Now it was evening and Ulf and Björn had woken him earlier to go and bathe and dress in his finest clothing. Now that he was ready, he noticed them exchange glances more than once and wondered what they had planned. Nothing about the day was as it should really be. He was so far from home. Too far to follow many of the wedding traditions, but at least the most important aspect was in place—he had a bride. A bride who had given him an ally in this strange place and would, in time, give him sons.
His mouth curved. Aoife had not shrunk from his touch in the cart. Nor had she encouraged him, exactly. However, he knew he could make her crave his touch and was patient enough to take his time. After all, he had a lifetime in which to do so. However long that might turn out to be. No matter how the Britons saw him, he was not a barbarian. And he had seen them treat their own women in ways no Norse woman would tolerate. He drained his horn of mead before covering it with a hand when a thrall scurried over to refill it.
“Don’t want to risk not being at your best tonight?” Björn said, slapping him on the back and grinning lewdly.
Tormod rolled his eyes. Just then, Arne entered the hall through the main doors. The sight of his scars stirred the usual feelings of guilt in Tormod. Ulf nodded over at him, and Björn stood.
“Come,” said Björn. “Let the celebrations begin. You must claim the sword of your ancestors.”
“But…” Tormod began.
“You think we wouldn’t ensure our jarl was wed with all proper tradition?” Ulf said. “Ragna brought our grandfather’s sword with her from home and we have done our best, even if the gravesite does not contain any of your ancestors.”
Tormod was pleased Ulf seemed to be coming round to the idea of this marriage. Until Ulf added, “Even if the fact your wife’s family are not here worries some.”
“There are reasons for that.”
“I hope they are genuine,herre.”
“Ulf…” Tormod warned. It always disturbed him when any of his cousins addressed him as “herre.” It was a term of great respect amongst their people, used to address a superior. They had always been friends, equals, and although Tormod had aspired to become more, he knew his cousins were all different. Björn, the oldest, was a warrior at heart, not a leader. At least he was not a rival. Tormod would not want to risk their friendship for anything. They had been through too much together in their lives already.
Ulf, however, was a different story. Tormod knew if any of his friends ever challenged him, it would be Ulf—even though he was the youngest of his cousins.
And Arne… Now, Arne was a different story altogether. Tormod pushed away the guilt that accompanied thoughts of Arne.
Tormod followed the three of them out of the hall. So, he would get to claim the sword of his ancestors. He swallowed, not wanting to let his cousins see how much the gesture affected him.According to Christian rites, he and Aoife were already married, but the villagers would enjoy a proper Norse wedding. It would be as much a celebration of their new village as anything else, so that was what Tormod was determined to give them.
He knew the others were right to be suspicious of Lord Cadell’s motivations — he, himself, was — and although it startled him to admit it, he was not suspicious of Aoife’s. Yes, he felt she was holding something back and was determined to discover what it was. At the same time, he was sure she was exactly what she appeared to be — a young, scared bride, sent away to live amongst strangers for her family’s gain. It was a common enough situation in every society and she seemed to want to make the best of it. A wish he was happy to accommodate, within reason.
The four of them marched down the street to the edge of the village. There they stopped at a mound of fresh earth. Tormod looked questioningly at Björn, who shrugged.
“We had to improvise a little,” Björn said, handing him a spade.
“You didn’t bury anyone in here, did you?” Tormod asked as he dug the spade into the mound.
“No,” Björn said as Ulf and Arne chuckled. “Although…”
Arne elbowed him in the ribs and shook his head.
“What?” asked Tormod.
“Nothing,” said Björn. “Just something my mother mentioned. You can deal with it later. Go on.”
Tormod glared at him for a moment. He could tell from Björn’s expression the conversation was over, so he started to dig. After only three or four shovelfuls, metal clinked against metal. As soon as the hilt was uncovered, Tormod knelt and drew the sword. He stared at the careful construction and ornate decoration, which made it a valuable piece as well as an effective weapon.
“I had the blacksmith sharpen it,” said Björn, not taking his eyes from it as Tormod stood and raised it, watching as the sunlight glistened off the blade.
“Thank you,” he said to his cousins.
Ragna came towards them, smiling. “Your bride is ready,herre. And all are eager to begin the celebrations.” She looked at her sons.
“What is the matter?”
The three of them glanced at each other.
“We are concerned her family is not here,” Ragna eventually said. “Surely any parent wants to see their daughter wed, especially to a powerful man, and yet…”
“Ah,” said Tormod, then placed a hand on Ragna’s shoulder. “Is that your only worry, you and all the rest of the village?” He glanced at his cousins. “The dowry has been paid in full. And their own priest and Cadell’s steward witnessed the Christian rites.”
