Merrik chuckled as he pulled her tightly against him. “Aye, ’tis too much, isn’t it? Our people are good. This is now your home and this is your welcome.”
She hiccuped and raised her head and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands.
Merrik turned to shouts of “Let us drink to the bride and groom!”
“Hear, hear!”
It was nearly sunset. The wedding feast, begun hours before, had long since lost its respectable and inspiring beginnings. It was still joyous though, Laren thought, too joyous, as she watched Merrik and Oleg break up another fight. He’d told her to eat and drink lightly; it was their duty to watch all their people drink themselves into a stupor, and when they fought instead, it was their duty t
o keep the men from killing each other in their drunkenness. Vikings, he remarked, liked their celebrations boisterous.
Laren ate a piece of goat cheese. It was tart, even sour, and she quickly drank down some warm ale. She felt a lurch of dizziness and grinned down at her empty cup. She felt wonderful. She looked toward Merrik who’d pulled Roran off Eller, the small man whose clothes she’d worn on their way home. Home, she thought, looking around. She heard Merrik laugh, saw him lift Roran into the air and toss him toward Old Firren, who just ducked and watched him fall into a mess of meat bones.
He was a beautiful man, she thought. A good man. She watched him walk to a group of children whose leader was Kenna. He was stumbling about, aping his elders, and the children were laughing and trying to guess which man it was he was pretending to be.
She laughed when Sarla poured her another glass of ale.
“Merrik said I should remain sober, that it was very nearly a law, for we were responsible to see that no one got a broken head.”
“I will be vigilant for you,” Sarla said.
“And I as well,” said Cleve, who stood behind Sarla.
For a moment, Laren saw them as one. She shook her head, but still, they were so close to each other that they seemed to merge. She said slowly, “When will you wed?”
She watched them start, then stare at each other, consternation on their faces, at least she thought it was consternation. She drank a bit more ale. “Cleve saved me. He is a fine man.”
“I know,” Sarla said. “Please, Laren, you mustn’t speak of it. Erik is still too close, he still preys too much on my mind and on Cleve’s. Someone killed him. It wasn’t you nor was it Cleve or me. But it was someone and that person is here, close to us. I’m afraid.”
Cleve took her arm and gently squeezed it. “Hush, Sarla, it is Laren’s wedding day. We will find out who killed Erik and then we will be free. At least none believe it to be Laren, not with her royal birth. Hush now, sweeting, hush.”
But who did kill Erik? Laren sipped at her ale and stared at the men and women who were shouting at each other, telling jests that had no meaning, not now, after hours of drinking, kissing and caressing each other, all in all, oblivious of the world around them. She looked at Ileria, the weaver, so drunk she was just staring into a plate of stewed fish, just staring, saying nothing, doing nothing. And there were Caylis and Megot, both with two of Erik’s men. The men were young and comely, as were most Vikings, their faces flushed with too much mead.
She felt warm breath in her ear. “I thought I told you that it was your duty to keep your wits together.”
She turned her head, found herself an inch from his face, and grinned. “I fear I have drunk too much ale, Merrik.”
“Am I to bed a drunken wife?”
“Oh dear, I better stop,” she said, tipped up the cup and downed the rest of the ale.
Merrik laughed at her and called out, “Behold your influence. My bride of four hours can barely hold herself straight. What am I to do?”
Oleg shouted, “Have her tell us a story! ’Twill sober her wits!”
“Aye, a tale, a tale!”
“Well, Laren, are you able?”
“A story,” she said, as if marveling that such a thing could possibly exist. “Aye, a story.” She stood then, stepped onto the bench, then up onto the wooden table. “Attend me,” she shouted. “A story you want, a story you will have!”
There was cheering mixed with an equal measure of laughter.
“She’ll fall and break her leg!”
“Better than her tongue. I want stories from her, many more stories!”
Laren stamped her foot and nearly slid off the table on a piece of oatcake. Merrik was there to steady her, clasping her by her knees to hold her steady. “Go ahead, I’ve got you now,” he said.