Svanhild did not remember much of the wedding after. The thick white veil hid most of the proceedings from her. When Hunthiof sacrificed the goat, she flinched at its panicked bleating and the gurgle of blood that followed. It ran out over the table and spilled near her feet, a stream of red that approached her shoes before running into a crack in the floor. Hunthiof called down the blessing of Frigga upon them, of children and a happy home.
Then Solvi lifted the veil. The lamplight, shining on the golden wood, made her blink. Svanhild’s head swam from a few sips of the honey wine. Solvi seated her next to him. For this feast, and this feast alone, she did not have to wait on anyone. Slaves, mostly male, brought indifferently boiled mutton, without enough juice to make palatable the stale trenchers it was served on. The men dug in as if this meal was something to be enjoyed. Svanhild picked at her food. She would have been ashamed to serve this at Ardal, and it had been two generations since anyone in her family had called himself a king.
A skald chanted a story to the accompaniment of his harp. It told of Hunthiof’s great grandfather, a mighty hunter, and the great beast, half bear and half man, that he had slain and then brought back to the hall, slung over his shoulders. A legendary feat: few men were so strong in these days, when heroes lived only in stories. When it ended, Hunthiof’s—or Solvi’s—men took up the traditional wedding songs. There should have been the voices of women, the sweet songs of children, of love, mixed in among all these baritones. Warriors made toasts, and spoke ribald jests about what would come tonight. She was a field that Solvi would plow. She was the sheath for his sword. She was the tree his ax would split.
She drank her wine and tried to disappear. If she stared enough at her food, at the jeweled goblet before her, she would not need to see or hear. She should have given herself more time to think, to see how Solvi behaved. He kept changing, a trickster like Loki, one moment terrifying, the next kind.
She had done this for Solmund, to keep his family safe. She had done this for Ragnvald; he did not need an enemy like Solvi. She had done this for herself, so she need not be her brother’s unwanted burden again. She had chosen this path. Ragnvald would hardly be pleased. He had taken up service with Hakon, sometime enemy of Hunthiof. She would not be the one to buy peace between kings.
By her side, Solvi kept her from retreating entirely into her worries, giving her better pieces of meat, inquiring what sweets she liked, acting gallant and confusing her. She could bear his solicitude even less than the joking.
Near Solvi sat his closest companions. Ulfarr had pulled a young thrall into his lap. His hand lay over her wrist, pinning it to the table. Every time she tried to get up to serve ale, he pulled her back. Her eyes looked like those of a trapped animal. He was handsome, with a dark beard that contrasted with his bright hair, but his eyes unsettled her, ever roving over the feast, never satisfied, even with the little cruelties he visited upon the serving woman.
He saw her looking and held her gaze while he fondled the thrall in his lap. Svanhild’s meat turned to ash in her mouth. Solvi would touch her like that tonight—at least her birth, or some honor in him, kept him from making a show of it here, in front of his men. Tonight, and any other night he wished, he would touch her. She had been prideful when she accepted, proud of the worth of her word, of her boldness. It was done now; she was a married woman. No matter what happened, no matter if she found reason for divorce, she would have to get through this night in his bed.
Against her will, Svanhild’s eyelids began to droop. If only she could stay awake and steel herself. She was unaccustomed to sitting still and drinking for so long. It was Ulfarr who saw that she drowsed and raised his glass to toast the wedding again. Svanhild’s cup had not been allowed to grow empty, and she had drained it with a will. Drunken women might bring shame to their husbands—but she cared less of that than of numbing herself.
His toast was good-natured enough: “To Solvi’s new bride, may she grow yet more lovely with the passing years.” Svanhild gave him a wan smile and took a sip from her glass. The wine tasted sour now that she had drunk so much of it.
“My bride is tired,” said Solvi, standing. Bawdy jokes followed about how tired she would be the next morning.
Solvi picked her up out of her chair, to the shouted cheers of his men, and carried her out of the hall. Once they were outside, he set her feet down on the ground again. He glanced at her. Svanhild kept her eyes facing forward. Her thin shoes slid on the spring muck. Solvi kept her from falling with a firm grasp on her elbow. Behind him the guests from the wedding trooped after them. All those men. There would be no mother, or Vigdis, to lay Svanhild in the bed, to spread her hair out to be alluring to her husband, to whisper last-minute advice, to tell her that hundreds of women had endured wedding nights, and would in the future, and that it would get better, that it would only take a moment. Hundreds of women had not thrown themselves into marriage with the man who tried to kill their brother. That was Svanhild’s to bear alone.
Behind them, the procession men struck up another bawdy drinking song, of the sharp keel of a ship, which split the slippery ocean. Svanhild wondered what Solvi made of all this, for she had not heard him laugh or seen him turn his head since they left the hall. Vigdis had told her how it went between man and maid, and she had seen animals at it often enough. The cows and ewes suffered no ill effects from it. Vigdis had, though; purple bruises ringed her wrists after some of her nights with Olaf. Svanhild had seen women enjoy the love-teasing that went on at feasts, as men grew drunker and their fingers grew bolder. Svanhild had once thought she might as well. Now she cringed at the thought of Solvi touching her more intimately than his hand on her elbow.
The procession carried them into the bedroom. Ulfarr went to unpin Svanhild’s overdress—in some traditions the wedding party might undress the bride, continuing the jokes and drinking, until her new husband chased them away. She shrank away from him, his cruel hands. Solvi gripped Ulfarr’s wrist to stop him. He pushed Ulfarr roughly, though with a grin, and bent to whisper in Svanhild’s ear.
“Can you manage your dress without help?” he asked.
She nodded, glancing quickly at him before lowering her eyes. Her fingers shook on the clasps. Must she now undress herself in front of his men? That was worse than having them rip her clothing from her. She placed the pins on the shelf. Her overdress fell to the floor. Solvi lifted the veil from her forehead and folded it while Svanhild took out her braids.
“To bed, to bed,” said Ulfarr. He was too close, his touch unclean. Svanhild shrank away again.
“Leave my wife and me our privacy,” said Solvi.
“We must see you safe to bed.” Ulfarr put his arm around both of them. He smelled of mead and blood. “We must witness.”
“You’ve witnessed enough,” said Solvi. “Now go.”