Siglinda stood before the mirror of polished metal hung on the wall, brushing her hair with slow strokes. She was bare-armed, in her shift; the rose-colored bridal gown that had belonged to Lyngi’s mother lay on the bed, ready for her to put on. She cast a glance at it over her shoulder and looked away with a shiver of distaste. It was a fresh, fair morning; outside the window white clouds floated in a high blue autumn sky. A string of geese flew by above the fields and she paused to watch them, listening to their wild lonely cries.

  She looked back at the dim reflection in the mirror, wondering if she were really as pale as it made her appear. Her face was thin and pensive, with a straight nose, lips grave and finely cut, and large mild eyes, blue as cornflowers. Her hair was blonde-white, soft as flax and hard to manage; it had a tendency to tangle. Sometimes when she caught sight of her reflection in a pond or bending over the washbasin on a clear day, it startled her and she would turn swiftly, thinking it was her brother. Then would come recollection, and the stab of pain that did not seem to lessen however many years had passed.

  With a sigh she flung down the brush and went to sit on the window ledge overlooking the herb garden. Sweet dusty scents of thyme, dill and marjoram floated up to her. Beyond lay pasturelands dotted with cattle and ploughlands stretching green and dusty under the pale sunlight to the distant hills: a great estate all belonging to Lyngi the Mighty, soon to be her husband.

  She hugged her arms around her against the fresh breeze. She knew she ought to put on the wedding dress, but she was delaying the moment as long as she could. She was to wear Magnhild’s dress because nothing of her own mother’s remained, neither clothing nor ornaments; everything had been lost in the fire that destroyed her home. She stared across the fields without seeing them, a crease between her brows, remembering the first time she had ever seen Lyngi, that night of fire and grief and loss.

  She had hated him that night with an intense murderous rage, but it had been a dumb hate, and never in all the years since then had she dared give it a voice. She felt a pang of guilt, for her hate had grown duller with passing time; but then she had been only a little maid, made more for singing and sunlight and fireside dreaming than for bitter brooding over her wrongs. She pulled her knees up and clasped her arms around them, pillowing her cheek on them. Shivering at the touch of the breeze on her bare skin, she shook the silky mass of her hair over her shoulders.

  She could not say that Lyngi had been cruel to her; he had given her to the women of his household to raise, and they had treated her kindly enough, giving her a share of the household tasks. But it had taken some months before she ceased to wake screaming and crying from her nightmares, or to shrink from the burning hearthfire. Astrid had been allowed to remain with her, and had comforted her greatly.

  Lyngi had taken little notice of her while she was young, and for the last two and a half years he had been absent a great deal, for he had lands to the north that he must oversee as well. But he had come back at the end of last summer and noticed her, although she tried to keep out of his way, casting her eyes down whenever she passed him in the hall.

  In the fall his wife, a pale spindly woman who crept about and hardly ever spoke above a whisper, had died of a fever. Scarce three months later he had announced his intention of taking Siglinda to wife, and since she had no relatives to consult, preparations were simple and soon made. Her own timid, tearful objections, stammered out in the flood of her first tongue-tied horror, he ignored as though she had not spoken.

  A perfunctory knock came at the door, and Magnhild swept in. Siglinda shrank within herself at the sight, for the mistress of Lyngi’s house had always intimidated her. She was a thin, deceptively frail woman with iron-gray hair, her skin pale and mottled, her eyes blue and cold as the ice coating the waterfall in winter. She looked fragile, but she bore herself with an upright posture that betokened the bitter, driving will that brooked no opposition. The only one whose wishes she ever consulted were her son’s. Though Lyngi’s wife Margret had been mistress of his house in name, it was his mother who ruled the household.

  She held a necklace in her hands, gold and carved amber beads, of fair rich work. She laid it on the bed beside the gown, and beside it golden earrings and a brooch set with amber, dropping them from her fingertips as if the touch of the bed contaminated them. She straightened and regarded Siglinda with disapproval. “These were mine; I wore them on my wedding day. They have been in our family for generations. Lyngi commanded me to bring them to you.”

  “Thank you,” stammered Siglinda, not knowing what else to say, and thinking that the mother was not to blame for her revulsion for the son.

  Magnhild’s disapproval deepened; her face grew harsh as she peered closely at the girl. “You have been crying,” she said. “You are a foolish girl, as I told my son when he first broached the idea of this marriage. I told him that he was a fool himself not to take you to his bed when it pleased him, like any other servant girl, for beauty like yours fades quickly; but he had taken this notion into his head. He knows that he needs no housekeeper as long as I am aboveground, and there is no man who will dare to gainsay what Lyngi the Mighty chooses to do— but he is a headstrong man, and will not listen to reason. You should be rejoicing at your good fortune, instead of sitting here in a corner sniveling as if some wrong were being done you.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Siglinda bit her lip. “The wrong has long since been done. There is little more that can be done to me; but I desire at least to be left alone with my grief.”

  “You are talking nonsense,” said Magnhild. “And what you desire is of no concern. It is what Lyngi wishes that matters in this house.”

