“I don’t like this man Rollo.”
“Taby, one day you will be a man and a very important man at that, even if you don’t become the duke of Normandy. When that day comes, why, I will bow down before you and kiss your hand. If you are not pleased with me, you can make me eat with the pigs. What do you think of that?”
“I know you, Merrik. You love me but you wouldn’t ever want to bow down to me or anyone.”
Merrik ran his fingers through Taby’s hair, a rich, thick thatch of deep reddish brown. He was a beautiful child. He would be a handsome man. He felt pain deep and deeper still. Still, it was right that the child take his place, that he become the man he was meant to be. After all, Merrik thought, he had the sister. He said, “It won’t be for a while yet. First your sister will wed with me and then I will go see your uncle Rollo. Perhaps I will also meet your cousin, William Longsword. Laren tells me she trusts him and that he is honorable. How old is he, Laren?”
“William is only twenty-two, nay, now he is twenty-five, about your age, Merrik.”
“And he has been wedded for five years?”
“Aye. Heirs are important.”
Taby said, scuffing the toe of his leather shoe in the hard-packed earthen floor, “I don’t remember him, Laren. I don’t remember this Rollo either. I don’t want you to go to him, Merrik. If he doesn’t like you will he stick his sword in your stomach?”
“I trust not. Why would he when I will come to tell him our boy is alive and well?”
Taby was silent then. He looked at Laren and smiled. “Do you love Merrik, Laren? As much as you love me?”
“Oh yes, Taby.” She never hesitated, not for an instant, nor did she look at Merrik.
“All right,” Taby said and pulled out of Merrik’s arms. He didn’t look back, merely ran to where Kenna and several other boys were playing with feather-stuffed leather balls and making figures out of strings.
“Do you really, Laren?”
She still didn’t look at him. “It is what I told Taby.”
“Will you tell me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It will give you power over me.”
He smiled. “I already have sufficient power over you. I have no need of more.”
“You bray like a goat, Merrik, and you grin shamelessly whilst you do it. I will help Sarla. We will be wedded this afternoon, forget you not.”
“Goats don’t bray, only asses. Is that what you believe me to be, Laren?”
“Nay, you are a man, Merrik.”
“Then why are you holding your hand over your mouth? To keep your laughter behind your teeth? Don’t answer me more, woman. Think about tonight, for then I will take you again. I have missed holding you at night, Laren.”
“It is right and proper that you miss me. It is also right and proper that you not practice on Caylis or Megot. I want you to lie in the bed and think about me. Only me.”
“I cannot even think of Caylis or Megot?” He laughed. He looked at her, then laughed harder. Then he left the longhouse, shaking his head.
The ceremony was brief and in the Viking tradition. All the men stood beside and behind Merrik, the women beside and behind Laren. All wore their finest clothing and jewelry, the women in vivid linen gowns of scarlet, made from oak gall, bright blue, made from woad dyeing, and Laren’s own gown, a beautiful saffron linen made from the bulbs of autumn crocus and presented to her by the women of Malverne. Two freewomen of Malverne knew how to dye wool and linen to perfection and provided all the colored cloth required. Laren had never seen such beautiful colors, even at the court of her uncle Rollo. She wore a woven crown of white daisies. Her hair seemed even redder under the early afternoon sun, shining like a sunset curling nearly to her shoulders.
Taby stood beside Merrik, his small hand tucked securely in Merrik’s. He was scrubbed clean, his face shining, his eyes bright. He was no longer thin. Just to look at him made Laren want to cry and to laugh with the relief and joy of it.
Merrik looked at her and smiled. He took a step toward her. He held out his other hand and she put hers in it. He looked at all his men, then the women and children. He said in a loud clear voice, “There has been much sorrow at Malverne, with the passing of Harald and Tora, and the violent death of Erik, my brother. There has been much change as well. I know it is difficult for you to accept me as the lord of Malverne. I hope that in time you will come to do so easily. Today I take this woman to be my wife. She is the niece of the great Rollo, but her life is here now, with me, with all of you.” He paused a moment, then released Taby’s hand and took both of hers.
