Coming beneath the great dome, the procession divided, veering off to assume their places and leaving Lyting and Ailinn before the altar with their attendants, the emperor, Constantine, and Ariana.
Magnificent cloths draped the altar, and icons adorned the spaces before the sanctuary. Images of prophets, saints, martyrs, and the Virgin, looked on from over the altar and the aspe behind, witnessing their joining. Directly above, in the center of the dome itself, staring down was the immense, awe-striking mosaic of Christ the Pantocrator, the Ruler of the Universe. He gazed down in majesty from his golden Heaven, his hand raised in blessing.
The archbishop commenced the opening prayers of the Mass and, within the context of the liturgy, celebrated the crowning of the bride and groom. As the prayers were read, Constantine and Ariana stepped up on cushioned stools and imposed golden crowns on Lyting’s and Ailinn’s heads.
The Great Litany followed, and at the conclusion the archbishop raised his hand in blessing: “Grant these, Thy servants, Lyting and Ailinn, the fruit of their bodies, fair children, concord of soul and body. May they abound in every work that is good and acceptable unto Thee, so that finding favor in Thy Sight, they may shine like the stars of Heaven. Unite them in one mind; wed them into one flesh, granting to them the fruit of the body and the procreation of fair children . . . unto ages of ages.”
Lyting gazed warmly on Ailinn as he assimilated those words, imagining their begetting children, and through their children’s children, their joining reaching into eternity.
The choir sang the koinonikon, while Lyting and Ailinn received Communion and partook of the cup. Joining their hands, the archbishop led them around the altar three times in a circle, the symbol of eternity, emphasizing the permanence of their marriage. The choir then sang the troparia, and the bridal couple came before the altar once more for the final blessing. The archbishop raised his hand and made the sign of the cross over them.
“May the joy of this day last your lives through.”
Lyting and Ailinn broke into wide smiles, their eyes shining as they turned and departed the altar. Once more they passed through the glittering field and into the narthex. Emerging from the church, they pressed through the waiting crowd, which showered them with violet and rose petals and tossed small apples at their feet.
An elegant carriage awaited, drawn by matching white horses. Lyting aided Ailinn up and onto its cushioned-lined seat, then joined her. At once the driver urged the steeds forward, and the carriage began rolling back toward the palace.
Guards fell into stride beside them, while the crowds waved enthusiastically to the heroic bright-haired Norseman who had saved their beloved emperor and empress this day, and to his ravishing bride, whom rumor held he had also delivered from the hands of fate.
As the carriage progressed, Lyting and Ailinn waved to the cheering populace. Lyting’s gaze stole over Ailinn. Her beauty filled his senses, and a hot rush of love spilled over the rim of his heart.
She turned to him, as though drawn by the power of his gaze. Their eyes met. And held. Unable to stay himself, Lyting reached for Ailinn and gathered her into his arms. As his mouth descended over hers, the crowd broke into ecstatic cheers, casting their petals high so that they returned to earth in a snowy blizzard. In the same moment Ailinn went to liquid beneath Lyting’s strong but gentle kiss.
The procession returned to the grounds of the Sacred Palace and continued to the Boucelon Palace overlooking the harbor. The choir accompanied them with song to the bridal chamber, where Lyting and Ailinn removed their crowns and placed them on the bridal bed. For a time they received guests, and Lyting gifted Ailinn with a golden bridal belt, decorated much like their rings. Everyone then made their way through the corridors linking the palaces, to the Dining Hall of the Nineteen Couches, where they were to partake of the wedding breakfast with their guests.
Here, everyone reclined on couches in the Roman manner around a table shaped like a Latin D. The young emperor sat at the center of the arced side, with the Augusta on his left and the officials on his right. On this occasion the women were included in the party and reclined along the left. Lyting and Ailinn reclined side by side next to the emperor.
To the accompaniment of lyre and zither, a lavish wedding banquet was served. Servants bore in platters of suckling pig, roasted game, and grilled birds with sauces. An array of soups, salads, artichokes, asparagus, dwarf olives, and mushrooms followed.
