16. SIXTEEN
SIXTEEN
Worms, Burgundy
Bells are ringing out over the rooftops.
King Gunther has married again! By royal decree, all work has ceased for seven days of revelry and feasting.
There’s music in the air and people are dancing in the streets.
Acrobats and fire-breathers marvel the crowds in every square.
Children bicker over who will play King Gunther as they re-enact his feat of strength and courage.
Beer and wine are flowing from an endless font; and from the richest lord to the poorest beggar, Burgundian bellies are swelling with harvest corn and roast pork so tender it’s slipping off the bone.
The trees are in the peak of their fall brilliance and the city is a blaze of colour.
The walls of every temple have been washed red with blood to bless the royal newlyweds.
Banners flutter from windows and clotheslines in patriotic display.
Every girl in Worms has braided her hair with green and blue ribbons to welcome Queen Brünhilda; in honour of King Gunther, the men have all pinned their sleeves with patches of pink and yellow cloth.
A parade of ships is rowing up the Rhine, their riggings fluttering with Burgundian and Icelandic flags, their gunwales lined with vibrant shields of every colour and design.
The oarsmen of every ship have painted their faces, and as each vessel passes under the shadow of Gunther’s palace, loud shouts of celebration rise up from the crew.
In the great hall, chieftains, kings, and warlords from all over Europe have gathered to pay homage to the man of the hour.
Rumours of the deed spread quickly, but few who heard it could believe such a ridiculous lie.
Gunther defeating anyone in a contest of strength was a preposterous notion, let alone Brünhilda the Valkyrie Queen of Iceland.
Absurd! Then the heralds had gone out, travelling as far north as Ofotfjord and as far east as Arheimar to invite pagan kings and noblemen to the wedding; and now Gunther and his new bride are being showered with gifts by a host of flabbergasted barbarians—none of whom can help but gawk at Brünhilda’s height, beauty, and goddess-like physique.
Spoken or unspoken, all of them agree, this woman would only yield to the greatest of champions—and, no matter what else has been said about him, if Brünhilda the Valkyrie Queen of Iceland would devote her loyalty to Gunther, then surely he will be the one to unite Germanic tribes and drive the Romans back across the Alps!
Gunther is in his element, a room full of important men and potential allies.
He’s everywhere at once—thanking this lord or that chief for coming, calling for more wine for the Alani king, taking up a wooden sword to swash-buckle with three young Vandal princes on his way to the next table, sliding in between two Saxon warlords to recruit them to his cause, and sitting down with his former father-in-law, King Vortigern to discuss possible stratagems to employ against the Romans.
At the high table, Sigurd stares glumly into his cup of wine.
There’s a pit in his stomach and merely being in this crowded room is exhausting him—so many voices talking over each other all mashed together into one loud noise; so many faces and names to remember, all of them important …
He’d like nothing better than to slip away by himself and find somewhere to lie down.
But he doesn’t dare leave Gunther on his own.
A clamp tightens around his skull. He hasn’t made his speech yet. He scowls, rubbing his temples as a Seubi chieftain spews beer out his nose as Gunther delivers the punch line to a joke over his shoulder.
At his left, on the other side of Gunther’s empty throne, one of the twelve stern-faced but exceptionally beautiful Icelandic shieldmaidens leans in towards Brünhilda. “Your husband is well liked, my lady. He seems very popular among the Germanic tribes.”
“Yes,” says Brünhilda, “Look at how hard he is working to gather allies to bolster his forces against the Romans. Even on our wedding day! It seems his energy has no bounds! Ah,” she sighs, “I can’t wait until tonight to be at the centre of his attention.”
“He is a man of great charisma,” says the first girl, blushing a little.
“And very handsome my lady,” says another, still watching the Burgundian King.
“Very handsome indeed,” says a third, “And wealthy! Just look at his palace!”
All the shieldmaidens nod in agreement and Brünhilda twists a golden braid between her fingers, grinning exuberantly.
