by Robynn Gabel
They circled one another, arms outstretched.
“Come on, old goat; let me make you bleat in pain,” Einar said.
Abbot’s huge smile showed off strong teeth. “Better to be aged than have the addled brains of youth.”
Einar lunged; Abbot darted sideways, grabbing Einar’s leg, and he landed with an “umph.” Immediately, Einar rolled, trying to gain his feet, but the old man was on top of him. With an arm around his neck, Abbot strained backward to hold him. Einar reached around, grabbing at his shoulder, pulled him forward, and they were rolling again.
Seraphina shook her head. It was like watching two puppies romp in the dirt. Ljúfa giggled beside her when Einar again had his legs pulled out from under him.
Irritably, Seraphina asked, “Why do they do this, Dagfinn?”
“Einar must prove he is worthy of you. Your afi does not want to think a foreigner could be better than your own people. And, truthfully, a Nóregr’s pride is in his strength, and it takes little insult for him to show it off.”
She sighed. Straining and grunting, they both locked with each other, neither giving ground. Finally, King Hjörleif raised his hand, and it was over. She watched in amazement as the two men who seemed bent on breaking each other’s necks now grasped hands and pounded each other on the back.
Einar said, “That leg move was impressive. You will have to teach it to me.”
Her greatfather grinned like a scoundrel. “I can not give away all my secrets; then you would be besting me!”
King Hjörleif raised his hand for silence. “Abbot Forthred has the strength of a vikingr warrior. Not even Odin in his wisdom could call a winner. I declare these warriors equally matched.” There were groans from the disappointed crowd as a draw meant no one would benefit from the eager bets that had been made.
The marriage negotiations were quickly finished with King Hjörleif’s help. Seraphina was quite pleased her dowry would include an allotted share of crops from her father’s land every year. Abbot had given Einar favored trade status in Eoforwic for all the wool he could produce. Twenty-five hides of land would be deeded to Seraphina and her descendants while her sister would inherit the rest. The final dowry promise also included her mother’s jewels.
For her bridal price, or her support in case something happened to her future husband and he could not provide for her, Einar gave her the farmland in Dusavik, as well as Odinørindi. He also made the promise of no further raids on any settlement along the Humber, or Ouse rivers. Seraphina sighed in relief.
Watching her greatfather among the Nóregr, she couldn’t believe he wasn’t one of them. He heartily drank mead without seeming to feel its effect. He joined in the flyting with Dagfinn, and the men applauded his comebacks though Dagfinn still won out. Where was the man who wore velvets, the finest doeskin pants made, and had to have everything in its place—whose court manners were impeccable and a tough negotiator on all fronts for his Northumbria king?
Abbot grabbed her face between his hands, looking intently at her. “Are you really happy here, Sera? Is this what you want?”
Staring back calmly, she said, “Yes, Greatfather. I love Einar, and I am free here, but I will miss you, Ladye Aaren and Celeste. Please let them know I am well and love them.”
Letting her go, he shook his graying head. “I never thought I would hear a skald sing of my greatdaughter’s bravery in battle or how she won a horse race. I will miss your fire, Sera. I pray I can find a man as honorable as Einar to help your sister run our holdings. It is a long journey, and I fear I will not see you again, or my future grandsons.”
She felt Einar’s presence before his arm slid over her shoulders, tucking her into his side. “I promise when we come to trade, you will see her again.”
Abbot smacked him on the shoulder. “This old goat would appreciate it.”
Seraphina glanced over the meadow and where a few weeks ago a funeral pyre had burned hot, but now the wild flowers bloomed in abandon. Over the charred remains of the ship was now a mound. A large boulder had been placed, and a carving of runes and pictures announced who lay below.
The doorway that had been built for the funeral was decorated with pine boughs, wild flowers, and flowing ribbons. The seiðr’s rich-burgundy underdress was overlaid with a snow-white tunic. Her wispy white hair restrained by a wreath of flowers and ribbons. Her rheumy eyes watched them as Einar escorted her toward the old woman.
