by A. E. Rayne
Jael had grown increasingly irritable during the morning’s drawn-out preparations. She had been steamed, bathed, brushed, scented, and spent far too long having her dark hair braided. She had been stuffed into the dreaded dress, which was now all but hidden beneath a new, black cloak, a thin, silver wedding crown circling her braided head, her face a thunderous storm. She was not at all ready for this, but as much as she was keen to delay the ceremony, she was just as desperate for it to be over.
Jael wrinkled her nose as Edela pulled away the layers of old linen enclosing her surprise; whatever was hiding in there stunk of ancient things. Edela unwrapped the final layer, a thick roll of sheepskin, and, sighing happily, lifted out a sword. It was exquisite; a piece of craftsmanship so fine that Jael gasped. It shone as if new, its long, sleek, double-edged blade swimming with liquid patterns. It was inlaid with a name that Jael couldn’t read. ‘What does it say?’ she frowned.
Edela turned the sword slightly to catch more light, squinting at it. ‘EROTH,’ she smiled to herself. ‘He was one of the finest sword makers in Tuura.’
Jael was confused. ‘Where did you get it?’
Edela was still holding the sword in her arms. ‘Don’t ask me another question until you take it. Take it. It’s yours!’
Jael didn’t argue; she grabbed the weapon with both hands. Its grip was made of ridged, white bone, cold to the touch. The crossguard and pommel were silver, inscribed with scenes of angry wolves devouring snakes, with symbols she didn’t recognise, possibly Tuuran, and with symbols she did: Furia’s axes. A large, opaque moonstone glowed out of the rounded tip of the pommel. It was perfect. It was a sword of the night, a sword for a leader. So why was it hers?
‘Where did you get it?’ Jael asked again, holding the sword out in front of her, feeling its well-balanced weight, admiring its perfect length, turning it, running her fingers over the inscriptions. It was thoroughly unique; she couldn’t stop smiling.
‘From my grandfather.’
‘Your grandfather? Really?’ Jael was even more confused. ‘It looks unused. There’s not even a scratch on it that I can see.’
‘It was not his sword,’ Edela said, trying to remember the last time Jael had looked this happy. ‘He made it for you.’
‘What?’ Jael’s mouth hung open in shock. ‘Your grandfather? Made it for me? But why? How? It looks brand new. How is that possible?’
‘In truth, I don’t know.’ Edela sat down on a bed, folding her hands in her lap. ‘He came to me on my wedding day, with the sword, wrapped up, just as it was. I had never seen it until today. He told me he had made it for the granddaughter I would have. He made me promise to keep it safe and give it to you, on your wedding day.’
Jael was stunned. The how and why of it all was too much to take in. The Tuurans were well known as dreamers, but it was mostly a female trait. How had Eroth known he would have a great-great-granddaughter in need of a sword on her wedding day? It was wonderfully unsettling, and Jael embraced the wildness of it. She had a sword again, and joy bloomed throughout her body. ‘It is beautiful. And really mine alone?’ She couldn’t believe it.
‘Yours alone. He made it for you. I don’t believe anyone else saw it until today but him. He was very secretive about it.’
‘That is so strange. Was he like you?’
‘No,’ Edela said with certainty. ‘No, he wasn’t, but my grandmother was, so perhaps she told him about you. Maybe she saw you, who you would become? I’m not sure.’
‘Jael! Mother! Everyone is waiting!’ Gisila stepped into the bedchamber, her face strained with tension. ‘I’m not sure how long Eadmund will be able to stand, so you had better hurry up.’ She took one look at the sword and shook her head. ‘You cannot wear that. Not to your wedding!’
Jael grinned and looked sideways at Edela, who smiled back. Gisila closed her eyes and sighed dramatically. ‘Whatever you do, just hurry up about it!’
Eirik had planned to hold the ceremony outside so that his guests might take in the breathtaking views of Oss’ harbour, with its stone spires, and the wild Nebbar Straits foaming beyond. In truth, it evoked better luck for the gods to see the ceremony, to witness the joining of husband and wife from their lofty realm above. Eirik knew that he would need all the luck he could gather if this marriage were to succeed.
