THE FEASTING HALL was ready for the wedding feast. The floors had been swept, the tiled parts washed and scrubbed and the rest strewn with fresh straw. The walls and pillars were decked with flowers and early spring greenery from the woods.
Three very long tables ran parallel up the hall floor alongside the fire pits. Benches flanked the tables and they were already crammed with many men and women. At the end of the hall another table was set with chairs behind it facing the entrance. This table was where the most important people would sit.
The air was filled with the aroma of roasting meat, the tang of ale and the babble of joyous conversation. The remaining spaces at the long tables were quickly filled by Brynhild’s Valkyrjur and King Gunderic’s warrior company. Gunderic sat in the high seat at the centre of the top table with his new queen Brynhild on his left. Sigurd and Gunhild sat beside her and Wodnas, the Burgundar lords, Lady Freya and Lokke took the next seats. The rest of the seats were taken up by nobles Hagan had not yet met.
When everyone was seated, two slaves approached. One of them set a huge bull’s horn rimmed with silver and supported on curled iron feet in front of the king and queen. The second laid a large wooden ladle before the queen then stepped back. For a moment all at the table looked on with expectant smiles. When after several moments had passed and Brynhild had still not lifted the ladle, Gunderic gave a little cough and turned to her.
‘Perhaps you have forgotten, my queen,’ he said. ‘But it is customary for our folk that a newlywed husband is served his first ale by his bride.’
Brynhild tossed back her head and laughed.
‘I may now be your wife, Gunderic,’ she said. ‘But I’m not your slave. I’ve no doubt you have plenty of servants who can get you a drink.’
There were a few gasps from around the table. Gunderic’s face flushed a deep red but he motioned to the slaves who took the horn and ladle away to the entrance of the hall where great vats of frothing ale stood. One slave dipped the heavy wooden ladle into the vat and filled the horn with foaming amber liquid. Then they brought it back to Gunderic.
As soon as he was served, slaves began moving around the hall delivering filled drinking horns to the guests at the tables. Wodnas sat a few places from Hagan, and Hagan saw him wave the slaves away when they approached with a frothing ale horn for him.
‘You know I only drink wine,’ the old man said in stern remonstrance. The slaves hurried away to get him some.
When all had a drink in their hands, Gunderic rose to his feet. As he did so the conversation that bubbled around the hall died away and an expectant hush descended. Hagan felt a nostalgic glow of recollection. It was almost like being back in the hall of Gunderic’s father at Vorbetomagus, all those years ago. He knew that what would come next was the tradition of toasting.
Gunderic held up both hands.
‘Friends, old and new,’ he said, voice raised so it boomed around the interior of the hall. ‘Kin folk and our new allies from the icy realm in the mountains. We are here to celebrate my marriage to Brynhild and the union of our two peoples. Together we shall be a mighty force, far stronger together than either was apart.’
Cheers erupted around the hall. Hagan could tell Gunderic was using all his political craft to bring people along with him but it was not quite working. Looking around, he saw a few people, mostly Brynhild’s, shaking their heads.
‘Yes, there are dark days ahead,’ Gunderic continued. ‘Most of us are uncomfortable with the people we will fight alongside, but just as our two peoples are stronger together, the Romans cannot fight off the Huns without our help, just as even together we are not big enough to fight the Huns alone. Yes, a glorious death that will live forever in the sagas is something to be admired…’
He glanced at Brynhild.
‘But as Wodnas says, a corpse is no use to anyone. Why choose death when there is a way we can fight the hideous people who brought shame and degradation on our folk and win? We can face them and we can defeat them. We will gain glory. We will rain down vengeance on them and folk will sing of our glory for generations to come!’
This time the cheers that echoed around the rafters of the hall were louder as more folk joined in. Brynhild still wore a sour expression but many of her people who had previously been sceptical now grinned and cheered with the others.
‘Now let us commence the feast with the holy pledges,’ Gunderic said as the cheers abated. A revere silence fell. ‘To Tiwass! Grant us victory in war!’
He raised the great horn above his head then put it to his lips and took a long, deep draught. Hagan watched his throat work as he swallowed gulp after gulp. He was impressed by just how much Gunderic was quaffing and began to wonder if he would ever take a breath. It seemed Gunderic was keen to set an example for everyone else. At last he lowered the horn, cuffed the froth from his mouth with the back of his right hand and let out an explosive sigh of satisfaction.
The rest of the guests then raised their horns to those seated around them and echoed the toast. ‘To Tiwass!’ all roared in an enthusiastic babble.
As the cries and belches echoed around the rafters, Gunderic handed the horn to Brynhild. This move was a surprise, including – as was obvious from the expression on her face – to Brynhild.
‘As queen, will you propose the next toast?’ Gunderic said.
A great hush descended on the feasters. Brynhild looked around her. Seeing all the expectant eyes gazing at her from around the hall she slowly stood up. She stood in silence for a moment, collecting her thoughts. Then she began to speak.
