Chapter 1

Stigma of Shame

Twigs snapped under the thud of heavy, booted footsteps. The low murmur of gruff male voices reverberated up her spine. Panic surged and her limbs shook as Ylva—crouched among the low-lying branches of the enormous oak—spotted three hulking men from the village. I can’t run away. I ‘m trapped. Can they see me in these trees?

“She’s here. I can smell her. The scent of a bitch in heat.”

“These are her woods. They’re enchanted. Let’s go back.”

“Bah, you’ve got no bollocks. She’s a Viking dog, and I have a big, meaty bone for her.” The man guffawed, then whistled, as if calling for his hound.

“She’s a Celtic witch. We need to get out of here. Before she curses us with an evil spell.”

Pulse pounding, muscles twitching, Ylva held her breath and remained motionless, concealed amidst the dense leaves. When at last the retreating hunters disappeared from view, Ylva grabbed her basket of mushrooms and dashed through the forest, to the shelter of her stone cottage at the edge of the woods.

Inside, she dropped her basket on the oak table, bolted the entrance, and leaned against the front door, heaving with exertion and emotion.

A Viking dog. That’s how they see me. A mongrel mutt they can taunt and abuse. Thank the Goddess they fear me as a witch. Yet—in the months since Maman’s death—they’ve become increasingly bold. Now that I’m alone, I fear one day they’ll appear at my door. Or break in at night…

Still shaking with humiliation and rage, she strode across the rush-strewn earthen floor, exited the back door, and gathered rosemary and sage from the garden behind her cottage. While her trio of hens pecked for insects among the cowslips and bluebells in the grassy meadow, Ylva entered the adjacent hut where she stored and dried her herbs.

Work will ease my jittery nerves and help me dispel my anger.

As she pulverized dried leaves with her mortar and pestle, Ylva deeply inhaled the soothing scent of sage. Here, within the sanctuary of the stone hut where she prepared her herbal remedies, she always found solace, far from the derision and cruelty of the Breton villagers who despised and ridiculed her Nordic heritage. While she ground the herbs from her garden, Ylva reflected upon her narrow escape from the hunters who had tracked her.

Tall and blonde, with blue eyes and long limbs, Ylva not only differed in appearance from the small, dark-haired Celtic people of the oceanside village of Saint-Suliac, but she also embodied the detested Viking invasion which had taken possession of their beloved homeland.

The ruthless Viking Jarl Rikard Vilhjálmsson, the powerful Duke of Normandy known as Richard the Fearless, had claimed Ylva’s mother—the beautiful Breton priestess Lova—as his concubine.

And Ylva, as the illegitimate daughter of the dreaded Norse ruler, personified the Viking conquest of Northwestern France.

Although her striking beauty caught the eye of many young men in the village, Ylva’s Nordic heritage was an endless source of disgrace. Her father, Richard the Fearless, grandson of the fierce Viking chieftain Rollo, was the regal, ruthless Duke of Normandy.

And Ylva was living proof of his domination of the Celts.

Now twenty—long past the age of a typical Breton bride—Ylva had never had a single suitor. No villager had ever dared court her. No one had ever asked for her hand.

And no one ever would.

Blinking back tears of frustration, Ylva crushed the sage with her pestle, the grinding action a catharsis as she lamented her bleak, solitary future.

It will soon be Beltane. The entire village will flock to the top of Mont Garrot to honor the Earth Goddess Dana with an enormous bonfire, welcoming the rebirth of spring. There will be lively music and jubilant singing. Couples dancing around the purifying flames. Feasting and drinking wine…rejoicing and praying for Dana’s blessing of fertility.

There’ll be handfasting ceremonies. Maidens with fragrant flowers of rowan and hawthorn woven into their long, flowing tresses. Amorous couples leaping over the flickering flames. Disappearing into the woods for private, intimate celebrations.

