Chapter 20
Moonlit Wedding at the Sacred Spring
“This blue gown has lovely silver embroidery along the neckline.” Brynhildr draped the fine silk dress for Sigurd to see. “And the matching cloak has silver fox fur lining. This will be perfect for the wedding.”
“Deep blue, like the sea.” His glorious smile stretched his braided blond beard, the lapis gems glinting in the sunlight.
“And this ribbon,” he said, lifting the two locks of their hair and the blue strand that he was weaving together in his lap.
On the table beside the bed where he now sat, watching her search through the trunk, lay the three blue beads he would soon thread into the braided ribbon and hair.
“Here is a gown I can wear right now.” She lifted a dark green dress from the wooden chest, laying it beside Sigurd on the bed as she shed the ill-fitting clothes he had lent her.
When she stood nude before him, he laid the braid aside and leapt to his feet.
Grasping her hips, he pulled her close, roaming hands over her bottom, sending heat to pool low in her belly.
“Before you dress…” he growled, laying her down on the bed and moving the dark green gown to the table. “I wish to worship my golden goddess.”
He bolted the heavy wooden door of the cottage where Blárúlfr hung on a hook.
Closing the shutter on the open window, he returned to kneel over her on the bed, worshipping her with skilled fingers, lips, and tongue.
After bringing her to a shattering climax, he filled her quivering body with seier, soul, and seed.
“Mmm,” he hummed, kissing her tousled blonde hair.
“With your taste on my tongue and your scent in my beard…I shall relive our lovemaking all day long.” Grinning, he rose from the bed, donned his shed clothing, and sat down again to finish braiding their locks of hair with the silky ribbon and sparkling blue beads.
Longing, love, and lust in his fierce lupine gaze, he watched as she dressed in the emerald gown.
“After three glorious days together, it will be heartbreaking to see you leave.” Standing between his parted legs, she wrapped her arms behind his neck and drew him close, cradling his head over her heart.
She kissed his thick hair and rocked him like a babe.
With a curved finger, she lifted his chin and pressed a gentle kiss to his bearded lips.
“I shall love you, and only you, Sigurd Sea Wolf. In this life and the next. Forevermore.”
Brynhildr withdrew her arms and stepped back, sorrow clenching her gut at the thought of him sailing to Sweden.
She knew he was destined to avenge his faeir by slaying King Lyngvi of Gotaland.
Sigurd and Agnar had recently defeated Hjálmgunnar in the decisive Battle of Bjarkholm—where she had defied the web of wyrd and incurred the Allfather’s wrath.
Now, the bloodsworn brothers would ally once again, to reclaim Sigurd’s birthright—the Kingdom of Lindesnes, in southern Norway. The Volsung lands of his ancestors.
As she opened the window and deeply inhaled the fresh alpine breeze and the sweet floral scent of edelweiss, dread gripped her heart. For she sensed the Norns tightening the threads of fate around her and Sigurd.
“It’s finished,” he announced with a proud grin, handing her the completed braid.
She held it in her palm, admiring his loving, painstaking craft.
With the lighter strand of her golden hair, the darker blond of his, the deep blue ribbon, and the trio of blue beads, the braid was a symbol of their love—bound by the fjord, the sacred spring, and the sea.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered, returning it to him and kissing his lips softly.
With a smile, she said, “Now let’s gather gifts to offer the three goddesses.
And I’ll collect wildflowers, fragrant herbs, and ivy to make my bridal wreath. ”
Sigurd cut three tender twigs from a linden tree near the sacred spring, trimming the side buds with swift, sure strokes of his úlfhjarta dagger while Brynhildr sliced long sections of dark green ivy.
When they returned to the cottage together, he bent the supple shoots into a gentle oval, holding the overlapping ends steady as she wound the glossy ivy around the linden twigs, binding wood to wood, life to life.
“I’ll weave in the wildflowers tomorrow, so they don’t wilt.” She held the wreath, sitting on the edge of the bed, and wove ivy around the frame in her lap. “But I can cut sprigs of wild thyme and weave those in today. The fragrance will be lovely in my hair.”
Sigurd’s smile stirred her soul. “While you gather the herbs, I’ll fetch our armor from the other cottage.” Rising from his seat on the bed, he kissed the top of her head and whispered softly. “I’ll be right back.”
Brynhildr stepped outside, basking in the warm sun on her upturned face. She wandered through the meadow, gathering sprigs of wild thyme for her bridal wreath and fragrant herbs for the wedding offering to the Goddess Eir.
Sigurd returned to their cottage, carrying her golden corslet, falcon vambraces, and the amber leather pieces of her armor.
