As they all swirled to the music, Rikard’s man Halvar approached, bending to murmur in the duke’s ear.
Rikard nodded. He turned to Oda and offered his arm, escorting her back to the head table, his scarlet cloak and silver circlet shimmering in the starlight.
He lifted his elaborate horn high, the amber beads glowing like molten gold.
The music stopped, the dancers paused, and the murmurs around the fire faded into silence as all eyes and ears focused on Jarl Rikard.
“The tide calls me to Paris,” he bellowed, his deep voice echoing through the clearing. “But this feast—” he gestured to the roaring bonfire and jubilant faces around him— “belongs to Elfi and theÚlfhéðnar. Let the revelry continue through the night! All hailla Louve Blanche!She-Wolf of the Sea!”
With cheers of “Skál!” and raucous howls, the music and dancing resumed. Jarl Rikard kissed Oda’s gnarled hand, left her in Vilde’s capable hands at the head table, and returned to bid farewell to Elfi and Thorfinn.
“La Louve Blanche, your valor brings honor to Normandy. Dag will raise his horn to you in Valhalla—for you fought with his sword, avenged his death, and held the castle he died to defend.” Rikard pressed his bearded lips against Elfi’s smooth brow. “And Njörd will be proud to hear of theShe-Wolf of the Seawho summoned the wolves to save Étretat.” An impish grin lent a youthful glow to his scarred, seasoned face. “I will return to see you married, during the trio of winter solstice weddings here atChâteau Blanc.”
While Elfi reeled at the thought of marrying Njörd a second time, Rikard clasped Thorfinn’s arms in firm, familiar trust. “Hold Étretat well in my absence.” The duke inclined his silvered head to Bodo. “You are a wolf redeemed. I’ll see you and Sif wed on the winter solstice, too.”
With a final glance at the firelit gathering, the Duke of Normandy crossed the leafy glen, his scarlet cloak billowing in the rising wind. Torches held high, armor clinking, the knights from Fécamp led Jarl Rikard down the steep path from the grassy ledge at the top the cliff to the pebbled beach where his two ships awaited, ready to depart for Paris with the outgoing evening tide.
Elfi stood with Thorfinn, watching moonlight dance on white-capped waves as the crews ofRán’s RamandRiverwolfmaneuvered the duke’s two ships out of the sheltered port, unfurled the square sails, and headed west on the Narrow Sea.
Chapter 33
Skjöld’s Return
Flames crackled the crispy skin, sending swirls of smoke into the cloudy sky as Úvhild turned the four small birds on the birchwood spit. She tossed a few juniper berries into the fire, the sharp pine scent and the delicious aroma of roasting game wafting into the cold, salty air. Although icy mist stung her cheeks, the curved stone wall of the cave provided shelter from the worst of the winds which swept theDragon’s Leapledge. And she didn’t want the thick smoke inside the cave.
While the snow buntings sizzled over the fire inside a circle of stones, she simmered a pot of fish stew—seasoned with wild onions, foraged herbs, and lemony sorrel— over the same small hearth. As she cooked their midday meal, Úlvhild leaned back against the wall of the cave and stroked the soft fur of her lynx cloak, a recent gift from Haldor.
He’d found the majestic cat severely injured, crumpled among the rocks where he often hunted white hare. The lynx had fought hard—perhaps against another wild cat—but was bloodied and broken. Unable to rise, it had growled and snarled, its amber eyes clouded with pain. Haldor had whispered a prayer and swiftly ended the animal’s agony with his Dwarven spear, offering the sacred blood to Freyja—the goddess who had blessed them both and who loved cats as much as Úlvhild.
She’d lined the silvery pelt, mottled with tawny beige and winter white, with soft grey wool brought by theBlóðsmiðrfrom Vågan. Now, the lynx’s head rested atop her own, its black-tipped ears rising like a feral crown. With the fur of its forelegs folded around her shoulders and fastened with a moonstone brooch, the black tip of its tail and powerful rear legs draped down her back, Úlvhild was cloakedin feline majesty, wrapped in the fierce spirit of the lynx and the divine love of the goddess who had healed her.
She glanced over at Haldor, the sharp scrape of his knife echoing against the stones as he skinned and cleaned the six white hares he’d caught this morning.
His dark brown locks and beard were threaded with the first hints of silver, and the thick fur of the heavy reindeer hide he wore—much warmer and more suited to the bitter cold of northern Norway than his falcon cloak—ruffled in the gusty wind. Although nearly forty winters, like Úlvhild herself, he still bore the strength of a seasoned warrior, skilled with axe, spear, and sword.
O, Freyja…how I love him.
These past few weeks had been the happiest of her life. Úlvhild could almost believe they might stay here forever, hidden from the world, in theDragon’s Leapcave atop Vågakallen mountain.
But she knew that was impossible.
Haldor needed an heir. And though he would not leave her side throughout the long winter, he would have to send theBlóðsmiðrto carry the message to Sigurd by the winter solstice.
That Haldor would accept the offer.
And take Svanhild to wife.
Though grief clenched her heart and stole her breath, Úlvhild knew it had to be. She’d foreseen that Svanhild would bear five sons. Haldor’s heirs would become jarls of the Faroe Islands, forming powerful Norse alliances with Jarl Sigurd, Sweyn Forkbeard, and Jarl Rikard.
In the spring, Haldor would sail toSigurðshöllto marry Svanhild.
And Úlvhild would return to thePays de Caux.With Skjöld.
She watched him skin the hares, the white fur pelts yielding as easily to his skilled touch as her own body did inside the cave.
Freyja had told Haldor that making love to Úlvhild—pouringseiðrmagic into her with his seed—was the best way to restore her strength and spirit.
And so, every night—and most mornings, too—Haldor made Úlvhild’s body sing and her spirit soar like a falcon taking flight.
