip of a lassie.

He felt totally humiliated for having let it happen. He was not sure which was worse, the pounding headache or his injured masculine pride at having allowed himself to be bested by a girl.

He muttered a few swear words as his fingers hesitantly felt for the lump that was now the size of a blackbird’s egg on the side of his head. It was tender to the touch and made him hiss with pain as he hastily withdrew his fingers. He had suffered from his fair share of bad hangovers in his time, but none of them compared to the painful, throbbing head which the woman’s attack had left him with.

All he wanted to do was be left alone, go back to bed, and try to sleep to escape the pain. The thought of all the fuss and formality involved in meeting his new wife and her party that day appalled him. It was the last thing he wanted to be doing.

But ye have nae choice. The Bruce has decreed it, and Haldor expects it.

Now, he had all the bother of making himself look presentable. Left to his own devices, he would not have made much effort. Why should he? He did not want this marriage. It was not of his choosing. Why should he bother to try to impress the girl when they were being forced to wed each other anyway? It was all falseness, a sick joke, as far as he was concerned. He supposed he was expected to look pleased about it.

With his head pounding, he forced himself to stand and go over to the washstand, stripping of his shirt as he went and dropping it on the floor heedlessly. Now stark naked, he looked bleary-eyed into the mirror.

He scowled at the drawn, tired face reflected back at him. He rubbed his hands over his bristly chin and sighed. He’d had no sleep because of the pain and the fear that if he did fall asleep, he might never wake up. “This bloody palaver is all I need, today of all days.”

With grim determination, he tried to ignore the hammering in his skull and forced himself through the motions of washing himself. He dabbed ineffectually at the lump on his head with a damp cloth, grimacing as he did so. Then, he shaved and combed back his hair neatly, avoiding the lump, securing it at his nape with a black velvet ribbon Dahlia had given him for the purpose. She had also gifted him a new shirt, with a detachable lace collar and sleeves to wear at his wedding.

“And for the Lord’s sake,” she had remonstrated with him at the same time, “when ye meet yer bride fer the first time, make sure ye’re nae all in yer usual black. Ye resemble some sort of gloomy churchman or a hangin’ judge, and we dinnae want tae scare her off. And try tae smile, will ye?”

He adored his sister and would happily die for her, but she always fussed about things he did not care about, and it was annoying. But sometimes, she was right, and today was one of those days. He knew his life would not be worth living if he did not follow her instructions to the letter. Not that life was worth living anyway, not without Thor, he thought to himself bitterly as he finished shaving and wiped the soap suds from his chin with a cloth.

Satisfied he had made the best of a bad job with his hair and beard, he gloomily dressed himself in his formal regalia as the laird’s brother. Dahlia had also insisted that it was proper to greet his bride in his best clan attire. In his weakened state, he struggled a little with the pleats of the feileadg mor, the great kilt, but he was too proud to call Rory back in for some help.

Finally, with a lot of swearing, he succeeded in getting the plaid to lay in neat folds over his shoulder and buckled on his belt to secure it around his waist. With his bruised brain rattling like a walnut inside his head, the effort wore him out, so he decided to have a wee dram to put some strength inside him and calm his nerves.

He needed it, swallowing it down in one. Since Thor’s death, he hated having to meet people and make polite small talk. Arne was right in saying that, these days, he purposely avoided mixing with others. But today, with the bride’s party set to arrive at any moment, the day promised to be a grueling gala of inanities and meaningless blather. I’d rather crawl over broken glass.

“That’ll dae,” he muttered to himself eventually, staring at his reflection in the full-length looking glass, adjusting his lace cuffs and neckcloth and smoothing his dark blue velvet coat. The man in front of him was the image of his lost twin. Except for the smile. Thor usually wore a smile or a grin. At the memory, a spear-like shaft of pain made Ivar’s heart clench painfully, briefly taking his mind off the agony in his skull.

He was just putting on his shoes when he heard a commotion outside the door. Loud voices and laughter came from the hallway. His family had arrived. There came a cursory knock, and before he could even open his mouth to respond, the door flew open and Haldor, his wife Sofia, Dahlia, and Arne came piling into the chamber, seemingly all talking at once.

Ivar briefly took in their splendid outfits. All were dressed to impress his new bride-to-be. Like him, the men were in full ceremonial dress, while Sofia looked fetching in a gown patterned with the same MacLeod clan colors as the men. Dahlia looked particularly stunning in a deep burgundy dress that flattered her icy, blonde beauty perfectly.

Wriggling in Arne’s arms was Ivar’s little nephew Thorsten, named after Thor. The little lad was only sixteen months old and was into everything. Despite his throbbing head, Ivar smiled to see the child. These days, few things took his mind off his loss as much as playing with Thorsten.