‘Our customs tell us that when we are born, three powerful spirit women, the Dísir, visit our cribs,’ she said. ‘Some wish us good. Some are evil. They give us gifts – courage, humour, fears – which will either help or hinder us in our lives. All we can do is make the best of what we are given. And all our fates are determined by the Nornir, the Three Holy Women. Giants of great power who sit by a well at the roots of the world, somewhere northwards and netherwards. They weave a great tapestry that depicts the lives of everyone. Because they are weaving it, no one knows what the threads will tell in the future. We do not know why the Nornir have brought us together, and we can only hope it is for the best. So my toast is to the Dísir, the Nornir and all the women who guide our Fates.’
She drank a deep draught from the horn then handed it back to Gunderic.
‘The Dísir,’ – the toast was echoed all around the hall.
Gunderic’s face grew serious, as did the expressions of everyone in the hall. A reverent silence then settled on the feasters as Gunderic raised his horn a final time.
‘In remembrance of those who have passed. The glorious dead,’ he said.
His voice was raised but his tone respectful in contrast to the raucous roars that had preceded. All those in the hall drank a reverent toast in memory of the worthy departed. Of all the toasts drunk, the hard glassy looks they exchanged and the set of their faces showed the memory of their slaughtered kinsfolk at Vorbetomagus was still raw.
After a suitable pause, a slave hurried to Gunderic and refilled the great bull’s horn from a jug. The king spoke once again.
‘Now it is time for the Bragging Cup. Does anyone wish to make an oath before me and this gathered company?’
‘I do, High One,’ a young lord said, raising his hand.
Hagan settled down into his seat as a series of young Burgundar warriors and nobles each took turns to boast how they would perform great deeds in the coming war and gain bloody revenge on the Huns. Each brag was accompanied by more cheers and quaffing. They were all very serious, but after the sixth or seventh claim one tedious boast merged with the next. Hagan also found himself getting quite drunk.
After the bragging cups were drunk it was finally time to eat. The wedding guests feasted on game, fruits, vegetables and bread, all accompanied by yet more beer and wine.
As the evening wore on the noise of voices, raised in volume by drink, became overwhelming. At times Hagan had to shout just for those around him to hear what he said, which of course just added to the cacophony.
Music and dancing followed then as children were ushered away to bed and the formal arrangements of the hall dissolved into multiple groups formed around tables based on friendships or allegiances rather than where they had been placed. The drink continued to flow, and the laughter and occasional shouting got ever louder.
Through a pleasant fog of ale, Hagan looked around him and realised a lot of the others at the top table had now left it. Brynhild was sitting at one of the long tables, surrounded by her Valkyrjur warriors. They were drinking, laughing and singing songs of their own. Brynhild was right in the centre of everything, leading the choruses of her warriors. It was clear they adored her. She had her arm crooked around the necks of whichever ones happened to be sitting beside her. The more demure Burgundar women looked on with disapproval but many of the young Burgundar warriors were gathering around, eager to join in. Freya was there too.
‘You should be careful, Gunderic,’ Lokke said, a faint smile on his lips. ‘Or folk might mistake just who is the king here.’
The king and his council remained at the high table, though they were barely able to make themselves heard above the raucous shouting, singing and laughter. As the party around Brynhild got ever louder, the king became ever more brooding and the conversation became strained. Hagan watched Brynhild’s group with envy. They looked like they were having a lot more fun than those around him at the top table but loyalty to Gunderic and Gunhild, and the disapproval with which a move to the other group would bring, kept him in his seat.
Gunderic tutted and took a drink from his horn. His face was flushed and like most other folk he was now very drunk.
‘For one born into so noble a family as she was,’ Gunhild said with a sniff, ‘she certainly has the common touch. Our old friend has changed quite a lot in the last fifteen years.’
‘It seems the morals in her realm are more relaxed than they are here,’ Brenwic said.
‘They are warriors,’ Wodnas said with a shrug, ‘If your warriors were here alone, Gunderic, without the social restraint of having women present, they would not behave much different.’
‘But Brynhild’s warriors are all women,’ Gunhild said. ‘I don’t think that is an excuse to forget how a noblewoman should act.’
Some of the Valkyrjur produced musical instruments: a bagpipe, a flute and a drum, and began to play lively tunes. Soon they and the Burgundars around them were chanting and singing and stomping their feet.
‘She has been living among rough, wild women in the mountains,’ Gunderic said, his expression becoming a little more philosophical. ‘I suppose it is to be expected. To lead them she must be as tough as them.’
Brynhild was now on her feet, downing a horn of ale in a drinking competition with one of the young Burgundar warriors. Gunderic’s knuckles were white as he clutched his own horn of ale.
Brynhild finished the horn of ale moments before the warrior. He shrugged in good-natured acceptance of his defeat. Then they embraced. Brynhild’s warriors cheered.