Seraphina smoothed a nervous hand down the white woolen underdress overlaid with a blue tunic trimmed in embroidery. A wreath of flowers and ribbons sat on her river of copper-gold hair. Einar’s hair was pulled back to his nape. His beard trimmed short. Over a fine white-linen shirt, he wore a vest cut of the same blue material as Seraphina’s tunic. His right arm sported an arm ring wrought in ropes of silver with his family’s signature design of overlapping circles.
Seraphina smiled as she glanced at their witnesses. Ljúfa, Dagfinn, and her greatfather stood beside the seiðr. Lord Abbot looked a little tired from his bout with mead the night before, but there was no disguising the pride in his smile. A cock and hen were sacrificed to Freyr and Freyja, asking for health, prosperity, and a fertile marriage. The savory smell of roasting pig mixed with the perfume of the flowers as they waited in the hot sun. The crowd that filled the dell were eager to celebrate a beginning rather than an end.
Einar stared down at her, his mountain lake–blue eyes shining. He gripped her hand tightly. Seraphina wondered if it was nerves that caused such stiffness in his stance. She knew her hands were cold, and suddenly, he seemed like a stranger to her. There was a fluttering in her stomach, and she wasn’t sure if it was fear or nerves. Silently, she thanked God that Einar had been the one sent that night to raid.
The seiðr took their clasped hands, placing in the palm of each one, rings made of twisted silver. Einar’s large fist closed about his. Looking into her eyes, his strong voice pierced the quiet. “United in purpose, spirit, and love, may it never be sundered.” He put the ring on her finger, smiling the boyish smile she loved best. She took the ring in her hand and repeated his words and actions, her gaze locked on his deep-blue eyes. The aged seiðr took their hands, joining them again, and led them through the doorframe, signifying their new life journey together.
The seiðr stepped back and nodded. A slender man dressed in the brown woolen robe of a monk, with a simple silver cross on his chest, now stepped forward. Exchanging places with the seiðr, he cleared his throat.
“We are gathered here, under our Lord God’s blessing, to join this couple, in holy union on this day.” A new ceremony started.
This had been a request of Abbot Forthred, and Einar gave in graciously out of honor and respect for the friendship between them.
Dagfinn made the last toast. Seraphina’s heart began a thrum against her ribs when they were led into a back room with a large bed. Her palms were sweaty, and she felt light-headed. Torches, which were set in wall sconces, lit the room decorated with fragrant pine boughs. Ljúfa, Mara, and Bengtha led Seraphina to one corner of the room while Einar was escorted by the men to the other. The women held up a blanket as they helped her change into a thin linen shift. Jesting, loud guffaws and good-natured bantering could be heard in the other corner as Einar undressed as well. Then she heard a rustle as he climbed into the freshly grass-stuffed pallet that served as a mattress. They put a wreath of flowers on her head and pushed her toward the bed. Einar lay beneath the furs, a pleased smile making him look smug.
After she had crawled in, King Hjörleif spoke solemnly, “Be it witnessed here: the completion of the joining of Einar Herjolfsson and Seraphina Forthred.”
Lord Abbot nodded, saying, “May you provide many sons. And soon. I pray I would live to see another Forthred male come into the world.”
Seraphina felt a blush of embarrassment. “Greatfather!”
“And the sooner you leave, the sooner we can get to it,” Einar grumbled.
Laughing, the group le
ft the room; the hide flap that served as a door fell behind them.
“Smár hyrr,” he murmured. Feeling like a fox trapped in a snare, she scooted away, slipping out from under the covers, standing beside the bed. Seraphina had never felt so vulnerable. He looked as if he was hungry, and she was a favored meal.
She watched his brow lower, and he studied her. “I would rather take a sword to the heart than ever hurt you. Come here, smár hyrr. Do not be afraid.”
“You never hesitated to use one on my backside,” she retorted.
His eyes narrowed, impatience tinging his words. “If you would not persist in raising a sword to me, I would not have to impress my ire on your backside.” He sat up, a sigh leaving him. “Did not the women prepare you for what we will do tonight?”
Again feeling shy, she answered softly, “Yes, but it is far different hearing about it than doing it.”
