Chapter Thirty-Six: What God Joins Together
It would be a small, late harvest, but Rúna was pleased with Sigurd's foresight to have the large garden plots of York tilled and sowed. The rich, earthy smell of toiled soil reminded her of home, of spring days where her hands were dusty, and her body sun warmed. Here, in York, she did not do the work that Blaeja had deemed 'for servants'. Instead, she sat on one of the broken remains of the Roman walls and oversaw the sowing with Blaeja and Tanaruz.
"That one," Rúna said in her native Norse, tipping her head toward a woman with gray-streaked sandy hair, "says I have thighs 'fat as a broodmare'." Beside her, the princess giggled into her palm and her sister turned pink in the face.
"You do not," Blaeja assured her. Rúna had learned of this quip from Tanaruz. Quiet by nature, the Saxon slaves had assumed she was simply ignorant of their language. Of her own accord, Tanaruz had let the assumption stand and had been reporting bits of overheard gossip to Rúna and Blaeja. The slaves all spoke freely around Tanaruz, falsely secure in their incorrect notion that she would not understand their words.
The girls passed a bag of berries between them, snacking as they watched. Sigurd should be doing this himself, but the boys were plotting. There were reports that King Aethelwulf was planning on attacking York once more. Usually, Rúna would be offended to be kept from a strategy meeting, but she did not mind on that late spring day. She had strategizing of her own to do.
"Blaeja," Rúna continued, "what makes a marriage valid in this land?"
It was Blaeja's turn to blush. She had readily and happily accepted Sigurd's marriage offer just days before, but with the coming attack, there had been no time for further planning.
"Properly done," Blaeja began, choosing her words carefully, "the ceremony takes place in a church and overseen by a priest. That makes it binding in the eyes of God. But to make it binding in the eyes of the law of the land, the marriage, um, must be… consummated."
Rúna raised her brows at this but made no outward comment. Two of those three things could be managed. "How important is the priest?"
"The marriage is invalid in the eyes of God if the ceremony isn't presided over by a priest."
Dammit, she thought. Blaeja was too pious, she knew, to agree to a ceremony that wouldn't please her God. In Norway, all it took was the commitment of the two people and the agreement of their parents, if they were young as Blaeja and Rúna were. The ceremony was more for fun and celebration than formality. Still, if a priest was the only piece missing, surely one could be found. She plopped another berry in her mouth, rolling it on her tongue. Perhaps Ivar and I should not have been so hasty to kill York's priest.
"You should have a new dress for it," Rúna said, hoping she sounded as confident as she was trying for. "What do you wear, for weddings, here?"
"White, for brides, to show their virginity." Rúna fought the urge to roll her eyes at that. Virginity, always virginity. Tanaruz smiled knowingly at her from Blaeja's other side. "Though Judith wore red, to remind Ecbert and Aethelwulf alike of her royal blood."
"Oh?" That was more interesting than white and 'purity'. "Royalty has its own color, here?"
Nodding, Blaeja tilted her cup toward Rúna. The older girls were drinking wine while Tanaruz drank water sweetened with honey. Sunlight revealed the deep, dark red of the wine in Blaeja's cup. Smiling, Rúna bumped Blaeja's shoulder with her own. "It is the same in Norway," she told her. "The dye is too rare, too expensive for the commonfolk to wear red. Sigurd's mother preferred it. Have we any, here? Red silk?"
Again, Rúna thought of the clothes Tanaruz came to Kattegat in. Red silk tunic, red silk pants. Both embroidered in fine gold thread. Little silken slippers to match. This commonality between the Saxon and Viking cultures only strengthened Rúna's hunch that Tanaruz had come from a prominent family in her own land.
"Yes," Blaeja reassured her. "And if we did not, the madder root grows strongly in the forest around York, or so Morwen tells me."
Madder root. Just like at home. Rúna did not bother to tell Blaeja that there would be no going into the forest for the madder root, not for them. For the third day in a row, the hunting party had not returned. That was, in part, why the brothers were meeting. The seeds being sown into the rich, dark earth of the York gardens would not be ready for months yet and they were running out of food.
But that had not yet come to pass, and there were other concerns to be had.
"Tanaruz, it sounds like we have sewing to do tonight. We will have to hide the dress well, just in case, if the scouts are telling the truth about Aethelwulf."
The planting was finished just in time for the truth to be brought to the gates of York. Thanks to Ivar's strategy, the Christians found York seemingly abandoned. In truth, the Great Heathen Army laid in wait beneath the Christians' feet, rising from the sewers as devils from their feared hell. It was another massive strategic win for Ivar. York was safe, held firm for Sigurd and Blaeja.
Yet even the maintained hold of York was not the shining jewel of Ivar's latest success. He had told Rúna as much, before leading her down the long, candlelit hallway toward his hostage. His jewel. "They say he is called Bishop Heahmund."
It was after the battle, but before the feast. If they could call the scraps a feast; rationing was in strict affect, at Rúna's urging. She was the only one who knew what it was to not have enough food. Rúna had not had time to wash and change; beside him, she smelled of the fighting. Dried sweat and dirt and blood. Victory. She walked with her hand tucked into the curve of his free elbow, her touch burning through leather armor and wool tunic alike. Never would he tire of this, of walking beside her.