Through the open door, she watched him lay them carefully atop the wooden trunk, placing her sword and shield against the wall.
He disappeared briefly to retrieve his own golden brynja and winged helm, then returned outside.
Settling onto a large stone near the edge of the forest, he polished her leggings, boots, and gloves with a soft linen cloth and beeswax till the amber hide glowed in the golden sun.
“I’ll offer these to Eir.” She showed him the herbs she’d collected from the meadow. “Mint, sage, and wild rosemary. Fragrant herbs for the goddess of healing.” She smiled as he displayed her gleaming leather armor. “Thank you for doing that. It smells as good as it looks.”
He chuckled softly and rose from the flat stone, clutching her leather armor against his woolen tunic. “I need to clean Blárúlfr. Could I have a sprig of that wild thyme to work into the fur?”
“Of course. Let’s bring the leather inside and I’ll give you some.” She brought the collection of herbs into the cottage, Sigurd close behind.
He lovingly laid the gleaming leather armor on top of the wooden chest.
She handed him a few sprigs of wild thyme, which he worked into Blárúlfr’s thick blue-grey fur. “I’ll comb it on the flat stone, then hang it there, to air out in the sun.” He indicated a low branch of a nearby oak. “We have herbs for Eir, and flowers for Jore. What shall we offer Frigg?”
“Three seeds,” she whispered with a soft smile.
“A rowan berry, an acorn, and the wing-shaped seed of an ash. A trio of offerings from sacred trees.” She kissed his irresistible lips.
“While you clean your wolfskin, I’ll gather the gifts for Frigg.
Then we can go back inside, and I’ll help you polish our golden armor. ”
* * * *
When the bells rang for dinner, Kveld, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan joined Sigurd and Brynhildr as they crossed the meadow and entered the refectory.
As the monks rose from the table, Père Clément’s eyes widened at the sight of Brynhildr clad in the deep green gown.
His crinkled cheeks curved into a pleased smile.
“Vous êtes la Fleur du Nord—belle comme notre edelweiss!”
Brother Pierre translated for them. “Father Clément says you are the Flower of the North—beautiful as our edelweiss.”
Brynhildr graced the elderly abbot with a radiant smile. “Thank you for the trunk of clothing. I am deeply grateful for your generosity.”
After a savory dinner of grilled salmon, vegetable stew, barley bread, and sheep cheese, they thanked the monks and headed back toward the stone cottages at the edge of the forest.
“Brynhildr and I shall wed tomorrow night,” Sigurd informed Tryggvi and Hálfdan as they crossed the meadow and passed the waterfall pool.
“Right here, beside the sacred spring.” He grasped Brynhildr’s hand and raised it to his lips, his blue eyes glinting with quiet pride.
“We would be grateful if each of you held one of our blades when we exchange swords and rings.”
Hálfdan’s thick brown beard broke into a burly grin. “We would be honored, lord.” He bent at the waist and gallantly kissed Brynhildr’s hand. “I am glad you two will finally wed. Sigurd has been yours since he first laid eyes on you at the Sólhjarta Tournament.”
Not to be outdone by Hálfdan, Tryggvi kissed her hand as well. “It will be my pleasure to hold your sword, my lady. Will the wedding take place right after dinner?”
Brynhildr smiled at Sigurd’s two most trusted men who would witness their private wedding. “Nei,” she replied softly. “The monks keep Christian hours. We shall wed beneath the moon. And Kveld will perform the ceremony.”
The Nightwolf nodded his dark head, amber eyes glistening like molten gold.
As the húskarlar headed toward their cottage, Kveld told Sigurd, “We’ll finish the wall by midday. Then prepare for the moonlit wedding.”
Sigurd clasped his forearms. “The cottage is yours again. We’ve moved our belongings.”
Kveld’s gaze flicked briefly toward the waterfall pool, then back to Sigurd. A faint, knowing smile curled his black bearded lips. “Then I shall leave you to the spring.”
Sigurd led Brynhildr into the cottage and fetched the bar of edelweiss soap and two linen cloths for drying.
His lupine gaze was fierce with desire, yet tempered by reverence and awe.
“I must bathe you in the sacred spring,” he murmured, pulling her close and brushing tender bristled lips against hers.
“And make love to you in silver moonlight.” Taking her by the hand, he led her to the waterfall pool.
The rock face of the mountain, worn smooth by the constant fall of the cascade, curved inward to form a shelter of stone around the moonlit basin. On the opposite side, dense forest veiled the spring in starlit shadow, as if Jore herself offered these hidden waters as a divine gift.