Eirik: A Time Travel Romance (Mists of Albion Book 1) by Joanna Bell

Author:Joanna Bell [Bell, Joanna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-11-13T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 19

9th Century

Five days later, I stand next to the Jarl as his wife-to-be in front of a great structure built of sticks and logs all carefully intertwined so as to hold themselves up. Around this structure stand the higher Vikings – Eirik's men, their wives if they have them, Hildy, the healers – all women – and, at its foot, Asgald's parents. Their faces are stern but I see them clutching at each other under the furs that blow up in the gusting wind. The sun has just set and darkness creeps across the sky from the east. The stars emerge over our heads and Asgald, the young warrior, lies dead atop the pyre.

There are many long pauses in the ceremony, many times we find ourselves facing silently into the biting winter winds. No one turns away. I do not understand the words being sung, or all the meanings of the gestures being given, but it could not be more obvious that respect is being paid.

Finally, Eirik himself steps forward, approaching the young man's parents and kissing them gravely on their foreheads. They kneel before him, each kissing the back of his hand and then standing again. Still, the only sound is the howling wind.

"He was green!" Eirik suddenly bellows, turning to face his people. "He was green but he was not weak! His was the strength of the young birch, flexible still, yes, but speaking of the real hardness of the full-grown man to come. Perhaps I should be glad of his death, for he surely would have challenged me, in time..."

The Jarl's voice rises over the weather as he speaks of Asgald's life, of his childhood in their homeland and his skill as a warrior. I do not know how long his speech is, because most of my body is numb with the cold, just as most of my mind is too caught up in the spectacle unfolding in front of me to be thinking of anything else.

"We light the fire now," Eirik shouts, holding a wooden torch wrapped with linen and soaked in oil over his head, "to bid the valkyries come and take his soul to the Great Hall! We do this even as all of us here know they are here already, howling with the wind, demanding the young warrior for their procession!"

I watch, awed, as the Jarl, clad in his finest furs and bare-chested even in this chill, steps to the side and dips the torch into a small fire to light it. He hands it to Asgald's mother, who steps stiffly forward and pauses for just a moment before holding it to the base of the pyre. The kindling catches almost at once and the fire begins to spread. Next, the young man's father does the same, holding the fire to the opposite end of the pyre. When he steps away he grabs for his wife desperately and I see that they will fall if either one of them loses their grip on the other.

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