Adrenaline roared in Skårde’s veins.
The Vikings of Normandy were deeply ensconced along both banks of the Seine River—which led directly tol’ Île de la Cité, the island of Paris. Did his father plan to raid the rich capital of West Francia?
Or perhaps—aided by Richard the Fearless—defeat the Franks, conquer Frisia, and unite Denmark with Normandy in a vast Viking empire?
And he, Skårde—the Dragon of Denmark—would lead the Danish army?
Pulse thundering in his throat like Thor’s hammerMjölnir,he could scarcely voice his awestruck reply. “It will be my greatest honor. Thank you, Father. I shall make you proud as I lead our men into battle.” He swallowed a large gulp of mead to quench his parched gullet. Skårde leaned forward, ignoring the painful pull across his maimed chest, his taut muscles twitching in eager anticipation of a glorious Viking raid. “Do we attack Paris? Or drive the Franks out of Frisia?”
Harald’s deep blue eyes gleamed in the firelight. “Neither. We voyage to thePays de Caux.To establish new Viking settlements along the white chalk cliffs of Normandy.” The king raised his ornate silver chalice to bearded lips and took a long pull of golden mead. He set the goblet down, wiped his mustache with the back of a weathered hand, and regarded Skårde sternly. “Richard the Fearless has appointed you as Count of the White Chalk Cliffs. He has generously granted you possession ofChâteaufort—a fortified castle and former residence of Rollo himself, the Viking chieftain who humbled the Frankish king Charles the Simple and became the first ruler of Normandy.” Harald tore into his haunch of roast boar, the juices dripping into his long, braided beard. He swiped the sleeve of his woolen tunic across his chin and guzzled the rest of his mead. “We set sail in three weeks. As soon as your injury has healed and your men have recovered from battle. Five thousand men will accompany us—warriors, blacksmiths, boat builders, wainwrights, farmers—even livestock. Everything you’ll need as Jarl of the new Viking settlements. My alliance with Richard will be affirmed. You’ll be rewarded with a prestigious title, fertile lands, and a valiant Vikingarmy. Our men will marry Celtic wives. And we’ll reinforce the Viking stronghold by fortifying the entire alabaster coast of Normandy.”
When a thrall refilled their mugs of mead, the king raised his chalice, prompting Skårde to do the same. “To you, my son. The Dragon of Denmark. The new Count of thePays de Caux.”
Chapter 3
A Powerful Political Alliance
Gazing up at the sun-haloed image of her prodigal Viking father, Ylva’s legs weakened, and she dropped the bucket of clams. Her heart thumped wildly against her ribs.Why is he here? Have the Vikings returned to reclaim the village? Am I in danger? But, he’s my father…
As if sensing her fear, Richard extended his hand, beckoning her to climb up the path. His deep, booming voice bellowed from the precipice above. “Greetings,dóttir.Please, come join me.”
Ylva exhaled deeply to calm her racing pulse, bent to retrieve her bucket of clams, and trudged to the top of the cliff.
To her astonishment, dozens of tents littered the meadow in front of her cottage. Viking soldiers swarmed the heathered moor—chopping wood, skinning rabbits, roasting meat on skewers over blazing fires. Fur-clad warriors with leather and chainmail armor sharpened the blades of axes and swords, while female thralls hauled buckets of water from the nearby spring. An enormous Viking camp now stood on the plateau overlooking the inlet below.
Mouth agape, stunned speechless, Ylva spun toward her father.
“Let’s go inside. I wish to speak with your mother.” He gestured for her to precede him.
He doesn’t know that Maman has died. I must be the one to tell him.
Ylva, distraught at the unsettling presence ofthe same Viking warriors who had conquered her Breton village of Saint-Suliac, shuddered as she led her father through the front door and into her home.Why have the Vikings returned?And why have they established camp in front of my cottage?
Ylva set the bucket of clams upon her wooden counter, flustered in her father’s commanding presence.I have no mead, wine, or ale. Should I offer him a cup of tisane? Do Vikings even drink tea?Unsure of what to say or do, she lingered at the counter, her eyes fixed on the container of seafood before her.
“Where is Lova? Has she gone into the village?” Richard approached her right side, sending a shiver up Ylva’s spine.
The little girl in her heart longed to fling herself into her father’s protective arms and cry upon his once-comforting chest. But the bitter woman she’d now become repressed her revulsion and rage.
