“It’s late. Tomorrow is an important day. Take your little brother to bed now,” She told Sorven. Sorven grimaced. “Take him to the dormitory tonight.”
“Not me,” he backed away. “I don’t want near him.”
Karl frowned. “Now, young man, do what Yeru tells you…”
“Nobody wants Finn around, cause of his ghost.” Cub cringed at the mention, but Finn only hung his head.
“What’s this foolishness?” Karl chuckled.
“Hush,” hissed Yeru, waving a finger at Sorven.
“Why? Everybody knows…It’s on account he has a vardoger haunting him.”
“What?” Karl barked a single laugh. “Yeru, what’s this about?”
Yeru leaned close so she could speak confidentially, keeping her words from the boys and those in the hall. “There are rumors, that’s all. Agne is handling it. Young Thorfinn is…well, he may have a fyreferd curse. It’s why people avoid him…”
“The little one?”
“Yes, folk worry and shun his company. Agne has hired an expert to cure...”
“Nonsense! He’s just a boy.” Karl turned to Sorven and Cub. “Take your little brother and put him in that pit house they have given me, next to the boat house. I will sleep with the lad.” The two boys stared at him, openmouthed. Yeru wrung her hands.
“Did you not understand me? Put him to bed in my room now.” The three boys scrambled to obey.
“Thank you, Karl,” Yeru watched the boys duck past the Mercians at the door.
“The least I can do. The little one has been following me all night, trying to warn me of some plot, some murder pact. He’s quite earnest. Says he heard the conspirators in Jorvik….”
“I have no idea where he got that notion.”
“No matter, it seems a harmless warning.”
“What were you telling Cub?”
“Ah, my eldest nephew was listening to the glories of our battles and tales from the sea—it seems he has some interest to go raiding with us and I need some dependable men for our next journey.”
“Take care, Agne has his own plans for his boy.”
“He can keep his plans, I mean to give the boy some valuable experience before my brother ties him to trading routes and counting houses. Give him a tale or two to tell his children.”
Yeru shrugged, “He’s a bit green to throw in with your lot.”
“Best start while they’re young, better to teach them with no bad habits to overcome.” He turned back to the table to refill his horn. Yeru paused, watched her cousin and his brother-in-law Agne telling stories over nervous Tormod’s head. Karl pushed closer to them and leaned over his brother to better hear. More Mercians entered the room, helping themselves to the food and ale and listening to the jolly crowd. The room packed again with raucous, pre-wedding merriment. Jormander spoke to one of the farmer’s wives, pressing her against the table and picking at the remains on the platter she held like a shield before her. Cerdic raised his eyes to hers and held her gaze for a moment, then smiled broadly and winked. He scooted aside on his bench and patted the empty seat for her to return to his side. With a smile and her bowl held out for refilling, she rejoined the party.
The next morning Yeru awoke with a stale, dry mouth and a headache from too much ale. She slept hard and too long. Washing in a terra cotta basin, she shrugged on a short, strapped dress and fastened it with amber beads to her under clothing. Selecting her most embroidered long dress, she pulled it over her head and settled it in place, smoothing it with her hands. She buttoned it at her neck with her silver tri-lobed broach, the nicest jewelry she owned, the only remaining piece from her marriage. She wrapped her braids in a tight ball, tucked her whitest pleated hood over her ears to cover her hair in the most modest way, and pinned her fancy brocaded fillet around her head to complete her cap. Nudging her sleeping daughter with her toe, she warned her, “Time is wasting, you need to get up,” and while Mae stretched and yawned, she pulled the alcove curtain aside.
Frigg’s Day, the most auspicious for a wedding. She bustled from her alcove to the long hall where Ursep set out loaves and porridge. A heel of bread would be enough to stave off her hunger, her stomach aflutter with nerves. Surprisingly, despite the late night of revelry, the hall appeared still in good shape for the day’s events. She fixed a drooping garland and bent to slip on her leather slippers. Leaving the hall, she found the morning slightly overcast and cool, but not unseasonably so, and she crossed the yard to the gate and saluted Mog who stood guard there. The gate cracked open and she could see some men moving in the fields, setting plank tables for the wedding feast and spreading more hay on the path the bridal party would take to the hallowed marriage grove. Mog looked groggy, his eyelids heavy and his hair mussed from sleep.
