A Night of Angels

by Andersen, Maggi

  Roswitha frowned, and he doubted his mother had explained this particular custom. “The deeper I drive it, the…” he wiggled his eyebrows, and cupped his manhood.

  His wife blushed fiercely, much to the amusement of the crowd.

  He braced his legs, clenched his jaw and swung the axe at the rooftree. There was a communal intake of breath as the house shook, then a deafening roar threatened to bring the roof down around their ears.

  “Long life and many children.”

  “Watch out, Roswitha.”

  “Never saw such a thrust.”

  Slightly surprised by his own prowess and doubtful anyone would be able to wrestle the axe out of the deep gash he’d made, Wulfram left it embedded in the splintered wood, and escorted his grinning bride to the high table.

  Encouraged by Audra’s smile, Roswitha took a deep breath, grasped both handles of the silver loving cup sitting on the high table, and lifted it. Praying she wouldn’t spill any of the mead, she prepared to recite the formal verse she’d been taught.

  A hush fell. Everyone was aware she was still learning their language.

  The words fled from her memory, until she looked into the blue depths of Wulfram’s eyes.

  Ale I bring you, beloved warrior,

  With strength and honor blended,

  ’Tis mixed with magic and mighty songs

  Sung by skalds.

  Murmurs of approval wafted in the air as she passed the cup into his hands.

  “I consecrate this mead to Thor,” he announced, “and offer a toast to Odin.”

  “To Odin,” echoed around the hall as he sipped, never taking his eyes off her face.

  When he passed the cup to her, she offered the required toast to Freyja, then sipped the sweet wine.

  As she put the cup down on the table, Wulfram’s father raised a hand to call for silence amid the cheering. “By drinking together,” he declared, “my son and Roswitha are made one in the eyes of the law and the gods. They have affirmed their new kinship. They will drink mead together from this cup for a full four weeks, for we all know honey and the bees that produce it are symbols of fertility and healing.”

  Wulfram took her hand and helped her sit. “You know what comes next?” he asked.

  She nodded. “The hammer.”

  He kissed her knuckles and winked. “You will have noticed Jomsvikings are big on fertility.”

  Before she could answer, Dag approached, needing both hands to carry a large replica of Thor’s hammer.

  “Bring the Hammer the bride to bless,” he intoned, passing the replica to Wulfram. “On the maiden’s lap lay Mjolnir.”

  Her heart fluttered when her husband nestled the head of the hammer against her mons. “In Frigga’s name, our wedlock hallow,” he said hoarsely.

  Though he continued to bear most of the weight of the hammer, the symbolic power of the gesture stirred a need deep in her womb.

  Wulfram recognized the desire burning in Roswitha’s green eyes and it intensified his own longing to make her his. However, the feasting and merriment had barely begun. “Patience,” he whispered, handing the hammer back to Dag. “They’ll expect us to stay for a while.”

  She smiled as if she understood, though he doubted she knew the festivities would likely drag on for a sennight.

  “I have more duties anyway,” she said as his mother and Inga rose from their places.

  His smiling wife made her way round the dining hall with her new female relatives, serving mead to their guests. She glanced back at him from time to time, obviously aware of his eyes on her.

  He licked his lips, tasting again the mead she’d offered from the loving cup. Impatience to taste the sweet juices of her most intimate place had him growling deep in his throat. He’d never had the urge to put his mouth on a woman before, now the prospect consumed him.

  His father and adopted bother’s assurances of the honeyed delights to be found ’twixt a woman’s legs had poured fuel on the fire.

  Witnesses

  Roswitha enjoyed the dancing and merriment. Their guests were clearly happy for them and wanted her to know she was accepted. Even the wrestling was fun to watch. However, two hours of listening to what Wulfram referred to as insult contests and lying stories became tedious since she barely understood a word of the evidently hilarious banter.

  Even her husband’s hearty laughter waned as time went on and the insults became more and more ribald.

