Lothaire spun away from the tall windows draped in royal blue and adorned with the golden fleur-de-lys, emblem of the glorious Frankish king Clovis. He strode across the vast chamber and plopped down upon his royal throne, squeezing the velvet tufted arms of the gilded walnut chair as if he were strangling the accursed Skårde the Scourge.
With Bluetooth arranging a royal marriage between his bastard and the daughter of Richard the Fearless, the renewed alliance of voracious Vikings poses an intolerable threat to my Frankish crown. Precisely why I have summoned Alberic and Badelbert. They will destroy this treacherous alliance and help me exact revenge.
An obsequious servant appeared in the doorway. “Pardon the interruption, Sire, but your expected guests have arrived.”
“Usher them in. And bring more wine.” Lothaire adjusted the glittering golden crownwhich rested over his long, dark curls. He draped the ermine-lined cloak over his broad shoulders in a most majestic pose as his royal valet Ragno escorted the Frankish Count of Soissons and the Frisian Count of Embda into the throne room. Both elegantly dressed nobles bowed before their sovereign king.
“Greetings, gentlemen. Please, be seated.” Lothaire gestured to the two velvet tufted chairs on the opposite side of the oval table from his lavishly gilded throne. He waited for his two most trusted men to settle themselves while Ragno filled goblets of wine and retreated from the chamber. With a solemn nod, Lothaire issued his royal command. “I’ve summoned you today for a vital mission. The opportunity for us to avenge the grievous losses inflicted by the murderous Danish king.” He sipped his burgundy wine, eyeing the Count of Soissons over the rim of his ornate silver chalice. “Alberic, you will avenge the death of your brother, the finest knight I have ever known, and retrieve the priceless sword stolen when Bluetooth’s bastard slew Marcellus.”
A greedy grin stretched across Alberic’s bearded face.
Lothaire placed his goblet down upon the elaborately carved walnut table and directed his attention to the Count of Embda, whose shrewd gaze conveyed curiosity and eager anticipation. “And you, Badelbert, shall retaliate for the devastation of Dorestad, your most thriving seaport.”
Crossing long, sinewy arms over his fine woolen tunic embroidered with golden thread, Lothaire leaned back in his throne, his thick brows furrowed into a contemptuous scowl. “Bluetooth and his bastard have sailed west with an enormous fleet ofdrakkarwarships and a sizable Viking army. Harald has arranged for his son to marry the daughter of Richard the Fearless, forming a powerful, intolerable alliance between the Vikings of Normandy, Norway, and Denmark.”
Alberic and Badelbert exchanged uneasy glances, shifting in their uncomfortable chairs and sipping from their silver chalices of wine.
“Despite the disastrous implications of this Viking alliance, we can nevertheless turn the ominous tide to our advantage. While Bluetooth and his bastard celebrate the month-long traditions of aroyal Viking wedding in the white chalk cliffs of Normandy, we shall profit from the rare opportunity to attack while both the king and Dragon of Denmark are conspicuously absent.”Lothaire grinned as he gulped from his goblet. “Badelbert, as the Frisian Count of Embda, you’ve already established lucrative trading centers in the Danish port ofHeiðabýr.You and Alberic, disguised as shipping merchants, will sail there with two Frisian ships, laden with Frankish glass, wine, and commodities to sell. Conceal your finest warriors in the hull of the vessels, with orders to remain hidden until nightfall. Procure lodging as Frisian vendors to avoid suspicion. Under cover of darkness, send your assassins to infiltrate Bluetooth’s royal longhouse, striking swiftly and silently to eliminate all the guards. Abduct Bluetooth’s heir—his seven-year-old-son, Sweyn, and bring the boy to me here in Lâon, the very same castle where the young Richard the Fearless was once held hostage by my royal father.” Lothaire sipped his wine and scoffed as he set the goblet down and wiped the moustache above his sneering lip. “But, unlike my paternal predecessor, I shall succeed in reclaiming the Frankish lands lost to the Viking chieftain Rollo in the infamous treaty ofSaint-Clair-Sur-Epte. I shall be known as Lothaire the Great, the powerful Frankish king who finally expelled the Vikings from Normandy. By forcing Harald Bluetooth to break his alliance with Richard the Fearless and betray his bastard son.”
