The wedding day: 1370 — my seventeenth year.

"Blessings to all and merry meet." The stout little abbot swayed on unsteady legs as he continued his fustian intonations with pious self-importance.

Was the doddering old fool drunk? I had not seen him standing except on the day he arrived. If not inebriated, then he surely possessed a pathetic constitution; his legs seemed unable to support his portly frame. He was dressed in a baggy houpeland of deep purple, his gnarled hands moving animatedly through his elaborate wide cuffs and long sleeves.

The rest of his plebeian audience, myself and Lucian included, stood in stoic attendance, facing the great chapel doors which stood tall and imposing behind the decrepit ecclesiastic as he began the ceremony on the steps of the church, the air outside crisp and foggy withal.

I stood to Lucian's left, the side whence Adam's rib had once been removed, and peeked up at him nervously; he appeared as haughty as ever, and wholly indifferent to the proceedings. However, nothing remained of the butcher I'd stumbled upon the same night I'd seen the beast — Lucian was all calmness; he seemed, to all the world, no more sinister than the perfectly immaculate and stoic groom he now portrayed.

Feeling the pressure of my eyes, he turned surreptitiously toward me, but I looked away quickly, finding I could not meet his keen assessment.

My betrothed was dressed in dark reds and golds while the Greybacks of Skådrokk, Fendrel's kin, wore their gilded greens. Each family patriarch seemed to favor the colors of his familial crest, this day particularly, and therefore the members of their respective households bore them too. Lucian was no exception.

His lavish silk doublet was deep vermillion and buttoned up the front and up his sleeves with opalescent buttons. It was cold out — as dour as his expression, in fact — and, in deference to the frost that still lay glittering in the muted sunlight, he also sported a golden surcote, and a short, crimson mantle, his cape displaying the same wolf pattern that embellished mine.

His tawny hair stirred wildly as the breeze swept through the courtyard, like a chilly ariel. I grudgingly noted that he was veritably magnificent in his fine raiments. Magnificent and forbidding. The sterling wolf brooch, securing his mantle at his neck, matched the black and silver signet ring that sat snugly on his left pinky. Were he not so frightening, I might have considered him beautiful.

The late afternoon was dreary in honor of this significant day; the sky was overcast and leaden with grey, but this did not seem to darken the mood of those around us. The courtyard and chapel was decorated with plenty of ivy, family heraldic banners, garlands of dried flowers and pretty baskets of whatever colorful and verdant fauna was yet growing in the snow — which was not much! I'd never heard of a wedding in winter...

The atmosphere was quite lively despite the abbot's mundane tone of voice:

"Lucian Godwinsson, of the Clan Greyback, art thou here this day in pledged troth of thy own free will and choice?"

"Aye, Father," came the cool response.

"Ariana Carasdóttir, art thou here this day in pledged troth of thy own free will and choice?"

Carasdóttir? But that was not my surname?

I looked up at Lucian, nonplussed and wary, but he merely offered a subtle nod. Perhaps this too was a custom I had not been aware of. I then turned to glance over my right shoulder, meeting Godwin's eyes directly. He seemed equally unperturbed. If both Lucian and Godwin were unconcerned by the abbot's reference, then I supposed there could be no reason I should question the issue further.

"Aye, Father," said I with a quiver to my voice.

"Very well. In as much as the noble Clan of Greyback has pledged their troth to Ariana this day, we call upon Heaven to bless this union. Therefore if any here hold just cause as to why this couple may not be joined together, by God's Law, or the Laws of the Realm; let them now speak, or else hereafter keep silent henceforth."

No one breathed; even the wind had ceased to agitate the air.

"There being no objection to this marriage let us continue." The abbot cleared his phlegmy throat loudly ere he proceeded. "Do you Lucian Greyback take unto thyself to wife Lady Ariana, and pledge unto her, before God and these witnesses, to honor and defend her, in sickness and in health, in fair and in fell, with all thy worldly capacity; so long as ye both shall live?"

"I do," said he with an impassivity that seemed to bely his oath. The same question was then recited to me and I replied as expected.

"Let me have the ring."

Caine, one of Lucian's bride's knights, stepped up and deposited the wedding band in the abbots hoary palm as commanded. The abbot blessed it forthwith before allowing the exchange between Lucian and I. It was a simple enough piece, but expertly crafted: merely two metals, gold and silver, woven together with detailed care.

I handed my bouquet to Anne — It was interspersed with thyme and garlic, to ward off evil spirits, and also a few sprigs of wheat to symbolize fertility. At the thought of my fertility, I grimaced; causing Lucian's lips to compress marginally in irritation.

My groom took my clammy hand in his warm grasp and invoked the trinity as he placed the ring first on my left thumb, with the words, "In the name of the Father." That said, he removed it and placed it on my index finger before continuing with, "And of the Son." Off it came again, only to find its way onto my middle finger. "And of the Holy Spirt," he said at last, concluding the custom with a solemn, "Amen."

