“By the light of the stars and the Elvensongs of stone, I seal this sacred mound.” He raised a luminous hand over the cairn, palm aglow with otherworldly radiance. “Let no darkness stir whereLjósálfarlight guards the sleep of the honored dead.”
As Lugh's final blessing faded into the forest, Ylva and Vivi strode across the clearing and poured the last of the mead and sacrificial blood into the flames of the small stone hearth. Theceremonial fire hissed and sputtered, steam rising with the pungent scent of herbs, honey, and iron. A final ember sparked before dimming to ash.
The fire, like the fallen, was at rest.
Thorfinn’s deep voice rang out into the sacred silence. “Come, all who honor Dag! Let us not only mourn… but celebrate his valor. To the bonfire—where skald and song will carry his name to theAllfatherand theeinhejar!”
Skjöld held Skadi’s hand and followed the procession out of the forest, back to the castle where a roaring bonfire in the clearing near the cliff sent sparks soaring into the starry night sky. Fragrant garlands adorned the beech trees along the stone walls ofChâteau Blanc, and musicians entertained the festive throng with lyres, lutes, and flutes.
Servants moved gracefully among the crowd, refilling polished pewter mugs with honeyed mead. For Thorfinn and those who had attended the private burial in the sacred grove, elkhorns of carved bone, rimmed in silver etched with runes and embellished with amber, were served with reverence and honor.
Thorfinn bellowed above the jubilant din. “Gather close! Find your place by the fire and listen well—my incomparable skald Egil will weave a song worthy of my valiant son.”
The venerable poet, clad in a deep blue woolen tunic embroidered with runes in silver thread at the collar, hem, and sleeves, wore a long black cloak trimmed with silver fox fur, fastened with a moonstone clasp. Long grey hair hung loose over his narrow shoulders, and his waist-length beard was braided with bones and silver beads. A woven wreath of rowan leaves crowned his humble brow. In his long, slender fingers, he cradled an elegant lyre of curved, ornately carved wood. As Egil settled onto a large stump near the fire, a flutist lowered himself to the leafy ground at the poet’s side.
A hush fell over the revelers. Firelight cast molten gold across the deep lines of the skald’s noble face. All was still, save for the crackle of the bonfire and the rhythmic crashing of wavesagainst the white chalk cliffs far below the castle.
With fingers as fluid as a flowing stream, the skald plucked the first ephemeral notes from his lyre. The melody shimmered like moonlight on water—mournful, silken, and lucent. In a loving tribute of lament and loss, Egil sang of Dag’s courage and prowess, the Hero of Étretat dying in triumph, his valiant soul carried by Valkyries to Odin’s splendor in Valhalla.
When the skald recited the refrain of his gloriousDrápaof Dag, the flutist’s plaintive melody filled the salty, starry night air with a musical homage from the very instrument that Dag himself had played.
After the last note faded into the solemn silence, Thorfinn rose slowly, his bearded face ravaged by loss, yet honor shone in his proud, dark eyes. From his upper right arm, he removed a heavy silver torc, its swirled ends adorned with intricate knotwork and inlaid with polished amber which glowed in the firelight. Holding it high as his gaze fixed on the esteemed skald, Thorfinn addressed the enthralled crowd.
“Egil, bearer of stories and keeper of memories, accept this torc as a token of gratitude. May your voice carry the deeds of the Hero of Étretat through the ages, as steadfast as the amber that binds this gift.”
He raised his horn of mead, his gaze sweeping across loyal friends and beloved kin.
“To Dag Thorfinsson—brave son, devoted brother, steadfast shield ofChâteau Blanc. May his courage inspire us all, and his name never fade from our halls.Skál!”
As horns and mugs clinked, and cheers rippled through the throng,the solemn hush that had blanketed the grove lifted like mist at dawn. Servants moved swiftly through the gathering, bearing platters heaped with roast pheasant stuffed with fresh herbs and bilberries, salted boar dripping with honey, and grilled cod with leeks and wild garlic. Golden loaves of fresh barley bread, goat cheese topped with chopped hazelnuts, and platters of roast carrots, turnips, and mushrooms filled the crisp night air with the warm, earthy scent of hearth and harvest. As guests found their places at long trestle tables, Skjöld sat with Skadibeside Elfi and Njörd, beneath fragrant garlands of ivy andéglantinerosesunder the starlit night sky.