Lyting and Ailinn exchanged glances, astonished to be served on plates of pure gold. Again, they were provided silver spoons, knives, and small two-pronged forks. Ailinn gasped when three immense bowls descended from the ceiling. These, also, proved of gold and contained a bounty of fruits. Too heavy to lift, the bowls remained suspended, and by means of a mechanical device, servants moved them from guest to guest.
While acrobats entertained, Lyting’s gaze wandered time and again to Ailinn. He restrained his increasingly unruly passions, hoping most sincerely that the Byzantines did not embrace the custom of stripping the groom and tossing him naked in bed with his equally naked bride. Despite his word and honor, he would be lost. Lyting drained his cup and held it forth for the servant to replenish.
The miming and dancing continued, until at last the festivities came to an end. The guests surrounded Lyting and Ailinn and with much merriment and song escorted them from the dining hall, back along the passages to the wedding chamber.
Lyting’s heart drubbed in his chest as he and Ailinn arrived before the doors and, facing each other, waited while the others finished their song.
Ailinn’s heart beat high in her throat, unsure what to expect. The doors opened to the chamber, and she saw that servants waited within. For a moment she feared all present would accompany them to the bridal bed itself and see them into it. She had not considered that until now and swallowed deep as she considered the many forms the bedding ceremony could take. Slowly she entered the chamber.
She and Lyting stopped inside the door and sought each other’s gaze with breathless uncertainty. As the guests finished their song, Ailinn’s concerns rose. Surprisingly, everyone remained outside the chamber and did not breach the portal. Instead, the servants came forward and swept the great doors closed, sealing Lyting and Ailinn into the privacy of the bridal chamber.
Together, Lyting and Ailinn released a long-held breath, then laughed softly, realizing they had both been holding it for the same reason.
The servants ushered Ailinn toward the bed, where they removed her long veil and the stiff, shimmering overgown. When they began to draw off the emerald-green stola, Lyting stayed them, saying he’d prefer to undress his bride himself. They bowed at his dismissal, laying out soft, silken robes in parting and seeing that a pitcher of cool wine and fruits waited on a small table to the side.
Lyting and Ailinn gazed at each other across the room for a long moment.
A smile lifted the corners of Lyting’s mouth. “Mayhap I should not have dismissed the servants so quickly. Are you able to free yourself from your dress or will you require my assistance?”
“I believe I can manage,” she returned softly, suddenly mindful of their seclusion together.
Lyting cleared his throat. “I will turn away and see to myself so you can have some privacy.”
Ailinn nodded, but did not move as he crossed to a chair, removed his mantle, and began to draw off his brocaded tunic. Seeing that he did so with difficulty, she went to his side to aid him.
“Here, bend forward more.” She took hold of the ends of his tunic and pulled stoutly, stripping it away and baring his back.
Unable to stop herself, she gasped aloud as her gaze alighted on the many forgotten scars that covered Lyting’s back and the one particularly vicious-looking gash. Lyting straightened, his eyes locking with hers but not before Ailinn’s gaze went to the scar on his cheek. The moment grew awkward, and Ailinn silently upbraided herself. What he must think?
“You have a scarred husband, Ailinn,”
Lyting said soberly, the lightness leaving his mood.
The scars remained an emblem of his failure one grim night in Normandy. At the same time Ailinn’s words at the aqueduct returned to him. She would ever despise Norsemen. Surely, his scars served as a painful reminder of his heritage and the turn of fate that rendered her married to a member of her sworn enemies.
“On the morrow I will see what progress has been made with the arrangements for our return West,” he said abruptly. “As I promised, I shall return you to Ireland. Then can you initiate an annulment to this marriage.”
Lyting’s eyes held her somberly. He would never initiate an annulment himself. Every day he drew a breath of life, no matter where he bided in this world, he would hold Ailinn in his heart as his one true wife.
Lyting’s words wrung Ailinn’s heart. She could not think on them. Inadvertently her gaze went to the scar lining his cheek. He visibly flinched and moved to take up his robe from the bed. Lyting’s reaction stabbed at Ailinn. Gazing on his back, she found she could not let it pass.
