Chapter Six:
Saturday afternoon, I sat before the mirror in the bedroom I would no longer share with Freia as of that night, half-heartedly trying to concentrate on the excited exclamations of my best friend and Felda while they bustled around me, carefully perfecting my face, dress, and hair for my wedding with Joel. My gray eyes drifted often toward the window, my mind speculating exactly how long it would be until sunset, when the ceremony would begin.
I had just a few hours of sanity left. Before I knew it, I would add Hudson to my surname and crawl into a primitive tent somewhere in the woodland with my new husband. Soon I would sign my name onto our marriage certificate as Swanhilde Rolande Hudson von Thaden, and Joel would sign his as Joel Richard Hudson von Thaden. As of that moment, the rest of my days in the eleventh century would be consumed with hypocrisy.
I stared vacantly at my reflection in the mirror, unsurprised at the glow of denial in my eyes. I was about to do the very thing that Freia had joined the Gypsies to avoid—I was about to marry a man I did not love, a man I could never love. My union with Joel would be made out of convenience; we had come to the past together, and we would remain in the past together. We would marry and run the Meldorf estate as a couple and lay down a history to the unknown name of Thaden.
Joel loved me, and he would assume that I loved him in return. He would want me to teach him everything, now that his Teuton blood matched mine. He would believe our elemental dances to be the pinnacle of glory, and his blood would simmer just like mine when we entwined ourselves in bed. We would be a young Teuton couple, both nobility due to the count’s generosity, welcomed into the coterie of the elite of Muniche, the subject of good-natured tittering as we attended parties together, as I bore Joel more and more offspring.
I worked hard to keep my unhappiness off of my face when I exited the Meldorf manor, descending the front steps cautiously. The count’s nicest carriage awaited me just beyond the stairs with Jarvis at the driver’s seat. The bailiff looked rather impressive in a gray suit and cowl, his sandy beard and hair freshly trimmed, his blue eyes glinting as he appraised my dress.
I had sewn the dress myself and completed it the day before. It was of blue and silver linen, the skirt wide enough to make me appear as though I had no legs, the sleeves flared grandly, the laced bodice accentuating my figure—which so far showed no signs of my pregnancy. I wore silver sandals beneath the skirt, though no one at the wedding would notice them, and a pair of my mother’s silver earrings dangled from my earlobes. Freia had purchased makeup to use at our weddings; thus my black eyelashes appeared more prominent than usual, and my lips were stained a deep ruby red. Joel would be impressed, I knew, but I wished that the carriage would somehow sweep me away to a darker corner of the forest, a place of ghoulish shadows and ghosts where I could marry Augustin in secret.
While the stable hand helped me enter the carriage, I ordered myself to stop fantasizing about my master on the very eve of my wedding with Joel. Augustin had said before that our fates were not meant to be together, despite our desperate wishes. If I were to honestly move on and pick up the shattered pieces of my life, I would at least have to try to love Joel instead. But if I abandoned Augustin for a well-meaning Teuton boy who had given up his heritage for me, my master would forget that he still had a chance at heaven. Thus I resolved to enjoy Joel tonight and try to share his future burdens and triumphs as a good wife should . . . while deep within my heart, I would dream with my heathen priest.
My attitude improved steadily as the carriage rattled over the dirt paths toward the Teuton meeting place of Muniche. I held lively conversations with Freia and Count von Meldorf, both of whom were attending the wedding. The count wore noble clothing for the occasion, though he commented several times that the stiff fabric made him itch. He also had trimmed his hair and beard, and looked rather handsome for a man past sixty. He promised to kill several chickens for a feast once Joel and I returned from our honeymoon, and he pledged that my new bedroom would be waiting for us, fully furnished.
The count’s blue eyes twinkled suggestively as he hinted that I probably ought to change into a more durable dress before taking off with Joel. I laughed heartily at this and promised that I would. Freia and I had prepared a suitable stash of camping equipment for my honeymoon. Jarvis had brought it to the outskirts of the clearing earlier in the day, along with the tan mare and one of the count’s stallions.
Jarvis halted our caravan a short distance from the clearing. He came around to help the three of us onto the leaves of the trail before tying the horses to several low-hanging linden boughs. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, and the sky above, barely visible through the leafy branches, had shifted from the light blue of summer into a deepening vermillion.
A bit of nervousness strove with my anticipation as I waited for Joel to meet me, my eyes peering through the shadows of the forest toward the glade that would become the stage for my matrimony. Memories of my other activities at the meeting place of Muniche assaulted my mind for a split second—the first time, when Joel, Freia, and I had to persuade the Teuton council to accept us into the city—and the second time, that horrible time I could never erase from my thoughts, when the haughty Prince had cursed my lover forever. What would take place now would be much happier, the solemnity of the ceremony overshadowed by the wonder of Teutonic blood marriage.