Anger sharpened her voice. “My mother died six months ago. I live here alone.” Hatred and humiliation heated her cheeks as she glared up at her towering father. “When you abandoned us ten years ago, the villagers shunned my mother as a Viking whore and me as her tainted brat. We were forced to come here—to this neglected cottage at the top of the cliff—where she taught me her skills as a healer.” Unbidden tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her quivering cheeks. Disgusted by her display of weakness, Ylva dashed them away with the sleeve of her woolen tunic and spat out the years of derision and scorn. “The only reason we even survived is because the villagers feared our power as Druid priestesses. They needed our healing herbs and the wool from our sheep. If not for my mother’s skilled knowledge and their superstitious beliefs, we would’ve been murdered—for our contamination and collaboration with the enemy.” She mustered the courage to face him and spat out the ugly truth. “You.”
Remorse and regret blazed in Richard’s repentant gaze. With a flick of his fingers, he summoned a slave, who quickly procured two goblets and filled them from a wooden cask among the Viking supplies stored near a tentoutside. The young woman, one of several who circulated among the men in the camp, kept her eyes lowered as she served Richard and Ylva.
This poor servant is a thrall. Captured in a Viking raid like my own mother and my grandmother Sprota, the Breton concubine abducted by William Longsword. The paternal grandparents I never knew.Ylva accepted the proffered goblet and watched as the slave exited the cottage and returned to serving the men in the camp.
Compassion and surprising tenderness laced her father’s deep voice. “I am aggrieved to learn of your mother’s death. I truly loved her. And I regret the pain that you both suffered after my departure. Perhaps one day you’ll forgive me. I had no choice but to marry for a political alliance which was essential to the safety of my people.” He placed a gentle hand upon Ylva’s quavering shoulder. “Which is why I have come here today. Please, come sit with me so that I may explain.”
Ylva’s stomach dropped as comprehension dawned.He has come to claim me as chattel. To sacrifice for a political alliance.Her legs trembled as she stumbled across the room, placed her mug of mead on top of the wooden table, and lowered herself into the chair opposite her formidable father.He is the Viking Duke of Normandy. As powerful as a Breton king.To slake her sudden thirst, Ylva took a large gulp of mead, spluttering at the unexpected burn down her throat.
“A sweet taste, with potent fire. Drink it slowly,dóttir.” Richard took a long pull from his own goblet and set down his chalice, as if composing himself before speaking. When he raised his steely gaze to meet Ylva’s, she shuddered at the intensity of his piercing stare. “Ten years ago, I formed an alliance with Harald Bluetooth, the King of Norway and Denmark, to defend Rouen and repel an invading Frankish army. With that victory, I reaffirmed my sovereignty and consolidated my power as the Duke of Normandy. To ensure the safety of my people—and to coerce King Lothaire of West Francia into halting further attempts to reclaim my dukedom—I agreed to marry the daughter of Hugh the Great, the powerful Count of Paris and vassal of the Frankish king. As a condition of that accord, I was forced to set aside my pagan wife—your mother—and wed myChristian bride in an official ceremony recognized by the Frankish church.” Empathy and sorrow tempered his fierce expression. “I had no choice but to abandon you and Lova. To save my people and prevent a war.” He drained his goblet and slammed it down upon the table.
The jarring thump made Ylva jump in her chair.
“And that is why I have returned.” Dark eyes, turbulent as a stormy sea, held her entranced as his voice descended like doom. “I’ve arranged for you to marry the Viking warrior Skårde Haraldsson, son of my ally Harald Bluetooth. A royal wedding between the daughter of a duke and the son of a king. A powerful political alliance uniting the Vikings of Normandy, Norway, and Demark.” Richard’s white teeth gleamed in the firelight. “Your dowry will encompass the ancestral lands which belonged to your great-grandfather Rollo, the first Viking chieftain of Normandy, including the fortified castle ofChâteaufort. I have appointed your betrothed as Count of the White Chalk Cliffs, whose domain will extend over the entire coast of Normandy from the mouth of the Seine Riverto the fertile plains of theBaie de Somme.” He paused while the meek thrall refilled their mugs of mead and returned to the tents outside. Raising his chalice in tribute, Richard the Fearless proclaimed with a proud paternal smile, “You,dóttir,will rule thePays de Cauxlike a majestic Viking queen.”
Speechless, Ylva slumped in her chair. She downed another gulp of mead, overwhelmed at the enormity of his announcement. I am to marry the son of a king? A Viking? Like the warriors who conquered my people and destroyed my village? Goddess Divona, please help me!
At the horrific sound of heart-wrenching, terrified bleating, Ylva rushed toward the door of the cottage but was restrained by her father’s strong grip.
