Chapter 10

Nothing Good Can Come to Those That Break Their Solemn Vows

W hen I woke, I found myself tucked beneath a thick woollen blanket in only my shift. I started to sit up very carefully; hands clasped to my head, which felt as though it would roll free from my shoulders. I tried to close my eyes, but everything began to spin.

With age comes wisdom, at least that is what we are led to believe. I find we are much wiser now. More wrinkled, but we have still been known to celebrate our youth well spent and Estrid’s recipe for mead is a great accompaniment.

I cautiously opened one eye and glanced about the room. The vague shapes of Estrid and Halldora came into view, staring down at me disapprovingly from the foot of the bench. I listened to the muffled chattering in Norse, doubtless eager for the day’s festivities to begin.

‘Come along now,’ Estrid said, pulling the blanket from me and levering me up from the bench. ‘We must get you ready.’

‘Ready,’ I said through a mouth that felt as though I had licked the bottom of the pig pen.

‘Yes, you do not want to miss your wedding.’

The fear of marrying your first husband is a rite of passage that every woman has to go through, but I can say truly that I would have rode to Hell for the Devil himself rather than have married the Jarl.

Estrid began roughly combing my hair, while Halldora took the finished segments and plaited it with strands of coloured threads of gold and green.

‘Now, which dress will you choose?’ said Halldora, the answer to which she had been waiting for since I’d arrived on Orkney. She held up the first of the dresses for my inspection. ‘This is a beauty.’

I touched it. Letting the fabric slip between my fingers like water. I had never worn anything like it. Nor did I intend to. Then, I believed that I would never be redeemed if I dressed like a pagan. I wanted to wear something of my own. You shall have no other Gods before me and there I was, entering into a marriage before false gods. But, why should we worship a God that will not help us? Fabric is fabric and bones are bones. Even Odin himself is subjected to fate. They do not care of the clothes we wear. Of the men, we lie with. We and the gods have an obligation to each other, that is paid for in the gifts each brings.

But there I was, wanting to wear something befitting a good Christian woman. I took a deep breath to steady myself.

Estrid shot Halldora a look.

‘What about one of my own dresses?’ I muttered.

‘If it would make you feel more comfortable?’

I nodded.

Between them, they fumbled through the handful of dresses my father had allowed me to bring, finally settling on one that reminded me of a winter forest. It was heavy silk, as green as the pines and embroidered with the gold of thistles and fastened with leather ties. The high neckline was inlaid with gold and cinched at the waist and the belled sleeves hung long.

After some time, I sat on the bench fully dressed, while Estrid and Halldora wrapped my shoulders with fur, fastening it with broaches, twisted into the shape of wolves.

‘There,’ Estrid said, taking a step back and surveying me from every angle. ‘You are ready.’

Estrid, like all good Gothi, was involved in every birth, marriage and death in our Earldom. She brewed up herbs when we were sick and she mended scraped knees, although sometimes the scraped knees had been caused by the mead she had brewed. She was stalwart and sturdy and had it not been for her council, I would not be the woman I have become.

Thankfully I was dressed to her satisfaction and beginning to feel myself again. My head no longer throbbed, for all they had tied my two braids so tightly that the crown nipped and pulled at my scalp.

Halldora handed me another small glass of mead. I sipped it carefully and shuddered. The hot, sweet syrupy drink slipped down easily. I walked to the edge of the pool and stared at my reflection in the water, heart pounding wildly. ‘Hold fast,’ I said to myself. ‘This will all be over soon.’

When it was time, Estrid took me by arm and led me outside. At the foot of the steps, what must have been half of the village were stood around exchanging pleasantries, but all fell silent as we descended the hillock. All were in attendance for their Jarl.

As we moved on, others became more vocal in their admiration for Estrid, the Gothi who would preside over the wedding. Our wedding. Drunk on mead I had ignored the gravity of my predicament. It came like a fist to the stomach. I gripped tightly onto Estrid’s arm.

Through the throng, I could not see my groom. I prayed that he had decided against such a marriage. That he would sooner take a Norse bride and send me home. Suddenly, my mind was filled with thoughts of Donada. I had to try and make it through the wedding without crying. I could feel the tears about to spill out onto my cheeks. My sister was safe and as long as she was, that was all that mattered.

It was a warm day. At least that is how I remember it. The sky was overcast and heavy with rain. The mist that had lingered since my arrival had gone out with the tide. We were to be wed in a field beyond the Mead Hall beneath the open sky.

As we neared the field, silhouetted against the stone circle, I caught a glimpse of the Jarl, an impressive sight - standing a head above the others. Broad of shoulder and thick of neck, with the most striking features. His fair hair had been pulled neatly back and plaited like my own, which cascaded down his back. His eye sockets were black as charcoal and his beard neat and interspaced with wooden beads. He wore a tunic of cream that covered him to his collar, belted at the middle with an inscription of runes in blood red.

If I have one regret, it is that I wasted too much time. We always think we have more. That there will be a tomorrow. That the things we want to say can wait. That we can go to sleep on an argument because we will be forgiven tomorrow. That is until tomorrow is taken from us in the blink of an eye. Two lifetimes would not have been enough to say all the things I wished I had said to him.