She saw his sly smile, just before he threw aside the covers and leaped across the bed. She squealed and ducked away, shocked by his nakedness. Running around the bed, she stopped. Where could she go?
Turning to him, she blushed as he stalked her. There, in the eyes she could read so easily, he knew she was trapped.
“You look like an earthbound Valkyrie.”
“Sweet words from a warrior, my jarl?”
He stepped closer, holding out a hand. “Come to me, smár hyrr. I will be gentle.”
Taking a deep breath, she put her hand in his. She felt the warmth of his long fingers curling over her cold ones.
The feel of his muscled arms wrapping around her comforted her. His lips softly moved against hers.
“Let me show you how it is between a man and woman,” he murmured against her ear. She tensed, her heart pounding. Putting her hands up against his chest, she felt the wild beat of his heart as well. Pooled in the blue depths of his eyes was a look of love she’d never seen.
Suddenly, he cocked an eyebrow, grinning, and demanded, “Yield.”
“Nay,” she said, struggling, and he dipped his head, kissing her fiercely. She bit his tongue, and he let her go, stumbling back, growling, “Ow!”
Whirling, she made a run to the other side but felt his arm catch her around the waist, the other scooping up under the back of her knees. Dropping her in the middle of the bed, he used his body to cover hers, long legs trapping hers. She beat at his chest, but she felt her wrists ensnared and pulled above her head. To keep her from speaking, he captured her lips with his, teasing with his teeth, but not allowing her a chance to bite again.
She stared up into sapphire-blue eyes that stared down at her in bemusement. “Why do you fight me, smár hyrr? Have you not learned I will not retreat?”
“Oh! And have you not learned I will not back down?” she fumed.
She held her breath when she saw the wicked grin that grew on his face. “But I know a way to melt your will, smár hyrr.”
His soft breath tickled as he started an assault of kisses down her throat and across her collarbone. He released her hands, and clutching his shoulders, she arched up against him. He moved off, and she moaned at the loss of his warmth.
“Sit up,” he ordered, and she moved to comply. Suddenly, she felt the shift whisk over her head. Squeaking, she covered herself, but he pulled her hands away.
His eyes grew wide. In a whisper, he said, “You are so beautiful, Seraphina.”
Tenderly, he smoothed the hair back from her face. She gazed up into his gentle blue eyes. With ragged breath, he murmured, “Yield to me, smár hyrr.”
Cupping his face with her hands, she smiled gently. “Only to your love will I ever yield.”
Epilogue
“Fear not death, for the hour of your doom is set, and none may escape it.”
Einar gathered Seraphina’s red-gold strands of hair into his large hands, braiding it in the final ceremony of their week-long marriage celebration. Bending his head close to her ear, he whispered words of his love. At the same moment, Cecil Allard was seeking out the tavern he frequented in Seletun every evening.
A servant, getting ready for the patrons seeking a release in an alcoholic stupor, watched him enter and nodded. He disliked the dank, sour-smelling tavern, always feeling overdressed in such a place. He sighed and slid into a chair at one of the smaller tables.
“What may I get for you, my lord?” the servant’s baritone voice inquired.
He looked into kindly hazel eyes. “Ale.”
A few of the regulars were in, but the servant was new. Cecil watched him as he dunked tin cups in a washtub of gray water, slowly wiping out each one and setting it on the trestle table to dry. His movements were methodical. Greasy black hair hung in his face with an equally greasy doeskin cap covering it. A simple tunic had seen cleaner times, and his rough woolen pants showed untidy needlework holding together several patches on the knees. The leather boots that barely covered his feet were torn and good enough only for the nearest midden. He shuffled dully from task to task.
As the night progressed, Cecil relaxed, grabbing the arm of the servant with the kindly eyes as he cleared the tables. “What do you know of women, my good man?”
Holding several empty bowls, the man looked around, as if checking to see where the burly tavern owner was lurking. “Only that they can not be trusted, my lord.”
“Ah, one has broken your heart? Or maybe, like me, has refused you the tenderness of relief.” Cecil took another swig of ale.
