Stands a warrior worthy of Nordic lore,
With Viking blade and dragon’s roar,
He defends the castle ofChâteaufort.
Beside him stands his priestess fair
Of golden hair and Celtic air
With runes and charms she casts her spell
In the clifftop castle where legends dwell.
Their love, a bond of ice and fire
Of which I sing with lute and lyre
With vows they weave a heritage strong
Of Nordic might and Celtic song
InChâteaufort,where love takes hold
A wedding song, their story told.”
While the throng roared in approval and Bragi took a bow, Skårde squeezed Ylva’s hand under the table and whispered in her ear. “Which one did you prefer? I want you to choose the winner.”
He values my opinion and wants me to decide. For the first time in my life, I am given a choice. Dear Goddess, I’m grateful for this husband.
“I prefer the troubadour, Bragi. He’s a Scandinavian skald who sings in Old Norse and Norman French. He can even compose in theprovençaldialect of Occitan, should we ever entertain guests from Aquitaine.” Ylva watched the talented poet bow before the appreciative audience. He was young, like she and Skårde, and would entertain their castle guests for many years to come. With his chestnut curls and neatly trimmed beard, green tunic embroidered with silver thread, he was perfect to represent them as Count and Countess of thePays de Caux. “Bragi’s voice is uplifting and inspiring…and his poem was a tribute to the Celtic and Nordic blend of our marriage. He’s even wearing the colors of our new heraldry. He’s perfect to serve as castle poet ofChåteaufort.Do you agree?”
“Absolutely. Bragi it is. Our steward Ingolf will reward him with the promised pouch of silver. Stand with me now. We’llannounce the winner together. And set the example that we’ll always rule as one.”
Joyous wings of a lark fluttered in Ylva’s heart. Not only was Skårde’s touch sizzling and his kiss scorching, but he made her spirit soar. He respected her as his equal. And treated her like a queen.
As Ylva and Skårde rose to their feet, the two previous poets came back into the Great Hall, having entertained the crowd outside. Now, as the three competitors stood before the royal table, the raucous crowd quieted to hear the winner’s name.
Skårde’s deep voice reverberated through the room. “Each one of you has exceptional skill and commendable talent. My wife and I thank you for entertaining our castle guests and offering us a wedding gift of song.” He smiled at Ylva. “The Lady ofChâteauforthas selected the winner and will make the announcement now.”
Ylva had never addressed a large crowd. She had never seen so many people gathered together. She’d never been in a castle, nor worn a crown like the silver cornet adorned with emeralds which now sat upon her lowered head.
I am lady of this castle, and Countess of the White Chalk Cliffs. These are my people. Like my husband and me, they’re a blend of Nordic and Celtic heritage, forged together to form Normandy. At long last, I finally belong.
“Thank you all for your poetic verse. And the music which filled our hearts. After careful deliberation, my husband and I have selected the winner.” She beamed at the troubadour with chestnut curls, clutching his lute and lyre. “Bragi will be the castle poet ofChâteaufort!” As the wedding guests cheered and cupbearers poured, Ylva nodded to Ingolf, who was standing with the seneschal Petroc and a bevy of armored knights near the castle door.
The steward inclined his head, acknowledging her unspoken command. He would ensure that Bragi received the promised bag of silver.
Skårde raised his goblet of mead in tribute. “To Bragi, the troubadour ofChâteaufort.Félicitations!Skál!Bravo!”
Ylva smiled as she raised her chalice to her lips. Skårde was learning the language of his people. He had said congratulations in Norman French.
“Poets, please join in the revelry. Let the music and dancing begin!” His boom bellowing across the Great Hall, Skårde grasped Ylva’s hand, sending another jolt coursing through her veins. “We’ll stay here with our guests a bit longer, but slip outside soon. I want to dance with you in the moonlight. And kiss you under the stars.”
Ylva’s legs weakened under her dark green gown.
Lugh and Luna arose from the table, preparing to depart.
“Congratulations again on your wedding,” Lugh said amiably, firmly clasping Skårde’s forearms. “It’s a pleasure to meet the Count and Countess of thePays de Caux.” When Lugh’s cool lips brushed against Ylva’s hand, she noted how—unlike the Viking Danes and Norman knights in the castle—theLjósálfarlord was clean shaven.
