Adalbero bowed before Capet. “Mon roi, the Frankish crown is now yours. But we must ride to Noyon, to sanctify your coronation in the Christian church before the eyes of God.”
Capet nodded solemnly. “Then we ride at first light.”
Warriors began the solemn task of burying the dead.
Nearby villagers arrived with monks and attendants, murmuring prayers over bandaged limbs as they loaded the wounded onto carts and wagons, transporting them to makeshift hospitals in nearby churches and abbeys.
Frankish knights were buried in Christian graves, Adalbero and the council bishops whispering prayers over their consecrated bodies.
Across the battlefield, Danish warriors and Norman knights gathered branches, logs, and timber, stripping limbs from the surrounding forest to build dozens of small funeral pyres for theirfallen Viking brothers. Jarl Rikard, Thorfinn, Skårde, theÚlfhéðnar, andLjósálfarstood vigil at each fire, while Haldor and Skjöld—vitkiandnoaidi—performed sacred rites.
Haldor inscribed runes in the earth with the end of his Dwarven spear, chanting an invocation to Odin, his deep melodic voice rising with the smoke which curled into the darkening sky. He called upon theAllfatherto welcome the valiant Vikings slain in battle into the glory of Valhalla.
Skjöld drew Sámi circles with his bare hands around Yrjar’s ashes, keeping a portion for a future memorial tribute he would perform with theBlóðsmiðrupon their return to Étretat.
By nightfall, the battlefield had been cleared, the fallen buried, funeral pyres smoldering, as the weary warriors set up a temporary camp. Nobles and bishops retired to their pavilions, knights and men-at-arms to smaller tents and bedrolls in a defensive circle around their newly crowned king. Most of the warriors tore into salted meat and flatbread from their packs, while the aroma of roasting rabbits and birds skewered over open fires offered some a rare taste of fresh meat before the long march to Noyon.
While Skjöld and Skadi returned to their tent, and Luna and Njáll to theirs, Haldor relaxed in the pavilion he shared with Rikard, physically and emotionally exhausted after the excruciating ordeal of battle. Attendants served him rabbit stew and barley bread, a fortifying blend of fresh meat and welcome warmth.
The canvas flapped open as Jarl Rikard burst into the tent. He had just returned from a meeting in King Capet’s royal pavilion among the clergy and nobles of the council to discuss tomorrow’s coronation in Noyon. While a squire helped Rikard out of his chain mail armor—to be cleaned and polished as much as possible for tomorrow’s coronation—the attendant placed a steaming bowl of rabbit stew and a mug of ale on the table for the ravenous, weary duke.
Now clad in comfortable woolen tunic and breeches, like Haldor himself,Rikard plopped down onto the chair piled with furs and sighed in audible relief. He took a long pull of ale and wiped his golden beard heavily streaked with silver. “We ride at dawn,” he told Haldor, tearing off a hunk of bread and soaking it in the stew to soften before popping it into his mouth. “We’ll arrive in Noyon by late morning. Adalbero sent riders ahead, to alert the clergy and villagers to prepare the church and the town for the coronation.” He scooped several heaping spoonfuls of the savory stew into his mouth, washing them down with ale. “After the coronation, there will be a procession through the town. People will cheer and celebrate the new king who will unite the divided territories of West Francia and bring peace to this long-ravaged land.”
Rikard finished his stew, sopped up the broth, and leaned back, stretching his long legs and crossing his sinewy arms. “I’ll accompany the king back to Paris, where Njörd and Tryggvi await our arrival. Adalbero will ride on to Reims. Guillaume and Geoffroy will return with their retinues to Aquitaine and Anjou. You, Skårde, Skjöld and the others can all head home to Étretat.” He grinned at Haldor as he refilled their mugs of ale. “I know you are eager to return to your beautifulvölvawife.”
“Indeed I am. And you must be anxious to return to Gunnor. Is she in Rouen or Fécamp?”
“She awaits me in Rouen. The two of us will return to Paris for the summer solstice. Our new king shall be officially crowned tomorrow in Noyon, but Capet wishes to mark the occasion with a royal coronation and grand celebration in the Christian church of Notre-Dame onl’ Île de la Cité.” He downed the rest of his ale and wiped his bearded lips. “With the deaths of Lothaire and Louis the Fifth, the Carolingian reign of Frankish kings— descended from Charlemagne himself—has finally come to an end. The coronation of Hugh Capet marks the birth of a new dynasty, one that will unite the warring lands of the Frankish kingdom beneath a single crown. The Capetian dynasty of Hugh Capet.”
Rikard rose from the table and stretched his back, growling like a bear. He sauntered over to his pile of furs and laid down,crossing his arms behind his head. “Capet has invited us all to the grand celebration in Paris. He offers to house us as guests inle Palais Royal—where you and I once freed Sweyn from Lothaire’s prison twenty winters past.” He rumbled with laughter at the distant memory, his mirthful expression fading as he turned to Haldor. “When will your babe be born? Will you and Úlvhild be able to attend the coronation in Paris?”
