Audra talked incessantly about the baths she and Sigmar had enjoyed in an ancient Roman villa in England. Wulfram’s promise they would bathe together after they were married conjured wanton images that made her perspire despite the winter chill.
As the hour for the bathing ceremony drew closer, she became nervous. Audra and Inga were clearly excited. Wulfram got a wistful look on his face when he kissed her goodbye before the three women entered the bathhouse, followed by Roswitha’s recently acquired maidservant.
Still not used to having a servant, Roswitha began to remove her clothes, but Inga stayed her hand.
“Shella will undress you,” Audra explained. “This is part of the ritual to symbolize the surrender of your virginity to my son.”
Though she’d loved her mother dearly, Roswitha had never spoken of such intimacies with her. She began to feel accepted.
The other women took off their own clothes while Shella slowly stripped her until all that remained was the silver circlet and the amber talisman. Her instinct was to cover her breasts, but Shella gently moved her arms away.
She lifted her chin, aware the other women were inspecting her.
Audra smiled as she straightened the circlet around Roswitha’s forehead. “Perfect,” she declared, apparently satisfied.
Sandor’s wife opened a wooden door Roswitha hadn’t noticed before. A wave of heat roared out of a small adjacent chamber. Shella carried a bowl of water from the tub and threw it on a pile of stones. As clouds of steam billowed, Audra ushered everyone inside the room and shut the door.
The heat took Roswitha’s breath away and she was glad of the respite as they sat in silence for long minutes.
“Now,” Audra said softly. “Let’s discuss what you need to know in order to be prepared for the marriage bed.”
Kneeling in the deep hole he’d dug, Wulfram was supposed to be concentrating on the search for an ancestral sword, but couldn’t get his mind off what he imagined was happening in the bathhouse. Roswitha would be naked by now, probably in the steam room, beads of perspiration popping out all over her slim body. He licked his lips and tasted the salt of his own sweat.
“Keep digging, Brother,” Sandor urged with an irritating grin.
He squinted into the weak winter sun. “Did you have to bury it so deep?”
“Be grateful you’re not having to unearth your grandfather’s sword from his real grave,” his father interjected.
That much was true. Wulfram had no wish to venture into Fingal’s tumulus. Shoveling dirt out of a hole dug then refilled by his adopted brother’s thralls was preferable to breaking into a tomb sealed off nigh on ten years ago after the death of his maternal grandfather. Some of the old ways were best left in the past.
After what felt like hours of labor, he espied the corner of a piece of cloth. He scraped the remaining dirt off the wrapped sword and held it aloft. “Finally.”
Sandor took the sword. “Now, get yourself out of the grave.”
Looking up at the grinning men standing around the edge of the symbolic grave, Wulfram did, indeed, have the sense he was dying to his old life as a bachelor and being reborn as a married man. Perhaps there was meaning in the old rituals after all.
Breathing heavily, he hauled himself up and collapsed onto the frosty ground.
His father proffered a hand to help him rise, then embarked on a blessedly short version of his dead father-by-marriage’s lineage and history, including that Fingal had killed Sigmar’s own father during a heated disagreement. Wulfram knew the tale by heart and understood the importance of forgiveness. He appreciated being a descendent of a long line of Jomsvikings. Then came the words he longed to hear. “Off to the bathhouse for the next part of the ceremony.”
Sandor winked. “Where we’ll share with you everything we’ve learned about pleasing a woman.”
Each time the steam cleared a little, Shella fetched another bowl of water to toss onto the heated rocks. “I’ve never sweated so much in my life,” Roswitha admitted with embarrassment, gliding a hand along the sheen of perspiration on her arm.
“That’s the purpose,” Audra said. “It’s to symbolize the washing away of your maiden’s status.” She held up a switch. “This will help.”
A knot of fear tightened in Roswitha’s belly. She blinked away the moisture on her eyelashes and gaped at the bundle of twigs. “Er…”
“Don’t worry,” Audra assured her. “It’s made of birch and isn’t painful. It will make you sweat more.”