“Laren, daughter of Hallad and niece of Rollo of Normandy, this day, before our gods, I take you as my wife. I pray to Freya to grant us long life and many children. I pray to Odin All-Father to see that we keep honor and good faith between us. I defend you with my strength and my sword. All that I own is now yours as well. I will be your husband in all seasons and I will be with you until breath leaves my body.”
Laren had spent several hours preparing what she would say. She hadn’t told anyone that she was a Christian, for Rollo had agreed to accept the faith when he had made the treaty with King Charles, and that included all his family with him. She realized clearly now that Taby would be raised a Christian and she would become a Viking woman in all ways.
So she had thought of what a Viking woman would say. Oddly enough when she was spinning a tale, she knew no fear, only excitement, but now she was nervous, her mouth dry. She was afraid she would shame him, for although she knew the names of most of the Viking gods, she wasn’t certain which ones were most important at a wedding. She looked up at him and realized that he knew of her fear, even though he couldn’t know its cause. He smiled at her and squeezed her hand. Still, she was silent. He said quietly, “Vow that you will send me to the pig byre if I dare look at another woman.”
She laughed, a pure rich sound. She said then, “I vow to hold you close to me, Merrik, lord of Malverne. I vow to defend you with voice and deed, and to cleave to you on days of darkness as well as on days of joy. This I promise before all our people and before our gods.”
“You did well,” he said, pulling her to him. “Once I got your tongue to move again. Now you must kiss me.”
He lifted her to her tiptoes and kissed her mouth. She heard the men and women cheering, even heard Taby’s voice calling out. She felt his warmth and his strength and wondered what would happen to them.
He released her, but held her a moment longer, simply looking down at her. Then he called out, “Let us go to the feasting now.”
A dozen long tables had been set outside, each one holding platters of boar steaks, baked cod and herring smothered in cloudberries, and salmon in boiled maple leaves, stacked loaves of rye bread and flatbread, pots of cabbage, peas, sliced apples, roasted onions. There were barrels of mead and barley beer, even dark rich red wine from the Rhineland. The women had done well, more than well, really, and Sarla stood there smiling at her, knowing that she was overcome with it all.
Laren, who had held steady and strong for two years, looked at all the men and women around her, at the magnificent tables of food, and finally at her new husband. She lowered her head and sobbed into her hands.
Merrik chuckled as he pulled her tightly against him. “Aye, ’tis too much, isn’t it? Our people are good. This is now your home and this is your welcome.”
She hiccuped and raised her head and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands.
Merrik turned to shouts of “Let us drink to the bride and groom!”
“Hear, hear!”
It was nearly sunset. The wedding feast, begun hours before, had long since lost its respectable and inspiring beginnings. It was still joyous though, Laren thought, too joyous, as she watched Merrik and Oleg break up another fight. He’d told her to eat and drink lightly; it was their duty to watch all their people drink themselves into a stupor, and when they fought instead, it was their duty t
o keep the men from killing each other in their drunkenness. Vikings, he remarked, liked their celebrations boisterous.
Laren ate a piece of goat cheese. It was tart, even sour, and she quickly drank down some warm ale. She felt a lurch of dizziness and grinned down at her empty cup. She felt wonderful. She looked toward Merrik who’d pulled Roran off Eller, the small man whose clothes she’d worn on their way home. Home, she thought, looking around. She heard Merrik laugh, saw him lift Roran into the air and toss him toward Old Firren, who just ducked and watched him fall into a mess of meat bones.
He was a beautiful man, she thought. A good man. She watched him walk to a group of children whose leader was Kenna. He was stumbling about, aping his elders, and the children were laughing and trying to guess which man it was he was pretending to be.
She laughed when Sarla poured her another glass of ale.
“Merrik said I should remain sober, that it was very nearly a law, for we were responsible to see that no one got a broken head.”
