The Waterfall Cave
Skårde awoke early, just as the first rays of the rising sun reflected off the Narrow Sea through the open window of his east-facing chamber. The slightly salty breeze of the brackish estuary reminded him of the Danish port ofHeiðabýr.Home.The vital Viking trade center on the freshwater fjord connecting both the Baltic and North Seas. Where he had been Jarl and warlord—the Dragon of Denmark—commander of the entire Danish army.
And yet now, here he was, hundreds of miles away, in the distant Land of the White Chalk Cliffs. The newly appointed Count of thePays de Caux. Married to the daughter of Richard the Fearless, the Viking Duke of Normandy.
An unwanted marriage in name only, forced upon them by their royal fathers for a powerful political alliance.
He sighed and stretched out his long limbs before rising from the down mattress, a luxury provided for him aschâtelainof the castle and the new Norman Count. Much more comfortable than sleeping on wooden benches in the longhouse atHeiðabýr,he had to admit. And there were other advantages here as well. The green pastures of Normandy meant fat cattle—providing strong oxen to pull plows and till fertile fields. Cows which produced abundant milk for rich cream, butter, and cheese. With the mild climate of thePays de Caux, the livestock could graze year-round—rather than be slaughtered each fall, like the annual preparation for thebrutal winters of Norway and Denmark.
Crops flourished here. Apple, pear, and cherry trees offered abundant fruit, and the dense forests provided plenty of lumber for construction of lodging, merchant shops, and ships. Five new Viking settlements were now established in the plentifulPays de Caux. Indeed, in the six weeks since their arrival, the restless Danish army who had been eager for fecund farmlands and fertile wives were happy to have found both in the white chalk cliffs of Normandy.
The servants will soon come to dress Ylva. They’ll bring a platter of food for us to break our fast and change the linens on the bed—examining the sheets to be sure the marriage was consummated. I must wake her before they arrive.
Skårde arose naked, pulled on his woolen trousers and leather belt, and donned a lightweight linen tunic since he would be working hard in the hot summer sun. He crossed the room and fetched themorgen-gifu.The morning-after gift he had made for his Breton bride.
I hope she likes it. And I know she’ll love my surprise.
He crossed the antechamber which connected their two bedrooms to find that Ylva was already awake and dressed in a dark blue linen dress. He spotted her turquoise silk wedding gown folded on top of a table along the wall. At the sound of his approach, she turned and smiled.
“Good morning. Did you sleep well?” He entered the room and walked up beside the chair where she sat, detangling her long blonde hair with an antler comb.
“Not really. How about you?” She set the comb down upon her small table and looked up at him. Her bright blue eyes sparkled in the morning sun.
“Quite well, actually. The feather beds here are much more comfortable than the hard wooden benches of my Viking longhouse in Denmark.” He grinned and offered her the present which he had brought from his room. “I made this for yourmorgen-gifu,”he said, handing her his gift. “As a lad in Norway, I fostered with a craftsman who taught me woodcarving skills.” He indicated the wooden sculpture now cradled in Ylva’s hands. Astonishment and admiration shone in her incredulous gaze as her eyes darted between the lifelike statue of Divona and Skårde’s proud face. “When I learned that youhad to abandon your shrine in Saint-Suliac, I thought you might like a statue of the Celtic Goddess that you worship. To replace the one you were forced to leave behind. I carved it from yew wood and polished it with pine oil so it gleams.”
Her mouth agape, Ylva’s quavering voice was laced with gratitude and awe. “It’sbeautiful.” She ran long, delicate fingers lovingly over the smoothly polished wood. When she looked up at him, tears brimmed in her eyes. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I’ll treasure it always.”
“There’s something else I want to show you, which accompanies your gift. But first, since the servants will soon arrive, I need to provide something that they’ll expect to see.” Removing his knife from the sheath on his belt, Skårde pricked the tip of his thumb and smeared a smudge of blood on the soft linen sheets. “Now, their gossip will confirm that we consummated the marriage.” With a smirk, he wiped off the knife and resheathed the blade.
A knock at the door announced the arrival of the expected servants. Skårde unbolted the heavy wooden door, opening it so that they could enter.
“Bonjour, Monsieur et Madame. We’ve brought a lovely platter of porridge, fish, bread, and cheese to break your fast. With sliced strawberries and cream, a slab of fresh butter, sweet honey—and a pitcher of ale.” While one female servant removed Ylva’s wedding gown from the side table, carefully storing it in the large, ornately carved wooden chest at the foot of the bed, another young attendant brought in the platter of food and set it down upon the bare surface. “Shall I braid your hair, my lady?” she asked with a bowed, humble head.
“Non, merci. I prefer to wear it loose today. Thank you for the lovely breakfast.” Ylva smiled as the two servants curtseyed and discreetly disappeared through the heavy door.
Ylva set the two-foot tall statue of Divona down on the table beside the platter. “I can’t believe how lifelike she looks. To think that you created such a realistic sculpture from a simple piece of wood.” She handed him abowl of porridge, her eyes twinkling with mirth as he heaped strawberries, cream, and honey on top, then dug in with a pewter spoon. “You have great talent. I’m truly impressed.”
He swallowed the porridge, washing it down with ale. “There’s more, after we finish eating. The other half of your gift.” He grinned at her raised eyebrow and the eager expression on her exuberant face.She’s beautiful, my Breton bride. I’m pleased she loves my gift, and I can’t wait to show her the rest.
When they had finished eating, Skårde returned to his room to strap on his replacement sword. Since he’d been forced to surrender the prized Frankish blade he’d won in battle—the Carolingian sword which had marked him with Thor’s thunder, as Harald had said—to Ylva during the wedding ceremony, he had chosen a blade from the castle armory. Not nearly as magnificent as the weapon he’d offered his bride during the wedding ritual, but it would suffice. At least until he seized a new one in his next Viking raid.
Skårde scoffed at the irony of surrendering his Frankish blade to Ylva during the ritual exchange of swords. According to the age-old Viking wedding tradition, she would keep it safe for their future son.Yet—as long as our marriage remains in name only, I will not bed my Breton bride. And Ylva will never bear me an heir.
Although it rankled him to have sacrificed his hard-won Frankish sword, Skårde was satisfied with the adequate replacement and looked forward to giving Ylva the rest of her morning-after gift.
As he tucked a few turquoise gems and silver coins inscribed with Nordic runes into the leather pouch belted at his waist, Skårde reflected how odd it was thatChâteaufortand the entire alabaster coast of thePays de Cauxwere Ylva’s ancestral lands, yet she knew nothing of them and had never seen them before arriving for the royal wedding. He, a foreigner from Denmark, was more familiar with her heritage than she was, for he had spent the last several weeks exploring his new territory as Count, deciding where to build strategic defense towers, fire beacons, and lookout posts among the white chalk cliffs. It was during this exploration that he had found it. The second half of themorgen-gifufor his beguiling Breton bride.
“Are you ready?” Skårde strode back into Ylva’s chamber, his pulse racing at how much she would love this part of his bridal gift.
She nodded, setting the antler comb down upon the table and rising from her chair.
“We’ll bring the statue,” he announced, lifting the wooden sculpture. When Ylva curiously searched his face, he grinned and answered her unspoken question. “You’ll soon see why.” He opened the door and offered her a bent elbow.
With a grin of impish delight, she hooked her arm through his and allowed him to escort her out the door.
****
“Be careful not to trip on your dress. The incline is steep.” Clutching the wooden statue under his left arm, Skårde held Ylva’s hand with his right as he guided her down the grassy path which led from the plateau at the top of the cliff to the rocky, pebbled beach a hundred feet below.
