The men had arrived at the bath and were finding places to sit. They removed their swords from their belts, laying them at their feet. Dagný handed Torin the satchel of soap. “You will need this if you do not wish to remain dirty for your wedding.”
“Do not give him choice in the matter.” Fólki clapped his hands together. “I have been looking forward to this for the last many years—”
“I know, I know. You never thought you would see me married,” Torin interrupted.
“But it is true,” Fólki answered with a frown. “Your father always liked making women smirk and blush. A poet. I am surprised he was never outlawed. He was very unlike you, but you may just find your way yet.”
Ingvar rubbed his beard in thought. “I remember your advice, Father. You did not mislead me before my wedding. Torin needs to know the basics.”
Fólki nodded. “Being a husband and father is a man’s job. Do it well and find a smile on your woman’s lips and admiration on your children’s faces. Do it ill, and you will hear about it to your lament.”
“And often,” Dagný added with laugh.
“Já, that is true.” Fólki adjusted himself on the ground and stared at the ocean view. “Tomorrow night you and Ásta both have a duty to perform. You must lie with your wife and do what married folk do. I know you have seen enough around the farm to know how these things work, but since you have never been with a woman before because you don’t lift your face from your ale long enough—”
Torin held up his hand. “No need to describe it to me. I know what to do—I sleep near enough to Ingvar and Frida. I do not wish to lose my appetite before night meal.”
The married men snickered before Fólki continued, “It is expected the first night. The next morning you present her with your last wedding gift, but do not think you must bring her gifts every time you lie with her.”
Ingvar joked, “Good thing, or I would be a poor man indeed — although I do trade for quite a few beads to make my wife happy.”
“It is a surprise you do not have more children,” Torin answered, continuing to stare at the ocean’s horizon.
Fólki winked at his nephew, who was busy lathering his hair with soap. “If you are feeling hungry for her, just lay your head in her lap and touch her leg. She will know you are ready.”
Dagný scratched his belly and yawned. “Unless she has woman pains. Then it is best to leave her alone. And do not worry if the first times are not like you expected. It will get better—probably.”
“I do not think I would like an audience,” Torin answered with a frown, thinking about the times he’d noticed his cousin or the farmhands try to lie with their wives under a blanket.
“Good thing the head of house has his own bed closet,” Fólki said.
“I would not like to use it if I had one.” Ingvar’s face pinched into a scowl. “There would not be enough room for me to move about.”
His father boomed with laughter. “There he goes bragging about his girth again!”
Torin’s cousin looked around at the countryside and said, “With more than enough space on a farm to lift a skirt, I cannot complain.”
Torin couldn’t deny he had physical needs, but if it had meant more to him, he could have found the opportunity long ago. The only thing he cared about were his birds and understanding why the gods had gifted him the ability to change into other animals. Unlike his cousin, he didn’t feel it was his function to put his seed into his wife every possible day.
Fólki grew serious after joking with the others. “The sagas may not speak of the day-to-day of a husband and wife. Why waste time writing about what we all know? A husband tending to the farm, growing his wealth and keeping his family safe, and a woman, clothing and feeding us, running the farm when we are away and reminding us every day of who we are. You do not know your woman yet, but you will. You may not know the mighty passion, but I daresay, not many do. If you can find comfort in each other’s company, then you are off to a good start.”
“But a woman’s eyes cannot conceal love,” Ingvar said. “If you question whether she is attached to you, steal a glance when she does not think you are looking.”
“There he goes quoting from Gunnlauger’s saga. Is it from Frida’s lips that you know it so well, or do you relish two men dying over a woman’s love?” his father asked. After some thought, Fólki spoke again slowly, “I would say no words are truer. A woman’s eyes can tell you more than anything.”
The constant summer sun warmed the faces of the nearly thirty people gathered on the highest bluff near the farm. Dark rocks stuck up from the earth around them, the ground covered in a green blanket of moss. Fólki stood before them all wearing a beautifully stitched cloak, decorative protection from the ever-blowing wind. He spoke loudly for all to hear, which was a battle against the whistling gale. “Present your bride with the sword of your ancestors, so that she may pass it down to your son, who may present it to his wife, for generations to come.”