"Bishop?" She asked, canting her head and looking up at him. Up at him. Not down, as she had to before. Ivar nearly kissed her split lip, then, so happy was he over this small fact. Instead, he looked her full in the face for the first time. She had a long scrape down the side of her, arching from temple to jaw. Her left eye was bruised black as well, but she moved easily and her eyes were bright with excitement, not pain. One side of her split mouth quirked up in mischief. "That is the name given to some Christian holy men, no?"
"It is," Ivar agreed, leading them on. The scrape-and-thump of his crutch and left foot was an undercurrent to their hushed words. It was easy to be quiet; the constant rumble of thunder covered their words as a ferocious storm raged outside. "What are you plotting, hmm?"
Rúna smiled at him rather than answering, her bottom lip threatening to bleed anew with the movement. They had reached the heavy, iron-inlaid door of the makeshift dungeon cell he had Heahmund brought to. It was tiny room, a servant's keep, he had been told. The bed had been removed, but he had graciously had the floor laid with hay for the bishop's comfort. Heahmund sat with his back to the wall, his leg shackled to the floor. Quick work done by Frode, but solid. Rúna strolled in ahead of him, crouching down in front of the bishop.
He did not shrink away from her, but Ivar was not remiss in catching the way Heahmund regarded her. The man's eyes hardened at the sight of a battle-worn woman, her face marked with runes and the blood of Christians.
"Can you perform wedding ceremonies?" She asked, using the Saxon language and taking both Ivar and Heahmund by surprise. "Being a bishop, are you allowed to do that?"
Ivar recovered first, glaring at the bishop's gaping face. "She asked you a question, Christian."
Heahmund returned the glare over Rúna's shoulder before fixing on her face. "Not for heathens."
"But you can?" Rúna asked again. Ivar watched waterfall of her hair as she cocked her head to the side. "You would, for a Christian?"
There was a long pause where Heahmund regarded Rúna, studying her face with a hard, blue gaze. "Yes," he eventually answered, clipping the word between his teeth.
"Good." Rúna pushed herself to standing, drawing close to Ivar and laying a hand on his waist as she whispered in his ear. She spoke to him in their native Norse. "He can marry the princess and your brother."
Rúna kissed the hollow just below his ear, making a shiver run down his spine. Then she turned in his hold to address the Christian once more. "Good night, Bishop Heahmund. I will explain my questions in the morning. Sleep well."
"Will you truly?" Ivar asked once they were back in the hallway, Rúna leading the way toward the meager victory feast.
"Yes, of course. I will bring Blaeja to him myself." The candlelight twinkled in her gray eyes. "This bishop of yours is a great gift from the gods, Budlungr."
"Are you going to tell me why?" He prodded, to which Rúna merely smiled and kissed him quickly on the lips.
"After the celebration," she promised. The celebration in question was meager, thanks to the Christian attacks on the hunting parties. Yet, the spirits were still high, the hall ringing with the din of laughter and cheerful conversation. Though the Christians had tried to stifle them, the Vikings had once more come out victorious. Ivar enjoyed the compliments laid upon him more so than he did the plain meal, but it proved enough combined sustenance that he went to bed with Rúna in a good mood.
They laid facing each other beneath the blankets, clean and sleepy after the long day of sloshing through sewers and fighting King Aethelwulf's forces. As always, Ivar kept a few candles burning to keep the room from becoming completely dark during the night. Though the storm had largely passed, a few muffled, far-off thunderclaps still rumbled through the air. They were safely insolated here in his bedroom, though, his hand idly tracing the curve of her hip and thigh through her night shift.
"Will you tell me now why you are so pleased with Bishop Heahmund?" Again, Rúna gave him that little smile. She drew closer to him, unabashed as her legs—all softness—met the sharp angles of his own.
"Blaeja told Tanaruz and I that she must be married in a church, by a holy man, to make the marriage binding in the eyes of her God." Her smile widened, eyes twinkling in the dim candlelight. "Your bishop is very convenient for that, you see. Blaeja agreed to marrying Sigurd, but I don't think she would agree to a Viking wedding ceremony."
"You are likely right," Ivar admitted it. "Blaeja is as devout as any Christian I have ever seen. But will Sigurd agree to a Christian marriage?"
"You know he will," Rúna answered without hesitation. "For Blaeja? For York? He will agree. Do you want to know something funny, though? Blaeja told me that to make the marriage binding in the eyes of Saxon law, it must be consummated. What is the use, then, of the church and ceremony and their god?"
Ivar chuckled. No wonder, then, that Blaeja considered himself and Rúna as good as married. Does the princess know that, by the logic of her people's laws, Sigurd has had three wives before her? He wasn't sure how honest Sigurd had been with Blaeja about his past sexual experiences, but he made a mental note to pry. If nothing else, it would dig under Sigurd's skin, and he was running out of opportunities to needle at his brother as the days slipped by.
"I was thinking," Rúna continued, tracing the lines of his tattoos where they marked his chest. It left his skin tingling in the wake of her touch. He was too weary to act on it, though; he had worn his heavy metal braces the entire day and then some. Instead, he enjoyed the sensation of her touch and the knowledge she would be there in the morning when he woke. "It is not enough for Sigurd and Blaeja to be married and York given to them unless it is known in these Saxon lands. Is Bishop Heahmund the only captive you took today?"
