The rich, chewy texture of the sweet fruit was a delicious contrast to the tang of creamy goat cheese and the savory crunch of walnuts. Ylva watched Skårde suck his fingertips, her nipples hardening as she imagined his lips on them. Realizing she was staring, she quickly spooned some wild plum tart into her agape mouth and washed it down with a gulp of mead.
Richard arose from the table and—escorted by two of his personal guards—descended the steps of the elevated wooden dais. Red ducal robes flowing behind him, he strode across the limestone floor to the center of the Great Hall, lifting his arms to silence the clamorous crowd. His sonorous bellow resounded throughout the chamber. “Tonight, in honor of my daughter’s royal wedding, I would like to present a gift to the groom. Lord Skårde, please come join me.” While two of Richard’sknights escorted Skårde to the center of the room, the Duke of Normandy nodded to his highest-ranking warrior Gudmund, standing at attention with a bevy of armored knights near the entrance door.
Chain mail glinting in the candlelight, surcoat emblazoned with the ducal coat of arms of Richard the Fearless—two golden lions rampant on a background of solid red—Gudmund marched a procession of knights across the stone floor of the Great Hall ofChâteaufort.To the blare of a trumpet, a standard-bearer carrying Richard’s red banner as the Duke of Normandy led an armored knight who clutched a black silk tufted pillow upon which perched a thick silver arm ring engraved with Nordic runes.
Richard exalted Skårde before the enthralled throng. “Seven years ago—as Viking warlord for your royal father, King Harald Bluetooth—you led the Danish army to defend Normandy against the invading Franks. In recompense for your incomparable valor, you received a silver arm band and the esteemed titleDragon of Denmark. Tonight, I—Richard I, Duke of Normandy—bestow upon you another silver arm band of Viking honor. And hereby appoint you with a new, equally prestigious title. I officially proclaim you Lord ofChâteaufort and Count of thePays de Caux.” Richard ceremoniously lifted the engraved torque from the black silk pillow and presented it to Skårde.
A glorious grin stretching from ear to ear, Skårde accepted the silver arm band with a bowed his head. He proudly placed the silver torque above his left bicep and fisted his chest in allegiance to Richard, the reigning Duke of Normandy.
Richard raised his goblet in tribute. “All hail Skårde Haraldsson, the Dragon of Normandy!”
Amid riotous cheers of “Skál!”,the wedding guests shot to their feet and toasted their lord’s distinguished new title.
When the crowd quieted and returned to their seats, Richard introduced his honored guests. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my privilege to present twoLjósálfarwho have come bearing wedding gifts for the bride and groom. Please welcome Lord Lugh and Lady Luna, the Light Elves who defend thePays de Caux.”
Murmurs of awe and admiration mingled with fervent applause. Together, Lugh and Luna—escorted by liveried attendantsclad in heraldic silver and green—filed from the royal table, down the steps of the elevated wooden dais, to join Richard and Skårde in the center of the Great Hall.
In a crystalline voice clear as a clarion bell, Luna addressed Ylva, seated at the table of honor. “Lady ofChâteaufort, Countess of thePays de Caux, I bring a wedding gift from theLjósálfar.Please come, that I may formally present it to you.”
Ylva rose to unsteady feet upon the wooden dais, excitement and anticipation weakening her trembling legs as a liveried attendant escorted her to the center of the Great Hall of join Skårde, her ducal father, and the two extraordinaryLjósálfarguests.
A Light Elven gift for me? What could this possibly be?
Luna’s long white dress graced the limestone floor. The moonstone gem at the base of her throat glowed in the incandescent light. Her fluid voice flowed like clear water in a cool stream. “You are a trained Druid priestess. A gifted Celticguérisseuse, skilled in the healing herbs of the forest. You wieldgaldrmagic through curative crystals and gems. My gift to you, Ylva Rikardsdóttir, is the Light Elven magic ofnen glir. The song of water. Like avardlokkurchant to summon the spirits, you may call upon the curative essence of sacred springs. Withnen glir—theLjósálfarsong of water.”
White sleeves unfurling like the wings of a swan, Luna lifted her arms above her head. Long fingers swirling and curling in a slow descent over Ylva, the lovelyLjósálfarsang a lucid melody in an otherworldly, ephemeral voice.
The limpid notes of Luna’s song cascaded upon Ylva like a waterfall fromÁlfheim. As a ripple of energy coursed through her body, Ylva emitted a radiant glow, illuminated from within. When Luna’s song ended, the glimmer subsided, absorbed into Ylva’s skin. She examined her hands, which appeared normal, but palpable power pulsed in her veins.
