Santa Viking by Sandra Hill

rituals.
    Tykir and Alinor stood as witnesses for Bolthor. Eirik and Eadyth were witnesses for Katherine. The bride was given away by her four sons, who had been smiling for days at the prospect of Bolthor for a father.
    Katherine wore a magnificent white wool gunna covered with a scarlet surcoat, both embroidered with green acanthus leaves. The garment was lent to her by Alinor, who was noted for the fine wool she wove from her many sheep. She wore no jewelry except for a thin gold chain from which dangled a heart-shaped amber pendant, a bride-gift from her husband-to-be. Also as part of her bride gift, Bolthor had surprised both her and all attending by his wealth and generosity: Odin’s Lair, a small estate in Vestfold, a dozen chests of gold and amber from the days of amber hunting with Tykir, many ells of Samite silk, casks of wine, and pledges of fealty from two dozen hersirs.
    Bolthor looked handsome in the brown tunic and braies that had recently been gifted to him by Tykir and Alinor. At his side was scabbarded his second-best, pattern-welded sword, “Blood Friend.”
    For her groom gift to Bolthor, Katherine offered three estates in Northumbria, including Wickshire, all the meager furnishings, and two hundred chickens. She refused to explain the latter, except to Bolthor, who howled with laughter.
    With one hand each on the hilt of his sword, Bolthor and Katherine linked their other hands. Tykir and Eirik recited together: “We declare ourselves witnesses that Katherine of Wickshire and Bolthor of Odin’s Lair, do bond themselves in lawful marriage. Do you both promise love, honor and fidelity as long as blood flows through your veins?”
    They both said, “Yea.”
    Then began the brudh hlaup or bride-running, which was difficult being indoors. Still, Katherine lifted her gown up to her knees and raced for the stairs leading to the bridal chamber, chased by her new husband who beat her by a mere few steps. Grinning, he laid his sword across the bottom of the doorframe. Once she stepped over it, they would be officially wed.
    In true Viking style, he then whacked her across her buttocks with the broad side of the sword  . . . just to show who would be the master in this marriage. It was a traditional Viking jest, trollish to be sure, but not really serious.
    Tykir surprised everyone by composing a poem in honor of his good friend Bolthor. “Hear one and all, this is the story of ‘Bolthor the Thick-headed Warrior.’”
This is the story of the far-famed Bolthor.
Over the years did he sample many a whore.
A great berserker he was in battle,
But good women he could not break to saddle.
A shield he placed afore his heart.
But then, no one said that he was smart.
Lo and behold, along came Katherine.
Bolthor was old, but it was not too late.
She pulled, she pushed, she was a great tease.
But ne’er would she let him touch her woman’s fleece.
But then a wise man known as Tie-keer
Locked up the two lackbrains with a leer.
They swived, they fought, then swived some more.
This is the stuff of Viking folklore.
The moral of this saga is: Tup more, talk less.
    Everyone thought Tykir would make a great skald. To which he said something that could not be repeated, not even in the midst of rowdy Vikings.
    At the end of the evening, when the bride and groom had retired to their “honey moon” chamber, and the other guests were high on mead and good cheer, Tykir and Eirik sat with their wives, discussing this and that.
    “Who do you think will be next?” Alinor inquired.
    “Your twins?” Tykir said to Eirik and Alinor.
    “Sigrud and Sarah,” Alinor agreed.
    “Nay, they are too young,” Eirik protested fiercely of his twin daughters, the only children he and Eadyth had together.
    Eadyth smiled, knowing they were eighteen, more than a marriageable age. Still, it would be more likely that Emma, Eirik’s daughter by another woman, at twenty-five, would be the more likely bride. However, Emma, who ran an orphanage