Upon an elevated, rocky ledge—well above the high tide mark—sat the fragmented hand of a broken stone statue which had once belonged to the Celtic Druids who worshipped at the summit of Mont Garrot.
Ylva had recently discovered the shattered remains of the sculpted goddess among the ruins of the temple in the forest near her cottage. At the base of the bubbling fountain, source of the sacred spring. The divine waters of Divona which flowed from the top of Mont Garrot and emptied into the cascading waterfall inside Ylva’s secret cave.
She’d carried the broken, upturned palm of the stone goddess into this private grotto, creating a sacred shrine. Each time she entered Divona’s otherworldly domain, Ylva presented a gift to the Celtic goddess.
A vast array of rare shells—white oysters with purple interiors laced with mother of pearl, enormous whirled whelks, and silvery moon snails—comprised the treasures that Ylva offered when she prayed for Divona’s divine wisdom. As she now centered the large pink scallop shell among the others at the base of the statue, she knelt at the aquatic altar, waves of calm washing her like waters of the sacred spring.
Dear Goddess, please help me, for I am utterly alone. I suffer in solitude and yearn for companionship and love. I pray for your blessing and divine guidance. May the curative waters of your sacred spring heal my broken heart.
Ylva dipped her hands into the ebullient pool at the bottom of the cascade, bringing the icy water to her lips and drinking deeplyfrom the sacred spring of Mont Garrot. She washed her face and neck with the cleansing spray from the waterfall. Bowing her head in reverence upon the altar she had built, Ylva bid her blessed goddess adieu and prepared to exit the holy shrine.
But as she attempted to rise, the deafening roar of the waterfall suddenly stilled as a stifling darkness descended, transfixing her to the altar where she knelt before the pool. In the limpid depths before her, a towering, heavily armed warrior appeared in the mirrored waters of the sacred spring.
Pulse pounding, limbs trembling, Ylva was mesmerized by the terrifying image of the massive Viking beast.
Long blond locks extended past his enormous shoulders, and a braided beard covered his oxlike neck. Thick furs draped down his broad muscled back. Silver torques with elaborate carvings encircled his mammoth arms, inked with terrifying images of dragons, wolves, and bears. In an intricate scabbard belted at his sinewy waist, a gleaming sword with a glittering emerald in its hilt was sheathed upon his left hip. Dark leggings clung to heavily muscled thighs, and leather boots and furs laced up his wide, sculpted calves.
At the sight of the rippled torso riddled with scars and covered with dark blond hair, Ylva’s breath caught in her throat.
Emblazoned across his mountainous chest, a jagged thunderbolt scorched the bare skin.
As she beheld the lightning streak which marked the monstrous brute, a sizzling energy surged up her veins. Frozen in fear, Ylva was immersed in the current which flowed from the sacred spring and seared her from within. Gazing into the hypnotic waves of the mirrored pool, she glimpsed a white castle perched high upon an oceanfront cliff.
And, in the distance, anchored in a sheltered cove, the red and white striped sails and carved dragon prows of an enormous fleet of Viking ships.
Slowly, Ylva’s senses returned.
The thunderous roar of the waterfall resounded in her ears. The familiar, tangy brine of the sea filled her nostrils as cold waves from the incoming tidelapped at her bent knees and long legs. Disoriented and dizzy, she rose on unsteady feet, brushing off the clinging sand as she smoothed her damp gown.
I remember Maman telling me that my grandmother Sprota had visions. That she—a Celtic Breton priestess—had foreseen the arrival of the Vikings shortly before my grandfather, William Longsword, conquered the city of Rennes and captured her as his concubine. I must have inherited her gift of sight. Have I, like she, foreseen my future?
Ylva shuddered as a violent frisson of dread shivered down her spine.Will the Vikings return to reclaim Saint-Suliac? Are those the ships I have seen? Who is the monstrous beast in my vision? And why did his lightning surge in my veins?
Bowing her head before the sacred shrine, Ylva prayed to the Goddess of Sacred Springs.
Dear Divona, please guide me. May your divine wisdom illuminate my path.
To compose herself and dispel the disquieting vision, Ylva inhaled deeply and exited the secret cave. She waded across the flooded mudflat, raising the hem of her gown above the rushing waves as she headed toward the sandy beach. She brushed off her feet, put on her boots, and fetched her bucket of clams.
From the shoreline at the base of the granite bluff where she now stood, clutching her pail of shellfish, she gazed up a hundred feet to the top of the jagged cliff.
Gulls, guillemots, and gannets soared in the cerulean sky.
Ylva’s stomach lurched, her pulse hammering in her clenched, parched throat.
For there—with the midday sun illuminating his long, golden hair like the fires of the Celtic god Belenus—stood her Viking father.
Richard the Fearless.
The infamous Duke of Normandy had returned.
Chapter 2
Bastard Son of the Danish King
Skårde drained another goblet of golden mead, slamming the empty pewter chalice down upon the wooden table inside the smoke-filled healer’s hut. Although his senses were dulled from the potent, honeyed wine and the heady aroma of burning herbs, his stomach still clenched as the blacksmith rotated the red-hot iron in the glowing embers amid the flames.
Battle-hardened warrior, he’d had many such gaping wounds seared shut by fire. His entire body was disfigured with gnarled, twisted scars, transformed by tattoos into dragons and monstrous beasts to symbolize his courage and invincibility. This heinous injury—inflicted by a Frankish sword that had shattered Skårde’s shield and nearly severed his left arm—would leave a hideous, jagged scar.
