Gasps sounded all around. Atli scowled at the ill omen as Rurik quickly retrieved the ring and offered it up once more. Brienne shuddered at the mishap and said a small prayer. Hastily, Brother Bernard continued, twice blessing the ring before he concluded the ceremony.
As the small circle of gold slid into place, Brienne felt its weight many times over. Hot tears threatened, but she fought them back. ‘Twas done. Her fate was sealed. A ring for her finger, a manacle for her heart.
Atli turned toward the crowd and, lifting up her hand, proudly presented his wife. A hearty shout went up, hailing the Baronne de Valsemé.
The wedding party moved inside the church and did not emerge until much later after the marriage was blessed with a lengthy mass. Atli and Brienne were met with a shower of grains and then accompanied amid much song and jollity back to the keep where the wedding feast and games would begin in earnest.
Atli and Brienne presided over the festivities from the high table upon the dais. There, sharing a trencher, they partook of their first meal as husband and wife. Each place gleamed with silver — knives, spoons, goblets, and mazers, shallow wooden bowls rimmed with the precious metal. Those not so fortunate to sit at the high table contented themselves with steel implements and soapstone bowls, a Norse commodity.
Atli selected choice meats for his bride, attentively cutting them into small portions and setting them to her side of the trencher, or manchet, made from a thick slice of day-old bread.
Brienne found the array of food mind-boggling. An unending line of servants bore platters of pit-roasted suckling pig, braised boar, plovers and quail, fish tarts with sauces, and venison pasties. There were thick soups, creamy cheeses, custards, and a selection of fruits. The Norsemen supplied the table with exotic fare including sugar made with roses and violets, figs, dates, almonds, and pomegranates. Flatbrauð appeared alongside crusty Frankish loaves, as did other Nordic favorites such as smoked herring and salmon, served with mustards, and a curious dish called skyr, a sweet, puddinglike affair topped with cream.
Brienne sampled many of the foods but tasted little of what passed her lips. Her nerves constricted her appetite as she thought fleetingly ahead to where the night would end — in Atli’s bed.
Once well sated, the celebrants moved outside for the wedding games to commence. Atli paused momentarily before leaving the hall and pounded at the burning in his chest. He grunted into his beard to be plagued thusly and motioned to a servant to refill his drinking horn with mead. Seeing Brienne’s concern, he smiled reassuringly. A Norseman’s feast was enough to roil any man’s stomach. If only he could tell her that. On the morrow, he would begin learning the Frankish tongue. He was grateful that the barrier of language would not impede the evening’s pleasures.
Satisfying himself that his bride’s goblet brimmed with spiced wine, he escorted her below.
When they arrived outside the bailey walls, men were pairing off for the first event, wrestling. Brienne noted that only the Normans participated in the sport. Apparently, Lord Robert barred his men from joining the games. There had been much drinking already and, no doubt, he did not wish to risk some hapless incident that could lead to bloodshed. At least he was prudent where his men were concerned.
Lyting caught Brienne’s eye as he stripped away all but his snug-fitting breeches and, grinning widely, walked over and clamped a hand soundly on Rurik’s shoulder. Rurik turned, then laughed genially.
“So, you think to best me this year, little brother?”
“I wager you grew soft on your last voyage, coddled in the laps of the Eastern beauties. I am obliged to see that you do not decline in your advanced years.”
Unable to resist, Rurik bared his hard-muscled chest and arms.
“I’ll go easy on you, little brother.” He flashed a smile, but the air whooshed out of him in the next instant as Lyting tackled him about the waist. Swiftly hooking a leg behind Rurik’s, the younger man drove him off-balance and took him to the ground.
Twisting, Rurik managed to take the fall on his side. Quickly, he rolled to his stomach and pressed up onto his palms and knees. But before he could gain an advantage, Lyting seized one arm from beneath him and plowed his head into Rurik’s side, beneath the arm, propelling him forward, hard against the earth.
Rurik grimaced as his shoulder took the impact, grinding into the dirt. Lyting was no more the stripling youth he preferred to remember, but a man full-grown, and a worthy opponent at that.