Five minutes later, Roswitha had to agree the light sting of the birch on her heated skin was strangely pleasurable. She began to feel lightheaded, laughing along with the others as the steam cleansed their bodies. Apprehension fled. The ritual had freed her from her inhibitions. She was almost disappointed when Audra put down the switch and declared, “Now, you’re ready to learn how to please your husband in the marriage bed.”
Shella immediately left the small chamber.
Heart racing, Roswitha entered a new world. The women whose family she was about to join shared intimacies about men and their bodies. They spoke of sexual congress as if it were a sacred experience. She swallowed the lump in her throat at the memory of her mother’s degradation at Kennald’s hands. There’d been nothing sacred about the couplings that had left her mother sobbing quietly.
Wulfram was not Kennald. Nevertheless, she’d been apprehensive about her wedding night. Now, she felt better prepared. Previously forbidden images danced behind her eyes and she was barely aware when Shella returned and began soaping her body with sweet-smelling soap.
“Lavender,” she whispered dreamily, shivering slightly as the maidservant took her by the hand and led her out of the steam chamber.
“Time to wash away your old life,” Inga said.
Audra lifted the circlet from her head and helped her plunge into the tub.
The water had cooled and felt like ice on her overheated skin. She squealed, but soon joined in the shrieking laughter of the other gasping women.
A short time later, scrubbed dry within an inch of her life by Shella, Roswitha left the bathhouse swathed in a voluminous bathrobe, her wet hair bound up in some sort of linen turban. She paused at the door. “My clothes,” she said.
“They’re part of your old life,” Inga replied. “You won’t need them again.”
All his life, Wulfram had luxuriated in the communal bathtub and enjoyed the steam chamber.
This occasion was different. His bride had been ritually prepared for their wedding in this very place only a short time before. He inhaled deeply of her scent that lingered in the moist air, along with other herbal aromas he couldn’t name.
He traced the switch lightly over his sweat-sheened shoulders, aware it had recently kissed Roswitha’s skin.
He flinched when Sandor grabbed the switch and flicked it hard across his back. “Put some force into it,” his adopted brother admonished with a grin.
“Be serious,” their father retorted half-heartedly when they began wrestling for the switch. “We’re here to pass on our knowledge, not engage in horseplay.”
Wulfram lay on the wooden bench, crossed his ankles, and folded his arms across his chest. He hoped Sandor’s boasting about his prowess in bed wouldn’t send him to sleep. He’d heard it all before.
An hour later, his father’s patient explanation of how to please a wife in and out of the bedchamber had produced a raging arousal. He supposed he should be shocked to learn his parents had indulged in such intimacies, but Sigmar spoke of his wife with a reverence that was humbling. Sandor too talked softly of the joy to be found in sharing mutually satisfying sexual congress with a woman.
Praying he and Roswitha would one day be able to pass on the knowledge of the love they shared, he decided to forego the communal tub in favor of running down the embankment behind the bathhouse and plunging into the icy water of the river.
Thor and Sif
Roswitha sat patiently while Shella brushed her ha
ir dry. She kept her eyes tightly closed, afraid if she opened them, she’d find herself back in Kennald’s hovel, dodging blows from his crutches.
She had never liked or trusted her stepfather, but God had brought her so many wonderful gifts this Yuletide season, she felt it only right to pray his legs healed quickly and that he found a way to pay his taxes.
Wulfram had told her of Harthacanute’s illness and she hoped for a better king for the people of England when he died.
She ran her hands over the fine linen of the traditional wedding outfit she’d been given—just to be sure she was still in Jomsborg.
“Open your eyes,” Audra whispered. “It’s time for the crown.”
There’d been much chatter in the household about the bridal crown. A bride’s headdress was a family heirloom passed from one generation to the next. The one Roswitha would wear belonged to Audra. Wulfram’s parents had been married in England but renewed their vows when they returned to Jomsborg.