"He was the only one worth taking. You saw him today, how he fought atop his horse. How he rallied his people around him. Heahmund outshone Aethelwulf and then some."
"Hmmm." Rúna dropped her gaze, pursing her lips in thought. "I will think on it some more." She snuggled closer to him still, tucking her head beneath his chin. "I'm too tired for it, tonight. But I will think of a way to solidify York for Sigurd and Blaeja."
Again, Ivar chuckled, letting his mirth sink into the crown of her head. "If you do all the thinking for them, min dróttning, they will hardly know how to once we leave them here."
Rúna grumbled something unintelligible in response to his chastising, voice already thick with coming sleep. Ivar kissed her head and settled into the mattress, eager to join her in dreams.
"Bishop Heahmund," she greeted the next morning, sinking to sit cross legged before the man. Rúna offered him a heel of bread, only a day or two gone stale. The bishop had blue eyes, she noted, set in a long face. His hair was short but mussed; he had slept, though she had doubted he would be able to get comfortable enough, chained as he was.
"Heathen." He took her proffered bread despite his harsh greeting.
"My name is Rúna," she told him. "I much prefer it, if you do not mind."
Older than Björn, she thought, watching the play of shadows over his face. But not by much. Heahmund took a tentative nibble of his bread before addressing her again.
"You asked me about marriages last night. Why?" Heahmund did not return her smile. In fact, his face did not so much as twitch away from the skeptical regard he currently wore.
"I have a Christian friend in need of your services." In one fluid motion, Rúna pushed herself to her feet. She made no effort to hurry her stride as she walked do the door. Pushing it open just a crack, she stuck her hand through and waved Blaeja forward from where she waited in the hallway. Taking her by the hand, Rúna drew Blaeja into Heahmund's cell and into the light streaming from the one, high window.
Though she had never seen Queen Judith, when Heahmund's face brightened with sudden recognition, Rúna knew the sisters must share a resemblance. "Princess Blaeja."
The bishop's voice was full of reverence, his chains clattering as he laid a hand gently on Blaeja's face. Under his touch, she smiled ruefully.
"My sister and her husband think me dead." It was a statement, not a question. Blaeja laid her hand over his. "No matter. Will you hear my confessions, Bishop Heahmund? It has been some time since I have been able to give them to anyone other than the walls of the church."
"Of course, my lady." Here, Heahmund cut his eyes at Rúna. She smiled pleasantly at him, laying her hand on Blaeja's shoulder and giving her a soft squeeze.
"I will wait for you in the hallway." Rúna said this in her own language, causing the bishop's face to sour anew when Blaeja nodded in understanding. She knew Ivar wouldn't like that she was putting the plan in Blaeja's hands, but he didn't know the princess as she did. Ivar certainly never spent his afternoons sewing and talking with her, nor did he play chess with her or accompany her to her church so she might pray to her God in peace.
Rúna trusted Blaeja, as did Sigurd. That was enough for her to shut the door to Heahmund's cell tight behind her and linger in the candlelit hallway while Blaeja had a private audience. In the hallway, she sighed, leaning against the cool stone wall and tilting her head back. When she spoke to her own gods, she did the same as Blaeja: she looked toward the sky. Lips moving in silent prayer, Rúna quickly asked Odin not to let the Christian princess fail her.
They were plotting, Ivar and Rúna. Sigurd was sure of it. He wished he was close enough to hear what they were whispering about, but he was on the opposite end of the table. Blaeja, Hvitserk, and Tanaruz all separated him from overhearing even a snipped of what Ivar said when he dipped his head low to murmur in Rúna's ear. They shared both a plate and secrets, ensconced in their own world, as they often were together.
It was infuriating, but then again, it always had been. Not that it mattered. His deaf ear was aimed toward the pair. He couldn't hear more than muffled, dull sounds, anyway, strain though he might.
Blaeja's hand was a balm to his frustration.
"They're talking of Bishop Heahmund," she told him softly. "Or, arguing, I would guess. He said he will marry us, so that we may hold York legally through both conquest and my royal claim, but that you must be baptized Christian."
With this new information in mind, Sigurd threw another look at his brother. Ivar was glaring openly at Rúna, not that she had ever been cowed by his contemptuous looks. Rather, she met his icy gaze evenly, stubbornly raising her chin a fraction of an inch. The raised arc of her eyebrows seemed to challenge; you dare doubt me?
Ivar blew his breath in response, shifting his glare from Rúna to the imprint of a cross that hung above the hearth. The cross had been wrought in gold and inlaid with jewels; Sigurd knew because Blaeja was in possession of it, now. Years of hearth smoke had left the outline of the cross blatant on the wall, and now it bore the brunt of Ivar's infamous ire. He didn't like the idea of one of his brothers being baptized, clearly.
"Father was once baptized," Sigurd said, loudly, so that Ivar would hear at the end of the table. "Yet he was still very much loved by our gods."
"Is that what all this whispering is about?" Hvitserk asked, looking up from his plate. Tanaruz giggled beside him. "Well, we would have both lost, Tanaruz. We too bets, but neither of us guessed it was all over a little water and some words."