As I approached him, he gave me a mischievous smile.

Estrid placed me to his left. I jumped as he stepped towards me, placing a gold necklace, littered with the most beautiful glass beads around my neck.

‘It is best we wed quickly before another man tries to take my place.’ He whispered in my ear, fingers brushing my neck. ‘You are every inch a Jarl’s wife.’

My heart raced. It is a terrifying thing to stand before any god and wed someone. Then, before their false gods, I felt no more than a grievous sinner and could not see any hope of salvation. If I brought him a child into the world it would be raised as a Dane and then there would be no hope of redemption.

The rest of the party pressed behind us, preventing any chance of escape. My hysteria mounted until it almost became a scream, I turned in panic to the Jarl.

‘I canna marry you!’ it came out in a rush.

He looked down at me. ‘It is a bit late to back out now.’

‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘Sigurd. Sigurd Hlodvirsson, but my friends,’ he looked around at the men standing behind him. ‘They like to call me Sigurd the Stout.’

They sniggered. ‘Sigurd the fat, more like,’ came a shout.

‘Sigurd Hlodvirsson,’ I repeated the peculiar words. ‘I am Olith Meic Cinaeda.’

‘It is my pleasure to meet with you, Lady Olith Meic Cinaeda and now, would you become my wife?’

I swallowed hard. My muscles tensed just as they did on a hunt.

‘Yes,’ I squeaked.

All around us began to applaud but were soon silenced when the Gothi spoke.

‘Fairest Frigg, Fensalir’s Lady, most gracious of goddesses hear my hailing,’ Estrid said turning to me. ‘Olith, you must hold this sword in trust for your firstborn son.’

Sigurd handed me the sword that he had robbed from the grave of his ancestors.

‘And now, you must present this new sword to the groom.’

Halldora took the sword from my hands and passed me my own, which had been given to me by my father the day I’d left for Orkney. Looking back, I sometimes wonder if it was my father’s disregard for the Dane’s customs that changed our fate and brought so much misery upon us. If I had been able to pledge my fealty with the sword of my ancestor, maybe it would have saved us.

I held up the sword, as Sigurd had, hilt in hand and blade skyward.

‘Now,’ said Estrid. ‘This sword transfers the power of your father and his protection over to your new husband.’

Sigurd placed his hands around my own. They did not tremble as mine did. He squeezed my hands again before taking the sword and passing it to Thorkell.

‘Now the rings,’ said Estrid.

I had avoided his gaze as long as I could, but I glanced up to find him staring at me.

‘Jarl Sigurd, do you swear to the gods that you want to marry this woman?’

‘With the gods as my witness.’ He flashed a smile before slipping the circlet of hammered metal over my finger. ‘I do swear.’

Beads of sweat trickled down my back. I tried to stand taller, bringing my face to meet his and taking his hand in mine.

‘Olith, do you swear to all the gods that you want to marry this man?’

I was still in a daze. The words meant nothing to me, but I repeated them as Sigurd had. Three short words in Norse.

‘I do swear.’ I tried to stop the tremble in my voice as I slipped the ring over his finger.

‘Then,’ Estrid proclaimed to the rest of the congregation. ‘You are married.’

As she said it, the rain began to fall with a soft thump, thump.

Sigurd bent to kiss me, I thought it would be brief but as his lips touched mine he scooped me from the floor and into his arms, pressing me against the solidness of him. The only place that in my life, ever truly gave me solace.

All those around us began to whoop and shout, patting the Jarl on the back.

We drew apart and he placed me back on my feet. I smiled a little nervously. I had a husband now. I looked down at my hand. I still have not removed his ring to this day. He wrapped my arm over his as we made our way through the long reeds of grass, already turning golden with the anticipation of the harvest.

‘Now we feast.’ He gazed down at me.

‘All of us?’

‘Yes.’ He shouted something in Norse and in a hail of flesh, they all took off running, whooping and howling, chasing each other and leaving Sigurd and I in their wake. He roared with laughter.

‘What are they doing?’ I asked.

‘It is the brue-hlaup, the bride race.’ He smiled. ‘Last one there has to serve everyone’s drinks for the rest of the evening,’ and with that, my groom took off after them.

I picked up my skirts and ran, sodden undergrowth pulling at the fabric and stumbling over uneven ground, but I kept no more than a length between us. I had chased down enough injured quarry in my time, I would not let him get away from me that easily.

The fresh spring rain had soaked my gown, sticking it to my legs. All the fear that had been balled up inside my throat burst forth in a shriek and a giggle as I hurtled down the embankment towards the rest of the party.

By the time I reached the others my hair was slicked to my face with rain. The exterior of the Mead Hall was decked with flowers of golds and yellows, that I could just about see above the sea of heads. I squeezed my way through the throng of slick bodies, arriving at the barred entrance, guarded by Sigurd.

His beautiful charcoal markings ran like tears the length of his face, which made his smile more radiant. He scooped me from the floor again, this time, he cradled me in both arms.

‘Welcome, Lady Olith,’ he smiled down at me. ‘To your new home.’