Death Blow by Jianne Carlo

to stand in front of Konáll and Nyssa.
    Dráddør obligingly moved to the side and out of their orbit.
    “Lord Konáll, Lady Nyssa, step forward and hold out your hands. If you please.” The holy man swiped the cloth square tied to his rope belt across his damp forehead.
    Konáll frowned. He had witnessed only one Christian wedding afore and had imbibed much ale prior to the vow saying, but he remembered naught of hands being placed in such a manner.
    Nay. Brökk and Skatha, his brother and his bride, had exchanged rings of gold. Did Nyssa expect such? For he had no ring for her.
    Nyssa unwound the ribbon decorating the sleeve of her gown and handed the pale blue strip to the priest. He wound the ribbon around first Konáll’s and then Nyssa’s wrists and knotted the ends together. Sweat dripped from the man’s cheeks onto his brown robe.
    “Lady Nyssa, repeat my words.” He mopped his temple and cleared his throat. “In front of King Thōrfin, Queen Grelod, King Harold’s Lovesingman, Olaf Longface, Lord Dráddør, and all assembled here, I take the Lord Konáll as handfast husband.”
    Konáll jerked around to gain a better view of his soon-to-be wife. Handfast? He had ne’er heard a marriage referred to as such. Some strange Scottish rite? But Nyssa said the words loud and clear and the knotted muscles in his neck relaxed somewhat.
    “L-L-Lord K-Konáll, ’tis your turn. In front—”
    “In front of King Thōrfin and Queen Grelod, King Harald’s Lovesingman, Olaf Longface, my brother, Dráddør, and all assembled, I take the lady Nyssa as wife,” Konáll declared.
    “Handfast wife,” Nyssa whispered.
    Konáll hesitated, but a wife was a wife was a wife, what mattered how the Scots called it? “Handfast wife.”
    “Nay. You must repeat the vow and say it right from start to finish,” Nyssa declared, her eyes narrowed and focused on him.
    “Has the lady the right of it, priest?” Konáll held Nyssa’s stare searching for some ulterior motive for the peculiar demand, but she ne’er blinked.
    “A-a-aye, my lord.” Beads of perspiration ran down the man’s cheeks.
    “In front of King Thōrfin and Queen Grelod, King Harald’s Lovesingman, Olaf Longface, my brother, Dráddør, and all assembled, I take the lady Nyssa as handfast wife.” A strangled rumble drew Konáll’s attention, and he swept a sidelong look at Thōrfin who had a fisted hand pressed on his mouth.
    “In the name of the lord, you are now handfasted husband and wife.” The priest made the sign of the cross.
    “’Tis done?” Konáll circled an arm around Nyssa’s waist and drew her to his side.
    “Aye. ’Tis done.” Nyssa averted her gaze.
    He studied the flat line of his wife’s mouth. What had upset her?
    Afore Konáll could question Nyssa, Grelod stepped in front of the two of them, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “Aye. ’Tis done, in a matter of speaking. Lady Nyssa, I charge you with giving your handfast husband an explicit accounting of the vows and the consequences of the ceremony you orchestrated. Do not mistake my next kindness for weakness. There is food and wine in your tent. Hang the sheets ere you slumber this eve, Konáll.”
    Grelod’s high color and low, clipped declaration spoke of a barely contained rage.
    Konáll’s jaw dropped. Why was Grelod so furious?
    “Are not there five to witness the consummation?” A frowning Nyssa craned her neck to meet his gaze, wriggled her shoulders, and glanced at Grelod, lashes fluttering like a butterfly evading a sparrow. “Including you, my lady?”
    Grelod jutted her chin, her nostrils thinned and flared, and twin slashes of pink stained her cheeks. “I grant you a boon, Lady Nyssa. The stained blankets are all the proof we will require of the consummation. Should I find that you have not obeyed my instructions, my ladies and I will demand to publicly examine you in the morn. Do I make my meaning clear?”
    Nyssa’s golden complexion grayed, and for a moment,