A Sacred Storm

by Theodore Brun

  ‘That oaf?’ She snorted. ‘Suit yourself, Aurvandil.’ Then a sly smile flicked over her mouth. ‘But this conversation isn’t over.’

  Erlan watched her go, irritated because she had only added to the miasma of frustration he’d been feeling all day. His old spear-master Garik would never have had such qualms. He would have taken her in a heartbeat. After all, what the Hel did it matter? He might as well take pleasure where he found it, same as the next man. Same as all these men...

  But somehow he couldn’t.

  Instead he found himself wondering how Lilla was feeling as she waited to be led to the marriage bed of this Danish stranger. Then he scowled at himself. She was another man’s wife now. And she would find out soon enough what kind of a man she had married.

  Not far away, Lilla was growing weary of sitting upright, more weary still of all those eyes upon her.

  She gazed around at the other noble women, their cheeks ruddy from the honey-spiced ale. Had they felt like this on their wedding nights, she wondered? Had they been weighed down by a heavy knot of dread?

  Of course not. They were women of virtue. But she had given her virtue away to a man only too happy to take it. Even though he couldn’t say that he loved her. That was too much for him, she thought bitterly.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Her destiny had always been clear. True, she had sometimes kicked against it, but she wasn’t too proud to appreciate her good fortune. She was the daughter of a king, and now the wife of a king-to-be. One day she would be mother to a king, just as her father had promised.

  Except now this other man had got in the way. This stranger. This cripple. He’d become the splinter under her skin.

  She’d been a fool, but now it wasn’t only her who would pay the price. Fear bubbled up again, fear at what her husband would say when he found out. Fear at what he would do... And that her sacrifice would have been for nothing.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a patter of footsteps, then a tug on her sleeve. ‘Hello, La-la!’ squeaked a small voice. Katla, her tiny half-sister, was beside her chair, looking incredibly pretty, her raven-black hair all done up in ringlets, sewn with daisies and primroses. Lilla smiled at her.

  ‘Are you happy, La-la?’

  ‘Of course I am, sweetling.’

  ‘Do you like your husband?’

  She cupped her sister’s cheek. ‘Very much. Now shouldn’t you be in bed?’

  ‘Mama said I could watch until you leave.’ Her big brown eyes were sparkling with excitement. ‘She said that’s the most special moment of all.’

  ‘So it is,’ interrupted Saldas, appearing at her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Are you nervous?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘You have nothing to fear, my dear. A wedding night is... well, a sacred thing. What could be more precious than your maidenhead, after all?’ Lilla looked away, feeling sick. ‘Oh, don’t be embarrassed, my sweet! Your innocence will be charming to him.’ Lilla thought she caught a trace of something else in her stepmother’s voice. Something sardonic, even cruel. But the queen’s face was glowing with affection so she must have imagined it.

  There was a noise near the entrance to the hall. She looked and at once recognized Ringast’s attendant standing in the doorway. The hall fell silent. Not even the servant said a word. He only bowed respectfully, and then, with eyes fixed, strode purposefully up the hall.

  ‘Be brave, my child,’ Saldas murmured. ‘All will be well.’

  Lilla rose.

  It was time.

  She had expected to see more drink in his eyes.

  But Ringast’s gaze was clear as ever, his features serious, if not quite severe. She wondered if he was nervous too.

  The scent of lavender was overpowering. Some over-eager servant had crammed bushels of the stuff into two large jars on the table.

  ‘Gods, I can’t stand this stink, can you? Here, take these away.’ Ringast handed the jars to the servant who had followed them into the chamber. The girl took them and then withdrew, pulling the door shut.

  Ringast filled a cup of wine from the pitcher and offered it to her.

  ‘Thank you. No.’

  ‘Are you afraid?’

  She nodded.

  He took a long swig of the wine. ‘I believe I am too... A little.’ He smiled. ‘You’ve nothing to fear.’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Come on, princess. Has your father not taught you how to speak?’

  ‘Of course, I... I know...’

