Page 10 of A Song of Ravens and Wolves
‘You will allow us to trade freely, between the northern isles and the mainland.
‘What does that get me in return?’
‘In return, we will forge stronger trade routes with Miklagard. We will take your goods at a cost, and you will have my men. We will be bound in peace and in war.’
‘I thank you, Jarl,’ my father bowed, an almost laughable gesture. ‘I must ask before we make our allegiances; what will become of my daughter should anything happen to you?’
The Jarl studied me with hard blue eyes. ‘My wife will inherit my lands. Should we have a child then my lands will go to him when he comes of age.’
I learned later that he had three sons from his first marriage. Brusi. Sumarlidi. Einar. His fourth son, Hunde, had lost his life to King Olaf Tryggvasson in his first attempt to convert our isles to Christianity. Sigurd agreed that he would be Christened but no churches were ever built in his name, it was Odin we worshipped in the privacy of our bedchamber.
‘Bring out the ale, let the Northmen sup, you all have a long journey ahead of you tomorrow.’
Tomorrow? My heart thundered in my ears.
‘But father,’ I said, trying desperately not to catch the Jarl’s eye. ‘Must we not be wed, here before God?’
‘No,’ my answer came from the Jarl. ‘We will be wed on Frigga’s day, before the goddess and the gothi…’ he searched around for the word. ‘Priest…yes? She will marry us,’ my soon-to-be husband forced more mutton into his mouth, leaving a glistening sheen of grease about his beard.
I felt my horror rise like bile. A wave of sickness crashed over me. I would be wed before the week’s end.
‘Father, surely you will not allow it. You yourself must want us to be wed before God. In our own church. I cannot wed in a heathen ceremony before false gods.’
As I look back now, my memory seems as though it has clouded the night’s events. I was far more afraid than I have made it seem. Recounting it, I have not told you of how my legs trembled. Of how I could barely hold my ale in unsteady fingers and ill-advised words that slipped from my tongue. I was no more than a child, naive and terrified.
‘That is for your new husband to decide.’ He raised a glass. ‘Come, let us drink, we have cause for much celebration.’
I felt too sick to drink.
‘Friday,’ the Jarl said eventually. ‘We will wed on Friday.’
‘Father,’ I said ignoring the Jarl. ‘Where will we wed?’
‘Orkney.’
‘Orkney. Friday,’ I repeated. I wanted to say something more, but nothing would come. I could feel my father’s scorn and lowered my gaze.
‘I welcome you to the family, Jarl Sigurd, in peace and in friendship.’ My father passed him the mether with its three handles. ‘Sup and share our mead.’
Sigurd always told me that our mead was worse than horse piss, but he drank it so as not to offend my father. My father deserved none of his respect.
He placed the mether to his lips, took a long slow drink and then held out his hand to me.
‘Thank you, Jarl Sigurd but I must decline, the mether must be passed sunwise.’
He grunted and handed it down the line to one of the other Danes, a frightening man, with a gaze as malevolent as the Devil.
‘Olith,’ he took a knife and picked at the food between his teeth. ‘That is a pretty name.’
‘Thank you, Jarl. It is the only thing my mother ever gave me.’
‘She is dead?’
I rose from the chair. I would not tell him more than was his to know. I needed to find Elpin.
‘You will not eat with us?’
‘I have already eaten. I will bid you farewell.’ I gave a curtsey.
