Jarl Rikard’s commanding voice brought Elfi back to the feast.
“Today, the vile Count of Soissons lies dead—struck down not by sword or shield alone, but by the vow of a valiant sister. A shieldmaiden withsjóvættirblood who stood where her brother once stood, wielding his sword to vanquish the Frankish foe.”
The Duke of Normandy slid a scarred, swarthy hand to the wide silver torc etched with scrolls and blackened runes that gripped his upper right arm. He removed it, held the armband high, and turned it to catch the golden light as he spoke with solemn reverence.
“Tonight, I bestow that same honor upon Dag’s sister. The shieldmaiden who heard the sea’s warning in the dead of night. Who blew theulfrtíriand summoned the wolf warriors. Who avenged her blood, defended her castle, and stood unshaken—sword in hand, storm in her veins, and a child cradled in her womb."
White wolf fur draped over her shoulders, sea wind stirring the folds of her deep blue gown, Elfi’s spirit soared as Jarl Rikard, the Viking Duke known in Norman French asRichard Sans Peur—Richard the Fearless—placed the thick silver torc on her upper right arm.
He turned to face the gathering, his voice rising like a war horn from the craggy cliffs.
“Elfi Thorfinnsdóttir has many names. In avölva’sprophecy, she was called theSiren with the Sea Goddess Eyes.Here in thePays de Caux,she is known astheMermaid of Étretat.”
He paused, his solemn words hanging heavy in the silence. “And tonight, as I bequeath this silver torc to commemorate her valor, I also bestow upon her a third name. An illustrious title of tribute.”
Gilded in the golden sun like the Shining God Baldr, Jarl Rikard swept his commanding gaze across the awestruck crowd. “Henceforth, she shall be namedLa Louve Blanche, the White She-Wolf.Shieldmaiden ofChâteau Blanc.”
With the gravity of a king and the warmth of kin, the Duke of Normandy kissed Elfi’s cheeks in a warrior’s blessing and a sovereign’s tribute. He raised his elkhorn at last, voice echoing offthe craggy cliffs like the clash of steel on stone.
“All hailLa Louve Blanche,Shieldmaiden ofChâteau Blanc! Long may she guard the White Chalk Cliffs.. Long may her howl surge across the Narrow Sea!”
Amid elated cries of “La Louve Blanche!”, theUlfhéðnarhowled. The raw, primal roar rumbled like thunder and shook the leafy ground beneath Elfi’s feet.
Norman knights struck fists to their armored chests. Danish warriors clashed sword against shield. Villagers shouted her new name.“La Louve Blanche! La Louve Blanche!”
Amid cheers and clinking horns, the feast erupted in raucous revelry as the festive notes of lyres, lutes, and flutes floated on the salty autumn breeze.
A regal smile stretched across Jarl Rikard’s scarred, bearded face. He bellowed above the jubilant din. “Let the mead flow, the music play… and the feast begin!”
With a ravenous roar and a hearty clatter of benches, the merry guests took their seats beneath the golden beech trees. Servants moved swiftly, filling horns with mead and passing platters piled high with steaming crab, roasted boar, and honeyed apples. Music stirred once more as the lyres and flutes found their tune.
Jarl Rikard seated Elfi on his right at the table of honor. “Dag now rests in peace in the sacred grove.” His solemn smile was tinged with sorrow as he sat down beside her. “You kept your vow to avenge his death by slaying the Count of Soissons. You laidGaladirat his rightful side. And returned his whalebone flute.” Lifting her hand to his bristled lips, he pressed a soft kiss on her curved fingers. “Because of you, Dag feasts in honor with theAllfatherand theeinherjarin the glory of Valhalla.” He raised his horn of mead. “To you, Elfi.La Louve Blanche.Shieldmaiden ofChâteau Blanc.”
Elfi’s lips trembled as a deluge of emotions flooded her.
She had fulfilled her vow to Dag—and avenged his death with the very sword he had used to train her.
She’d discovered her innatesjóvættirmagic as a mermaid, with which she had saved herfaðir,family, and friends.
And she had wielded the white wolf weapons to kill the troll and summon the wolves.
Elfi bowed her head to the Duke of Normandy, raised her elkhorn, and drank, accepting his words of praise. Tonight, he’d made her childhood dream come true—and more. For not only had he declared her theShieldmaiden ofChâteau Blanc, he’d given her a title worthy of Nordic legend and lore.
By proclaiming herLa Louve Blanche.
Thorfinn, seated at her side, kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear. “You have made me very proud,dóttir. You are as valiant as your noblebroðir.” A paternal smile lit his scarred, weathered face. “Yourmoðirwould also be proud to know that thesjóvættirmagic you inherited from her saved us all…andleChâteau Blanc.” He raised his elkhorn and inclined his head. “To you, Elfi.La Louve Blanche.Shieldmaiden of Étretat.”
Elfi’s heart swelled, nearly beyond bearing. Her father—who had once scoffed at the idea of a woman wielding weapons—had just praised her as a warrior.
As if he’d read her thoughts, he added with a rueful smile, “I was wrong to forbid your training. And I am profoundly grateful that yourbroðir—and, from what I’m told, Njörd as well—have honed your skills to rival Freyja’s Valkyries.”
His dark eyes misted in the firelight. “I am indebted to you, not only for alerting us to danger and saving the castle. But also for summoning Jarl Rikard to negotiate my release from the prison of the bastard who slew Dag. For reclaimingGaladir—and recognizing the curse that clung to it, so that it could be cleansed and laid at yourbroðir’sside.”
He drew a deep breath. “And above all, for avenging Dag’s death. By slaying the enemy who took him from us. And nearly tookle Château Blanc.” He raised his horn once more. “To you,dóttir min, my beloved daughter. For saving us all.”
As Elfi blinked back tears of joy, savoring her father’s rare praise, sweet as her swallow of mead, a soft strum floated on the wind, plucked fromthe strings of a lyre.
A hush swept through the glen.
