He lay down at her side and cradled her upon his chest.
As she nestled against him, tracing theouroborosabove his heart with a tender finger, she whispered, “We shall be together forever…in this life and the next.”
Her breathing slowed, as Sigurd held her over his fiercely loyal lupine heart.
Soon, he too drifted into blissful sleep, his Sun Falcon protectively cradled in his loving Sea Wolf arms.
When mauve and pink streaked the dawn sky, and early morning light glimmered on the sacred spring, they made love again, the ouroborosblazing as he filled her withseiðrand seed.
The bells rang, announcing the morning meal.
Brynhildr sat up in bed, clutching the wolf skins to her heart. “I have nothing to wear but my armor.” She eyed the golden corslet, blackened with soot, and the amber leather leggings, damp from melted ice and frost. “Not only does it need cleaning, I loathe to put it back on…it reminds me of Odin’s wretched curse.”
He fetched clean clothing from his pack. “Wear this,” he offered, laying a blue woolen tunic and grey breeches on the bed. “They will be too large, but better than armor. And much more suitable for a meal with monks.”
She slipped out of bed, long blonde locks tumbling to her narrow waist.
He couldn’t resist drawing her close, swooping down for another kiss. “Your beauty blinds me,” he whispered, “Dóttirof Freyja, yet with a radiance all your own. My Sun Falcon, how I love you…” Sigurd lifted both her hands to his bearded lips and bestowed a reverent kiss.
Her glorious smile lit up his entire soul.
While she donned the tunic and breeches, he poured spring water from a ceramic pitcher into a basin set upon the table, next to the bar of edelweiss soap. “I have a willow brush and a sprig of mint to clean your teeth…and an antler comb for your hair.” He laid the items neatly on the table, stifling a laugh at how tightly she’d had to pull the drawstring—and how his broad tunic drooped over her slim shoulders. “You can wearBlárúlfr,” he grinned, wrapping his wolfskin around her once she’d finished combing her hair. “The monks might be shocked at the sight of a woman’s skin.”
He quickly donned his own garments, cleaning his teeth and combing his hair and beard. When he finished, he grinned at the sight of her, dwarfed in his enormous blue cloak. Her blue green eyes sparkled like a sunlit fjord or the dappled forest around the sacred spring. “Come,” he said, gently taking her hand. “I’ll present you to the brothers at the Abbey of Saint Bernard of the Spring.”
Inside the refectory, Kveld Nightwolf, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan were seated with the monks, enjoying a simple but hearty meal of oat porridge with wild blueberries, barley bread with sheep cheese, dried fish, and a fresh fruit blend of apples and pears, blended with crushed hazelnuts and honey. As Sigurd entered with Brynhildr, the men rose to their feet and nodded in welcome.
“Bienvenue, ma belle dame,” Père Clément said with a kind smile, gesturing for everyone to be seated.
Brother Thibault slipped into the adjacent kitchen and returned with bowls of porridge for Sigurd and Brynhildr, topped with berries, sheep’s milk, and honey. He lowered his tonsured head and smiled as he offered her a wedge of barley bread on a wooden platter, accompanied by a small dish of creamy sheep cheese.
As everyone resumed eating, Brynhildr complimented the delicious fare.
The elderly abbot eyed her unusual attire. Since it was obvious that she wore Sigurd’s clothing, he leaned toward Brother Pierre and spoke softly in rapid Frankish.
Brother Pierre wiped his clean shaven lips with a linen cloth and translated for Sigurd and Brynhildr. “We have a trunk with a few items of women’s clothing,” he explained, smiling at her. “A few years ago, a traveler whose wife had died during the voyage stopped here with his desperately ill daughter. When she was healed by our sacred spring, he repaid us with hiswife’s fine garments, which he no longer needed. Although he kept a few precious items for his daughter, he left the bulk of her belongings here. We keep them in a guest cottage, in case a traveler in need should arrive at our monastery.” A broad grin stretched across his scarred, gentle face as he addressed Brynhildr. “After breakfast, Père Clément would like to offer them to you.”
Tears welled in her expressive eyes. “Thank you,” she choked, overcome with emotion. “I have nothing but armor to wear.”
When the meal was done, Kveld, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan rose from the table and thanked the monks. While the twohúskarlarleft the refectory, Kveld said to Sigurd, “We’re repairing the north wall along the spring. Call if you need us.” Lifting Brynhildr’s hand to his black bearded lips, he murmured, “Thank the gods Sigurd saved you. It is good to have you here.” With a nod farewell, he strode out the heavy oak door, leaving Sigurd and Brynhildr with Brother Pierre and Père Clément.
“Follow me,” the burly monk said in Norse. “The abbot would like to offer Brynhildr her own cottage—the one with the lady’s trunk.”
They followed the two monks across the grassy meadow strewn withedelweissblossoms. The sweet floral fragrance filled the morning air, the soft rush of the waterfall splashing as it fell into the pool fed by the sacred spring. Père Clément unlocked the door of the furthest cottage nestled at the edge of the woods and led them inside, Brother Pierre close behind to translate.
An open window offered a view of the sacred spring and the waterfall pool, sheltered on one side by a wall of solid rock and the other by the dense forest. A bed stood against the opposite wall, with a large wooden chest near the stone hearth. On a table near the window, a pitcher and basin, like the ones in Sigurd’s cottage, were grouped with a bar of soap and a folded white linencloth. Beside the hearth stood an iron poker and a neatly stacked pile of firewood.
The abbot unlocked the trunk, opened the lid, and revealed its carefully folded contents to Brynhildr. “Take whatever you need,” Père Clément said through Brother Pierre. “Gowns… the cloak, a linen chemise. You may keep what you choose, for they were meant for a traveler in need.” He gestured to the interior of the cozy cottage. “And you are welcome to dwell here while you remain with us.” A gracious smile softened his wrinkled cheeks. “Now, I shall leave you to settle in. I look forward to sharing our evening meal with you, fair lady.” With a nod of farewell to Sigurd and Brynhildr, Père Clément led Brother Pierre out the door.
“I am so grateful for their generosity,” Brynhildr sighed, wrapping her arms around Sigurd and resting her head on his chest. “It is so peaceful here…I am glad we can stay in this cottage together.” She looked up at him, fragile hope blossoming on her pale face. “When you sail to Sweden, shall I stay here, or will you bring me to my sister’s husband, Heimir?”
He kissed her softly and rocked her in his arms. “I shall take you to Heimir in Hylmdalir. But first…we have two more nights here together.”
Brynhildr stroked his bearded cheek, searching his face with wide, imploring eyes. “Sigurd… before we leave… will you wed me here, by the sacredLindsviðrspring?” She placed his hand on theouroborosabove her wildly thumping heart. “Before you take me to Heimir… before fate pulls us apart.”
He cupped her fraught face in his calloused hands, pressing a reassuring kiss to her lips. “Nothing would please me more. We shall wed by this sacred spring. And when I return from Lyngvi, having avenged myfaðirand reclaimed the Völsung kingdom of Lindesnes, you and I shall have a glorious royal wedding at Hrafnfjall, worthy of my Sun Falcon queen.”
She melted in his arms. When she lifted her gaze to meet his, lovelight glowed in her shining eyes. “Tomorrow is our third and final day here. And it is Frigg’s Day—the day for weddings. Let us ask Kveld to wed us tomorrow night, in the moonglow and starlight…beside the sacredLindsviðrspring.”
