Richard laughed as Skårde disappeared into the dense woods, then turned toward Ylva. “I leave you in very capable hands,dóttir.Gyda raised the son of our Danish king.” Richard bowed his head reverently to Skårde’s grandmother and kissed her wrinkled hand. “And Úlvhild has foreseen a prosperous future for you as Countess of thePays de Caux.” He ducked his chin in deference to the Vikingvölva. With a hearty smile, the fearless Duke of Normandy led Gunnor and King Harald Bluetooth into the crowd where the summer solstice celebration of Sankthansaftenand the sumptuous royal wedding feast continued in wild, festive abandon.
Alone at the royal table with Gyda and Úlvhild, Ylva gratefully accepted Dagny’s offer to refill her goblet of mead, while the thralls Eydis and Norhild cleared away silver platters piled high with empty seafood shells.
Úlvhild arose from the table. “I’ll circulate among the wedding guests and cast my runes to predict futures. With a hundred couples who married tonight, I’ll be busy all evening.” She bowed her gem-studded head to Ylva. “Congratulations on your royal wedding. And the Viking alliance between Harald Bluetooth of Denmark and Richard the Fearless of Normandy. My blessings for a most fertile marriage.” Thevölvagrasped her iron staff with the glowing moonstone gem and sauntered off to mingle with other jubilant guests.
“It’s wonderful that you and your mother raised sheep in Saint-Suliac.” Gyda smiled as Dagny refilled her chalice and left to attend the wedding celebrants at other tables. “You already know how to shear fleece, clean and prepare wool.” Kindness shone in her empathetic gaze. “I’ll teach you how to spin yarn and weave on my whalebone loom.” She squeezed Ylva’s hand encouragingly. “We have the finest silks, brocades, and gemstones from Skårde’s trading expeditions to Constantinople. I’l show you how to embroider his formal tunics with silken thread. How to embellish his regal cloaks with the finest furs. And you, dear Ylva, will wear elegant gowns and govern thiscastle. As Countess of thePays de Caux.”
Gyda reached into the velvet pouch belted at her waist and placed a parcel wrapped in golden silk on the table in front of Ylva. “This is my wedding gift to you.”
Surprised and delighted at the unexpected present, Ylva carefully unfolded the glistening fabric to reveal a crescent-shaped amulet of elaborately decorated silver. Engraved with an intricate pattern of Nordic runes and a trio of glowing moonstone gems, the intriguing talisman was suspended from a braided black leather cord.
“This is a lunula—shaped like the moon, which marks a woman’s monthly cycles. It’s carved with runes and imbued with moonstones, which represent Freyja, the Nordic Goddess of Fertility.” Gyda’s wise eyes glinted in the glowing firelight. “Hang this lunula over the headpost of your marriage bed, for Freyja to bless your fertile womb.” Wrinkled lips kissed Ylva’s forehead as Gyda whispered softly. “So that you may conceive Skårde’s son. The heir to thePays de Caux.”
As Ylva tucked the lunula into the bodice of her gown, she shivered with a contradictory blend of revulsion and anticipation at the thought of sharing Skårde’s bed.
His eyes wash me in waves of desire. His touch sends a current coursing through me. I glimpsed a vision of him in the pool of the waterfall cave. And yet, he’s a Viking conqueror. Like my father and grandfather. Even my ancestor Rollo. All of them took Celtic women—my mother and both of my grandmothers—as captive concubines. But, unlike them, I am married to the son of a king. In a Viking wedding ceremony that is both pagan and Christian. Am I doomed to be abandoned, like they were? Or destined to bear the heir of the Pays de Caux?
A sudden commotion caught her attention. Ylva looked up just as her flustered husband—flocked by a dozen bawdy Viking warriors and accompanied by King Harald, Richard, and Gunnor—returned in high spirits to the wedding table.
“It’s time for the bride and groom to leap over the flames.” Richard indicated the roaring bonfire where an expectant crowd had gathered. He gestured to Skårde’s raucous companions. “Thesewitnesses will escort you to the bridal bed. And ensure that the marriage is consummated.”
Ylva’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened with horror.His warriors will watch us? No—I cannot bear it!
Skårde took hold of her sweaty palm. “Come, wife. Hold my hand as we jump over the wedding fire together. Another Viking tradition.”
