to becume þin rice
gewurþe ðin willa
on eorðan swa swa on heofonum.
urne gedæghwamlican hlaf syle us todæg
and forgyf us ure gyltas
swa swa we forgyfað urum gyltendum
and ne gelæd þu us on costnunge
ac alys us of yfele soþlice
“Amen.”
They all raised their heads and glanced at each other, not quite certain what should happen next.
“May God add His blessing on this marriage,” Martha said, her voice as confident as any Priest’s blessing. She turned first to Brighit. “You may kiss your husband.” Then to Peter. “And you may kiss your wife.”
Tadhg stepped away from the couple as a symbol of his acceptance of the joining. He stood beside the Nuns, glancing between them with a smile.
Peter wrapped his arms around Brighit and pulled her against him with great reverence. He searched her face, then lowered his lips to hers. She closed her eyes and allowed the touch of her husband’s lips, with its radiant heat, to spread throughout her body.
When he released her, Brighit’s eyes fluttered open and she smiled. “I love you.”
Those around them erupted into cheering but the look of shock on Peter’s face made her breath catch. When she’d closed her eyes, she decided she would tell him how she felt. She expected nothing in return but wanted there to be truth in their marriage.
“The feast awaits,” Martha announced then led the way out of the chapel.
The others surrounded Brighit and Peter, ushering them into the Great Hall which had been transformed. Its high ceiling was decorated with the greens of the forest. The trestle tables covered with fall leaves of every hue. The table that ran along one side was near to overflowing with a roasted pig, a pheasant stuffed with a chicken which was stuffed with a smaller hen, and three different salted fish. Along with orange, green, and red fruits which they must have stolen from their winter stores, and winter vegetables of every shape and size. Sweets lined one end with liquid libations of mead, beer, and cider lining the other.
At the head table, which was covered with a white linen cloth, sat a great pot set right in the middle, still steaming.
“How did you possibly manage all this?” Brighit couldn’t believe what she saw around her.
“You helped.” Martha smiled.
“When did I help?”
Martha walked her to the head table so she could look inside the heavy pot.
“Soup!” Brighit cried out then hugged Martha tightly.
“It had been so long that we had anything to celebrate here that we started it all upon your arrival. It was only readied this morning.” Martha said.
Brighit turned to Peter, beaming. “This soup was my first duty here.”
“And the last,” Ruth offered.
The sudden tightness in Brighit’s chest felt like she’d had too many frights. One gasp followed by another, followed by another, and she couldn’t exhale.
“Greetings.”
Mort stood in the doorway dressed for battle. Chain mail covered his body. A helmet tucked under his arm. A look of confusion flashed across his face and then his eyes met Peter’s. He lifted a hand then crossed the room with great comportment, his sword hanging from his waist, a dagger tucked into his leather gauntlet.
Peter perused his attire, a horn of mead in his grip. “Mort, why the change in clothing? Hopefully you haven’t dressed so on our account. Although the gesture is certainly appreciated.”