“I will be vigilant for you,” Sarla said.
“And I as well,” said Cleve, who stood behind Sarla.
For a moment, Laren saw them as one. She shook her head, but still, they were so close to each other that they seemed to merge. She said slowly, “When will you wed?”
She watched them start, then stare at each other, consternation on their faces, at least she thought it was consternation. She drank a bit more ale. “Cleve saved me. He is a fine man.”
“I know,” Sarla said. “Please, Laren, you mustn’t speak of it. Erik is still too close, he still preys too much on my mind and on Cleve’s. Someone killed him. It wasn’t you nor was it Cleve or me. But it was someone and that person is here, close to us. I’m afraid.”
Cleve took her arm and gently squeezed it. “Hush, Sarla, it is Laren’s wedding day. We will find out who killed Erik and then we will be free. At least none believe it to be Laren, not with her royal birth. Hush now, sweeting, hush.”
But who did kill Erik? Laren sipped at her ale and stared at the men and women who were shouting at each other, telling jests that had no meaning, not now, after hours of drinking, kissing and caressing each other, all in all, oblivious of the world around them. She looked at Ileria, the weaver, so drunk she was just staring into a plate of stewed fish, just staring, saying nothing, doing nothing. And there were Caylis and Megot, both with two of Erik’s men. The men were young and comely, as were most Vikings, their faces flushed with too much mead.
She felt warm breath in her ear. “I thought I told you that it was your duty to keep your wits together.”
She turned her head, found herself an inch from his face, and grinned. “I fear I have drunk too much ale, Merrik.”
“Am I to bed a drunken wife?”
“Oh dear, I better stop,” she said, tipped up the cup and downed the rest of the ale.
Merrik laughed at her and called out, “Behold your influence. My bride of four hours can barely hold herself straight. What am I to do?”
Oleg shouted, “Have her tell us a story! ’Twill sober her wits!”
“Aye, a tale, a tale!”
“Well, Laren, are you able?”
“A story,” she said, as if marveling that such a thing could possibly exist. “Aye, a story.” She stood then, stepped onto the bench, then up onto the wooden table. “Attend me,” she shouted. “A story you want, a story you will have!”
There was cheering mixed with an equal measure of laughter.
“She’ll fall and break her leg!”
“Better than her tongue. I want stories from her, many more stories!”
Laren stamped her foot and nearly slid off the table on a piece of oatcake. Merrik was there to steady her, clasping her by her knees to hold her steady. “Go ahead, I’ve got you now,” he said.
She tried for some dignity, failed, and said on a giggle, “I will tell you about Fromm and Cardle, two men who became the husbands of sisters in a royal family, Helga and Ferlain. Fromm was a bully and vicious, Cardle was a man who lived for learning, a man not really of this world. Helga saw immediately that her groom, Fromm, would be easily led by her, even though he was mean and petty. She told Ferlain to measure the strength of her groom, Cardle, and so Ferlain did and discovered there wasn’t all that much strength there to measure. Then they met in the tower of the king’s fortress and compared what they’d learned. They decided that through their husbands, they would be able to take over the kingdom. Unfortunately they first had to rid themselves of the king’s heir, but he was grown and was away from the city. Ah, but there was their little half brother named Ninian and he was next in line after the king’s son. Surely they could begin by ridding themselves of Ninian.
“But this wasn’t so easily done, for little Ninian had a magic friend.”
Laren stopped, frowned, then demanded, “More ale for the skald, if you please, husband. My wits are near parched dry of words.”
Merrik gave her a full cup of ale, then clasped her legs again to keep her steady.
“What happened to the husbands?” Oleg called out. “Come along, Laren, tell us before your wits take flight into oblivion.”
“Who was Ninian’s magic friend?”
