“I fear I’m not sure which direction your hall is in. My head is spinning,” she whispered.
“Why?” A sparkle of mischief lighted his eyes.
“I don’t know.” Things seemed clearer before she agreed to become his wife. Yet she wouldn’t trade the sensations he unleashed.
He dipped his head and his lips met hers. The soft brush of skin deepened into something more. Ealasaid opened her mouth, allowing his tongue to find hers. Her body heated warm, hot, then cold while a voice in her mind screamed at her to get away from him. Instead, she melted into his embrace, her body ignoring every message her head relayed.
When he broke the kiss, she held her breath. She reeled.
“Go to bed, woman, before I haul you into mine.” His rough voice sounded deep and commanding like his father’s.
Fresh fear spiked through her. “Goodnight, m’lord.” She hurried away without listening to find out if he’d offer his own pleasantries or curse her for leaving at his suggestion.
Chapter Four
The morning of her wedding day, Ealasaid’s thralls sent Birgir off to play with some of the other children while they readied her for the ceremony. She’d gone to the bath-house yesterday with her attendants, formally removing her ‘maiden status’, a pointless exercise because of Ingvar. The other jarls’ wives at the bath-house offered bits of information for running a new household.
For the ceremony, Ealasaid wore a new blue linen gown with elaborate stitching and a bridal crown made of woven straw and twined with the last of autumn's flowers over her hair. From here on, her hair would be bound up and covered—the mark of a married woman. Only Hella would see it spread around her shoulders. A shiver rolled down her spine as she imagined him touching the long strands. He could create pleasure or pain at his own whims. Their first time together, he’d been a young man. The years might have hardened him into the sort who liked giving women pain. Her head swam, and her heart fluttered as she imagined what would befall her after the wedding feast.
“Snowdrifts have more color.” Her old friend Ulrika squeezed her shoulder. “This is a good day. You have never feared Hella before, there is no cause for worry now.”
Wasn’t there? How would she ever keep her betraying tongue silent if he displeased her?
A shadow filled the doorway of her longhouse. Erik Agmar stared at her. Like Hella, his adopted brother Erik had dark features. A scowl wrinkled his brow and mouth. “It’s time for the bruðkaup.”
“I don’t understand.” Clinging to Ulrika’s hand, Ealasaid rose. “I have no family to offer a bride-price.”
Erik’s mouth turned down. “We have an arrangement.” He offered his arm as she stepped out of the longhouse. “I’m to stand in as your family. The bride-price is decided and a bargain struck. Should Hella take his place in Valhalla, or gods forbid, die in his bed, you will be cared for.”
“You are not happy about this. Hella forced you, didn’t he?”
Erik’s scowl told her all she needed to know. “We are brothers, and brothers do what they must.”
“You have my thanks, for whatever it’s worth.” None of the few things she owned would make up for anything Hella forced Erik to give up to pay her dowry.
She bowed her head as he led her toward the center of the village.
A crowd gathered at the ceremony, eager to lay eyes on their king’s bride. She knew most of the faces and managed to smile at Birgir, where he stood with a group of his friends, but Hella commanded with his presence.
He wore a fine linen tunic dyed dark green and embroidered with red and yellow threads over dark brown trousers. A sword hung on his hip by a leather belt with a polished bone buckle. He wasn’t much taller than any other man in the village center, but he seemed to dwarf them all. The afternoon light brightened the dark blue of his eyes.
Ealasaid’s throat dried, and her knees wobbled. A buzz filled her ears, blocking the words Erik and Hella exchanged as they settled the bruðkaup. Hella received the dowry Erik allowed—a generous donation of gold. Erik accepted Hella’s mundr, a team of oxen, new sword, and enough gold to buy four cows. She’d never worked for Erik’s family, yet her groom paid as though he’d stolen a valued treasure from his adopted brother.
“My morgen-gifu for you, lady, is an estate and farms to the west. Jarl Njord Völlr and his wife attend it.” Hella leaned closer. His short beard rubbed beneath her ear. “Should you ever need to run away.”
