Lord of Fire and Ice (15 page)

There was no way to avoid offering the blade to Brandr. It was tradition. Her first duty as a wife was to present her husband with a sword. Offering her father’s sword was ripe with meaning for a couple truly committing to each other. Since she still had her father’s weapon, it would be considered a grave insult to withhold it. Katla wondered if she’d be able to barter for her father’s blade back after this sham of a ceremony was ended.

If the blade had rested with Osvald, at least she’d have known where it was. Brandr wasn’t called “the Far-Traveled” for nothing. He might take her father’s sword to Jondal or Novgorod or Iceland. She’d never see it again. Or him.

“’Tis time, my lady,” Gerte said gently. “Your bridegroom awaits.”

Katla led the way out of the longhouse. Finn was waiting to escort her to her wedding. He cast her a lopsided grin that seemed vaguely apologetic.

“I see you’re wearing your best tunic and newest trousers,” she said as she took his arm. “Have a care, or people will think you’re turning into a terrible peacock.”

Finn wasn’t usually vain, but he’d taken special pains with his appearance this day, combing and braiding his hair in ornate plaits. He smelled of Katla’s lavender-scented soap, and his cheeks above his beard had been scrubbed so hard they were still ruddy. But Finn didn’t appreciate Katla’s drawing attention to his clean habits, lest others considered him effeminate. Norse men feared very little, but being thought less a man was at the very top of that short list.

“It’s tradition. I must be seen to do you honor, sister,” Finn said gruffly. Then he covered her hand with his and squeezed as they walked toward the circle of smooth stones. He leaned toward her and softened his tone. “I know you don’t think so, but I truly do want to see you happy.”

“Ha,” she said softly, conscious the eyes of all were upon them. “You’re more concerned about the bridal price than anything, and we both know it.”

“
Ja
, when I started this, that was true. Einar and Haukon have made some bad choices. All right, me too, come to that,” Finn admitted. “I needed to figure a way for us to get a fresh start. When Gormson first approached me, I thought I’d found it, but I didn’t know how I’d be able to convince you to take his offer. You never seem to need anybody.”

Katla blinked hard at that. If he only knew the times she felt lost and alone. So many people depended upon her that she didn’t have the luxury of wallowing in her own needs.

A large contingent followed Katla up the gentle slope, but most of the guests, her neighbors as well as members of the household, had gathered around the circle of stones, jostling for the best view. After all, it wasn’t every day a well-born lady wed a thrall. This was a wonderment worth an elbow or two to the ribs to secure the best vantage point.

The crowd parted before them, revealing the sacred space and Brandr Ulfson waiting for her in the center of it.

“I think you’ll find, if you give this a chance, that you’ve made a good bargain, sister,” Finn said.

Katla barely heard him. She caught sight of Brandr, flanked by Einar and Haukon with his arm still in a sling.

Probably
making
sure
he
doesn’t bolt until the deed is done.

No man had ever looked less like a slave. There was nothing subservient in his squared shoulders. His hands were fisted on his hips. He might have been a Norse nobleman from a previous generation when Viking was an honored occupation that brought wealth back to the fjords. She imagined him standing defiantly by the dragon head of his ship, sailing into the unknown with an uncowed spirit.

Brandr wasn’t dressed in finery, but she suspected he’d talked Finn into giving him back the clothes he’d been wearing when he was taken as a thrall. The tunic was of good quality, and the clothes fit his lean form well. His beard and hair had grown back considerably, the dark blond curling around his ears and framing his sensual mouth with gold. He still bore the hateful iron collar, but there was no deference in his eyes. A glint of something dark and hot sparked in them when his gaze caught Katla’s.

Her vision tunneled briefly, and she realized she was holding her breath. Tamping down the way her belly tingled, she stepped into the smooth circle with him, followed by Gerte, who flashed a toothy smile to all. The old woman relished her role as keeper of the ceremonial sword and was determined to make the most of it.

Once everyone quieted, Finn announced their intent to wed and stepped aside, signaling his consent to the union. Brandr recited the required vow of a husband in a strong, clear tone. Katla followed his lead as they exchanged rings. As she voiced the time-hallowed promises, part of her wished this was a marriage in truth, that Brandr wasn’t leaving as soon as the collar was struck from his neck.