“I have often wondered how you might have gained such wounds,” she braved as he began to turn, then met his piercing gaze more boldly than she felt.
A mixture of emotion gripped Lyting. “Wielding my sword, Ailinn.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Do not forget, I am a man of Danmark.”
Ailinn stiffened and he regretted the need to make the remark. But ‘twas best to place a wedge between them and for her to think on the Norse blood that flowed in his veins. The high spirits of the day, the flowing drink, and more important, her melting look right now was fast eroding his mastery of himself. Better she look on him with a measure of hardness in her heart, before he became her undoing.
“Look on my scars, Ailinn, and remember I have long been a man of the sword, my fighting skills honed among the Danes.”
Ailinn shrank back before his words. Not until this moment did she think on Lyting as a Dane. Only as a man. Why did he wish to dispel the blissfulness of the last hours? ‘Twas torture to her heart. A torture she could not bide. Bracing herself, she met his words headlong.
“What warring then wrought such scars?”
He stared at Ailinn. Why did she press him on the matter? ‘Twould be best for her to look on him as she did any other of his kindred.
“‘Twas not warring that scarred me, but a single encounter, the night I fought my own blood kinsman — my half brother.”
“Your half brother did this?”
“He and his two henchmen. My only regret is that I did not kill him myself.”
His words visibly took Ailinn aback, and he despised himself for distressing her. Yet, he believed such words necessary.
Ailinn pondered Lyting’s multitude of scars and the one particularly deep wound — all on his back. He was exceptionally skilled. Yet, he had been outnumbered. The beasts must have taken him down. His back would have only been opened to them if he had no longer been able to wield his sword or stand his ground. Such venom. Why would his half brother have wished to kill him?
“Your reasons for fighting must have been very strong.”
Lyting’s gaze held hers. She would not let it go.
“We fought over my brother’s wife.”
Ailinn recalled the dark-haired beauty at Hedeby, standing next to the golden lord who would have been Rurik. Despite Lyting’s words, she knew the truth at once.
“You defended her,” she stated, not understanding why he might wish to lead her into thinking less of him.
A wave of exhaustion rolled over Lyting. Physically spent, the evening’s drink taking its effect, Lyting moved to sit on the bed. Ailinn saw through his words, and he could not deal with the tender look of concern in her eyes.
“ ‘Tis a long story,” he said tiredly. “One that haunts me still and fills me with anger and regret. Because I failed that night and did not kill my half brother, Brienne nearly died.”
“But — ”
“Ailinn, this is no talk for our wedding night, though thankfully it has diverted my mind for the moment. I will be plain. You have come all this way undefiled — miraculously so. But if you do not wish to yet be ravished by a Norseman, then look on me with no softness nor tempt me further from my vow. The passions of the North flow strong in my veins. I fear if I must continue to look on you thusly, I shall have you in an instant, and even you will not realize the deed done until after it is wrought, so strained am I.”
He dragged a hand over his face. “Tomorrow, I will see about the arrangements for our voyage home. The court expects us to celebrate our marriage for eight days. Now, elskan mín, prepare yourself for bed. I shall not watch or violate your privacy.”
Lyting crossed to the bed and, lying down, threw an arm over his eyes. His holy call in Francia seemed a dim and distant thing at the moment, but the pledge he had made to Ailinn was not. He must honor that vow, even though it continued to crucify his flesh anew. Releasing a long breath, exhaustion overtook him.
Ailinn fumbled with the lacings of her gown, which were fast becoming as knotted as her insides. Moving off toward one of the reclining couches, she quickly drew off her stola and wrapped herself in the brocaded robe. Her thoughts and emotions swirled with dizzying effect.
Lyting. Ever noble, ever righteous. She should have known how his scars were gained. Never had she seen him wield his sword or might otherwise than nobly, courageously, and to an honorable end.