Laughter stirred and the music resumed, withtallharpas,lyres, lutes, and flutes weaving warmth into the cool night air.
Skadi spoke to Elfi, seated on her left side. “TheDrápa of Dagwas a lovely tribute to your brother.”
Elfi’s soft smile was wistful. “Indeed it was.” She spoke to both Skadi and Skjöld. “Egil first performed that song for the feast to welcome Njörd, when he sailed to Étretat from Denmark as my betrothed.” She grinned at her white wolfskin clad husband, who had leaned forward to listen. “But tonight was the first time myfaðirheard theDrápa of Dag.”Elfi glanced at Thorfinn, seated between Jarl Rikard and Skårde at the nearby central table. “He was tremendously pleased.”
Skjöld swallowed a mouthful of mead and wiped his bearded lips with the back of his hand. “It was especially moving that Egil’s song was accompanied by a flute. I remember Dag playing his all the time when I was a boy.” He smiled warmly at Elfi. “A truly glorious tribute.”
When Elfi resumed her private conversation with Njörd, Skjöld raised Skadi’s pale hand to his lips. “I am so pleased myfaðirgave us his blessing. And that he proposed Tryggvi as an even better groom for Svanhild than Haldor. Sigurd will surely accept his offer, for Tryggvi—as the grandson of both Harald Bluetooth, King of Denmark and Norway, and Richard the Fearless, Duke of Normandy, would mean a royal marriage for Svanhild rather than a wedding to a Faroese jarl.” He took another swallow of mead, his heart racing at the thought of bringing such glad tidings to Haldor. “And now, with Haldor no longer forced into an unwanted marriage with Svanhild, perhaps he can finally convince Úlvhild to wed him this time.” Skjöld lost himself in the depths of Skadi’s ice blue gaze, so much like the frosty fjord where he had first seen her beautiful face in the vision near Dvalinn’s cave. “I cannotwait to bring Haldor and Úlvhild the joyful news.”
As he savored a flavorful bite of salted boar, Skjold noticed hisfaðirspeaking with hisafiRikard and Lord Thorfinn. Since all three men were grinning and looking at him, Skjöld realized that he was the subject of their conversation. As if reading his thoughts, Lord Thorfinn rose from the table and lifted his hand to silence the musicians.
At a lull in the music and laughter, Thorfinn raised his horn of mead.
“Tonight we not only honor Dag—but also the bonds that unite us in kinship and friendship.” He grinned at Skårde.seated at his side.“TheDragon of Denmark, now theDragon of Normandyand Count of thePays de Caux, wishes to speak.”
As Thorfinn resumed his seat at the table of honor, Skårde rose and inclined his head to their gracious host. His deep, resonant voice boomed across the hushed glen.
“In times of hardship, we also celebrate the ties which bind us.”
Skåtde’s proud gaze found Skjöld across the firelight. “After eight long winters of arduous training, my son has returned a seasoned warrior, venerable vitki, and Sáminoaidi.”
He paused as all eyes turned to Skjöld, murmurs of admiration rippling through the rapt throng. “Skjöld has brought his intended bride, and I have given them both my blessing.” A proud paternal grin broke across his blond bearded face. “Upon the winter solstice, when Lord Thorfinn’s lovely daughter Elfi marries Njörd Ívarrsson,Wolf of the Nordic Seas…and theÚlfhedinnBodo weds the newly freed Sif—once thrall, now sister—my eldest son Skjöld, heir toChâteaufort,will wed his betrothed, Skadi Skállagrímsdóttir, here at Étretat.”
Skårde raised his horn high. “To a trio of winter solstice weddings. In the clifftop castle ofChâteau Blanc!”
Chapter 28