  She was stifling another yawn when he leaned close to her ear. “It’s time for bed,” he whispered seductively. “Quietly,” he warned, cocking his head towards the rambunctious celebrants.

  Evidently, they didn’t get to their feet quietly enough. A hush fell over the crowd as heads swiveled in their direction. Roswitha’s heart raced when Inga’s brother and Wulfram’s father hurried to hoist her husband onto their shoulders. He rolled his eyes and laughed as they carried him around the hall. People clapped and sang in unison. She didn’t understand the words, but the lusty intent of the song was clear, and she too was soon clapping and laughing along with everyone else.

  Moments later, Audra touched her arm. “The bride must be taken to the bridal chamber first,” she said.

  The heat rose in her face as a grinning Sandor invited her to be seated in a chair, then he and a friend lifted it and carried her out of the hall.

  She gripped the elaborately carved arms of the chair and took a deep breath as they bore her into Wulfram’s sleeping alcove for the first time.

  She wasn’t sure why the size of the enormous bed immediately caught her eye. It was a masculine space, decorated with weapons and animal skins. However, she suspected Audra’s fine hand behind the addition of a large armoire which stood open to reveal gowns, cloaks, shoes and other female paraphernalia—apparently her trousseau.

  She babbled her thanks to her mother-by-marriage as Shella removed the crown and quickly divested her of the wedding finery. She was invited to stand in a shallow tub of warm water, whereupon the maid sponged her with the same lavender scented soap from the bathhouse. After she’d been dabbed dry, Audra drew a nightrail over her head. Roswitha traced a finger over the delicate golden plaques sewn along the neckline and sleeves. Figures had been engraved into them, quite obviously a naked male and female.

  “They depict Freyr and his union with Gerd,” Inga explained, taking her hand and leading her to bed.

  She used the step stool to climb up and allowed herself to be tucked between the linens.

  Audra settled the crown back on her head just as a commotion in the hallway drew their attention.

  “Perfect timing,” Inga said.

  Feeling like the queen of Jomsborg, Roswitha held her breath when the door opened and a red-faced Wulfram was borne into the chamber.

  As long as he lived, Wulfram would never forget the vision of Roswitha sitting in his bed, blushing profusely, looking like a queen with her burnished hair and jeweled crown. He really didn’t need the help of Sandor and the other married men who’d already begun the process of disrobing him.

  However, he’d be deemed churlish if he denied them their fun. They peeled off his tunic, shirt and leggings, tossing them wherever they might land.

  He watched Roswitha. At first, she kept her eyes fixed on the bed coverings. When the teasing and ribaldry grew louder, her curiosity apparently overcame shyness and she looked up at the precise moment the last of his garments was stripped away.

  She parted her lips, blinking rapidly.

  He’d been rock hard since he’d first set eyes on her in the grove and could see no point hiding his arousal. The cheers and guffaws reached a crescendo when he spread his arms wide.

  He got into bed, drew the linens to his waist, took her trembling hand and waited for the formalities to be over.

  His father called for calm. “I declare proudly before these witnesses that this bridegroom is my son, Wulfram Sigmarsen.”

  More cheering.

  Sandor spoke next when the hubbub
subsided. “I declare before these witnesses that this bride is the maiden Roswitha of Pershore whom I first met in England.”

  “Not for much longer,” someone quipped, causing more laughter.

  This was Wulfram’s cue to remove Roswitha’s crown, the last vestige of her old life—except one.

  When Sandor attested to her identity, Roswitha was tempted to naysay him. She certainly wasn’t the Roswitha who’d borne the sting of nettles as she labored to assist Kennald with his craft; the one who’d fretted about taxes and tax collectors; the girl who’d grieved for a dead mother and lived in fear of a mean stepfather. The future for Roswitha of Pershore had held little promise.

  And yet, she was the same Roswitha who’d defended Delwyn when others looked upon him as an object of ridicule. Despite the difficulties of life in Pershore, she’d always remained hopeful that, someday, things would get better.

