and she took it from his hand. Hers was shaking. She motioned for Ottar, but he did not step forward. When Rika turned to prompt him, she saw that his dark eyes were fixed on Grant and that his face twitched with what she knew was pent-up rage.
“Ottar,” she whispered. “The sword.”
The youth thrust it toward her. She nearly dropped it when he let it go and stormed off into the surrounding crowd. Later she would find him and again try to make him understand.
Lawmaker nodded at her to proceed.
She studied Gunnar’s sword. Though it had been their father’s, she had always thought of it as Gunnar’s, and was now loath to part with it. She had little left of her brother, and the weapon had been one of his most treasured things.
“Rika,” Lawmaker said.
She met Grant’s eyes, and read something new in them. Amusement? Ja, the corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. Lawmaker must have explained the significance of the ritual. Her hackles rose.
She gritted her teeth behind tightly sealed lips and thrust the sword toward him. Grant’s hand closed over it, and for a moment she hesitated. He jerked the weapon from her hand and smiled.
Thor’s blood, she hated him. That hate fed her resolve, and her confidence. She knew men, and the Scot was no different. They fed on power and domination. Tonight’s victory would be his, but she would win the war.
Lawmaker fished something out of the pouch at his waist, and Rika’s eyes widened as she recognized what he held.
Wedding rings.
No one had said anything about rings.
She narrowed her eyes at him, and he merely shrugged. Hannes stood behind him, grinning.
Grant had obviously been well instructed, for he proffered the hilt of her family’s sword while Lawmaker set the smaller ring upon it. She pursed her lips, and did the same with the weapon Grant had given her.
They exchanged the rings, each on the hilt of their newly accepted swords. Without flourish Rika jammed the silver circle on her finger. Grant followed suit.
There. It was done.
Save for the speaking of vows—a Christian custom Rika never much cared for. Grant raced through the lines he’d been taught, and Rika mumbled her response.
A shout went up in the crowd, and others echoed it. Lawmaker grunted, satisfied, and Rika supposed she should be happy, as well. It was, after all, what she’d wanted—the first step in her carefully crafted plan.
She turned to the crowd of onlookers and searched for the two faces she knew would be there. Erik and Leif. Her brother’s closest friends. They nodded soberly when she met their eyes. The two young men shared her secret, and their stalwart faces buoyed her confidence.
“Wife,” Grant’s voice boomed behind her.
Her head snapped around.
The Scot had the nerve to offer her his arm. “Come, there is a celebration, is there no?”
She scowled. “I don’t wish to celebrate.”
“Ja, she does,” Lawmaker said, and pushed her toward the path opening before them.
Her temper flared. She shot both of them murderous glances, then stormed toward the longhouse.
“Wait!” Lawmaker called after her.
She looked back, but kept walking.
“Rika, watch—”
“Unh!” She tripped over the threshold and hit the packed dirt floor with a thud. Thor’s blood!
A collective gasp escaped the mouths of the onlookers.
Grant was there in an instant, looming over her but offering no help. Lawmaker pushed him aside and pulled Rika to her feet.
“What’s wrong?” Grant said, obviously bewildered by the shocked expressions all around him.
“You should have been here waiting, as I instructed you,” Lawmaker scolded.
“Aye, but she beat me to it. So what?” Grant shrugged.
“It’s an ill omen, you fool.” Lawmaker shook his head at Grant. “You were to carry her across, remember?”
Grant snorted. “She’s so big, I wasna certain I could manage it.”
Of all the—
Her kinsmen roared, and Rika felt the heat rise in her face. She tested the weight of the sword Grant had given her, and was sorely tempted to unman him on the spot.
Instead, she glared at him until the smile slid from his face, then she blew across the threshold into the midst of the celebration.
George followed her into the longhouse, which was already packed with people. Tables were jammed into every available space, and laden with fare—roasted mutton, bread, and a half-dozen kinds of cheese. Flagons of honeyed mead were placed within easy reach of every diner.
The air, as always, was thick and smoky. The central fire blazed. George welcomed the heat, for the weather had turned. By nightfall snow was expected and, from what the elders predicted, in no small measure.
“Ho, Scotsman!” A burly islander slapped George on the back. “Have a go at this rooftree, man, so we can see of what you’re made.” The man pointed at one of the thick timber pillars supporting the low longhouse roof.
George had no idea what the man wanted him to do.
Rika beckoned him to the high-placed table where she sat with Lawmaker. “Nay, you need not partake of such foolishness.”
“Come on, man,” the islander said. “Draw that fine sword she’s given you and see how far you can sink it into the wood.”
George followed the man’s gaze to the timber pillar, which he now noticed was riddled with scars. Still he did not understand. Men crowded around him, spurring him on.
“’Twill predict the luck of the marriage,” one of them said.
“Oh, I see.” George nodded his head, but he didn’t see at all.
“It’s a test of virility, of manhood.” The burly islander slapped his back again. “The deeper you sink your weapon…” He cast a lusty smile toward Rika, who blushed crimson with rage. “Well, you…understand, do you not?”
George understood, all right. “Why not?” he said, enjoying Rika’s discomfort. He drew the sword and raised it double-fisted over his head as instructed by the men. The room went deadly quiet.
Rika glared at him, her eyes twin daggers. He grinned at her, drew a breath and, with all his might, plunged the sword into the wood.
“Hurrah!” The shout went up as a dozen beefy hands slapped him on the back, a few reaching up to rumple his hair. ’Twas all fair amusing.
The burly islander grunted as he pulled the sword from the timber, carefully measuring off the length that had been embedded. Apparently, George had done quite a good job of it, for the men howled as the burly one held the weapon aloft for all to see. After George had been congratulated a dozen times over, the crowd pushed him toward the table where his bride waited, her face the color of ripe cherries.
“You did not have to do that,” she seethed.
“I know, but I enjoyed it.” He smiled again, just to taunt her. He had enjoyed it, but reminded himself that his brother was dead, and that he was far from home.
Too far. ’Twas easy to forget amidst such revelry who he was and why he participated in such pagan rites.
He scanned the faces in the room, and nodded at those he recognized. Most of the men seemed to accept him, which he thought odd. Others—Ingolf, in particular—spared him