Her mouth opened, but her words vanished. Of all the things he could have given her as a morning-gift, why an estate? The things she’d said a sennight ago about poisoning him and fleeing were meant as an insult. He shouldn’t have rewarded her insolence. They both knew she would do her duties as a wife and never accuse the beloved vikingr king of cruelty. She didn’t have need of a place to run to.
“Thank you, m’lord,” she whispered.
Erik’s son, Erland, passed her a sword, one made with Hella in mind. She’d fretted over it, although Solstad played home to many fine blacksmiths. They would never allow her to give her husband a worthless weapon. She held it on her palms and the cold iron warmed quickly against her skin. The long, thick blade shined despite the lack of sunlight. The hilt fashioned from gold resembled snarling hound heads, one on either side. If ever he had a banner stitched, she prayed it wouldn’t feature a raven like his father’s. She couldn’t bear the thought of ravens on a sword she’d give him and hoped the hounds would suit.
“It’s my wish that you accept this token of my devotion to you, m’lord.”
Hella’s smile stretched. “I am honored to accept your gift, my lady.” He took her sword in one hand. “If it pleases you, I have a sword for you as well.”
The one he drew didn’t have the blinding shine of an untested weapon. It bore marks from usage, an heirloom passed from Hella’s ancestors. He couldn’t have bestowed a higher regard than giving her a familial sword. Meant to be passed on to his firstborn son, she would keep it safe until he became a man. Her heart ached as she took the weight. Someday Hella would probably take a concubine who could bear his children.
Tears formed in her eyes. “I will tend it with the utmost care for your son.”
“Then it is my pleasure to pass it into your good hands.” He balanced a ring of gold and silver on the hilt of his new sword. “Will you take my ring?”
She nodded and placed the gold circlet she offered him next to it. “For you, m’lord.”
“I will wear it proudly.”
The tenderness in his voice surprised her. He slipped the band over her finger, and she did the same for him.
“I will keep and protect you, Ealasaid Kentigerndottir.” His hand folded over hers on the sword.
“I will work to make your longhouse a warm and receiving home, to be an obedient and thoughtful wife.” She stared at his boots, half afraid of what she’d see in his eyes. The king’s wife couldn’t stand against him. For the sake of his people—hers now too—they needed to be united in all ways.
Beams of sunlight warmed Ealasaid’s face and hands.
Hella tucked his hand beneath her chin. “Freya smiles on us.”
She didn’t have the chance to answer. He claimed her mouth, a fast kiss on her parted lips. The spectators cheered as Hella’s free arm circled her waist. In his other hand, he lifted the sword she’d given him. Victorious in marriage as well as battle.
Heat rolled through Ealasaid’s midsection. He kissed her in front of a village of over five hundred men, women, and children. Blood rushed to her head and warmed her face. A yawning ache started in her loins. She dreaded being alone with him and craved it all at once. By the look on his face, if they’d been in his private chambers instead of the village center, he would have done more than kiss her.
“There’s plenty of time for the bride and groom to be alone after the wedding feast.” Bjorn, Hella’s second adopted brother, stepped between them and took their arms. “To the dining hall. Roast suckling pig, swan, fish big a
s me, and a fat hart the bondis brought down yesterday afternoon.”
Ealasaid laughed. Bjorn thought with his stomach first, his head last. Stockier than Hella and Erik, he could wield a battle axe with more precision than any man she’d ever seen. For a man of his girth, he moved with the stealth and determination of a wolf. Bjorn’s jovial nature made him easier to like than Erik. Women loved his laughter, men admired his fighting style, and both clamored for his attention in the hall.
He cleared a path for them straight to Hella’s home. Inside, thralls set the tables with long lines of food for the guests. Bjorn left them outside the door, calling to his friends. Hella motioned for Erik to take the sword he’d given Ealasaid then placed his new one across the threshold.
The watching guests fell silent. Hella stepped through the hall doorway and held out his hands for her to join him. When she accepted them, he lifted her over the threshold and pressed her close to his chest.
