19. NINETEEN
NINETEEN
Reluctantly, Sigurd approaches the bridal bedchambers, clutching four strips of silk in his right hand. He stops and shifts his eyes between the two confused sentries, who hesitantly cross their spears in front of the big oak doors.
“Prince Sigurd,” says the guard on his right, “these are the queen’s bedchambers. We cannot permit you entry.”
“Nor should you. I am not the queen’s husband.”
The two guards glance at each other then back to him. “Then, state your business, lord,” says the man on his left.
“I am sent by your king,” he says. “The assassin who was to strike last night was foiled when he saw the two of you were stationed here on high alert.”
“But the king dismissed us.”
“Indeed. It was part of our plan to inspire confidence in the assassin. Now he knows that when the bridal bedchambers are unguarded, the king is alone with his wife, vulnerable to attack!”
“May it never be!”
“We shall die most gruesomely before we allow such a thing to happen!”
Sigurd raises his finger. “Ah, but you shall allow it. You see, we now have a unique opportunity to lure the assassin into capture.” He holds up the strips of silk.
“I will dismiss you. Then I will go in and wait with the queen for the assassin to come. If he shows himself, I will overpower him with brute strength, bind him with these strips of silk, then turn him over to be tortured and executed.”
“Why … silk, lord? Wouldn’t you have some chains or coarse rope to detain the assassin? Silk just seems like what you’d use for—tying up a lady …”
“Clearly you don’t know of silk’s magic,” says Sigurd, “Who knows what manner of sorceries an assassin may employ in the murder of a great king. Ropes, chains, can be broken, cut, even spoken loose if you know the words. Your former queen, Rowena had a deep knowledge of such things.”
The two huskarls shift uneasily.
“But silk is immune to all such charms,” says Sigurd, “Even Fenrir, the Wolf of Ragnarok, when bound by silk could not free himself. We cannot take any chances. Once the assassin is within our grasp, we must be sure he is unable to escape.”
“Very good.”
“But, Prince Sigurd,” says the guard on his right, “I see you do not have Balmung with you.”
“No. I have left Balmung with the king, that he may defend himself. My hands will be sufficient to subdue the intruder.”
“Most certainly they will. Are you going to hurt him very badly?”
“Very badly, yes. He will wish he had not been born.”
“Perfect. Give him some from us.”
He nods. “Well, I better dismiss you then.”
“Yes sir.”
The two sentries start to march off from their post, but Sigurd holds up his hand. “The shieldmaidens.”
“Ah. Yes. Right you are, Prince Sigurd.”
The man on the right knocks three times on the big oak doors.
The twelve shieldmaidens file out into the hall, beautiful but stern, until they see Sigurd waiting there instead of their lady’s husband.
There’s a gasp or two, and some whispering.
Several of them glance between themselves in bewilderment before scurrying off to the servant’s corridors.
The-First-Shieldmaiden-to-the-Icelandic-Queen, whose name he remembers is Birta, is the last to come out.
She looks up at him with a smirk but says nothing as she hurries after the others.
He waits until the shieldmaidens are out of sight, then dismisses the guards with a nod.
In her chambers, Brünhilda is sitting propped up on the bed. She’s wearing a pink nightgown of the same style as Gunther’s pink pyjama coat, and her attention is focused on the embroidery hoop on her lap.
“Did you find you slept better on the floor, husband?” she asks without looking up as she pokes the needle and thread through the taught fabric.
“I um—I’m not—”
Brünhilda starts as when she sees it’s him, then frowns. “Sigurd? What are you—Guards!”
“I’ve dismissed them,” he says grimly.
“What do you mean you’ve dismissed them? They’re my guards!”
He looks at the floor, thinking about what to say. He should say something.
She cocks her head to one side. “What you are you doing here, Sigurd?” She folds her arms across her chest and adjusts her nightgown so it covers her a little more. “Well? Are you going to explain yourself?”
“I’m here to …” he can’t bring himself to say it. Not to her face. Cold sweat forms on his forehead. He’s filled with shame.
“And what is that you have in your hand?” She sets her embroidery aside and gets up from the bed. “Is it a gift? Is that a gift for me? Because if it is, this is really not how you should have gone about it.”
“It’s not a gift.”
She throws up her hands. “Then why, Sigurd, are you here? You’ve dismissed my guards, you’ve summoned out my girls.
The two of us are alone together in my private bedchambers, which we shouldn’t be.
You obviously came here for some reason or another, and I’d like to know what it is. You’re making me uncomfortable.”
He hangs his head. He wishes she hadn’t said that.
“Hold on. Wait a minute,” she says, “Did Gunther send you?”
