“We summoned Freyja to save you. She healed you with her kiss.” Thevölvawithdrew from Haldor’s embrace andunlaced the sides of his leather chest plate. “I want to see if the wound is fully healed.” She removed the cuirass covering his torso. The linen gambeson underneath was saturated and stained with dried brown blood. Úlvhild lifted the garment over his head, revealing the Falcon’s magnificent, expansive chest.
Rippled with sculpted muscles and covered in dark brown hair, the broad breadth displayed an intricate array of interwoven feathers that glimmered with an iridescent shine. On his right arm, where the otherworldly tattooed feathers met bare skin, a mark in the vague shape of lips and soft, downy feathers emitted a radiant golden and violet glow.
Úlvhild traced the tattoo with tender fingertips. “Freyja’s Kiss,” she murmured with admiration and awe. “Once again, the Goddess of Love has marked you with her divine light.”
Haldor flexed the muscles in his right arm. “It’s fully healed.”
“How do you feel?” Skårde’s voice was wary.
“Exhilarated. Energized. Even stronger than before.” The Falcon grinned and stretched his sinewy arms overhead. Ylva spotted more shimmery feathers tattooed across his brawny back.
While everyone gathered around the Falcon, breathless with excitement at the miraculous manifestation of the goddess, Sweyn slipped away from Helga and rushed to greet his brother. When the young boy threw his arms around Skårde’s waist, Ylva noted how her husband winced and protected his left side.
I need to get hisarmor off to see how badly he’s injured.
“Faðirasked me to tell you that he remained with Duke Richard in Fécamp last night, to honor our fallen warriors with a glorious funeral pyre of tribute. He said he would set sail this morning, so that he would arrive here at Châteaufort tonight, for all of us to celebrate victory together!” Skårde carefully hugged a jubilant Sweyn as Ylva rushed to his side.
“Let me see your wound.” Ylva summoned Skårde’s personal chamberlain, who was among the exuberant castle servants chatting along the wall of the Great Hall. Jofroi jumped to attention at her summons and strode across the room to help her remove Skårde’s chain mail hauberk.
Beneath the armored tunic, the linen gambeson was soaked. But unlike the dried brown stains in Haldor Falk’s lining, the thick padding around Skårde’s injured side was saturated with bright red blood.
Ylva walked to the center of the Great Hall and raised her arms to capture everyone’s attention. She waited for the animated crowd to quiet before addressing them as chatelaine of the castle. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are truly grateful that Lord Skårde has safely returned toChâteaufort. And profoundly thankful that the Goddess Freyja appeared before us, to heal the wounded Falcon, Haldor Falk.” She smiled at the enigmaticvitkiand the dotingvölvaat his side. “Tonight, King Harald Bluetooth arrives atChâteaufortwith our victorious Viking army. We shall celebrate with a feast fit for the gods, while Bragi regales us with the enchanting tale ofFreyja’s Kissin his legendary skaldic verse.” She beamed at their castle poet, who had witnessed the astounding appearance of the goddess. “But for now, I ask you all to resume your duties and clear the Great Hall so that Lord Skårde and his huscarl Gunni may be treated for their injuries. Thank you for your diligent service. We will gather here tonight to celebrate our victory in reclaiming Fécamp.”
Everyone welcomed Skårde, Gunni, and the Falcon home as they slowly exited the Great Hall. Ylva beckoned Jofroi and asked him to fetch a clean tunic and leggings for both Gunni and Skårde. He departed at once to comply.
When the chamber was at last quiet, except for the crackling of the comforting fire, Ylva and Maeve prepared to heal their wounded men.
Chapter 37
Aftermath of Battle
Ylva helped Skårde sit in a chair and removed the blood soaked gambeson under his chain mail armor. She exhaled in relief when she saw that the slice across the ribs under his left arm was shallow. But since it was still bleeding, she pressed a clean linen cloth against the wound, positioning Skårde’s hand over the compress to hold it in place. “I need to staunch the bleeding first. Then I’ll stitch the wound closed with needle and thread. Try to relax while I get my supplies.”
