Viking in Love

by Sandra Hill

  “Like you have made love with a sinfully handsome man six times in the past twelve hours. Mayhap seven if you count…never mind.” He reached over and ran his thumb over her lips, which were raw and swollen from his kisses. Wisps of damp hair framed her glowing face. Whisker burns marred her face and throat and chest. “How do I look?”

  She gave him a saucy head-to-toe survey. He was wearing naught but braies. There were scratch marks on his chest and back. His lips were puffy. His eyes gleamed with some secret. “Like a man who has been thoroughly satisfied numerous times by a temptress of the highest order.”

  The door opened, letting sunlight in.

  Caedmon took her hand and led her up the steps. At first, he was blinded, but then he realized that a stunned crowd was watching them emerge. At the head was Breanne’s father, King Thorvald.

  Holding a hand for silence, Thorvald studied both of them thoroughly. Then he smiled and yelled over his shoulder, “Someone get the priest.”

  Surprisingly, Caedmon did not shudder or make protests of his innocence. This was inevitable. He knew that now. It had been ordained from the moment she entered his castle.

  He noticed that Breanne remained silent, too. Had she come to the same conclusion?

  With a surge of possessiveness, he put an arm around her shoulder and started to walk them back to the keep, the crowd following after them like ducklings.

  “One thing,” he said, stopping to shout, “where are my children?”

  To the surprise of everyone, Caedmon most of all, Breanne put two fingers in her mouth and let loose a shrill whistle. Even more surprising, ten children, even little Piers, came running to stand in a line in front of him.

  They were all smiling.

  Here comes the (Viking) bride…

  They were about to be married the next afternoon in the new grape arbor at Larkspur, the trellises having been built by the bride and the grapes vines planted and arranged in an arch by her sister Drifa. Succulent smells came from the kitchen, where a wedding feast was being prepared.

  Breanne had not spoken to Caedmon alone since yestermorn when they were “rescued.” She did not know what he had said to his children, but she had seen from a distance that he spoke to them seriously and at length. But at the end, they were all laughing, and he placed a fatherly arm over the shoulders of Hugh, who had been the instigator.

  She had also seen him talking with her father over cups of ale. It had been a long conversation, but it could not have been too bad since her father had not lopped off his head or done him bodily harm.

  Caedmon had not wanted to be married. He probably still did not. But she was going to marry him anyhow. She would teach him to love her over time.

  Somehow, amongst her sisters, Sybil, and Lady Ravenshire, an exquisite bridal gown had been put together. One of Sybil’s gowns of sky blue edged with silver embroidery. It was covered by a surcoat of sable-lined samite in a darker, slate-blue color, with embroidery in a larkspur design; someone had found it in a chest left by the former owner of this estate. Eadyth managed to make one of her beekeeping veils into a bridal veil hanging from a circlet of Drifa’s flowers. All this attire was more Saxon than Norse. So she wore her hair in one long braid, Viking style, and at her shoulder was a brooch in a writhing, intertwined animal design.

  Her sisters looked just as lovely in their bright gowns, Tyra’s Saxon style, but the others pure Viking. Her father would be giving her away, and her sisters would stand as witnesses. On Caedmon’s side would stand Geoff, Wulf, Hugh, and Rashid.

  “It is time,” Ingrith said, sticking her head in the door.

  Breanne sighed deeply and began to walk out with Eadyth. “Are you nervous, dearling?”

  “Surprisingly, I am not.”

  But that was not true once she got outside in the bright sunshine. Caedmon stood near the trellis waiting for her. He looked so handsome in a new dark blue fustian tunic over matching blue braies. The sun reflected like stars on his silver-hilted short sword in its side sheath and his gold-linked belt.

  He was being forced into this wedding. Despite her earlier claims not to care, to be willing to wait for his love to come, she was having second thoughts now. It was so unfair to this man, who had not been treated fairly much of his life.

  But then he smiled at her, and Breanne put her hand on her father’s extended arm and began to walk toward him.

