“We cannot transport the herd two hundred miles east into Normandy.” His deep voice was gentle but firm in her ear. “The mutton will feed my men tonight, and the slaves will smoke meat for our voyage.” He pulled Ylva back to the table, firmly seated her in theoak chair, and handed her a goblet of mead.
In a numb haze of stunned disbelief, she gulped the strong honeyed wine.
Richard pulled his chair next to hers and sat down at Ylva’s side. “Today, we rest the horses and procure supplies. Tomorrow, we depart at first light for thePays de Caux.The journey will take three weeks. We’ll stop along the way, rest the horses, sleep in tents, and arrive in time for the Viking celebration ofSólmánuður.And your Summer Solstice royal wedding at the castle ofChâteaufort.”
Richard’s glorious grin flashed between his thick blond mustache and long, braided beard. He rose regally from his chair, strode to the door, and summoned several thralls. “Prepare a celebratory feast—in honor of my daughter’s betrothal.” With a wave of his bejeweled hand, he indicated the bucket that Ylva had set upon the counter. “Roast these clams with today’s freshly caught fish and seafood. There are plenty of herbs and vegetables in a garden behind the cottage.” He scanned the cramped quarters inside the hut and frowned at the size of the small table. “My daughter and I shall dine with my men. Bring this table outside. Serve everyone seafood, fish, roast rabbit, and mutton… with plenty of golden mead.”
While the slaves scurried about, gathering supplies, harvesting herbs and vegetables, preparing the clams and fresh fish, Ylva sat dumfounded, floundering in helpless, frustrated rage.
Once again, Richard the Fearless and his conquering army have pillaged my village. Like my Breton mother and grandmother before me, I shall be the captive bride of a Viking brute. Although I am a skilled priestess and gifted Celtic healer, to my father, I’m nothing but chattel. The means for the merciless Duke of Normandy to forge a political alliance with the powerful Danish king. A mere woman with no freedom in choosing her future. Personal property to be bartered in a bargain.
The aroma of garlic and sumptuous seafood turned Ylva’s clenched stomach as her father led her outside and placed her at the head of the table of honor. Amidst dozens of Viking warriors seated on the grassy meadow all around him, Richard raised his goblet of mead, prompting everyone to follow his lead. Basking in triumph, a gloating grin spread across his scarred, rugged face, Richard’s deepvoice resonated across the heathered moor. “To the Summer Solstice wedding of mydóttirand the son of the Danish king. May she rule thePays de Cauxlike a valorous Valkyrie.”
Chapter 4
Bitter Bile
With his molding iron, hammer, and chisel, Skårde meticulously carved the elaborate wooden head of the formidable dragon which would soon adorn hisdrakkarwarship for the impending voyage west into Normandy. As the reptilian creature came to fearsome life beneath his highly skilled hands, Skårde reflected upon the years he’d studied under the tutelage of the master craftsman Kálfr, the gentle giant who had fostered him as a boy in Norway and taught him to become an expert woodcarver. Skårde was immensely grateful for the solitary recreation which not only allowed him artistic self-expression, but also served as a cleansing, creative catharsis for the horrors and trauma of battle.
While he sculpted the magnificent oak beast, waves of memories from his turbulent past flowed over him like the frigid waters of the nearby fjord.
Born to one of Harald Bluetooth’s concubines in Norway—a pretty young blonde who’d died giving birth to the king’s illegitimate son—Skårde had been abandoned as an infant when his royal father returned to Denmark, leaving him in the care of his maternal grandmother Gyda. As a boy, like most Viking youths in Scandinavia, he’d been fostered to learn a skilled trade and simultaneously taught to wield both axe and sword. Since he’d inherited his father’s towering height and massive build, Skårde soon surpassed his peers and ranked among the fiercest Viking warriors of Norway. When Harald Bluetooth, the newly crowned King of Denmark, learned ofhis estranged son’s prowess and potential, he’d summoned sixteen year old Skårde—his only child and presumptive heir—to sail from Norway and join him in the Viking settlement ofHeiðabýron the Jutland peninsula of his Danish kingdom.
Three years later, when Harald Bluetooth allied with Richard the Fearless to defend Normandy against the invading army of King Lothaire of West Francia, Skårde had fought valiantly at his father’s side. The king had been so impressed by the ferocity of his son’s sword and innate capacity to command that he’d appointed Skårde as leader of his entire Danish army.
And proclaimed him heir to the kingdoms of Norway and Denmark.
Yet—in the same year that Skårde had risen to the pinnacle of power, basking in paternal praise and confident of his role as successor to his father’s dual thrones—Harald Bluetooth had married Tova.
Who’d subsequently given birth to the king’slegitimateson.
With his half-brother Sweyn born within a royal marriage officially recognized by Harald Bluetooth’s Christian church, Skårde—bastard son of the Danish king—had been cast aside, revoked as his father’s designated heir.
Reduced to the position of Viking warlord.
Good for naught but battle.
Although Skårde knew that Sweyn was an innocent child, not responsible for the circumstances of his fortuitous birth, bitter bile still soured his stomach.
He had been abandoned by his father once again.
A thunderous knock at the front door roused Skårde from his acrid reverie. The elderly thrall Dagny—the slave whom Skårde had saved when her cruel captor had been killed in a raid five years ago—opened it to reveal the long, braided beard and weather-wizened face of Harald Bluetooth, accompanied by four of his armed royal guards.
Skårde rose to his feet, placing the chisel and carved dragon prow down upon the table, as his stunned grandmotherrushed to welcome the unannounced king.
Harald entered the longhouse with a magnanimous royal grin. “Greetings, Gyda. You look well.” He affectionately grasped the old woman’s forearms and bent to kiss each of her crinkled cheeks.
“Thank you, my king. I am humbled by your praise.” Gyda smiled softly. Concern and curiosity shone in her wary eyes as she darted Skårde a quick glance, then returned her attention to Harald. “Please, be seated. We are honored by your royal visit.” She motioned for Dagny to help serve the king. “May I offer you a horn of mead, my lord?”
“Já, takk.Gladly.” While his royal guards positioned themselves along the wall where flames flickered in the stone hearth, Harald sat down at the table and motioned for Skårde to join him. The king waited patiently as Gyda filled two ornately carved elk horn drinking vessels from an elaborately decorated, chiseled wooden pitcher. Serving first Harald, then Skårde, she set the decanter on the oak table between them. Dagny placed a stand for the elkhorns in front of each man, then slipped away in silence to wash the dinner dishes and clean the eating area.
Harald dismissively eyed Gyda. “I wish to speak to my son privately.”
“Of course, my king. I shall return to my weaving.” She bowed before the monarch, then retreated to her whalebone loom and skein of woolen threads at the opposite end of Skårde’s abode.
Harald took a long pull of mead from his elkhorn and slid the vessel into the slot of the decorative yet functional wooden stand. “Rolf informs me that you are fully healed. Which means that we can now depart for Normandy.” The king leaned back in his chair and crossed his swarthy arms with a snide grin. “Úlf boasts that he has transformed your hideous scar into a magnificent creation. Show me, that I may appreciate his artistic skill with my own eyes.”
Skårde smirked as he removed his woolen tunic. The gruesome gash from the Frankish enemy sword had been brilliantly transformed into a lightning bolt blazing across his chest.