“Morning, Yeru.”
“Mog.”
“All seems right this morn.”
“Good, let me know if anything, and I mean anything, goes off the path.”
“Aye,” Mog grinned. Yeru turned from the front gate and headed to the boy’s pit house that had been commandeered as the bridal preparations room and would soon be converted into a chamber for the married couple. She wrapped her knuckles against the door, and it cracked open a bit, allowing Gurid to peek out and ascertain who had come calling. She quickly ushered Yeru inside.
“You’re late.”
“Everyone will wait for the bride….”
Willa sat in her undergarments, a silken slip-like dress. Sitting on a stool, she picked at a small bowl of porridge, looking a little peaked in the faint light of a single candle. The room smelled of flowers and herbs from the girl’s final bath. The marriage bed appeared assembled behind her, the guldgubbers glittering in the darkened room. A pile of clothes and the polished bridal crown lay on the table.
“Is all well?”
“Aye, a late night with your brother is all…”
“Is he well? Did he bring Meredith and the children?”
“Not this trip—he brought only bannermen. Says the ways are not so safe this year and discussed the trials of the passage with Agne.”
“Poor Meredith, I am sure she wished to see Willa and the girls.”
“No matter, the young couple can visit any time. I gather Tormod’s land abuts with your brother’s.”
“Any news of Mercia?”
“Usual political intrigues. The king of Wessex contests Ceolwulf for the remains of Mercia, and Guthrum presses both for concessions. It wouldn’t surprise me if there is a call to war for one side or the other.”
“That will gather up our men and boys for the contest.”
“Aye, I think Cerdic and Agne spoke of it late last night. No concerns today though, we have a happy plan afoot.”
“Yes,” Gurid held out a hand to help Willa to her feet. “Let’s dress our bride.”
Yeru lifted the clothes from the table one at a time and handed them to Gurid. Willa dressed in a saffron gown topped with a white silk tunic embroidered with an artful tangle of flowers. Gurid tied a necklace around her neck, an important family heirloom adjusted to hang between her breasts, its centerpiece a silver Thor’s hammer. Belted with a wide deerskin pelt, Yeru secured a special frog made to hold a sword during the ceremony. Yeru knelt to lace tall yellow boots made from soft kid leather, a matching pair of gloves laid on the table. Her hair carefully combed and dressed with a fine scented oil to keep it lying straight and long down her back—Yeru felt her eyes well with happy tears, realizing this is the last day little Willa can wear it loose like a maid. Gurid and Yeru each took a handful from Willa’s temple and worked slowly, plaiting a thin braid on each side of her face, working in carnelian glass and silver beads. The process took time and attention to details, no loose fly-away strands allowed. Willa, her breakfast set aside, fidgeted while they braided. The braids completed, Gurid clipped them in the back with a silver hasp. With her hair prepared, they capped Willa’s head with the family heirloom, the silver bridal crown adorned with fre
sh sprigs of balsam fir and a woven wreath of flowers, white of wood sorrel and lady’s smock, yellow wood poppies and blue forget-me-nots. Taking some long silver pins, Yeru cautiously clipped the crown to Willa’s hair, checking that it sits straight and tight to her head.
“Move for me,” she instructed Willa, who wobbled her head and circled the room.
“It’s good,” she responded.
“Bad luck to drop the crown.”
“I will be careful.”
The farmer’s wives gathered a bouquet of cowslips, sorrel and dog violets, all fresh from the field and wrapped tightly with twine in a handle for her to hold. Willa dressed properly, Yeru helped Gurid don her gown and pulled her hair back in a white, pleated hustrulinet, very similar to the formal married woman’s cap that Yeru had pinned to her own head. Attempting to conceal her grunt of effort, Yeru knelt to help Gurid slip into her leather shoes. Her knees creaked as she pushed back upright. They used a golden tri-lobed broach to clip Gurid’s dress front. The table held a leather pitcher and a bowl and Yeru paused to pour herself a drink.
“Are we ready?”