  They were to be married in two ceremonies, one Christian and one Norse. Father Edward was not pleased. So he rushed through his ritual and sat down in a huff. Breanne hardly felt as if she was married. She had not even raised her veil yet. She and Caedmon exchanged looks, then shrugged.

  Now it was time for the Norse wedding ritual, which would be officiated by both her father and Rafn.

  A small table was brought over, under the arbor, and on it was a silver-chased goblet of wine, an ornately jeweled knife, a gold braided cord, a hammer, a polished stone, and a bowl of oat seeds. They were both jarred with surprise when her father began to chant primitive words in Norse. For the benefit of those who did not understand Norse, Rafn interpreted, “King Thorvald called out to god and man, family and friends to come witness today the marriage of Caedmon of Larkspur and Princess Breanne of Stoneheim.”

  “Dunstan would have a screaming fit if he were here,” Caedmon whispered to her out of the side of his mouth.

  “He would have barred all women from the ceremony, even the bride,” she replied.

  Caedmon chuckled.

  “Shhh!” her father said and handed to Caedmon the goblet of wine. “Odin, we draw this nectar from your well of knowledge. May you bring this couple the wisdom to deal well with each other in this marriage journey they begin today. Especially give these two stubborn people the wisdom to know when to give up the fight.”

  “Hah!” Breanne said.

  Caedmon just grinned. He took a sip of the wine, then turned the goblet and pressed it to her lips so she could drink from the same spot. She could swear the metal carried the warmth of his mouth.

  Her father must have given Caedmon instructions ahead of time, because after she took a tiny sip of the red wine, he set the goblet down, then picked up the hammer. “Thor, god of thunder, I take in hand your mighty hammer, Mjollnir—well, actually, ’tis Breanne’s hammer. This I pledge: I will protect you, Breanne, my wife, from all peril. I will use my fighting skills to crush your enemies. Let it be known forevermore. Your foe are now my foe. My foe are your foe. The shield of Larkspur is now our shield.” With that, he raised the hammer and crushed the stone.

  Breanne jerked back with surprise.

  Then her father took over again. He picked up the bowl of seeds, taking a handful. “Frey, god of fertility and prosperity,” he began.

  Caedmon stiffened beside her.

  Are you demented, Father? How could you bring up that most hated subject to Caedmon on this of all days?

  Her father continued, “We implore not fertility or great wealth in this marriage, oh, great Frey. What we seek, instead, is that you bless them with a rich love and richer passion…and if a child, or five, comes along, so be it!” Before his words could sink in, he sprinkled a pinch of the seeds over her breasts, and a much larger amount over Caedman’s chest, enough that they floated down to his crotch.

  Caedmon looked horrified.

  My father is a total idiot.

  Her father, the total idiot, was barely stifling a grin.

  Taking her left hand and Caedmon’s right, her father tied them together loosely with a gold cord. Then, before she realized what he was about, Rafn took the knife, put shallow slits on each of their wrists, then pressed the two cuts together.

  That is just wonderful. Bloodshed on top of everything else!

  “As Caedman’s blood melds with Breanne’s, so shall his seed,” her father proclaimed.

  Children again. Must you keep reminding him?

  “I am doomed,” Caedman whispered, but he flashed her a wink.

  Huh? What
does that wink mean?

  Finishing, her father said, “From this day forth, Breanne is Caedmon’s beloved, and he is hers. With this mingling of their blood, they pledge their troth. From the beginning of time, to the end of time, let it be known that…” he nodded to Caedman, who began to recite words that must have been rehearsed:

  “I, Caedmon, give my heart to thee, Breanne.”

  Then he nodded to Breanne, who repeated back to him, “I, Breanne, give my heart to thee, Caedmon.” Oh, this is awful. I had no idea Caedmon would be required to say all these false words. He must be furious. But, oh, they are beautiful sentiments.

  “It is done,” her father said, and the crowd began to clap.

  Caedmon lifted her veil and looked at her long and hard before leaning down to kiss her lips. She thought he whispered against her mouth, “My bride!”

