Edin's embrace (29 page)

She nodded dispiritedly.

"Last out this winter and —" he searched for some reward suitable for such a service —"and I will let you choose a husband come spring."

Her expression lightened immediately. "Truly? Any man I choose?"

He couldn't help a rueful chuckle. "Any man who will consent to take you on."

He left and crossed to Inga and his horse. As he settled into the saddle, she said, "I know you won't bring the babe. You must forgive my asking. I think it was the honey ale talking, not Inga Thorsdaughter." Her features were now fixed in solemnity, courage, and sorrow. She was a picture of unquenched mother-love. It made a special impression on him, distinctive and strong. It said:
Beware!

Though Edin had wanted to talk that night, it seemed she sensed his mood and was astute enough not to break their silence, even though he made sure he got to the bedchamber early —in plenty of time to observe her undressing. And aye, it did seem her breasts were fuller; the tips were definitely pinker. He looked back. He'd first taken her to his bed in early summer; it was now autumn, and in that time, almost a full season, she'd never once held him off with the normal feminine apology. She must have conceived during their first nights together. He felt a leap of emotion, a mix of pride and anticipation and pain and anger.

When she joined him in bed, he lay rigid and mute. She knew she was carrying his child and still didn't want to marry him. Didn't even want him to know.

When she slept, he got up to stare out the window. There would be rain within a day or two. Already clouds were gathering under the mountains, leaving only one pitiless star in all the black night.

Gradually the edges of his emotions blunted. Tomorrow he would make her his wife. She would be the recognized mistress of the steading. He was giving her back all that he'd taken from her. Surely the barriers between them would come down then. And long before spring, long before she mothered his child, she would open her cautious heart and let him in.

Bring my first grandson to me!

She says that she will return to the longhouse where she left something undone.

He shuddered and saw in his mind the hut where Inga was kept. He saw the door opening. He watched it open again and again, but what emerged from behind it he wouldn't let himself envision. When he returned to bed, however, he positioned himself protectively around Edin and slept lightly, his ears seeming to strain for the least furtive noise at the chamber door.

***

Edin wrapped the two layers of the fine pleated gown of brilliant red Byzantine brocade about her, clipping the loop-straps at each shoulder with small golden brooches. The gown reached the sweet carpet of new rushes and had a three-foot train. Over it she wore a knee-length cape made of more of the beautifully woven cloth which when thrown back showed her bare arms.

From inside the jarl's bedchamber, she heard the guests arriving. Her nerves tightened with each new hailing. At last there came a knock on the door, and a man's imperious voice: "It's time."

It was time. She thought she would faint if her heart beat any faster. The door opened, and Kol Thurik and Magnus Fairhair stood waiting. She tried to move toward them —and found she couldn't. Her pulse was heavy in her throat. She whispered, "I-I don't think I can do this."

Kol came forward, a powerful middle-aged man. As long as he didn't smile, one couldn't see the tooth he'd broken during the stormy voyage from England, and he wasn't smiling now. He was wearing a magnificent helmet decorated with molded bronze plates; in his belt was a costly double-edged sword with ivory embedded in the hilt. He glanced down at her, at her gown, at the rich scarlet fabric against her skin. What orders had the jarl given him in case she seemed reluctant? Would he bind her? Throw her over his shoulder?

He merely took her elbow, firmly, and led her to the door, tugging her out of the panic in which she'd been anchored. Magnus, Red Jennie's doting master and Ottar's fair-haired father, took hold of her other arm.

It was all right then. She walked between them without resistance. Gliding down the length of the hall at the insistence of two elder and unquestionably mighty Vikings, her gown flowing behind her, her throat and wrists adorned with necklaces and jewels and her forehead banded with a gold fillet sprigged with wild flowers, her hair loose in spiral curls and waves to her thighs, she felt that it was all right, it was only
reasonable
, to accept what was about to take place, to yield to it, to surrender.

The new carpet of rushes lent the hall a delicious fragrance. Gay banners hung from the timbered rafters, the walls were tapestry-hung, and the tables glittered with gold and silver plate. It was Sweyn who had tramped through the woods at dawn to collect the golden-leafed beech boughs that Dessa had used to adorn the roof posts. Lamps threw mellow light over all, including the strikingly colorful costumes of the Vikings and their families.

These men of relentless vigor and savagery who had once intimidated Edin with their stares now deferred to her as she passed. Their women even bowed. Edin's stomach quaked.