“It’s Roman,” she says, “the whole city is. Did you know he was only twelve years old when he seized it from them and settled his people here?”
Sigurd rolls his eyes and waves a hornet away from Gunther’s plate. It was an exaggeration. Gunther’s father had meticulously planned the attack months in advance and had personally overseen all the preparations. At least Brünhilda hadn’t begun to suspect anything yet.
A small hand touches his arm.
“Sigurd, is everything alright?” asks the tiny brown-haired girl sitting next to him. “Are you nervous about your speech?”
Princess Gertrund looks particularly small in the humungous throne.
She’s a frail creature, with a pale face scattered with the odd freckle, and brown eyes that are always partially closed.
Despite having attractive parents, the girl is quite plain.
Her teeth are not as white and perfect as her father’s, nor does she have his charm and charisma; neither did the gods gift her with the luscious hair of her mother, her tantalizing figure, or her sultry green eyes.
However, what Gertrund did inherit is Gunther’s cunning smile and sharp intellect—and her mother Rowena’s predisposal to ecstatic visions.
Sigurd shakes his head. “Your father is giving me an ulcer.”
“Why?”
“Just his usual business. He really hasn’t told you?”
She coughs weakly into her small fist. “No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ll tell you someday, perhaps once we’re married. If the issue hasn’t made itself grotesquely apparent by that point.”
“How I do look forward to the day,” Gertrund says, “three years is too long to wait to be your wife.”
He smiles and puts his very large hand on her very small hand.
“It will come sooner than you think. Perhaps now that we’re betrothed it would be alright if you brought your maids down to Xanten and stayed for a month or two.
I could set you up in my mother’s old chambers.
They’re quite spacious and every inch is cedar. ”
She blushes a little. “Oh, I’d like that.”
“Would you? Good. I’ll speak to your father about it.”
Gunther, apparently done socializing for the moment, comes around the table and kisses Gertrund on the head on the way to his seat.
“Are you going to give your speech now Sigurd?” he says, “everyone’s eager to get on with the dancing.”
“Oh will you dance with me, Sigurd?” asks Gertrund.
“I—Yes, of course,” he says absently, butterflies fluttering in his stomach as he fumbles for the crumpled parchment. His heart racing, he takes a deep breath and strengthens his resolve. But just as he gathers the courage to stand up, Gunther shoves him back in his chair.
“I know, I’ll introduce you!”
Gertrund gasps, “Father, you can’t! You’re the bridegroom!”
“Oh pish. I’m the king and it’s my wedding and I can do whatever I please.” He scoops up his goblet and swoons backward to exchange an enamoured glance with Brünhilda. “And Sigurd’s no good at getting up and speaking before large crowds of people. He needs an introduction.”
Gunther’s eyes bulge as Brünhilda fondly squeezes his left hand. “I … say!” he squeaks. He gasps as she releases his crippled appendage.
“What was that dear?”
But Gunther quickly drains the goblet and gestures for the servant to fill it up again.
“Gunther, you should slow down,” says Sigurd, “you must keep your wits about you.”
“My wits are always about me.”
“Yes, I know they are. I just think that with so many lords and chieftains here, and also with … you know … it would be wise to be cautious, and perhaps not drink so much wine. You don’t want to do or say anything that might—”
Gunther rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you start drinking, Sigurd? So you can relax and enjoy my wedding instead of hovering over me. You wouldn’t be nervous about getting up in front of everyone, you know.”
“I’m not hovering—I’m not nervous!”
Gunther clinks his spoon against his goblet. “Everyone. Everyone! If I could have your attention for a brief moment.”
The commotion dies down and several hundred wedding guests turn to face the table of honour. Sigurd’s heart throbs in his throat.
“Now, my daughter has just informed me,” says Gunther, “that it is unusual for the bridegroom to act as his own master of ceremony, but I wanted to say a few words before Prince Sigurd here gets up and says his speech. Now, most of you know of Sigurd. You’ve heard of him.