Roswitha expected a wreath woven of winter jasmine or the like and was completely taken aback when she opened her eyes. Shella held a tall gold crown set with blue gemstones, fit for a princess.
She gaped as Audra took the crown from the maid’s hands and approached her. “This is the last day you’ll wear your hair unbound and uncovered in public,” she said as she nestled the heavy crown atop Roswitha’s head.
“I’m afraid to move,” she murmured.
“Don’t worry,” Inga replied. “It’s only for the ceremony.” She handed Roswitha the silver circlet and a large piece of silk. “Your last duty as a maiden is to wrap the krans and keep it safe for your own daughter.”
Roswitha’s hands trembled as she obeyed, and a teary-eyed Audra came to her rescue. “Let me help.”
The wrapped krans was entrusted to Shella who carried it away.
Smiling broadly, Inga kissed Roswitha on one cheek then the other. Audra did the same before announcing it was time to proceed to the grove where the wedding ceremony would begin.
Roswitha searched for some way to express her gratitude. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she admitted.
“You love my son,” Audra replied. “He would not have given you the amber talisman if he didn’t love you. That’s all the thanks I need. Today is the Feast of the Epiphany, which is auspicious, and it’s also Frigga’s Day, so the goddess of marriage will smile on your union.”
This mingling of Christian and pagan cultures was foreign to Roswitha’s upbringing, but she saw no harm in it. Indeed, it struck her that the Jomsvikings were more devout than most English folk of her acquaintance.
Inga’s eldest son appeared, carrying the sword Roswitha would present to Wulfram as his wedding gift. She knew Sandor had commissioned it specially with his adopted brother’s height and build in mind, insisting jovially he was happy to do it since she was taking responsibility for Wulfram off his hands.
After Inga helped her rise from her chair, she followed Ingmar. The lad led the procession, the sword lying across his outstretched arms. They filed out of the haus and down the slope to the grove where Wulfram waited.
She was almost as concerned the little boy would drop the huge sword as she was about the heavy crown falling off her head.
When she caught sight of Wulfram in his wedding finery, thoughts of swords and crowns fled. All that mattered was the honorable warrior who smiled when he turned and saw her. She was about to wed a man who’d risked the wrath of a king to spare an English earl the torment of slaughtering his own townsfolk. He’d saved the lives of countless people he didn’t know—and one he did.
Wulfram suddenly knew exactly how Thor felt when he was about to wed Sif, the golden-haired earth goddess.
The elaborately embroidered red bodice, the long black and red skirts, the crisp linen apron and the magnificent crown all combined to make Roswitha look like a true Jomsviking.
But, in his heart, he was glad she wasn’t. His bride may not be of noble birth, but she brought new blood to his family—English blood. Jomsborg needed new people and the ideas they brought from other parts of the world. Having traveled extensively, his parents recognized this and his father had encouraged immigration. But there were many who opposed his plans, folk who thought Jomsborg should remain isolated.
He gripped the handle of the symbolic axe tucked in his belt, wishing, like Thor, he could simply mow down the naysayers who would condemn his homeland to wither and die.
He filled his lungs. This wasn’t the time or place to worry about such matters. When he took Roswitha’s warm hand in his, his father nodded to the elder who stood ready to preside over the opening ceremony.
Dag invoked the presence of the gods and goddesses. Wulfram’s thoughts drifted to generations of his ancestors who must have stood in this same grove, asking for the blessing of the gods. His parents had renewed their vows in this very spot.
He risked a glance at his bride, wondering what she thought of the pagan rituals. She stroked her thumb across his palm, apparently sensing he was watching her. Even the light touch was arousing. He squeezed her hand, wishing they could be done with the ceremony and on with the bedding. If he didn’t control his urge to join his body to Roswitha’s, he’d never make it through the banquet.
