Her breath hitched at the startling sight of the striking woman seated beside Gunnor.
Deep blue woad painted her oval, angular face. Jagged black streaks lined her chin, extending from a thin, grim mouth down her long neck. Glistening jewels were braided into her wiry black hair, and a wide silver band inscribed with Nordic runes encircled her painted blue throat. Attached at her shoulders by an ornate brooch with a dazzling blue stone, the woman’s black silk cloak was strewn with feathers, beads, trinkets, and charms. Pulsating power emanated from the witch, engulfing Ylva in her otherworldly aura.
Richard noticed Ylva’s fixated fascination and introduced the cryptic sorceress. “Dóttir, I’d like you to meet Úlvhild, ourvölva—a Viking seeresswith the extraordinary gift ofseiðrmagic. She has come from Fécamp to bless your royal marriage. We’re honored to have her join us.”
Ylva’s mouth went dry and her voice faltered under thevölva’s disquieting stare. “I am pleased to meet you. Thank you for coming to my wedding.”
Úlvhild assessed her with more than mere human eyes. “It’s a privilege to finally meet thedóttirofJarl Rikard,”she crooned, referring to Ylva’s father withhis Viking title in Old Norse. “A Celtic Druid priestess with the gift ofsight…through waters of the sacred springs.”Thevölvapurred like a contented cat and flashed an elusive, enigmatic grin. “After thegoðiperforms the blood ritual of blessing, I’ll cast my runes to foresee your future.”
While Ylva stood in stunned silence, entranced by the enchanting witch, Skårde placed his hand on the small of her back to redirect her attention. He announced with a throaty chuckle, “Losers serve the mead.”
His deep voice and gentle touch brought her focus back to the royal table.
Between King Harald and Richard were the two wooden chairs—adorned with ribbons of silver silk—reserved for Skårde and Ylva as the bridal couple. In the middle of the large oak table sat a pewter pitcher, etched with ornate decorations and Nordic runes.
Skårde smirked as he picked up the ewer, poured goblets of honeyed wine, and served them to Harald, Gyda, Richard, Gunnor, and Úlvhild. He handed the pitcher to Ylva, gesturing to the large silver chalice placed on the table between the two chairs reserved for them. “You pour the mead for us to share. We must drink from the same cup. Another Viking wedding tradition.” His disarming smile sent another shiver down her spine.
When he passed her the pitcher of mead, Skårde’s fingers brushed hers. A sudden jolt—like a surge of lightning—rippled up her arms and flowed into her veins. Waves washed over her, flooding her with sparking energy and sizzling strength. Shaken and disoriented. she accepted the pewter vessel with unsteady arms and poured the goblet of mead. Golden wine sloshed onto the table, soaking the surface of the smooth, polished oak.
Deep laughter rumbled from Richard. “It appears my Ylva is a nervous bride.” He patted the chair beside him. “Come,dóttir.Sit down. We don’t want to waste the mead.”
Skårde chuckled, seated her next to Richard, and took his place at her other side.
As she and Skårde followed Viking tradition and sipped from the same goblet, Ylva stared at her husband’s bearded lips and shared his warm breath. His alluring scent—a sensuous blend of rich leather,fresh sweat, and pungent herbs—was as stimulating and unsettling as his compelling presence.
Her legs trembled under the table.Why does he have this effect on me? I’ve never felt this way before. Is it fear? Or fate?
Harald raised a royal hand and summoned a pagan priest, clad in tooled leather and assorted pelts of fur, whose heavily bearded face and sinewy arms were covered in dark tattoos. Thegoðiapproached, carrying a wooden twig and an elkhorn filled with red liquid. He stopped in front of the bride and groom, lowering his head in reverence to the royal wedding guests.
Bluetooth rose majestically from his informal throne, immediately silencing the convivial crowd. A heavy hush settled across the clearing, the rush of the river the only sound.
“To culminate this royal ceremony and bless the Viking marriage between Ylva and Skårde, agoðiwill perform the blood ritual.” The king gestured to the shaman, whose haunting voice hallowed the gloaming glen.
“With this sacrificial blood, we honor and thank the gods Odin, Thor, and Freyja.” He dipped the slender twig into the elkhorn and solemnly anointed Skårde’s and Ylva’s foreheads with painted droplets of the dark red liquid.Tattooed arms raised toward the evening sky—where the last rays of the setting sun streaked the twilight with soft shades of violet, pink, and mauve—thegoðiconcluded his pagan evocation.“And seek their divine blessings of fertility and prosperity for the bride and groom on this summer solstice wedding day.”
His blood ritual complete, the fur-clad priest bowed before the Danish king, the Norman Duke, the Vikingvölva, and the royal couple. Clutching the elkhorn in his wrinkled hands, the white-hairedgoðistrode across the clearing and poured the remainder of the blood sacrifice onto the ground before the roaring bonfire encased in a protective wall of large, smooth stones. He tossed the fir twig into the flames and joined a raucous group of revelers seated at a distant table.
While Ylva surreptitiously wiped the sacrificial blood off her face with a linen cloth from the table, Harald raised his chalice high, prompting the jubilantguests to follow his lead. “To my son Skårde and his beautiful bride Ylva. May the gods bless your marriage and grant you many heirs. And may you reign in a realm of peace and prosperity in the Land of the White Chalk Cliffs.”
Amid riotous cheers of “Skál!” and thunderous applause, everyone drank to honor the newly wedded couple.
Skårde the Scourge and Ylva Rikardsdóttir.
Count and Countess of thePays de Caux.
Chapter 10
Royal Wedding Feast
While the wedding guests toasted the royal couple, Ylva’s ducal father rose from his seat and introduced the enigmatic blue-faced witch with a regal sweep of his arm. “The Vikingvölvawill now cast the runes to foresee the future of the newly wedded royal couple.”
Úlvhild rose ceremoniously from the table of honor.The glittering gems in her midnight cloaktwinkled like stars in the moonlight. She pushed the embellished garment back from her shoulders, untied a blue linen cloth wrapped around her waist, and draped it across the table before her. Retrieving the black leather pouch strapped on her belt, thevölvastroked the smooth, sleek lambskin with long, skeletal fingers. Her evocative voice was lulling and lush. “The three Norns—Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld—determine our fate,” she murmured, fixing Ylva with a penetrating stare. “I shall chant avardlokkur—an incantation to summon the spirits. Throughseiðrmagic of divination, I shall call upon them to reveal your destiny as I cast three Nordic runes. One for each of the three Norns.”
While Skårde squeezed her hand under the table, Ylva’s heart raced as Úlvhild reached for the long iron staff which leaned against the back of thevölva’schair. At the tip of the metallic wand, a luminous oval moonstone was encased within intricately carved bronze filigree inlaid with shimmery silver.
Her voice ethereal and haunting, Úlvhild began a melodic chant, thumping her staffrhythmically like a drum. Eyes closed, painted face uplifted toward the starlit evening sky, the Viking seeress swayed with the rhythm of thevardlokkur. Clutching the black leather pouch close to her heart, she shook the runes, reached into the bag, and—eyes still closed and face uplifted—withdrew three small oval runestones, which she placed one by one upon the linen cloth.
Each oval was made of smoothly polished white bone, inscribed with a dark Nordic rune. Ylva shuddered at the realization that they were most likely etched in blood.
