“Branded by Thor’s thunder as you triumphed in battle. A glorious badge of honor from the god himself. May his divine giftalways protect you.” As Harald lifted his horn of mead in tribute, Skårde raised his own elkhorn to bristled, smiling lips.
The swallow of mead was a warm, golden glow, welcome as his father’s rare praise.
Harald spotted the carved dragon head at Skårde’s side. He reached across the table and lifted the wooden sculpture, admiring the intricate detail. “You have extraordinary talent with a blade,” he remarked, running appreciative fingertips over the realistic features of the intimidating beast. “Equally skilled with both chisel and sword. As fine a woodcarver as a warrior. This is magnificent work.” He handed the ornate oaken serpent back to Skårde, who laid it down on the table at his side, awash in a satisfying wave of self-esteem.
“A formidable dragon for mydrakkarwarship. As I—Dragon of Denmark—lead your Viking army to victory against the Franks!” A boastful grin stretching across his bearded face, Skårde proudly downed the rest of his mead and motioned Dagny for more. “Allied with Richard the Fearless, you and I shall defend Normandy once again. And vanquish the forces of King Lothaire, just as we did seven years ago.” Skårde grinned at his father while Dagny promptly refilled their drinking horns and retreated to the rear of the room.
Harald tugged on his braided golden beard, contemplating the flames which danced in the hearth. When he raised his pensive gaze, Skårde glimpsed consternation in his father’s grave expression. “We do not sail into battle against the Franks. Our voyage to Normandy is for an entirely different reason.” The king took another long pull of mead and wiped his mustache with the sleeve of his deep blue tunic. “I wish to form a permanent alliance with Richard the Fearless. Through your royal marriage to his daughter. A Celtic Breton priestess named Ylva.”
Skårde shot to his feet and stared at his father in disbelief. “Marriage? Surely you jest! I am Skårde the Scourge, Dragon of Denmark. The invincible leader of your infallible Viking army. I have no desire whatsoever to take a wife!”
Harald imperturbably drank from his elkhorn without comment, as if waitingfor Skårde’s anger to abate. After a few moments, the king commanded, “Sit down and listen. Save your furor for the battlefield. Marriage is a powerful political alliance.”
Skårde scoffed and slumped into his chair, clenching his teeth and jutting his chin in defiant compliance. He drained his elkhorn and summoned Dagny for more mead.
As she meekly obeyed, refilling both drinking vessels, Skårde simmered with silent rage.
“For his daughter’s dowry, Richard the Fearless is bequeathing the entire alabaster coast of Normandy—the immense white chalk cliffs and fecund plains of thePays de Caux—from the mouth of the Seine River atLe Havreto the harbor ofLe Tréporton the River Bresle.” Harald raised his regal hand to silence Skårde’s imminent rebuttal. “In addition to these fertile farmlands and navigable seaports, he is also conferring the fortified castle and royal demesne ofChâteaufort.It’ssituated in the city of Dieppe, on the mouth of the Arques River. With a deep port, perfect for harboring a fleet ofdrakkarships.The limestone fortress once belonged to the Viking chieftain Rollo, great-grandfather of your betrothed.”
Harald’s booming voice and commanding tone became wistful. “You are my eldest son. But because of the circumstances of your birth, the Christian Church does not recognize you as my legitimate heir. By procuring this marriage to the daughter of the reigning Duke of Normandy, I can provide you with a title of nobility and a Viking sovereignty. Richard will appoint youasCount of thePays de Caux. And you shall rule over the Land of the White Chalk Cliffs.”
Harald rose from his chair, indicating his intent to depart, prompting Gyda to abandon her embroidery and rush forward to bid the king farewell. Bending to place a regal kiss on each of her two cheeks, he said softly, “Skårde and I set sail for Normandy in three days.” He took hold of her two gnarled hands, his large thumbs gently caressing the wrinkled skin. “You are welcome to join us for the voyage, if you wish. And relocate—to live with Skårde in his new domain.” He raised Gyda’s knotted knuckles to his bearded lips.” You have cared for my son his entire life. If now, in your advanced years,you prefer to remain here inHeiðabýr, I shall provide for you—as you have always done for him. I leave the choice up to you.”
Gyda’s eyes filled with grateful tears as she smiled lovingly at Skårde. “Of course I shall sail with you both. My place will always be at my grandson’s side.”
The king nodded in hearty approval, then turned to address his scowling son. “We shall sail with a fleet of a hundred vessels, providing warships for your coastal defense. You’ll have five thousand men for your army, with skilled craftsmen to establish new villages and settlements along the coast of thePays de Caux. Carpenters, wainwrights, farmers, and fishermen, with livestock and tools for the tradesmen.”
He clasped Skårde firmly on the shoulders. “The men are anxious for land to till. And wivesto bear them heirs.This voyage will provide both. For them—andforyou.” A magnanimous grin stretched across his bearded face, revealing his eponymous blue tooth. “Prepare to set sail in three days. The sea voyage will take two weeks, depending on the wind and tides. We shall arrive with plenty of time to unload the vessels, establish camps on the grounds around the castle, and prepare for the traditional Viking marriage rituals. We’ll celebrate the Nordic festival ofSólmánuður.And your Summer Solstice wedding to Ylva Rikardsdóttir, Celtic daughter of the Duke of Normandy.”
As Harald headed toward the door, prepared to depart, the glint of fine silver upon the wall caught his keen warrior eye. He strode across the room to the hearth and lifted Skårde’s pilfered prize. “Is this the Frankish blade which branded you with Thor’s thunder?” The king unsheathed the polished sword, admiring the dazzling sapphire in the hilt as he hefted the superbly crafted weapon. With a wolfish grin, he quipped, “The perfect wedding gift to present to your bride in the ritual exchange of swords.”