The count and Jarvis exchanged a few final phrases with me before striking out for the clearing. Freia paused a moment longer, her green eyes searching my face. “How are you?” she whispered.
I forced myself to smile at her, pushing aside the last of my hesitation. “I’m all right,” I replied quietly, knowing full well that my best friend knew my heart was breaking inside of me. “This is my best path forward, and there’s no use bewailing the glories I can never have.”
Freia smiled sadly, patting me lightly on the shoulder with the words, “You and Joel will make a wonderful couple, and I know you’ll make the Meldorf estate more prosperous than ever. Your life is hardly over, Swanie, and remember that God’s ways are far beyond ours. You mustn’t lose hope.” She nodded once at me in encouragement, then turned away to follow the others into the dell.
The light radiating from her countenance filled me with peace and courage, and I knew that I could conquer the next two decades in spite of the tragedy that had befallen me. I wondered briefly whether the inspiration I gained from my friendship with Freia shared any similarities to my own influence over Augustin. In the next instant, Joel stepped out from the trees, diverting all of my attention to the path before me.
He wore the noble attire I had sewn for him to wear at our Teutonic wedding: a patterned tunic of auburn and indigo interwoven with golden thread, deep brown trousers and belt with an impressive brass buckle, and hardy leather boots that rose to his knees. His blond hair and beard had been slicked perfectly, all traces of dirt removed from his face. Truth to be told, he looked incredibly striking. His hazel eyes shone with excitement as he offered me his right hand, so we could cross the short distance to the glade side by side, per tradition.
“You look really amazing in noble clothing,” I whispered to him in English as I took his hand, letting him lead me toward the clearing.
Joel grinned at me and murmured back, “I look like a tramp compared to you. That dress is . . . wow. I don’t have enough words to do it justice in English or Teutonica.” I giggled and felt heat rise in my cheeks. “Did Freia do your hair?” I nodded. “It looks like the hair of a princess.”
I tilted my head at him and whispered coyly, “An ice princess, or a Teuton princess?” I left out the option of ‘swan princess’ on purpose.
He chuckled. “Whatever you want. Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider?” We had paused at the edge of the dell, still in the shadows, though I could see the yellow-orange glow of the traditional fire illuminating the clearing beyond. I imagined the four witnesses who had gathered to observe our wedding: the count, Jarvis, Freia, and Heinrich, standing in a group across from the fire. I imagined the Teuton priest, Joel’s friend Aric, clad entirely in black, poised behind the table between the fire and the witnesses. And I imagined the wooden post, likely set up near the riverbank, awaiting our official union as man and wife.
I shivered in nervous anticipation when Joel squeezed my hand and said, “Honestly, if you’d rather not marry me like this, I won’t hold it against you.”
I lifted my eyes to his one final time and replied softly, “I have no intention of backing out. This ritual tonight is the beginning of our future here in the eleventh century. I’m ready for it, even for the knives and blood.” I winked.
Joel grinned and confided in a low voice, “I made the knife, and I put all of my initials on it since it might be the last knife I’ll ever make. JRHvT.” His hazel eyes sparkled in achievement.
I smiled back at him and said, “Then let’s do this. No more English.” I eyed him demurely, and he elbowed me in jest. A second later, we stepped into the glade, walking ceremoniously across the leaves and pine needles to our place before the table.
I invoked my ice into my eyes to sharpen my vision and looked around at the clearing on our journey to our place. Our four friends stood to my right with the Isar at their backs, the count and Heinrich in the middle, flanked by Jarvis and Freia. Both Heinrich and Freia had clad themselves decently for the wedding, and they stood very close to each other, their body language hinting that they could hardly wait for their own wedding day. My eyes darted next to the fire pit, its flames blazing in a natural yellow and orange with no trace of elemental manipulation.
Finally, my gaze fell upon the table before us and the priest standing behind it. He stood just a bit shorter than Joel, the black hood of his robes hiding his hair from me, his hands clasped calmly before him, his expression rather withering. As we halted two paces from the table, I suddenly realized that I had never met this priest before in my life. I had no idea what his full name was, or his element. At least Joel knew him . . . and at least he was not the Prince . . . but a small shiver ran down my spine when I wondered whether he would conduct the wedding properly since he had never officiated one before.
“Tonight, we come together to bind two Teutons by blood, oath, and love.” Aric spoke the introductory words in Teutonica, his tone solemn and mystical. After a short pause, he lifted a braid of silver oak leaves from the table and carried them to the nearby fire to offer Joel and me our final escape from this numinous commitment. “If either party wishes to renounce this binding, may he speak now, before these leaves meet the fire.”
