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Joan de Laurent was cursed.
Most folk believed she was foolish in such thoughts, but in her heart, she knew it was true. She had already been betrothed twice, and both men had died before they had wedded her. One had perished in battle while the second had fallen ill with the pox.
For some reason, God did not want her to be married. She was convinced of this, and moreover, any man who dared to seek her as his bride would draw his last breath before the wedding Mass was over. The people of Montbrooke believed it, too. Men crossed themselves whenever she walked by. The women avoided her, particularly those who were pregnant. Some of the children ran away from her, and had she not been the daughter of an earl, they might have accused her of witchcraft.
Joan had done everything in her power to prove them wrong. Every gown she owned was white, a symbol of her innocence. She wore an iron cross around her neck to keep away the fairies. Her dark hair remained veiled at all times, and she went to Mass every day.
But she could feel their stares burning into the back of her head. She heard the whispers and knew that their hearts had turned against her out of fear. No men wanted her, despite her father’s attempts to arrange a third betrothal. Why would they, when it meant a death sentence?
Joan had resigned herself to a life of prayer, one where she would never marry or conceive a child of her own. And that was the problem. She loved babies with all her heart. After her brother’s wife, Lianna, had given birth to a daughter, Joan had been overwhelmed by love for this beautiful girl. It was her secret that she desperately wanted to be a mother. The need burned within her in a fervent desire. She had been lonely for so long, shunned by everyone. She longed to fill the emptiness by cradling a beloved child against her breast, to rest her lips upon a soft head and feel that soul-deep love.
You are too old, her mind chided. Four-and-twenty was an age when most women had several children, whereas Joan was still a virgin. There was little hope of her ever marrying or bearing a child.
But her father had no intention of letting her serve the Church. Instead, he’d sought a betrothal with an older nobleman from Ireland. Her intended husband already had heirs, and Murdoch did not need children from her.
It should have been the perfect arrangement—and yet, she was afraid of this marriage. She didn’t want to see another man die, though the sensible side of her brain knew her fears were foolish. But no matter how many times she told herself it was only a coincidence that her previous bridegrooms had died, she couldn’t quite dispel the belief.
After weeks of travelling, they arrived in Ireland. Her father, Edward de Laurent, had sent her brothers, Warrick and Rhys, to accompany her and to witness the vows. Warrick had lands in Killalough, and he’d brought dozens of soldiers with him to protect his wife and children at his estate. Rhys had brought half a dozen of his own men to guard them on this journey.
It was raining, and Joan held a woollen cloak over her head as the cart rolled through the mud. She did not see a castle anywhere—only thatched huts upon a hillside. Deep inside, panic gripped her lungs. Her hands were ice cold, and she fought to calm the rush of nerves.
Everything will be all right, her head tried to reason.
I don’t want to marry an old man, her heart wailed.
He may be kind. His children could become yours.
But deep inside, she believed Murdoch Ó Connor would die if he married her. It felt as if she were bringing a curse upon an innocent man, one he didn’t deserve. How could she even think that this marriage would come to pass?
Her brother, Warrick, reached out and took her hand. He said nothing but squeezed her fingers. Yet, his silent reassurance did nothing to ease her terror.
Joan stiffened her spine and let the hood fall back to her shoulders, regardless of the rain. She hardly cared about how it would soak through her veil and braided hair. The frigid weather matched her uncertain mood.
Rhys glanced back at them and said to Warrick, ‘I don’t know if this will be a good alliance for Joan. Murdoch may be a chieftain, but...’ He shook his head, eyeing the decaying homes.
Joan didn’t know what to think of this place. It appeared as if nothing had been done to maintain the ringfort. The thatch was rotting on the rooftops, along with the wooden timbers. Why, then, had the chieftain allowed it to fall into disrepair?
A few bystanders stared at them, but none smiled in welcome. Instead, it seemed as if the people were confused by their arrival. Several murmured in whispers, staring at them.
‘Do you think they knew about this betrothal?’ Joan murmured.
Rhys only shook his head. ‘I cannot say. But I want you to remain with Warrick while I find out.’
‘I could send one of my men to speak with them,’ Warrick offered. He had brought an Irishman from Killalough to act as an interpreter.
‘It does not matter,’ Joan whispered. The burden of this betrothal weighed heavily upon her, and she was certain it would not end well.
She tried to calm the storm of her nerves when the cart drew to a stop at the gates. Rhys called out to the guards, announcing their presence, but the two men appeared uneasy for some reason. There was a strange quiet throughout the ringfort, an air of ill fortune that bothered her. The Ó Connor guards allowed them inside, but Joan turned to Warrick. ‘Something is wrong.’
He nodded, keeping his hand tight upon hers. ‘I agree.’
Her brother helped her down from the cart, and one of the Irishmen came to greet them. The man could not speak the Norman language, but from his gesturing, Joan guessed that he wanted them to follow.
There was a sombre mood as they entered the largest dwelling, and Joan took a step back in shock when she saw the body laid out upon a table. Her fingers dug into Warrick’s arm, and she closed her eyes, feeling a wild surge of hysteria.
Her intended husband was dead, just as she’d feared. But instead of being relieved at her new freedom, Joan wanted to weep. For it felt as if she were to blame somehow.
Three betrothals. Three deaths.
She could only believe that the curse was real, and she could never marry anyone. A crushing weight seemed to close over her chest, numbing her to all else.
A younger woman approached, her eyes red from crying. She spoke only Irish, but Warrick’s translator conveyed what had happened. Her father, Murdoch Ó Connor, had died only this morning. There would be no betrothal, though the woman did offer her hospitality if Joan and her brothers wanted to stay with them this night.
‘We thank you,’ Rhys said gently, ‘but we will return to my brother’s house.’ He offered his condolences with the help of the translator and guided them back outside.
Joan gripped her brother’s hand, trying to keep back her own tears. Warrick drew her away, rubbing the small of her back. She struggled to keep her feelings shielded, but it felt as if God were laughing at her.
She would never have the husband and family she wanted. She would never bear a child of her own. Raw frustration coursed through her, and she let go of her brother’s hand. It wasn’t fair. Why should she be different from other women? Why could she not find a man to love?
Her brothers brought her back inside the cart, and only a few miles later did Rhys speak. ‘I am sorry, Joan. But perhaps it’s for