Harald sheathed the priceless blade and leaned it back against the wall near the fireplace as he spoke to Skårde. “I look forward to our voyage to thePays de Caux.And our crucial alliance with the Vikings of Normandy.” With a majestic nod and a smug regal smile, he bid everyonegoodnight.And—as Skårde, Gyda, and Dagny bowed before the retiring monarch—the royal guards ushered the king out the door.
Skårde dropped into his seat at the table and stared morosely into his mug of mead.I was born to be a warrior. I’ve trained hard my entire wretched life. Proven my worth in countless battles and profitable raids. I’m Skårde the Scourge. Dragon of Denmark. Infallible leader of the victorious Viking army.He drained his mead, slammed the elkhorn into the stand, and scoffed in disgust. Yet, here I am—banished to the distant land of Normandy. Forced to marry a Breton bride and become a feeble farmer. I’m naught but a political pawn to be sacrificed for my father’s alliance with Richard the Fearless.A mirthless laugh escaped his downturned lips.By removing me—the bastard son who poses a potential threat to the throne—my father is ensuring the safety of his legitimate heir.
And abandoning me once again.
Gyda’s loving grip massaged his tensed, taut shoulders. “What did Harald mean about an alliance?”
Irritated and irascible, Skårde shrugged off her soothing touch and rose from the table. “He has arranged for me to marry a Celtic priestess. The Breton daughter of Richard the Fearless. My father wishes to form a permanent political alliance between the Vikings of Normandy and Denmark.” He strode over to the hearth, pacing in front of the flames that mirrored his fiery rage. “My betrothed’s dowry includes a fortified castle, a deep seaport, and the entire Norman coastline of thePays de Caux.I shall be appointed the Count of the White Chalk Cliffs, where my royal father expects me to establish a vast new Viking colony. With five thousand of our Danish men fromHeiðabýr, anxious for farmland and fertile wives.”
Skårde stared at his bewildered, beloved grandmother. The gentle, patient woman who had raised him like a son. His anger abated as he gazed into her loving, limpid eyes.Unlike my father, you have never forsaken me. You’ve always been at my side. I’m grateful that you are coming to Normandy with me. And that I am not forced to leave you behind.Tenderness tempered his tone.“I have no desire to marry. But I do understand the importance of this alliance. King Lothaire of West Francia is anxious to reclaim Normandy for theFrankish crown. By establishing new Viking colonies in thePays de Caux,Richard reinforces the defense ofhis dukedom, and Lothaire is kept in check with powerful Viking armies on either side of Paris.”
Skårde approached his pensive grandmother, seated at the table near the welcoming hearth. Wisdom shone in her shrewd eyes as she firmly held his gaze. “Anvarr will undoubtedly replace me as the Danish warlord. But he is rash and reckless in battle. It troubles me greatly that he will be in charge of defendingHeiðabýr—with far fewer warships and warriors to defend against the Franks. In the absence of King Harald Bluetooth and Skårde the Scourge, Dragon of Denmark, it would be the opportune moment for our enemies to strike. It does not bode well,Amma,”he said, using the Nordic term of endearment for grandmother. “I am filled with apprehension at this untimely voyage.”
Gyda rose to her feet and rested a gnarled hand upon his thundering heart. When she looked up at him, Skårde swam in the endless depths of maternal love and steadfast strength. “You have recently defeated the Franks and defendedHeiðabýr,You drove the invading army all the way back to Frisia. Denmark will be safe until your father’s return. And you,min kjære, as Count of thePays de Caux, will be a vital ally for both your father, the King of Norway and Denmark, and the sire of your betrothed, the powerful Duke of Normandy.” She reached up to stroke his bearded cheek and smiled softly. “Perhaps—Freyja willing—you might even come to love your Breton wife. For she, like you, was born to a fierce Nordic ruler. And Viking blood flows in her Celtic veins.”
Dagny approached and spoke quietly. “The dishes are done, my lady, and the kitchen is clean. With your permission, I’ll retire now.”
Gyda took hold of the younger woman’s hands and gave them an affectionate squeeze. Although many of the wealthier Vikings inHeiðabýrkept thralls, Dagny served Skårde and Gyda more as a respected worker and friend than a baseborn slave. “Of course you may. Thank you, Dagny.” She smiled at the gentle servant. “In three days, we’ll be setting sailfor Normandy. King Harald has arranged for Skårde to marry the daughter of Richard the Fearless. We’re relocating to thePays de Caux. The Land of the White Chalk Cliffs.”
Gyda beamed at Skårde. her papery cheeks crinkled with joy and pride. “Skårde will rule a new Viking settlement as Count of thePays de Caux!” Gyda wrapped her arms around the stunned servant, hugging her tight. “We’ll live in a castle, Dagny! Can you imagine? What a marvelous adventure it will be!” Gyda kissed Dagny’s soft, silvery hair. “Tomorrow, we begin packing. But tonight, we celebrate Skårde’s betrothal. With goblets of golden mead!”
Chapter 5
Voyage to Normandy
Ylva’s thighs and rump ached as she thumped endlessly up and down in the stiff leather saddle. She was unused to riding a horse, for she and Lova had never been able to afford one. They had always trekked into the village on foot, each of the two women hauling a small wooden wagon to transport their bartered supplies. Now, as Ylva rode the majestic grey Andalusian, forced to follow her father and his Viking warriors along the craggy Breton coast, the pitiful bleating of her terrified sheep filled her ears and tore at her heart.Like my beloved herd, I am a lamb being led to slaughter.Sacrificed to the insatiable, voracious Viking army.Throat parched and stomach clenched,she watched the abundant pink and purple blossoms of the familiar heathered moor disappear as her captors’ caravan progressed relentlessly east into the unknown forested cliffs of Normandy.
