Page 64 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3
July 31st, 960AD
“Atoast to our jarl and his good lady,” bellowed Olaf. He towered above us, standing upon the table. “May the gods give us all such wives—clever and resourceful, and with beauty exceeded only by Freya.”
Eirik grinned and inclined his head in thanks as our guests drank, and there was much banging of cups for them to be refilled.
“You’ll need to go looking in the forest to find your sweetheart, Olaf!” Anders hollered from the other side of the hall. “Some bear is sure to be willing to embrace you.”
“No need to go so far,” guffawed Halbert. “The sheep pen is right outside. Half a dozen darlings to choose from there, Olaf!”
The others roared in laughter, men and women alike, making ribald gestures. Guðrún, walking amongst them with her jug of mead, was tossed from one lap to the next, until she landed upon Olaf’s—to much cheering and her own blushes, for all knew she nursed tender feelings for him.
I couldn’t help but feel content. Since my arrival in Svolvaen, I’d fought for acceptance and approval. Now, seeing how I made Eirik happy, his people had granted me their blessing. I’d played my part as hostess that day, taking many kisses upon the cheek.
Only Bodil, standing apart, scowled as I glanced her way.
You can keep your sour looks,I thought.For I am married now, and Eirik will have no more of you!I gave her an innocent smile, but she continued to glower, and I reprimanded myself for pettiness. Though she’d once been Eirik’s lover, he’d shown no inclination for her since bringing me to Svolvaen.
I resolved to enjoy the merriment, which had moved to the bracing of elbows for arm wrestling. With so much mead drunk, the bouts quickly escalated, until there were several men tumbling on the floor, red in the face. They tasked Eirik with taking on every one. The losers of each bout received a light punishment—a horn of ale brought for drinking in one long draught, to more cheers.
I’d lived in Svolvaen a full year, but I was yet to grow accustomed to the boisterous nature of such gatherings. With some relief, I retreated—it being a bride’s privilege—asking Sylvi to set aside the platter she carried and come with me to comb my hair. I’d worn it loose today as Eirik liked best, falling to my waist.
From beyond the wooden partition of Eirik’s chamber, there came the sound of stamping feet and shouts of encouragement. I closed my eyes as she drew the carved bone through my hair, letting her attention soothe me.
“My congratulations to you, my lady,” Sylvi spoke softly as she worked. “And may the gods send you their blessings, and all the happiness a bride may wish for.”
I murmured my thanks, but no more—for I knew she referred to the getting of children. She’d guessed already, perhaps, at my condition, but I knew she would say nothing. Sylvi had always been adept at keeping secrets.
“’Tis beautiful you look. The bride’s scarlet is becoming on you.”
Sylvi had dyed the wool herself, steeping it in the bark of mountain alder, and the colour had sprung vivid. I touched her hand in gratitude. “You’ve always been kind, Sylvi—a good friend.”
She squeezed my fingers in return, then drew the comb again. She gathered back my hair from my shoulders, being careful not to dislodge the copper brooches clipped to the looped straps of my gown. I tilted my head back and absentmindedly fingered the adornment on my bodice. Not just any brooch, but the ivory pieces Asta had gifted to me before her death.
Asta.
I could still see her face so clearly.
Since the night of Gunnolf and Faline having fallen into the chasm upon the cliffs, the rumours of Asta’s spirit walking had ceased, and I was glad—for that other realm had no place in this.
Gunnolf’s body had washed ashore after some days, though Faline’s had never been found. With his sword and shield upon his chest, we’d sent the jarl to the next life upon the pyre of a burning ship.
I wondered if he and Asta had found the peace that had eluded them in this world. There had been too much death and too much unhappiness, but Eirik was right—we would begin anew.
We’d spoken our vows that morning, upon the shore of the fjord, alongside Helka and Leif, with all Svolvaen bearing witness to our marriage.
Helka would soon return to Bjorgyn with her new husband, there to enjoy further rites before Leif’s own people, but, until then, we’d celebrate together.
Eirik’s gaze had not wavered as he’d made his promise to keep me as a husband should—to care for me, feed and clothe me, protect me, and give me children. The last he’d spoken with a smile, which I’d returned even as my heart trembled, aware of the babe growing already in my womb.
With two pigs and a goat offered in sacrifice to Odin, the animals had been promptly carried off for roasting. The feast couldn’t begin in earnest until the meat was cooked. There had been merriment at the tables nonetheless, each set with the abundance of our mid-summer harvest, and every guest given a loaf baked in the shape of a sun wheel.
Though Eirik had desired our marriage without delay, we’d chosen to wait some seemly time, and to conduct our festivities to coincide withlithasblot—giving thanks to Urda for the bounty of Svolvaen’s lands. The weather had been kind in ripening the crops and, thanks to the algae I’d discovered in the cliff caves, we’d cured the ailment that had plagued our people. We were strong enough again to tend the fields. The first fruits were gathered, and the livestock were faring well.
“There. All done, and ’tis like a golden cloak, my lady.” Setting aside the comb, Sylvi knelt to retie my slippers. They, too, were new, crafted from softest leather and sewn to match my bridal garb.
It felt strange, still, to have others wait upon me. For so long, I’d been little more than a thrall—first as the plaything of Eirik, brought from the far western shores of my homeland for his pleasure, and then at the mercy of his brother, Gunnolf, in those dark days of Eirik’s absence. In name, I’d been ‘free’, but there had been few choices before me.
We were fortunate in having Alvis, the lad who tended our livestock, to fetch water and firewood. But I’d always helped Sylvi and Guðrún, for there was much work to be done—cleaning hare for the pot, kneading bread, churning milk for cheese and butter, smoking and salting meat and fish, and working at the loom. With the harvest safe, we’d be busy preserving for weeks to come. No matter my position as the jarl’s wife, I’d vowed that those duties would not change—though I’d be spared the more burdensome tasks.