Hidden amongst the trees of the dense forest near her cottage, Ylva had longingly watched the festival every year, unable to partake in the joy.

She was an outcast. An outsider. Branded with the stigma of shame.

As she blended the crushed sage with lanolin to form a healing herbal salve, Ylva’s throat constricted with loneliness and sorrow.

I’ll never dance around the Beltane fire with a crown of wildflowers in my hair. No man from the village will ever ask for me. I shall never be loved. Or marry.

Like my mother—tainted by my Viking father—no man will ever want me. I’ll live alone, haunted by fear and hunted by hate. A Celtic priestess ruined by Nordic blood.

She exhaled to dispel her useless remorse. There was still much to do before her trek into the village tomorrow. Better to dive into work than wallow in self-pity. She shook her head and focused on her herbs.

When the ointment was sufficiently stirred, Ylva placed it into a small jar, stoppered it with a cork, and set it upon the wooden shelf with the other herbal remedies which she stored in this alcove of the hut. Wiping the mortar and pestle with a soft cloth, she placed them on the countertop, scanning the shelves of tinctures, salves, and elixirs which she would bring into town tomorrow to trade for supplies.

The villagers of Saint-Suliac tolerated her presence because of their need for the healing potions which she concocted here in the hut. They also depended upon the wool shorn from her sheep, which was essential for their blankets, cloaks, clothing, and hats. Each week, Ylva hauled her small wooden wagon into town and bartered her natural medicines and precious wool for the commodities she required, such as grain for her hens, beeswax and honey, candles, flint, bread, oats, and salt.

I’m grateful that Maman taught me how to clean and comb wool. How to harvest shellfish in the bay. And I thank the Goddess every day that she trained me to be a guérisseuse celtique—a Celtic healer with her knowledge of curative herbs.

Because the same healing skills so widely revered in the village also shielded Ylva from harm. No one dared come near the cottage of a trained Breton priestess, leery of curses, evil enchantment, and malevolent magic.

For her mother, Lova, had once studied with the Druids atop Mont Garrot, in the heart of the rowan forest, at the fountain of the sacred spring.

Before the Vikings seized the village and converted Saint-Suliac into a harbor for their dreaded drakkar warships.

Ylva brushed off her woolen gown, remembering the tales she had been told of the turbulent past.

Before the Viking invasion, her mother had been renowned throughout the village for her unparalleled skills as a Celtic healer. But when the Norsemen conquered Saint-Suliac, their chieftain, Rikard Vilhjálmsson , drove the Druids from the sacred ground on Mont Garrot, slaughtered the Celtic people struggling in vain to defend their homes, captured concubines and slaves, and transformed the quaint Breton village into a burgeoning Viking seaport and stronghold.

With her long black hair, pale complexion, and emerald green eyes, Lova’s unique beauty had attracted the unwanted attention of the powerful Jarl Rikard who commanded the fearsome Viking fleet.

Conqueror of the Celtic village, Richard had claimed Lova as his more danico – wife according to Viking pagan laws. For years, he and his Norse warriors had ruled the Breton coast from the thriving port of Saint-Suliac. But when Richard became the regal Duke of Normandy, he put aside his pagan wife to marry Emma, daughter of the Count of Paris, in an official wedding ceremony recognized and sanctioned by the Christian Church.

Abandoning his more danico Lova, his young daughter Ylva, and the thriving seaport of Saint-Suliac, Richard had led his Viking legion eastward to Rouen, consolidating his power in the dukedom of Normandy as sworn vassal to the Frankish King.

Ylva sighed with sorrow. Hardened and scarred by pain and loss, her wounded heart had never fully healed.

She still had vivid memories of her Viking father.

His towering height and massive bulk. His long blond hair and braided beard. His deep, guttural laugh, like the bellow of a bear.

The magnificent sword he’d given her to train with—which she still kept, sheathed in the scabbard studded with gems. A bittersweet reminder of the father she had once adored. Whose paternal love and parental protection she had naively believed eternal.