  ‘Am I so terrifying?’ Abruptly he reached out and touched her cheek. His fingers were rough. ‘So lovely.’

  He pulled her towards him. She felt his lips on hers, the velvet bristle of his beard. His breath tasted of wine, but it wasn’t unpleasant. ‘Are you a willing bride then?’ he said, pulling away.

  His grey-green eyes were close. She thought how differently he looked at her from Erlan. Still she didn’t answer. Instead she unfastened her girdle, letting the strip of leather slide through her fingers. His eyes fell, moving over her body.

  ‘Take off your dress.’

  ‘You have to help me.’ She turned and felt him behind her, felt his breath brush past her cheek, his hands on the laces at her back. She felt him slide her robe off each shoulder, felt the cool air rush over her skin as it crumpled to her feet. She stepped out of its folds and turned to him, feeling exposed. But there was no intimacy, nothing complicit between them at all.

  Yet he must have felt something, because suddenly his hands were on her, grasping, squeezing, cupping, his mouth biting at her neck.

  She felt neither pleasure nor disgust, only the physical sensations as he touched different parts of her. Abruptly, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. She noticed how white the linen was bleached. She should have been that pure.

  He stood over her, eyes drinking in her body. She looked down. Her fair skin was shimmering orange in the torchlight. The sleek contours of her breasts gleamed and beyond lay the shadow of hair between her thighs. He pulled off his shirt and flung it aside. Her heart beat faster, but not from desire.

  Wordlessly, he undid his belt and let his breeches fall. He looked down, perhaps fascinated by his own arousal. But she looked away.

  ‘Can you not even look at me?’ There was disappointment in his voice. Part of her almost felt pity for him. He had married a woman who could never truly be his. Not in her heart.

  She opened her arms. ‘Come, husband.’ He hesitated. ‘Come, my love.’

  He gave a bitter snort and lay on top of her. His body was hard, bulkier than Erlan’s, with coarse hair covering his chest. He pushed her legs apart. She felt the hard bones in his hips squash against her thighs. There was a long pause. She suddenly realized her eyes were shut tight.

  She opened them. He was watching her.

  There was no love there. She felt none either. How could there be? This was a betrayal of love. It had nothing to do with it. Instead, all she saw was raw desire. Hunger like a dog’s. He hovered for a moment, then thrust himself inside her.

  She gasped.

  He began to move. It all felt so crude and ugly, but after a while at least there was no pain. Outside of his motion, she felt nothing. She saw only the rafters above, felt the friction of his chest hair against her breasts, heard his grunts of concentration.

  A betrayal of love. That was all.

  When he had finished, he rolled onto his back. She lay there, listening to him catch his breath, hardly daring to move.

  He turned his head and she could feel his eyes boring into her temple. But she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Neither spoke. It was only when they had lain like that a while that she realized he didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Did I please you?’ she said.

  ‘You were pleasing enough... I needn’t ask if I was pleasing to you.’

  ‘Of course you were—’

  ‘Don’t bother lying. I’ve known boars enjoy a spearing more than that.’

>   An unfortunate comparison. ‘I suppose I’m nervous.’

  ‘No doubt. Still, you’ll come to like it better. In time.’

  Lilla smiled mirthlessly at the ceiling, dreading what was coming.

  He released a long sigh. ‘Well – I suppose I should see whether the old man got what he wanted.’ He sat up and tried to push her legs to one side. She resisted.

  ‘Come on, I want to see.’

  He pushed her again. She resisted harder, shame burning her cheeks. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘You won’t find anything.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s nothing there.’

  His expression began to change from puzzlement to anger. Suddenly he shoved her so hard she had to roll away. They both looked down. There was a damp patch where the linen had darkened, but of the so-called morning petals, not a trace.

  ‘So the Bastard King has played us false,’ he hissed.

  ‘No! No – he didn’t.’ Her voice was trembling.

  He grabbed her arm, yanking her close. ‘The proof is there. You were no maid.’

