Page 112 of Viking Unchained

Those women of Norse descent also dressed in the age-old attire of upper-class Viking women.

Exquisite silk or linen gunnas with gold-or silver-threaded hems. Open-sided full-length aprons. And jewelry befitting a queen.

Thorfinn stood, smitten, waiting for his betrothed under the bridal canopy. He had not gone to so much fuss for his first wedding. In truth, he had married Luta by proxy. For Lydia, he wanted to do everything both new and according to the old ways.

And there she was . . . his Lydia, being led by her father and her son, both of whom wore dark suits with white sherts and ties. Lydia was dressed in the Norse bridal gown, which had been worn by others in his family, starting with Meredith, Geirolf’s wife.

The undergown was a long-sleeved, collarless chemise of softest linen gauze, ankle-length in front, pleated and slightly longer in back. The wrists and circular neckline were embroidered with metallic green, gold, and white roses against a red background. The silk overgown, open-sided in the Viking style, was a deep crimson with matching bands of embroidery but with the colors reversed on a white background. A gold-linked belt matching his hung loose on her hips.

Torolf squeezed his arm, and they exchanged a look. ’Twas an unspoken understanding about the effect women . . . the right women . . . had on their lives.

After the Christian ceremony, Uncle Magnus, acting as loudspeaker, called out, “Hear ye, family and friends. Hear ye, Odin and all the gods. Come witness today the marriage of Thorfinn Haraldsson and Lydia Hartley Denton.”

On a small table were placed a goblet of wine—Blue Dragon, of course—a KA-BAR knife which had belonged to Dave, a hammer, a polished stone, and a bowl of wheat seeds.

Taking the goblet in hand, Thorfinn raised it high and said, “Odin, we thank you for this nectar of the gods . . . and the Blue Dragon Vineyard. May you bring us wisdom to deal well with each other in this marriage journey. Especially give Lydia the wisdom of submission so she will bow to her husband’s greater knowledge.”

“Hah!” she said.

He took a sip of the wine, then pressed the goblet to her lips. After she’d sipped the ruby liquid, he lifted the hammer. “Thor, god of thunder, I take in hand your mighty hammer, Mjollnir, which I just purchased at Home Depot. This I pledge: I will protect my wife from all peril. I will use the fighting skills learned at your feet to crush her enemies. Let it be known forevermore. Her foes are now my foes. My tangos are her tangos. The shield of the Yngling clan is now our shield.” Raising the hammer, he crushed the stone with one sharp tap.

Next, Thorfinn scooped up a handful of seeds. “Frey, god of fertility and prosperity”—he sprinkled some of the seeds over her head, and then his own—“we implore fertility and the richness of love . . . and an abundance of passion.” He grinned at her with those last worlds.

“Some of this ritual I am making up as I go along,” he whispered to her.

“No kidding.” She grinned at him.

Then he took the knife in hand.

“Oh, no. Not the cutting business again!”

“Shh.” He drew blood from both of them, tied their wrists with a gold cord, and said, “As my blood melds with yours, Lydia, so shall my seed. From this day forth, you are my beloved.”

And she said back to him, “With this mingling of our blood, I pledge thee my troth . . . and my everlasting love. And don’t you ever cut me again.”

Magnus spoke up then. “Who presents the mundr, or ‘bride-price,’ on behalf of Lydia?”

“I do,” her father said, handing Thorfinn a rolled parchment.

When he opened it, Thorfinn scowled at Lydia. It was the deed to half the farm, postdated twelve years hence.

“This is my morgen-gifu for you, Lydia,” he said, a wicked grin twitching at his lips. “This ‘morning gift’ is not to be opened ’til the morrow, following tonight’s swi . . . uh, consummation.” He could not wait to see her reaction. It was the last gift he’d had from his brother Steven . . . the polished marble harem wand. I cannot wait to see MY reaction.

“Who acts as witness to the handsal, which thus seals this wedding contract?” Magnus inquired, and five men stepped forth: Torolf, Ragnor, Geek, Cage, and Slick. It should have been six, but Thorfinn had demanded that empty space to represent his missing brother. And he was . . . sorely missed.

Torolf handed Thorfinn his sword then, and, placing a plain golden finger ring on the tip of the sword, Thorfinn offered it to Lydia, stating, “I give you this ring to mark the continuous circle of our unbreakable vows, and this sword to hold in trust for our sons.”

“Did you buy that at Home Depot, too?”

“Shhh, wench.” He chucked her under the chin. “Do you accept?”

She nodded, with tears filling her eyes, and repeated the ritual words with a male finger ring for her groom.

With one hand each on the hilt of the sword and their other hands joined, Magnus motioned for their witnesses to step forth. Then he said, “We declare ourselves witness that thou, Lydia of Mill Pond Farm, and thou, Thorfinn of Norstead, do bond to each other in lawful betrothal, and, with the holding of hands, dost promise one to the other love, honor, and fidelity as long as blood flows through your veins.”

“Are you ready, wife?” Thorfinn asked with a wink.

“Yes, I’m ready, husband,” Lydia replied, having been forewarned. With a screech of delight, she ran for the barn, lifting her gown knee-high. It was the brudh gumareid, or “bride-running.”