Unsure how to respond or what to do, Ylva lowered her head and bowed at the waist. “I humbly thank you for your generous gift. May Eir, the Nordic Goddess of Healing, guide me in wielding theLjósálfarmagic ofnen glir.”
Lunasmiled graciously and bowed in return.
Ylva’s breath hitched when the Light Elven Lord Lugh stepped forward to present his gift to Skårde. He gestured to a pair of knights wearing chain mail armor and Skårde’s coat of arms. One carried the heraldic banner of the Dragon of Normandy, and the other bore a large, unwieldy black sack strapped across his shoulder. At the sound of the trumpet, the duo strode in proud precision from the castle entrance to the center of the Great Hall.
Lugh’s deep, melodic voice carried across the rapt room. “Skårde the Scourge, Dragon of Normandy. son of King Harald Bluetooth of Norway and Denmark. Lord ofChâteaufortand Count of thePays de Caux. Please accept this gift from theLjósálfar.”Retrieving the black bag from the armored knight, Lugh removed a magnificent sword sheathed in a leather scabbard adorned with sparkling gems. He withdrew the blade, handed the scabbard to the attendant knight, and—laying the superb weapon across the palms of his outstretched hands—extended his arms and offered it to Skårde. “In recognition of you as Dragon of Normandy, Defender of Dieppe, and Count of the White Chalk Cliffs, I have crafted this Light Elvenblade,Duradrakk.Forged in dragonfire in the realm ofÁlfheim.Imbued withLjósálfarmagic. May you wield it as the Dragon of Normandy to defend the Land of the White Chalk Cliffs.”
Eyes widened in awe and astonished appreciation, Skårde accepted the sword, grasping the hilt to heft the weapon, admiring the enormous emerald in the pommel. The radiant gem sparkled like green fire in the candlelight. “I am honored to receive this magnificent blade. Thank you for this unparalleled gift.”
“The emerald in the hilt is imbued withLjósálfarmagic. It will defend you, Dragon of Normandy. Including your lands, your people, and your castle.The gems in the scabbard are enchanted, too. To protect you and thePays de Caux.”
Belting the leather scabbard around his hips, Skårde sheathed the sword and bent his head before Lugh and Richard. Right fist clenched over his heart, he roared an oath of fealty. “As Dragon of Normandy, I swear allegiance to you, Richard the Fearless, my sovereign lord. May I valiantly wieldDuradrakkto defend this castle and the White Chalk Cliffs.”
To thunderous applause, Richard gripped Skårde’s forearms in acceptance of his pledge. Turning to face the boisterous crowd, he raised his arms once again to command silence. “And now, the culmination of tonight’s entertainment… the competition of skalds! The winner shall receive a bag of silver. And serve Lord Skårde, the Dragon of Normandy, as castle poet ofChâteaufort!”
While formal attendants escorted Richard, Lugh, Luna, Ylva, and Skårde back to the table of honor, the first competitor took his place before the jubilant throng.
As cupbearers refilled goblets of mead and chalices of wine, the skald Geirr introduced himself and sang in Old Norse, the language of Nordic lore. His poem, "Sails of Valor”—evoked thedrakkarshipsand Viking armythat Skårde the Scourge, Dragon of Denmark, had brought to defend Normandy.
When his skaldic rendition was complete, Geirr bowed before the cheering audience and the second performer entered the room.
Vauquelin greeted the bride, groom, and wedding guests, explaining that he was atrouvèrefrom Paris who had performed in the courts of Frankish and Norman nobles alike. As he drew the bow across the taut strings of his vielle, the plaintive notes of his wooden instrument and Vauquelin’s melodic voice carried across the Great Hall. In the language of Norman French, he sang a chivalrous, eloquent poem, “La Danse des Âmes”—"The Dance of Souls”—to enthusiastic, appreciative applause.
The third and final competitor introduced himself as Bragi, a skald originally from Norway who had accompanied his master throughout the French-speaking courts of Anjou and the southern region of Aquitaine, where he had also learned the Occitan language and the lyrical poetry oftroubadours.His rendition of “Wedding Song atChâteaufort” was a tribute to the Celtic and Nordic blend of cultures in Ylva and Skårde’s Viking marriage.
In poetic verse of Old Norse and Norman French, accompanied by a poignant, alternating musical pattern of lute and lyre, the troubadour Bragi’s impassionedperformance brought tears to Ylva’s eyes.
“On the white chalk cliffs where banners soar,