The loss of which had been unexpected, abrupt, and devastating.

When the Viking fleet abandoned the village and Richard the Fearless repudiated his pagan wife and illegitimate daughter, Lova and Ylva had been ostracized by the Breton people who scorned her mother’s disgraceful liaison with the enemy and Ylva’s abhorrent Nordic blood. They’d been forced from the lavish Viking longhouse of Jarl Rikard to live on the outskirts of the village—in a stone cottage on the cliff which had once belonged to a sheep farmer.

It had been ten years since her Viking father’s abandonment. Six months since her mother had succumbed to a raging fever and consumptive cough. Ylva swallowed an enormous lump of pain, her throat constricted by loss. Not only did she miss her mother terribly, she now lived in isolated solitude and relentless fear.

The Norse conquerors left behind vestiges of their ruthless, ruinous domination .

Stigmas of shame.

Like me.

Shaking off her sorrow to refocus on her awaiting chores, Ylva grabbed a tin wash basin from a corner of the hut and headed outdoors. She relished the crisp saline aroma of the sea and the warmth of the late spring sun upon her upturned face. Setting the bin down on a grassy area near the edge of the woods, she went back into the hut to fetch a wooden bucket, which she filled with water from the nearby stream.

Ylva lugged the bucket of water, placed it on the grass beside the tin basin, and retrieved from the cottage the pile of shorn fleece which needed washing. She tossed it into the bin, poured water over the wool, and added a bar of lye to soak out the impurities and separate the lanolin from the fleece. Wiping the sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her woolen frock, she glanced across the field of wildflowers where her sheep were grazing to the exposed mudflats at the base of the cliff.

Low tide. I have time to go down to the cave while the wool soaks.

Verifying that her sheep and hens were safe, she grabbed a bucket for clams and carefully descended the beaten path which led from the plateau of heathered moor at the top of the cliff to the sandy shore of a secluded inlet far below.

After an hour of digging in the mudflat exposed by low tide, she had harvested two dozen clams. I’ll roast them slowly over the coals—just until their shells crack open. Melt some sheep milk butter, with garlic and herbs. Add a few sprigs of fresh rosemary and vegetables from the garden. Delicious!

Within the curved, protective wall of the solid granite bluff which sheltered the cove, Ylva had discovered a hidden sea cave, accessible only at low tide when the receding waters of the bay exposed the open mouth. Every day since her fortuitous find, she’d come to this covert, otherworldly domain.

As she now left the bucket of clams on the shoreline and selected a large pink scallop shell from the edge of the sandy beach, Ylva walked across the mudflat of the estuary and entered the hidden cave.

Inside the luminous cavern, a roaring waterfall cascaded down the back wall of the grotto, splashing into a deep, freshwater pool. The liquid chute tumbled over the glowing limestone rock, painting a palette of vivid colors like a collection of rare, precious gems.

Within this majestic aquatic realm, Ylva worshipped Divona.

The Celtic Goddess of Sacred Springs.

Upon an elevated, rocky ledge—well above the high tide mark—sat the fragmented hand of a broken stone statue which had once belonged to the Celtic Druids who worshipped at the summit of Mont Garrot.

Ylva had recently discovered the shattered remains of the sculpted goddess among the ruins of the temple in the forest near her cottage. At the base of the bubbling fountain, source of the sacred spring. The divine waters of Divona which flowed from the top of Mont Garrot and emptied into the cascading waterfall inside Ylva’s secret cave.

She’d carried the broken, upturned palm of the stone goddess into this private grotto, creating a sacred shrine. Each time she entered Divona’s otherworldly domain, Ylva presented a gift to the Celtic goddess.

A vast array of rare shells—white oysters with purple interiors laced with mother of pearl, enormous whirled whelks, and silvery moon snails—comprised the treasures that Ylva offered when she prayed for Divona’s divine wisdom. As she now centered the large pink scallop shell among the others at the base of the statue, she knelt at the aquatic altar, waves of calm washing her like waters of the sacred spring.