Not that she expected to be embarrassed by her bridegroom’s sudden departure. She’d explain that the marriage was only to fulfill her bargain with Finn. Then she’d invite the assembled guests to feast in honor of her wiliness, lest any be disappointed after traveling for the sham wedding.

No new lord would change matters in her household. Life as they knew it would continue without disruption. She’d be seen as a woman who honored her word and yet managed to arrange matters to her own liking.

But when she looked up at Brandr, she wasn’t so sure a marriage in name only
was
to her liking. She was forced to avert her gaze lest he read the sudden longing in her. Then she turned and took the sword from Gerte.

“My father’s sword,” she said as she laid the naked blade across his upturned palms. “It belonged to a worthy man. Bear it with honor and strength. May it see you safe through many battles.”

Brandr brought the steel to his lips and pressed a quick kiss to the flat of the blade, as was customary. Then he handed the sword to Haukon, bypassing Einar, who was supposed to be his main attendant. Haukon beamed at being chosen to keep the bridal sword for him until the ceremony was completed.

Brandr reached over his shoulder and pulled out a long blade from its baldric. The steel had been repeatedly folded and fired, forged in faraway Damascus Finn had told her when he described the sword Brandr had worn when they captured him. Finn had returned it now, and it shimmered in the dying sunlight, hammered into brilliance by a master of the craft. The waves of its creation left an undulating pattern on the blade, glittering like living flame.

He dropped to one knee before her, point of the sword buried in the smooth dirt, both hands on the ornate hilt.

“I give you the edge of my sword, the strength of my body, the breath my life,” Brandr said, his gaze glued on the tips of her slippers peeping from beneath her hem. “If you have need of any of them, they are yours for the asking. And even if you don’t ask, they are still yours. From this day forward, you are my wife. I’ll defend what’s mine as long as there is a beating heart in my body.”

He looked up at her, something unexpected in his eyes. She’d seen that mad glint in a man’s gaze only when there was a cache of treasure to be had.

Katla swallowed hard. This wasn’t part of the rite. His words weren’t a declaration of love exactly, but it was a pledge of protection worthy of a mighty passion. She accepted the sword from him and laid it with reverence across Gerte’s cushion.

Brandr had promised her the protection of his body. The word of a man of valor was worth even more to her than the fabulous sword he pledged it on.

He hadn’t been required to offer such a pledge. Even though he was going to leave her, he’d come to her aid if she needed him. Her heart was strangely comforted by the thought.

Katla lifted her hand, surprised to find it unsteady, and signaled for the smith to step forward.

Brandr was led to a block of wood at the edge of the circle, where he knelt and presented his neck to the smith as if he were submitting to a headsman with an ax. After three ringing strikes of hammer and chisel, the iron collar’s bolt gave way, and Brandr rose a free man.

No one spoke. Seeing a thrall freed was a rare enough occurrence. Seeing him elevated to the status of lord of the household was almost unthinkable.

“Bet you feel lighter,” Finn said, obviously wanting to break the tension.

Brandr rubbed his neck, still staring at the collar that lay in pieces. “
Ja
, I do. Such a little thing, but it’s weightier on a man’s spirit than it looks.”

Then he strode with purpose over to Katla and scooped her up in his arms.

She yelped in surprise. This, too, wasn’t part of the rite. They were supposed to share a ritual kiss on the cheek, and then she and Brandr were to lead the procession back to the longhouse for the bridal feast.

Instead, Brandr twirled her around once, her long skirt flaring out like a sail seeking the wind. He kissed her right on the mouth. His lips were firm and sure, and when hers parted slightly, he was quick to invade her with his tongue, a beguiling summons. A stab of longing sliced through her when he finally released her mouth.

“The iron collar was a heavy burden, but Thor strike me blind if my new burden isn’t even heavier!” He tossed Katla up and caught her again while the crowd laughed and applauded his wit.

Then, still carrying her, he started back down the slope to the longhouse. All the guests fell in behind them, repeating the joke to those who’d been too far away to hear Brandr’s words. Someone started singing a familiar bawdy song, and the chant was picked up by the others.

“I’m supposed to walk,” Katla hissed in his ear.

“And yet it pleases me to carry you, wife.”

If he still meant to leave, this display would only muddy matters. “Brandr, put me down. You’re confusing everyone.”

Especially her.

“How so?”

