Viking Wedding
Along the clifftop edge of the Arques River which emptied into the Narrow Sea, where dappled sunlight shimmered on the fast-flowing water and filtered through the leafy canopy of beech trees, dozens of elegantly dressed royal wedding guests were gathered in a wide clearing on the forested grounds of the imposing stone fortress ofChâteaufort.
As Richard escorted Ylva from the castle onto the grassy meadow strewn with wildflowers in full bloom, she spotted the hulking bulk of her betrothed standing beside his royal father. Skårde watched her glide across the glade on her father’s arm, an implacable scowl etched upon his fierce, feral face.
The setting sun gilded his golden hair and braided blond beard. Glittering silver torques encircled his oxlike neck and massive arms. Bedecked in deep blue velvet and white ermine fur, he resembled a mythical Nordic god from Viking legends and lore.
Ylva’s stomach dropped at the terrifying thought of him claiming her untouched body in the marriage bed. A violent shudder shivered down her spine.
Dear Divona, please give me the strength to endure.
In the distance, along the grassy riverbank, Ylva glimpsed crowds assembled around Christian priests attired in long black robes.
Her father had explained that, for the past six weeks since the arrival of Harald Bluetooth and his Danish army, each Friday—Frigg’s Day—he hadorganized mass weddings for hundreds of Nordic warriors and Norman brides. And today, to emulate the royal wedding between the Viking son of the Danish king and the Celtic daughter of the Norman Duke, one hundred couples would marry, like Skårde and Ylva themselves, in a traditional Viking ceremony officiated by the Christian Church. Since today was also Sankthansaften—the pagan celebration for the summer solstice and the Christian observance of the Eve of Saint John—the combined festivities would be opulent and extravagant indeed.
When she and Richard reached the gathering where King Harald Bluetooth and his royal Danish guards flanked the towering Viking brute who would soon become her husband, Ylva swallowed an enormous lump of dread as her father handed her over to Skårde. “I give you mydóttirYlva to take as your wedded wife. May Freyja bless her fertile womb, that she may bear you many healthy sons.”
Skårde took hold of her hand and bowed his head to Richard. “I am honored to accept your daughter as my Breton bride.” He pulled her close, his touch sending a current sizzling up her arm as he pierced her with his penetrating stare.
In the depths of his turbulent gaze, dark and violent as the stormy sea, swirling waves engulfed her, as if filling every empty recess of her parched soul with Divona’s healing waters.
Laguz. The Nordic rune for my element of water. It flows in Skårde’s deep blue eyes. And, like the vision in the sea cave of the thunderbolt I saw blazed across his chest, his sizzling current ripples through my veins. How can he have this effect on me? I’m inexplicably drawn to him. A magnetic pull I cannot escape. Yet, he is a Viking brute. Like the Norse raiders who pillaged my Breton village and the Viking father who captured, conquered, and claimed my Celtic mother. The loathsome enemy I now despise.
Skårde released her hand and unsheathed the magnificent sword from the jeweled leather scabbard belted at his waist.
Upon the intricately carved silver hilt inlaid with burnished gold, an enormous faceted sapphire of deepest blue glinted in the golden sun. Laying the magnificent blade flat across his outturned palms, he presented the weapon to Ylva. “I offer you this heirloom sword. A priceless blade from the Carolingian dynasty of Frankishkings. Accept this gift as my Viking bride, Ylva Rikardsdóttir. And keep it safe for our future son.” He placed the gleaming sword into Ylva’s outstretched hands and indicated the silver ring attached to the hilt with a ribbon of golden silk. “This is the wedding ring I present to you.”
The Archbishop of Rouen—clad in white satin robes, a silk maniple embroidered with gold draped over his left arm—officiated the royal ceremony. His resonant voice resounded in the clearing as he solemnly addressed Ylva. “Remove the silver band from the sword. Place the ring on your finger and recite your wedding vows.”
Ylva accepted the sword from Skårde, untied the ring from the hilt, and reverently handed the Frankish blade to Norhild, one of the two attendants serving at her side. As she gazed up at the fearsome brute who was her betrothed, Ylva placed the silver band on the third finger of her right hand, in accordance with Viking tradition. “With this ring, I bind myself to you as your wedded wife.”