‘You might need to control your wife, King Gunderic,’ Sigurd said. ‘Remind her who is king.’
‘Is that what you did with my sister, Sigurd?’ Gunderic said through clenched teeth.
‘Brynhild was raped by the Huns,’ Hagan said. He had thought long and hard about whether he should reveal this, but the way the conversation was going he decided that it was now justified. ‘They stabbed her and left her for dead on the riverbank outside Vorbetomagus. I found her there but thought she then died. I left her there…’
Hagan coughed. He felt his eyes stinging with tears. He clamped his jaw shut to stifle a sob that threatened to come out and betray his lack of manliness to everyone around him. He stared at the table and shook his head. He had not realised he was so drunk.
When he looked up again he saw looks of consternation on the faces of the others around him.
‘So she is not a virgin, then,’ Sigurd said, looking sideways at Gunderic.
‘I was married and widowed before we were wed,’ Gunhild said to her husband.
‘Married to a king,’ Sigurd said, raising one eyebrow.
Brynhild climbed up onto the long table and, hand in hand with the blonde-haired Greta, began dancing a jig.
‘I think perhaps it’s time you took your new wife to bed,’ Lokke said, the smile still on his lips.
‘I think you’re right,’ Gunderic said.
He stood up, swaying a little, then strode down the hall to where Brynhild and the others were. The rest of those at the top table exchanged glances. Due to the racket in the hall they could not hear what words were exchanged but from the anger on Gunderic’s face and the scorn on Brynhild’s they did not look pleasant. Then Gunderic grabbed Brynhild’s wrist and led her towards the doors. All the warriors at the table – Brynhild’s included – erupted in a lecherous cheer at the sight. Halfway to the door Brynhild shook off Gunderic’s grasp but she still followed him out of the hall.
In their wake the loud carousing continued.
Not long afterwards, Gunhild announced she was going to bed. Most of the noble ladies and the more refined men were doing the same, leaving the hall to the noisy drinking and singing of the warriors.
Sigurd said he would stay on for more ale, then he, Lokke and the others drifted off towards the other tables where it looked like the party was continuing.
Hagan sat at the top table alone, which suited him fine. He had never been comfortable on social occasions like this. His conversation often let him down and if he did not know someone well he often descended into an awkward silence that was usually only ended by the other person walking away. As he watched the drunken revellers shouting like fools and clinging onto each other to stop themselves falling over he was more than content to stay away from it.
Despite being once more at the heart of a Burgundar kingdom, something he had thought would never happen again, Hagan felt the old lonely ache steal into his heart. Now he was actually among Burgundars once again he was struck by how little fellow feeling he had for them, how lacking he was in any desire to go down and join the others.
He took another drink, wondering if perhaps the longing that had dogged him throughout his years wandering the world had not just been false nostalgia, for a time and place that he had actually spent most of his time trying to get away from.
‘So now there is just we two outcasts.’
A voice made him turn around and he saw Zerco had come up to the top table. Hagan, unnerved, consoled himself that it was probably because he had drunk so much wine that the little man had been able to sneak up on him. Though Zerco did seem to have an uncanny ability to move around without being noticed.
‘What do you mean?’ Hagan said. ‘Outcasts?’
‘Everyone else seems to be enjoying themselves,’ Zerco said, reaching for a goblet and filling it with wine. ‘Or are already off in bed with their wives or husbands.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Hagan said.
Hagan sat back. His eyes felt heavy and the ale and wine were taking their toll. His fingers went to his throat and he began his absent-minded habit of fiddling with his mother’s amulet.
‘Well I suppose at least we’ve learned one thing,’ he said. ‘The treasure hoard is kept somewhere near Geneva.’
‘I’ve always meant to ask you,’ Zerco said. ‘For someone who hates the Huns so much, why do you wear that amulet?’
‘What do you mean?’ Hagan said.
‘The artwork on it,’ Zerco said. ‘It’s Hunnish. That style of engraving a horse is the way their craftsmen work. The real giveaway is the bird, though.’
‘How so?’ Hagan said, frowning.
‘It’s a Turul,’ Zerco said. ‘A mythical bird of prey. The Huns believe their War God flies over battlefields in the shape of one, watching the deeds of the bravest warriors below. You’ll see that soon enough: Attila has one on his personal war banner.’
Hagan shook his head. Why did his mother have the amulet of a Hun? Did that mean his real father was a Hun? One of the loathsome folk he had spent the last fifteen years hating? Did that mean he was half Hun himself?
His head spun, and it was not just from effects of the ale. He stood up, swaying a little.
‘I’m going to bed,’ he said.
‘Suit yourself,’ Zerco said. ‘But it looks like this is turning into quite a party.’
Hagan staggered off down the hall towards the door. Out of the hall the night air hit him making him feel even more dizzy. Across the deserted square the sound of shouting reached his ears. He stopped for a moment then, dismissing it as probably some stupid drunken argument, he stumbled on, off to bed.