A Night of Angels

by Andersen, Maggi

  Eight days at close quarters would test his mettle.

  On the first night of their journey, Roswitha curled into the fresh-smelling linens of the tiny bed and stared at the three little children asleep in front of the hearth. Their parents had insisted they give up their bed for her and they’d done so without complaint.

  Close by, Wulfram and Sandor sat at a deeply-grooved wooden table conversing in hushed tones with a man and woman they’d apparently met before. Earlier, she’d sat at the same table and filled her belly with a delicious rabbit stew.

  Wulfram smiled across at her reassuringly from time to time, obviously aware she didn’t understand a word of the language they spoke. The flames illuminated the chiseled lines of his ruggedly handsome face and turned his fair hair into a glowing halo.

  He’d explained their hosts were Jomsvikings who’d settled in England years before, during the reign of King Canute, but she didn’t comprehend how he’d found this cozy cottage in the bustling town of Oxford. However, it was preferable to sleeping on the cold, hard ground.

  He’d merely shrugged when she’d asked and muttered something about a brotherhood. Clearly, there was a network of these foreign people she’d known nothing about and their unquestioned support of each other was astonishing. She lived in a community of nettle weavers, but folk kept to themselves and Delwyn was the only one who ever helped others. Harthacanute’s reign had made life much harder and resulted in an atmosphere of increased suspicion and mistrust.

  The English generally considered Danes as barbaric heathens, despite the well-known Christian piety of Harthacanute’s father. Of course, she had to remember Wulfram wasn’t a Dane, but her Viking and his compatriots seemed to take seriously Christ’s message that people love one another.

  As exhaustion closed her eyes, she chuckled at the vision of Kennald brandishing his crutches at any Saxon who had the temerity to seek shelter and sustenance in his hovel.

  Wherever You Go

  Wulfram had previously met all the Jomsviking families they lodged with.

  Roswitha was clearly surprised by the warm welcome and hearty sustenance they received every night of their journey. His heart swelled with pride that he hailed from a people who helped one another, no matter where they found themselves in the world. It was a Christian ideal that Jomsvikings had followed for hundreds of years before the coming of Christianity to the northern reaches.

  He hoped Roswitha was beginning to understand she would be welcomed as his bride when he brought her home. He resolved to start teaching her a few words of his language during the voyage to the Baltic.

  She didn’t need to tell him she was apprehensive about boarding a boat. He sensed it in her nervous laughter after he inhaled deeply and told her he could smell the sea as they neared the coast.

  As they rode up to the docks at Sandwich, she tightened her grip around his waist and leaned her face against his back.

  He refrained from urging her to look at the two longboats, though he was overwhelmed with joy at the sight of them, still safe and sound, the crews milling about the decks.

  Several sailors looked up as they approached. Word spread quickly and raucous cheers soon broke out. The men realized the advent of their masters meant they were going home.

  Evidently unable to resist, the ever-curious Roswitha leaned to one side and looked at the boats thronged with cheering men. “Wondrous,” she said hoarsely.

  After six days of retching, Roswitha had lost sight of the reasons she thought longboats were wondrous. The sheer terror of being tossed about on dark waves with no land in sight and her inability to find any kind of balance combined to befog her brain and bedevil her belly.

  She was sure Wulfram regretted bringing her along, yet he tended her patiently as she lay all day beneath the canvas shelter, bundled up in furs. Only Banki received as much attention.

  “A wife is supposed to see to her husband’s needs,” she rasped, her throat raw.

  He wiped her fevered brow with a blessedly cool linen. “You will, but I’m a seasoned sailor who’s had the good fortune never to suffer from søsyge. It’s my pleasurable duty to take care of you.”

  She’d tried without success to memorize some of the words he’d taught her, but she would never forget the word for seasickness.

  Every night, he gathered her into his arms. She stared up at the stars, gobsmacked at how little she’d known of the world beyond Pershore’s wretched retting ponds. Who knew there were vast expanses of deep water and that men plied boats with as much skill as Kennald wove nettle-cloth. Even the bustling town of Worcester seemed insignificant when compared to the star-spangled heavens and a sea that took days and nights to cross.