Part of me wished to shriek and run, to leap upon one of the horses tied near the trail and ride with the fury of Augustin’s fire, ride without stopping, ride away from this obligation that would unite me with a man I could not love. I entertained the shortest of fantasies on a wild ride into the Alps, upon the snowy peaks, my heart and ice seeking my master . . . finding him in the cave, a wraith of darkness, throwing myself at his feet, pleading for his mercy and his everlasting love, begging for a reprieve from this madness.
But I kept my gaze forward to the line of trees beyond the table, hearing the snap when the leaves met the flames, extinguishing my hopes forever. And I raised my chin as I prepared to meet my destiny, though it was far from what I had wanted.
Aric proceeded to address our friends next, asking the count and Heinrich whether they accepted their responsibilities as witnesses of the binding. Traditionally, the certificate indicating a Teutonic marriage should be signed by only two witnesses, both male; the count and the ironmaster had agreed ahead of time to perform this duty. Personally, I wished that Freia and Heinrich could have signed, since they would soon be husband and wife themselves, but medieval Teuton laws remained as chauvinistic as ever. Joel and the count planned to sign for Freia and Heinrich’s wedding next month. I would be there to watch but not to participate.
Soon afterward, Aric stepped back to the table, calmly announcing that all was prepared and that he would now proceed with the wedding. I already knew all of the particulars of Teutonic weddings, for aside from watching Ina’s wedding, I had read all about such things in Der Weg. The ceremony would consist of three rites involving blood and knives—typical, as Joel would say—and an exchange of vows.
In my era, as well as the eleventh century, Teutonic weddings were conducted in Teutonica rather than the older dialect so that the uneducated could properly appreciate the importance of the rituals. Thus, I knew what would be expected of me, and I deemed myself prepared despite my nagging doubts. Joel would likely be far more squeamish about the blood rites than I would.
Aric intoned a few phrases explaining the first rite—the slitting of the left wrists of the betrothed pair, using the knife Joel had made. A few drops of blood from each of us would be collected in a small cup. Afterward, Aric would wrap silver oak leaves around our wounds, using its magic and his skills at blood control to heal the cuts. Pinkish scars would mark our wrists as permanent reminders of our commitment to one another, never fading until the day one of us died.
I wondered briefly, when I stepped forward and held out my left wrist to the priest, if my marriage with Joel here in the past would carry over into the twenty-first century. We’re supposed to remain essentially unchanged when we return, but I know I read something once, something that suggested that there are some acts that can be done in the past that carry over into the future. But I don’t think marriage was one of them. I wish I could remember.
The sting of the blade cutting into my wrist brought my thoughts back to the matter at hand. I watched, slightly fascinated, as Aric turned my wrist downward so that my blood could spill into a wooden cup upon the table. He held my bleeding wrist over the cup for less than half a minute according to my internal clock. My blood had not yet reached the edges of the bottom of the goblet before he pressed a silver oak leaf to my wound, holding it still for a short interval.
A playful smile tugged at the corners of my lips, for I could have halted the bleeding of my wrist myself, without bothering with an oak leaf. But I doubted that Aric would appreciate such interference from a woman. So I waited patiently, holding back my defensive instinct while the priest closed my wound, leaving a scab that had already begun to transform into the pink scar of marriage.
Aric slit Joel’s wrist next as I stood back and observed, my eyes straying now and then to my own left wrist, marveling at the ridiculousness that had thrust me into this binding with an American Teuton. That had to be a first. Joel certainly was one of a kind, and I could not criticize his newfound loyalty to me and my people, an allegiance that had caused him to turn his back upon his own heritage. Guilt touched my soul at my mental infidelity to such a decent man, but I shoved it aside, ordering myself not to think of such things now. I directed my attention once more to Aric, who had finished with Joel’s wound and begun to explain the second rite of the Teutonic wedding—the acceptance and disposal of sorrows.
This part of the ceremony vexed me more than the cuts from the knife. Joel and I stood beside one another, silently watching Aric place the necessary items into the cup which had caught a few drops of blood from each of us. He listed each of the ingredients rather tonelessly: water from the Isar, dust from the earth, bitter herbs from the gardens of Muniche, vinegar from her vineyards.
Once he had finished mixing everything in the cup using an iron stirrer, Joel and I would have to drink a sip of its contents. This symbolized the bitter sorrows we would face in our future together as a married couple in an imperfect world. Joel would drink last and then throw the cup and the remainder of its liquid over his left shoulder to symbolize the triumph of love and loyalty over trials. I never enjoyed tasting things that were supposed to be disgusting, but at least this would not be half as bad as drinking Augustin’s blood.
I took a deep breath and steeled myself when Aric handed me the wooden cup, sipping it quickly, working hard to keep the distaste off of my face while I swallowed and handed the cup to Joel. I hoped the count had brought some sort of congratulatory wine with him in the carriage for use after the ceremony, for now I had a horrible aftertaste in my mouth. Joel cast the cup over his shoulder with a bit too much force, his face appearing quite revolted with the whole thing.
