A hush fell. Everyone was aware she was still learning their language.
The words fled from her memory, until she looked into the blue depths of Wulfram’s eyes.
Ale I bring you, beloved warrior,
With strength and honor blended,
’Tis mixed with magic and mighty songs
Sung by skalds.
Murmurs of approval wafted in the air as she passed the cup into his hands.
“I consecrate this mead to Thor,” he announced, “and offer a toast to Odin.”
“To Odin,” echoed around the hall as he sipped, never taking his eyes off her face.
When he passed the cup to her, she offered the required toast to Freyja, then sipped the sweet wine.
As she put the cup down on the table, Wulfram’s father raised a hand to call for silence amid the cheering. “By drinking together,” he declared, “my son and Roswitha are made one in the eyes of the law and the gods. They have affirmed their new kinship. They will drink mead together from this cup for a full four weeks, for we all know honey and the bees that produce it are symbols of fertility and healing.”
Wulfram took her hand and helped her sit. “You know what comes next?” he asked.
She nodded. “The hammer.”
He kissed her knuckles and winked. “You will have noticed Jomsvikings are big on fertility.”
Before she could answer, Dag approached, needing both hands to carry a large replica of Thor’s hammer.
“Bring the Hammer the bride to bless,” he intoned, passing the replica to Wulfram. “On the maiden’s lap lay Mjolnir.”
Her heart fluttered when her husband nestled the head of the hammer against her mons. “In Frigga’s name, our wedlock hallow,” he said hoarsely.
Though he continued to bear most of the weight of the hammer, the symbolic power of the gesture stirred a need deep in her womb.
*
Wulfram recognized the desire burning in Roswitha’s green eyes and it intensified his own longing to make her his. However, the feasting and merriment had barely begun. “Patience,” he whispered, handing the hammer back to Dag. “They’ll expect us to stay for a while.”
She smiled as if she understood, though he doubted she knew the festivities would likely drag on for a sennight.
“I have more duties anyway,” she said as his mother and Inga rose from their places.
His smiling wife made her way round the dining hall with her new female relatives, serving mead to their guests. She glanced back at him from time to time, obviously aware of his eyes on her.
He licked his lips, tasting again the mead she’d offered from the loving cup. Impatience to taste the sweet juices of her most intimate place had him growling deep in his throat. He’d never had the urge to put his mouth on a woman before, now the prospect consumed him.
His father and adopted bother’s assurances of the honeyed delights to be found ’twixt a woman’s legs had poured fuel on the fire.
Witnesses
Roswitha enjoyed the dancing and merriment. Their guests were clearly happy for them and wanted her to know she was accepted. Even the wrestling was fun to watch. However, two hours of listening to what Wulfram referred to as insult contests and lying stories became tedious since she barely understood a word of the evidently hilarious banter.
Even her husband’s hearty laughter waned as time went on and the insults became more and more ribald.
She was stifling another yawn when he leaned close to her ear. “It’s time for bed,” he whispered seductively. “Quietly,” he warned, cocking his head towards the rambunctious celebrants.
Evidently, they didn’t get to their feet quietly enough. A hush fell over the crowd as heads swiveled in their direction. Roswitha’s heart raced when Inga’s brother and Wulfram’s father hurried to hoist her husband onto their shoulders. He rolled his eyes and laughed as they carried him around the hall. People clapped and sang in unison. She didn’t understand the words, but the lusty intent of the song was clear, and she too was soon clapping and laughing along with everyone else.
Moments later, Audra touched her arm. “The bride must be taken to the bridal chamber first,” she said.
The heat rose in her face as a grinning Sandor invited her to be seated in a chair, then he and a friend lifted it and carried her out of the hall.
She gripped the elaborately carved arms of the chair and took a deep breath as they bore her into Wulfram’s sleeping alcove for the first time.
She wasn’t sure why the size of the enormous bed immediately caught her eye. It was a masculine space, decorated with weapons and animal skins. However, she suspected Audra’s fine hand behind the addition of a large armoire which stood open to reveal gowns, cloaks, shoes and other female paraphernalia—apparently her trousseau.