Beside Torin, his young cousin gripped the ceremonial sword tight and held it out to him. Torin accepted his father’s blade in his ready hands and watched Hróaldr step away in a haze. All morning he’d nursed a cup of ale until its effects left him numb. He was ill prepared for that moment. The moment of his unification with this woman he’d barely said more than a few words to.
Torin took a deep breath. This was it. The beginning of his new life. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t ready. He’d gotten what he’d always wanted—his own farm. It wasn’t his father’s farm and the place of his birth, but maybe it would do. He turned to Ásta, whose thick blond hair was whipping around her face. Her blue eyes locked with his, and he was struck with what he saw there. Determination.
He held out the sword his father had left him. The only token that remained of the man who’d never returned. Ásta raised her hands, palms up, and he placed the weight of his ancestors’ steel in her grasp. He thought of his mother, whom he’d never met, and sadness filled his chest, leaving little room to breathe.
Fólki shifted his attention to Dagný, who stood near Ásta’s side, and addressed him. “The kin of Ásta Calderdóttir, is there a sword to present to the groom?”
“Yes, Gothi Fólki,” Dagný answered. “This is a sword of Thóri’s. We give it to her husband so that he may protect her from here forward.”
Ásta carefully handed the sword that Torin had just presented to her to her cousin so that she might take her brother’s in its place. When she handed the modest blade to Torin, their gazes met. He didn’t notice the scars that lined her cheek, but the pale blue of her eyes. He thought of what Ingvar had said about a woman’s eyes revealing her true feelings, but didn’t know what love looked like and had no way of judging. Plus, he cared little about silly sagas regarding the passion a man and woman shared together anyway.
In haste, he accepted the sword, a weapon that didn’t have many nicks or scratches, and looked back to his uncle, who was grinning so wide Torin suspected he was already thinking about a night of drinking mead. Fólki boomed loudly, “Very good. And now for the exchange of rings.”
Young Hróaldr handed the thin band of silver to Torin. Runic designs were raised on its surface, creating an intricate pattern. Torin placed it on the hilt of his sword and held it out to his bride, who had done the same. They accepted each other’s wedding rings to slip on their ring fingers.
“Join hands on the hilt of Torin’s sword and speak your oath.” Fólki watched while Torin and Ásta touched for the first time.
Torin had touched a woman before, but not in this way. Never holding hands. He felt calluses, which told him she was a hard worker. Her skin was warm and soft, more delicate than his own. He let their hands settle on the hilt of his sword before looking to his uncle again.
Fólki clasped his hands together and said, “Torin Gustavsson, speak your oath to your bride. Loud so all can hear.”
Torin did not find pleasure being at the center of attention. He did not enjo
y speaking to audiences the way his uncle did, but forward was the best way through it. Oaths were a promise and something he’d been raised to respect. He cleared his throat and looked up at Ásta, for his promise was to her. His chest pinched as he thought about what he was about to say. Fear weighed on him, and he hoped he could truly live up to his oath. “I, Torin, son of Gustav, who passed from this earth in the eastern isles bringing honor to his name, make my oath to you, Ásta Calderdóttir. No man may reproach me while you are my wife, for I will be a dutiful husband. While I live and breathe, I will protect our family and land. No ill luck will find us, because we will ride away from it on the tail of the gale winds.”
He felt Ásta hold her breath, or thought she did, her face went so still. Only a few feet away, Fólki spoke. “We shall make a poet of you yet. My dear, Ásta, it is time for you now.”
Torin heard his own words echoing in his head. I will protect our family and land. It felt like a lie, for he’d promised such things before. That oath had been broken.
