Together their attention shifted to the wooden box upon the table.
“What is it?” Inge asked again.
“I really don’t know. You have to open it. If you want some privacy, I can—”
“No,” she interrupted. The last thing she wanted was for him to leave, especially for such a flimsy reason. Quickly she flipped the latch and threw back the lid. Raske joined her to view the interior.
On one side nestled a series of smaller boxes and drawstring bags. On the other, a bundle of silken, pale blue cloth. A folded page straddled the middle, its red-wax seal on full display.
In confusion, Inge broke the seal and opened the letter. It read,
To Ingrid Torvaldsdotter,
Enclosed: 100 crowns, 80 in gold and 20 in silver; 1 bag of sundry semi-precious stones; 1 box of salt; 1 box of sugar.
I have provided these items to serve as the dowry for your upcoming marriage. I will provide similar dowries for your sisters when they are of age. The boys can fend for themselves.
Signed, your King and Protector,
Halvard Sigmundson
There was also a post-script:
Signe insisted that I include a dress with everything else, as we neither of us knew whether you owned one. We hope you like the color blue.
As she read, Inge blushed to the roots of her hair, so appalled she was.
Raske had stepped back to allow her some privacy. “What does he say?”
She crushed the letter in one hand. “He’s making fun of me!” In a flash, she cast the crumpled page on the floor. She turned and slammed the lid of the chest shut, refusing even to look through its contents. “Take this back! I don’t want it!”
Fueled by her ire, she hoisted the offending box from the table, intent upon shoving it back into Raske’s arms and sending him on his way. Instead, she discovered, to her great horror, that he had stooped and retrieved the king’s message. He was already reading it.
A wordless protest gurgled in her throat. She stashed the box back upon the table and tried to snatch the letter, but he pulled it beyond her desperate reach.
His expression was unreadable. “Are you getting married?” He sounded politely detached, as though it were some trifling curiosity that did not concern him in the least.
“No!” cried Inge. “How could I be?” She jumped to catch the letter again, but still he held it aloft.
“I don’t know. People get married all the time. A village like this might harbor a dozen suitors—”
“And they were all angling after Nea until I chased them off!”
“Then why is the king sending you—”
“Because he’s making fun of me, that’s why! Oh, give it back! Take the whole cursed box back to him!”
“I’ve been discharged,” he reminded her with a suppressed laugh.
She glared. “Don’t you make fun of me too.”
“I’m not making fun of you. I think you should keep the dowry and use it. Don’t you want to get married?”
Her breath hitched in her throat. He couldn’t possibly mean what that sounded like, but she wasn’t about to let the moment slide. Impulsively she asked, “Are you offering?”
His smile spread. “Would you accept if I did?”
He might only be teasing her. The thought whispered through her mind, warning her to be on her guard, not to wear her heart so openly lest it receive injury. “You’d have to do it properly,” she told him, suddenly prim.
In an instant Raske’s demeanor shifted from laughter to solemnity. “Ingrid Torvaldsdotter, I love you. Will you marry me?”
She hadn’t expected such a blunt declaration. She didn’t understand how such simple words could tangle her thoughts and overwhelm her senses, either. He loved her? She could believe he might propose out of convenience or opportunity, but his declaration of love inspired such wonder that she helplessly inquired, “What do you mean, you love me?”
“Ingrid, will you marry me?” he repeated, intent upon receiving a straight answer.
“Yes, but what do you mean—” She didn’t get to finish her question. He kissed her so honestly and ardently that beyond the open window, Sassa, who happened to look up from her daisy chains at that very moment, dropped her jaw and her doll and her flowers all at once.
“Of course I love you,” Raske said, as though it were an eternal truth. “How can you act so surprised about it? I betrayed myself a hundred times! I outright kissed you!”
Inge felt rightly harassed. “You told me to blame that on the situation!”
“I said ‘if you must’—meaning if you found it unpleasant or you couldn’t care for someone like me, you were free to brush it off. And you did,” he added.
“You did it first! You acted like it was nothing, like you’d done it a dozen times before, and then you just walked away, leaving me all… jittery and muddled! You’ve always been like that! You betrayed yourself a hundred times? When?”
“Every time I saw you! Every time I lost my composure and actually touched you! And you always rebuffed me in one way or another.”
“Patting my head doesn’t count as betraying affection. It’s what someone does to a child or a dog.”
“I wasn’t supposed to touch you at all, Ingrid. You were a ward of the king—and you were playing the part of a boy, at that. I could’ve destroyed my life and my reputation together.”
“Everyone secretly knew I was a girl,” she grumbled. “You didn’t have to be so guarded.”
He only stared. “You really had no idea how I felt?”
“No! Even just now when you read that stupid letter, you asked me with the most indifferent voice in the world, ‘Oh, are you getting married?’”
His brows arched. “Did I seem indifferent? I thought I had come too late. I was honestly trying to decide if I could wish you happiness with another man, or if someone in your village needed to have an unfortunate accident. It was a serious moral dilemma.”
“You’re joking,” said Inge, wide-eyed.
“I never joke,” Raske told her, so somber that she was inclined to believe him despite ample evidence to the contrary.
Through the open window came shouts from Eirik and Einar as they bounded up the path from the forest. Nea and Lisbet wouldn’t be far behind. Inge glanced outside to see Sassa hunched among the wildflowers in the yard, her back staunchly to them as she worked.
“You know I’m responsible for the little ones,” said Inge.
“I know. You know I have to live by my mother’s culture.”
There would be compromises for both of them, in other words.
“I know,” she said. “Can I call you Leiv?”
“I wish you would.”
“Then, I love you, Leiv. We’ll make it work, somehow.”