There after, he moved the ring onto my Vena Amoris — the vein of love that lead directly from the fourth finger of my left hand to my clamoring heart.

"With this ring I thee wed," he murmured, "this gold and silver I thee give, with my body I thee worship and with this dowry I thee endow." He looked directly into my eyes, holding mine sharply lest I avoid the connection again with my shyness. I forced myself not to balk before the force of his heavy, amber glare. The abbott cleared his throat again.

"May it then be granted that what is done before God be not undone by man. Before I proclaim you joined, thou must kiss three times on cue: once for luck, twice for love and thrice for long life." He then waited eagerly... a sort of inappropriate anticipation beaming from his milky regard.

For what are you waiting? The groom to ravish his bride before the entire congregation? Despicable old fool! I'm sure he'd have loved to bear witness within our connubial bedchamber too!

I licked my lips apprehensively and watched as a corner of Lucian's mouth quirked, the same corner where a solitary freckle bedecked his golden flesh. It was sardonically executed — as if he could hear my laboriously beating heart cantering recklessly. He leaned in and kissed the left side of my cheek before moving to the right to do the same. Finally, his lips came to rest firmly, and chastely, over mine.

Without conscious thought to the recourse of my actions, I opened my mouth a small degree, but he moved away almost as soon as he'd brushed his lips against mine; I was left feeling somewhat mortified and... bereft?

I noticed the smug line of his mouth before he uttered, for my ears alone, "Not yet, Aria." I blushed crimson as the abbot continued, unaware of the mostly silent communication taking place before him.

"By the power vested in me by God and the Realm, I now pronounce you husband and wife!"

And so tis done.

The crowded bailey erupted with good cheer as Lucian and I turned to descend down the chapel steps, our path having already been strewn with rosemary and fine little flowers. Rice was then tossed high over our heads, as we passed by the wedding throng, to ensure a bountiful harvest — all newly wedded couples were considered good luck!

Would that I felt that way too...



❅



A low minstrelsy of melodic music accompanied the wedding feast we were partaking in. The hall was decorated much like the bailey; with ivy, banners and flowers. The hour was growing late and the tapers retreated ever lower as the last few dishes of our nine course wedding feast was served.

Nine seemed to be a significant number in Nordrlund — that sacred and magical number seemed to pop up regularly: Odin hung nine days in Yggdrasil — the tree that encompassed the nine worlds, as per the ancient beliefs. In days of old a father had to recognize a newborn child on the ninth night and give the babe a name; if after that the babe was killed, the act was considered murder. Also, Heimdall — guard of the Bifrost — had nine mothers. But I was rather glad that we, in this modern era, no longer celebrated a wedding for the requisite nine days, as was practiced in bygone years; it was an ancient custom in the north that was no longer observed, fortunately.

At the conclusion of the nine courses, I rinsed my hands in rose water ere I accepted a few slivers of cheese and fruit. My trencher had since been removed with nary a bite missing from the heaped contents.

"You have eaten barely enough for a bird, let alone the bride of a most energetic groom."

I nearly choked on the half masticated curds, which only seemed to tickle Lucian all the more.

"Here," said he, passing me the wedding cup. "Drink, if you will not eat." I took a large draught of the mulled wine as my husband shook his head in wicked amusement. Husband. The word tasted sour and unfamiliar on my tongue.

"Come! Let us have a dance! Liven the music if you please!" Warwick, with the bloom of wine high in his cheeks, held a hand out to his daughter. Anne took his proffered hand and moved with him to where a dance area had been cleared.

They were followed by a group of the younger guests, but as soon as the knackers were beating a lively rhythm, even more revelers poured in and joined the round dance. Erelong, the floor was crowded with gaiety and vivid colors as everyone pranced about the hall with linked arms and merry hollering.

There was now not much room left for the troupes of professional dancers, nor for the jugglers and acrobats; their lot was that of spectators now relegated to the edges of the hall as the musicians plucked at their citoles and lutes with the flair of great experience. They blew at their recorders and drove that hurdy gurdy with such zeal that I found myself much diverted by the spectacle; it all beguiled me so. I was much in need of that at present.

Even Lucian was dancing. I thought I even perceived a smile about his usually grave mouth? I had thought never to see him laugh with such abandon and, yet he seemed now almost... human.

"Will you not join them for a carol?" Carac emerged from a tittering group of ladies, where they had been vying for his attention — I could not think why, for he was as somber as Lucian, if not more so.

"I find more pleasure in watching than participating tonight, Carac." He nodded, seeming to understand.

"Thomas still watches you avidly, I see," he growled. "Well, there is naught to be done for it now, lest I reveal my part in the sordid details," he sighed regretfully. "Would that I had not let him go. I should have rather released him into Godwin's custody."

"For my part, Carac, I am thankful that you did not."

"Are you indeed?" he scoffed. "You may not always think so." He looked again toward the lad in question. "It is the spineless ones that are the most unpredictable, Aria. Remember that."

"Thomas is not spineless!" I growled. Carac shrugged and sipped his ale.