While Úlvhild fussed over the Falcon, serving him herb-laced water from the sacred spring and feeding him oat porridge, baked fish, and salted pork that she had ordered from the castle kitchen, Maeve tended Gunni, who was laying on a straw pallet upon the floor. She had removed his armored leggings and linen hose and was washing a nasty gash on the outer portion of his upper left thigh. “Sure and it’s a good thing you have such strong legs. The armor blocked the brunt of the blow, and your thick muscles prevented the blade from cuttin’ too deep. Sweet Brigid be praised, it’s just a flesh wound. I’ll have you stitched up in no time.”
Ylva mixed ground comfrey and yarrow into the garlic and honey salve that Maeve had made. She fetched a flagon of wine, needle and thread, and a ceramic bowl, bringing the supplies and the garlic ointment to the table between them so that she could share everything with Maeve. Removing the linen compress from Skårde’s injured left side, shewashed away the blood while she soaked the needle and thread in a bowl of wine. “This will sting,” she warned him, pouring the wine into the wound and sopping up the spill with a soft linen cloth.
He hissed and clenched his teeth as she made a meticulous row of neat, precise stitches. When she was done, she applied the herbal garlic and honey salve over the stitches and carefully bandaged the wound.
She helped him don the clean tunic which Jofroi had brought and asked the chamberlain to help Skårde up the stairs to their private chambers. “I’ll come up with you. To settle you into bed,” she said to her husband. “You need to sleep. We have a victory celebration tonight.”
He grinned wearily, the exhaustion of battle, the stress of saving the Falcon, the harrowing sea voyage, and his own injury all taking its toll on his beloved, bearded face.
Maeve finished the stitches on Gunni’s leg, applied the same garlic and honey poultice to the wound that Ylva had used for Skårde, and painstakingly bandaged the redbeard’s injured thigh.
“Take him up to our chamber,” Úlvhild said to Maeve. “I’ll bring the Falcon to my hut in the village. We’ll come back to the castle and join you this evening for the victory celebration. It will be much calmer for Gunni in the chamber upstairs. And the servants can prepare the Great Hall for the feast.”
“I’ll find a couple servants to help you.” Ylva went out into the foyer and returned with two strong valets, who raised Gunni to his feet. “Go with him,” she said to Maeve. “Summon Norhild or Eydis if you need anything. I’ll see you tonight.” She kissed her friend’s freckled cheek and watched her leave with Gunni, supported under the shoulders by strong servants on either side.
The Falcon shook Skårde’s hand, profound gratitude shining in his dark eyes. “Thank you, Dragon of Normandy. I owe you my life. Perhaps one day I can repay you.”
Úlvhild kissed Ylva’s cheek, then Skårde’s, and led her Falcon out the door.
Gyda and Dagny came into the Great Hall to check on Skårde. “Odin be praised,” she exclaimed when Ylva informed the old womanthat her grandson was fine. Gyda hugged Skårde, kissed both him and Ylva, and promised to see them at the victory feast.
Her heart soaring like Freyja’s swan, Ylva accompanied her wounded husband—aided by his competent chamberlain—upstairs to their room.
Jofroi helped Ylva settle Skårde into the large feather bed. When the chamberlain discreetly left the room, affording them privacy, she poured a mug of water from the sacred spring and withdrew a vial of herbal tincture from the leather pouch at her waist. She measured three drops of the elderberry, thyme, and calendula elixir into the healing water and offered it to Skårde. After he’d consumed it all, she helped him lay down on the downy mattress and placed the empty chalice on the nearby bedside table. She sat down on the bed and kissed her haggard husband, relief crashing through her like waves against the white chalk cliffs. “Thank the gods you’re alive. I knew you had been wounded.” She traced his bristled cheek with tender fingertips and brushed his soft, smooth lips with her own. “I prayed to Thor, Tyr, and Odin to give you strength in battle. And offered my blood to them in sacrifice.”