It had snowed heavily throughout the night, though, and the morning faced them all with an uncooperatively thick gloom. Nothing could be seen but a few misty shapes, straining to escape the clouds, and snow was sweeping in again, so it was into the hall they all squeezed for the festivities.
The decorations had been plumped up and repaired throughout the morning. More candles and lamps had been brought in, and the mead-soaked tables had been moved against the walls to make way for the wedding archway; an intricately woven, wattle structure, threaded with cascading white flowers and green ribbons.
As he stood there, waiting for Jael to arrive, Eirik felt satisfied with the look of the hall; the look of his son was far more disconcerting. He glanced at Eadmund, who was swaying dangerously close to the archway. Even though he had spent the morning being splashed and scrubbed with cold water to keep him alert, he looked worse than ever. Eirik raised a sharp eyebrow at Thorgils, who grabbed Eadmund’s arm just in time to stop him toppling over. Eirik sighed with relief. Despite his tension and the state of his son, there was a little charge inside him; a growing excitement, a sense that change was coming towards them all, like a white-capped wave building out at sea.
Jael strode into the hall then, on Edela’s arm, trying to ignore how uncomfortable she felt in the evil dress, or how ridiculous she was certain she looked. She scowled as she walked, her long braids glowing like dark, fiery coals as she made her way towards them.
Eirik almost laughed out loud; she was wearing black! That told him more about Jael than he had learned from their awkward conversation last night. And with a sword at her waist too! He stole a glance at Lothar’s face, pinched with displeasure as it was. She was a proud woman, it seemed, and a warrior. As much as he wanted her to mother his grandsons, he could see so much more in her now. He smiled as she approached, but her eyes coldly dismissed him as she stopped, with a sigh, next to his unsteady son. Eirik wasn’t deterred. She had the strength to save Eadmund; he could feel it in her.
Jael turned reluctantly towards Eadmund, but his morose face didn’t register her presence at all. She looked around the hall, barely noticing anything or anyone, trying desperately to stop herself from screaming. She held her body stiffly, reaching down to touch the unfamiliar hilt of her new sword, which fit perfectly inside her old scabbard; that was a good feeling. This ceremony was something she simply had to endure, and if she could shut out the words, the faces, and the implications of what was occurring, there was a chance of surviving this. And getting home to Aleksander. Eadmund would not last long. She peered into his half-closed eyes; he would surely not last long.
Eadmund gulped; this was worse than he imagined when he had imagined how bad it would actually be. He was almost entirely sober. His father had not let a drop of anything pass his lips during the morning’s preparations; not even water. He was thirsty and tired. His feet itched in wet boots, and as dry as his throat felt, he wanted to spit. He couldn’t bring himself to look in her direction; he couldn’t bear another glimpse of himself through those harsh eyes. Maybe he should have given in and let his father bring Ivaar back. No! There was still some fight there, he noticed; some small flicker of hope that he could become someone again, return to claim part of who he once was. That person must still be inside, somewhere.
Thankfully it was a short ceremony, and when she thought about it later, there was nothing Jael remembered at all, apart from the stench of her husband and the sniffling of her mother, who was no doubt crying more for herself than her daughter.
Mumbled words of no meaning had been spoken over them by an ancient, tattooed man, with an odd-looking mane of orange hair, strewn with bones, bra
nches, and other things Jael did not wish to wonder about. She had no idea who he was, but he sounded Tuuran, which would explain why she could barely understand anything he said. Contrary to his ragged, unwashed appearance, his lips were clean, pink, and wet with saliva, causing him to spit constantly as he spoke. As it was a choice between facing him or Eadmund, she chose to be spat upon.
Simple gold, coiled rings were exchanged; neither one fit. Their hands were joined and wrapped together in cold, white ribbon to unite them as bride and groom, though neither even looked at the other as they spoke their vows. Both Lothar and Eirik took the opportunity to speak, to reinforce how grand and important they felt themselves to be, and Jael watched it all as though she were watching someone else experience it. Her mind was far away, imagining her father’s face and what he would do to his grinning brother if he were still alive.
She tried not to think of Aleksander at all.