She babbled her thanks to her mother-by-marriage as Shella removed the crown and quickly divested her of the wedding finery. She was invited to stand in a shallow tub of warm water, whereupon the maid sponged her with the same lavender scented soap from the bathhouse. After she’d been dabbed dry, Audra drew a nightrail over her head. Roswitha traced a finger over the delicate golden plaques sewn along the neckline and sleeves. Figures had been engraved into them, quite obviously a naked male and female.
“They depict Freyr and his union with Gerd,” Inga explained, taking her hand and leading her to bed.
She used the step stool to climb up and allowed herself to be tucked between the linens.
Audra settled the crown back on her head just as a commotion in the hallway drew their attention.
“Perfect timing,” Inga said.
Feeling like the queen of Jomsborg, Roswitha held her breath when the door opened and a red-faced Wulfram was borne into the chamber.
*
As long as he lived, Wulfram would never forget the vision of Roswitha sitting in his bed, blushing profusely, looking like a queen with her burnished hair and jeweled crown. He really didn’t need the help of Sandor and the other married men who’d already begun the process of disrobing him.
However, he’d be deemed churlish if he denied them their fun. They peeled off his tunic, shirt and leggings, tossing them wherever they might land.
He watched Roswitha. At first, she kept her eyes fixed on the bed coverings. When the teasing and ribaldry grew louder, her curiosity apparently overcame shyness and she looked up at the precise moment the last of his garments was stripped away.
She parted her lips, blinking rapidly.
He’d been rock hard since he’d first set eyes on her in the grove and could see no point hiding his arousal. The cheers and guffaws reached a crescendo when he spread his arms wide.
He got into bed, drew the linens to his waist, took her trembling hand and waited for the formalities to be over.
His father called for calm. “I declare proudly before these witnesses that this bridegroom is my son, Wulfram Sigmarsen.”
More cheering.
Sandor spoke next when the hubbub subsided. “I declare before these witnesses that this bride is the maiden Roswitha of Pershore whom I first met in England.”
“Not for much longer,” someone quipped, causing more laughter.
This was Wulfram’s cue to remove Roswitha’s crown, the last vestige of her old life—except one.
*
When Sandor attested to her identity, Roswitha was tempted to naysay him. She certainly wasn’t the Roswitha who’d borne the sting of nettles as she labored to assist Kennald with his craft; the one who’d fretted about taxes and tax collectors; the girl who’d grieved for a dead mother and lived in fear of a mean stepfather. The future for Roswitha of Pershore had held little promise.
And yet, she was the same Roswitha who’d defended Delwyn when others looked upon him as an object of ridicule. Despite the difficulties of life in Pershore, she’d always remained hopeful that, someday, things would get better.
And they had! Aiding Wulfram in his efforts to save the people of Worcester had
taken a courage she hadn’t known she possessed. Indeed, he’d helped her discover many things about herself—including she was a wanton who couldn’t wait to enjoy the promised delights of sexual congress with the naked man who’d just removed her crown.
As the boisterous crowd of well-wishers left the chamber at the insistence of her father-by-marriage, she offered a silent prayer of thanks for the changes the Yuletide season had wrought in her life.
She was Roswitha of Jomsborg now, a woman determined to bestow upon Wulfram Sigmarsen the gifts he so richly deserved.
The End
About Anna
Thank you for reading The Viking’s Gift. If you’d like to leave a review where you purchased the book, and/or on Goodreads, I would appreciate it. Reviews contribute greatly to an author’s success.
I’d love you to visit my newly revamped website and my Facebook page, Anna Markland Novels.
Tweet me @annamarkland, join me on Pinterest, or sign up for my newsletter. Follow me on BookBub and be the first to know when my next book is released.
Passion conquers whatever obstacles a hostile medieval world can throw in its path. Besides writing, I have two addictions-crosswords and genealogy, probably the reason I love research.
I am a fool for cats.
My husband is an entrepreneur who is fond of boasting he’s never had a job.
I live on Canada’s scenic west coast now, but I was born and raised in the UK and I love getting intimate with history.
Escape with me to where romance began and get intimate with history.
I hope you come to know and love my cast of characters as much as I do.
I’d like to acknowledge the assistance of my critique partners, Reggi Allder, Jacquie Biggar, Sylvie Grayson and LizAnn Carson.
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