Dear Goddess, please help me, for I am utterly alone. I suffer in solitude and yearn for companionship and love. I pray for your blessing and divine guidance. May the curative waters of your sacred spring heal my broken heart.

Ylva dipped her hands into the ebullient pool at the bottom of the cascade, bringing the icy water to her lips and drinking deeply from the sacred spring of Mont Garrot. She washed her face and neck with the cleansing spray from the waterfall. Bowing her head in reverence upon the altar she had built, Ylva bid her blessed goddess adieu and prepared to exit the holy shrine.

But as she attempted to rise, the deafening roar of the waterfall suddenly stilled as a stifling darkness descended, transfixing her to the altar where she knelt before the pool. In the limpid depths before her, a towering, heavily armed warrior appeared in the mirrored waters of the sacred spring.

Pulse pounding, limbs trembling, Ylva was mesmerized by the terrifying image of the massive Viking beast.

Long blond locks extended past his enormous shoulders, and a braided beard covered his oxlike neck. Thick furs draped down his broad muscled back. Silver torques with elaborate carvings encircled his mammoth arms, inked with terrifying images of dragons, wolves, and bears. In an intricate scabbard belted at his sinewy waist, a gleaming sword with a glittering emerald in its hilt was sheathed upon his left hip. Dark leggings clung to heavily muscled thighs, and leather boots and furs laced up his wide, sculpted calves.

At the sight of the rippled torso riddled with scars and covered with dark blond hair, Ylva’s breath caught in her throat.

Emblazoned across his mountainous chest, a jagged thunderbolt scorched the bare skin.

As she beheld the lightning streak which marked the monstrous brute, a sizzling energy surged up her veins. Frozen in fear, Ylva was immersed in the current which flowed from the sacred spring and seared her from within. Gazing into the hypnotic waves of the mirrored pool, she glimpsed a white castle perched high upon an oceanfront cliff.

And, in the distance, anchored in a sheltered cove, the red and white striped sails and carved dragon prows of an enormous fleet of Viking ships.

Slowly, Ylva’s senses returned.

The thunderous roar of the waterfall resounded in her ears. The familiar, tangy brine of the sea filled her nostrils as cold waves from the incoming tide lapped at her bent knees and long legs. Disoriented and dizzy, she rose on unsteady feet, brushing off the clinging sand as she smoothed her damp gown.

I remember Maman telling me that my grandmother Sprota had visions. That she—a Celtic Breton priestess—had foreseen the arrival of the Vikings shortly before my grandfather, William Longsword, conquered the city of Rennes and captured her as his concubine. I must have inherited her gift of sight. Have I, like she, foreseen my future?

Ylva shuddered as a violent frisson of dread shivered down her spine. Will the Vikings return to reclaim Saint-Suliac? Are those the ships I have seen? Who is the monstrous beast in my vision? And why did his lightning surge in my veins?

Bowing her head before the sacred shrine, Ylva prayed to the Goddess of Sacred Springs.

Dear Divona, please guide me. May your divine wisdom illuminate my path.

To compose herself and dispel the disquieting vision, Ylva inhaled deeply and exited the secret cave. She waded across the flooded mudflat, raising the hem of her gown above the rushing waves as she headed toward the sandy beach. She brushed off her feet, put on her boots, and fetched her bucket of clams.

From the shoreline at the base of the granite bluff where she now stood, clutching her pail of shellfish, she gazed up a hundred feet to the top of the jagged cliff.

Gulls, guillemots, and gannets soared in the cerulean sky.

Ylva’s stomach lurched, her pulse hammering in her clenched, parched throat.

For there—with the midday sun illuminating his long, golden hair like the fires of the Celtic god Belenus—stood her Viking father.

Richard the Fearless.

The infamous Duke of Normandy had returned.