by Sandra Hill
“Hear ye, hear ye, all who gather here at Haukshire to witness the wedding of Thorkel Ivarsson and Signe Elsedottir.” His people thankfully went silent. Actually, he’d warned Frida not to send in any ale until the end of the ceremony to forestall any talking or ribald remarks.
First, Hauk took the goblet of wine into his hands and said, “Take ye this wine which represents the nectar of Odin’s Well of Knowledge. May ye have the wisdom to deal with each other with love tempered with patience.”
Each of them took a sip, Thorkel’s deeper than warranted, causing some men in the crowd to complain, “Hey, where’s ours?” Hauk placed the goblet back on the table, then picked up the hammer which he handed to Thorkel and directed him with a motion of his head to hit the rock which sat on the table, announcing aloud, “With this hammer of Thor, the mighty Mjollnir, will you, Thorkel, protect your wife and crush her enemies?”
Thorkel nodded and hit the stone. Much harder than needed, causing shards to fly everywhere.
Hauk just raised his eyebrows at his friend, whose eyes twinkled with mischief, and continued, “With these seeds may Frey, god of fertility and prosperity, bless your marriage with babes aplenty and much riches.” Without thinking, Hauk tossed the entire bowl of seeds at the two of them, causing Thorkel to spit out a few that landed in his mouth. But then, Thorkel grinned at Signe and murmured, “Making babes? I cannot wait.”
Signe blushed prettily and told Thorkel to hush.
Along the same theme, Hauk picked up Thorkel’s short sword and handed it to him, saying, “From this day forward, Thorkel, will your shield cover your wife, will her foe become your foe?”
“They will,” Thorkel said solemnly, sheathing his weapon to his side.
“Now, give me your hands,” Hauk directed, and, taking the small knife off the table, he made a slight slit on each of their wrists. As the blood beaded a line on their skin, he used the leather thong to tie their hands together loosely, wrist to wrist, and pronounced, “With this mingling of your blood, do you, Thorkel, pledge your troth to Signe as your wife?”
“I do,” Thorkel said, and winked at Signe.
“And do you, Signe, pledge your troth taking Thorkel as your wedded husband?”
“I do,” Signe said, catching Thorkel’s eyes with seriousness, which was more touching than any additional words they might have said.
“With my authority as jarl of Haukshire, and representative of the lawspeaker, I do pronounce you man and wife,” Hauk said then.
The couple smiled at one another, then kissed, to the cheering of the crowd. Pitchers of ale had been carried in during this final part of the ritual, and cups were raised with cheers and toasts of “Skol!” and “Good Wishes” and several bits of marital advice that caused women in the hall to blush and slap their mates.
Signe and Thorkel had agreed ahead of time not to do a bride-running in this confined space, despite Hauk’s attempt to do so with Kirstin that one time.
Of course, that prompted Hauk to think about his own wedding, which was much different than this one. No Norse rituals, or anything like that. Had Kirstin felt cheated by that lack of ceremony? Or had the lack of ritual given her an excuse to dismiss theirs as less than a real marriage? Is that why she found it so easy to leave?
Hauk shook his head to clear it and directed several housecarls to clear the table while Frida supervised the carrying in of a board the size of a door, holding the roasted half of a reindeer, including the head, two of the legs, and the tail. The crowd cheered. Efrim, Frida’s husband, raised a cleaver and large knife in the air and began to carve the roast. This marked the beginning of the marriage feast.
Meanwhile, platters holding slices and hunks of the other half of the deer were being carried by maids, first to the high table, and then laid out throughout the hall. The parade of maids and housecarls from kitchen to hall was continuous, back and forth, for almost an hour, with Frida calling out orders like a Viking chieftain. There were horseradish and mustard sauces for the venison, manchet bread, mashed turnips, beets, carrots, bitter greens, pickles, boiled hen and quail eggs, and sweet honey cakes.
Thorkel and Signe walked around the hall, exchanging words with men and women here and there, before going to the high dais where a place had been set for them in the center of the table. Ingolf and his family sat on their one side, with Hauk, Egil, and Bjorn on the other.