Kol and Magnus took her behind the jarl's high-seat, down the length of the hall, around the end tables, and brought her back along the opposite side, past all the fjord folk, people of all manner and years, until the procession stopped between the firepit and the jarl.

Kol and Magnus stepped aside. Edin stood alone before her master.

Slowly he rose with gorgeous ease and came toward her. From head to foot his tall proud body was outfitted as only a great chieftain's could be. On his head was his horned helmet, carefully polished; his tunic was encrusted with gold thread; in his belt, where other men carried their axes, he carried Thor's sacred hammer. Power was in his whole figure. But she couldn't read his face as he looked down at her. What was he thinking? Nothing showed in those piercing eyes. Intimidated, she let her own gaze fall away.

"Give me your hand," he said.

She lifted her right hand. He placed his big palm beneath it.

"Look at me."

When she did, she was dazed by the sudden ferocity in his face. Her breath caught. He was frightening, arrogant, forceful, this man who was to be her husband.

"We walk hand-in-hand from this day on." He turned, raising her right hand with his left, and presenting her to his people.

The celebration was a rich, pagan affair. Vikings seemed to love a wedding better than anything— the marriage procession, the ritual sacrifice made to Frey for the bridegroom's potency, the traditional consecration wherein Thor's hammer was laid on Edin's lap. "You are a Norsewoman now," the jarl said.

And it was at that point that he murmured vows to her in a voice for her ears alone, "I make you my wife." He held a gold wedding band at the tip of her third finger. "I vow to defend your life, to share with you my victories, to give you no unnecessary sadness. I also vow," he added grimly, "to kill anyone who tries to take you from me."

The post-ceremony festivities included drinking and dancing—colorful, intricate dances performed to folk ballads. The occasion warranted the use of an incredibly ancient
lur
, a long, hornlike instrument that had been set up on the point overlooking the fjord. The cliffs and water echoed with its dark, rich resonance as it told the very mountains that the jarl had taken himself a bride.

The fact that the bride was the foreign thrall he'd staunchly vowed to sell in Hedeby brought him a great deal of jesting and chiding now. He bore it well, assuming a bluff, downright attitude. This was his fine and splendid side; it was the side of him that Edin loved.

When the sun began to set in a russet flush along the horizon, the wedding feast began. Dishes of smoking viands were duly presented to everyone in order of their importance, from the wedding couple in their finery to the oldest thrall, bent and toothless, his dark clothes reeking of manure. The tables groaned, and the guests ate hugely of piled venison and mutton, beef hearts and tongue, succulent backstrap, stewed seal meat, and the inescapable fish. They drank ale until it seemed impossible they could hold more.

Magnus Fairhair proposed a toast: "To Thoryn Kirkynsson. Sweet and pleasant may be his days with his goodwife Edin, and stirring his tales of his nights."

Men, their faces swollen and scarlet with food and ale, shouted, "Drink, bridegroom!"

Edin was asked to sing and, with Hauk's lute in her hand, gave them a graceful little poem sung to music:

***

"I love the gay summer weather,

When the rose trees all do flower,

When a hundred larks together,

Make music outside my bower . . ."

***

Simple as the tune was, the people shouted and clapped their hands. When she tried to give the lute back to Hauk, he wouldn't take it. His expression, which was hard, pitched her off balance, for what he said, looking down the length of his thin nose, was "My bride-gift to you, Song-singer."

She returned to her place beside her husband's high-seat blushing and flustered. He signaled Arneld, who came rushing to him with a fur-wrapped bundle he'd been entrusted to guard. "From your husband, my la-. . . er, Mistress," the boy piped, holding the bundle out with both hands. She glanced at the jarl, then folded back the furs to discover a silver-gilt beaker on a stem, decorated with ribbonlike animals intricately entwined. He leaned to fill the cup with sweet mead and set to her lips. His nearness caused the blood in her veins to rush through her body.

Another rich-hued hour passed. A skald rose to entertain the gathering, a tall man with a slight stoop. He stood with his head thrust forward; his long face had a nose that tilted upward at the very end. Gradually he took the power of words into his hands and began to build a bridge of bleak beauty with them,reciting a poem about the Valkyries, the Choosers of the Slain, who exulted in blood and in weaving the mesh of wax:

***

"Blood rains

From the cloudy web

On the broad loom of slaughter.

The web of man,

Grey as armor,

Is now being woven;

The Valkyries

Will cross it

With a crimson weft — "

***

The jarl interrupted, "Skald! give us something more beguiling, something fit to amuse a bride at her wedding."

