The priest produced a length of ribbon—half red, half blue, the colors of their houses woven together in a pattern that suggested neither dominated the other. He began wrapping it around their joined hands in the old way, the handfasting that predated both their faiths.
“Hjarta við hjarta,” the priest said haltingly, clearly uncomfortable with the Norse tongue. “Hönd við hönd.”
“Heart tae heart,” Aksel’s voice carried from somewhere behind Erik, warm with approval. “Hand tae hand. Bound together in this life and the next.”
“What the Crown has decreed,” the priest continued in Latin, relief evident in his voice, “let nay man tear asunder. What these vows have bound, let nay force attempt to break.” He straightened, meeting Erik’s eyes with something like defiance. “I declare ye husband and wife before God and king.”
For a heartbeat, the hall held its breath.
Then it erupted. Warriors roared their approval, fists pounding tables in rhythmic thunder that shook dust from the rafters. Ale horns raised, mead sloshing, and someone started beating a drum—primal and hypnotic, like a heartbeat made audible.
Erik pulled her close until barely a breath separated them.
“Breathe, little bird,” he whispered against her temple, voice rough.
“Iambreathin’.”
“Barely.” He turned them both to face the crowd, their bound hands raised high. “Me wife—Lady Claricia Thorsen of Skye!”
The noise redoubled—feet stamping until the floor shook, drums pounding, voices raised in songs she didn’t know but felt in her bones nonetheless.
Claricia felt the sound vibrate through her, felt the weight of what she’d just done settle across her shoulders like a cloak she wasn’t sure she had the strength to carry.
They were led to the high table and seated side by side. Platters appeared faster than she could track: roasted venison that fell apart at the touch of a knife, salmon so fresh it must have been swimming that morning, honeyed mead in silver cups, and dishes she couldn’t name.
“Eat,” Erik murmured, cutting a piece of venison and raising it to her lips. The intimate gesture made her flush, but she parted her lips and let him feed her.
“Are ye tryin’ tae fatten me up?” she asked once she’d swallowed.
His eyes gleamed with dark amusement. “Just makin’ sure ye have yer strength.” His voice dropped lower. “Ye’ll be needin’ it later.”
Heat pooled in her belly at the promise in those words. She reached for her wine to hide her reaction, taking bigger gulps than was probably wise.
Around them, the feast grew louder and wilder. The jarls had claimed seats nearby. Magnus was telling some impossible story about a sea battle that involved a kraken the size of a longship. Harald kept interrupting with increasingly technical corrections about actual kraken anatomy, his pale eyes glinting with suppressed amusement as Magnus grew more exasperated.
“—and I’m tellin’ye, their tentacles are strong enough tae crush a hull?—”
“Nae if the crew kent what they were daein’,” Harald interjected smoothly. “Kraken are ambush predators. They rely on surprise. A well-trained crew can?—”
“By Thor’s beard, Harald, I’m tryin’ tae tell astory, nae give a bloody biology lecture!”
Ivar, three cups deep and flushed, leaned toward them with a conspiratorial grin. “How long dae ye think before Magnus throws somethin’ at Harald’s head?”
“Before the next round of mead is served,” Erik replied without hesitation.
“I’ll take that wager,” Ragnar said—the first words Claricia had heard him speak all evening. His voice was surprisingly soft, at odds with his imposing frame.
Through it all, Erik remained by her side, his leg pressed against hers beneath the table, his thumb occasionally tracing patterns on her wrist where their hands were bound, his attention divided between his men and his new wife in a way that made her feel both watched and protected.
“The servants speak well of ye,” he said during a lull in conversation, his voice pitched for her ears alone. “Said yeworked alongside them yesterday, helpin’ with preparations. They were… impressed.”
She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “There was work tae be done. Someone had tae make sure the feast didnae turn intae a disaster.”
“Most highborn ladies would’ve stayed in their chambers, fancyin’ themselves above hard labor.”
“Well, I’m nae most ladies, am I?” The words came out sharper than intended, defensive.
But Erik’s expression softened. “Nay. Ye’re certainly nae.” His hand tightened on hers. “They said ye learned their names. Asked after their families. Made them feel like they mattered.”