"Father was only baptized as a trick to the Christians," Ivar hissed, ignoring Hvitserk between them. "It would be different, if you do it, Sigurd. It would be betrayal of our gods."
"Would it?" Hvitserk asked before Sigurd could speak. In Ubbe's absence, he had taken up playing peacemaker between the two. "Our uncle Rollo did it, you know. Said the words, followed the baptism, to marry his wife in Frankia. But he was still very much Viking, when he was raiding with Björn and I."
"Thank you," Rúna enthused, earning her a new annoyed glance from Ivar. "See? Have you ever meant any of the lies you've told?"
Though stubborn, Ivar was also smart enough to recognize when he was outnumbered. "Sigurd is certainly skilled at lying," he snapped, glaring at each of them in turn. When his eyes landed on Tanaruz, though, they brightened with a new idea. "What say you, Tanaruz? You are as displaced as Sigurd will be, when we leave."
Between Hvitserk and Rúna, Tanaruz stilled. Her dark, almond eyes went wide in surprise and her cheeks bloomed with a red flush. Though kindly regarded by all of them, Tanaruz largely kept to herself unless she was speaking to Rúna or Blaeja.
"Would you? Be baptized… Norse, Viking?" Ivar prompted, earning himself a glare from Rúna. His jaw went suddenly tight as he cut his eyes at Rúna; she had probably kicked him under the table, as she used to when they were all children. Sigurd choked back a snicker. She always had been more willing to treat him no different than she would any of the rest of them.
Tanaruz was quiet for a few beats, her gaze sliding from Rúna to Ivar, from Sigurd to Blaeja. "Rúna has taught me the stories," she said softly, speaking slowly in her lilting way, clearly choosing her words, "and I have seen the sacrifices. I wear your clothing and I recognize your runes and I have learned your language. But it is still to Allah that I pray."
Rúna laid her hand over Tanaruz's where it rested on the table, giving her fingers an emphatic squeeze. Ivar gave an equally emphatic roll of his eyes, face becoming petulant as he tucked his chin in his hand and pouted. Even when wearing his metal leg braces, he kept his leather wrist braces on. Sigurd hoped the stiff leather was biting into the tender skin of his brother's chin. It would serve his attitude right.
"Will you, then?" The question came from Hvitserk. "Allow the bishop to baptize you, that is?"
"If Father could do it without Odin forsaking him, then I wager I can, too." That was one matter settled, against Ivar's wishes. Rúna was fairly certain he would live through the disappointment. Still holding her sister's hand, she pushed herself forward and peered down the table.
"Blaeja, there's still the matter of the letter. Bishop Heahmund did write it for you, no?" In answer, Blaeja withdrew a thick, folded piece of parchment from her skirts and slid it across the table. Rúna picked it up, scrutinizing it. There was something written on the front. When she held it up to the light of a table candle, she could just make out scrawled words on the inside as well. "Can any of the Saxon slaves read, do you know?"
The question was left open for any to answer, but the three Ragnarssons paused just as Tanaruz and Blaeja did.
"You do not trust Bishop Heahmund?" Blaeja asked eventually, disbelief coloring her tone.
"No," Rúna said simply. "Do you? Because he is a man of your God? He is a man of King Aethelwulf, too. Just because the wolves have been driven from York with their tails between their legs, that does not mean they won't think to come back."
It was a slight to Ubbe as much as it was to Aethelwulf. Ivar chuckled, his laugh deepening when he took in the dour looks Rúna's jab brought to his brothers' faces. "I'll ask your man," Rúna continued to Ivar. "We should know for certain what it says before we send it off."
"Send it off?" Blaeja asked, her disbelief darkening to incredulity. Sigurd took her hand beneath the table, lacing his fingers with hers. "I thought you would take it to my sister."
"Me?" Rúna asked, surprise flooding her face and words alike.
"I very well cannot go, and they already know Hvitserk." Here, she gestured to the fading bruises that stained Hvitserk's face. Left over remnants from Ubbe's failed peace talks. "I cannot hold York without a husband, so I didn't think Sigurd's being our messenger would be wise. If the good bishop is as true as I believe he is, then Sigurd's name is in that letter."
She kindly didn't point out that Ivar couldn't sit a horse that wasn't led for him. He could sit in a saddle, but the weakness of his legs left him unable to lead the horse through kicks and nudges. The few times he had sat in the saddle, Ubbe had led his horse by way of a rope or holding the reins for Ivar. Only in his chariot was he fully able to command the beasts.
The table fell silent, everyone exchanging glances.
"I will take Tanaruz with me," Rúna said at last. "I'll need to borrow your horse as well as your man, Budlungr. We will have to ride in the morning, if we hope to catch Aethelwulf's retreat before they are too far gone."
There was much arguing after dinner, between Rúna and Ivar. She insisted on carrying the letter—truly addressed to Judith and containing the information Blaeja had dictated for Bishop Heahmund—herself. Ivar had been steely and resistant to the idea. That is, until Rúna pointed out the no mortal harm could or would come to her. It couldn't. The Seer's prophecy had yet to come about in full.
So, at dawn, Rúna and Tanaruz had ridden out of York on Ivar's horse. They were both dressed in their pants and armor, each armed with shield and sword and daggers. Tanaruz sat behind Rúna in the saddle, a quiet and reassuring weight.