Everything went smoothly after that. More than one person, especially the old ones, told Hauk it was the best fellowship Haukshire had offered in many a year, possibly not since his grandsire’s day. They thanked him profusely for his leadership.
After the meal, some of them exchanged seats and Hauk found himself sitting between Ingolf and his wife, while Bjorn was entertaining the two daughters. Egil snuck off to drink with some companions and no doubt share exaggerated battle stories.
Hauk didn’t trust Ingolf completely, but he appeared to be offering a neighborly hand of peace. For the time being, leastways. They talked of shared interests…hunting, fishing, a-Viking exploits and future plans, gossip of King Olaf’s court and Sweyn’s reportedly having been named king of all the Saxon lands. Which of course made him think of Kirstin once again, for she had predicted just such a fate for Sweyn. He had to wonder if Sweyn’s untimely death would follow also, as she’d foretold. Of course, he did not mention that to Ingolf, who, thankfully, didn’t inquire about his absent wife at all, probably having been warned by others that it was a sore subject.
Soon, Ingolf’s wife began to whine to her husband about being overtired, and the two of them made for their assigned bedchamber, along with their daughters. It must be close to midnight. Thorkel and Signe had departed hours ago. Which left just him and Bjorn. Hauk let loose with a jaw-cracking yawn. It had been an especially long day. But neither he nor Bjorn could leave until everyone else had departed, since the tables would have to be moved to open the bed closets.
“So, you have taken a liking for Ingolf’s daughters?” he inquired.
“What? I was just talking to them,” a red-faced Bjorn replied, as if Hauk had accused him of some more forward activity.
“I would hope so! That all you did was talk,” Hauk teased. “I would not like it to be said that you were playing lewd fingers under the table with girls of noble birth.”
“Lewd…lewd fingers!” Bjorn sputtered. “I do not even know what that means.
“It is a talent most Vikings develop,” Hauk said, waggling his fingers, telling him it was best to practice, perchance on himself. Then he laughed, which left Bjorn to wonder if he was serious or not.
But Bjorn got the last “word” in later, after having realized that his father had made mock of him, when they crawled into a bed closet together. Apparently Bjorn had overindulged in boiled eggs resulting in his breaking wind, repeatedly, with the most foul fumes, even as he slept…and snored loudly! It got so bad—the smell and the noise—that Hauk had to find another place to sleep, and the only space available was atop some fabric and furs in his treasure room. Which turned out to be just fine, more comfortable than a bed closet, for a certainty, with or without Bjorn.
Of course, as often happened, once he lay his head down, exhausted as he was, he was no longer tired. Instead, his mind wandered in the quiet, and Hauk could not keep his thoughts from returning to Kirstin.
Tomorrow was the first of the Jul days, comparable to the Christmas Day that the papists celebrated to mark the birth of their Jesus Christ. Tonight was their Christmas Eve.
Would Kirstin be attending Midnight Mass with her family, as she’d once described the traditions in her time?
Would they all…the numerous members of her extended family, be converging on the vineyard family estate tomorrow…well, this morning, considering the late hour?
Would they be feasting in their own way? What foods would they serve in that new land? Wine, of course, but would there be mead, as well, and roast boar for the day itself? Had they abandoned all Norse Jul traditions?
There would undoubtedly be laughter and teasing and exchanging of gifts. Children screeching. Music. The raucous noises of a happy family.
Would she think of me, even once?
Or am I as forgotten as the ease with which she left?
Tsk, tsk, tsk! said that voice in his head, which had been absent of late. Oh, you of little faith!
What? What do you mean?
Some Vikings are thick as mud, the voice said, as if it was speaking to some other celestial being, then laughed.
Hauk decided he must be half asleep and this must be some kind of half dream, or else, more likely, it was the result of his imbibing too much ale and mead and wine this night.
