“The first rune represents Urd, the Norn who reveals the past.” Úlvhild pointed to the stone on her left. “Othala, the rune of heritage. A gift passed down from your ancestors. Your dowry—the White Chalk Cliffs of thePays de Caux.And this castle,Châteaufort,which once belonged to your great-grandfather, the Viking chieftain Rollo.”
Thevölvaindicated the second smooth oval in the middle. “Verdandi, the Norn of the present, reveals theLaguzrune for the element of water. The curative essence of sacred springs, whose power you wield as a Druid priestess and Celtic healer.Laguzalso symbolizes intuition, insight, and illumination. Your innate gift ofsightto perceive otherworldly visions through reflections upon water.”
Úlvhild’s bony fingertips delicately traced the third rune. “For Skuld. the Norn who weaves the fate of the future, your rune isBerkana. Symbol of fertility, birth, and renewal—often after suffering, loss, and death. Like the birch tree whose leaves fall in winter but are renewed with life in the spring, you will nurture, heal, and grow as you learn to love.” Amber eyes aglow like a feral black cat, Úlvhild beheld Ylva for several moments before turning to Skårde. “And now, I shall cast the runes for the Dragon of Denmark.”
Drumming her staff on the grassy castle ground, Úlvhild resumed hervardlokkurchant while the wedding guests watched in awe. The Viking seeress shook the black lambskin pouch, and—eyes shut and face upturned toward the waxing moon—withdrew three runes which she placed on the linen cloth beneath the previous trio.
Thevölvaleaned the staff against her chair and bent to examine the runes. “Tiwaz, for battle and war. The Norn Urd reveals that your past as a warrior was bathed in blood, victory, and honor.”She indicated the oval in the middle. “Verdandi’s rune for the present isDagaz, the dawn of new beginnings. Hope, enlightenment, transformation, and truth.” Úlvhild grinned at Skårde as she interpreted the final rune. “Ingwaz. Symbol of the god Freyr. Virility, fertility, and abundance. Skuld has revealed a most flourishing future for the Count of thePays de Caux.”
“May the gods Freyr and Freyja bless you with fertility as a royal couple. And the Land of the White Chalk Cliffs with abundance for our upcoming fall harvest.” Richard the Fearless raised his goblet to hearty cheers of “Skál!”
Úlvhild retrieved her runes, tucking them into the black leather pouch and securing it in her belt. She wrapped the blue linen cloth around her waist and sat down at the table to enjoy the honeyed mead and sumptuous wedding fare.
Senses reeling, Ylva was overwhelmed by sights, sounds, and smells. Her head spun from Viking rituals, runes, and revelations.
“This isdelicious.” Skårde’s deep voice brought her back to the present. He pried open an oyster with his knife and slipped it between his blond bearded lips. “Mmm,” he murmured.
A tingling chill rippled through her sensitized body. Ylva forced her attention away from her husband’s alluring tongue and onto the platter of crustaceans which she also adored.
“Taste this.” Skårde scooped a steamed scallop from its shell, dipped the mollusk in melted butter, and slipped the morsel into Ylva’s open mouth.
The contrast of mild, sweet meat and tangy, salty butter danced on her appreciative tongue.
She hummed in approval. “I lovecoquilles.My mother Lova and I would often dig clams and harvest mussels. And steam them with seaweed and scallops.”
Skårde swallowed another oyster. “My grandmother told me that the two of you lived in a cottage on an oceanfront cliff, where you discovered a sea cave. And built a shrine to worship Divona. The Celtic goddess of Sacred Springs.” He cracked open a lobster shell and offered her aluscious bite of the sweet, buttered meat.
“That’s right,” she said, savoring the delicious flavor and swallowing a sip of honeyed mead. “Mamanand I used to dig clams on the mudflats near the cottage. One day—after my mother had died—I found a hidden sea cave with a waterfall inside. A freshwater spring flowed from Mont Garrot—where the Celtic Druids of my village used to worship in a temple—down into the grotto where I built the shrine.” Ylva lowered her eyes, unable to meet his intense blue gaze at the bitter reminder that his people—the Vikings—had slaughtered the Druids and enslaved her Celtic village. She pensively traced a delicate fingertip along the rim of the shared goblet of mead and deliberately held her tongue. “I had to abandon it when my father came to Saint-Suliac to reclaim me. To bring me here to marry you.” She glanced at the elated throng around them, absently watching as wedding guests imbibed mugs of mead, feasted at festive tables, and danced around the roaring bonfire to lively fiddles and flutes. “I hate to think of my sacred shrine neglected in that secret cave.”
“Perhaps you’ll find another one, here in thePays de Caux. There are many caves and underground springs among the white chalk cliffs.” He chuckled gruffly. “In fact, there’s a deep freshwater pool on the other side of the forest. Right here on the castle grounds. That’s where the thralls dunked me today—during my ritual wedding bath as the Viking groom.”
