“Rouen is where your father and I reside when we’re not here in thePays de Caux,” Gunnor continued, oblivious to Ylva’s discomfort and growing desire to escape.
Unused to the constant noise and bustling activity of life in the castle, Ylva longed for the peaceful solitude of her quaint stone cottage in Bretagne. The mudflats where she used to harvest shellfish. The inlet where she always swam every summer. Her flock of sheep… grief choked her at the heinous memory of the Vikings slaughtering her beloved herd. She quickly covered her distress with several swallows of herbal tea.
Not only am I forced into a marriage I did not want, I’m also expected to govern this castle and rule as a Countess. Among the Vikings who conquered my village and enslaved my people!
“We live in a fortress on the Seine River which flows into Paris.” Gunnor took a dainty sip of chamomile tisane from an elegant ceramic cup, part of the set of dishes she had brought—along with countless other household items—to furnish the castle for Ylva. “You and Skårde must come to visit. As a Norman Countess, you’ll enjoy the luxury items available in the exclusive markets of Rouen. Sumptuous silks, exotic spices, exquisite jewelry…everything you could imagine and would ever want!” Unabashed excitement blazed in Gunnor’s bright brown eyes. “Richard and I will expect you to come to Rouen—after the Fall Harvest and the celebration ofHaustblót, of course.” She reached across the table and affectionately squeezed Ylva’s sweaty hand. “If your crop here in Dieppe is asplentiful as anticipated, you’ll be able to sell many of the fruits and vegetables from your abundant gardens. Apples and timber from your orchards and forests. Cheese and dairy products from your plentiful cows. Leather, wool, sheep, cattle. You’ll soon discover why the Vikings from Norway and Denmark are very happy to have settled here in Normandy.”
Ylva stared out the window, where late afternoon sunlight glimmered on the Narrow Sea. Gulls and gannets squawked as they soared over the waves, calling her to join them in carefree abandon and jubilant freedom.I long to go to the waterfall cave…
Úlvhild, with the intuitive insight of a Vikingvölva, seemed to perceive Ylva’s distress as she flashed a knowing smile. Without the blue woad face paint and the elaborate cape strewn with feathers and glittering gems that Úlvhild wore for the wedding feast celebration, thevölvaappeared much less menacing in a red linen gown. But the large amber stone in the amulet around her neck glowed with an otherworldly brilliance, pulsing with a power that thrummed in Ylva’s veins.
“Thank you for the lovely tisane,” Úlvhild said as she rose from the table, graciously inclining her head to Gunnor and Gyda. “But you must excuse us.” Her golden feline eyes glowed in the gilded sunlight. “I need Ylva’s assistance. We’ll join you this evening for tonight’s wedding feast.”
Taking Ylva by the hand, thevölvaled her from the sunny solar, down the stone stairs, across the vast foyer of the castle, and out into the summer sun. The tangy saline breeze was cleansing, comforting, and calming. “I’m bringing you to the hut where I reside whileJarl Rikardand Gunnor are here. When they return to Rouen, I’ll go with them. But there is something I must show you before I leave. For I have foreseen a disturbing vision. And I wish to protect you from harm.”
****
The small wooden hut with thatched roof in the dense forest near the castle was dimly lit by two small open windows. An empty hearth occupied most of the rear wall of the cottage, and fragrant clusters of drying herbs weresuspended from large metal hooks in the pinewood ceiling. The pungent, purifying aroma of rosemary, sage, and comfrey reminded Ylva of the herbal remedies she used to prepare with Lova in their stone cottage on the oceanfront cliff in Bretagne. Overcome with emotion at the bittersweet memories, Ylva was filled with desperate longing for her mother and the simple life she had left behind.