He tried to give his bride his attention while he waited for her to speak. Her lips parted, and he remembered when she’d been pulled before the assembly to speak. She had not shied away from defending herself or her land. She had strength, to be sure. She gazed up at him and lifted her chin. “I, Ásta, daughter of Calder, and granddaughter of Errik, the great shipbuilder, make my oath to you. As long as the sun shines and the ocean pulls at the shore, I will do everything in my power to keep our family clothed and fed. I will protect our land, for it is ours to hold for our children’s children. And I will show you every day that you were not mistaken in marrying me.”
A gust of wind carried a burst of salty air against his face, like nature was slapping his cheeks in anger. Torin’s stomach turned. What would she think when she realized the sort of man she’d married?
“Very good. It is done!” Fólki shouted. He raised his hands and spoke to their audience of friends and family. “I say, ready our horses, Ingvar, for I have not witnessed a bride running yet when the groom’s family must serve the mead! Let us race!”
Clapping and talking was carried away with the wind. Torin’s hand was pulled free from Ásta’s as he was led toward the awaiting horses. He gave her one last glance before jumping on his steed to race back to the longhouse.
Ásta watched Torin and his kin mount their horses. Her skin was warm where his hand had lain. She looked at her newly adorned ring. It was something she’d never thought she’d see on her own ring finger.
“Come on, mistress! You must not let him get to the house before you even start.” Elfa waved at her while she hurried over the hills. “Do not give in so easily.”
Dagný had his hand on Bergljot’s elbow, helping her along in a funny sort of jog. He shouted at her, “Hurry, now. Save us some drink—we may arrive by night meal. Do not worry, I have your sword safe.”
Gothi Hákon rode up, pulling a small cart with room for two. “I do not like seeing a woman so late in motherhood having to run—it is dangerous. I can offer a ride, but I dare not arrive before the groomsmen. We do not want to start a feud. But you, my dear,” he said to Ásta, “had better run.”
No matter how anxious she might have been about marrying Torin, Ásta couldn’t keep from laughing. She didn’t stay to watch them climb onto the cart, but lifted the front of her dress and raced ahead. Rolf was just ahead of her, jogging back to the longhouse. She leaned into the run and moved around the craggy rocks that spotted the field. A burst of air filled her lungs, and she felt like she was a child again, racing against the wind. It had been years since she’d been in a bride running. Now, it was hers.
Hoots and hollers filled the air when the farm was in sight. She slowed down as she approached the gate. It was held open for her by Ingvar, who gave her a wide smile. “Hope you did not tire out your arms—we will be needing some mead after our ride.”
“I hear it is some of the best you will find in the southern quarter,” Fólki said while he jumped from his horse.
“That is what they say,” she panted and approached the turf house, looking for her husband’s silhouette and not finding it.
Behind her, one by one, other guests and family hurried through the gate, cheered on by Torin’s kin. Someone grabbed hold of her elbow and she turned to find Gunnar saying under his breath, “I hope you get all that you wished for in your husband.”
His dark eyes caught hers before he let go, offering a broad grin. Bárthur’s looming form came up behind his cousin, and he offered her a sneer that could not be mistaken for a smile. “I hope your dire luck does not strike again,” he said, for only her to hear.
Ásta’s throat closed and her heart skipped a beat. A crowd of guests had arrived and swept her away from the fur-clad man, ushering her toward the front door of the longhouse. Then Fólki hollered, “Grab her—do not let anything befall your new bride on the threshold of your home!”
She was scooped off the ground, which nearly knocked the breath out of her. She found herself in Torin’s arms, and he held her as though she were as light as a stalk of hay. She saw the glint of his sword laid across the stoop. He hunched and turned sideways to fit through the doorway.
In the dark of the hall, he set her down. The hearth fire crackled and burned low, casting a soft light in the empty room. She looked upon his freshly shaved jaw. His beard and mustache had been trimmed. Now that he no longer had a mess of hair about his face, he might have been called handsome.