“Yes. He did.”
“Why?”
“I think you know.”
“He told you, did he?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re supposed to, what? Have a talk with me? Because that’s been a disaster so far.” She glances again at the strips of silk clenched in his fist. “I don’t know, Sigurd. What? Rough me up a bit and tie me to the bed?”
He nods, hating himself as the colour drains from her face.
“Really? That’s why you’re here?” The corner of her mouth twitches as she takes a step away from him.
“Yes.”
“Sigurd,” she says, pointing her finger at him, “I know that you have exceptional strength, but you were there on Mount Hindfjall. You know that I have the blood of giants, and you witnessed my might first hand. I recall the astonishment on your face as you watched our trials. Now I’m warning you, Sigurd, if you lay a hand on me, I swear to Frigg, I will rip your arms off your body. ”
He shakes his head. “That isn’t likely.”
“Sigurd! You back up!”
He takes a step toward her.
“I’m warning you, Sigurd!”
Another step.
Sigurd keels over, bellowing like a dying bull as she slams her fist into his stomach.
Then she’s behind him, driving her knee into his spine as she wrenches his arms back by the wrists.
Cartilage is popping; his skin is stretching at the shoulders.
Hissing and snorting with exertion, he can feel the veins bulging on his forehead as he pulls against her with all his might.
“Sigurd!” grunts Brünhilda as her strength begins to falter, “how is this possible!”
Then with a vicious shout, Sigurd hurls her over his back and sends her crashing into the corner table-stand where she collapses like a doll amidst a mess of shattered pottery.
“Get up,” he says, standing over her with his fist drawn, “I know you aren’t finished yet.”
But Brünhilda shakes her head as she stares up at him in awe. “I yield,” she says.
“What? Come on! I know there’s more fight in you than that!”
“No,” she says, looking past him to the bed, “I yield to my husband.”
Sigurd awkwardly lowers his fist. “What are you saying? I won’t need to tie you down for Gunther then?”
“No, Sigurd. I mean you.”
“How am I your husband? You just married Gunther yesterday! Not me—Gunther!”
Perhaps he should have taken greater care to use a limited portion of his strength.
“But it was you who conquered me on Mount Hindfjall! Somehow you and Gunther—I don’t know how you did it, but it was you who won me! I know it was!”
“Yes, fine! It was me! Gunther and I switched shapes with Rowena’s magic and I beat you at all the trials.”
“And so, you are my rightful husband.”
Sigurd clenches his fists. “No, Gunther is your husband. You married him yesterday. You stood before Freya’s altar and swore oaths of marriage to Gunther; and put on a ring of oath-binding, which he presented to you on his ancestral sword; and the two of you clasped hands before all the gods and a host of witnesses as the shaman took a fir branch and sprinkled you and everyone present with the blood of five hundred sacrifices! So stop saying I’m your husband!”
Brünhilda shrugs. “You really think the gods care about who’s married to who?”
“I think they care about keeping oaths and being true to your word.”
“Well, I swore my oaths under false pretenses. I thought I was actually marrying you, but with Gunther’s face. Now that I understand the situation, it’s quite simple. I’ll just divorce Gunther and marry you.”
“You’re forgetting that in three years I’m going to marry Princess Gertrund.”
“If she hasn’t withered away by then. Sigurd, please, that pale little thing? You can’t be serious.”
“And why shouldn’t I be?” he asks defensively, “I happen to be quite fond of Gertrund.”
Brünhilda’s face changes as a sudden competitiveness comes over her. “Do you really expect that sickly creature to be able to please you as a woman?”
“Of course she could! She’s just as much of a woman as you are!”
Colour flushes into Brünhilda’s cheeks. “But just think of how much more I could please you,” she says, unfastening the belt of her pink nightgown.
“What are you doing? Stop that!”
She grins deviously and takes a step toward him. “Don’t you want to see my body?”
“No I don’t! Oh! Loki’s children!” he cries, looking up at the ceiling as her nightgown slips to the floor.
She throws her arms around his neck and tilts her head up as if to kiss him. “Make love to me, Sigurd,” she whispers, “I want to feel your powerful body.”
“Enough of this!” He ducks out of her embrace and, snatching her by the elbow, spins her around away from him.
“Oh Sigurd! Will you take me from—”
“No!” he shouts, quickly tying the first strip of silk to her wrist. “I’m tying you to the bed.”
“Yes, tie me down!”
He snarls and hurls her onto the bed, then climbs on top of her and pins down her arms as he lashes her wrist to the bed-post.
