THE MAN WALKED forward, approaching along the side of the table. Even at a distance it was easy to see he was a head and shoulders taller than anyone else there. Those shoulders were broad, his arms like the thick branches of a tree, knotted and bulging with muscle and sinew.
As he walked into a shaft of sunlight that pierced the gloom from a hole in the roof, they could see that his hair was red-gold. It was thick and long, hanging around his shoulders in curling locks. He had a short, trimmed beard the same colour as his hair and a pair of the most piercing grey eyes Gunhild had ever seen. He was young – younger than Gunhild or Gunderic, perhaps nineteen winters or so old.
This must be the man I am to marry, Gunhild thought, as twin sensations of relief and approval surged in her heart. He was much more than the callow minor nobleman she had been expecting.
He was dressed for war. Though he wore no helmet, he bore a huge sword in a jewelled scabbard under his left arm. He wore curious armour. Unlike the countless interlinked metal rings that made up most warriors’ mail shirts, this man wore a long leather tunic. On top of this, countless small rectangular iron plates were threaded in rows covering his whole body to halfway down his arms and thighs. Each metal scale had been polished and shone like a mirror. Even in the gloom of the hall they reflected points of light in every direction. He had the look of a giant metal reptile, a dragon walking on its hind legs. Each step of his heavy boots was accompanied by the rattling and clinking of his metal scales.
‘Allow me to introduce Lord Sigurd of the Volsung clan,’ Gunderic said. He was grinning in a way that reminded Gunhild of their father when he showed off his greatest deer- hounds to noblemen.
‘You really are as beautiful as the legends say you are,’ the big man said, staring at Gunhild with his strangely compelling eyes.
‘That’s Byzantine armour, isn’t it?’ The cavalry commander spoke in Latin. ‘You don’t see much of that here in the Western Empire. Where were you in the Army?’
Sigurd slid his gaze towards the Roman, then looked back at Gunhild.
‘My lady, with you by my side we will be the most famous couple in the world,’ he said in Burgundar.
The cavalry officer frowned, unhappy to be ignored.
Gunhild opened her mouth but no words came out. She did not know what to say. The big man’s gaze seemed to captivate her. She felt her heart begin to race. Sigurd’s size and heavily muscled body at once frightened and excited her.
‘That’s quite a sword, too,’ Flavius said, his eyes narrowing. His question appeared to be a pointed one.
Sigurd looked away from Gunhild and smiled. He patted the sheath of the great sword.
‘This old thing?’ he said, now speaking in the Roman tongue. ‘It’s just something I found lying around.’
‘Did you now,’ Flavius said. ‘Just where did you find it?’
‘There will be time to talk of these things later,’ Gunderic said. ‘Right now we have more important business to attend to: the marriage of my sister.’
‘What?’ Gunhild said. ‘Now?’
‘Why not?’ Gunderic said. ‘There is not a moment to lose. We have much work to do.’
‘But I have just met this man,’ Gunhild said.
‘And you have already agreed to the marriage,’ Gunderic said. He looked her straight in the eye. Gunhild knew he was trying to tell her that there was more to this. She could tell he was silently pleading with her to just go along with it.
‘It is my great pleasure to officiate at your marriage today, my lady,’ the bishop said, stepping towards her. He had a sickly smile on his face. ‘This will be my first service to the royal family.’
With stunning dexterity for one his size and in armour, Sigurd Volsung skipped over the table and took Gunhild by the arm.
‘My lady?’ he said, cocking his other arm towards the broken doors at the end of the hall.
It became clear to Gunhild that she was the only one there for whom the events unfolding around her were a surprise. A little dumbfounded, she let herself be led down the hall floor.
The little company left the hall once more. Outside, the waiting crowds cheered to see them again. At the sight of Sigurd and Gunhild now arm in arm they cheered even louder. It was clear Sigurd Volsung was no stranger to them.
Gunhild was led across the square outside the great hall to a church. Like any other Roman church it was built in the style of a basilica: tall, and oblong in shape, with large double doors at the entrance. It was as dilapidated as the other buildings, but a new iron cross was fixed to the wall above the doors. Inside, the dust and cobwebs had been swept away by a company of slaves who scurried away when Gunhild and the others entered.