"You're not worried, shaqiqa?" Tanaruz asked when half the morning had passed them by. Rúna had been lost in her thoughts, taking in the greenery all around them. It was nearly Midsummer and England was thriving. She could easily see why King Ragnar had so desired this land.
"Huh?" She responded, pulled from her musings. "No, Tanaruz, and neither should you be." For the first time in a long time, or perhaps ever, Rúna was very much alone with Tanaruz. A compulsion rose in her throat, and the words of her secret nearly tumbled through her lips. She clicked her teeth against it instead. Half-turning in the saddle, she smiled at Tanaruz over her shoulder. "Blaeja is certain we will be fine."
"Ubbe and Hvitserk were not." Now that Rúna was looking at her, she noticed the girl's olive skin had gone pallid. There was that compulsion again, to tell her, and Rúna swallowed it back. Was Ivar struggling with this, too? With his brothers? Likely not. Ivar enjoyed having the upper hand too much. She quickly dismissed the thought. Speaking aloud of the secret to anyone but Ivar felt taboo, as if giving it words to others would chase away the prophecy like so much smoke.
"Ubbe and Hvitserk were foolish," Rúna answered. "They asked a question, and they got their answer. We are not seeking help from King Aethelwulf. We are simply delivering a message to Queen Judith."
"A message that her sister will be married into a people most Saxons hate," Tanaruz pointed out. The girl was smart. She was quiet and she listened and she gathered information. For that reason, Rúna had asked Tanaruz not to respond to the Saxon language or the unusual one she and Blaeja both spoke. It was Rúna's hope Tanaruz might hear something useful, might catch some slip of Saxon tongue.
"Sigurd will be baptized and he and Blaeja will be married before we ride back into York," Rúna reminded Tanaruz. "There will be no stopping it, even if Judith and Aethelwulf intend to."
If she were being completely honest, Rúna would have admitted she was sad to miss the Christian wedding ceremony. Blaeja had described it for her, but she had wanted to see it for herself. Instead, the sun was beating down hotly on the crown of her head, and Ivar's horse was drawing her ever-nearer a retreating Saxon camp. They had rode hard through he morning, but as the day warmed, Rúna let the horse fall back into an easy pace.
No matter, she reminded herself. We will be back in time for the wedding feast. And a true feast it would be, between Morwen's scavenging knowledge and Aethelwulf's forces no longer murdering their hunting parties. It was high noon before they caught sight of Aethelwulf's camp. Kicking with her heels, Rúna spurred the horse into a powerful gallop once more.
"Remember, Tanaruz, you only speak your own tongue and Norse. Listen, watch, and be prepared."
Bishop Heahmund had been right to name Blaeja on site. The sisters shared the same raven's wing hair, the same snowy skin, the same full lips. Blaeja's eyes were a darker shade of blue, her nose more upturned and her chin pointed, but the resemblance was strong. Nothing at all like the differences between Rúna's and Tanaruz. Sisters by blood, not fate.
It did not escape Rúna's notice that Judith wore her hair elaborately styled, carefully designed to cover one side of her head. To hide her missing ear.
"I know you." King Aethelwulf was the first to speak when the camp had been halted and Tanaruz and Rúna had been presented to the royal family. Now he stood looming above Rúna, pointing a finger at her nose. "I've seen you in the fighting."
"My name is Rúna," she offered, then gestured to her left, where Tanaruz stood. "And this is my sister, Tanaruz."
"Sister?" Aethelwulf apparently found the notion funny. He chuckled, not bothering to hide his mirth. "The girl is Moorish, or I'm a Northman."
The joke was met with a resounding bout of laughter from the Saxons gathered round them. Rúna lifted her chin, forcing a smile at the man before her. "Thank you for receiving us more gently than you did Ubbe and Hvitserk."
The crowd of men laughed again, though Rúna hadn't meant it to be funny. Clearly they were still rather proud of their inconsequential victory over two of Ragnar's sons. "I have something for Queen Judith," Rúna pushed forward, raising her voice to speak over the laughter.
"For my wife?" Incredulity had seeped into the king's words. "What could you possibly have for her?"
"A letter… from Princess Blaeja." The entire camp fell silent at her words. Judith's head shot up, startled, her pale blue eyes meeting Rúna's gray. She withdrew the folded parchment from her pocket. Aethelwulf made a move to take it from her, but Rúna snatched it back. She held it close to her chest, not bothering to conceal her annoyance. "Bishop Heahmund wrote it for her, but I am told—by Blaeja—that Queen Judith can read it for herself."
Tanaruz moved as her shadow, following Rúna's steps as she moved past Aethelwulf to approach Judith where she sat. The queen was bracketed on either side by the boys who must be her sons. To the right sat a fair-haired boy, his features promising a strong resemblance to Aethelwulf once he was full grown. But to the left, the younger boy had the same dark features of his mother; and of the priest Athelstan, if Björn and Floki's stories held true. Prince Alfred.