The skald nodded regally "I will tell you then about Hastien, who with his companion Bjorn Ironside sacked Paris 'til, of all the great buildings of that city, nothing but four kirks were left standing."

The jarl seemed ready to protest again —Edin was stirred by his motive —but the Vikings cheered. Edin reached for his arm, making her expression say,
Thank you for thinking of me, but it's all right
. He made a sound of grudging acquiescence, and the tale began.

"Now, Hastien was a flamboyant man, dissatisfied with his triumph in the land of the Franks," quoth the skald. "He sailed on with his men across the green, cold sea until he came to a city so big, so white, so splendid and columned that what else could it be but Rome? Its defenses were strong and impervious to assault; thus the Norseman devised a crafty ruse. Messengers went to the city with the story that Hastien and his following were honest men expelled from Norway by an overbearing king. They were weary and hungry and needed provisions —and their sick chieftain was knocking at Death’s door.

"Later they came to town again, to report that Death's door had opened. All they now required was a Christian grave for Hastien. The townsmen agreed. A long procession of sorrowing Norsemen accompanied the coffin. Wailing was heard, and mourning. The bishop was so moved he summoned the people. The bells of the cathedral tolled in such a way that the citizens knew a great funeral was taking place. The clergy came dressed in their vestments. The chief men came. Women came. Scholars holding their candles and crosses came, and all followed the procession right into the cathedral.

"The Norsemen took the coffin up to the golden altar and set it down. The priests began their prayers. Suddenly the dead Hastien rose from his bier with a mighty roar and drove his axe through the officiating bishop. The Norsemen erupted into a frenzy of slaughter, a merry lark of rape and pillage.

"Hastien's exultation had no bounds — until he discovered that the ravished community was not Rome at all, but a place called Luna, hundreds of miles north of Rome. All that ingenuity squandered! He gave orders to fire the town and massacre the men.

"The women were shown more mercy," the skald ended with a wink and a grin.

The jarl, despite his initial hesitancy, laughed with the others. His mirth was strong and clean. Rape and murder were his way of life, so much so that he even found humor in it. Edin knew she would never adjust to this love of the bloody tale —the gory joke —not when she'd been the victim of such an "adventure." While the skald bowed to the approval of the crowd, her mind leapt from memory to memory. Her courage faltered; her throat tightened. An inner voice cried:
Edin of Fair Hope, is this your wedding? Will these Vikings now be your people, and shall you never escape from here? What have you agreed to? What have you wedded yourself to? Your children —tall they will be, and fair-skinned and pale-eyed —but they will be Vikings!

A ditty started up among three of the older men. Hands tugging at their stubbly whiskers, they sang deep and strong a tune that had a repeating admonishment: "Hungry wolves take big bites!"

The valley had long since fallen into shadow, and Edin was weary, worn out by the bearded kisses of the Vikings and the good cheer of their ladies —and by this relentless questioning of her future. She hardly noticed that the jarl was on his feet, commanding the attention of all, until she heard his voice: "Friends, to my goodwife, Edin!"

They drank to her, accepted her, unthinkingly surrendered whatever reservations they might have about her to his domination, his charisma.

"And now, since she has recently been ill, I beg you to to excuse us. She needs her rest." His glance rained down on her upturned face.

"Oh, aye!" came the first of a quick chorus of jests, "rest indeed! Mayhap they would have believed that tale when the world hadn't yet grown its beard."

A woman called, "The Song-singer will get more rest out here than pressed flat between you and the mattress, Jarl!"

"Have mercy, Thoryn Kirkynsson, let the girl stay with us awhile longer! After all, she's been ill!"

At that point Rolf started the story of how the jarl had thrown her over his shoulder the first time he'd taken her to his chamber. She stood quickly, interrupting him. Anger had been rising in her, and finally she couldn't hold it back. She said, "Forgive me, but since this tale is not so pleasing to me as it might be to you, I think I will retire."

The Vikings made a lane along which she and the jarl passed. The procession took several minutes, what with more jesting, more kisses of congratulation for her and slaps on the back for him. Udith and her husband Lothere had been allowed to come with Kol Thurik, their master. The head cook of Fair Hope darted forward to curtsey before her former lady.

"Udith! Do you do well?"

"Aye, my lady."