Agilely, Lyting shifted around in a quarter circle and moved overtop Rurik. In one rapid movement, he slipped his arms over neck and between leg, then locked both hands together beneath Rurik’s belly. With Rurik thusly cradled, Lyting rolled with him onto his own back in a maneuver designed to encumber one’s rival.
But Rurik would not be dispensed with so easily. He kicked out vigorously with one leg, breaking the hold, then rolled away and sprang to his feet.
Lyting charged again, but this time Rurik caught him, snaring one arm under and around Lyting’s and locking onto the side of his neck. With the other arm, Rurik seized Lyting around the waist and hoisted him off his feet. Quickly, Rurik dropped to the ground, covering Lyting with his own body while never breaking his hold on Lyting’s head.
Try though he might, Lyting could not move. Forced to yield, he laughed with good humor.
“Next year, broðir, I won’t let you off so easily.”
Before Rurik could rise, another hand clamped him on the shoulder and he looked up into the grinning face of Ketil Blunt-nose.
“Now that you children have had your play and done little to impress the ladies, ‘tis time to take on a real man.”
Rurik groaned as Ketil lifted him from behind in a bone-crushing bear hug. It took considerable strength to pry Ketil’s hands apart and force one of the arms down and away from his waist. But Rurik broke free and reversed their positions. Slipping in back of Ketil, he grabbed the giant from behind. Ketil, however, gave out a great guffaw and, giving way his weight, sat back on Rurik. The two thudded gracelessly to the ground with Rurik pinned flat on his back, the air knocked out of him. Ketil sat atop, an immovable, laughing mountain.
“Oaf! Is this how you bedazzle the maidens?” Rurik smote Ketil’s back, then groaned.
Several men hurried forward with buckets of water and doused the two. While Ketil rose, shaking his woolly head till water sprayed everyone near, Lyting stood to one side laughing heartily.
“Better you than me, broðir!” He offered Rurik a hand up. “Let’s go soothe our aches with a bladder of wine.”
The crowds cheered and clapped as the two brothers strode from the field.
Brienne, too, cheered enthusiastically, now that she could be assured no necks or bones had been broken, and she could breathe easily once again. Forgetting herself, she watched after Rurik and Lyting as they walked side by side, two splendid stallions, their muscles rippling and bunching with every movement. It did not gladden her when Katla sallied forth across the field to join Rurik. She looked away rather than bear the sight of the two embracing.
Brienne’s enthusiasm for the games pleased Atli. The men’s play obviously impressed her and livened her blood. Well, he was not so ancient or so in his dotage that he couldn’t participate as well! When the horn sounded, announcing the start of the next game, Atli swallowed the last of his mead and stepped forward.
Ketil angled a glance to where Aleth stood in the crowd, then joined Atli and a dozen others for the traditional sport of boulder lifting. Numerous rocks, varying in size and weight, rested in the prescribed area, waiting to test the brute strength of the challengers.
“Shouldn’t you be saving your energies for your bride?” Ketil chided as Atli doffed his tunic.
“Just warming up, lad. But are you sure you wish to embarrass yourself here? These are a might heavier than that young pup of mine you just tossed about. ‘Twill take more than the muscles in your backside.”
Ketil threw back his head and laugh
ed heartily. “We’ll see what you can lift this day,” he said meaningfully, then stooped over one of the larger rocks and hefted it easily to his chest, then up above his head.
Atli chose another, slightly greater, and lifted it the same way, forcing the other contestants to choose rocks of equal size. The men continued for what seemed an interminable length of time, lifting progressively larger and weightier boulders. Their bodies glistened with sweat as they grunted and heaved the rocks over their heads and into the air.
At last only Ketil and Atli remained, the others having exhausted the limits of their brawn and endurance. But it seemed to Ketil that Atli strained his own bounds. When not lifting, he rubbed at his chest, and his face had long remained flushed a ruddy hue. Ketil preferred to end the game yet would not embarrass Atli before his men.
