“I’ll offer these to Eir.” She showed him the herbs she’d collected from the meadow. “Mint, sage, and wild rosemary. Fragrant herbs for the goddess of healing.” She smiled as he displayed her gleaming leather armor. “Thank you for doing that. It smells as good as it looks.”
He chuckled softly and rose from the flat stone, clutching her leather armor against his woolen tunic. “I need to cleanBlárúlfr. Could I have a sprig of that wild thyme to work into the fur?”
“Of course. Let’s bring the leather inside and I’ll give you some.” She brought the collection of herbs into the cottage, Sigurd close behind.
He lovingly laid the gleaming leather armor on top of the wooden chest.
She handed him a few sprigs of wild thyme, which he worked intoBlárúlfr’sthick blue-grey fur. “I’ll comb it on the flat stone, then hang it there, to air out in the sun.” He indicated a low branch of a nearby oak. “We have herbs for Eir, and flowers for Jörð. What shall we offer Frigg?”
“Three seeds,” she whispered with a soft smile. “A rowan berry, an acorn, and the wing-shaped seed of an ash. A trio of offerings from sacred trees.” She kissed his irresistible lips. “While you clean your wolfskin, I’ll gather the gifts for Frigg. Then we can go back inside, and I’ll help you polish our golden armor.”
* * * *
When the bells rang for dinner, Kveld, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan joined Sigurd and Brynhildr as they crossed the meadow andentered the refectory. As the monks rose from the table, Père Clément’s eyes widened at the sight of Brynhildr clad in the deep green gown. His crinkled cheeks curved into a pleased smile.“Vous êtes la Fleur du Nord—belle comme notre edelweiss!”
Brother Pierre translated for them. “Father Clément says you are the Flower of the North—beautiful as ouredelweiss.”
Brynhildr graced the elderly abbot with a radiant smile. “Thank you for the trunk of clothing. I am deeply grateful for your generosity.”
After a savory dinner of grilled salmon, vegetable stew, barley bread, and sheep cheese, they thanked the monks and headed back toward the stone cottages at the edge of the forest.
“Brynhildr and I shall wed tomorrow night,” Sigurd informed Tryggvi and Hálfdan as they crossed the meadow and passed the waterfall pool. “Right here, beside the sacred spring.” He grasped Brynhildr’s hand and raised it to his lips, his blue eyes glinting with quiet pride. “We would be grateful if each of you held one of our blades when we exchange swords and rings.”
Hálfdan’s thick brown beard broke into a burly grin. “We would be honored, lord.” He bent at the waist and gallantly kissed Brynhildr’s hand. “I am glad you two will finally wed. Sigurd has been yours since he first laid eyes on you at the Sólhjarta Tournament.”
Not to be outdone by Hálfdan, Tryggvi kissed her hand as well. “It will be my pleasure to hold your sword, my lady. Will the wedding take place right after dinner?”
Brynhildr smiled at Sigurd’s two most trusted men who would witness their private wedding. “Nei,” she replied softly. “The monks keep Christian hours. We shall wed beneath the moon. And Kveld will perform the ceremony.”
The Nightwolf nodded his dark head, amber eyes glistening like molten gold.
As thehúskarlarheaded toward their cottage, Kveld told Sigurd, “We’ll finish the wall by midday. Then prepare for the moonlit wedding.”
Sigurd clasped his forearms. “The cottage is yours again. We’ve moved our belongings.”
Kveld’s gaze flicked briefly toward the waterfall pool, then back to Sigurd. A faint, knowing smile curled his black bearded lips. “Then I shall leave you to the spring.”
Sigurd led Brynhildr into the cottage and fetched the bar ofedelweisssoap and two linen cloths for drying. His lupine gaze was fierce with desire, yet tempered by reverence and awe. “I must bathe you in the sacred spring,” he murmured, pulling her close and brushing tender bristled lips against hers. “And make love to you in silver moonlight.” Taking her by the hand, he led her to the waterfall pool.
The rock face of the mountain, worn smooth by the constant fall of the cascade, curved inward to form a shelter of stone around the moonlit basin. On the opposite side, dense forest veiled the spring in starlit shadow, as if Jörð herself offered these hidden waters as a divine gift.
“The healing spring will wash away all traces of the curse and restore you.” Sigurd helped her remove the emerald green gown and linen chemise underneath, folding and placing them on the soft grass. Quickly shedding his own tunic and breeches, he grasped her hand and guided her into the shimmering pool.
Tenderly, he laid her back in his arms, dipping her long hair beneath the effervescent surface where the bubbling underground spring rose beneath their bare feet. He lathered her hair with the fragrant soap, rinsed away the suds, then bathed her entire body with solemn devotion.
“Let me bathe you now,” she whispered, unbraiding the lapis beads from his beard and hair. She took the soap from hisscarred hand, and he dipped beneath the water to wet his dark blond locks.
With loving fingers, she worked lather into his scalp, holding him in one arm to rinse his hair with the other. Just as he had done for her, she bathed his rugged, inked body withedelweisssoap, tracing the glowingouroborosabove his heart with tenderness and wonder.
When they emerged from the pool, her body tingled, as if the nurturing essence of the earth and sacred spring had seeped into her skin, bones, and blood. “I cannot wait for us to be wed here. It is the perfect place to seal our starlit vows.”
They dried quickly, the crisp alpine air filled with the sweet scent of wildflowers which she would gather tomorrow and weave into her bridal wreath. Gathering their clothing and the lapis beads, they dashed across the meadow and into their secluded stone cottage.
He stoked the fire, adding another log to ward off the chill.
She combed his hair and beard, rebraiding the lapis beads, the deep blue gems sparkling in the firelight.
As she combed her own long locks, he watched, his feral gaze raw, primal, and fierce.
