Oda rose to unsteady feet, placing a gnarled hand on the sore hip which often plagued her. She hobbled toward Elfi, taking hold of her cold hands. “Yourfaðiris strong and stubborn,elska,”she said, using the affectionate Nordic nickname she called Elfi. “Don’t worry—he’ll be fine. AndJarl Rikardwill find a way to free him. Without surrendering this castle. Or marrying you to the Frankish count.” She raised Elfi’s shaking hands to her wrinkled lips. “We must have faith in the Nordic gods.”
Regret and remorse laced Varg’s voice as he reluctantly delivered the rest of his report. “Lady Elfi…Bjarke has been critically injured. He’s with the healer Gorm—in a private nook near the castle kitchen.”
Elfi’s knees nearly buckled from the blow. Bjarke was not only her father’s highest-ranking knight ofle Château Blanc, buthe had also been Dag’s closest friend. And Elfi loved him like a brother. She glanced at her grandmother, whose sorrowful eyes reflected her own grief at the grievous news. “Take us to him.”
Varg escorted Elfi and Oda down the dimly lit corridor to the stairwell at the end of the hall. At the bottom of the stone stairs, chaos unfolded as knights hauled wounded warriors into a section of the Great Hall which had been transformed into a chamber for healing.
Servants scurried about with pallets and blankets, linens for bandages, and cauldrons of steaming water. Men howled in unspeakable agony as healers closed gaping wounds with red-hot irons from the fire in the blazing hearth. The clean scent of sage and soap warred with the coppery stench of blood and the noxious odor of vomit and bowels.
Varg led them past the havoc to a quiet room off the kitchen where the castle cooks often slept. There, stretched out on a clean straw pallet in the corner of the nook, lay a wounded, bloodied Bjarke, being tended by an elderly healer.
Elfi dashed to the bed and knelt at his side. “Bjarke,I am here.”Her frantic eyes scanned his lacerated face, where a deep gash had sliced his cheek from temple to chin. On the chair beside the bed, she spotted the blood-saturated linen gambeson he’d worn under his chain mail armor, the left shoulder of which had apparently been slashed by a sword. Relief washed over her when Bjarke—despite his obvious pain—attempted a lopsided grin.
“They thought my throat had been slashed, there was so much blood.. But it’s just this slit on my face.” He raised an unsteady hand to the garish wound on his right cheek. “The bastard sliced my face and severed the mail on my shoulder. But I ran him through with my blade…and stole his!” He turned his head on the down pillow and nodded to the weapon which stood proudly against the wall. “Frankish swords are the finest in the human realm—nearly as well-crafted as Elven weapons. Now I own the blade which carved my face. Well worth the price for such a prize.” He chuckled—wincing as his mirth caused apparent agony—andreached for her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m fine, Elfi. It looks much worse than it is.” The uninjured side of his mouth curled up in a smirk. “The scar will be hideous. Perfect for a savage Viking beast.” Rumbled laughter escaped his bearded, bloodied lips.
“Odin surely blessed him in battle. Bjarke is fortunate indeed that the slice is not deep. I cleansed the wound with wine…stitched up the gash… and coated it with a salve of comfrey, sage, garlic, and honey.” The white-haired healer Gorm spoke sternly to his stubborn patient. “Lord Bjarke, you have lost a great deal of blood. You must remain in bed for three days.” He motioned to a thrall, who brought forth a goblet of wine. Gorm fumbled in the leather satchel belted at his waist and produced a stoppered vial. He uncorked the container, sniffed the contents, then poured the mixture into the wine. “Drink this. It will prevent the wound from festering, soothe your pain, and help you sleep.” The wizened old healer handed the goblet to Bjarke, who dutifully drank the herbal potion. Gorm then spoke to Oda, the matriarch who had run the castle ever since the death of Thorfinn’s wife and Elfi’s mother, Dúva. “Make sure he rests. I must tend to the other wounded soldiers—but I’ll be back soon to check on him and change his bandages. He’ll need three days in bed to recover from the loss of blood, and two to three weeks for the wound to fully heal.” Gorm bowed his head respectfully to Oda, Elfi, and Varg. “Please excuse me. I’m needed in the Great Hall.”
“Thank you, Gorm. We are truly thankful for your exceptional skills.” Elfi smiled at the healer and watched him pack up his herbal satchel and depart. She bent forward to push a lock of dark hair from Bjarke’s weary, weakened face, leaning down to kiss his uninjured cheek. “Sleep. It’s what you need most.”
Grief ravaged his haggard voice as he struggled to resist the lull of herbs Gorm had laced in his wine. “The Frankish army destroyed the village…hundreds of men slaughtered defending their homes…Now we have widows with hungry children… and no men to harvest the crops. Or rebuild the damaged curtain wall surrounding the castle.” He rolled his head, fixing Elfi with fiercely protective, fraternal eyes. “Alberic of Soissons captured your father and demands your hand in marriage. But Dag wouldneverwant you to wed a Frankish lord. Or surrender the castle that he died to defend.” He spluttered and choked, stifling an angry, bitter sob.
Elfi sat down on the bed at his side. Desperation shone in Bjarke’s bleak, anguished eyes. “I’ve already sent urgent messages to summon reinforcements.”
