Named After the Old Gods #2
Only one of the wall sconces burns in the foyer. There is no fire crackling in a hearth nearby, no warmth radiating through the thick stone walls. If Euphemia listens closely, she’s certain she can hear water dripping somewhere in the dark.
More staggering still is Dagfinn’s continued absence.
Euphemia wraps her arms around her wet shoulders. Surely his staff would have been better prepared for her arrival. Perhaps they hadn’t known they would arrive today—after all, even Asvald seemed surprised.
Maybe her husband is readying himself. Making certain he is presentable before meeting her.
Or perhaps he had no idea she was coming at all.
What if the moment they meet, he decides he does not want her and sends her straight back into the rain?
Asvald lights a small candelabrum before handing it to Kelda. “Will the two of you be resting before the—”
“No,” Kelda says swiftly. “I’ve waited long enough. Follow me, little cloud.”
With barely more than a glance over her shoulder, she raises the candles and allows their weak light to lead them deeper into the manor.
Asvald holds an arm out, allowing Euphemia to pass first as he takes up the rear.
They pass a broad staircase that splits into two flights, each climbing toward the darkened upper floor. Euphemia tilts her head back, but the candlelight reaches nowhere near the ceiling. Shadows swallow the upper landing whole.
The deeper they go, the stronger the scent of dampness and salt becomes. The pale stone gleams faintly where the candlelight touches it, but dust dulls everything else.
There is so little here.
No tapestries warming the walls. No painted scenes. No carved chests or polished tables. Only the pale, ghostly outlines of where things once hung—rectangles of cleaner stone, empty hooks, faint marks left behind by frames and sconces and whatever other decorations had been stripped away.
Euphemia finds herself staring at those empty spaces.
She quickly averts her gaze.
It isn’t her place to notice such things. To judge. If anything, she should be grateful. Without them, she would have no home at all.
She keeps her eyes on the floor as they continue down the corridor, but the emptiness is difficult to ignore.
It is as though the manor has been picked clean, save for a few sparse necessities.
A few rugs remain beneath their feet. An occasional iron bracket clings to the wall, its candles long gone.
The place is grand, Euphemia realizes, though it feels abandoned.
Not truly, perhaps. Someone is clearly still keeping the rain from coming through the roof, and there are enough candles to guide them through the halls, barely.
But everything else is gone.
Her stomach twists.
She presses her lips together, willing the grimace away before anyone can see it.
Then something moves at the end of the corridor.
Euphemia stops.
For the briefest moment, she thinks she sees a figure standing in the darkness beyond the candlelight. Tall. Still. Watching them.
Her heart stutters. Could it be Dagfinn at last? Or might it be the shadow she’s been running from has found her at last?
The candlelight flickers and only an empty corridor remains.
Euphemia blinks. A trick of the light, she tells herself. Nothing more.
She forces herself to keep walking.
“Where are we going?” Euphemia asks, her voice cautious in the cavernous silence.
“To the great hall,” is Kelda’s simple reply. “Tonight you wed.”
Euphemia trips over the crimson rug, staggering to a halt. “I didn’t know it would be happening so soon.”
“It would be uncouth to allow you to sleep under our roof as an unwed woman. Best to have the wedding tonight, make an honest woman out of you, and avoid any unnecessary rumors.”
By that logic, Euphemia has no grounds to argue, so she says nothing and continues through the dark labyrinth of corridors.
They arrive at a pair of great wooden doors.
Kelda throws them wide.
Finally, a glimpse of life.
Dozens of candles flicker in the draft, their orange flames quivering before settling once more.
With purpose, Kelda storms inside, tossing her sodden shawl to the floor as she calls out, “Is it all ready?”
Behind Euphemia, a voice like thunder answers, “Of course. I had everything prepared after I received word from you last night.”
Asvald is so close behind her that Euphemia nearly jumps. She had forgotten the old man was still there.
“Good. Good,” Kelda says, making her way across the room. “Euphemia, come.”
Euphemia’s eyes are wide as she takes in the great hall. Chandeliers of antlers hang from the ceiling. They sway ever so slightly, and for a moment, Euphemia worries they might fall. She scans the rest of the room, searching for the one person she thought would be here by now.
“Where is Dagfinn?”
Kelda does not answer. She reaches the altar and grabs the leather binding from atop it.
Euphemia approaches, heart hammering against her ribs.
She focuses instead on the foliage decorating this side of the room.
Bushels of rowan and birch interwoven with dandelions, meadowsweet, and yarrow.