"I'm so glad." Indeed, the two resembled very little the shivering slaves Edin had stepped forward to save from separation her very first night in this hall. Udith looked plumper than ever, and even the lank Lothere had a belly that spoke of eating largely and drinking well.

Udith was slightly elevated with all the ale that had flowed into her cup. "You look like a lady in a tapestry," she chattered. "I've watched you all this time —there you sat, sparkling as a queen above them all!"

Edin felt the squeeze of her husband's hard fingers on her elbow, a reminder that he was waiting, so she said good night. She let herself be gently pulled along through the well-wishing crowd, let herself be inexorably led to their chamber.

There was a single lamp burning, but most of the room was heavy with shadow. Even with the door closed, the sound of the revelry penetrated. She recognized Jamsgar Copper-eye's voice chanting a feast-hall ditty about a man who threw his arms around a bear in the dark thinking it was his darling.

Edin turned and faced her husband, who was leaning with his back against the door, watching her. She suddenly felt very small and lonely.

The Viking in Jamsgar's song "had pride and prestige and battle honor" and persisted in trying to claim his kiss.

"Are you afraid?" the jarl asked.

She looked down at her twisting hands. "I suppose I am." She looked up again and saw that he was not pleased. "You are a fierce man to take for a husband."

"A barbarian, brutal and murderous." He crossed his arms over his chest, unconsciously emphasizing the great standing veins in his forearms. His eyes were startlingly colorless. Bravely, she held his look, until it proved more than she could bear.

"You have my ring and my vow to shield and harbor you," he said, "you know by now that I'll never purposely hurt you, abed or elsewhere."

"Yes" —her voice was a whisper —"I know that."

"Then what do you fear?"

She paused, searching for the words. "You," she said finally, "what you are."

He seemed harder than ever, broader, more massive. His unreasonable size was straightened to the full. "I am your husband. And you are my wife, the woman I have always sought. I have confessed my love like a puling boy. Can't you even now trust me?"

"Yes. No. Oh, I can't explain!"

Abruptly he was several feet closer. He took her arm and led her to the chair. He sat, pulling her onto his lap. "Try," he said.

Mayhap because she'd expected rumbles of thunder and flashes of lightning, that one softly spoken word compelled her to tell him everything that was in her heart. "I fear ... to have your sons."

"No need. You'll have Hagna."

"Not birthing them,
having
them,
loving
them, and watching them grow to manhood, only to watch them take up swords and axes and step into a dragonship and go off to kill and ravage — all in order to prove they aren't cowards!"

He said unsympathetically, "There is no question of any son of mine proving he's not a coward. No man of the North is a coward. Yet a boy wants to find out just how brave he is. Every boy hopes to perform outstanding feats and be recognized as a champion."

She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "You will lead them, won't you? They will follow their father, the Hammer of Dainjerfjord, who will go voyaging, beating about in his boat, killing —or mayhap getting killed. My sons will prefer burning churches to visiting them. I can't bear to think of it. You — all of you!—seem to look forward to dying. Oh, why can't you simply stay at home and live in peace? Why must you go ranting out into the world with your swords and your helmets?"

She would have wrenched away from him during this, but he held her closely. When she stopped struggling, she saw he seemed troubled by his inability to comfort her. She said, more calmly, "Let me go now," and stood away from him. "Our guests wouldn't believe this scene —the bridal couple so glum"

"There would be many an expressions of horror at things that have taken place in this chamber."

He rose, and her heart drummed. She had learned well what it meant when his eyes turned to silver seas and his voice became low and husky.

For a moment, he just stood and gazed at her in silence, evidently enjoying what he saw: her timid look, the fall of her hair against the scarlet of her dress. He reached for the square brooches holding the straps of her gown. "I have wondered all day what would happen if I unclasped these— ah, now I see." His hands came up, lifting her breasts. "How lovely these look. What is it that gives them such unwonted roundness and fullness?"

She was bemused by this delicious preliminary in spite of herself, until he swooped down and lifted her off her feet. She made a valiant attempt to prevent him, but he held her and turned to the bed. There she struggled a little more —for the sheer pleasure of it, really —then let her body collapse into softness beneath his iron-hard weight.

He grunted his satisfaction and rose off her to remove her footwear, then to see to his own disrobing. His eyes were heavy-lidded and deep and strange. When he joined her again some minutes later, and reached for her, she tried to hold him off once more.

"Brave," he murmured. "But brave is not always wise, my Shieldmaiden, flesh of my flesh, mother of my sons."