“You were abducted from your home. Forced to abandon everything you loved.” Úlvhild’s velvety voice offered solace and support as she closed the entrance door and slipped to Ylva’s side. “Forced into an unwanted marriage. Wed to the Dragon of Denmark, a ruthless Viking as fearless and savage as your Nordic father.” Thevölvagently stroked Ylva’s long blonde hair, her touch consoling and soothing. “You—a Breton priestess and gifted Celtic healer—now find yourself surrounded by the very Vikings who slaughtered the Druids that you revered. It’s no wonder you’re stricken with grief and loss. And overwhelmed with the endless responsibilities aschâtelaineof the castle and Countess of thePays de Caux.” Úlvhild took Ylva’s hand and led her to a small table near the window which overlooked the Narrow Sea.
The thunderous surf crashed against the craggy white chalk cliffs, the rhythmic pounding reviving the exhilarating sensations of Skårde’s scorching kiss. Ylva longed to go back to the waterfall cave within the sheltered cove and feel Skårde’s searing lips again upon her own.
Úlvhild seated her, pouring Ylva a goblet of mead from a ceramic pitcher. She handed her an elaborate pewter chalice engraved with Nordic runes, then poured a goblet for herself. “Supervising servants and planning meals will soon become second nature for you as chatelaine,” she said, taking a sip of mead and placing the chalice on the table in front of her own empty chair. “Such tasks are easily delegated to others. But your healing skills are a gift from the gods. A gift which I have foreseen will be greatly needed. Although my vision does not reveal when or where it will occur, I have foreseen a bloody battle, with many wounded. That’s why I have brought you here. To enhance your Celtic skills with my Nordicgaldrmagic.”
While Ylva sat in breathless anticipation, Úlvhild retrieved a violet colored small silk bag from a cupboard along the oak wall where bottles, vials, feathers, bones, and glittering gemstones lined the wooden shelves. Returning to sit across from Ylva at the small table, thevölvaspread a blue linen cloth across the surface and poured out the contents of the purple pouch. “Crystals and gemstones can channel and amplify healing energy. I’ll teach you how to summongaldrmagic, which will greatly enhance your skills as a trained Celtic priestess. Every day for the remainder of the week, we’ll come here—as we have done today—shortly after the midday meal. I’ll teach you chants and spells of incantation, which you must practice diligently as you learn to wieldgaldrmagic. I’ll show you which crystals and gemstones to use for specific illnesses and injuries. You’ll learn how to imbue gems withgaldrmagic to create talismans and charms for protection and healing.” Úlvhild’s mesmerizing gaze blazed like molten gold. “It’s my hope that you will embrace your Nordic heritage by blendinggaldrmagic with your skills as a Druid priestess and Celtic healer.”
Under Úlvhild’s expert tutelage throughout the long afternoon, Ylva practiced chants, repeating incantations until her voice evoked the proper rhythm, vibration, and intonation for the Nordic magic ofgaldrspells. She learned to channel the healing energy of various gemstones, a skill which would greatly enhance her knowledge of herbal remedies and Druid training to heal injuries and cleanse disease from sickened bodies.
Úlvhild taught her the restorative properties of minerals and gems—the soothing calmness of amethyst, the revitalizing and energizing of citrine and carnelian, the protection of turquoise, jade, and emerald. As the power ofgaldrmagic surged in her veins, Ylva directed the curative, cleansing flow through her hands, voice, and body into the healing crystals and sacred stones.
“Emeralds not only heal and protect, but they enhance fertility as well.” Thevölvagave Ylva a silver ring inscribed with Nordic runes along the band and set with a faceted deep green emerald shaped like a droplet. The verdant gem sparkled in the golden light of the setting sun. “Wear thisring, Ylva. To heal your broken heart. To reawaken your nurturing spirit. And to enhance your fertile womb.” She nodded her head encouragingly as Ylva slipped the ring onto her finger. “I’ve imbued the emerald and the inscribed runes withgaldrmagic to protect you from harm.”
Úlvhild indicated the pattern of carved symbols, tracing the tip of her long finger around the trio of etched markings inside the band of the ring. “Berkana, the rune for nurturing, rebirth, and fertility.Gebo—to symbolize Freyja’s gift of love—for passion, desire, and partnership in marriage. AndOthala, for heritage, family, and preservation of loved ones.” Golden eyes glowing with otherworldly wisdom, thevölva’sgaze was as compelling as the amber pendant around her neck which pulsed with palpable power. “This emerald ring will heal and protect you. And aid you in conceiving Skårde’s son.”