“Where did you find the money for the sword? Erik only agreed to accept you as his sister last evening.” A deep line formed between Hella’s eyes. “I hope you did not borrow for my sake. I planned for Erik to obtain a sword from the very craftsman you used until I learned what you’d done.”
Guilt gnawed her stomach. Please let Hella stand by his word to care for Birgir like a son. “The money was mine, m’lord. Earned by selling herbs and remedies. I planned to use it to buy Birgir’s freedom if I could find a family to take him in.”
“You had more than enough to buy yourselves from slavery if you purchased David Sigurdblom’s services.” He held her hands tightly but not hard enough to cause her pain.
The truth sat heavily in her stomach. Hella's father would have done anything to prevent her freedom. “I hoped Ingvar might allow Birgir to go free, but I knew he would never let me go.”
“We will speak more of this later.” He nodded at the child wending his way through the clustered people.
Birgir crashed into her skirt and clung to her legs. “Ma, I waved at you, but you did not see. Ulrika made me wait to speak to you until the feast. Where will we live? Are we leaving the longhouse? Will I really grow up to be a warrior like Hella and Erik?”
“Yes, we’re leaving the longhouse, but we’re going to live in Hella’s hall where Ingvar once did. And yes, you’ll be a warrior someday but not until you’re big and tall and strong.” She patted his cheek. The thought of him destroying villages like Suibhne made her heart ache. Her boy would turn against his mother’s people without ever knowing his true history. “You must always listen to the instructions Hella gives. He will oversee your training, and you don’t want to disappoint him.”
Birgir’s round face went solemn. “Yes, Ma. What of our things? The sleeping furs and clothes? My wooden sword?”
“Ulrika and the others will bring them here. Don’t fret about it. We have thralls seeing to our needs. I must attend our king and our guests now. Run along and play with your friends.” She nudged him toward a group of youngsters.
He gave Hella a long look. Hella stared in return, one eyebrow quirked. Birgir turned and ran.
“He’s young but smart.” For reasons she couldn’t name, Ealasaid’s temper flared. Perhaps it was the glint in Hella’s eyes or the smirk on his lips. His countenance all but said he didn’t believe her son would ever make a warrior. “You’ll see. He’s strong-willed like you.”
Some of the amusement faded from Hella’s face. “He’s nothing like me.”
He is. You have the same blood flowing through your veins. “He’s nothing like Ingvar.” Her hands curled into fists. She’d taught Birgir kindness and when to intervene on behalf of weaker creatures or people, but she’d also showed him how to use a knife properly in case anyone tried to hurt him. Weapons were for defense, not power. She’d made certain he knew to run if Ingvar beckoned him. Thankfully, the former king had never approached her son in kindness or in malice. If he’d tried, she’d have released him from the bonds of life herself. Sickness relieved her of the task.
“Gods help us. If he doesn’t have his sire’s spirit, he must take after you.” Hella’s smile returned. “Come, there’s food and merriment. Birgir is cosseted in the walls of my hall tonight. There’s no reason to fear for his safety. There are more deeds to see to before we are officially married.”
“What of me? Is my safety guaranteed?” Slick sweat coated her palm. She itched to wiggle her fingers, free herself from his grip. His hold wasn’t restricting. If she tried, she could escape.
“What do you have to fear in my hall, little lamb?”
His deep voice almost soothed her. Except lambs were easily slaughtered at the whim of wolves. “You, m’lord.”
“I wonder which of us is in more danger.” He tugged her hand and pulled her to the table at the head of the hall where his father’s ornately carved throne waited to receive him. “I won’t forget how you hated the Bloody Raven with all of your heart. Nor does it escape me that my father’s illness took him and him alone. It makes me wonder whether I should take more care with the food I eat and the mead I drink. You are capable of sustaining yourself now after all.”
She gripped the chair arms and straightened her back. Did he truly believe she’d killed Ingvar? If anyone overheard, her life would be in danger. Her heart lurched. “I did not ask for the morgen-gifu. I assume you gave it freely. As for the Bloody Raven, it’s true we were never endeared to one another, but I wished him no ill will.”