Ylva smiled softly at Skårde, surprised and pleased at his interest and attention.Perhaps he is not the monstrous beast I expected.“I hope you’re right. I would love to create a new shrine.”
Harald’s voice interrupted their conversation as he addressed Skårde. “While the wedding feasts continue this week, my men and I shall remain here in Normandy. We’ll help you and Richard construct longhouses, lodging, and merchant shops for your new Viking settlements along the coast of thePays de Caux.However, I must return toHeiðabýrnext week.I need to recruit warriors to refurbish my Viking army and build dozens ofdrakkarwarships to replace the fleet I bequeathed to you.”
“We are most grateful for the generous gift, Faðir.”Skårde drained the rest of his mead and set the goblet down, suddenly introspective and withdrawn. His brow furrowed into a scowl ofconcern. “I only hope you have not compromised the defense of Denmark with such a magnanimous gesture.”
Harald downed a hearty gulp of mead and scoffed. “You recently repelled the Frankish forces in the glorious victory at Dorestad.” He grinned at Ylva. “Your husband—the valiant Dragon of Denmark—drove the invading enemy all the way back to Frisia. Where he vanquished West Francia’s finest knight—the leader of King Lothaire’s royal army—and seized the Frankish blade which he gave to you in tonight’s wedding ritual, during the exchange of swords.” The Danish king reached across the table, grasped Ylva’s hand, and raised it to his bearded lips. “A priceless heirloom for your future son.”
Ylva shuddered at the thought of bedding her brutal husband and bearing a Viking son.
An animated Richard leaned forward, anxious to join the conversation. “My grandfather Rollo built this fortress fifty years ago, to house a thousand of his Viking warriors.” Nostalgic pride illuminated his gruff, grizzled face as he gestured to the forested cliff overlooking the river, the woodland clearing filled with jubilant guests dancing, and the expansive castle grounds surroundingChâteaufortwhere they now sat at the royal wedding table. He glanced admiringly into the distance, where dozens of newly thatched huts now sheltered many recently married couples. “With all the current construction, we’ve doubled that capacity. With plans to build even more.”
Ylva’s father directed his attention to Skårde. “Once we finish construction here, and fortify the harbor for your new Viking fleet, I suggest we divide the five thousand men who have relocated from Denmark. Send a group to each of the five planned Viking settlements along thePays de Caux.”He glanced at Harald, who nodded in approval, before refocusing on a solemn, contemplative Skårde.
He is sullen and withdrawn. Like me, he is unhappy with this arranged royal marriage and forced relocation to Normandy. Skårde and I are both victims. Political pawns for our fathersto form a powerful Viking alliance.
“The men will chop timber,” Richard continued, “build longhouses, harvest the crops for theHaustblótfall festival, and settle into the new villages with their French Norman wives.” Richard wrapped an arm around the beguiling brunette on his left. “We’ll also fortify my ducal palace in Fécamp. Where Gunnor and I will reside when we visit thePays de Caux.”
An exuberant Harald expressed his enthusiastic support. “With all the new craftsmen and merchants from Denmark, you’ll soon have five thriving villages. Each defended by an army of a thousand Viking warriors and a formidable fleet ofdrakkarships.” He raised his goblet of mead. “To Skårde Haraldsson, the Count of thePays de Caux.The vital link in the Viking alliance between Denmark, Norway, and Normandy. An invaluable asset to us both.”
Everyone drank to honor Skårde, and Richard rose from the table. “Harald, please join us,” he said, gallantly taking hold of Gunnor’s hand and helping her to stand at his side. “I’d like to mingle with our wedding guests. Meet the men who voyaged with you from Denmark and introduce Gunnor as the future Duchess of Normandy.” He grinned at Ylva and Skårde. “I’m sure mydóttirand her new husband are eager to join the revelry and dance around the summer solstice fire.”
As Harald stood, preparing to leave, two breathless warriors—gleaming swords at their waists and glistening sweat on their exhilarated faces—rushed to the table and claimed their leader. “Skårde! We need you. The mock battles have begun!”
Instantly alert and alive, Skårde bolted to his feet and made his excuses to Ylva. “I must go—my men need me.” He darted a glance at Gyda and Úlvhild, sitting on her other side. “But perhaps, while I’m gone, my grandmother and thevölvacan tell you what to expect as the wife of a Danish jarl.” He bent to kiss Ylva’s hand, his eyes feral and fierce. “I’ll be back soon to dance with my Breton bride.” A grin stretched across his scarred, savage face. In a flash, he dashed off with his men.
She watched her warrior husband lope across the glen, like a predator pursuing its prey.How his spirit sings when he’s summonedto fight. No wonder he’s called Skårde the Scourge. The Dragon of Denmark. He was born and bred for battle.
