Chapter 19
Interpreting the Visions
Úlvhild’s haggard face peered up from the pile of furs on the bed. Although thevölvahad lived less than thirty winters, the harsh effects of the herbs and potions used for seiðdrvisions now gave her the appearance of a ravaged, wrinkled crone.
Ylva rose from the table and fetched a clean cup from the wooden shelves, straining the chamomile flowers and herbs she’d steeped for the tisane. She brought the herbal infusion to Úlvhild, who had propped herself up on one elbow in the bed. “Drink this first. It will restore you.”
Úlvhild accepted the cup and sniffed the contents. “Chamomile… nettles…basil. A good combination of cleansing herbs.” She downed the brew and returned the empty cup to Ylva, sitting upright to pet Kól, who was still curled up at her side. Thevölvainhaled deeply and smiled. “Something smells wonderful. What is it?”
“It’s me fine rabbit stew, simmerin’ away on the hearth. Just what you need to restore you.” Maeve rose from the table and strode across the room to the fur-laden bed. She gently brushed a few wayward strands of wiry black hair from Úlvhild’s flushed face. "The stew's ready now. Would you like to come join us at the table?"
“I would indeed.” Gratitude shining in her amber eyes, Úlvhild accepted Maeve’s proffered arm and rose slowly from the bed. On unsteady legs, she scanned her surroundings, taking in the pot simmering on the hearth, thebasket of bread and the plum tart on the counter, the two cups of ale on the table. “You stopped by to make me a stew.” Emotion thickened her voice as she smiled warmly at Maeve. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
“It’s the least I could do, after all the lessons you’ve taught me. Come, Ylva and I will help you to the table. We’ve a fine rabbit stew, barley bread with fresh butter, and atarte aux mirabellesfor dessert!”
Once they’d settled Úlvhild into a chair, Ylva poured her a cup of ale and refilled the two others while Maeve fetched three ceramic bowls from the shelves and ladled the stew. Ylva brought over the barley bread, butter, and three wooden spoons, and Maeve set the steaming bowls upon the table.
“Delicious,” Úlvhild crooned, ravenously gobbling every bite.
While Ylva wondered how to broach the subject of the disturbingseiðrvision, Úlvhild saved her the trouble. “A trio of evil will betray the Danish king,” she announced, sopping up the remains of the rich broth in her bowl with a hunk of barley bread slathered in butter. She popped it into her mouth and washed the bread down with ale. “Three men are conspiring against Harald. I couldn’t see their faces, but one was wearing a crown. Undoubtedly the Frankish king Lothaire.”
Ylva’s pulse quickened.
King Lothaire of West Francia was anxious to drive the Vikings from Normandy and seize her father’s dukedom. Several years ago, in a bloody battle against the invading Franks, Richard had allied with Harald, and Skårde had fought at his father’s side. As a result of that powerful Viking alliance and resounding victory, Lothaire had been forced to recognize Richard the Fearless as the reigning Duke of Normandy. And yet, despite the treaty which granted her father the dukedom, Richard had nevertheless suppressed several recent skirmishes against the Franks. One of the main reasons he’d married his Christian bride had been to align himself with Hugh the Great, the powerful Count of Paris—to keep the Frankish king Lothaire in check.
Úlvhild’s voice interrupted Ylva’s reverie. “I glimpsed an attack on a Viking port. But the dragon ships were docked in theharbor, so it was an ambush rather than a battle. Two ships were burning—as a diversion, to draw attention away from the abduction of the boy.” Golden light from the setting sun gilded her amber eyes. “They’ve captured Harald’s heir. Imprisoned him in a fortress in Paris. With the boy held hostage, they control the Danish king.”
Ylva’s heart dropped. “You said the Falcon could find the boy. And the Dragon must free him. Skårde must free his brother to save his father. But who is the Falcon you summoned?” Ylva’s stomach clenched and her throat constricted. Despite the appetizing aroma of the rich rabbit stew, she couldn’t eat. Worry gnawed at her gut.
“He’s avitki. A powerful wizard. A shapeshifting sorcerer who can assume the form of a falcon. He’ll be able to fly to the rooftop of the fortress in Paris, peer into the windows, and find the boy. Then report back to us, for Skårde to find a way to free him.” Úlvhild rose from her chair, gripping the table and grimacing with effort. Urgency laced her voice. “We must go up to the castle and inform Skårde.”
“Are you able to walk?” Ylva stood, bolstering her hand under Úlvhild’s elbow for support.
“Yes, but slowly.” Thevölvastraightened her back and stretched her lanky limbs.
“I’ll have Dagny set up a bed in Gyda’s room. You’ll sleep at the castle tonight. That way, you won’t have to walk all the way back here to the hut.” Ylva smiled reassuringly at Úlvhild. She was glad they’d speak to Skårde right away. Not only did he need to hear about theseiðrvision, she also wanted to tell him about the raven warrior ships she’d seen in the waterfall pool.
“Take the rest of the stew home to Ingi and Gillie,” Úlvhild said to Maeve. “It’s absolutely delicious, and I don’t want it to go to waste. Nor do I wish to leave it simmering overnight on the fire.”
“Of course. They’re certain to appreciate a fine pot of me rabbit stew. They’ll both be thrilled, they will.” Maeve rose from the table and strode across the room to the hearth. “Seein’ as how you’ll be sleepin’ at the castle, I’ll put out the fire.” With the shovel standing next to the hearth, shecovered the embers with ashes to smother them. Turning back toward Úlvhild, she added, “Ylva mentioned she wanted to make a talisman—like me amber pendant—for her husband, Lord Skårde. I thought perhaps—that is, o’ course, if you’re willin’—that we might help her craft one. With the three of us chantin’ ourgaldrmagic, it will triple the wards o’ protection. And three’s a holy number, isn’t it now?”
“That’s a very good idea. Yes, tomorrow morning, we’ll return here and you can join us. And bring back the empty pot.” Úlvhild chuckled and watched as Maeve scooped some of the rabbit meat from the stew into a small dish, which she placed on the floor for Kól.
The cat leapt off the bed, raced to the small wooden bowl, and devoured his delicious meal.
“He’ll jump through the window when he’s finished. He likes to prowl outside at night. And come back here to sleep on the bed.” Úlvhild’s golden eyes twinkled as she beheld her beloved cat.
Maeve covered the stew, wrapped her hand in a swath of linen, and grasped the handle of the iron pot. She kissed Úlvhild’s cheek, then Ylva’s, as she said goodbye. “It was such a pleasure to meet you, Ylva. Goodnight, now. See you both tomorrow morn.” Carefully lugging the kettle, she smiled and headed out the door.
Ylva offered her arm to Úlvhild. “Ready?”
Thevölvanodded and hooked her elbow through Ylva’s, stopping to latch the lock as they exited the hut.
Ylva inclined her head to summon her guards and led Úlvhild up the hill to the castle.
****
“They’ve imprisoned Sweyn in a fortress. Onl’ Île de la Citéin Paris.” Skårde seethed as he turned to face Björn, his highest-ranking Viking warrior and most trusted friend.