You’ve heard the stories of how he’s charged like a mastodon into the Romans ranks and driven off whole legions by himself, with only the legendary sword Balmung and his unrivalled Samsonite strength! ”
One of the shield maidens frowns and leans forward to whisper in her mistress’ ear. “Did he say unrivalled? Surely without Balmung, Sigurd would be no match for your husband, lady.”
“Of course not,” Brünhilda replies, “My Gunther would squash him if it weren’t for Balmung. He’s exaggerating, playing him up for the guests. He’s terrified of public speaking, didn’t you hear Gunther say?”
The shieldmaiden snickers as she meets Sigurd’s glance. “What a silly fellow. Still, it does seem strange to have two heroes of unearthly might in the same place.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” says Brünhilda, smiling defensively, “stranger things have happened.”
“ …some of what you’ve heard seems like legend, hearsay to boost our morale and terrify the Romans.
Well,” continues Gunther, swilling his goblet, ignorant of the women whispering behind him, “today I’d like to confirm, as an eyewitness, that every bit of these stories is completely true!
In fact, the events have even been downplayed in order to make them more believable!
I mean this man, this champion,” Gunther claps Sigurd on the shoulder and takes a gulp from the goblet, “is such a formidable warrior, that if Achilles—Nay! If both Hercules and Achilles stormed into this hall right now and wrestled Balmung from his grasp he would still overpower them both by the strength of his mighty biceps and hurl them right back out the door!”
Now Brünhilda is frowning too.
“Gunther,” whispers Sigurd, “what are you doing? You’re supposed to be stronger than me, remember?”
“Shush-shush-shush! I’m not finished Sigurd,” says Gunther, taking another drink of wine, “and in combat! I cannot tell you, personally, how often he has saved my own life. How many times were the two of us left alone on the misty battlefield? After the last of our men had fled to safety, the sky dark as night from the smoke of burning crops and villages, and ten thousand Roman legionaries advancing upon us—boom-klah! boom-klah! And he and I, thinking nothing of ourselves, only of granting time for our troops to flee, standing back to back, swords in hand, bloodied and weary from the day. And I, thinking it was to be our end, that we would be overwhelmed, captured, tortured, and executed at the hands of the Romans, prayed to the gods to die valiantly and be worthy of Valhalla. But Sigurd, in his grim and austere way, says to me, ‘fear not Gunther, even if the whole ten thousand come upon us, the Norns willing, I shall cut them down and make way for your escape!’”
“That’s enough, Gunther,” Sigurd hisses anxiously, stealing another glance at Brünhilda, whose eyes have turned cold. But his friend pays him no need.
“No, you will not find such loyalty, courage, and might in any other man. Even in Iceland, on the summit of Mount Hindfjall, he was there for me. For without his help, I could not have tamed the Valkyrie Queen and brought her back to be my wife.”
Sigurd claps his hand over his face.
“So here he is, the best friend any man could have, the Hero of the Rhine, the vicious, the impetuous, the insurmountable Sigurd! Of! Xanten!”
A great number of chieftains start pounding their fists on the table; a Danish jarl and his huskarls blow their horns; King Vortigern raises his mug of beer, crying “Here, Here!” Princess Gertrund claps vigorously as she beams up at her betrothed; and Brünhilda’s half-giant cousin, Prince H?fund, cups his hand to his mouth and is soon joined by everyone in the hall as he chants, “Si-gurd! Si-gurd!”
Gunther smugly raises his brow and invites his friend to stand. Amidst the applause, no one notices that Brünhilda isn't smiling.
The cheering dies down as Gunther takes his seat, and Sigurd uncrumples his speech with trembling hands. His knees are tingling.
“Ahem. Uh, thank you... everyone... Lords and kings... of Europe. Uh... I'd like to begin with—”
“Speak up, Sigurd!” cries King Vortigern.
“Sigurd, you're mumbling,” whispers Gunther.
“Sorry,” says Sigurd, a little louder. His voice is beginning to shake. He stares down at the speech in his sweaty hands and clears his throat. “I would like to begin with a—um—poem I've written in honour of the new couple …”