He scoffed at how quickly his voracious army of raiding, pillaging Vikings had become happy, peaceful farmers. Skårde himself had to admit that he much preferred the warmer weather of Normandy and the plentiful crops which now flourished in the fields. The green, fertile pastures for fat cattle. The abundant orchards for fruit and timber. The bountiful game for hunting. The rivers, lakes, and ocean for fishing, seafood, and ships. And the breathtaking beauty of the towering white chalk cliffs.
He—Skårde the Scourge, Dragon of Denmark, born and bred for battle—was surprisingly content in the promisingPays de Caux.
And utterly besotted with his beautiful Breton bride.
“Here’s a drying cloth, my lord.” Jofroi was the newly appointed chamberlain—one of the many Norse-speaking castle attendants sent byJarl Rikardto serve atChâteaufort—whose responsibilities included everything from managing the servants to supervising Skårde’s private chambers and personal grooming. As he handed Skårde the soft white linen, Jofroi glanced disparagingly at the numerous Viking warriors washing in the public bathhouse.“I’ll arrange a royal bathing area for you, Lord Skårde. As chatelain of the castle and Count of thePays de Caux,you’re entitled to privacy. I’m honored to serve as your chamberlain and insist on providing for your comfort. Beginning tomorrow, you’ll have the privilege of bathing in your own personal chambers.” Bowing his head in reverence, the meticulously groomed Jofroi motioned for Skårde to follow him toward the far corner of the bathhouse.
On top of a large wooden table, a deep green tunic edged in silver and embroidered with black Nordic runes was neatly folded, along with a black cloak, a pair of black breeches, and several items of silver jewelry. “I’ve prepared your formal attire so that you may leave the bathhouse, ready to escort Lady Ylva to the Great Hall for tonight’s wedding feast. Please, Lord Skårde, allow me to assist you.” Jofroi handed Skårde a pair of black footed hose.
“Thank you, Jofroi. Your choice of clothing is much better than mine.” Skårde smirked, referring to the plain black tunic and brown breeches he had brought with the intention of wearing them after bathing. He accepted the hose and sat down on the wooden bench to pull them on, followed by the black silk breeches, which he tied with the drawstring waist.
Jofroi helped him don the green and silver linen tunic, the colors of Skårde’s new heraldry. Draping a black silk cloak across Skårde’s shoulders, the attentive chamberlain fastened it with an elaborately carved silver brooch engraved with the Nordic runeThurisaz.
Skårde smiled proudly. Thor’s rune. The symbol of protective strength and destructive power. Perfect for the Dragon of Denmark who would henceforth be known as the Dragon of Normandy. The unbreakable link in the Vikingalliance between Ylva’s father, Duke Richard of Normandy, and his own father, King Harald Bluetooth of Norway and Denmark.
As Count of thePays de Cauxand Lord ofChâteaufort, Skårde would wield Thor’s thunder to defend the Land of the White Chalk Cliffs.
Jofroi handed him a silver arm ring, also engraved with Thor’s Nordic rune. As Skårde placed the thick band over the sleeve of his deep green tunic, positioning the torque above his right bicep, he reflected upon the day his father had presented it to him in the royal longhouse ofHeiðabýrin Denmark.
In a grand ceremony before hundreds of Viking warriors, King Harald had bestowed the titleDragon of Denmarkto Skårde while presenting the prestigious silver arm band and simultaneously appointing him warlord of the entire Danish army. For the next few years, Skårde had won battle after battle, defending the kingdom of Denmark and leading lucrative Viking raids against monasteries, churches, and wealthy cities along the Nordic and Baltic coasts.
Now, as he looked down at the silver torque encircling his arm, a wave of anger and jealousy washed over him at the thought of being replaced as warlord by Anvarr and displaced as heir to the throne by his half-brother Sweyn.
His father’slegitimateson.
Bitter bile gnawed at his gut.
In Heiðabýr, I was bastard son of the Danish king. But here in Normandy, I am Lord of Châteaufort and Count of the Pays de Caux. I have a title of nobility. A new coat of arms. A fortified oceanfront castle. A fleet of drakkar warships. An army of five thousand men.
Ylva’s face floated into his thoughts.
And the most beautiful woman I have ever seen as my wedded wife.
Jofroi handed him a silver torque necklace where an amulet ofMjölnir, Thor’s invincible hammer, was suspended from the thick, wide band.
Thor.
The Thunder God who had marked Skårde in battle.
Whose lightning bolt blazed in a bold tattoo across his maimed chest.
Whose hammer was emblazoned on his new coat of arms.
Skårde examined the majestic necklace cradled in the palm of his hands.
Above the heavy pendant ofMjölnir,a trio of Nordic runes was etched into the massive silver torque. Skårde ran the pad of his thumb over the deeply engraved symbols.
Thurisaz,Thor’s rune.
Algiz, symbol of a massive elk. For defense, protection, and strength.
Ingwaz, to represent Freyr, the Nordic god of prosperity, virility, and fertility.
An intense wave of desire shuddered through him as Skårde envisioned planting his potent seed in Ylva’s receptive womb. He shook his long blond hair back over his shoulders, casting off her intoxicating effect on him, as Jofroi attached the torque around Skårde’s wide neck.
The male Viking thrall named Kofri approached, carrying a tray of silver beads and dark green gemstones which glittered in the sunlight through the opening in the thatched roof.
Emeralds.