Jael was so distracted, so lost in her thoughts, that she didn’t hear the old man’s rasping announcement that it was done, that they were now husband and wife, to a round of hearty applause from the standing guests. She blinked. It appeared that she now belonged to Eadmund Skalleson. His wife.
Everyone suffocated them then, offering empty words and meaningless wishes. Jael listened, detached, as they surrounded her like a swarm of angry bees. She nodded a lot, smiling as little as possible, desperate to remove her dress, constantly squirming to loosen its hold on her.
‘That’s a fine sword you have there... Daughter,’ Eirik grinned as he came to stand beside her. He saw the look of horror on her face then; it would not be easy to win her over, that much was obvious.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘A gift?’
‘Yes, it was.’
Eirik inclined his head towards hers. ‘Lothar did mention he had reclaimed your father’s sword. I am happy to see you found a replacement.’
Jael glanced at her father-in-law, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword.
‘I won’t be taking it off you if that is your fear,’ he said plainly. ‘I am glad to have a warrior of your reputation on Oss.’
Jael scoffed loudly.
A few heads turned in their direction, so Eirik laughed to cover any hint of discomfort between them. ‘It’s true,’ he insisted. ‘I am no fool, and nor are you, I can see that, Jael. I didn’t bring you here to win me wars or defend my island, but nor do I wish to make you into something you are not. Be a kind wife to my son, give me grandsons, and you may do whatever you wish otherwise. And I expect you beside me when we attack Hest in the spring. If... if you are not carrying a child, then you shall be there.’ He saw the mistrust that lingered in her eyes. ‘You have every reason but no need to doubt me, for we are now family, and I am no longer your enemy.’
Eirik smiled at her, then walked off to be congratulated by a small group of similarly aged men; his friends, Jael assumed. One, a tall, awkward-looking man, turned his silvery head, staring boldly at her. His face and that stare sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. He turned away to embrace Eirik, but the memory of his look lingered.
The servants rushed about, removing the archway and reinstating the tables, and as soon as they were in place, Eadmund escaped the well-wishers and headed for his seat. He felt weak, nauseated, and thirsty, all at the same time, watching desperately as the servants walked past, ignoring him. There was no cup waiting for him this time. He noticed that there were drinking cups in front of every place at the high table, on the tables in front of him, and around the sides of the hall, but nothing had been left for him. His father was not funny, he decided, annoyed, as he picked up Eirik’s silver cup, holding it out to a mead girl as she busied past. She glanced nervously at his hopeful face and his empty cup, her eyes darting around the hall in search of the king. Eadmund winked cheerfully at her, and she sighed, hurrying to fill him up, before rushing away, blushing as she went.
Eadmund drank quickly, enjoying the welcome sense of peace that flooded his body as soon as his parched throat was moist again. His shoulders sagged contentedly before clenching suddenly at the sight of his wife talking to Thorgils. His wife. The words scratched the inside of his head. He drained the cup, putting it back in his father’s place, wiping the mead out of his beard. His new wife; nothing like his first wife. Melaena had been small, delicate, lovely; the complete opposite of the tall, lean, sharp-eyed killer he was bound to now.
Eadmund smiled wistfully, trying to reclaim the memory of Melaena’s long-seen face. It was almost impossible now. She had faded in his mind, or maybe it was his mind that had faded from too much drink. His smile slipped then. She was gone and in her place was this... thing. Not really a woman, even in that black dress of hers, and not really a man, but something awkward that fell in between. His wife. He rolled his eyes, puffed out a long breath and sat there, weighed down by the thought of what was to come tonight. He would need more mead; much more.
Jael envied Eadmund sitting up there alone; no one seemed to have spotted his escape. She was stuck amongst the crowd, trapped in a tedious conversation with his large, red-headed friend, who was earnestly listing all the reasons why Eadmund would prove to be a good husband... in the end. She was desperate for a drink; a wedding night awaited, and she would not be able to face it sober.
‘...it may not seem like it right now, of course,’ Thorgils sighed, finishing his long-winded speech.