Haldor drained his mug and rose from his chair. “Our daughter will be born in late July, so we’ll be there. Úlvhild will be pleased to witness the fulfillment of the prophecy she foresaw nearly twenty summers ago.”
“I remember it well,” he murmured. “Úlvhild foresaw Skjöld’s birth—and Capet’s coronation—when Ylva first wed Skårde. ‘The child born to the son of the Danish king and the daughter of the Norman duke will forge a dynasty to unite this land and rule for a thousand years.’”Rikard tucked a bearskin under his braided golden beard. Gratitude and brotherhood blazed in his ducal gaze. “You trained my grandson well, Haldor,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Taught him the ways of anoaidiamong the Sámi tribe in the Lofoten Islands. Forged him into a hardened warrior with the brutalBlóðsmiðrinFalkhöll.If not for you,Skjöld would never have foreseen the attack on Dvalinn’s cave, nor would either of you have received the Dwarven weapons which brought us victory today. I am eternally grateful—as is our new king, Hugh Capet.”
Haldor crawled into the furs piled atop his bedroll, his falcon heart soaring like outstretched wings over the icy fjord near theDragon’s Leapcave where he had nurtured—and wed—his beloved Úlvhild. He glanced at the wedding ring on his scarred hand, the amber gem ofFreyja’s Eyesglowing at him in the golden light of the brazier within Jarl Rikard’s tent.
Úlvhild’s beautiful face floated into his mind, theseiðrfjáðrmark above his heart burning warm against his skin.Soon, my love, we shall be reunited. And welcome our daughter together when you bring her into this world.
Haldor’s heavy lids closed as he drifted off to sleep.
And dreamed of his belovedvölva.
* * * *
The morning sun glinted off Haldor’s polished leather falcon armor as he proudly rode with Jarl Rikard, Skjöld, Skadi, Thorfinn, Skårde, and the others, following Hugh Capet and his royal retinue into the village of Noyon. As their horses plodded along the pebbled road, banners snapping in the crisp wind, villagers gathered to welcome them and cheered as the new king arrived at the Christian chapel of Notre-Dame, bearing the same holy name as the famed church in Paris where he would be formally crowned in summer.
In the churchyard, trumpets blared, and the king’s procession dismounted.Clergy in surplices and hooded deacons waiting at the entrance stepped forward to escort Capet, his allies, and the council of nobles inside. Horses were led to a nearby enclosure, and the warriors who had ridden from the battlefield remained outside, standing with the cheering villagers. Mud-streaked armor and bloodied weapons now polished and gleaming in the midday sun, they would stand as honor guard to witness the sanctified crowning of their new king.
Adalbero, the Archbishop of Reims, led the clergy and council of nobles into the church, his curved bishop’s staff in hand, the jewels in its curved finial glinting in the golden light of flickering candles. Behind him, the eight bishops and the lords of Normandy, Aquitaine, and Anjou followed, their heavy boots thudding on the stone floor as they lined up on either side of the altar, which glimmered in the incandescent light.
As Haldor entered the church with Thorfinn, Skadi, and Skjöld, the choir’s melodious hymn flowed like a river of solemn light, floating up to the rounded stone arches of the hallowed church in uplifting musical prayer. The bishops guided them to stand near the nobles and members of the electoral council. Luna and Njáll followed close behind Haldor, along with theLjósálfarin shimmeringdragonscalearmor and theÚlfhéðnarin magnificent wolfskin cloaks.
Candles flickered in sconces on the stone walls, casting long, trembling shadows over the carved statues of Christian saints. The scent of myrrh from incense burners mingled with the metallic tang of armor and mud still clinging to boots.
Archbishop Adalbero of Reims stood in the center of the altar. The sacred anointing oil,la Sainte-Ampoule de Reims—the same used for the crowning of Frankish kings since Clovis in the sixth century—lay alongside the royal scepter and Lothaire’s fallen crown on a white linen cloth before him. Having washed the grime of the battlefield from his hands and face, the Archbishop had donned his long white tunic, a heavy gold-embroidered stole draped across his shoulders. The miter atop his noble head gleamed in the candlelight, the jewels in its decorative trim glittering like the crozier clutched in his elegant hand. Though dust still clung to the soles of his boots, Adalbero radiated the unwavering authority of the Christian Church, ready to anoint and crown the new Frankish king.
His head bare, distinctive dark green hooded cape splattered with mud from the battlefield, Hugh Capet approached through the murmuring ranks, flanked by Jarl Rikard and Skårde. After escorting the king to the center, the Duke of Normandy and the Count of thePays de Cauxjoined Haldor on the left side of the altar.