At that point Sigurd let go of Gunhild’s arm and strode ahead to the altar. Gunderic stepped over and linked arms with his sister.
‘I know it should have been our father who brings you to be married,’ he said with a forced smile. ‘But I will have that honour today.’
He grasped the wrist of the arm he had linked with hers. His grip was tight, as if he was worried she might flee.
The bishop went ahead to the altar, turned and glared at Gunhild, a stern expression on his face. The cavalry commander and the civil servant both looked on with similar, haughty looks.
It was clear that this marriage was about to go ahead, no matter what Gunhild herself wanted. Panic rose in her heart. This was all happening too fast. She may have reluctantly consented to this marriage at her brother’s entreaties but now it felt like Gunderic and these Romans were rushing her into this alliance. Were they frightened she might change her mind?
The thought of that calmed her a little. If they were worried she might back out of the marriage then it must be very important to them. Perhaps she was not so powerless after all.
Gunhild looked around her. The church was now filling with other Burgundars, these better dressed than the people in the fields and streets. There were no Roman togas, but their tunics and breeches were of fine wool, denoting both wealth and higher social status. They had emblems embroidered into the left shoulders of the cloaks they wore: wolves, bears, lightning symbols and sun wheels. Among them she finally saw faces she recognised: these were the survivors of the noble clans of the Burgundars.
The sight sent her into a turmoil of emotions. Despite her unease at the rush to marry her off, her heart soared again at this proof she was once more among her own people. They looked at her with the same adoring, expectant looks as the ordinary folk in the street had.
Gunhild took a deep breath. It was clear this marriage meant much to them. If anything, she would go through with this for them.
As she was led towards the altar, Gunhild wondered if she would suddenly wake up and find it was all a dream, and that she was still lying in Half’s bed in the land of the Danes. Instead, as her brother let go of her arm and she joined Sigurd standing before the altar, the others lined up behind them, and the bishop held up his right hand as he began to intone words in the tongue of Rome. All but Gunhild bowed their heads. The wedding was underway.
Gunhild glanced at the big man with the strange eyes who stood beside her. The latent power in his massive body was frightening. What sort of a man was this Sigurd, really? He bore himself with a confidence that was alluring. He was good-looking and the reception the crowd had given him showed he was popular. That boded well.
As the bishop continued to chant the words of the ceremony Sigurd glanced at her. His face broke out into a grin and he looked like the cat who had got the cream. Gunhild realised he also put great store in this marriage. Clearly, having the woman believed to be the most beautiful in the world as his bride was important to his own standing. By marrying him Gunhild was enhancing this man’s reputation like a jewelled pommel on a sword hilt.
She smiled. This powerful young man was still frightening, but if she could tame him to her will, perhaps she could use that for her own advantage. Her beauty had always been her most effective weapon against the power held by men.
The bishop completed the mass, raising a chalice of wine and blessing the host. He chanted on in the Roman tongue then at a significant point said something to Sigurd. The big man screwed up his face in annoyed incomprehension.
‘The ring,’ Gunderic prompted from behind the couple at the altar.
Realisation dawned on Sigurd’s face and he reached into a leather pouch tied at his waist. He withdrew a ring, lifted Gunhild’s hand and slid it onto her finger. It was a little too big, which meant it slipped on with ease.
Gunhild gasped. The ring was gold – pure gold – almost as thick as her little finger. The weight of it was heavy on her hand. It was worth a fortune… A smile dawning on her face, she looked up and saw Sigurd – now her husband – beaming down at her.
The bishop pronounced they were now husband and wife. Sigurd cupped the back of Gunhild’s head in one hand and crushed his lips against hers. A murmur of approval went round the church. On Gunhild’s part there was just surprise. Sigurd’s lips were pursed but passionless. This was a gesture that cemented an agreement, like the handshake she had seen horse dealers make after sealing a sale.
Someone must have signalled to the crowds outside as the sound of louder cheering could be heard. Amid a tide of applause, smiles and good wishes, Sigurd took Gunhild’s hand and led her back down the aisle.
Gunderic skipped ahead of them and led the way out of the doors, presenting the newlywed couple to the crowds waiting outside.
‘And now, we will feast!’ he announced.