Jael looked at him blankly, realising she hadn’t listened to most of it. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘You have enough to think about today.’ Thorgils shook his head, apologetically. ‘I shouldn’t be boring you with my thoughts. I’m sure you will see for yourself who he is, over time. I was just worried that your first impression would be your last. He is my oldest friend. He deserves to find some... happiness.’
Jael wasn’t sure what to say. It appeared that this man genuinely cared for Eadmund and she didn’t want to be cruel, but at the same time, she wished he would go away. Whether Eadmund was a lost soul who desperately needed her help, or two drinks away from his funeral pyre, it meant little to her right now; she needed to escape.
‘I’m sorry, Thorgils, is it?’ Jael muttered irritably. ‘I’m sure all that is true, but whether your friend feels sad or happy is not something I care about. If you were so concerned about his happiness, perhaps you should have asked his father to find him a different wife, one who was interested in love and babies and the empty nothingness that is being a woman. If he is looking for happiness, he won’t find it in me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to join my husband in his drinking, and hopefully, before long he’ll do us all a favour and fall asleep.’
Thorgils stared after her, open-mouthed. True to her word, she strode up to the high table, and, adjusting her sword, plonked herself down beside her slumped husband. Thorgils started to smile. She was like a spitting fire, and perhaps that’s exactly what Eadmund needed to wake himself up.
‘You had better try to look awake, or your father will be up here to watch your every move,’ Jael warned, poking Eadmund in the side, her eyes fixed firmly ahead.
He blinked, tried to focus. There was so much noise in the hall; how could he have slept? She smelled of lavender, he thought, which was not unpleasant. He noticed how dark her eyebrows were as they narrowed in on him; how they drew his attention to her eyes.
The mead girl passed again, and he watched as Jael nodded for her to pour, not one but two cups. She turned, raising hers to Eadmund. ‘Drink up,’ she smiled. ‘You look like a man who needs to drink a lot more tonight.’ And with that she threw back her cup, reaching out, before he could blink, for another.
Osbert was drunk, or at least the hall was moving around him in an unnatural way. He peered into the tangle of topsy-turvy bodies, wondering who in fact wasn’t drunk? Grease-soaked plates were being cleared away by manhandled serving girls. Cups held unsteadily in drunken hands were dribbling precious liquids onto the floor. Music flowed rhythmically, pulsing through hi
s body; where was it coming from, he wondered dreamily?
The wedding guests had been treated to surprisingly good food, and so much mead and ale that his head was spinning with excess. He was reluctant to admit that the feast had surpassed his expectations, but the evidence appeared irrefutable based on the happy, overstuffed bodies falling around him.
Eirik and Lothar were inseparable, revelling in their own brilliance and dreamed of successes to come, though both were too stupid to realise that they were after the same prize, and he doubted that either of them truly had a mind to share. Fools, Osbert thought to himself. Old fools. Their time was nearly done, and with their deaths, a new era would be ushered in. By him. And then everything would change. He had plans for that.
‘Eadmund. Eadmund!’ Thorgils shoved his friend again, but his eyes didn’t open.
‘You’ll have no luck with your little princess there, she is surely gone tonight,’ came the growling tone of an unwelcome observer.
Tarak.
Jael looked on curiously. She was almost drunk. It was the most relaxed she had felt in a long time, and although she was in total agreement with this mountainous beast, she didn’t like the look of him.
Thorgils sighed. ‘Tarak,’ he stated grimly. ‘Have you had the pleasure of meeting Eadmund’s new wife?’ Thorgils gestured to Jael, hoping to send Tarak on his way but he didn’t budge.
Tarak Soren was immense in both height and width, and Jael had to look up quite a long way to catch a glimpse of his face. It wasn’t worth the effort. He was no stranger to battle, that much was obvious. Scars chased each other across thick, lumpy skin, which stretched itself across his massive facade. He smiled condescendingly at her, with menacing eyes; eyes without humour. The bitter scowl curling from one side of his mouth to the other prickled the hairs on her arms.
Unwisely or not, Jael stood up. She was more unsteady on her feet than she had anticipated but she was consumed by the sudden urge to make herself known to this man. Eadmund snored, blissfully unaware, in his chair beside her.