She had to stand on tip-toes to kiss him, and even then he had to stoop. But she didn’t care, because it was nice, and he was kind, and everything in the world was perfect.
“Ew! Gross, Inge!” cried Eirik from outside.
The happy couple parted just in time to witness Sassa tackle the elder twin to the ground. “Be quiet, Eirik!” the little girl shrieked while Einar goggled off to one side. “Just look somewhere else and let them do as they please!”
Inge gaped in wonder at her fragile sister pummeling a much more robust older brother. Raske calmly shut the open shutter, blocking the scene from view.
“I like her advice,” he said. “Let’s keep our part of it.”
She wasn’t going to argue. The scant privacy wouldn’t last long with five siblings hovering near the house. She and Raske would have to enjoy what small opportunities came their way.
“So I guess this means I have to keep my hair short,” said Inge several minutes later, as they strolled out the back door hand in hand to face their waiting audience.
Raske frowned in confusion. “Why?”
“Because—” The words caught in her throat. “Signe said… She said that your mother’s people, that when a
woman gets married she has to cut her hair short, because that was the custom, and so whoever you married would have to do it as well.”
His expression was a cross between laughter and bewilderment. “Where did she hear that?”
“From King Halvard! You mean it’s not true?”
“No. Even if it was, you’re not from my mother’s tribe, so you wouldn’t have to follow such a custom. But why would he even tell her that?”
Instant understanding tumbled over her. A young, enamored Signe had decided she would marry Leiv Raske. King Halvard had either disapproved the match or he had chosen to test the strength of his daughter’s love. Signe had failed.
“What a lunatic,” said Inge, amusement bubbling in her chest. “What a complete, manipulative lunatic! What customs do you have to keep, then?”
Raske didn’t quite understand her reasons for insulting the king, but he let the insults pass without rebuke. “Aside from a few odd dress and grooming restrictions, I have to observe a handful of feast and fast days throughout the year. Our children will have to observe them as well,” he added, a little self-consciously.
Their children. The thought stirred her heart with a mix of anticipation and nerves. “Of course they will,” she said. “We all will, as a family.”
The smile on his face might have melted her into a puddle, for all she was aware. Had she thought, only an hour ago, that life was pure drudgery? A small crowd of siblings stood waiting for her explanation, a warm hand strongly clasped her own, a whole future lay ready for her to conquer.
Life was good—as good as she might ever expect it to be.
Epilogue
“Well, Signe, it seems that Leiv and Ingrid have gotten married after all.”
A spoon clattered to the table, calling King Halvard’s attention from the letter he was reading. He frowned curious eyes upon his daughter, who stared back at him in dismay.
“Why that expression?” he asked. “You already knew the wind blew in that direction.”
“But I wanted to go, Papa! They didn’t even send us an invitation!”
“Peasants don’t send wedding invitations. They post banns in the local parish and have their village priest perform the ceremony.”
“But they could’ve at least written! Leiv could’ve written!”
“Never mind. We’ll send them an invitation when you get married. Of course,” he added, to spoil the blush that leapt to her pretty face, “by then they’ll probably have five or six children of their own and won’t be able to come.”
“Papa!” she protested.
He chuckled into his beard and returned his eyes to the letter. “I wonder if I should give them another house away from that pack of children, so they can have some privacy together. No,” he amended before Signe could voice her opinion. “Leiv is a grown man. He can take care of it himself.”
“I’m a grown woman, Papa,” said his daughter. “There are things I can take care of by myself, too.”
“Until I see proof, I’ll continue to think otherwise.”
“Papa!”
“Signe, my love, a father will never truly believe his child is grown. You can marry and have children and grandchildren and rule half the world in your old age, but you’ll always be my little girl.”
Tenacity glinted in her eyes. “Maybe I should cut off my hair and go monster-hunting.”
King Halvard groaned. “We’ve had quite enough of that already, thank you very much. When I meet Torvald in the next life, he’s going to skin me from head to toe and feed my entrails to a pack of wild ogres. But it’s as much his fault as mine. Who asked him to raise such a daughter?”
Signe picked up her spoon, a faint smile upon her face. “Master Torvald was a good man, wasn’t he, Papa?”
“The very best. His children are no different. As long as you inspire their loyalty, and that of others like them, you will prosper as queen. See that you live to inspire it.”
“I won’t be queen for a great while yet. I still have far too much to learn from you.”
“Of course you do, child, and I have no intention of dying.”
“What, ever?” she teased.
“Dagmar’s working on it,” he said nonchalantly. “Don’t worry: if she succeeds, I’ll abdicate.”
Signe laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t mind either way.”
“A child who thinks like that is far too young to marry. I’ll have to tell Mikkel I’ve changed my mind.”
“Papa, no! That’s not funny!”
“Take it seriously, then. You won’t be queen if you don’t claim the title outright and wrest it away from anyone who would usurp your rightful position. At some point, that might include even me.”
“All right, then. When you grow old and insane, I’ll lock you up in Dagmar’s tower and let you play with all her magic potions,” said Signe.
He fondly patted her hand. “Good girl.”
“Who’s that letter from, anyway?”
“Ingrid’s brother, Gunnar. He took leave from the smithy to attend the wedding.”
“How did he know about it?”
“I told him, of course.”
“I thought you didn’t know.”
“I never said that.”
“Papa! I wanted to go!”
Her protest fell on unsympathetic ears. King Halvard hummed as he finished Gunnar’s letter. Signe sulked as she finished her soup.
“Maybe I’ll lock you up in Dagmar’s tower right now,” she finally muttered.
Her father smiled. “You’re welcome to try, my dear. After all the ordeals we’ve been through, I might even enjoy the respite.”
The End
The Legendary Inge Page 29