She grasped Ylva’s hands, squeezing them to emphasize the gravity of her message. Energy flowed from Úlvhild’s long fingers into Ylva’s shaking limbs. “For I have foreseen that the child born to the son of a Danish king and the daughter of a Norman duke will forge a dynasty that will unite this land and rule for a thousand years.”
Ylva’s heart hammered in her chest.Fate has entwined my destiny with Skårde. No wonder his touch sends a current coursing through me. And his kisses scorch me senseless. I am destined to conceive his son. Skårde and I shall rule as Count and Countess of the Pays de Caux. And our son will forge a dynasty to last a thousand years!
As Ylva sat in stunned silence, forcing a swallow of mead to quench her parched, constricted throat, Úlvhild scooped up the gemstones and tucked them back into the purple pouch. She rose from her chair and headed toward the wooden shelves containing her potions, charms, feathers, and bones. Smiling reassuringly at Ylva, she placed the crystals back into the cupboard. “We’ll practice again tomorrow afternoon. And every day this week, until I return to Rouen withJarl Rikardand Gunnor.”Thevölvapoured water from a pitcher on the counter into a large ceramic basin and washed her hands with sweet smelling herbal soap before returning to Ylva’s side. Her lips curled up into a contented feline grin. “Let’s return to the castle for the wedding feast. Tonight’s entertainment is the competition of skalds!”
Chapter 12
The Dragon of Normandy
Skårde finished the elaborate carving on the front door of the newly completed house for Björn, his best Danish warrior and newly appointed First Knight ofChâteaufort. Björn and his new wife Bellerose were delighted with the two-story residence close to the castle. They were especially pleased with Skårde’s carving of an enormous bear—the meaning of Björn’s Nordic name—on the massive oak front door. As leader of the Viking warriors who now served as Norman knights, Björn’s elegant residence reflected the prestige and power of his new position. When Skårde gathered up his woodworking tools and said goodbye to the grateful newlyweds, he spotted Ylva in the distance entering the castle with Úlvhild.
I wonder why she was with the völva. I’ll ask her at dinner tonight. I’m looking forward to another delicious wedding feast. And the chance to dance with Ylva again. Mayhap this time, she’ll invite me to her bed…
Images and sensations of the tantalizing kiss in the waterfall cave flooded him with a staggering surge of desire, his hardened body throbbing with painful longing and need. Although he’d had several opportunities to dally with pretty thralls or castle servants eager to warm their new lord’s bed, Skårde was not interested. Not only did he have no desire to sire a bastard, like both his father Harald andJarl Rikardhad done,but he was inexplicably drawn to Ylva.
He couldn’t explain it, but he suffered from an insatiable hunger for her And it was much more than mere lust. He craved her. Body, spirit, and soul.
After returning his chisel, plane, and hammer to the storage shed inside the castle complex, he crossed the bailey, waving to the many craftsmen completing their work in preparation for the evening’s continued wedding celebrations. Tonight, not only would there be sumptuous feasting, lively music, and exuberant dancing, butJarl Rikardhad also arranged an entertaining competition of skalds—the skilled poets whose clever kennings and evocative voices depicted epic tales of Nordic gods, legends, and lore.
This evening, Skårde would select the winner as his own castle skald, bestowing upon the privileged poet his esteemed patronage as Lord ofChâteaufortand Count of thePays de Caux.
As he now entered the steaming bathhouse and placed his clean clothing on a bench in the back corner, Skårde joined several Danish warriors and Norman knights who resided in the newly constructed lodging for unmarried soldiers defending the castle. Washing off the day’s grime with strong lye soap scented with herbs, Skårde reflected upon how happy his men were here in Normandy. Even those who had not yet found French wives still looked forward to the jubilant feasting and dancing which would continue all week. And the mass weddings every Frigg’s Day, when many young women attended the ceremonies, hoping to find husbands for themselves.