Aric lifted an aged book from the table and read a few phrases on the duties of man and wife. Next, he requested that Joel and I face each other at long last, so we could repeat the proper vows, pledging our faithfulness and love to each other. Joel spoke them first, his hazel eyes shining as the words poured from his lips in perfect Teutonica. He really did love me; I could see that plainly. An exultant smile adorned his bearded face, and he clasped my hands tightly. He was probably already forming all sorts of exciting speculations on our honeymoon in the forest and our mutual life together as landed nobility—twenty-one years of marital glory. So I pushed back all of my hesitancy and locked my gray eyes with Joel’s as I spoke the required lies.
“On this night I pledge my body and heart to you, Joel Richard Hudson, before these witnesses of earth, fire, air, water, and soul. I give you myself as your wife, with my faults and my strengths, and I take you to myself as my husband, with your faults and your strengths. May we live from this night forward as Teuton partners, of one mind and blood, in all matters of life. I pledge to stay with you and you alone, as your wife, until we are parted by death.”
My treachery ate at my insides while Aric recited a few statements regarding the last act of the Teutonic wedding—the uniting of the blood of the pair and the kiss of marriage. Joel and I followed the priest to the wooden post set up near the banks of the Isar, its height about halfway between my waist and shoulders. He carried Joel’s knife and an iron bowl . . . and when my eyes strayed to the bowl I remembered the last time I had seen the use of such an instrument—collecting Augustin’s blood at the curse.
Uncertainty grabbed hold of me as I considered the similarities of the Teutonic wedding and the filial curse. Both use a knife to spill the participant’s blood, collected in an iron bowl, the name written with the blood. But in matrimony it’s mixed blood, signed freely onto a marriage certificate, preserved in honor for years and years . . . and for the curse, it’s the blood of one condemned party, signed with fettered hands, the record burnt before it dries.
My stomach twisted, and I averted my eyes to Joel’s caring face when we halted on opposite sides of the post. I tried to focus on his love and devotion, telling myself to forget my cursed master once and for all. I laid my right hand upon the post, as expected, and Joel covered my hand with his strong fingers. His expression suggested that he did not particularly trust the idea of having his hand stabbed through with a knife. I smiled at him in an attempt at reassurance, and a moment later Aric proclaimed, “May the couple seal their marriage with a kiss, and may the union be complete!”
Joel and I kissed, our left arms wrapping around each other as Aric stabbed our right hands together upon the post. A corner of my brain detected the impact and the pain, along with the wood digging into my palm and the strange stickiness that seeped between my hand and the post. But I could not concentrate on the discomfort while my lips molded with Joel’s. I could think only of my hormones sparking to life, warring with my ice as it leapt out to dance with Joel’s wind somewhere in the realm of the spirit.
I had never kissed Joel like this before. It overwhelmed me with amazement and longing. We were equals . . . and we were married. That very night, I would look upon him naked for the first time and discover what triumphs a derivative of air had to offer. I would not ruminate upon the blue-fired priest who had stolen my heart. This marvelous young man of wind would fully occupy my mind, fulfilling my desires like I satisfied his, and we would ascend to the stars together in Teutonic triumph.
Aric had already extracted the knife from our hands by the time we parted, having caught a sufficient amount of our commingled blood for the signatures. Joel stared at me, his eyes radiant with wonder, glittering silver in the twilight. I glanced down at my right hand, seeing that no mark remained from the knife’s work; the blood had entirely vanished from my skin. There was certainly magic in the marriage of Teutons. Joel looked down at his own hand, mimicking me, the English word “wow” escaping his lips. A moment later, he grabbed me with a grin and kissed me again, binding me snugly in his arms.
We returned to the table soon afterward to sign our marriage certificate. I signed first, putting Joel’s surname in front of my own like we had agreed, my cursive flowing unintentionally in the style of the eleventh century, like Augustin had taught me. Joel signed after me with a bit more difficulty, since our commingled blood had begun to clot; his handwriting looked far messier, as well.
Count von Meldorf took up a feather pen once Joel had finished and signed his name shakily in print. I beamed at him in gratitude when he handed the pen to Heinrich. The count had never learned to write, and his name was the only legible thing he could inscribe. Once Heinrich had signed, Aric took the pen and wrote his full name onto the parchment, his commoner’s handwriting on the same level as Joel’s.
Joel and I exchanged a few words with our friends afterward and shared several drinks to a long and prosperous future. I entrusted Jarvis with our marriage certificate, and before I knew it, I had changed into a simpler dress and climbed into the saddle, the tan mare reaching back to nuzzle my hand as I secured the reins. Joel leapt atop one of the count’s dappled stallions, our camping equipment secured to the animal’s back. He shot me one final grin before spurring his horse toward the deepest part of the forest. So I nudged the mare to follow my partner in a race to an endless night, to the rapturous ecstasies of my deception.