  “On the morrow, we’ll be home,” Wulfram promised on the last night.

  Frantic though she was to set her feet on dry land again, the prospect of meeting his parents in her current state couldn’t be borne. “They’ll think your betrothed is an invalid.”

  He shook his head. “Every Jomsviking is well aware of the effects of søsyge. They won’t censure you for it. We live on the sea. You’ll feel better once you step off the longboat.”

  Wulfram was relieved when Roswitha rallied as they neared Jomsborg’s harbor. He was certain she was the one for him, but he wanted his parents to feel the same way the moment they met her.

  “I feel better with my face washed and hair combed,” she told him.

  It was probably wiser not to reply that she looked better too. “I hope I didn’t hurt you tugging the bone comb through the tangles.”

  The first smile he’d seen for days reassured him. He’d never combed a woman’s hair before, and looked forward to sifting his fingers through Roswitha’s fiery tresses every morning.

  They stood together at the prow, his arm around her shoulders. He grinned when the dilapidated twin towers guarding the entrance to the harbor came into view. “There’s been talk over the years of repairing the ruined catapults on the top,” he told her, “but naught ever comes of it. A few well-armed longboats make for a better deterrent against attack.”

  “So why keep the towers?” she asked.

  “Nostalgia, I suppose. They’re a landmark, a sure sign we’ve come home. And I’d wager just about every Jomsviking since time immemorial has climbed to the top.”

  “Including you?” she gasped.

  He nodded. “And my father and mother before me.”

  “Your mother?” she exclaimed.

  He laughed. “You’ll understand when you meet her. She used to be an assassin, a member of King Canute’s dodeka.”

  When the color drained from Roswitha’s face, he feared his enthusiasm at coming home might have robbed him of his good sense. This was hardly the moment to blurt out such a thing. “But she hasn’t killed anyone in a while,” he jested, “at least as far as I know.”

  Roswitha gaped at him, but he saw the moment it dawned on her he was teasing. The color returned to her cheeks and she smiled. “Mayhap, I’ll climb one of those towers,” she boasted.

  “You’ll need better footwear,” he retorted.

  She looked down at the scuffed leather bindings and burst out laughing. “They are so comfortable, I’d forgotten them.”

  The oarsmen cheered loudly as they pulled the two longboats between the towers. Standing at the prow of his own boat, Sandor cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Welcome to our homeland, Roswitha of Pershore.”

  “Thank you,” she shouted back.

  Wulfram cupped her bottom and pressed his needy pik to her mons. “I have to confess that Sandor and I weren’t born in Jomsborg.”

  Frowning, she looked up into his eyes. “But I thought…”

  “We were both born in England. I was a babe in arms when my mother brought me to reunite with my father, but Sandor was a boy of seven. My parents adopted him after his own were killed. However, I promise Jomsborg will take hold of your heart, just like it did with us. You will never want to leave here.”

 
; She nodded. “My place is with you. Wherever you go, I go.”

  Jomsborg

  There was so much activity in Jomsborg’s busy harbor, Roswitha didn’t know where to look first. “There must be over a hundred longboats here,” she said, marveling at the way Wulfram’s crew skillfully navigated between the vessels.

  “Closer to two hundred,” he replied. “My father has made sure we’re always prepared.”

  As he’d predicted, the harbor sheltered them from winter winds and made it seem warmer. “I want to put my own shoes back on for when we meet your parents.”

  “As you wish,” he replied. “It’s a short ride to their farm.”

  She frowned. “They are farmers? I thought your father was the governor?”

  “He is, but all Vikings are farmers at heart. You have to tend the land if you want it to bear fruit.”

  A worry niggled. “Do nettles grow here?”

  He chuckled. “Yes, and we weave nettle-cloth, or at least our thralls do.” He took hold of her hands and brushed kisses over her knuckles. “You’ll never suffer the sting of the plants again.”