  ‘Ringast, please—’

  He tried to climb over her off the bed, but she clung to him, pulling him back.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Away from here! I’ll rouse my men and ride at once. I fear me some foul treachery if we stay. Your father has deceived us!’ He tried to shove her off him but she held on.

  ‘It’s not his fault. His oaths were true.’

  ‘This whole scheme is rotten with his lies. Never trust a damned Sveär! My father was right.’ His nakedness only made his anger all the fiercer. ‘Well, sweet wife. Your bastard father will soon know how a Dane pays back such an insult.’

  ‘He doesn’t know!’ She dug her fingers into his arm. ‘He doesn’t know about me. About this! No one does!’

  ‘Of course, he knows.’

  ‘He doesn’t – I swear it.’

  ‘Doesn’t know that his daughter’s been plucked?’ he sneered. ‘Or that he puts me to shame? Then he’s as big a fool as he is a liar.’

  ‘He’s no liar. His oaths were sworn in good faith.’

  He shook his head, but this time said nothing.

  ‘My father wants peace between our families. This isn’t his insult. If anyone’s, it’s mine.’

  ‘His oaths stand on this marriage and this marriage is a lie.’

  ‘The oaths must hold. They must. Don’t you see? You can’t let this bloodshed happen because of my... my...’

  Her what? Her wantonness? Her indiscretion? Her stupidity? Her love?

  ‘I am the son of the Wartooth. I can’t overlook an insult like—’

  ‘You can. Of course you can! It’s me who did wrong. It’s me who deserves punishment. No one else knows nor need ever know. Let me bear the cost, not my father, not my people. Thousands will die otherwise.’

  ‘There’s at least one other who knows,’ he said coldly. ‘Who is the man who took what was rightfully mine?’

  She hesitated. ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘You think you have a choice?’ He gave a cold laugh. ‘You will tell me. I’m your husband.’

  Suddenly a wave of fury broke right through her. Fury at what a stupid, twisted, upside-down world it was that had put her in this corner. Who was this man anyway, with his wounded pride and overbearing manner, demanding to know her secrets? Gods, but wasn’t every man a hypocrite on this score? ‘Why don’t you tell me the names of all the women you’ve bedded?’ she retorted, her nose wrinkled with scorn.

  ‘What?’

  ‘All the whores you’ve had before you took me... How many was it, hey?’

  He gave a brittle laugh. ‘It’s not the same.’

  ‘Why not? Because I’m a woman?’

  ‘Aye. Because you’re a woman.’

  ‘That’s right. And you’re a man. But where are your morning petals, hey?’

  He was about to answer, but hesitated, and instead shot her a quizzical look.

  ‘If you want to punish me, so be it,’ she said, sensing he was wavering. ‘But I’m begging you, let your men depart these halls in peace.’

  For a long moment he didn’t speak.

  ‘Isn’t that what you want, too?’

  ‘What? Peace?’

  ‘Yes. Why else did you come here?’

  He swung his legs round and sat on the edge of the bed. His gaze sank to the floor. After a few, long moments, he spoke quietly. ‘I’m not going to punish you, Aslíf,’ he said quietly after a few moments.

  She pulled her knees to her chest. ‘You’re not? Why?’

  He looked up at her. ‘Because you’re my wife now.’

  Seeing he was in earnest, Lilla began to weep – and with the first tear it was as if some dam had broken, relief washing in floods down her cheeks.

  ‘Here,’ he said, reaching out and catching one of her tears on the tip of his thumb. ‘You needn’t cry.’

  But she couldn’t stop now, couldn’t stifle the sobs that heaved out of her. And he would never know that she cried not for her people, nor even for her king. She cried for everything. For love, for fear, for shame, for the living and the dead.

  For Erlan.

  Ringast left her to her tears. Instead he took his knife from his belt on the floor and unsheathed it. She watched him, her sobs ebbing as her curiosity grew. Suddenly he jerked the blade across his thumb. A red line welled at once, glistening where the knife had cut. He held his thumb over the bed and squeezed.