An eyebrow rose above the gentle look in the servant’s eye. “Where do you seek such comfort, my lord?”
“Come; you must know who I am? I have been courting the last Forthred daughter, but she gives me no notice. I was betrothed to her older sister, but she was stolen in a raid by foul vikingrs.” He laughed at his private joke.
The servant sat down across from him. “So this tender morsel denies you succor?”
Cecil frowned into his cup. “All Forthreds are just haughty bitch dogs. I know how to handle it though.” He leaned forward to whisper, “You just hire a vikingr.” A chuckle escaped.
The servant rose. “My lord, you sound most devious.”
Cecil admitted to himself, not as devious as he would like. He should have just poisoned the redheaded witch as he had first planned. He had feared it would be questioned, though, due to her youth. Angrily, he slapped the ale cup on the table. That was where the plan had first started to unravel. How did he know she would somehow escape the sword and, on top of that, run to her uncle?
For the next hour, the kindly servant kept Cecil’s cup filled, and he grew even more relaxed. Damn Celeste for denying his advances, claiming she would wait until her greatfather approved their union. These Forthreds were a stubborn bunch. And only God knew where Lord Abbot was. Cecil grew impatient with the wait. He needed the old man’s blessing before Celeste would even consider marriage. He had sent several messages requesting a meeting with Abbot Forthred, and the reply he received numerous times was, “He has gone away to attend to an affair.” No one seemed to know what that affair was.
He shared all of this with the servant who listened quietly. Such a good fellow, he thought.
“You sound like a smart man who has a way of serving all of his problems their due,” the servant murmured as he filled Cecil’s cup again.
“Yes,” Cecil slurred. “Especially Lord Landis Forthred. He thought to bridle me with that red-haired witch, but I know a few tricks. My mother was quite knowledgeable in herbs, roots, and plants. She knew about a poison or two.” He laughed hard.
In his inebriated state, he missed the subtle change that had come over the kindly servant.
“Let me get you home, my lord. The hour grows late.”
The ferryman, Alfgrímr, sat patiently, the first pink clouds lighting with gold as the sun rose. Cecil Allard was tied with his arms outstretched between two trees, kneeling on the forest floor. Just beyond the foliage, the outline of the monastery could be seen, sitting in a cloud of fog from the river. He had to admit i
t was a peaceful scene in which to depart from the earth.
Studying the unconscious Cecil, it always amazed him how loose-tongued some became with good ale. He had been relieved to find that Seraphina’s sister had not been in on the plots but surprised to find out just how depraved Cecil was. That was Alfgrímr’s one rule: he had to know the person he was about to dispense judgment on was truly guilty. The severity of the sin determined the punishment.
A low moan from Cecil announced consciousness returning.
Alfgrímr watched as the man’s reddened eyes opened, and he looked around, trying to figure out where he was and what was going on.
His light-blue eyes lighted on Alfgrímr with no recognition in their depths. But then again, he wouldn’t recognize the vikingr warrior, Alfgrímr, from the servant of the night before.
“Who are you?” he croaked.
“You may call me Harbard, the ferryman,” Alfgrímr said softly.
“You do not look like a ferryman. They do not wear helmets that hide their faces. Are you a Norp weg?” The first tiny flicker of fear appeared in Cecil’s eyes.
He stood, stretching. “I have been called many names. For you, I am the ferryman of death today.”
“I have done nothing to you!” Cecil tugged on the leather binding his wrists.
Alfgrímr allowed a slow wicked grin to settle on his lips.
“This is a favor to a man I can never repay. I think you know his name: Einar Herjolfsson?”
Cecil’s eyes grew wide. Alfgrímr watched realization dawn and then fear grow in wild abandon.
He had saved the best for last. “Já, and I believe you know his wife as well. Seraphina Forthred?”
Alfgrímr wished Einar’s little flame could see the look of sick surprise that skittered across her hated betrothed’s face.
“For us vikingrs, the most horrific death is to be blood eagled. That is where we chop open a man’s back and pull out his lungs, laying them on his shoulders. If a man does not scream during it, he can gain entrance to Valhalla,” Alfgrímr said nonchalantly.