The Songweaver's Vow

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  He left the chair and came to the chest, sitting beside her. His hand did not leave her cheek. “I am sorry for that. I would have you know me, not by sight, but as a wife knows her husband.”

  Her pulse quickened, and she moved her face against his fingers. “You have been wisely careful of me, Gefjon says.”

  He chuckled, the sound deep in his throat. “Gefjon would. She prizes virgins. But it is true, I wished to be careful of you. You were not a prize to be wasted or lost with haste.”

  She was not afraid of him now—not now that he had heard her stories, had answered her questions, had spent his nights talking with her as a friend and not a husband. Or, she thought, as a husband who was a better man, a greater man, than her father. “Yes,” she said simply.

  He did not answer her with words, but leaned toward her and kissed her on the lips. And it was slow, and rich, and her body tightened and tingled at the feel of it. His other hand slid around her back and cradled her close, and she bent with him, her breath quickening before his mouth cut it off.

  For a moment they kissed, and she marveled at the pleasure of it.

  He put his arms about her and lifted her as if she weighed no more than a loaf of bread, and he settled them both in the carved chair, Euthalia resting on his legs. “This will be more comfortable than the chest,” he said softly, cushioning her spine against the chair with his arm. “Let me help you prepare.”

  She had an idea of what he wanted, and she helped to draw her skirt high enough to accommodate his hand. But it was his hand alone which he slid beneath the fabric, letting in a brief chill which clashed delightfully with the heat of his torso against her. He brushed her secret places and she jumped, half with startlement, half with surprised enthusiasm.

  She was a little afraid, yes, but not in the way she had thought she would be. But this was so new, and so unlike what she had imagined, and yet it was good. He shifted her so that he could kiss her neck and jaw, and she shivered with unexpected pleasure. Those kisses….

  She and his hand were moving together now, and she couldn’t tell which of them was leading, and she was feeling things she had not felt before, had not expected to feel, and she was still unsure of herself but she wanted to continue, to press on, to go further.

  His lips worked up her jaw and he whispered near her ear, “Are you ready?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  He gathered her into his arms, holding her tight so that the warmth of him was not lost to the cool air, and took her to the sleeping nook. He settled her upon the sheepskins and then drew the sliding door closed.

  It did not take them long to warm the small space, and when he drew her dress over her head, she shivered only a little from the air and a little from his breath upon her breasts. She undressed him, moving carefully in the narrow nook, and he caught her hand and discarded the shirt and he was kissing her again, and they lay together on the sheepskins and became husband and wife in more than ceremony.

  He was gone when the morning came.

  Euthalia thought, before she had fully come awake, that he might have stayed with her. After all, they were truly wed now, fully husband and wife, and what reason would he have to leave her?

  But as she woke, she realized the warmth against her back was a heavy woolen skin, not his torso, and she was alone in the sleeping nook. Light was creeping through the knot in the wall.

  Perhaps he knows the knot is there, she thought, and doesn’t want to be seen even so dimly.

  Still, she had his name now, and the memory of his touch. And now there would be more to his night visits than stories.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Odin called upon Euthalia to tell a story.

  She was so surprised by his words that she bolted upright from her place beside Sigyn and then for a moment she could not respond. “What—I—a story, my lord?”

  Cringing at her own poor words, she glanced about the hall for aid, and her eyes met Bragi’s. He smiled at her.

  Odin had one of his ravens on his fist, raised near his ear. “Have you no story for—”

  “I shall tell you a story of hunting and vying for honor,” Euthalia said quickly. “Of many brave men and one brave woman who competed for the trophy hide of a great monster.”

  This quick interruption did not displease Odin, but seemed rather to intrigue him. “What monster?”

  “A great boar,” Euthalia answered.

  Heads swiveled toward Freyr, who laughed and raised his drinking horn in acknowledgment of the attention. “No boar is greater than Gullinbursti,” he challenged Euthalia with a smile. When she hesitated, he explained for her benefit, “He is my own, forged living by the dwarfs as a gods-gift to me. On land or sea or air, he runs better than any horse. His tusks plow the land for aid, and his very bristles glow golden with light for the darkness.”