  Droplets of blood pattered in a dark cluster onto the sheet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Kai was fed up.

  Three days of feasting, the most splendid occasion he’d ever get to witness, and he had to stay out of sight.

  Erlan had insisted that if any of the Danish princes or their entourage recognized him from his visit to Dannerborg, it would put a torch to these cosy peace talks.

  ‘I’ll make myself fleeting as a ghost,’ had been Kai’s reply. ‘Though even a ghost likes to make an appearance from time to time.’

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ Erlan had growled.

  Gods, he could cluck like a hen, that one.

  In fairness, his master was probably right. That Ringast didn’t seem like a man to forget a face. And no doubt Kai’s grinning mug would be an embarrassment to Sviggar’s grand plans.

  Still, he didn’t like it above half. The last and greatest of the three marriage feasts was underway, despite the fact that the midsummer sun was still a long way off setting. But no one was paying the sun much heed. The festivities would run on till noon the next day or even longer. And he was missing all of it.

  He scuffed the dirt, gazing enviously at the Great Hall from his spot across the yard, propped against a post, one hand holding a half-empty skin of ale he’d swiped from the brewhouse, the other fondling the ear of one of the hall-hounds that lay with its head in his lap.

  They were all in there this time – men and women together. He guessed that signified that Prince Ringast had got his oats last night or something. He gave an indignant snort – not something he was in the habit of doing. Something funny had gone on between Erlan and Lilla, that much he knew. But it seemed to have come to nothing. That aside, Kai still couldn’t help feeling kind of possessive over the princess. Especially after all that happened last winter. And who was this Ringast? Some stuck-up highborn lord, maybe, but was he actually worthy of his princess?

  Anyhow, it was done now. They were all jammed in like herrings in a barrel, toasting each other to happy oblivion and having themselves a Hel of a time. What niggled most was that he’d only recently composed a song to beat all others – full of witty kennings, twists in the story that would have the women weeping, and a hilarious bit about a goat. Tonight would have been the perfect occasion for its first airing. Instead, that liceriven whoreson Bersi had been given the nod to sing some interminable house-lay about gods and heroes. The man had no art at all. The only way he
ever moved a girl was with the fleas he left behind under her skirts.

  Ahh – the girls! It was a crying shame to miss them. Course, Bara was his woman now. There was no question of his fouling that game. But still, it would’ve been a sight and a half. All those others, from the queen down to the lowliest house-thrall, all scrubbed and scraped and primped and preened within an inch of their lives. Yep – that would be something fine to see!

  He sighed dreamily and took another swig.

  ‘Still, old boy – we make do, eh?’ He gave the hound’s chin a tickle. But the hound suddenly lifted its head, ears pricked.

  A moment later, Kai heard hooves drumming. He turned and saw a rider coming up the road at a gallop. He got to his feet. The rider pulled up in the hall-yard, his horse in a lather. Kai knew most men around the Uppland halls but this man was a stranger to him. By the look of him, he was someone’s karl. At least he was carrying axe and shield.

  ‘Where’s the fire, friend?’ Kai asked.

  The man jumped down and flung his cloak over his shoulder, still catching his breath. ‘I have tidings for the king. Where is he?’

  ‘That’s mighty high company to be seeking on a night like this.’

  ‘I have urgent news for him. Where is he?’

  A bit short on manners, this one. But seeing he was in no mood for jesting, he replied, ‘Where do you think? In there – probably pissed as a polecat by now.’

  ‘I must speak with him.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘A whirlwind.’

  Kai looked up. ‘Looks calm enough up there to me.’

  ‘I’ve no time for fooling. Earl Huldir rides here with fifty men.’

  ‘Fifty men? What the Hel for?’

  ‘Slaughter!’ The karl’s eye flashed. ‘He intends to betray the king.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I rode with him. I’m sworn to him. But the way I see it, he rides straight to Valhöll’s gates, his oath to the king forgotten. I slipped away last night in the Swallow Wood and swam the Fyris further south. I have to warn the king.’