  And they had! Aiding Wulfram in his efforts to save the people of Worcester had taken a courage she hadn’t known she possessed. Indeed, he’d helped her discover many things about herself—including she was a wanton who couldn’t wait to enjoy the promised delights of sexual congress with the naked man who’d just removed her crown.

  As the boisterous crowd of well-wishers left the chamber at the insistence of her father-by-marriage, she offered a silent prayer of thanks for the changes the Yuletide season had wrought in her life.

  She was Roswitha of Jomsborg now, a woman determined to bestow upon Wulfram Sigmarsen the gifts he so richly deserved.

  The End

  About Banished

  Wulfram is the son of two of my favorite characters, Sigmar and Audra, the hero and heroine of Banished. I gave you a few tantalizing hints from their story in Wulfram’s tale.

  The monarch stared at them as if trying to comprehend how two brothers could have different last names, and why the younger man spoke when usually the older brother had that right.

  Read Banished for the answer to this riddle.

  Audra had a special place in her heart for the bluebells she liked to call Pixies’ Thimbles.

  My readers know I have a special place in my heart for bluebells and they play an important role in Banished.

  My mother used to be an assassin.

  What?

  They often told the story of dark, magical events they’d witnessed firsthand years ago in the desolate English wasteland of Dartmoor.

  Banished is full of spooky stuff!

  Fact or Fiction

  Harthacanute (Harthacnut) did order the destruction of Worcester and the slaughter of all its inhabitants in retaliation for the murder of two tax collectors. It’s also documented that Earl Leofric destroyed the town, but that few lost their lives. Harthacanute died shortly after, the last of King Canute’s sons to rule England. The throne went to his stepbrother, Edward the Confessor, the son of Emma of Normandy by her first husband, Ethelred. Emma married Canute after Ethelred’s death and was Harthacanute’s mother. It’s argued by some historians that if the sons of Canute hadn’t died young and without issue, England would have become part of a strong Scandinavian union and the Norman Conquest might never have happened. You can learn more about Canute himself in Banished.

  The Hwicce were an ancient tribe in Mercia.

  Lady Godiva (yes that one) was the wife of Earl Leofric. She gave Coventry a number of works in precious metal and bequeathed a necklace valued at 100 marks of silver. Another necklace went to Evesham, to be hung around the figure of the Virgin accompanying the life-size gold and silver rood she and her husband gave. St Paul’s Cathedral in the City of London received a gold-fringed chasuble. After the Norman Conquest, most of the jewelry and other precious items they had endowed were carried off to Normandy.

  Nettle-cloth was a common fabric in medieval times. There is good information about retting the stalks on the internet.

  Elf-shot. It was a widely held belief in ancient times that elfin magic was the only explanation for mysterious deaths.

  Jomsvikings. You will learn a lot about the powerful Jomsviking brotherhood in Banished. It’s a fascinating story, perpetuated to this day by a thriving re-enactment society, though the actual remains of Jomsborg have never been unearthed. It’s believed the fortress was located near present day Wolin, but the ruins are probably lost to the sea. Wulfram’s foreboding about the demise of his homeland came to pass.

  About Anna

  Thank you for reading The Viking’s Gift. If you’d like to leave a review where you purchased the book, and/or on Goodreads, I would appreciate it. Reviews contribute greatly to an author’s success.

  I’d love you to visit my newly revamped website and my Facebook page, Anna Markland Novels.

  Tweet me @annamarkland, join me on Pinterest, or sign up for my newsletter. Follow me on BookBub and be the first to know when my next book is released.

  Passion conquers whatever obstacles a hostile medieval world can throw in its path. Besides writing, I have two addictions-crosswords and genealogy, probably the reason I love research.

  I am a fool for cats.

  My husband is an entrepreneur who is fond of boasting he’s never had a job.

  I live on Canada’s scenic west coast now, but I was born and raised in the UK and I love getting intimate with history.

  Escape with me to where romance began and get intimate with history.