  “The Calydonian boar did not plow the land, but destroyed it,” rejoined Euthalia. “This monstrous boar was sent by a jealous goddess to punish a king, to ravage his land and starve the people. The king called upon all the heroes of his age to kill the monster. Would you like to hear how they fared?”

  The hall rumbled with enthusiastic agreement.

  Euthalia worked her way to the center of the tables, before Odin’s great chair. “The king Oeneus forgot one year to honor Artemis, the goddess of the hunt, the bow-maiden and huntress-mother.” She had heard Bragi’s kennings and thought they would draw her audience into her foreign tale. “In her fury at having been forgotten, she sent an enormous boar to trample the kingdom’s crops, to gore and terrify its people, to rake the ground and destroy all it came across.”

  She looked at Freyr. “I am sorry to say I have not yet seen Gullinbursti,” she said, “but I can tell you this boar was enormous and fearsome. Where you might feel pride in your golden boar, only fear and loathing were felt for this boar of Calydon.”

  Freyr raised his drink to her deft assurance of Gullinbursti’s prominence and nodded for her to continue.

  “All the heroes answered the king’s call for aid, great men of renowned deeds and the subjects of many songs and legends. The king’s son Meleager invited also a woman called Atalanta, who had been suckled by a she-bear and carried fame as a huntress.”

  “A shield-maiden!” called a voice.

  “A berserker-woman!” called another.

  Euthalia had only a vague idea of what a berserker was, so she pressed on with her story without acknowledging the interjection. “Atalanta was the first to wound the mighty beast, striking it with an arrow.”

  Men and women cheered together, thumping the table and sloshing their drinks. “But the hunt!” protested Bragi. “Surely it was not ended so quickly?”

  She took his meaning, and she supposed that this audience would like best all the parts her own mother had preferred to rush over. “Indeed, the hunt did not end quickly, nor did it start well. They tracked the boar to a marsh, following footprints the size of a large bull’s. There the boar burst from concealment, scattering and killing their hunting hounds and charging directly into the hunters.”

  She looked about at the fixed eyes and the shortened breaths and she realized they wanted to like her story, they wanted to be entertained. She leaned forward, catching them with her eyes, and continued. “On its first charge, it tore into two young men, laying them bloody upon the marshy grass. It shattered the knees of another as it passed, dropping him helpless into the swamp. It charged a fourth man—Nestor, who would be hero of the Troy battles one day, only because he fled the boar by vaulting with his spear into the air and taking refuge in a tall tree.” She was gesturing now, demonstrating how Nestor planted his boar-spear and used it to leap to safety.

  “The boar tore at the oak where he hid, ripping apart the trunk and sharpening its tusks. Then it turned on the next hunters. It raged through their line and disappeared into the woods, where the trees grew too closely for their horses to follow.”

  The hall voiced mingled cheers and disappointm
ent.

  “Atalanta drew an arrow and sent it speeding after the monstrous boar, where it skimmed over his back and stuck hard just behind the beast’s ear. Blood streamed from the wound, and the hunters cheered—until they realized who it was who had loosed the arrow. Meleager praised her winning first blood, and the others grumbled against such an honor going to a female, and against Meleager’s notice of her despite his own wife at home.

  “A man called Ankaios—who had first refused to hunt alongside a woman, for his pride and disdain were so great—met the boar first. He drew his two-headed axe and set to meet the monster.”

  “What fool would refuse to fight alongside a woman?” interrupted Skathi. “If his skill is so much better than hers, then he has nothing to fear. If her skill should prove better, then the honor is due her, and he must acknowledge it.”

  Euthalia nodded at her. “But Ankaios was contemptuous of Atalanta, and when her arrow pierced the beast, he said he would end the boar before she could. He faced it and began to brag of how he would kill it. He pushed into the woods, wielding his axe, and shouted, Learn how far the weapons of a man surpass a girl's and leave this task to me!”