  Some time later, just before the bridal feast was to began, Caedmon realized that Breanne was missing. He found her in one of the storerooms, weeping.

  His heart seized up. “Breanne! What is amiss? Please do not tell me that you are already regretting our marriage. You told me when we were in the root cellar that you loved me. I thought…”

  She shook her head and continued to sob. He held her until the tears stopped, and he wiped her wet face with a cloth.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “Oh, Caedman, I feel so bad. I am not regretting the marriage. Of course I am not, but you were forced into this. I could have prevailed with my father, but I did not.”

  If you only knew, sweetling. He cocked his head to the side. “I was not forced.”

  “Of course you were. You do not love me.”

  “I do so.” Heart and soul.

  “What? Oh, please, do not feel the need to placate me. I will be aright in a moment. Go back to the hall, and I will join you shortly.”

  “Absolutely not! Where did you get the idea that I do not love you?”

  “You never said so.”

  “I did not? Are you sure?”

  She slapped him on the chest. “Of course I am sure. Do you think I would forget something so important?”

  “I could swear I told you a hundred times whilst we were in captivity.” Or mayhap I was too busy enjoying your body.

  “You did not.”

  “Then I showed you.” Many, many times, if I do say so myself.

  She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him.

  “I love you, Breanne. You are probably going to turn my home into a madhouse. You are probably never going to be biddable. You are probably going to have five daughters, just to plague me. But I love you and am proud to be your husband.” I am good. I had no idea I could be so good. Ah! Mayhap it is because the words come from my heart.

  They kissed to seal his words, and Breanne did not think she could be happier than she was this day. To think, killing an earl led to this event.

  “Oh, before I forget, I have a little bridal present for you,” she said. By thunder! Do I ever!

  He unraveled the red cloth tied with a yellow riband. Inside was a candle. He held it in his hand. He frowned and examined it on top and bottom and sides. Then, he let out a hoot of laughter. “You are priceless, Breanne. But I will have to give you my bridal gift later when we are in bed.”

  “I think I have already seen that ‘gift.’” And very nice it is, too.

  “Not that, heartling.” He pinched her bottom. “I was talking to Rafn and he told me about this secret Viking trick.”

  “A bed trick? I do not like the sound of that.” Liar! It sounds intriguing, truth to tell.

  “Oh, you will like this. It is called the famous Viking S-Spot.”

  Breanne’s eyes lit up. “Can we skip the wedding feast?”

  READER LETTER

  Dear Reader:

  I hope you liked what I call my medieval version of the Dixie Chicks song video, “Good-bye Earl.”

  Tenth-century Vikings and Saxon knights are particular favorites of mine. It was such a colorful time. And, believe me, women could be treated badly, as the earl’s wife was in this book. But there were also many instances of women being strong.

  Most important to me as a writer of romantic fiction is the fact that humor has survived through the ages. We know from the Viking sagas that these attractive folks had an incredible ability to laugh at themselves.

  Lest you think it incredible that Vikings and Saxons might mix freely, let me tell you that, throughout the ninth and tenth centuries, Vikings moved comfortably throughout Britain, sometimes as invaders, but most often as settlers. And they could understand each other; Old Norse (not to be confused with modern Norwegian) and Saxon English were similar.

  Yes, the Vikings could be rapers and pillagers at times, but generally, that is a deliberate fabrication of the biased monk historians of the times. Believe me, Saxons could be just as vicious. There are historical reports of enemies being skinned alive and their skins being tacked on church doors.

  Because most of the Scandinavian countries were mountainous and had little arable land to accommodate the increasing populations, Viking men continually had to seek new homes to live. And blending into these countries was aided by the fact that the Viking men were so tall and good-looking (and bathed more often than other men of that time), thus attracting women in all countries. Their sometimes frigid climate forced them to become tough and aggressive, though they had great respect for the law. The same could be said of the women.