“There ye are, me wee scallywag,” he greeted the boy, holding out his arms to him, ignoring the others as they filled the chamber with their excited talk.

“Down, down!” Thorsten cried, his little rosy face splitting into a huge grin as he reached out for his uncle.

“Och, wee man, ye look very smart in yer wee laird’s outfit,” Ivar said, admiring the little replica clan regalia Haldor had insisted on having made for the child, complete with miniature sporran. He laughed as Thorsten squirmed like a puppy for his father to put him down.

“All right, laddie, off ye go and see grumpy old Uncle Ivar,” Arne said with a laugh, setting Thorsten on his little feet. Immediately, the little boy toddled unsteadily on his chubby legs towards Ivar, who scooped him up and whirled him about, making the boy shriek with delighted laughter.

The sound was loud and piercing, but for some reason, it eased Ivar’s headache. Playfully, he blew raspberries on the child cheeks, eliciting more excited laughter. Sometimes, Ivar thought that the pleasure he got from playing with his little nephew was the only thing telling him that he was still alive. The rest of the time he fancied himself a dead man walking.

“Dinnae do that, Ivar,” Dahlia protested as Ivar spun the boy around and threw him in the air. “Ye’ll make him sick, and ye dinnae want that on yer fine clothes,” she warned, wrinkling her pert nose. “Yer bride will run a mile if she smells that on ye.”

Ivar dismissed her concerns as he began walking about the room, bouncing Thorsten on his hip. “Ach, leave us be, sister. The lad’s all right without ye fussin’ over him.”

“So, Braither, are ye ready tae greet yer new bride?” Haldor asked jovially. He looked splendid, every inch the proud leader, an imposing figure who suited his alternative title, the Viking Laird. He looked Ivar up and down appraisingly. “I see ye’ve made an effort with yer appearance at least. Now all we need is fer ye nae tae bite yer wee wifey’s head off.” He laughed, but Ivar could see the warning in his brother’s eyes.

“Ye look a bit pale. Have ye nae slept at all?” Dahlia asked, scrutinizing Ivar closely. “What’s that on yer head?” She went up to him and pushed his hair aside. “Me Lord! Look, he’s got a lump the size of an egg on his head. What have ye been doin’ tae yersel’?” she demanded to know, frowning at Ivar. “I hope that’s nae the result of ye fallin’ down drunk.”

“Dwunk, dwunk!” little Thorsten crowed happily, his chubby arms wrapped around Ivar’s neck.

“Nay, what d’ye take me fer?” Ivar asked, irritated by the assumption.

“D’ye really want me tae answer that?” Dahlia replied, raising an elegant eyebrow as she continued trying to examine his head despite his best attempts to elude her.

“I had a wee accident in the woods last night,” Ivar said, not sure whether to elaborate or not. He suddenly felt dizzy and quickly handed Thorsten to his sister before going to sit down in the bed.

“What’s the matter, Ivar, are ye all right?” Arne asked, coming over to put an arm around his brother’s shoulders and looking at him with concern. “Ye seem a bit unsteady on yer legs.”

“Ach, it’s naethin’. Just spinnin’ the bairn around made me dizzy fer a

moment is all,” he replied, not wanting a fuss.

“’Tis that big lump on his head, Arne, look at it,” Dahlia said, dandling

Thorsten on her hip as she came over and pointed at it. “However he got it, I’ll wager he’s got a hell of a headache.”

Thorsten fretted until he was allowed to clamber onto Ivar’s lap, where he gave his uncle a big cuddle. Feeling less dizzy now, Ivar kissed him and patted him. By this time, much to Ivar’s irritation, Sofia and Haldor had come over to look at the lump too.

“Did ye get in a fight last night?” Haldor wanted to know, peering at Ivar with

interest.

“Nay! On the eve of meetin’ me bride? D’ye ye take me fer a fool?” Ivar

muttered irritably, bouncing the bairn on his knee.

“Aye, I dae,” the laird replied with a laugh.

“Och, lay off teasin’ him, ye two,” Sofia scolded them gently, smiling

comfortingly at Ivar. “Ye can see he’s sufferin’.”

“Have ye, Ivar? Got a bad headache?” Arne asked.

Reluctantly, Ivar nodded. “I have got a bit of a headache, aye.”

“I’m going tae go tae see the healer and get a powder for him tae take fer the

pain. He cannae greet his bride-tae-be lookin’ like death warmed up. What if he faints or somethin’?” Dahlia said, making for the door.

“I’ve never fainted in me life!” Ivar exclaimed, feeling wronged.

“There’s always a first time, lad. We cannae take any chances. Ye must make

a good impression,” Haldor said. “Go and fetch the powder, Dahlia.”

Ivar scowled. So far, apart from Thorsten, things were going just as badly as he had expected.