  “I have heard,” said Siglinda softly, “that it is the king’s law that a maid may not be forced to marry against her will.”

  “It may be so,” said Magnhild with a wintry smile. “But the king is far away, and Lyngi’s word is the only law here. Howbeit, we will not force you against your will—if you wish you may go as free as you came; you have only to set out on the road. Out of kindness and for modesty’s sake we will even let you have the shift you stand in. Do not think you will get more. Heaven knows what will become of you; but you may go if you will.”

  Siglinda said, faltering, “You know well I am alone and friendless. But if my father knew of this—”

  “Your father! The Volsungs are outlawed, reviled by men, living as wild and reckless as beasts in the forest. What should they care for a useless baggage like you?”

  Siglinda’s face burned; she felt as if her cheeks would scorch her palms. “If this is true,” she said, her voice low, “it is because there is no law here but Lyngi’s cruelty and greed.”

  “I see that he has made a fine choice of a wife,” said Magnhild. “I hope he may not regret it. But I think you will not be so rebellious after you have borne him half a dozen children. Margret had high words to say once, as I recall, but he soon brought her into submission. Only—” her voice sharpened—“do not forget who is mistress in this house, whatever you may be in name.” She turned to go, but paused with her hand on the latch. “It is time to dress. Wear the ornaments. It is Lyngi’s command.”

  When she was alone Siglinda clasped her arms around her knees again, leaning her forehead on them, and a deep shiver of despair ran through her. Hot tears scalded her cheeks and dripped down. It was thus that Astrid found her not many minutes later. Siglinda heard the door close, then a startled exclamation as Astrid folded her close to her broad bosom.

  “What is it, child?” she murmured. “There should be no tears on your wedding day.”

  “She said such terrible things,” said Siglinda, pressing her palms against her closed eyes to stop the flow of tears. “She makes me feel altogether wretched . . .”

  Astrid soothed her, stroking her hair until she ceased shivering. Then she held her at arm’s length and surveyed her shrewdly. Astrid had grown plumper and her face rounder in the ten years since their abduction, but she had the same glossy straw-colored braids and the same round kind eyes. She had taken their capture in stride and made the best of it; five years earlier she had married Gyrd, one of Lyngi’s bailiffs, a hard drinking, easy tempered man with a red nose and a merry eye. Although she had three children of her own now, she still worked in the house and watched over Siglinda as if she were her own child. Siglinda could see the concern in the exasperated pucker of her lips. “Pay no heed to her,” Astrid said severely. “She is an old witch, and everyone knows she has an acid tongue. This is your wedding day! You should be dancing and singing.”

  Siglinda loosened Astrid’s hands with a sigh. “You know this is not the marriage I would have chosen.”

  “Then you are too choosey by far.” Astrid rose and stood looking down at her. “Lyngi is a fine figure of a man, a great chieftain. He has land, wealth, the respect of all men—”

  “The lands he stole from my father,” she said bitterly.

  “There is no sense in dwelling on that,” said Astrid. “A woman must take what comes to her in this world and make the best of it, if she is to go on living. You know what they say: ‘a foolish man tosses and turns, worried over many things; and wakes in the morning exhausted, with his troubles unchanged.’ If you do not take care, you will grow wrinkled and lose your beauty before your time; then you will see what a hard life really is.”

  Siglinda hugged her knees. “Is that all I have, my beauty?” she said. “There was a time—it seems so long ago now—when I was valued otherwise, for myself alone.”

  “It is all that counts with men like Lyngi, and you are lucky to have caught his eye. It will save you from a life of drudgery.” Astrid lifted the velvet gown and shook out the folds. “This is a beautiful piece of work.” She cast a sharp eye at Siglinda. “It could have been worse, you know. They say that Lyngi’s cousin, that old hunchback Sverre, is on the lookout for a pretty young wife. Cheer up, my lamb; none is so wicked that he is worth naught.”

  Siglinda could not help smiling, though tears welled in her eyes. “You are full of wise sayings today, Astrid. But your comfort grates on my heart. I would like to be alone while I can.”

  Astrid sniffed. “You will be left alone soon enough, if I know anything of men. But tonight you must smile and reign over the feast and play a queen’s part. Come here and put your gown on, and let me brush your hair again; it is all tangled.”

  Meekly Siglinda came to stand before her, and let her slip off the cotton shift she wore and pull down over her head the golden-yellow shift of satin. It was embroidered with many colors of silk about the neck and sleeves; she shivered at the touch of the cool folds on her bare skin. Over it Astrid helped her put on the bridal gown, low cut and velvet soft to touch; around her waist she twined a silver belt. Then she bowed her head while Astrid fastened the necklace around her neck, exclaiming at its great value and beauty, and tried not to shudder at the cold touch of the heavy metal links against her flesh.

  She sat on the chest at the end of the bed while Astrid brushed her hair with swift gentle strokes, arraying it on her shoulders, chattering meanwhile as merrily as a stream running downhill. But Siglinda did not listen; her gaze lingered dreamily on the distant haze beyond the fields outside, caught by some vision that she alone could see.