Rúna ducked her head in deference to Judith, though she hadn't to Aethelwulf. She held the letter out to the queen, waiting patiently for it to be taken. Judith moved slowly, inspecting Rúna and Tanaruz all the while. "I hope you will recognize Bishop Heahmund's hand, but Princess Blaeja sent this as well. To ease any worries that this is a trick." From her pocket, Rúna withdrew Blaeja's ring. Unlike the Saxon slaves that had been taken at York, Blaeja retained ownership of her jewels. The ring was simple, golden and adorned with a blue as dark as the princess's eyes. She dropped it into Judith's hand along with the letter.
Judith's features settled into an unreadable mask. So, Blaeja was right, Rúna thought, fighting to keep the amusement from her face. They assumed we killed her.
The boy on the right watched Rúna and Tanaruz with the same skepticism of his father. Prince Alfred's gaze was curious, though, twin lights of intrigue that echoed his mother beside him. Still moving with an aching slowness, Queen Judith unfolded the parchment and began to silently read.
"If you could please read it aloud, dear wife," King Aethelwulf prompted. Not a single bit of affection was held in his tone. Before her, Judith paused, eyes scanning back to the top so she could begin reading anew:
Dearest Sister,
Bishop Heahmund is writing the words I cannot. I am sorry to have made you mourn for me, along with our father, mother, and brother, but I am alive and well. The sons of Ragnar Lothbrok have shown me every kindness. Though Father is gone, and our cousin now holds Northumbria, they call me 'princess' still. I am treated with the same regard as the sons of Ragnar, who are all princes of their land.
As you undoubtedly know, York is held by the Northmen. It was won in conquest; it is held in conquest. The Viking warrior called Ivar the Boneless now has control of the Great Heathen Army who has laid waste to Northumbria and Wessex, in the absence of his brother, Ubbe, who has returned to Norway. He plans to leave York in the keeping of another brother, Sigurd-Snake-in-the-Eye.
Sigurd will hold York by way of past conquest, but also through royal blood. Not his own, of course, as his royal lineage means nothing to our Saxon lands and laws. He will hold York in my royal blood, as my husband. Bishop Heahmund has kindly agreed to baptize Sigurd Ragnarsson in the name of the Lord our God and join us in holy marriage.
There is no need to argue or to raise forces against this union. By the time you have the letter in hand, the deed will have been done and York will be transferred to our keep. It is the wish of both Sigurd and I that your husband, King Aethelwulf, might see the value in alliance between his kingdom and York. It is my sole hope that I will see you soon and that our husbands will discuss such matters.
Your Sister,
Princess Blaeja, daughter of King Aelle of Northumbria
At the summation of the letter, King Aethelwulf went an impressive shade of dark red. Rúna wondered, idly, if it would match the royal red of the gown Blaeja would wear to her wedding. Queen Judith, on the other hand, laughed. The sound was thin and bordering on hysterical; Prince Alfred laid a hand on his mother's arm. Judith shook her head, hiding the remnants of her humor behind an elegant hand. While the king fumed and the queen composed herself, Rúna seized the opportunity to complete her errands.
"Queen Judith, if I may, I also have something for Prince Alfred." Surprise was brought back anew, this time with the prince himself joining in it.
"What could you possibly have for him?" Judith asked, laying her hand atop her son's and squeezing it. Rúna had not known Ivar had brought the bible with him until he rifled through his trunk and retrieved it from the very bottom that morning. Now, Rúna pulled the small, leatherbound book from her pocket.
"It belonged to the priest Athelstan," she explained. "Ivar kept it, after Athelstan died. He asked that I bring it, here, along with Blaeja's letter. Ivar would like you to have it, Prince Alfred."
She offered the small book to Alfred, noting that he was of an age with herself and Ivar. His dark gaze met hers levelly, slipping the bible from her hand to his. "Give Ivar my sincerest gratitude."
"If this… Sigurd… is to hold York and marry my wife's sister, what is to become of the rest of the heathens?" King Aethelwulf asked. Rúna didn't bother to turn away from Judith and Alfred to answer.
"Do not fret, King Aethelwulf. We won't be long for your lands. Blaeja and Sigurd will bring the peace that Ubbe so wanted, and you'll no longer have to worry about being outwitted by Ivar the Boneless."
"I think the people are mostly pleased with their king, shaqiqa," Tanaruz told her as they rode back to York. Again, she was a reassuring, warm weight behind Rúna. Though she had insisted to Ivar that it was fine for her to go alone, she had still been scared. That fear left her, now, in small tremors despite the warmth of the afternoon. "They looked appropriately put off by your remarks against him."
"It's good his people are loyal. If King Aethelwulf is smart enough to see the sense in allying with York, now that Sigurd and Blaeja will hold it, then his people will follow suit." Even her voice sounded a little shaky. She swallowed, gesturing vaguely behind her for Tanaruz to give her their water skein. It was pressed into her hand a moment later, and Rúna took a deep, long drink.
"Shaqiqa, what is the sense of allying with York? I have heard Ivar say Aethelwulf holds two kingdoms. York is but a township." Smart. Her sister was smart. Tanaruz was quickly learning, and she knew Helga would be proud. It was starting to hurt less, to think her mother's name to herself. No longer the knife to the heart it had been, but now a duller ache, though still bone-deep.
"I will show you on the maps, but York is near the coast, as you know. The York coast is simple to reach from Norway. Sigurd and Blaeja will have the benefit of easy trade with our people." It was in their plans, the ones they whispered to each other at night. Opening trade between Kattegat and York would benefit both Ivar and Sigurd immensely.