She frowned from her height on the table at Oleg and then at Bartha, a big-bosomed woman who had dyed the beautiful saffron gown Laren wore. “Ninian’s magic friend was a Viking warrior who appeared only when the child was in danger. He was as cunning, as wild, as fearless, as a berserker. He wore bearskins like a berserker, but he didn’t howl or scream out to the gods, or roll his eyes when he met an enemy. No, the Viking warrior was silent as a spirit. Once, when Ninian had lost his nurse in the forest close by the king’s fortress, a wolf attacked him. The Viking warrior appeared as if spun from the smoke from a fire, tossed Ninian up onto a tree branch, and turned to face the leaping wolf. He gutted the wolf with his sword. Then, slowly, the warrior turned to the child and said, ‘You may be the king one day. I was sent to keep you safe. Come down now and go back to the fortress. Your nurse is frantic with worry for you.’
“He lifted Ninian back to the ground, patted the child’s shoulder, and then he just seemed to fade into the thick green trees. One moment he was there—solid and strong as the oak trunk, a huge man, his sword covered with the wolf’s blood—and the next moment, he was gone, simply disappeared. The child stood there, not understanding, but not afraid.
“A dozen soldiers burst into the small clearing. They saw the dead wolf, saw the child standing over it, and they were struck dumb.
“And thus the legend began of Ninian, the king’s nephew, who, when still a small child, killed a wolf. That the wolf had been gutted with a sword was dismissed and forgotten. The more thoughtful knew that the child couldn’t have lifted a sword, much less smote the wolf a killing blow. The king marveled at this small being. The small being himself marveled. He tried to tell his nurse of the Viking warrior, but she was in no mood to believe that a spirit could have slain the wolf. No, she would prefer Ninian to be the magic one, the special one, the one chosen by the gods to follow the king.
“The sisters decided they would kill the child. They didn’t believe he killed the wolf, for Helga had powers herself, and she had watched Ninian, and seen none in him. Thus they convinced themselves that a man had come along, seen the child was in danger, killed the wolf, then quickly left before the soldiers came.
“Aye, they would kill the boy. Helga cast a spell in her tower room. She called up the demons of fire and ice and desert sands. She bade them use their powers to rid them of the child. The demon of fire appeared and said, ‘I cannot kill the boy. He is sworn protection by one far more powerful than I. Leave him alone.’
“Helga cursed him and sent him back into the netherworld. She called up the demon of ice. He said, ‘I cannot kill the boy. A higher power than I guards him. Leave him alone.’
“Helga still would not accept the demons’ words. She called forth the demon of the desert sands. He
said, ‘You are a fool, woman, to call up the coward demons of fire and ice before you called me. You wish me to kill the child. I will kill him and I will enjoy it. Then you will be in my debt.’
“The demon disappeared in a swirl of thick black smoke. Helga rejoiced and told her sister that the child would soon be dead. They told their husbands. They all waited. One day Ninian was found missing. The king and all his soldiers couldn’t find him. Everyone in the land searched for the child, but he wasn’t to be found. He was gone, disappeared with no trace.”
Laren looked down at Merrik and said, “I am going to be sick.” She jumped down, trusting him to catch her, then broke away from him and ran through the open palisade doors and into the bushes around the path.
Oleg slapped Merrik on his back. “Perhaps she will not be groaning overmuch this night or racing from your bed to be sick. There is still hope, Merrik.”
Merrik grunted. “Perhaps, but give me leave to doubt it. She will be very unhappy on the morrow.”
“I want to know what happened to Ninian,” Oleg called.
“Aye,” Roran yelled out, “I want to know who the Viking warrior was.”
“I hope she doesn’t puke away the story with her guts,” Bartha said, “else I won’t dye her another gown.”
“And I,” Merrik said, gazing through the open gates of the palisade, “wonder if my bride will even remember the Viking warrior or me on the morrow.”
“With all that royal blood,” Old Firren said, and then spat, “surely she can recover quickly from the ale.”
And she did. It was near to midnight when Merrik, convinced she was back to herself again, took her hand and raised her from the bench. He said to all his very drunk people, “There is no rain coming, for Eller hasn’t smelled anything.”