  Thus, it would not have been uncommon for a Viking woman, like Vana in this book, to be married to an English earl, or a Norse nobleman (jarl) to marry a Saxon lady. In fact, many people do not realize that Vikings once actually ruled portions of Britain, particularly Northumbria and its Norse capitol, Jorvik, modern-day York.

  Some even say that the modern nursery rhyme, “London bridge is falling down…” was actually based on the Viking overthrow of London in 1014 by Olaf I of Norway.

  I’ve said it before and will say it again: I have particular reason to be fascinated by the Viking culture. I can trace my paternal family tree all the way back to the tenth-century Hrolf the Ganger, first duke of Normandy (called Norsemandy at that time).

  And that bit about fruit as a method of birth control…hey, Casanova was reputed to have a thing about lemons. When he was entertaining one of his mistresses, he would order a tray of halved lemons, which were to be inserted…well, you get the picture. So, I just extrapolated to apples since lemons were not available in the tenth century in Britain. A caution: Do not try it at home. I have visions of some female showing up at a hospital emergency room with an apple or lemon stuck in never-never land, telling the doctor, “But I read about it in a Sandra Hill book.”

  What would you like to see next? A story about one of the other Viking princesses? How about Wulf and his Welsh lady? Or Alrek the Clumsy Viking? I could return to Scotland with The Scots Viking; surely Jamie the rascal should have his own story.

  The Viking orphanage in Jorvik? So many possibilities.

  I love hearing from you readers. You can contact me at shill733@aol.com, or by visiting my website at www.sandrahill.net, where there are novellas, genealogy charts, book videos, and other freebies.

  As always, I wish you smiles in your reading.

  Sandra Hill

  GLOSSARY

  braies—slim pants worn by men, breeches.

  brynja—a flexible chain-mail shirt.

  companaticum—“That which goes with bread,” which usually meant whatever was in the stockpot of thick broth always simmering in the huge kitchen cauldron. Usually with chunks of meat. Unfortunately, not cleaned out for long periods of time.

  Coppergate—a busy, prosperous section of tenth-century York (known then as Jorvik or Eoforwic) where merchants and craftsmen set up their stalls for trading.

  drukkin (various spellings)—drunk, in Old Norse

  Ealdormen—chief magistrates, or king’s deputies, in Anglo-Saxon England. Later referred to as earls. Ap
pointed by the king; most often were noblemen.

  ell—a linear measure, usually of cloth, equal to 45 inches.

  encaustum—tenth-century type of ink made by crushing the galls from an oak tree (boil-like pimples on the bark), which contain an acid. Mixed with vinegar or rainwater, the substance was thickened with gum arabic. Iron salts added color to the ink.

  Eoforwic—Roman (and later Saxon) name for early York.

  fillet—band worn around the head.

  hand—a measure equal to 4 inches.

  handfast—betrothal sealed by joining hands in order to cohabitate before actual marriage.

  hauberk—a long defensive shirt or coat, usually made of chain links or leather.

  hectare—a unit of land measure equal to 2.471 acres.

  hersir—military commander.

  hide—a primitive measure of land that originally equaled the normal holding that would support a peasant and his family, roughly 120 arable acres, but could actually be as little as 40.

  hird—a permanent troop that a chieftain or nobleman might have.

  hirdsman—one of the hird.

  housecarls—troops assigned to a king’s or lord’s household on a long-term, sometimes permanent basis.

  Jorvik—Viking-age York, known by the Saxons as Eoforwic.

  mancus—a weight of gold of about 70 grains, or equal to six shillings or thirty pennies/pence (one shilling = five pennies). A pound then and now equaled 240 pence. The Anglo-Saxon pence was made of silver and had high purchasing power. For example, thirty pence could buy an ox; four or five pence, a sheep.

  Norsemandy—tenth-century name for Normandy.

  Northumbria—one of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, bordered by the English kingdoms to the south and in the north and northwest by the Scots, Cumbrians, and Strathclyde Welsh.

  Odal rights—laws of heredity.

  pace—a measure equal to 2.5 feet.

  scutage—a sum paid to an overlord in lieu of military service.

  seneschal—an agent or steward.