"And Ivar? What does Ivar plan on doing?"
"Taking back Kattegat, of course. But first, we will raid a small bit more. We will leave half the spoils of past raiding with Sigurd, and we will need more for our own plans of conquest."
Though the wedding ceremony had been Christian, the feast was decidedly Viking. It was by pure luck that it fell on Freya's Day of the week, as most weddings were planned. Blaeja wore the silver crown of a Viking bride, a simple woven circlet that Rúna had commissioned from Frode as soon as the plan for Sigurd and Blaeja to marry solidified.
Before the hearth was the basin of goat's blood, sacrificed in a show of gratitude to Thor. Blaeja wore the splatter of said blood across her face, to Rúna's surprise. Sigurd did the same, of course, but that was to be expected.
"I'm sorry to have missed it," Rúna told Blaeja, settling a kitten she had been taming into her arms. She nearly laughed at Blaeja's confusion. "For Freya, our goddess of love and fertility. She has a chariot pulled by cats. It's tradition to gift brides a kitten, both in honor of Freya and to keep the mice away from the pantry."
That made Blaeja laugh. "Thank you, Rúna. And my sister?"
"She seemed well. Queen Judith looked happy to hear you are well, and King Aethelwulf did not question the validity of the letter Bishop Heahmund penned for you."
Relief washed over Blaeja, her shoulders relaxing as she stroked the kitten's head. It was a sweet little thing. Rúna had found it with littermates in one of the barns, but the tiny orange ball of fuzz was the only kitten friendly enough to leave the tangle of limbs and come with her.
"That is the finest wedding gift you could have given me, Rúna," she enthused, her sentiment echoed in the sincerity of her dark blue eyes. "Though this kitten is precious."
Smiling, Rúna left Blaeja to receive more bride's gifts from her Northern brethren. She joined Tanaruz and Ivar at their table. Ivar was in the middle of teaching Tanaruz a dicing game, the pair using their sweetcakes as their gambling stakes. Rúna and Tanaruz had both changed into dresses before attending the feast. Now, Rúna swept her silken skirts to the side, so they wouldn't be caught on the buckles that fastened Ivar's metal leg braces and sat beside him.
"I wouldn't take dicing lessons from him," Rúna cautioned. "It's not his strong suit."
Though they had spent the better part of two days arguing, Ivar's glare was undercut by the bright amusement in his eyes. With his free hand, he took hold of her thigh and gave her a squeeze though her skirts. Perhaps it was the wedding celebration or the freely flowing mead, but it felt as if Ivar's palm was burning through the silk. She leaned into his touch so that his fingers slipped between her thighs, his thumb tracing idle patterns that made her stomach knot. Those patterns made it hard to focus on Ivar and Tanaruz's games.
She knew what awaited her, when the wedding feast dispersed and everyone took to their chambers. While her companions gambled, Rúna mulled over the conversation she had with Blaeja the night before, after the princess had given her the ring to pass on to Queen Judith.
"Rúna." Blaeja had caught her hand when she turned to leave. One tug, and Rúna found herself within whispering distance. Blaeja pitched her voice low, though they were alone in her room. "Does it hurt?"
There was no need to define the nameless 'it' Blaeja referred to. Trying for reassurance, Rúna gave her a small smile before checking to make sure the door was closed tightly. Then she took Blaeja's hand and drew her to the padded bench before her hearth.
"Some, at first," Rúna admitted. "But it gets better. You'll start to enjoy it after you get used to it."
Blaeja tried to smile in return, but it was watery and insubstantial. Spurred by a need to help, Rúna continued, "There's an herb you can take, to keep your courses coming and prevent a child." It was something Rúna had always known; when she had lived in the brothel with Gisli and Bodil, the three girls would gather the herb for the older girls. She knew it by sight and had been pleased to see it growing here and there in the Saxon forests as it did at home.
"Oh, no," Blaeja said immediately, cheeks blooming with roses. "Thank you, but I couldn't. It is God's design to give those married in his name children. And besides, the sooner I can give Sigurd a son, the sooner are claim to York will be strengthened. Having an heir is very important with my people."
Rúna smiled again, trying to understand though she found herself once again bristling against the Saxon ways. "Very well. Then I'll tell you instead, it helps if you… move… with him. It is scary, the first time, because everything is so new. But don't think of that, and don't think of it hurting. Think of Sigurd instead and try to move as he does, so you do not tense up and make the pain of the first time worse."
The princess fell quiet, her eyes sliding from Rúna's face to the fire before them. She seemed to be turning this information over in her mind. Then she took Rúna's hands and gave them a hearty squeeze. "I will miss you, Rúna. I wish you were not leaving."
This time, when Rúna smiled, it was as shaky as Blaeja's. She drew her in, wrapping her arm around the princess's back and hugging her tight.
Smirking into her mead, Rúna gave a quick prayer to Freya to give the newlywed couple an enjoyable wedding night.
It was hardly the first time Blaeja had found herself alone in a room with Sigurd. She had nursed him through that terrible wound, after all, and had spent several days alone with him. Though, then, Sigurd had lain prone and feverish in his bed. He wasn't leading her into the room by the hand, shutting the door behind them and effectively drowning out the raucous, goading calls of wedding revelers.