As long as he was already acting demented, Hauk decided to go one step further and whispered, “Good night, Kirstin, wherever you are.” Tomorrow he might wish her bad dreams or nightmares when his resentments against her returned, but for tonight, he sighed and repeated, “Good night, wife.”
He thought he heard a sigh in his head, too. Was it a sign…a celestial sign?
Chapter 23
Even the longest trips start with one step…
“Good night, Kirstin, wherever you are.”
Kirstin heard Hauk’s voice clear as if he lay beside her, and she jackknifed into a sitting position in her bed at Blue Dragon. Although she’d been asleep, she hadn’t been dreaming of him; so, where had the voice come from?
She lay back down and closed her eyes, wishing to call up his image, either in her memory, or in a dream, but there was nothing, except she thought she detected a repeat, in a hushed whisper, “Good night, wife.”
Is it a sign?
Or is it just desperation that I’m looking for signs in everything?
She was planning on trying to go back to Haukshire in the morning, and she was unsure whether it was the right thing to do, or the right place, or the right time. A sign would be welcome to let her know she was on the path God wanted her to be on.
Speaking…rather, thinking, of God, Kirstin had gone to Midnight Mass with her father and Angela earlier tonight. During the entire religious service, her distracted thoughts kept going to Hauk and her possible return to him, constantly praying, “Please, God, if it be thy will, help me with my journey.”
Unable to get back to sleep, Kirstin gave up after a while and walked over to the guest bedroom, tiptoeing and opening and closing the doors carefully so as not to awaken her father and Angela. They’d all been up much too late, and it was now only four a.m.
The first thing that caught her attention on entering the guest room, after she turned on the lamp, was the long blue cloak and the medieval-style, silver gown trimmed with red and green holiday colors which hung outside the closet door. The first was a gift from Madrene, the latter being one of the gowns Kirstin used in her Nordic presentations, although it wasn’t strictly of a Norse style, which favored open-sided aprons over long-sleeved gunnas, but more Saxon medieval.
During the past two weeks, Kirstin had been gathering all the items from her fantasy list, things she wanted to take with her. Somehow, she knew, or sensed that she couldn’t take anything too heavy. Even so, the pile on the bed had grown and grown. She hadn’t told her family, except for her father, what she planned, not wanting to make a fuss with tearful farewells, and she hoped to be gone this morning, long before any of them arrived for Christmas dinner.
Madrene had suspected what she was up to, though. The two of them had always been close that way, almost like twins, a connection of shared feelings. In any case, Madrene, who wouldn’t be coming to Blue Dragon for Christmas since her husband, as well as Torolf and Hamr, were unable to get out of duty at the Coronado compound, had shown up suddenly yesterday.
“You know?” Kirstin had asked her.
Madrene had nodded. “When?”
“Tomorrow. Christmas morning. Hopefully.”
Madrene, who’d been carrying a pink garment bag, said, “Show me what you’re taking.”
They’d gone up to the guest room where Madrene handed her the garment bag.
Kirstin had raised her eyebrows in question.
“An early Christmas gift.”
It was a long, royal blue velvet, white fur-lined cloak with a hood. Gorgeous.
“Good Lord! Where did you get this?”
“One of those motion picture wardrobe shops. You know, the charity thrift shops that sell used costumes. I think this must have been worn by some Disney princess.”
Kirstin had to laugh. “Madrene! I am so not the princess type.” Even so, she wrapped herself in its lushness, covering her jeans and white T-shirt, and rubbed her face against the softness.
“Yeah, but you’ll need something warm to cover you.”
“It must have been expensive,” Kirstin said, fingering the lush velvet.
“Nah! That’s fake fur, in case you haven’t noticed. And the hem is frayed.”
“Actually, the cloak will come in handy for carrying all this crap I’m taking with me.” Kirstin pointed to the items on the bed. “I had been thinking I would have to carry all this in some kind of messenger bag, strapped across my chest, but maybe I can put each of them in separate Ziplock bags and safety-pin them to the inside of the cloak.”