  She felt sorry for whoever these thralls were, but it would be interesting to see if they used the same methods as Kennald. Nettle weaving fled from her thoughts, however, when she noticed growing numbers of people waving from the shore. “They’ve recognized your boat,” she said.

  “Ja,” he replied, a blush showing through the stubble on his face.

  “They’re happy to see you return safely.”

  Sandor’s boat docked first. A crowd of excited men and boys clustered around Wulfram’s brother as he leapt ashore.

  Her innards knotted. They would welcome Wulfram with equal enthusiasm—but what would they think of the shabbily dressed, sickly-looking woman he’d brought home?

  How foolish she had been not to realize the chasm that yawned between them. Wulfram was the son of a noble family; she was an ignorant peasant who gathered noxious weeds.

  Sensing Roswitha’s trepidation, Wulfram scooped her up, determined to assure her of his commitment. They would step ashore together.

  She was frail in his arms—too frail. He suspected hunger had been a constant in her life and the voyage had weakened her further. He silently cursed Harthacanute for the damage wrought on King Canute’s once prosperous kingdom. He hoped Edward the Confessor would make a better monarch if he won the throne.

  With the longboat securely docked, he braced his legs for the climb over the side. Roswitha clung to his neck, eyes tightly closed as the boat lurched unexpectedly.

  He was grateful for Sandor’s strong hand at his elbow. “I thought you’d be off to see Inga.”

  “And miss your grand announcement?”

  He was glad his brother stood at his side on the dock as he proclaimed to the excited crowd, “I have brought home a bride. Please bid a hearty Jomsborg welcome to Roswitha of Pershore.”

  The deafening uproar of cheers brought a shy smile to Roswitha’s face She didn’t speak his language, but her obvious relief at the warm reception had the predictable effect on his pik.

  The hearty welcome she’d received on the docks lifted Roswitha’s spirits, but when Wulfram’s family farm came into view, she contemplated leaping from the horse and fleeing. “Your parents will think you’ve brought home a vagabond,” she said, clutching the amber talisman around her neck as if it could magically transform her tattered clothing into rich silks.

  He slowed Banki. “Consider this,” he replied. “Today we celebrate Christ’s birth in a stable. His mother wrapped him in swaddling cloths.”

  She inhaled deeply as her racing heart calmed. “In all the excitement of the journey, I’d lost track of the days.”

  “And I am bringing a very important Yuletide gift to my parents, something they’ve wanted for years. They will see in you the same things I see. Courage, innocence, determination.”

  “It won’t matter that I am not from a rich family?”

  “My parents believe every person has as soul mate, someone they are destined to spend their life with. You are my destiny, Roswitha. I knew it the moment we met.”

  Feeling more positive about the impending meeting, she nodded as he reined Banki to a halt in the small courtyard.

  Lucky Girl

  A bevy of excited men, women and children appeared in the courtyard moments after they arrived. As Wulfram expected, Sandor’s sons were the first to realize who had come riding home. Squealing their delight, they rushed to embrace their father as he dismounted. He gathered them up, laughing at the kisses they rained on his cheeks.

  Inga wasn’t far behind. She nigh on flew at her husband, at once admonishing him for staying away too long and sobbing her relief he’d returned safe and sound.

  The sight of Sandor reveling in the love of his family usually aroused a twinge of envy in Wulfram’s breast. Now, as he put his hands on Roswitha’s waist to help her dismount, her grin filled his mind with an exhilarating prospect—by next Yuletide he might be holding his own babe, God willing.

  “No wonder Sandor talks of his family all the time,” she said.

  He lifted her from Banki, but gathered her into his arms. “I’ll be worse,” he confessed. “The whole of Jomsborg will grow tired of hearing about my beautiful wife and splendid children.”

  She blushed prettily and kissed him on the lips, but whatever she was about to say in reply was interrupted by his father’s gruff voice shouting his name.