Hella settled beside her. “No? I once heard you screech a curse toward him about lice invading his nether regions and how you hoped they dug their way into his stomach cavity.”
“I—it was many years ago.” She’d wished much worse on Ingvar since. Things she could never utter aloud.
“My deepest hope is you won’t attempt to curse me in the same manner. My wedded friends tell me life is better when the wife is happy.” He slouched in his chair and rested his folded hands over his flat stomach. If he worried she would poison him, he hid it well.
“I would not dare.” She’d used most of her money to purchase the sword for their wedding, but she could earn more. Her herbal remedies were in high demand with Solstad’s women. It wouldn’t take long to put together enough to run if Hella proved to be a poor husband. There wouldn’t be any reason for a divorce. If necessary, she would disappear with Birgir and live in the wilds. She might not be able to bring down a stag, but she knew about setting snares for smaller prey. If nothing else, she might find some Saxon town where she could work.
“I must serve the mead.” Glad to get away from him for a moment, she joined Ulrika near the barrels.
“I enjoyed the ceremony my lady.” Ulrika inclined her head. “The young king is a fine match for you.”
“The sword surprised him, I think, but pleased him as well. We must be careful to keep his old one safe until...” She gritted her teeth. After they drank together, Erik’s wife would bring Thor’s hammer and place it on her lap to ensure good fertility. No doubt the concubine Hella chose to carry his child would be beautiful and Norse.
Ulrika rubbed her back. “There, there. You will keep your chin up and back straight through all this. It’s necessary to bind the two of you together. A week ago, you were naught but a slave. This is no time for sadness. Think of the privileges Birgir will be subject to thanks to your sacrifice.”
Ealasaid let out a shuddering breath. “I must always think of Birgir first.”
Her thrall laughed. “If half the stories are true, Birgir will be far from your thoughts come this night. Now take the mead and go through with the ritual. Remember to smile. A good marriage is a victory, and the Norsemen do love to lord their victories.”
Golden honey mead sloshed in a small wooden cup with handles carved in the shape of horse heads. With a painful smile stretched across her face, Ealasaid presented the cup to Hella.
“Please accept this drink, husband. May the sweetness of the honey lighten your tongue. May the thickness of the dri
nk keep your blood warm on cold winter nights. May it fortify you on long journeys.”
Hella lifted the cup from her fingers. “To Thor. May his hammer strike for justice. To Odin. He has blessed me with a strong woman to keep my hall in order.”
The guests cheered and lifted their own cups. Hella drank then passed the cup to Ealasaid.
“To Týr, may he always smile upon my husband and keep our people victorious.” She took a drink and let the dry burn of the alcohol slide down her throat. The tension in her chest disappeared as she drew a calming breath. She took Hella’s hand, curling her fingers around his larger ones.
Sigrid, Erik’s wife, carried a small hammer. She handed it to Hella with a bow.
“By the power of Thor, I ask the gods for my wife’s fertility. May we be fortunate enough to cradle many children.” Hella laid the golden hammer on Ealasaid’s lap. His eyes were stormy, face blank as he met her gaze.
Few people in the hall knew of her history with Ingvar’s temper or the resulting injuries. No matter her opinion or her personal pain, she’d go through with this wedding rite. One more marriage rite to get through tonight. She’d earned her rest, even if it meant laying in Hella’s bed.
The feasting commenced with music and chatter.
“You seem troubled, my lady wife. Have some more mead and smile. This is your wedding feast as well.” He passed her a horn of mead. “We’ll have Bjorn carve the swan. Food and drink might settle your nerves.”
He called for his brother, who joked and sang a bawdy tale as he set huge servings of roasted meat on the thick wooden plates before them. The hall reeked of alcohol and cooked food. Melted fowl fat pooled on her plate and soaked into the small slice of dark bread she’d stuffed beneath the meat. She picked at it because she might need strength later before her virile vikingr husband tired of her.
From time to time, Hella’s hand slipped beneath the table. He grasped her knee, and she forced herself to smile. May the feast be over soon. Let’s end this charade and finish the ceremony with your jeering friends at our door.
Her Heart's Surrender Page 4