"Ignore them," Sigurd murmured to her, his cheeks high with colors. He spoke her language with her, always, when it was just the two of them. Smiling, Blaeja laid a hand on his arm.
"Believe it or not, Saxon men act just the same when the couple is sent off to their marriage bed." That made Sigurd smile, some of the blush fading. Morwen had tidied the room, dressing the bed in clean sheets that smelled sweetly of flowers and summer sun. She had banked the hearth for them, too, so that the room was comfortably warm. Candles gave them more light, revealing the pinks and whites and yellows of the wildflower posies her sweet little maid had set on the table.
"We don't have to, you know, tonight. If you don't want to, I mean. We can just go to bed and no one will be the wiser." At that, Blaeja stretched onto her toes and kissed him on the cheek. Sigurd, her husband, was sweet. But then, she had always known that about him.
"We do," she told him. "To make it a fully binding marriage. Bishop Heahmund will, uh, want to see the… proof, in the morning."
Now it was her turn to blush as Sigurd drew her into his arms. He had worn the darkest shade of blue to the wedding, his tunic just matching the color of her eyes. "Proof?"
"Um, the sheet. He'll want to see that it is bloodstained, to prove I am no longer a maiden," she explained, her cheeks flaming at her words. To her surprise, Sigurd laughed.
"You Christians are so strange." He punctuated the tease with a kiss, one hand working into the strands of her loose hair. His kiss stirred her, stretching onto her toes once more to deepen it.
"So you did lie during your baptism?" She asked, not surprised by the admission, but surprised she didn't mind.
"I told you I would," Sigurd reminded her. "I mean what I say, most of the time. Now, come here." Taking her hand again, Sigurd led her to the bed. But he didn't lay her down as she thought he would, instead pulling her to sit beside him. "You are sure, Blaeja? It must be tonight?"
"Yes." She nodded in an attempt to bolster herself. "I know what to expect. Rúna told me."
"Oh, did she now? And to think Ivar won't say a single word about their time in bed together." He was in high spirits, between the mead and excitement of the day. "He loves knowing things others don't, that Ivar. Never mind. Listen, Blaeja, and I mean it. If you want to stop, we will, and Heahmund's bloody sheet be damned."
Her heart swelled at that, and this time it was Blaeja who kissed him. It lasted until her head went light and then Sigurd gently tipped her head back, his mouth trailing down the length of her neck. The feel of his mouth made her breath hitch and her heart stutter; more so when it moved lower, exploring the swathe of skin revealed by the dipping neckline of her wedding gown.
"Sigurd?" Her voice was hardly more than breath when she said his name.
"Hmm?" he hummed against her skin, sliding a hand behind her back to tug at the laces there. Her hands were woven into his hair, gripping the strands tight.
"Is it all like this?" She asked. "After the first of it."
"More or less." Sigurd had loosened the laces, so that her gown felt precariously close to falling from her shoulders, but he did not remove it. Not yet. Rather, he pulled back to meet her eye, his gaze hazy but questioning. "Better, actually."
"Then I don't want to stop tonight." His answering smile was rakish. He helped guide her hands, removing his tunic before he touched her gown again. Though her hands shook, she ran her fingertips over the ridges and valleys of his muscles. Over his chest, his stomach, his arms. She learned the feel of him by candlelight. When he did move to slip her gown off her shoulders, Blaeja reached up to help him. She let her slip fall along with the red silk, a pleased warmth flooding her belly when Sigurd's breath stuttered at the sight of her.
Just as she had done, Sigurd let his fingertips trail over the curve of her shoulder, the valley of her collarbone, down to softly cup one breast in his palm. Her eyes fluttered shut at his touch, her skin tingling in the wake of his skin. Emboldened, Blaeja reached for him, pressing her bare skin to his as she kissed him again. There was a new, fervent need to this kiss. She wanted him closer, and it seemed Sigurd agreed. When he pressed forward so that she fell to land softly on the bed beneath them, she made no move to stop him.
They both became ensnared in a tangle of her skirts, laughing as they freed themselves. Sigurd kissed her so thoroughly all along her body that Blaeja's mind could focus on nothing else. By the time he pressed into her, she had found Rúna was right. It did hurt, a flash of pain that left her gasping and Sigurd apologizing, but that pain faded into a dull throb that she hardly noticed among all the other sensations flooding her body.
Rúna had not told her of the ending, though. She didn't tell her that Blaeja would feel as if her heart might stop, that her body would tingle from her scalp to her toes. She had no warning of the warmth Sigurd would leave her with, seeping low in her belly. Nor did Rúna describe the way she would against him, still fizzy and weightless, her cheek resting above his racing heartbeat as she fell into a blissful sleep.
A/N: Hey, y'all! Okay, so I fibbed a bit. As awesome as Ivar's strategy was, I wanted to move the plot along as I'm developing it rather than rewriting scenes from the show. I also wanted to spend some extra time with Sigurd and Blaeja, since we'll be leaving them next chapter.
Thank you and welcome to all the new followers we've had recently! And a huge thank you to the reviewers from last chapter: Puffgirl1952 the 2nd, Jomobabe45, Katie, Taylor115, and kit herondale!