Chapter 7
A Condemned Man
Sizzling steam rose through the wooden slats in the bath house as male thralls poured water over the heated coals. While the moist heat washed away the grime and soothed the aching muscles of his exhausted body, Skårde reflected on the recent frenzy of activity in preparation for his imminent royal marriage to Ylva, daughter of the Duke of Normandy.
The Viking fleet from Denmark had landed four weeks ago at the base of the white chalk cliffs of thePays de Caux.They’d docked in the harbor at the mouth of the Arques River on the Narrow Sea where a shelter, similar to the Danish port ofHeiðabýr,nowprotected hundreds ofdrakkarwarships and trading vessels.
Skårde and Harald hadbeen welcomed into the castle ofChåteaufortin the city of Dieppe by the awaiting servants and defending soldiers of Richard the Fearless, who had ventured to the Breton village of Saint-Suliac to fetch his daughter, the intended bride.
The Danish immigrants and Viking army fromHeiðabýrhad settled into the numerous longhouses and huts established by the Duke of Normandy on the castle grounds and upon the banks of the Arques River. Working collaboratively with the Vikings of Normandy, the Danes had built clusters of longhouses and huts in the new settlements along the alabaster coast where Skårde and his bride would soon ruleas Count and Countess of thePays de Caux.
For the past month, every Friday—Frigg’s Day, when Viking marriages were performed in honor of the Nordic Goddess—Skårde and his father had organized mass Viking weddings between their Danish warriors and newfound Norman brides. The ceremonies, officiated by ordained priests and celebrated with Viking rituals, were a blend of both Christian and pagan traditions.
Skårde stared at his new wedding tattoo, where the Viking runeIngwaz, symbol for Ing, the Nordic god of virility, was inscribed inside his left wrist.
He scoffed in disgust.
Ing was another name for Freyr, the Viking god of peace and plentiful harvest.
What cruel irony that I—infallible leader of the voracious Viking army—am now banished to Normandy. Reduced to rule over feckless farmers and fertile fields.I’m Skårde the Scourge, Dragon of Denmark. Born and bred for battle. I know nothing of peace. Thor’s thunder, I do not want this forced marriage to a Celtic Breton bride!
A violent shiver rippled up his spine as he remembered the first time he’d seen her.
Atop a magnificent grey horse, long blonde hair gilded in a golden halo of setting sunlight, she’d embodiedSól,Nordic Goddess of the Sun.
The blinding vision had robbed him of breath and coherent thought.
Richard’s servants had rushed out to greet her, welcoming Ylva and celebrating the return of their jarl and sovereign lord. The Duke of Normandy and his golden daughter had settled into royal rooms in a reserved wing of the castle, and Richard had joined Harald and Skårde in building longhouses and huts for the Danish army who would henceforth defend thePays de Caux.
Now scowling in the bathhouse, his mood foul at the prospect of the impending marriage and future sovereignty over a Viking army transformed into feeble farmers, Skårde’s anger dissipated somewhat at the thought of his gentle grandmother.
He was immensely grateful that Gyda had come to Normandy with him. Not only did her steadfast presence calm him, but she hadalso taken Ylva under her maternal wing like a protective, brooding hen.
Since his betrothed had no female family members to prepare her for the rituals involved in an elaborate Viking wedding, Gyda and the servant Dagny had promised to fulfill the required roles and ensure that Ylva would be a perfectly prepared royal bride.
Dutiful male thralls interrupted Skårde’s reverie as they readied him for the afternoon wedding ceremony. They lathered his scarred body, long blond hair, and thick beard with lye soap scented with beeswax and cleansing herbs. When finished, the four servants led him from the steaming bathhouse to a clearing in the nearby forest of beech trees surrounding the castle where a deep freshwater pool, formed by an underground spring, fed into the fast-flowing river. As they plunged him into the cold water—symbolic of washing away the past and invigorating him for the future—Skårde reflected that similar ministrations were being simultaneously performed on his beautiful Breton bride.
Amma and Dagny are bathing her now, too. To prepare her for me.
