Skjold laughed, then turned to his glowing mate. “This is Skadi. We fought together in Ísland.” He kissed Skadi’s pale fingers, reassuring her with a confident smile. “I’m hopingFaðirwill give us his blessing. I’ve asked for her hand.”
Ylva smiled, a knowing light in her seeress eyes. “Then let me borrow her for a moment,” she said gently, hooking her arm through Skadi’s. “The women are preparing for the feast, and Elfi will want to braid her hair with silver ribbon to please your father and grandfather Rikard.” She paused, her gaze soft with maternal affection. “Skårde is in Lord Thorfinn’s solar with Jarl Rikard, Njörd, and Lugh. Go to them, son. They’ll be overjoyed to see you… and anxious to hear theDragon Herald.”
Skjold watched as Ylva and Vivi led Skadi toward the trestle table, where Elfi and Sif greeted her with flowers and wide smiles. His mother glanced back once, her eyes bright with quiet understanding. At her nod of encouragement, Skjöld left the Great Hall, strode across the vast foyer, and climbed the stone stairs.
The setting sun gilded the private solar with golden light through the western window overlooking the Narrow Sea. In the distance, sheltered by the white chalk cliffs of thePays de Caux, its glimmering rays danced on rolling waves. Along the northern wall at the end of the large room, a roaring fire flickered in the stone hearth.
As he approached the chamber, Skjöld spotted the familiar blond hair and braided beard of his broad-shouldered father.Seated beside him at the oak table was his grandfather Rikard, whose once-golden hair and beard had now faded to silver. They conversed with Lord Thorfinn,châtelainof the castle, along with Njörd, Bjarke, and Úlf. ThreeLjósálfarwho had fought beside him in Ísland—Lugh, Olvir, and Ildris—sat at the table as well.
When Skjöld entered the room, cloaked in white bearskin and carved with runes, all eyes fixed upon him, bearded faces registering respect, recognition, astonishment, and awe.
Skårde shot to his feet, crossed the room in a stride, and wrapped Skjöld in a fierce bear hug. “TheSon of the Dragonreturns,” he choked, his voice rough and raw. “Welcome home, Skjöld.” He stepped back, shaking his head in disbelief as he looked up at his son. “You’re twice the size you once were. Taller than me now.” He thumped Skjöld’s shoulders with both hands, a beastly grin stretching across his scarred, bearded face. “Broader and bigger, too.”
His grandfather Rikard wrapped brawny arms around Skjöld’s shoulders and hugged him tight. Paternal love gleamed in his proud eyes. “We’ve heard of the battle in Ísland. Njörd says frost and flame danced at your side.”
Skjold smiled. “Indeed they did.” He bowed his head to Elfi’s father. “Lord Thorfinn. I am pleased to see you have returned toChâteau Blanc.”
Thorfinn inclined his silver-streaked dark head, a twinkle of pride in his fierce eyes.
“Do you bring news of Úlvhild?” Worry furrowed Njörd’s brow, his deep voice thick with concern.
“Thank the gods, she is hale and whole.”
At the sound of a collective breath of relief, Skjöld continued. “Haldor summoned Freyja to heal her—in theDrekafjallcave, on Vågakallen mountain in northern Norway. The goddess appeared… and blessed Úlvhild withFreyja’s Bloom. She told Haldor that he must nurture Úlvhild throughout the winter, and that shewould emerge in the spring, full of life.”
Skjöld accepted a mug of mead from Bjarke and nodded in thanks. Afterdowning a hearty gulp, he swiped his mouth with the sleeve of his woolen tunic and glanced at the men gathered around him. “I’ll return to Norway soon, for I’ve promised to bring supplies to Haldor and Úlvhild. When spring comes, they’ll return here with me to thePays de Caux.”
Jarl Rikard refilled everyone’s mug of mead and raised his goblet. “To Freyja, who healed our belovedvölva. All hailFreyja’s Bloom.Skál!”
As the men settled back at the table, Skjöld approached his father and spoke quietly into his ear. “Faðir… before we go down to the Great Hall. I’ve brought someone to meet you. Her name is Skadi. I would ask your permission to wed her.”
Skarde studied him for a long breath. “After eight winters of brutal training, you return as warrior,vitki,noaidi…and bring a bride with you?” The corner of his mouth twitched with mirth. “You’ve been busy, my son.”
Skjold resolutely held his father’s scrutinizing gaze. “She’s halfLjósálfar, halfjótunn. A healer who shifts into afrostdragon.She fought at my side in Ísland against Franks, Rus, andDökkálfar.”He turned his left palm upward, revealing the droplet offrostfireflame. In the golden sunlight, the purple fire blazed inside the blue water, thefjórúnmark encased in shimmering silver. “We aresoulbound. And I wish to make Skadi my wife.”
Skarde nodded once, firmly. “Then I’ll meet her when we go below. But not yet.” His gaze hardened as it shifted back to Rikard. “Sigurd's shadow stretches from Norway to Normandy, and Haldor must answer by the winter solstice. We must speak plainly now, here in this solar, before the feast clouds our minds and dulls our tongues.” He wrapped a sinewy arm around Skjöld’s shoulder and led him toward the assembled group. “Come, sit with us. Your voice belongs at this table.”
Chapter 26
The Bride Price of Peace
Skjöld took his seat at his father’s side and swallowed a steadying gulp of mead.
His grandfather, clad in his scarlet surcoat emblazoned with two golden lions rampant—the distinctive emblem of his ducal heraldry—inclined his head with measured authority as he drew Skjöld into the council’s grave discussion. “You bring welcome news of Úlvhild’s recovery.” Rikard took a swallow of mead, eyeing Skjöld over the rim of his silver goblet. “But what of Haldor’s response to Sigurd?”
Skjöld inhaled deeply, summoning the courage to deliver the dreadful blow. “Haldor issoulboundto Úlvhild, He refuses to wed anyone but her.”
Rikard sighed in exasperation. “For years, King Harald pressed for this marriage, to ally the Orkney and Faroe Islands with Denmark and Norway.” He glanced at Skårde, who nodded in agreement and raised his mug to blond, bristled lips. “Now Sweyn Forkbeard is even more eager than his father. The new king has his eye on reclaiming Norse territories inAengaland.”
Skjöld’sáfileaned back in his ornate chair, arms folding across his chest in frustration. “We cannot enrage Sigurd with a refusal. To do so would insult his honor—and turn a valuable ally into a formidable enemy.” Rikard’s shrewd gaze swept the table, weighing each man in turn.
“He would likely strike Tórshavn first.” Skårde’s deep voice was ominous. “Especially if he learns Haldor is in Norway, tending his wounded lover.”
The dire warning hung heavy in thesomber solar, thickening the silence that followed.
Rikard tapped a bejeweled finger against the rim of his goblet. “Then we must offer a more attractive groom. To honor Sigurd, rather than insult him.” He looked at Skjöld, brows raised, commanding voice calm and deliberate.“You are of age, my grandson. Unwed. Of royal Danish blood through your grandsire King Harald. And noble Norman blood through me. You would make a fitting match for Svanhild.”
Skårde stiffened in his chair and spoke before Skjöld could respond.“That is impossible.”