As Ketil lifted a final boulder, he gave an exaggerated groan under its weight, laboring as he hefted it chest high. Pressing it above his shoulders, he allowed it to slip from his hold, then cursed soundly as the rock thudded to the ground.
Whether Atli suspected the mishap, he accepted his triumph without question, parting with a few mirthful barbs. In truth, he was glad to be done with it. Now he desired but two things, a long cool draught of mead and the sight of his bride’s beautiful face.
Just as the crowd began to disperse and return to their feasting in the keep, Hastein thundered forward on his great dun.
“A challenge, brother!” he shouted out to Rurik. “Surt against Sleipnir. Let them fight!”
Brienne stiffened at the smile that poisoned Hastein’s lips. She quickly turned to Brother Bernard who stood scowling at her side.
“What is his intent? What does he wish?”
“To stallion fight. ‘Tis a wicked sport. The beasts will tear at each other — unto death if not restrained. Hastein would favor that.”
He patted Brienne’s hand, then voiced his concerns to Atli. Atli looked down at Brienne then back at his sons as he contemplated the monk’s words.
“I advised him that such a display would upset and affront you, my dear. Let us pray that he will put an end to this savagery before it begins.”
“But why does Hastein do this?”
“Hastein is a jealous man. He has specially bred his horse for meanness, just for such a fight. He would like nothing better than to deprive Rurik of the black.”
“But to what purpose?”
“Atli gifted Rurik with Sleipnir when he first returned from the sea. Hastein felt the horse should have been his.”
Before the monk could say more, their attention was drawn back by the sound of Rurik’s voice.
“I will not risk such fine horseflesh for your amusement, broðir.”
“Does the Barnakarl cower before my challenge?” Hastein ridiculed.
“Stoðva! Cease!” Atli bellowed angrily. His next words were lost on Brienne. She looked to the monk as he sighed his relief.
“Atli has commanded that there be a race instead. You will find this more enjoyable, my dear.”
“But why does Hastein call Rurik the Barna — “ Horns blared nearby, preventing her from finishing the question.
Brother Bernard pointed to where the starting line was marked and the course set. Men hurried to deposit objects in small piles at different intervals. Some laid down their goblets, while others donated valuable rings and bracelets, even the silver brooches securing their garments. The richest prizes were placed at the greatest distance from the starting point. The farthest mound of treasures included a small ivory casket carved with figures and trimmed with gold.
“You see, my dear,” Brother Bernard explained, “each man must determine which prize he will seek, depending on the swiftness and sturdiness of his mount. To ill choose means no gain at all.”
“Would you care to add your own prize, my lady?” Lyting appeared before her, smiling down from his dapple-gray courser.
Brienne returned the smile, then creased her brow. “I have nothing of value . . . except my girdle.”
“Nei, ‘tis too fine a gift for the bride to offer. But something small. A slipper, mayhap?”
Brienne laughed gaily, removing one of her leather shoes and handing it up to Lyting. Atli seemed to approve, addressing his own suggestion to his son.
Lyting turned his mount and sprinted down the full length of the course till he had well passed the last small pile of riches. Swiftly dismounting, he held the shoe up for all to see, then he set it on the ground by itself. The bride’s slipper would be considered the most valued prize of all.
As nearly three dozen contestants jostled and vied for better positions behind the starting line, Hastein cast a secretive smile in Rurik’s direction. Unnoticed, he slipped a small metal spike into the back of his heel.
At the blast of trumpets, wild whoops filled the air and the riders bolted forward.
Sleipnir stretched out easily, taking the lead as Rurik leaned into him and became one with the steed. Hastein closed behind but failed to overtake the great black.
Rurik passed one pile of goods after another, pressing on till at last he approached the slipper. Slowing his mount and holding fast to Sleipnir’s mane, he slid partway down the side of the stallion and scooped up the small shoe. The black continued in an easy gait as Rurik reseated himself and gave a yell of triumph, holding his booty high overhead. A shout went up from the crowd, approving the capture.
Just then, Hastein loosened his hold on the dun and kicked his spiked heel into its flank. Screaming his protest, Surt reared. To the onlookers, Hastein knew it appeared that the beast rebelled, breaking from his control to issue challenge to the black.
