Chapter 1
Stigma of Shame
Twigs snapped under the thud of heavy, booted footsteps. The low murmur of gruff male voices reverberated up her spine. Panic surged and her limbs shook as Ylva—crouched among the low-lying branches of the enormous oak—spotted three hulking men from the village.I can’t run away. I ‘m trapped. Can they see me in these trees?
“She’s here. I can smell her. The scent of a bitch in heat.”
“These are her woods. They’re enchanted. Let’s go back.”
“Bah, you’ve got no bollocks. She’s a Viking dog, and I have a big, meaty bone for her.” The man guffawed, then whistled, as if calling for his hound.
“She’s a Celtic witch. We need to get out of here. Before she curses us with an evil spell.”
Pulse pounding, muscles twitching, Ylva held her breath and remained motionless, concealed amidst the dense leaves. When at last the retreating hunters disappeared from view, Ylva grabbed her basket of mushrooms and dashed through the forest, to the shelter of her stone cottage at the edge of the woods.
Inside, she dropped her basket on the oak table, bolted the entrance, and leaned against the front door, heaving with exertion and emotion.
A Viking dog. That’s how they see me. A mongrel mutt they can taunt and abuse. Thank the Goddess they fear me as a witch.Yet—in the months since Maman’s death—they’ve become increasingly bold. Now that I’m alone, I fear one day they’ll appear at my door. Or break in at night…
Still shaking with humiliation and rage, she strode across the rush-strewn earthen floor, exited the back door, and gathered rosemary and sage from the garden behind her cottage. While her trio of hens pecked for insects among the cowslips and bluebells in the grassy meadow, Ylva entered the adjacent hut where she stored and dried her herbs.
Work will ease my jittery nerves and help me dispel my anger.
As she pulverized dried leaves with her mortar and pestle, Ylva deeply inhaled the soothing scent of sage. Here, within the sanctuary of the stone hut where she prepared her herbal remedies, she always found solace, far from the derision and cruelty of the Breton villagers who despised and ridiculed her Nordic heritage. While she ground the herbs from her garden, Ylva reflected upon her narrow escape from the hunters who had tracked her.
Tall and blonde, with blue eyes and long limbs, Ylva not only differed in appearance from the small, dark-haired Celtic people of the oceanside village of Saint-Suliac, but she also embodied the detested Viking invasion which had taken possession of their beloved homeland.
The ruthless Viking JarlRikard Vilhjálmsson,the powerful Duke of Normandy known as Richard the Fearless, had claimed Ylva’s mother—the beautiful Breton priestess Lova—as his concubine.
And Ylva, as the illegitimate daughter of the dreaded Norse ruler, personified the Viking conquest of Northwestern France.
Although her striking beauty caught the eye of many young men in the village, Ylva’s Nordic heritage was an endless source of disgrace. Her father, Richard the Fearless, grandson of the fierce Viking chieftain Rollo, was the regal, ruthless Duke of Normandy.
And Ylva was living proof of his domination of the Celts.
Now twenty—long past the age of a typical Breton bride—Ylva had never had a single suitor. No villager had ever dared courther. No one had ever asked for her hand.
And no one ever would.
Blinking back tears of frustration, Ylva crushed the sage with her pestle, the grinding action a catharsis as she lamented her bleak, solitary future.
It will soon be Beltane. The entire village will flock to the top of Mont Garrot to honor the Earth Goddess Dana with an enormous bonfire, welcoming the rebirth of spring. There will be lively music and jubilant singing. Couples dancing around the purifying flames. Feasting and drinking wine…rejoicing and praying for Dana’s blessing of fertility.
There’ll be handfasting ceremonies. Maidens with fragrant flowers of rowan and hawthorn woven into their long, flowing tresses. Amorous couples leaping over the flickering flames. Disappearing into the woods for private, intimate celebrations.
Hidden amongst the trees of the dense forest near her cottage, Ylva had longingly watched the festival every year, unable to partake in the joy.
She was an outcast. An outsider. Branded with the stigma of shame.
As she blended the crushed sage with lanolin to form a healing herbal salve, Ylva’s throat constricted with loneliness and sorrow.
I’ll never dance around the Beltane fire with a crown of wildflowers in my hair. No man from the village will ever ask for me. I shall never be loved. Or marry.
Like my mother—tainted by my Viking father—no man will ever want me. I’ll live alone, haunted by fear and hunted by hate. A Celtic priestess ruined by Nordic blood.
She exhaled to dispel her useless remorse. There was still much to do before her trek into the village tomorrow. Better to dive into work than wallow in self-pity. She shook her head and focused on her herbs.
When the ointment was sufficiently stirred, Ylva placed it into a small jar, stoppered it with a cork, and set it upon the wooden shelf with the other herbal remedies which she stored in this alcove of the hut. Wiping the mortar and pestle with a soft cloth, she placed themon the countertop, scanning the shelves of tinctures, salves, and elixirs which she would bring into town tomorrow to trade for supplies.