The phrase was not lost on her. And he'd asked about the change in her breasts. Could he suspect?

With a gasp she felt his strong arms gather her. She was pressed to him full-length, every inch of her molded to his hard body, his chest, his flat hard stomach, his thighs. It seemed like forever since he'd held her so. Meanwhile, she'd learned to relish any little pleasure, which made this truest pleasure almost excruciating. Her mouth open, her eyes half closed, she realized that she wanted this Viking with a yearning pain she couldn't stand against.

As his mouth lowered and his soft tongue searched for hers, she felt they must be beautiful, two people beautifully, flawlessly making a single whole. As their mouths fit together, so did all of them seem the right size and shape —the angle of each arm, the curve of her thigh against the agreement of his, the mound of her breast against the muscle of his chest. His iron, her silk. There had never been a thing of such goodness and beauty in all the world and never would be again.

His kisses grew fierce; his hands caressed her everywhere. Like a shipwright, he worked entirely by instinct, by eye, by feel, until it was impossible to deny him anything he desired.

Finally he put her beneath him and entered her as was his right, not as her master, but as her husband. She went up in flames. Such a savage delight! Hips thrusting, he stroked deeply to satisfy them both. And for the time being what was bestial in him was calmed.

***

Dainjerfjord's surface was ruffled by waves no bigger than a woman's hand and stippled by rain in the first pearly grey light of the new dawn. Within the longhouse on Thorynsteading, the jarl's marriage celebration went on regardless of the gentle storm without. Vikings, being fond of noisy games, early on began matches of a sort of wrestling. Two of the men would clasp hands, brace elbows, and try to force one another to the ground. These contests didn't need much space; the game was tailored to be played aboard a ship.

Edin made her appearance with her hair put up and studded with flowers. She found a place by Red Jennie to watch the wrestlers. Jennie was as cheerful as always, gaily attired and redheaded and lovely, exclaiming over Edin's bride ring.

A moment of doubt fell when Sweyn stepped up to Thoryn and challenged him to a left-handed wrestling match. "It's undignified for me to take on a puny fellow like you, but if you would, Jarl . . . ?"

Thoryn blinked slowly, then nodded. They drew off their tunics, positioned themselves, braced their legs, clasped one another's hands, and began. The muscles in their arms stood out like ropes and cables, sweat sprang up and glistened on their faces and backs. Sweyn warned the jarl in a voice clenched to save breath, "Don't put on any airs; I won't tolerate any bragging from you."

This had the effect of doubling their efforts. Their backs and shoulders revealed every superficial and buried muscle, every sinew and tendon. Their faces tightened like fists; the skin went red behind their beards. Beneath the simple rules of the contest lurked all sorts of opportunities for subtle, ruthless, and cunning strategies. And beneath Sweyn's challenge lurked subtle meaning. Edin's nails bit into her palms. Why must they do this —behave like heaving stupid beasts?

It seemed to go on forever, but at last Sweyn grunted mightily and gave a sideways shove. The jarl missed his footing, his stance broke, and he was forced to one knee. He cursed himself. Sweyn leaned down and stroked his face gently, like a mother. "There, sweeting," he mocked, "no tantrums now."

The jarl tossed his head. He stared up at Sweyn with flinty eyes, a magnificent chief in the pride of his manhood bested by a cripple! Suddenly he laughed. Edin's hands relaxed; her pent breath escaped in a sigh. As Thoryn stood, he pulled a fine gold ring from his finger and placed it on Sweyn's strong left hand. There was applause, for it was an honor when a chief gave a ring to a warrior. Edin felt proud of him.

A wandering fortune teller appeared at the door. Having heard of the merriment, she'd come to make her quota of coins. The jarl beckoned her in. "Welcome!" The woman looked as old as motherhood. She never smiled or even seemed pleasant. She made herself at home in a corner and began to entertain one and then another of the gathering. Starkad Herjulsson was among the very first.

Mead and ale were all this time flowing freely. Ottar, his eyes a little wild, stood up on a bench and raised his cup as if to make a toast. He'd dressed for the celebration in his best war shirt and had his hair in multiple braids over his shoulders, with a leather thong around his bronzed forehead. He was too drunk to be prudent in his words, and said, "Jarl, your lady is beautiful, with a wonderful, er, succulence — " he was openly staring at Edin's bosom —"aye, and . . . and . . . but she seems somewhat slender, I think. She would look fine with more of a belly. What say you?"