“You’re acting like…like…”

“Like a newly married man? What a coincidence. That’s exactly what I am. Besides,” he said as he stopped before the big door to the longhouse, “it’s bad luck for a bride to trip over the threshold. If I hadn’t carried you down the hill, I’d just have to pick you up again now to carry you over.”

A few servants had remained behind to see to cooking of the feast. Inga looked up from her place by the central meal fire and nodded a greeting.

“All is in readiness, my lord,” she said softly.

Katla bristled and stiffened in Brandr’s arms. This was her household, not his.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, sensing her reaction. “Am I not master here now?”

Tradition proclaimed he was. A married woman didn’t retain control of anything unless the contract stipulated as much, and Finn had been willing to barter away all of her rights to her holding. Her only hope at maintaining an even keel for her people was for him to leave.

“You’re a master who doesn’t intend to stay,” she whispered as he set her lightly on her feet.

“I might if you asked me to,” he said as he led to her to the main table.

His promise was tempting, but she resisted the urge to beg him not to leave. When she married Osvald, she’d given him her whole heart, but he hadn’t returned the favor.

Need
someone, and you only give them an invitation to hurt you
, she reminded herself. She couldn’t need Brandr Ulfson.

Or at least she couldn’t let him know if she did.

Then the longhouse flooded with guests, and there was no more opportunity for private speech. Everyone cheered when Katla presented the bridal ale to Brandr and he proclaimed it the best he’d ever tasted. So many toasts were offered, she felt slightly light headed from too much drink. Katla was prone to moderation, but there were no limits to the merrymaking this night.

Inga played her pan flute. Otto Sturlson had the entire company complaining of pain in their sides over his hilarious recounting of the tale of Thor and Loki in the land of the Frost Giants. Otto even slipped a kerchief over his head to act out the part of the thunder god in woman’s guise.

Katla wiped away tears of mirth at the image of the virile god’s vain attempt at disguising himself as female.

She slanted a quick glance at Brandr. He seemed to be enjoying himself, as a bridegroom should.

Finally, men began banging their drinking horns on the tables and started a low chant, calling for the bedding to take place.

Gerte hustled Katla into her chamber. The old woman lit the lamp with her tinder and flint and then started stripping Katla for bed.

“No, Gerte, there’s no need.” She was certain Brandr would announce his plans to leave, voiding the marriage, and that would be that.

“There’s every need, mistress,” the old woman said as she removed Katla’s slightly wilted crown of woven wheat. “If we don’t get you naked and under the covers, the men will take it upon themselves to help your new husband do it.”

“They didn’t behave so when I wed Osvald.”

“They didn’t drink so free at that wedding either,” Gerte said. “Besides, Osvald was a hard man. He would’ve ordered a man whipped till he passed out if he laid a finger on you.”

“And you think the son of Ulf the Ruthless wouldn’t do the same?” She considered it more likely Brandr would punish the offender himself rather than ordering it done, but Katla felt obligated to defend the principle.

“Oh,
ja
, he’d try, but folk don’t respect him the same. Meaning no offense, I’m sure, but I don’t expect he’d be obeyed if he ordered more than a refill of his mead bowl.” Gerte’s bony fingers worked the catches on Katla’s brooches and pulled the tunic over her head. “Wasn’t he naught but a thrall till this night?”

Gerte’s words grated Katla’s soul. “Brandr is the son of a
jarl
and a captain of the Varangian Guard. He wasn’t born a thrall, you know.”

“
Ja
, so he says, but we’ve all seen the iron on his neck. We’ve naught but his word for the rest.”

Gerte pulled back the bedding and waved her over.

“Quick, my lady, the men will be here soon. Then once they see the pair of you settled, you and your man will have the whole night together,” Gerte said. “Of course, in my day, the men stayed to see the bride deflowered, just to make sure the knot was tied good and proper.”

Katla’s brows arched in surprise.

“It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. My husband kept me covered up while he did the deed. But don’t you worry your head. Those days are past, and it’s not as if you’re a green maid. They’ll leave as soon as your husband orders them out.” Gerte frowned, obviously recalling her previous comment about whether the word of a former thrall would be obeyed. “I hope.”

Then she lifted her bony hands in a gesture that consigned the coming events to the lap of the gods, and slipped out of Katla’s chamber.

Bridal night or not, Katla wasn’t about to face a drunken mob bare as a peeled twig. She hopped out of bed, donned a thin night shift, and scrambled back under the covers as the door to her chamber opened.