  I hope you come to know and love my cast of characters as much as I do.

  I’d like to acknowledge the assistance of my critique partners, Reggi Allder, Jacquie Biggar, Sylvie Grayson and LizAnn Carson.

  Season of Honor

  Alexa Aston

  Chapter One

  Vauville Castle—December 1363

  Daralys Marillac sat beside Lady Anne’s bed as the baroness slept. The noblewoman lost another babe a week ago and would never regain her strength. Daralys knew Lady Anne would not see the new year. Even someone without Daralys’ gift would realize the noblewoman’s body had finally given out. At least she had done her duty to her worthless husband and given him three healthy sons over the last decade.

  Dipping a cloth into a bowl of nearby water, Daralys bathed Lady Anne’s face again, hoping to calm the fever that raged through her depleted body.

  “Daralys?” the baroness croaked. “’Tis you?”

  “Aye, my lady. I’m sorry if I awakened you.” She helped the noblewoman sit up and brought a wooden bowl to her lips. “Drink,” she urged.

  Lady Anne sipped the broth and then pushed it away. She fell back against the pillows. “I’m dying, aren’t I? You can tell me.”

  “You are,” Daralys said softly. “The healer and I have done all we can for you.”

  “Take my hand.”

  She did as asked, knowing what Lady Anne wanted.

  The truth—about the future.

  Daralys had been different from birth. At first, she could help others locate something they’d misplaced. All she did was close her eyes and see where the object lay. As she grew older, she sensed things about people and if she touched them, she knew events that had occurred in their past and those that would take place in the future. It started small, seeing that Cook would burn her hand or that her father’s horse would throw a shoe. As she grew older, her gift expanded.

  She’d told no one about it over the years. Her mother died giving birth to Daralys’ brother. Her father had no time for a girl and sent her to foster with Lord Harold and Lady Anne from a young age. She hadn’t been home in more than three years, remaining at Vauville Castle even during the traditional Christmas and summer breaks. The only reason her father called her home three years ago was to allow her to meet her betrothed, a handsome young man of ten and nine. Her intended had grasped her shoulders and bestowed a kiss upon her cheek—and Daralys had known he would be dead within the year. Still, she had smiled at him and allowed the betrothal contracts to be signed, knowing no one would believe her if she spoke of what she knew and if she did, they might call her a witch.r />
  Her father sent a missive that told her of her betrothed’s death six months later. Daralys couldn’t read so Lady Anne had read it to her. When she didn’t react to the news, the baroness asked her why she wasn’t upset. Daralys let slip that she had known it would happen. The noblewoman pressed her and, finally, Daralys confessed to what she’d always kept hidden in her heart. Lady Anne was the closest thing she had to a mother and she desperately needed to tell someone before she went mad.

  The noblewoman had been interested in all Daralys shared and they’d grown closer, thanks to the shared confidence. Lady Anne never asked anything about herself, only allowing Daralys to use her gift to help others in secret. She’d been able to tell the castle’s healer to go to a tenant who was giving birth and having a difficult time, which helped save the lives of both mother and child. She encouraged Lady Anne to send for her second son and have him brought home two weeks early from where he fostered. The boy arrived safely even as a fever and whooping cough broke out where he’d come from, killing several of the pages and squires who fostered beside him.

  It even helped to find the son of Vauville’s gatekeeper. The boy turned up missing and his distraught parents had informed the baroness of his disappearance. Lady Anne had taken Daralys with her to visit the couple in their cottage, giving her time to touch a ball the boy played with. Immediately, Daralys saw the child in the forest, his leg badly broken. She’d spoken up, urging the baroness to send a search party to the woods. The boy had been found and carried home, his leg set by the healer.

  As she took Lady Anne’s hand, she closed her eyes. Images flooded her. She saw the baroness as a child, laughing as she chased a butterfly. The panic she experienced the first time her courses came. The kiss sealing her vows to Lord Harold. The pain and then joy that followed the birth of her first child. Then death, the darkness closing around her.