On wobbly legs, clutching her husband’s strong, calloused grip, Ylva tucked the hem of her turquoise silk wedding gown in her other hand. And—heart hammering furiously against her ribs—leapt with him over the flickering flames.
Amid ribald jokes and lusty grins, Skårde’s men ushered the newlyweds and eager witnesses into the castle, up the stone stairs, and down the dimly lit corridor, stopping before the open entrance to Ylva’s private room.
Inside the welcoming chamber, banked embers glowed in the stone hearth. Two goblets and a pitcher of mead stood on the bedside table.
As moonlight shone through the open window, and the alluring scent of roses wafted in the sultry summer breeze, Ylva watched in abject terror as Eydis and Norhild turned down the coverlet on the marriage bed.
And, whispering and giggling, disappeared out the door.
Skårde led her into the room, poured mead into the two goblets, and handed one to Ylva. He raised his chalice and grinned. “To us, my Breton bride. May the Nordic and Celtic gods alike bless our Viking marriage.”
Ylva forced a swallow of mead down her parched, constricted throat. Just as she thought she would collapse from fright, Skårde addressed his rowdy band of bawdy men.
“I assure you that my royal marriage will be consummated. But, out of respect for my timid wife, I prefer to do so in private. You are hereby dismissed.Takk. Góða nótt. Thank you and good night.”
Muttering and grumbling curses, theViking warriors shuffled out of the room.
Skårde closed and bolted the door behind them. He strode across the room to Ylva, removed the goblet of mead from her tenuous grasp, and set it down upon the table with his own. Her heart leapt to her throat as he turned to face her, taking hold of her shaking hands. His fierce, intense gaze bore into hers. “I know you’re terrified of me. My disfigured face… scars… tattoos. My tremendous size alone intimidates even the most seasoned warrior.” He brushed a lock of hair from her face, the gentle tone of his voice surprisingly soothing. “The Vikings invaded your Breton village. Slaughtered your people. Captured thralls and concubines, like your mother.” He raised her slender fingers to his blond whiskered lips. “But I am not like those men. My mother—like yours—was the captured concubine of my Viking conqueror father.”
Skårde lifted her chin with a curved, calloused finger, his deep blue eyes locked with hers. “I promise you, my beautiful Breton bride. I will not come to your bed unless you ask me.” He bent down and softly brushed his lips against hers. “This wedding was forced upon us both. Neither of us wished to marry. We have now obeyed our royal fathers and formed their political alliance. But if ours is to remain a marriage in name only, then only you and I need know the truth.”
He handed her a goblet of mead and drained his own in one long gulp. “I’ll wake you when the sun comes up—before the servants arrive and see that we slept apart.” He set his empty chalice down upon the small table beside the bed and smiled softly. “There is one final Viking wedding tradition for tomorrow. When I give you themorgen-gifu. The morning after gift.” Skårde walked across the floor, hovering at the doorway to the antechamber where Gyda and Dagny had bathed Ylva for the wedding earlier that afternoon. “My room is on the other side of this vestibule. We’ll leave the connecting doors open. If you should ever need me—or want me—just call my name.” His eyes blazed in the candlelight. Another ripple surged up Ylva’s spine. “Goodnight, my Viking Wolf.” He smiled sadly and disappeared through the darkened door.
He called me his Viking Wolf. Of course he knows the Old Norse meaning of the name Ylva. He’s a Viking. Like my Nordic father who named me.
Profoundly relieved yet unexpectedly disappointed, Ylva plopped down on the edge of her bed and stared out the open window. Far below the towering cliff where the stone castle was perched, the raging river roared into the Narrow Sea under the silvery light of the crescent moon. The clean, salty tang of the brackish estuary and the ocean waves crashing against the white chalk cliffs wafted into the lonely room. Ylva removed the lunula from the bodice of her wedding gown, rising from the bed to shut it inside a drawer of the nearby wooden table. She scoffed at the irony.I don’t need an amulet of fertility. I’m a virgin Viking bride.
She slipped off her turquoise wedding dress, folding it carefully and placing it upon the walnut table where the lunula lay hidden. Unbraiding her long blonde hair, she removed the wedding crown, saddened at the sight of the wilted wildflowers. She set the beautiful bridal headpiece on the table beside the silken gown.
Ylva climbed into bed and gazed at the luminous moon. Her savage husband had not ravished her, for which she was truly grateful. Yet, despite the comfort of that consolation, solitude and sorrow ebbed in her empty soul.
Chapter 11