  Skathi snorted. “That will not end well, tale or no.”

  Euthalia gave her a grin. “So Ankaios faced the boar, and he raised his axe overhead with both hands, rising up high on his feet, and he shouted his defiance.” She stopped, balancing on her tiptoes with arms high overhead, and looked at Skathi.

  “He looks dangerously open,” Skathi observed.

  “And the boar rushed at him and hooked its wicked tusks into his groin, cutting upward, and all his guts poured out upon the leafy ground, and he died.”

  Men and women cheered the braggart’s demise.

  “Then Meleager charged the boar and speared him in the back, and as the beast spun and raged at the stabbing wound, Meleager sank his sword into the animal’s heart, and the monster died.”

  The hall cheered again.

  “So Meleager presented the skin and the head with its massive tusks to Atalanta, who had struck first blood—and whom Meleager admired and hoped to bed. But some of the rest of the party resented his awarding of spoils to a woman, and they set to arguing among themselves over whether a woman could receive them or even whether Meleager could award them. Words grew heated, then became threats, and then at last swords were drawn and men were slain. As for Atalanta herself—”

  “They took it from her.”

  The words caught Euthalia by surprise, and she turned to where Freyja sat beside her brother. The goddess was watching Euthalia coolly. “They took it from her,” she repeated. “Didn’t they?”

  Euthalia nodded. “They did. Two men seized her and took the prize from her. The boar’s hide and tusks remained in a temple for centuries, before they were carried away by the Romans.”

  Freyja nodded, her suspicion confirmed.

  “How did it end?” asked her brother Freyr. “Was the matter of the spoils settled? Did Meleager consummate his love for Atalanta?”

  “Many died in the strife,” Euthalia said. “Meleager himself killed his two uncles. When his mother heard this, she drew out a piece of wood which she had taken from the Fates, the women who weave all destiny.”

  The hall stilled, and Euthalia noted she had brushed against something more than a story to them.

  “This wood marked Meleager’s life.”

  Around her, they nodded. “Each life has a length of wood,” someone muttered.

  Euthalia glanced around at them, looking for a clue to what they meant, and noted a blind man gazing emptily over the table. She thought for an instant of sightless prophets, but shook the thought from her mind and focused on her own story. “This piece of wood, according to the Fates, would end Meleager’s life when it was burned. His mother drew this brand out from the chest where she had hidden it, and she threw it upon the fire herself in vengeance for her slain brothers. Meleager died in the same moment.”

  “Such a mother’s love,” sneered Loki. “To kill her son for quarreling with his uncles.”

  Euthalia considered trying to explain the lengthy voyage of the Argonauts and the intertwined families, but she decided it would only complicate her story, which had found its audience and did not need muddying.

  “And this is why a woman should not fight alongside men,” Baldr said, turning to gauge the effect of his words. “Look at the strife they cause.”

  “Or, this is why men should not be so petty when they are shown up in fair sport,” returned Skathi pointedly. “If they had given honor when it was due, there would have been no strife.”

  Baldr nodded in acknowledgment of her point. Euthalia turned and looked to Odin to see how he had taken her story. He was nodding, expressionless, in what she assumed was approval.

  Beside him, a mature blonde woman straightened. “I don’t know how it is among the Greeks, but here in the North, a mother’s love is greater than any grievance,” she said stiffly. “But I suppose a foreign woman might succumb as you say.”

  Odin’s mouth curved in a faint smile. “I think the songweaver gave us a suitable story,” he said.

  Frigg frowned slightly but did not argue. Euthalia made a small nod of obeisance and then retreated to her previous seat.

  Sigyn welcomed her with an excited squeeze of her arm. “That was wonderful!”

  “Really?”

  “Everyone enjoyed it. You got them talking about it after. They will argue about it for days.” Sigyn smiled. “And your stories are new. Most everyone here has heard the same old stories again and again.”