“I think we are,” Gurid answered. Willa looked anxiously at the two older women, her face a bit paler than usual. She is very pretty, thought Yeru, contemplating the slender girl’s figure in her gown, her lovely long hair and her bright silver crown. She makes a lovely bride.
“Let me make sure they are ready for us,” Yeru slipped out the door. The sky cleared, broken clouds flying away to the east and the sun near its zenith. A group of people assembled in the courtyard, including Agne, Tormod and their men. She searched the crowd and found him, Sorven, dressed in a scarlet jersey and matching cap, with yellow kid leather boots that matched the pair Willa wore. He leaned against the barn wall with a polished sword, the tip stuck in the dirt before him. She shook her head and bustled across the yard to him.
“Pick that blade up!” She hissed. “You have a most important role to play, Sorven! Do not lollygag and especially keep that blade clean!” She hiked up the hem of her dress and wiped a dirty smudge from the point. “Hold it up in front of you, point high.” Sorven grumbled and held the blade point up in front of him.
“My arms’ll get tired,” he warned her.
“Yes, they will,” She leaned close, “so, here’s the secret. When we get on the path, you can lay it back on your shoulder—you will be leading the procession, so no one will see except Willa who will be right behind you. Just take care you don’t cut yourself on the sharp edge. We don’t need your blood for the ceremony!” and she pinched his cheek. He wrinkled his nose at her. “Now, go stand in front of that pit house, so that you can lead Willa here into the yard. Stop right there, in front of your father and Tormod. Understand?” Sorven nodded and headed across the yard, Yeru on his tail. Karl came around the building, young Finn behind him, his hat pulled down over his bleached white hair. More of the family and guests began to gather and mill about the courtyard.
Sorven stopped before the doorway, and Yeru straightened his tunic and cap, brushed some imagined dust from his clothes and encouraged him to lift the sword. From the doorway he heard his sister, “Thank you, Sorven, you are my most gallant page.” Hearing her changed his demeanor, his expression transformed from sullen to serious and he gripped the sword tighter, lifting it higher. The door opened behind him and Willa stepped out, her crown flashing in the morning sun.
The crowd quieted when they saw the bride, led forward by her brother all in red. Sorven followed Yeru’s instructions and stopped before his father and Tormod. Behind them stood a group of men including his Uncle Karl, Cerdic and Err, and Tormod’s shield bearers. A gaunt man with a tattooed face stood in their midst—Yeru supposed he was the holy man from Jorvik, brought in to lead the ceremony. All eyes turned to the bride whose crown sparkled on her glossy sunlit hair. Yeru could see pride in Agne’s face.
Tormod spoke first, “Here witness, to honor this beauty and the pledges I have made, I give freely to Agne, Son of Alf known as Ironfist, this Mundr, the promised bride price.” And he waved his men forward with a chest which he opened before the assembly and Willa. The crowd hushed as they eyed the silver and gold.
“And here witness, to honor my future son and the pledges I have made, I give freely to Tormod, son of Tormod, my daughter’s dowry of ten head of cattle, a pledge of this year’s wool harvest and this,” he indicated a similar sized chest carried forward by Mog. Opened, it revealed silver coins.
These formalities completed, Yeru leaned forward and whispered to Sorven, “Okay, you are the leader now, take us to the marriage glade.” Sorven nodded earnestly and with Willa close behind him, he marched to the gate, the sword held high in front of him. The milling crowd settled into a procession behind the bride, Agne and Gurid followed closely by their family, Cub and Kara with the baby, Finn and Hilda, her hair tied up with ribbons. Tormod and Inga with their children fell in behind them, trailed by Karl and Cerdic, Mog and Bjorn, Sven and the rest of Agne’s household in an informal parade. Mae joined her mother and took her hand, and together they joined the march to the forest glade. The split rail fence along the field taken down and removed, to either side of the hay-strewn pathway plank tables stood prepared for the afternoon’s dinner. Yeru could smell the pit fires already roasting. Some of the farmers had been pressed into service, watching the cook fires and standing guard at the gate, while other guests, nearby neighbors who would join the party but not attend the ceremony, already sat at the make-shift tables or loitered at the edge of the field, watching the bridal parade.