Bjarke’s heavy lids closed, but he fought to stay awake and listen to Elfi’s words.
“I’ve askedJarl Rikardand Count Skårde to bring men to fortify the castle.They will help us find a way to free my father. And defend Étretat against the Frankish count.” She kissed his bristled cheek again. “Varg will command the men until you recover. Oda and I will supervise the castle. And help will arrive very soon. Now sleep. I’ll come check on you in a little while.” She waited until he succumbed, relieved to hear his rhythmic breathing and soft snores.
Oda’s cheeks crinkled into a comforting smile.“Bjarke is young, strong, and stubborn as a mule. He will be up and about in a day or two, you’ll see.” She took hold of Elfi’s hands and gave them an affectionate, reassuring squeeze.“Jarl Rikardand Count Skårde will answer yourcall. They will bring men to fortify this castle and defend Étretat. Together, we will find a way to free your father and defy the Frankish count.”
An impish gleam flared in Oda’s knowing gaze. “PerhapsJarl Rikardcan even find a Viking husband for you.If you are married to a Nordic jarl, the Count of Soissons cannot insist on your coveted hand.” Still clutching Elfi’s fingers, Oda raised them to her soft, wrinkled lips.“That ismy Yuletide Wish,elska.ForJarl Rikardto free your father and defeat the Frankish Count. To find a husband worthy of you. And establish peace in thePays de Caux.”
Chapter 2
Richard Sans Peur
The Viking settlement of Fécamp was enclosed by dense forest and perched atop the two hundred foot oceanfront cliffs of the alabaster coast of Normandy, approximately twenty miles east of Étretat. Encircled by Viking longhouses, huts, and merchant shops, the ducal palace of the thriving village was the birthplace and personal residence of the Duke of Normandy.
Richard the Fearless.
Richard Sans Peur.
Son of William Longsword, grandson of the Viking chieftain Rollo, Richard—as Duke of Normandy—was vassal to King Lothaire of West Francia. Yet, by amassing political alliances through two marriages and several strategic victories in battle, Richard ruled the dukedom of Normandy with as much—or perhaps even more—power than the Frankish king.
Flanked by loyal guards and served by dutiful thralls, Richard and his pagan wife Gunnor now sat in the Great Hall of the fortress of Fécamp, breaking fast with castle occupants on the mild, late summer morning. The sound of rapidly approaching horses’ hooves announced an unexpected arrival.
“Jarl Rikard, an urgent message has come fromle Château Blanc.The rider requests permission to enter.” Clad in boiled leather and chain mail armor, armed with axe and sword, the Vikingwarrior Halvar bowed respectfully before Richard as his sovereign lord.
“Bring him in.” Richard nodded as a servant refilled his mug of ale. He glanced at Gunnor. Cautious concern shone in her waryamber eyes. “Thorfinn needs help. Soissons must have attacked again.”
Halvar escorted the messenger into the vast chamber. The flustered rider removed his chain mail coif, wiped the sweat from his brow, and fisted his armored chest in reverence to Richard. He gratefully accepted a mug of ale from a thrall and greedily gulped it down while several of Richard’s ducal guards approached in full alert. “Jarl Rikard, Lady Elfi sent me,” he stammered, struggling to catch his breath. “Alberic of Soissons attackedle Château Blancand captured Lord Thorfinn. He devastated the village and demands Lady Elfi’s hand in marriage. She has requested that you come to aid Étretat.”
Richard rose from the table and issued orders to Halvard and his armed guards. “Assemble a hundred men. Pack supplies and load up the horses. We depart in two hours.”
Halvar ducked his chin and dashed out of the Great Hall with Richard’s armored knights and the messenger from Étretat.
Returning to sit at Gunnor’s side, Richard squeezed her hand and considered his limited options. “I cannot permit the Count of Soissons to marry Elfi of Étretat.” He downed a gulp of ale and slammed the mug on the table. “King Lothaire seized my castle years ago in an attempt to establish a Frankish colony here in thePays de Caux. Thank the gods, with the aid of Skårde the Scourgeand Harald Bluetooth, we reclaimed Fécamp. But now,the Franks are trying another approach to gain control of Normandy. If Soissons marries Elfi, he becomes Lord ofle Château Blanc,andKing Lothaire would be perfectly positioned to launch further Frankish attacks against the entire alabaster coast. Perhaps finally succeed in his endless attempt to drive the Vikings from Normandy. And reattach my dukedom to his West Frankish crown.”
Gunnor brushed a lock of blond hair from Richard’s heavily bearded cheek. Intelligence glinted in her shrewd golden gaze. “Send word to Harald Bluetooth. Marry Elfi to one of his powerful Danish jarls, just as you wedded your daughter Ylva to Count Skårde. Requestreinforcements once again from the King of Denmark for thePays de Caux.” Soft, sensuous lips whispered in his attentive ear. “With the combined forces of two Viking armies, you can force the Count of Soissons to release Thorfinn.” She purred like a contented cat. “Elfi’s new Danish husband will fortify your power as Duke of Normandy. And further strengthen your Viking alliance with the King of Denmark and Norway.”