Dagfinn will be there soon, she tells herself.
Any moment now and he will walk through those doors and join her.
When Euphemia is close enough, Kelda grabs her by the hand, yanking her forward. Hastily, she begins wrapping the leather over and under Euphemia’s hand.
“Where’s Dagfinn?” Euphemia can’t keep the edge from her voice this time. Because she knows Kelda heard her before. Knows her voice carried well into the rafters. Knows this ceremony is being rushed and that something is amiss.
“You didn’t tell her?” The growl in Asvald’s voice makes him sound like a bear being roused early from his slumber.
Kelda rolls her eyes at the man before motioning for him to continue.
Asvald steps closer to the altar and clears his throat.
Euphemia watches him open his mouth to begin, but there is only so much she can endure. This bargain will only protect her family if it’s legitimate, and it won’t be without a man for her to marry.
Euphemia jerks her hand away, the bindings unraveling. “Am I to marry a ghost? The sea air?”
She levels a glare at Kelda, who, with a scoff, bends to retrieve the leather straps.
This time, Euphemia makes sure her tone is understood. “Where is Dagfinn?”
“You’ll meet him after the ceremony.”
“After? That’s absurd. There can be no ceremony without a groom.”
“For now, that is the way it has to be.” Kelda shrugs. Holding an end of the leather strip in each hand, she juts her chin toward Euphemia. “Give me your hand. Now.”
A heated breath of air slips between Euphemia’s lips as she gawks at the absurdity of it all.
If anyone will understand her, it might be the man responsible for the ceremony itself, so she turns her pleading gaze upon Asvald.
“Surely, you won’t abide by this? My marriage won’t be authentic without a husband present! ”
Asvald looks to Kelda as if seeking permission to speak, before eyeing Euphemia with pity. “This is the way it will be done tonight.”
Euphemia’s jaw drops, thoroughly scandalized.
She doesn’t understand. The entire point of this marriage is to ensure no one can harass her family about her abscondence, and for the Varinsson’s to fortify their claim on the lands.
If the people can contend the union in any way, what will be the point of it all?
“Do you accept these terms—” Kelda shifts her weight onto one hip “—or should I send you back home?”
The mere suggestion is a bucket of cold water.
Euphemia can’t say no. Can’t return home and continue burdening her family, her community.
She needs to put an end to this. And if Kelda isn’t concerned about their claim to the lands, then Euphemia doesn’t need to be either.
As long as she makes an honest woman of herself, the nightmare should disappear.
Spine straightening, Euphemia stands taller before slapping her hand atop the presented leather straps. “Ready when you are.”
Asvald begins the ceremony.
It’s less ritualistic than Euphemia had prepared herself for.
No animal sacrifices and carnal dancing—nothing wild and hedonistic like the rumors she’s heard about the northern folk.
Instead, it is quiet. Almost disappointingly so.
Asvald speaks, invoking the hearth and the family Euphemia is about to join.
He asks for the witnesses to hear and acknowledge the union, then turns his attention to Euphemia.
He instructs her on what words to say, and when it is time for Dagfinn’s part, Kelda recites them for him.
Euphemia listens carefully, waiting for some grand declaration that will make the whole thing feel real.
There is none.
Only vows. Names. The binding of her wrist.
And a husband who may as well have been a phantom wind.
The leather is wrapped around her hand and pulled tight.
And with the final binding wrapped, Asvald declares, “Euphemia Branwen of Nottinghamshire, before this hearth and those who came before us, we welcome thee into the family Varinsson. May thy blood join with ours, thy heart find warmth beneath this roof, and thy union with Baron Dagfinn Varinsson bring an end to that which binds him. May both your family houses prosper beneath the same sun.”
Euphemia’s brow scrunches at the phrase that which binds him.
But it’s hardly the only thing on her mind.
Euphemia is wed.
She is a missus.
A bride to a mysterious man—whom Euphemia hopes she will soon meet.
Regardless, no nightmarish horse can come trampling upon her sinful heart now.
Asvald begins unbinding Euphemia’s hand when Kelda looks up at him, her eyes bright.
“It is done then?”
He gives a single nod, his gaze briefly lingering on Euphemia. “As done as it can be.”
Before Euphemia can ask what that means, Kelda is storming back through the great hall like a gust of wind.
Rooted in place by the leather, Euphemia can only watch as she goes. “Where is she headed?”
Asvald’s sigh is weary with despair. “To Dagfinn’s quarters. To see if it worked.”