Her thoughts leapt back in time. From the first he sought to free her from captivity. And though he sailed with the chieftain for reasons of his mission, she had ever felt he kept her beneath his protective eye. At Riga, Lyting triumphed over the pirate fleet, and at Gelandri, he nearly gave his life for Deira. He saw them through the dangerous lands of the Rus, fought tribesmen, defended her against Hakon, and saved her several times more since their arrival in Constantinople. Today, he saved a child, his mother, and his throne.
Ailinn thought of Lyting defending his sister-by-marriage. Thought of the treacherous half brother and his henchmen raining blows on him. Imagined Lyting’s pain as their steel slashed and stabbed into his flesh. She then strove to comprehend his frustration and guilt for not having won that battle.
Noble Lyting. Her shining warrior. Her protector. Her husband. Her love.
The word blazed through her. As she faced and embraced that love, a fiery ball centered in her chest, threatening to consume her.
She did love Lyting. Most desperately.
Ailinn’s thoughts scrambled to find the thread of that love and follow it to its beginning. It took her back through weeks, through months, to the first moment Lyting lifted her from the street of Hedeby and held her in his arms. Ailinn could not breathe for a moment as the fires of her love for Lyting flamed high in her heart.
She turned and looked toward the bed. He appeared to be sleeping, his arm dropped down alongside his head. Slowly, softly, she crossed the room. Ailinn drew shallow breaths as she gazed on him and traced his handsome features.
How proud she had been to walk by his side this day and exchange vows with him. She was Lyting’s bride, she thought with awe, the fire increasing in her breast.
When was the last time she had thought on Lyting as a Norseman or a Dane? Whenever she had, she could no longer remember, so little did it matter. Where was her defiance now for the men of the North? a voice clamored from deep within. Truly, her revulsion remained for most of his race. But not for Lyting. Her great love.
Ailinn’s gaze lingered over the scar on his left cheek. Again she felt his pain. Recognized his nobility. Recognized her enormous, all-consuming love for this man.
Easing upon the mattress’s edge, she watched him in sleep, listened to his even breaths, skimmed his features once more — the bright hair, the fine, straight nose, the firm lips. Her gaze shifted to his cheek.
Ailinn’s heart moved, touched by all he’d suffered. Overcome with emotion, her heart aflame, Ailinn leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the scar on L
yting’s cheek, ever so lightly. Her gaze went to his mouth and lingered there. Unable to resist, she touched her lips to his.
Lyting stirred in the sweet depths of his dream, where an angel’s kiss brushed his cheek. Light and shadow shifted. Someone poised above. He began to climb from the valley of sleep, then sensed ‘twas Ailinn who hovered above him. Incredibly, she bent and kissed him, her lips soft and warm and honey-sweet.
Through the drugged haze of sleep, Lyting sought to return Ailinn’s kiss. He dragged his heavy hand upward, a terrible weight. Clumsily his fingers caught in Ailinn’s tresses, discovered their silk, stirred their fragrance to tease his senses.
What manner of dreams’ illusion could conjure this? he wondered in a clouded part of his brain. Questioning it no further, he struggled toward consciousness, yearning to taste her lips fully and wrap her in his arms.
But sleep weighed on him like a huge body of water. He battled against it, fighting upward. Just as he began to slice through the slumberous depths and surface, he felt cool air rush between his and Ailinn’s body.
He struggled furiously then, realizing she was withdrawing, and sought to find her in the dark. Breaking through to wakefulness, he found himself breathless for the effort. He dragged open his lids, felt the cool of the sheets beside him. Ailinn was gone, the bed empty.
Bracing himself up on one elbow, Lyting peered into the room’s darkness. Lamps softly illumined the chamber but did not reveal Ailinn. A flutter of fabric drew his gaze to where double doors opened onto the balcony.
There Ailinn stood with her back to him. A light evening breeze billowed the silken fabric of her robe and stirred her long tresses. She remained as motionless as the statues that graced the balcony, all frozen in time as they looked over the harbor.
Lyting balled his fist and warred within his soul. Dear God, how he wanted Ailinn. More than life itself did he want her. He wished to bound from the bed and snatch her up, then return and press her into the mattress, all the while telling her he had no intention of returning her to Ireland or seeking the cloistered walls of Corbie.
Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series Page 35