“Perfect for your wedding gown.” Oda’s velvety voice expressed appreciation and approval. “And blue is the most highly prized color for a bride.”
“Thank you, Jarl Njörd. This is a truly exceptional bridal gift.” Elfi folded the silk neatly and tucked it back into the chest.
“There is a small box underneath the silk.” Njörd flashed her a brilliant, almost boyish grin. “Another gift, to go with the first.”
Reaching under the layers of luscious blue silk, Elfi retrieved a slender silver case which was engraved with intricate swirls and scrolls. Inside—upon a bed of smooth black velvet—lay a magnificent necklace with three tiers of finely wrought silver chain. Suspended from the delicate metal links, droplet shaped gems in an alternating pattern of blue and green glittered in the golden glow of the fire.
“The small blue stones on the top tier are turquoise from distant lands in the Far East. And these are lapis lazuli,” Njörd whispered, tracing the large, dark blue droplets dangling along the bottom strand with reverent fingertips. “See how the finely woven threads of gold shimmer in the moonlight?” Delight danced in his dark, seductive eyes. “And the green jewels in the center strand are emeralds from Egypt.” His scarred, savage face was alight with pride. “This necklace once belonged to a Persian princess. I knew—the moment I saw it—that it was destined for my future bride. The blue and green gems have all the color, sparkle, and fire of the ocean. The essence of the Nordic Seas.”
Elfi was as mesmerized by the dazzling necklace as the intensity in Njörd’s scorching gaze. Both sparkled with blue fire like the flames leaping inside the huge stones of the enclosed outdoor hearth. Or the sunlit depths of the secret coves and hidden inlets along the Narrow Sea.
“Wear it for me, Elfi.” His penetrating gaze pierced her very soul. She was irresistibly and inexplicably drawn to him. Like a moth to a flame.
“Now?” she stammered, rattled by his magnetic presence.
“Tonight we celebrate your father’s imminent return. The fortification of Étretat. And our upcoming wedding for the Nordic Yule. A perfect occasion for you to wear it.” Njörd carefully removed the necklace from the case and leaned close, prepared to place it around her neck. “May I?” His warm whisper caressed her cheek.
Elfi lifted her long hair and held her breath as the dark hair on his arms brushed against her skin. His intoxicating scent—an earthy blend of leather, pine, woodsmoke, and musky male,awash in the seductive, salty spray of the sea—inundated her senses and stirred her soul.
“A magnificent necklace! You shine like the sea goddess Rán.”Jarl Rikardbellowed his approval, to the hearty agreement of everyone seated at the table.
“Dance with me. I want to show off my beautiful bride.” A wolfish grin spreading across his bearded face, Njörd rose to his feet and pulled Elfi to a stand.
Her hand clutched possessively in his, he led her toward the raging bonfire, where the mead flowed freely and the beguiling music beckoned. Wrapping a trembling Elfi in a brawny, protective embrace, Njörd swept her away to the lively melody of lyres, lutes, and flutes.
When the music slowed to a more seductive rhythm, he pulled her close, running his hands down the length of her loose hair, which fell to the curve of her hips. “Long hair is the essenceof a Viking woman’s beauty.” His heavy breath whispered into the shell of her ear. “Yours is irresistible.”
Elfi’s legs quivered under her grey wool gown. Like the wings of a frightened sparrow taking flight, her heart fluttered wildly in her constricted chest.
How can he have this effect on me? I have never felt like this before.
“The necklace is the same color as your eyes. Blue and green, like the Nordic Seas.”
Unused to overt attention from an attractive male, Elfi was unsure how to respond. Her gaze kept returning to the irresistibly alluring tuft of dark hair beneath his neatly trimmed beard, at the base of his corded neck. Resisting the almost impossible urge to nuzzle it with her nose, she decided to dodge his amorous advances and change the subject instead.
“I am most grateful that you and your army have arrived. With such powerful fortification forle Château Blanc, the Count of Soissons will be forced to release my father. Return my brother Dag’s stolen sword for a proper burial. And abandon any future attacks on Étretat.”
“I shall help Jarl Rikard free your father. Fortify this castle. And defend thePays de Caux.” Njörd tightened his arms around the back of her waist. “Alberic of Soissons cannot have you. Because you, Elfi of Étretat, aremine.” He lifted her chin with a curved finger. A fierce, feral hunger blazed in his lupine gaze. Slowly, possessively, he lowered his mouth and claimed hers.
He drew her bottom lip into his, the wet warmth sending surprising shivers of pleasure straight to her toes. Tracing the outline of her lips with the tip of his tongue, he washed her with waves of unexpected, unknown longing. With one hand firmly centered on her upper back, he lowered the other behind her hips, pressing his hardened length against her soft stomach.
Elfi’s wobbly knees went weak with desire.
The music suddenly stopped.
As Elfi caught her breath and collected her thoughts, Jarl Rikard’sbooming voice bellowed across the grassy glen.
“Come, everyone… find a seat. It’s time for an epic battle of skaldic verse!” Blond bearded face aglow in the moonlight, the Duke of Normandy waited eagerly as the dancers dispersed, settling in at animated tables under the starry night sky, seating themselves upon large smooth rocks, spreading out amongst the wildflowers under the canopy of beech trees along the castle wall.
Jarl Rikard presented the first of the three Nordic poets—his own skald Hrafn, from the ducal court of Fécamp. Clad in a long cape of finely woven chestnut wool, his shoulder length brown hair and beard neatly trimmed, Hrafn seated himself upon the large stump of an oak tree which had been reserved for the bards to entertain the enthralled crowd.
As he drew his wooden bow across the horsehair strings of atalharpa,Hrafn regaled the enrapt throng withTriumph of the Viking Trident—the epic tale of how Jarl Rikard,Count Skårde, and King Harald Bluetooth formed a three-pronged Viking alliance to defeat Frankish forces and reclaim the seized ducal fortress in the heroic, victorious Battle of Fécamp.
After a hearty round of applause and more mugs of golden mead, Richard the Fearless introduced the second bard to enchant the audience with the magic of poetic verse. His divine voice the sole source of music, Stig—Njörd’s renowned skald from the Danish court of Ribe—praised his jarl’s legendary voyages as Wolf of the Nordic Seas in a rendition entitled “Saga of the Savage Sea Wolf.”
Elfi immediately recognized the long grey hair and waist-length beard of the third skald who bowed before the assembled crowd, for Egil had been her father’s court poet inle Château Blancsince well before her birth. With loving eyes, she watched him—a woven wreath of rowan leaves atop his humble head—settle onto the smooth oak stump with his elegant lyre of curved, ornately carved wood. A flutist lowered himself to the leafy ground at the master poet’s side.
Egil’s skaldic poem—theDrápa of Dag—was a glowing tribute to her fallen brother, the valorous Viking who dieddefending his father, his castle, and his beloved sister, Elfi of Étretat.
