By Billie Kane

I drink to the woe of sheep and cattle, to the screams of swine and geese. I’ve got blood on my hands, mead on my lips, and my hair piled up in tumbling curls atop my head and stuffed full of flowers to cover the smell. The woman around me clicked their tongues and hummed deep in their throats, a verseless song that echoed throughout the kitchen, as did the smell of boiling meat. Our strong fingers forged the pastry crusts, moulded the pies and flans with artistic flare. We set out the ripened and baked cheeses, grilled and stripped the fish, assorted the sweetmeats, ripped open and cut the freshly baked breads, and then recovered all that there was to drink. Bottles upon bottles of fruit based ales, Bog-Myrtle beer, honey meads and wines decorated the tables. Exhausting as it all was, a feast is what they asked for and a feast they shall receive. After it was all done, everything else prepared and joined the bottles upon the tables, we recovered the boiled meats and set them down by size of animal; cattle first, geese last. Finally, at last, we may rest. Our hands are covered in cuts and burns, our strong fingers weak and shaking, while large clusters of men piled in, roaring laughter and sitting in the hall’s sturdy chairs.

My betrothed and his friends arrived separately after the third cluster, all cheery and loud with good spirit, roughly pushing each other and ruffling each other’s clothes and hair. I stood wearily and though my legs objected to such foul treatment, I dusted off my skirts in preparation to greet him and his company. Though as soon as I did, his eyes met mine from across the merry hall. He grinned, face heated from the newness of our status, graduated from silly lovesick sweethearts to the more meaningful and profound promise between the intended and pranced over to me, his wild and rowdy friends scraping their chairs on the floor, laughing at his antics and leering at me. Their vulgar behavior never failed to surprise me though perhaps chivalry and discipline only applied to warriors during training and on the battlefield. 

When he reached me he slipped an arm around my waist and pulled me close to his side, guiding me towards the table they had sat themselves down at. I smiled at what I hoped to be prettily at him, though I fear it may have betrayed my exhaustion, and requested he tell me about his training, which he was always willing to gloat about. I supposed I could have instead spoke to him about the boiled broth that had slipped from the pot and onto Hetti’s wrist, burning and blistering the smooth skin red and white. The flan that had almost collapsed on poor old Welma, but had been saved due to my quick thinking. My bloody raw hands- but to do that would be denying him the right to boast about himself to me and I am not cruel. His grin shifted into a smirk as he told me about a fellow soldier’s humiliation, so easily beaten by him. His friends joyously added in once we got to them, feeding off of the memory. Feeding off of the thought of someone else’s pain and embarrassment. I decided then that Hetti’s mutilated wrist should remain a secret for as long as possible. I could not trust them to be kind. 

When we began to feast, they continued to be smug about their own triumphs and laughed at others’ misfortune and I only listened half-heartedly, nodding and smiling when I felt it needed. I noticed then that my beloved had stopped speaking. I turned to him to find him softly staring at me. He leaned in closer and gently petted the back of my hand with his thumb before he slowly held it to his lips and planted a kiss there. He thanked me for the preparation of the food and drink, telling me how much they all appreciated the hard work put forth by the woman, before turning his attention back to the conversation still being hosted by his friends, oblivious to the small moment between lovers.

Moments that reminded me why I loved him in the first place, and that I was lucky that I did. He had recently bought me from my father with 50 sceattas, my feelings on the matter not a thought my father had entertained. But he had. He had asked me before even approaching my father, of which I was grateful. My brothers had been upset, angry even, but had mellowed after I promised and swore to them that I was not forced, that I loved him, and that if he dishonored me I would turn to them. I looked around for them now. I found one where I knew he would be, surrounded by soldiers and strumming his harp while singing beautifully about one hero or another. I was embarrassed that I hadn’t been paying the melody any attention. The other two I found at a table near the hearth greedily drinking mead and ale as if they had recently been told that they were to be shipped off to battle come morning. They were good soldiers, those two, rugged and sturdy, though I wondered if they sought fame nearly as much as the other men around me, if at all. I wondered if it mattered now that we knew God was the answer, or if we were wrong this time too.

 I looked down at my hands, still raw and if I stretched my hand out- still bloody too. I stared down at them and listened to the ambience of merriment that surrounded me; conversations and feasting, laughing and singing. And drinking. Mostly drinking. Suddenly, I remembered the woman that had worked beside me without rest, that had clicked their tongues and had hummed deep in their throats the hoarse melody of a song with verses that was never sung out loud, that had echoed throughout the kitchen.

 I drink to the woe of sheep and cattle, to the screams of swine and geese. I’ve got blood on my hands, mead on my lips, and a duty to prepare a feast.

 I drink to the woe of gaping fish, to the screams of boiling meat. I’ve got blood on my hands, guts on my dress, and a duty to prepare a feast. 

I drink to the tears of weary women, to the soles of blistering feet. I’ve got blood on my hands, the Devil on my mind, and a duty to prepare a feast. 

A feast is what they ask for and a feast they shall receive. I’ve got blood on my hands, I’ll tell you whose if you ask, and plenty of bottles to drink. 

And plenty of axes to clean.

Billie Kane is a writer from the United States. Her favorite authors are Leigh Bardugo, Kate Atkinson, Philippa Gregory, and Soman Chainani. She enjoys theatre, history, and animation.