At the sound of voices and laughter, they both turned to face their family who poured into the home. Fólki was at the front of the crowd, holding out Torin’s sword to him. “Time to test your marital luck—with arms like yours, you should make a deep scar. I hope you do, for I should like to see you with many children.”
Ásta’s cheeks flushed, and she stepped away from her husband. The audience hooted and hollered, shouting words of encouragement. Torin raised the tip of his sword into the air, grasping both hands around its hilt. He stepped closer to one of the structural beams that framed the interior, holding up the roof. A groan escaped his lips as he swung his steel against the wood. It sank in, burying its width into the timber.
“Good luck, indeed!” Fólki shouted and everyone clapped.
More people blocked the entrance as they filled the hall, everyone ready for the wedding feast. Elfa found her and placed her hand on Ásta’s arm. “You were faster than I, mistress. I think everyone will be eager to wet their gullets with mead after the run. Better get your serving spoon. Time for the lady of the house to serve the bridal mead to her groom.”
Ásta went to find her serving ladle while a casket of mead was opened. Guthrún handed to her the loving cup, a wooden bowl with side handles. The older woman touched one of Ásta’s locks. “Your hair will look so pretty in braids, but it might bring more attention to your face, unfortunately. It does not matter now—you are married. I would be pleased to help you with it tomorrow. Show you some styles that might suit you.”
“Thank you,” Ásta responded, unconsciously touching her cheek.
In a matter of minutes, all of their guests were settled along the benches that lined the walls, and only Ásta remained standing at the center. Torin was seated on a stool at the end of the hall. He, along with everyone else, was observing her every movement.
After the death of her mother, it had fallen to Ásta as the woman of the house to serve drinks so it brought her and the recipient honor. There was more to it than simply splashing some spirits into an awaiting cup and wishing the fellow a happy life. It was an art form similar to anything else that demanded respect. The deep honor of presenting ale to the highest born was coveted by other women.
Ásta took a deep breath before dipping her spoon into the casket of mead. She lifted it and poured the fermented honey drink into the awaiting bowl, careful not to waste a drop. When there was enough to share, she set the spoon down and held both handles of the bowl. Bárthur caught her eye as she walked, but she tri
ed to ignore his stare. With her eyes on her husband, she arrived before him. Her voice started soft, but as she found confidence there was no person who could have questioned her words. “I serve thee—my husband and kin of mighty folk—this drink of the gods. Full of strength, let it grace you with clarity of mind and power of body. May magic and enchanted songs echo of your honor and valor forever more.”
Soft murmurs traced through the hall while she set the bowl in his awaiting hands. He held it up, and his deep voice called, “To Odin, I drink.”
Torin raised the bowl to his lips. She watched, observing his expression as he swallowed. Prideful of her mead, she hoped to find enjoyment in his face. The corners of his lips rose, and she breathed a thankful sigh. His hungry eyes returned to the bowl and its honey liquid before he handed it back to her.
Ásta, likewise, raised the bowl and said, “To Freya, I drink.”
As soon as the bowl touched her lips, a commotion of cheers broke out in the hall, a deafening sound to the young children present, who cupped their hands over their ears in response. Torin stood up and took the loving cup from her grasp once she’d had her drink. He finished off the mead and handed it over to a pair of awaiting hands, then led her to the stool he’d rested on so she could sit down.
The noise from the guests settled, and he reached for the hammer that was strapped to his belt. He removed it in seriousness and set across her thighs. Again, his deep voice said, “On the maiden’s lap I lay thee, hammer. In Thor’s name, our wedlock is hallowed.”
“Blessings upon you!” Fólki’s voice boomed from his nearby seat. “It is done—you are married! Now for what all of you have come for—the feast!”
Ásta’s seated family got up and busied themselves with serving the guests some mead, starting with the highest born. Before long, everyone had a cup of the honey drink and both gothar, Hákon and Fólki, were shouting their compliments to the brewer. Ásta rewarded them both with another ladle full of the spirits, to which they both cheered.
Scars (Time of Myths: Shapeshifter Sagas Book 2) Page 8