After a while, he got up and, avoiding his gaggle of pretty admirers, joined his father for another flagon of ale. Most of the nobles drank only wine, but not Carac; he preferred the drink of peasants. I smiled, amused by the thought and so did not immediately notice that I now held another's attention.

"I have not yet had the chance to get to know you a little better."

A wave of revulsion swept over me as Fendrel took Lucian's vacated seat beside me, his presence a wholly unwelcome one. Those around us seemed oblivious to the disturbing quality of his mien. They talked merrily, told tawdry jokes, sang and danced; all, except I, seemed blissfully immune to his sinister aura.

"It is curious, is it not, that Godwin plucked you from obscurity. And here you are, the wife of his heir. How fortunate your lot has been," he drawled.

I remained stoic and silent, as though his conversation did not unnerve me, and in so doing I caught the tick at the side of his temple — a blatant sign that my haughty reserve irked him.

"And to find you in Heathersea, of all places..."

I turned to look at him, finding any mention of my old countryside intriguing.

"A place we go but rarely," he mused aloud, regarding my with disdain. If I had been a talking cockroach, he would have studied me no differently.

I gave him a curt nod in lieu of an answer. What is he getting at?

"I have been to your homeland only once myself. I scarcely remember the vile place, but I do remember your father...and mother. Cara was it?"

That a duke should deign to remember an unimportant woman, amongst hundreds, was rather dubious. Perhaps he had not wanted my blood sullying the Greyback pedigree and had sought find out all he could of me.

Too late now. "Yes, Your Grace, that was her name." I endeavored to remove whatever emotion played across my features for Lucian had warned me to give nothing away.

"Your resemblance to her is...quite astonishing."

My eyes grew wide, enthralled by his revelation, and he smirked satisfied that he had now captured my interest.

"But I see nothing of Edwyn in you." Despite his cold smile, his voice had become by degrees cooler still, imbuing my flesh with uneasy horripilation. "You are his only child?"

"No, I believe his second wife has borne him another."

Fendrel ostensibly deemed Elinor as insignificant for he waved that aside. "But Cara had only one before she died?" he confirmed.

"Yes."

A tremor of fear crept up along my rigid spine as his nostrils flared imperceptibly. Although Fendrel was handsome by any woman's measure, I could not fathom why I felt so repelled by him — so nauseated in his company. And why was there a palpable enmity condensing between. I had done nothing to warrant his suspicion or loathing.

"Uncle," Lucian bit out. The word was uttered calmly enough as Lucian appeared behind Fendrel, but one look at my husband's face was proof enough to the contrary. His was a mask of fury; his eyes boring dangerously into the back of Fendrel's head. "I believe you're in my seat."

"And so I am." Fendrel twisted his head around briefly and then shifted his jade scrutiny back to me, taking my icy fingers in his, as he stood, and bowing his obsidian head gallantly over them. Noticing my shock at his taking liberties with my hand, he shrugged with casual unconcern. "We are family now. I am permitted to touch the hand of my nephew's bride, am I not."

The smile he cast at Lucian chilled my very bones, but my husband seemed unperturbed by it and placed himself casually beside me. The air was thick with tension, yet only we three could taste it.

"Perhaps I shall see you later." He looked between his nephew and I with a crude implication in his single, arched brow. "To bring in the Bride's Broth, of course." With a vulgar wink he betook himself to his wife's side.

Thanks be to God! I could breathe easier now.

"I'll be sure to bolt the door then!" Lucian muttered angrily, the skeins of hatred evident in his tone. He then laid his hand surreptitiously over both of my mine, where they lay tensed in my lap out of view. Once his countenanced had purged of bane, the flaring of his nostrils the only sign he was yet irked, he transferred his regard to me. "I should not have left you," he murmured," and I will never allow him near you again unless I am at your side." The flecks of gold in his irises seemed to flare suddenly as though to emphasize his promise.

I could feel the color blooming at my temples the while he stared intently at me, his vow still echoing betwixt us. I merely nodded and took a deep breath, eager to extinguish the flame from his eyes.

"What is the Bride's Broth, Lucian," I said, more so to distract myself than him, although, I might have decided on a less risqué topic had I been any less naive. He furrowed his brow askance at me, ostensibly surprised that I should be ignorant of the custom.

"It is a reinvigorating potion that the guests will invariably endeavor to bring to our chamber before midnight tonight." He drank deeply from the wedding cup, his eyes never leaving mine the while he did so. Finally he emptied the contents and placed it back down on the table.

"Do not be afeared, Wife," he stressed the word ironically, "for I will have no need of any such potion."

Glancing once more at his odious uncle, who had thankfully dismissed us from his thoughts and was now conversing with Godwin and Rose, Lucian stood and helped me to my unsteady feet.

"I think the hour has arrived, don't you?" A rhetorical question if I ever heard one. The space between us became abruptly heated with a palpable new tension. "We have yet to act out the last of our nuptial rites..."

What little blood there had been in my pale cheeks, now drained completely away as I caught his meaning.





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