  “My fader,” he explained, holding fast when she wriggled to extricate herself from his embrace. “Don’t worry. He may look fierce, but he and my mother will be pleased I’ve brought home a wife.”

  Roswitha had no memory of the man who’d sired her, and suspected he and her mother were never married. Kennald had been her stepfather for as long as she remembered, and she couldn’t recall a time when she hadn’t feared his unpredictable bullying. The notion of a loving father was foreign to her experience, but she’d come to recognize Wulfram’s love and respect for his parents. Terrified they would reject her as an unsuitable mate for their son, she nevertheless prayed silently that all would be well, as Wulfram promised.

  The alternative couldn’t be borne. Returning to England and the life she’d led in Pershore wasn’t an option. Living in a strange land without the love and support of the man she’d fallen hopelessly in love with…death would be preferable.

  Wulfram’s voice broke into her dire thoughts. “I brought you a Yuletide gift, fader.”

  She squealed when, without warning, he passed her into his father’s arms. “Roswitha is my betrothed.”

  Aware her face was on fire, she risked a smile, reassured by the glint of amusement in eyes as blue as Wulfram’s. “My honor,” she murmured.

  Her future father-by-marriage laughed heartily. “Welcome, Daughter. Audra has insisted our son would find a wife in England, just as I did.”

  No sooner had her name been mentioned than Wulfram’s mother hurried out of the manor house. To his amusement, she stopped short for a moment, apparently confused by the sight of her husband carrying a blushing young woman.

  Wulfram opened his arms and smiled. It quickly dawned on his mother that he’d brought home a prospective bride. She dabbed her eyes with a kerchief as she flew into his embrace. “It’s good to see both my sons have returned safely. We’ve worried. And you’ve brought someone special.”

  Sandor came to hug his adoptive mother, one of his children perched on his shoulders, the other clinging to his leg. “You can thank Harthacanute for our long absence,” he explained.

  Wulfram put his hands on his mother’s shoulders and turned her to face his father. “However, I wouldn’t have met Roswitha had it not been for the king.”

  Smiling, she cupped Roswitha’s face in her hands. “Welcome, Daughter. You’re a lucky girl. Not every maiden finds a handsome and noble husband like my son.”

  Ancient Rituals

  Early on the morning they were to wed, Wulfram pat
iently explained some of the Viking wedding traditions the people of Jomsborg still respected. “We’re Christians now,” he told Roswitha, “but we cling to many of the old ways.”

  Since she’d come to know Wulfram and his family, she’d realized many of the notions she held about the Norse people were false. They weren’t barbaric heathens, as Kennald had alleged. Nevertheless, she was relieved to know their marriage would be blessed by the Church.

  “You and I are lucky,” Wulfram said. “Sometimes it can take years for Viking families to successfully negotiate a marriage contract.”

  “Years?” she asked.

  “Most marriages are arranged to bring about strategic alliances,” he replied with a smile. “I must warn you, some Jomsvikings will be irritated the governor’s son isn’t marrying one of their daughters.”

  He made light of it, but Roswitha felt the difference between their stations keenly. “I’m not worthy of you,” she murmured. “Your parents hoped for a better match.”

  He titled her chin to his gaze. “There isn’t one maiden in the whole of Jomsborg who sets my heart and body afire like you. My mother and father want me to be happy more than they seek to make alliances. They love each other and hope for the same for me.”

  He touched the silver circlet on her head. “You saw how thrilled my mother was to give you this krans. You’re the daughter she never had and she confessed to pushing the silversmith to make it in record time.”

  The krans was another Norse tradition Roswitha had learned of. Every maiden wore one. She’d been told to keep it on for the bathing ceremony later that morning.

  Bathing was another novelty. Folks in Pershore might take an occasional summer dip in the river. Jomsvikings seemed obsessed with cleanliness and she had begun to look forward to the daily soak in the family’s communal tub of hot water—once she got over the embarrassment of disrobing in front of her future mother-by-marriage.