Sorven led the bride down the forest path to the grove for the wedding ceremony. Following his instructions, he led a slow and stately march. Reaching the circle of stones and the altar, he hesitated, unsure where to stand until Willa whispered and prompted him to a position by the altar. The attendees filled the clearing, some seated on the felled tree trunks while most of the men stood to the back of the crowd, especially Cerdic’s guards, ever watchful. Yeru settled on a seat in the second row behind Gurid, Mae holding her arm. The man Yeru supposed a holy man spoke to Agne, and pulling a black cape from his rucksack, he wrapped it around his shoulders with a flair and entered the stone circle with Willa and Sorven. From his pack he pulled a tarnished silver bowl carved with runes around its rim, a ceremonial dagger that he laid next to the bowl on the altar and a prepared bundle of fir twigs tied to the family’s silver handle, set opposite the dagger on the platform. Sorven, his arms getting tired, let the sword tip dip forward. The old man leaned toward him and Yeru heard him say to lay the blade down next to the sprigs while we wait for the groom. Sorven quickly obeyed, shaking his arms and working his fingers after placing the heavy sword on the altar top.
Slowly the clearing quieted as those gathered waited for the groom. Birds sang and early flies buzzed about their heads. Listening, they heard the rhythmic clomps of horse hooves on the forest path.
As dictated by the ceremony, Espen arrived on the back of his stallion, holding a war hammer over his head to honor Thor, and leading a scuffling sow with a long rope. He dismounted and tied the horse to a low hanging branch and led the sow into the circle where he was met by the holy man. Chanting over the sacrifice, the man took the rope from Espen and hobbled the animal, then looped the long end of the cord over a stout branch. With Espen’s help, he hoisted the sow by its back legs until it dangled from the tree, struggling, kicking and squealing. They tied the line to the trunk, the sow slowly spinning. Espen returned to the altar and stood next to his bride. With a practiced, quick slice the shaman slit the animal’s neck, catching the spurt of blood in the tarnished bowl from the altar. He chanted while the vessel filled and the animal’s death throes grew feeble, the squeals fainter. Once the sow kicked its last, he took the bowl and dipped the wand-bound bundle of twigs into the warm blood. Walking around the bride and groom with the wand in one hand and the bowl in the other, he flicked the blood of the sacrifice on them using the hammer sign of Mjolnir, Thor
’s hammer, a short downward stroke followed by a swift right to left motion. To bless the gathering he walked the circle of stones, never stepping outside the circle, flicking the blood from his wand at the wedding party, family and guests. A bit splashed on Mae’s cheek as he passed, a bright red speck.
Agne and Gurid chose the sow to honor Freya—it would be cooked and eaten as part of the feast. It hung draining the last of its sacrificial blood in the glade, purifying the site. Returning to the altar, the thin man placed the bowl in the middle of the table, dipped his thumb in the warm blood and anointed Sorven’s forehead and each hand. With a nod, he indicated the sword.
Sorven lifted the sword and carried it to Willa. Willa took it from him and offered it to her groom, Sorven stepping back to his place by the alter stones. Smiling Espen took the sword from her hand and held it high to murmurs of approval from the guests. He hooked the gift on a notch in his belt and pulled out his sword, an older, pitted blade with a single rough-hewn green jewel set on the butt of the hilt. Yeru knew the symbolism well—this was his ancestor’s blade, to be held by his wife until their son reached an age that he could carry it and their family’s legacy. He held the hilt out to Willa.
Gripping the handle, she took the sword of his ancestors, and like him, raised it high above her head.
“Most valued gifts exchanged,” the holy man’s baritone voice rang out over the assembly, “These mementos signify the sacred bond of union, sanctified in our mystic rites and blessed by our invocation to Thor and Freya.” He took the wand and made Thor’s sign over each blade, starting with Willa’s. “Oh, presiding deities most powerful, let this ancient steel signify the traditions and the continuation of the Tormod bloodline.” He dripped the blood over Espen’s blade in the same fashion. “Oh, gods of might, let this blade from the hands of the son of Agne symbolize the transfer of a father’s guardianship and protection to this, her new husband.”
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