Her father was soon sobered, and her mother was soon summoned. The thralls were given their instruction, and within the hour they were rushing up and down the halls, their arms laden with all of Disa’s very best jackets, dresses, and smocks.
Secure within the jarl’s room, Lady Bergljot helped her daughter disrobe. She brushed Disa’s hair, polished her brooches, and instructed the young girl on all the proper wifely ways.
But Disa registered very little of her mother’s advice. Further down the hall, a commotion arose that stalled her mother mid-tirade.
Her father, now armed and properly dressed, had ferreted her brother from his hiding spot. Just as he had promised the prince, the jarl was bestowing his punishment without mercy or compassion.
For a time, her mother tried to talk over her father’s bellows and her brother’s shrieks, but Disa could tell that she was trying to listen, too.
A crash. A bang. More shouting.
Then Hakon reached his limit. With a final, aching scream, Hakon’s voice cut through her mother’s babbling, rose above her father’s blundering, and carried over the thundering footsteps of the thralls racing to and fro: “But I love her!”
Her mother fell silent, and Disa fought to draw breath.
The jarl slapped his son with enough force that his wife and daughter, listening four rooms over, could hear the clap of the palm striking Hakon’s cheek. The fight ended. Hakon fell silent, but Jarl Sigurd did not return to his rooms. He marched down the hall, screaming at his thralls, screaming at his stewards, and nearly tearing the door from its hinges as he disappeared into the damp, cold night.
Lady Bergljot could not be considered a particularly gentle mother. She was a harsh mistress and a shrewd wife. She was unforgiving of her daughter’s faults and outspoken against anything that gave her discomfort. But with her son’s confession still echoing down the hall, she took her daughter by her shoulders and hugged the girl with a sympathetic squeeze and a whispered apology.
This was to be her last night in her father’s home, but Disa couldn’t spend it in the company of her family. Her last night was not spent basking in the affection of her father and mother. It was spent on a cold cot in the corner of her parent’s room, where it was too drafty and too noisy to sleep.
The thralls stuffed saddle bags, packed chests. They heaved and called to one another as, load by load, all her most precious belongings were carted out to the stables. Unable to sleep, she waited for morning’s arrival, waited for the time when Prince Eric would knock at her father’s door and announce their departure.
In good time, the prince did summon her, and Disa rose from her cot, hair disheveled and face splotchy from exhaustion. The prince waited in the hall as her mother dressed Disa in the gown she would wear on the road. He waited while her mother plaited her hair and tied the wool shawl over her head.
Lady Bergljot clapped her daughter on the shoulder, adjusted her long jacket, and said, “You make him happy, girl.”
“Yes, Mama,” replied Disa.
“It’s getting late,” said the prince through the door.
The mother pushed the daughter towards the exit.
“Go. Hakon won’t give you any more trouble.”
Disa opened the door and tiptoed out into the hall. There he was, smiling down at her. Prince Eric’s glorious grin made it easier to forget his fierce countenance from the night before.
“Are you ready?”
Her head swiveled to look back down the hall—back towards her brother’s room—but she saw nothing. The prince’s men filled the hall; they loomed over her. There must have been a half-a-dozen of them piled in around her door. One was so tall his shaggy hair brushed the rafters, but they were all enormous. They were sullen, too, especially when compared to the toothily-grinning prince standing next to them.
She nodded, and Prince Eric took her by the arm and led her from her father’s home.
His men following at his heels, he marched them down the hill to the huge mead hall. Her father was waiting. Jarl Sigurd had on the same clothes from the night before. His head was shiny with sweat, his beard was in need of combing, and straw was sticking to his wool trousers. Despite his fearsome appearance, however, he swept into a graceful bow as the prince approached.
“Everything is prepared, my lord. All that remains is to express my hope that my daughter will make you very happy.”
“She will,” the prince replied.
Disa watched as her groom drew a pouch from his inner pocket. “As promised, here is the coin for her chastity. I thank you for protecting it.”
There was a bite to the way Prince Eric said this. Disa’s insides squirmed, and she chewed the inside of her cheek to keep from frowning. Her father, however, chose not to notice. He accepted the prince’s money, and hid the coin pouch within the folds of his jacket.
“Disa,” her father then said, his gaze now coming to rest on his most beloved child. “I hope you will send word once you have settled. I shall like to visit you when it would not inconvenience you.”
The way his brow arched and the way his lower lip trembled drove home a terrifying truth: Disa, who had never left Trondelag, who had never spent a day away from her family and servants, was leaving behind everyone and everything she had ever known. The men surrounding her were not her father’s warriors. The thralls leading the horses from the stables were not accompanying them. They were still sworn to her father, and now she was sworn to another.
Her gut swooped like a swallow in flight.
“I will take good care of your daughter,” said Prince Eric as he led his beautiful bride past her remorseful father.
She was just like a little girl, frightened to leave home, but she found no expression of comfort from Jarl Sigurd. She saw only loneliness and regret and a bitter exhaustion to mirror her own.
She almost stopped. She almost turned back. It didn’t matter to her that the whole town would laugh at her, that her father would be furious, or that the prince would feel betrayed. It didn’t matter that her mother would ridicule her for the rest of her spinster life. She wanted to turn back.
But when she wavered and leaned back towards her father, the prince cinched his grip on her hand and whispered the words that would decide the matter:
“All will be well, my love.”
Chapter Five