  Euthalia was uncomfortable with the praise. She nodded toward the blind man, sitting at Baldr’s table. “Who is that?”

  “Who?”

  “There.” She pointed at the man, as someone pressed a horn of mead into his hand. He nodded and smiled.

  “Oh, Hodr. He cannot see. He is brother to Baldr.” Sigyn shifted and nodded toward the stately woman nearest Odin’s carved chair. “If Frigg had spent half the effort in seeking a cure for his sight as she did in securing safety for Baldr, Hodr would have the eyes of an elf.”

  “Ah, so even her unbounded mother’s love has limits?”

  Sigyn sniggered. “Frigg is very taken with herself at times.”

  “You came again to the feast,” Vidar said that night, cradling her close. “Does the company please you?”

  They reclined together in the dark, warm in the closed sleeping compartment and sheepskins. He had come again only when all lights in the house were extinguished.

  “I have a friend there,” she said, “and fewer friends here. But I wonder if I belong there, for all that I am your wife.”

  His smile could be heard in his voice. “Valhöll can be rather monotonous after a time.”

  “Is there nothing else but the feast?”

  “That is the promise of Valhöll. A warrior who dies bravely and honorably in battle will be taken by the valkyrjur to the Hall of the Slain, to feast until they fight at Ragnarok.”

  “And what is Ragnarok?”

  “It is the end of all things, when chaos finally overwhelms order, and all the gods and humankind will be destroyed.”

  She blinked. “And the warriors will stop it?”

  “No, it cannot be stopped.”

  “Then—what can be done? Why will Odin call them to fight?”

  His voice changed as he tipped his head to regard her, perplexed by her confusion. “To fight, as I said. It is not to stop Fate; that cannot be done. It is to fight bravely and die courageously.”

  She could not quite decide whether this was admirable self-possession or futile madness.

  Vidar sensed her hesitation. “The great end of a warrior’s life is to be a hero. And no one can be a hero if his cause is easy and prevails without obstruction. Any man can pretend to be a hero while the fight is easy, or can even fight the difficult fight for a time in the hope that respite will come. But real heroism can only be proved by a lost
cause. A man who fights to the death is a different man than the one who fights for a time and then surrenders or flees because he cannot see victory.”

  “But the tales of—”

  “None of your Greek heroes are true heroes. Your Apollo, your Heracles, they are invincible. The wonder of their tale is in their unusual fiber, not in their valor. When was Heracles ever unsure of his victory? When did Bellerophon face the chimera without the miraculous aid of a flying horse to keep him well out of flame and danger? Did Perseus attack the two immortal Gorgons, or only the mortal Medusa—and did he not attack even her as she slept? No, the heroes of your tales are not heroes, they are bullies who use their strength against opponents who cannot hope to resist, cowards who attack only those they are certain to defeat without risk to themselves.”

  Euthalia started to protest, began to name all the dead heroes of Odysseus and the house of Oedipus, but she hesitated. Even these, she realized, did not purposefully go to meet their deaths. Even Jason had relied upon trickery and the treachery of Medea to win the Golden Fleece.

  He shook his head and smiled at her. “Our bravery is not how you think, my love, but it is what we know. The end will come whether we fight or not, but we choose how we will meet it.”

  She nodded slowly. “I understand. Well, not entirely, but I think I understand what you are telling me.”

  “Good enough to start.” He kissed her temple. “What question next, my love?”

  She took a breath. “Why will you not come in the day?”

  His voice was casual, but his answer came a heartbeat too slowly. “I have many duties by day, my love. I come to you when I am free.”

  His lie stung her. “Even by night, you will not come while a light is burning. Why—” she braced herself to say it—“why don’t you want me to see you?”

  For a long moment he was quiet, and she thought he was preparing to explain. But at last he said only, “It is my only command to you, that you do not look on me.”

  “But why? I know your body, I have touched you, there is no damage to your face, and—”