Dag proceeded to intone the ritual of sacrifice. Wulfram had explained to his bride that often a goat was sacrificed to Thor, or a sow to Freyja. He’d also reassured her their sacrifice would be a symbolic one, with no blood spilled, but he hadn’t told her he’d chosen a purebred mare in honor of Freyr.
Her eyes widened with delight when Sandor led the magnificent animal into the grove. Wulfram looked forward to teaching her to ride the beast. That prospect brought on more of the lusty thoughts he was trying to suppress.
He was glad of a diversion when Dag called upon him to offer Roswitha his ancestral sword. He unbuckled the scabbard and proudly lay the weapon across her outstretched arms. He’d already told her Fingal’s story. She smiled and nodded, then handed over the weapon to Inga. “Guard this well for my son,” she said clearly in near-flawless Norse.
He feared his racing heart might burst and suspected his mother was responsible.
Roswitha turned to Ingmar, took the sword he carried and held it high. “My gift to you, Husband,” she announced.
Sandor stepped forward and helped buckle on the new scabbard. Wulfram drew the sword and held it high. The heft and quality of the weapon left little doubt in Wulfram’s mind his adopted brother had supervised every step of its manufacture. As he nodded his thanks, Sandor placed two rings on the hilt.
Wulfram turned and offered them to his bride.
After she slid both rings from the hilt, he returned the sword to its scabbard.
She took his hand and slipped the larger ring on his finger, then he did the same for her. He’d expected her to be nervous, but he was the one trembling.
“The joining of the sword and the rings emphasizes the sacredness of the compact between a man and his wife,” Dag announced. “Now we can proceed into the chapel for the Christian vows.”
Roswitha processed into the chapel on Wulfram’s arm, sure in her heart she was already his wife. She’d thought the Christian rite would be the necessary step to make her feel thus, but there was no doubt Wulfram’s pagan deities had smiled on the beautiful ceremony. She’d felt their benign presence.
The smiling priest was clearly delighted to lead them in their vows, and Wulfram’s deep voice penetrated to her core as he promised to love and honor her all the days of their lives.
Contrary to her expectations, she was more nervous in the chapel than she’d been in the grove. Wulfram seemed more at ease, squeezing her hand reassuringly as she stammered her way through her vows.
“And on this auspicious Feast of Epiphany, I declare that you are man and wife.”
Wulfram kissed her, gently at first, then hungrily, delving his tongue into her mouth, lifting her to his hard body. She sucked on him greedily, hoping the Norse g
ods and goddesses had managed to peek into the tiny chapel to catch a glimpse of their happiness.
The Bride to Bless
They rode at a slow pace to the haus on the sacrificial mare, their family and guests trailing behind.
Roswitha sat side-saddle in front of him.
Wulfram had worried his English bride might feel uncomfortable with some of their customs, but her bright smile and rosy cheeks indicated she’d enjoyed the entire ritual. “You look happy,” he said.
“I am beyond happy,” she replied. “But I’ll be glad to get this crown off my head.”
“I wish we could simply escape to our chamber,” he confessed. “I want to make you mine in every way.”
“But your mother has spent so much time schooling me in my wifely responsibilities at the feast, she’ll be disappointed if we fail to appear.”
He chuckled. “I understand. My father has drummed my duties into my head, which he’ll probably threaten to lop off if I don’t fulfill them.”
A stable boy took the reins when they arrived. Wulfram dismounted and lifted Roswitha down. “We have to wait until everyone has entered, then I carry you over the threshold.”
She nodded, holding on to the crown as he gathered her into his arms. “We have the same tradition in England. It’s bad luck for a bride to trip over the sill.”
They were met with loud cheering and encouraged to make their way to the rooftree at the center of the dining hall, after he’d safely navigated the raised lip of the doorstep. He set his wife down beside the house’s main support pillar and drew the axe from his belt.
“Drive it deep,” several shouted.
“Let’s see what you’re made of, Wulfram Sigmarsen,” others yelled.
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