“Yes! Overpower me, Sigurd! Oh!” She arches her back and presses herself against him. Her scent is inebriating. Sigurd reaches for her other arm. Brünhilda wraps her legs around him and pulls him closer, teasing his ear lobe with the tip of her tongue as she rocks against him.
“Don’t you see how much I want you Sigurd? Mmm. I can feel how much you want me as well.”
“Stop it! You are Gunther’s wife!”
“No, Sigurd! I am yours! Yours to do with as you please!”
“No!”
Finished with her arms, he moves to the foot of the bed to tie her legs. He looks away as she spreads her knees apart.
“I’m ready for you Sigurd. I’m burning for you.”
Of the trials he’s faced with this woman, this is by far the most difficult and the most perilous.
Grabbing her ankle, he drops out of view over the foot of the bed and reaches behind his head to tie her ankle to the post. His breath is quivering.
One more. He’s nearly done.
He crawls to the final bed-post and reaches up for her other leg. She extends it for him, stroking his hand with her foot.
“Hurry Sigurd,” Brünhilda moans, “I want to feel you.”
She gasps as he yanks the last knot tight.
Finished at last! Gods in Asgard! He stands and splashes his face with water from the washbasin in the corner.
Taking a deep breath, he slicks back his sweaty hair.
And Gunther said this would be easy. He hadn’t counted on this woman’s wiles!
He glances smugly at Brünhilda out of the corner of his eye.
It’s been a test of a very different kind of strength, but he’s conquered her yet again.
“Sigurd,” she says, more soberly now, “you really aren’t going to sleep with me?”
“No.” He feels a pang of guilt as her grin fades into a hurt expression. She’s made every effort to seduce him and he’s rejected her again and again. What he says next makes him feel even worse.
“And now I’m going to leave. Gunther can do whatever he likes with you.”
Brünhilda scoffs. “You really think that because you’ve tied me up I’m going to just lie here and let that worm have his way with me? Just who do you think I am? A hundred chains couldn’t hold me down!”
She tries to wrench her arm from the bedpost, but to her astonishment, she is unable to tear herself free of the silk bindings. “What in—What have you—” She wriggles desperately on the bed. “What is this? What have you done to me!”
“Clearly you don’t know about the magic of silk,” he says grimly.
“No!” she cries, “Sigurd!” She makes a final attempt to escape, but even with her exceptional Valkyrie’s strength, her efforts are futile. Her face pales with fear as she realizes that she is now powerless to fend off even a weakling like Gunther.
“Sigurd,” she pleads, “don’t do this. Untie me please.”
He shakes his head.
“Please, Sigurd!” Her blue eyes fill with tears. “The two of you have outsmarted me at every turn. I’ve been nothing but a victim to your schemes and lies. I yield. I shouldn’t have treated Gunther the way I did. I won’t do it again, I swear. Just untie me, please.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.
“Gods! Sigurd! I’m the Queen of Iceland! You can’t do this to me!”
“I’m sorry.” He puts his hand on the door.
“Wait! Wait, Sigurd. I accept that this is how it has to be. But please, as my rightful husband, you should be the first to have me. Gunther can do whatever he wants with me afterwards, so long as you’re my first.”
Sigurd snorts in disbelief. “That isn’t going to happen.”
“You don’t understand. Once I’m no longer a virgin, I will lose my strength.”
Sigurd turns away from the door. “You would be like a normal woman?”
“Yes.”
That would be a great relief. While Gunther is neither a gifted warrior nor especially strong, a normal woman is not likely to pose any serious threat, at least not in comparison to a raging Valkyrie with superhuman strength.
“But why should it be me?” he asks. “If Gunther’s going to come in here and have his way with you, you’ll lose your strength anyway.”
Her nose wrinkles in disgust. “If that fiend robs me of my maiden-hood and sacred strength, I swear before Tyr and Odin that I will make it my life’s purpose to kill him and that little wretch Gertrund.
It may take me a day, or a week, or a year, but I promise you that from the moment you leave for Xanten, they will never be safe again. ”
He swallows hard. “And if I sleep with you?”
She grins a little. “I will always hate Gunther and wish him ill, but if you sleep with me before he does, I swear I will not kill him or Gertrund. Please Sigurd, grant me this small victory. Let me know my true husband. It would do much to restore my honour.”
“And you swear you won’t divorce Gunther?”
There’s a brief flash of irritation in her face. “I swear I won’t kill Gunther or divorce him.”
“What will you swear on?”
“My honour as a Valkyrie.”
“Alright,” he says nervously, fumbling with his belt. The pit in his stomach is back again and the iron band clamps tighter than ever around his skull. “We’ll have to be quick.”
Thanks for reading!