Ylva’s father unsheathed the Viking sword strapped in the studded scabbard at his own waist and handed her the heirloom blade.
“Please accept this gifted sword, which once belonged to my father.” Ylva presented the weapon to Skårde and waited while he untied the wedding ring attached to the hilt and sheathed the sword.
He placed the ring on the third finger of his left hand, as was customary for the Viking groom. When he declared his vows, his deep voice reverberated into her very bones. “With this ring, I bind myself to you as your wedded husband.” Skårde traced a calloused fingertip along the intricate pattern of symbols carved into each of the silver rings they now wore. “These wedding bands are inscribed with our Nordic runes.Ingwazfor me andLaguzfor you. May the Viking gods and the elements of Nature protect and bless our marriage.”
The archbishop ceremoniously joined Skårde’s and Ylva’s hands, wrapping the white silk maniple over their clasped fingers. Elevating his right hand over their bowed heads, he blessed the couple with a murmured benediction in Latin. He then announced to the jubilant crowd, “I hereby proclaim that Skårde Haraldsson and Ylva Rikardsdóttir are duly wedded husband and wife. In this official ceremony,sanctioned by the Christian Church.”
Amid the roar of the wildly cheering crowd, Ylva trembled, transfixed by her towering husband’s compelling presence.I’m both terrified and tantalized. I see Divona’s sacred springs in Skårde’s deep blue eyes and feel Thor’s thunder in his sizzling touch. A Celtic goddess and a Nordic god, embodied in Skårde and me. Drawing the two of us together, as if we were destined for each other. Never have I felt this way before.
Richard shouted to her above the deafening din. “Time for thebruðhlau—the bride’s race. To the tables, as fast as you can!” Red velvet robe fluttering in the briny summer breeze, her ducal father dashed across the heathered meadow like a joyous, carefree adolescent.
“Come, wife. Let’s celebrate our summer solstice wedding.With a feast fit for the gods.” Skårde grabbed Ylva’s hand and ran with her, from the forest clearing on the grassy, flower-strewn riverbank, to the castle grounds where dozens of long tables were laden with appetizing platters of aromatic food. As thralls served roast boar, venison, swan, and fresh fish, Skårde grinned at her and said, “We lost the race. So we serve the mead.”
He led Ylva toward the royal table where King Harald, resplendent in a cloak of blue brocade, embroidered with silver and embellished with sparkling gems, sat beside a smiling Gyda, shimmering in soft rose silk.
“Congratulations on your wedding,” the jovial king boomed, rising to greet the newly married couple. He kissed Ylva’s hand and grinned, revealing the blue tooth for which he was named. “I am most pleased to welcome Skårde’s beautiful Breton bride as mydóttir.”When a thrall approached, summoned by Skårde to bring a pitcher of mead, Harald retook his seat upon the informal throne at Gyda’s side.
Richard, clad in luxurious red velvet and glittering gold, whispered to a stunning young woman with long dark hair seated on his left. He stood to make the formal introductions. “May I present my daughter Ylva and her husband Skårde.” Lovelight danced in his eyes as he smiled at the alluring brunette. “And this is Gunnor. Mymore danico.”
While Skårde bowed gallantly at her side, Ylva lowered her head to courteously acknowledge Richard’s new Viking wife.
A wave of bitter irony surged through her as the pain of Richard’s abandonment resurfaced.Unlike hermaman,who had suffered in solitude, her Viking father had found love and happiness once again. And from the look in her eyes, Gunnor was as smitten with him as he was with her. Perhaps she would bear him the male heir he so desperately desired.
“I’m delighted to meet you both. Congratulations on your royal wedding.” Gunnor’s lilting voice was as lovely as her looks.
Ylva suppressed her rancor and resentment. Gunnor was not to blame for Richard’s reprehensible past. And, as the future Duchess of Normandy, it would be essential to have her as an ally. “Thank you very much.” Ylva forced a polite smile and respectfully bowed her head.