“That might work. Is that what you’re going to wear?” Madrene asked, looking at the full-length gown hanging on the closet door. When Kirstin nodded, Madrene said, “The cloak will match your eyes, and the gown will match your hair. Perfect!”
“Unfortunately, I’ll have to wear boots or athletic shoes. No Cinderella high heels, or even ballet slippers, considering the fact that there’s probably snow on the ground there.”
Madrene shrugged. “Needs must.”
“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” Kirstin inquired as she hung up the cloak.
“I don’t know.” Madrene pondered the question, then added, “If it were me, and Ian were back there, I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment.”
Well, that was answer enough for Kirstin.
They both had tears in their eyes when they hugged before Madrene drove away a short time later.
There were also tears in her father’s eyes, and tears streaming down Angela’s face, when Kirstin left them in the kitchen at eight a.m. the next morning. She had refused to have them accompany her to the site by the pond where she’d returned nine weeks ago, and warned them not to come checking on her, at least not until later. She didn’t know how long it would take, if it even worked.
As she trudged across the lawn, her cloak weighed her down even more than she’d expected, especially when her father had insisted on her taking a half dozen grapevines wrapped in wet paper towels inside a giant Ziplock bag. In the end, he’d even shoved a palm-sized, metal flashlight in her hand, in case it was dark where she landed.
It wasn’t just her cloak that weighed her down. Her heart was heavy with both sadness, knowing all those she was leaving behind, but also with hope for what awaited her back at Haukshire.
When she got to the pond, she sat on a rock and arranged her cloak around her. Closing her eyes, she tucked the small flashlight under the rounded neckline of her gown, under her bra, then crossed her arms and clasped the arm rings, trying to picture the place at Haukshire where her time travel occurred. The flat mossy ground. The remnants of summer flowers, drying or dead. The fjord a short distance away.
Nothing happened.
She closed her eyes and tried again.
Again nothing.
She checked her watch. Only a half hour had passed. And she realized that she hadn’t visited the bathroom before coming out here. So, trudging back up the lawn to the house, she saw her father and Angela peeking out the window, apparently heeding her warning not to come looking for her.
“Sorry. Have to pee,” she said to the two of them, gaping at her silently as she passed by. It was a chore taking off the heavy cloak, and lifting the long gown, but finally she was done and trudging across the lawn again. Her father and step
mother hadn’t said a word as she passed.
It was past ten o’clock when she resumed her position by the pond. She yawned, then yawned again, and no wonder. She hadn’t slept much at all last night. She should have had a cup of coffee. A half hour more and many, many yawns, found Kirstin back at the house asking Angela for a cup of black coffee. She chugged it down quickly, even though she wasn’t particularly fond of the beverage, and definitely not without sugar or milk.
“Maybe you should wait for another day,” her father suggested when she set the empty cup on the counter.
“No, no! It took me long enough to decide to do this. I can’t just stop.”
“How long…” her father started to ask, but Angela nudged him with an elbow, whispering, “Shhh.”
Thus it was almost noon when Kirstin found herself back by the pond. This time she knelt and closed her eyes, saying a prayer, except her hands were holding onto the arm rings, instead of pressing them together in a prayerful attitude. “Dear God, please help me in this hour of my need,” she repeated over and over. Again, nothing.
Just then as she bent forward, rocking in prayer, she felt the flashlight slip out of her gown, and it fell to the ground. Stretching out her arms to catch it as it rolled away toward the pond, she fell, flat on her face, the smell of moss and damp earth heavy in her nostrils. As she held onto the flashlight and pulled it toward her, it managed somehow to strike one of the arm rings. She felt a sparking kind of vibration, starting at the arm ring, then rippling like an electric shock up her arm, down through her body, and hitting all her extremities. Stunned, she slid halfway into the pond, wetting her head and shoulders down to her breasts.
Somehow, she managed to get out of the water and into a sitting position. But she felt dizzy, kind of.
“Oh, my God!” she muttered, blinking rapidly, as she saw stars, or was it snowflakes?