Surt lunged forward on the low whistle of his master’s command. With ears pinned back and teeth bared, he rapidly closed the distance between himself and Sleipnir. Impatient to gain the advantage as he converged on his opponent, the dun bit at the black’s hindquarter, tearing away a piece of flesh.
But Sleipnir, trained for war, reacted instinctively. He sprang upward, and upon coming back to earth, kicked straight out and caught the dun solidly in the face.
Nearly unseated by Sleipnir’s reprisal, Rurik wrapped the reins around his wrist and gripped the stallion’s mane. Pressing his legs tightly against the horse’s sides, he braced himself as Sleipnir pivoted sharply on one hind foot and reared to deliver his next strike.
Surt, too dazed to evade the assault, stumbled under Sleipnir’s crushing blow to his shoulder.
Forced to retreat before the black could inflict further damage, Hastein lost his moment. Still, he grinned with a measure of satisfaction as he called back lamely, “Sorry, broðir. He broke from my grasp.”
Rurik started to call Hastein out, but the horns sounded urgently, demanding an end to the fray. Bridling his fury, he turned Sleipnir and galloped toward the crowd.
Brienne stood trembling, her heart beating wildly as Rurik approached. She’d feared desperately for his life during the clash. Now, a delirious joy swept over her as he dismounted, whole and unscathed. She battled an overwhelming desire to fling herself into his arms and forget aught else.
Holding his gaze from Brienne, Rurik proffered the slipper on outstretched palm and waited for his father to place it on her foot. But Atli, feeling that his son had well earned the right, gestured for Rurik to perform the deed.
As Rurik’s eyes met Brienne’s, their cool gray warmed to blue. She smiled gently to behold this small window to his heart.
Rurik’s gaze traveled over her face, impressing each beautiful and delicate feature to memory. These he would carry with him and cherish all the days of their parting.
Brienne raised her gown, revealing a trim, well-turned ankle. As Rurik knelt down, she placed her hand on his shoulder, steadying herself as she offered her foot. He could swear that her touch burned clear through his leather jerkin. Rurik swallowed deeply as his fingers slid around her slender ankle and he lifted her leg. Carefully, almost reverently, he eased her slipper in place.
; Brienne’s heart thundered against her ribs at Rurik’s touch. She moistened her lips and looked away as he rose to his feet. Her gaze strayed to the stallion’s bloodied coat.
“Sleipnir needs be tended. I will bring medicants to the stables — “
“Nei, my lady.” A mixture of sadness and resignation tinged Rurik’s words though his eyes spoke of desire and longing. “‘Twould be unwise for us to meet thusly. Have Aleth collect what is necessary and send them with Ketil. I will see to Sleipnir.” He, too, shifted his gaze to the black. “Your presence is required in the hall this night.”
The reminder of her duty at Atli’s side quenched her spirit, and she knew only a hollow ache within her breast.
“Will we see you before you take leave of Valsemé?”
“Verily, my lady.” Verily, unto your wedding chamber, he added silently, then led the stallion away.
»«
The feasting continued well past dark as the men consumed enormous quantities of food and drink. Golden beer and spiced wine flowed freely, though the more stalwart preferred a heady mead, as did Atli. Musicians strolled about, gladding the hall with viele and harp, while jugglers amused all with their deft skills and comical distractions.
At one point a strange device was brought forth, dubbed a “halter cup,” that proved a challenge for even the hardiest of men. Both a drinking vessel and an elaborate harness combined, the contrivance was carved from a single block of wood. The Norsemen took turns sitting in a chair, with hands clasped behind them. Slipping their heads through the halter’s opening, they leaned back in one motion and downed the entire contents of the cup.
Again, Esternay forbade his men to participate in the sport, and kept them to watered wine as well. Reputedly, a Norseman’s feast could be as hazardous as the battlefield.
But Atli was not about to have the evening ruined with drunken misbehavior. When his men had enjoyed their play long enough, he ordered the cup taken away and called for the skald, Evyind.
The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Page 13
