by Jayden Woods
*
Her new lodge was a wonder to her, and very much to her liking. Thorkell kept his promise to her and did not visit her for a month. Instead, she visited him. She was not supposed to, of course—“no women in Jomsborg.” And yet she delighted in breaking the rules. She prided herself in the fact that she was quiet and agile enough to slip past the legendary Jomsvikings. Once, Thorkell said to her, “Perhaps you should be a Viking, too,” and he laughed, a pleasant sound that shook the bedframe. But his chuckles faded quickly when he realized she was not laughing with him.
She did not need to work much, for Thorkell provided more than enough. But she engaged in various tasks for her own pleasure and satisfaction. She tried to mingle with other women in the village, sometimes helping them churn butter or dye a piece of fabric. She quickly learned that she could not make friends, even if she wanted to. Most of the women regarded her with suspicion and distrust, especially once they learned she had spent most of her life in the woods. And even when some of them grew interested in her, going out of their way to be kind, Runa found herself lashing out at them, stirring up trouble against her own intentions.
When she could no longer endure the frustrations of such acquaintances, she wandered into the woods. As she did not need to spend much time hunting for food, she began work on a new creation, one she had visualized for a long time but never had the means to produce. She decided that this would be her gift to Thorkell on their wedding day. Normally, a wife would give the groom a sword that had been passed down her family. But she had no family, let alone an heirloom.
The time eventually came for her wedding, at which point the support of the community surprised her. Thorkell had assured her that it did not need to become a large event, and yet everyone seemed to know about it. In the morning a group of wives from the town led her to the bath-house, where they scrubbed her with soap, and sprinkled water over hot stones to fill the room with steam. Once Runa was both sweating and sopping, they led her into a cold pool to douse herself, and she cried out with delight.
She put on a dress embroidered with golden thread, and she wore a crown on her head beset with crystals and flowers. She had never felt so extravagant in her life. When she saw Thorkell waiting for her on a soft loping hill, she found herself blushing. She had never felt so honored—and yet so incredibly vulnerable—ever before.
She tried not to discourage herself with the fact that very little of his own family or great following had come out to witness their union. To them, this wedding did not matter. They gained nothing from it. And yet at least a few warriors did leave the fortress to represent him, and she knew from the way they all joked and teased each other that they were among his dearest of friends. They were the ones who cared about Thorkell’s well-being, so perhaps it was best this way.
They sacrificed a goat for Thor, and the priestess dipped her hand in the bowl of its blood and flung it upon the congregation. Then they exchanged gifts. Thorkell gave her a sword, and when she took it in her hands, the weight of it spread like a shock through her body. She knew it was meant for their son one day. She did not want it for a son. She wanted it for herself. But she ignored this, and continued with her role. She could hardly wait to give him her creation. When she presented it, everyone in the field grew quiet, so that nothing could be heard but the rustling wind. For a moment, Thorkell only stared at it, his gray eyes wider than usual.
Runa ran her hands longingly over the wood. “It is a bow,” she said. “The best bow you will ever use. Look … you can even set the string, so it can be shot at a whim.”
She was speaking too quickly due to nervousness, and she bit her lips shut. Thorkell recovered from his surprise and took it, balancing it uncertainly in his grasp. “Thank you,” he said at last, and the ceremony continued.
For the most part, the rituals meant little to her, and she carried through them easily. When it came time to say her vow, something changed within her. A terrible fear washed away all the warm feelings of joy and pride that had thus far collected, replacing them with a gut-piercing panic. Suddenly she wanted to bolt away, away from all these staring eyes, away from Thorkell. But he must have sensed her urge, and he reached out and clutched her arm. No doubt his touch appeared casual, based on the effort he put into it, but his constraint was absolute. In a sense she was grateful, and knew he was right: she had had her chance to change her mind, and she had not taken it. And so she professed her devotion.
Nothing went wrong until time for the wedding feast. At this point the men and women split into separate groups and raced to the feasting hall. It was a competition filled with laughter and shouts of joy. Thorkell and his Jomsviking friends ran further and faster than most of the women. But the mood began to change when Runa pulled ahead of all of them. Her crown flew from her hair and she did not pause to retrieve it. She pulled up her skirts to free her legs. She sped over the fields, and when the hall’s threshold appeared before her, she did not slow down—she only raced faster. She had heard that the groom was supposed to bar her way with a sword and lead her inside, as a sign of his guardianship. Instead, she made to race through the door on her own.
Then she stumbled over the lip of the doorway.
The crowd behind her fell deathly silent, but for their panting breaths, which turned into gasps and sighs of dismay. The wife’s entry to the hallway signified her transition to the life of her wife-hood. The way Runa had stumbled indicated the interference of evil spirits; her union with Thorkell would be full of conflict and hardship.
Thorkell appeared next to her, reaching to help her to her feet. She flung herself away from him and hurried inside. She heard the grumble of Thorkell’s voice, and words which were something like, “I guess I’ll serve the ale, then,” and people began to laugh nervously. But she trembled with rage and frustration. Why had she been so careless? Why had she ruined everything that seemed to be going well, as she so often did? She did not understand herself. It was almost as if she did not want to be happy.
Perhaps it had not been her fault, she thought with trepidation. Perhaps her marriage with Thorkell truly was doomed.
