Chapter 10

Royal Wedding Feast

While the wedding guests toasted the royal couple, Ylva’s ducal father rose from his seat and introduced the enigmatic blue-faced witch with a regal sweep of his arm. “The Viking v?lva will now cast the runes to foresee the future of the newly wedded royal couple.”

úlvhild rose ceremoniously from the table of honor . The glittering gems in her midnight cloak twinkled like stars in the moonlight. She pushed the embellished garment back from her shoulders, untied a blue linen cloth wrapped around her waist, and draped it across the table before her. Retrieving the black leather pouch strapped on her belt, the v?lva stroked the smooth, sleek lambskin with long, skeletal fingers. Her evocative voice was lulling and lush. “The three Norns—Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld—determine our fate,” she murmured, fixing Ylva with a penetrating stare. “I shall chant a vardlokkur— an incantation to summon the spirits. Through seier magic of divination, I shall call upon them to reveal your destiny as I cast three Nordic runes. One for each of the three Norns.”

While Sk?rde squeezed her hand under the table, Ylva’s heart raced as úlvhild reached for the long iron staff which leaned against the back of the v?lva’s chair. At the tip of the metallic wand, a luminous oval moonstone was encased within intricately carved bronze filigree inlaid with shimmery silver.

Her voice ethereal and haunting, úlvhild began a melodic chant, thumping her staff rhythmically like a drum. Eyes closed, painted face uplifted toward the starlit evening sky, the Viking seeress swayed with the rhythm of the vardlokkur . Clutching the black leather pouch close to her heart, she shook the runes, reached into the bag, and—eyes still closed and face uplifted—withdrew three small oval runestones, which she placed one by one upon the linen cloth.

Each oval was made of smoothly polished white bone, inscribed with a dark Nordic rune. Ylva shuddered at the realization that they were most likely etched in blood.

“The first rune represents Urd, the Norn who reveals the past.” úlvhild pointed to the stone on her left. “ Othala , the rune of heritage. A gift passed down from your ancestors. Your dowry—the White Chalk Cliffs of the Pays de Caux. And this castle, Chateaufort, which once belonged to your great-grandfather, the Viking chieftain Rollo . ”

The v?lva indicated the second smooth oval in the middle. “Verdandi, the Norn of the present, reveals the Laguz rune for the element of water. The curative essence of sacred springs, whose power you wield as a Druid priestess and Celtic healer. Laguz also symbolizes intuition, insight, and illumination. Your innate gift of sight to perceive otherworldly visions through reflections upon water.”

úlvhild’s bony fingertips delicately traced the third rune. “For Skuld. the Norn who weaves the fate of the future, your rune is Berkana . Symbol of fertility, birth, and renewal—often after suffering, loss, and death. Like the birch tree whose leaves fall in winter but are renewed with life in the spring, you will nurture, heal, and grow as you learn to love.” Amber eyes aglow like a feral black cat, úlvhild beheld Ylva for several moments before turning to Sk?rde. “And now, I shall cast the runes for the Dragon of Denmark.”

Drumming her staff on the grassy castle ground, úlvhild resumed her vardlokkur chant while the wedding guests watched in awe. The Viking seeress shook the black lambskin pouch, and—eyes shut and face upturned toward the waxing moon—withdrew three runes which she placed on the linen cloth beneath the previous trio.

The v?lva leaned the staff against her chair and bent to examine the runes. “ Tiwaz , for battle and war. The Norn Urd reveals that your past as a warrior was bathed in blood, victory, and honor.” She indicated the oval in the middle. “Verdandi’s rune for the present is Dagaz , the dawn of new beginnings. Hope, enlightenment, transformation, and truth.” úlvhild grinned at Sk?rde as she interpreted the final rune. “I ngwaz . Symbol of the god Freyr. Virility, fertility, and abundance. Skuld has revealed a most flourishing future for the Count of the Pays de Caux .”

“May the gods Freyr and Freyja bless you with fertility as a royal couple. And the Land of the White Chalk Cliffs with abundance for our upcoming fall harvest.” Richard the Fearless raised his goblet to hearty cheers of “ Skál!”

úlvhild retrieved her runes, tucking them into the black leather pouch and securing it in her belt. She wrapped the blue linen cloth around her waist and sat down at the table to enjoy the honeyed mead and sumptuous wedding fare.

Senses reeling, Ylva was overwhelmed by sights, sounds, and smells. Her head spun from Viking rituals, runes, and revelations.

“This is delicious .” Sk?rde’s deep voice brought her back to the present. He pried open an oyster with his knife and slipped it between his blond bearded lips. “Mmm,” he murmured.

A tingling chill rippled through her sensitized body. Ylva forced her attention away from her husband’s alluring tongue and onto the platter of crustaceans which she also adored.

“Taste this.” Sk?rde scooped a steamed scallop from its shell, dipped the mollusk in melted butter, and slipped the morsel into Ylva’s open mouth.

The contrast of mild, sweet meat and tangy, salty butter danced on her appreciative tongue.

She hummed in approval. “I love coquilles . My mother Lova and I would often dig clams and harvest mussels. And steam them with seaweed and scallops.”

Sk?rde swallowed another oyster. “My grandmother told me that the two of you lived in a cottage on an oceanfront cliff, where you discovered a sea cave. And built a shrine to worship Divona. The Celtic goddess of Sacred Springs.” He cracked open a lobster shell and offered her a luscious bite of the sweet, buttered meat.

“That’s right,” she said, savoring the delicious flavor and swallowing a sip of honeyed mead. “ Maman and I used to dig clams on the mudflats near the cottage. One day—after my mother had died—I found a hidden sea cave with a waterfall inside. A freshwater spring flowed from Mont Garrot—where the Celtic Druids of my village used to worship in a temple—down into the grotto where I built the shrine.” Ylva lowered her eyes, unable to meet his intense blue gaze at the bitter reminder that his people—the Vikings—had slaughtered the Druids and enslaved her Celtic village. She pensively traced a delicate fingertip along the rim of the shared goblet of mead and deliberately held her tongue. “I had to abandon it when my father came to Saint-Suliac to reclaim me. To bring me here to marry you.” She glanced at the elated throng around them, absently watching as wedding guests imbibed mugs of mead, feasted at festive tables, and danced around the roaring bonfire to lively fiddles and flutes. “I hate to think of my sacred shrine neglected in that secret cave.”

“Perhaps you’ll find another one, here in the Pays de Caux . There are many caves and underground springs among the white chalk cliffs.” He chuckled gruffly. “In fact, there’s a deep freshwater pool on the other side of the forest. Right here on the castle grounds. That’s where the thralls dunked me today—during my ritual wedding bath as the Viking groom.”

Ylva smiled softly at Sk?rde, surprised and pleased at his interest and attention. Perhaps he is not the monstrous beast I expected. “I hope you’re right. I would love to create a new shrine.”

Harald’s voice interrupted their conversation as he addressed Sk?rde. “While the wedding feasts continue this week, my men and I shall remain here in Normandy. We’ll help you and Richard construct longhouses, lodging, and merchant shops for your new Viking settlements along the coast of the Pays de Caux. However, I must return to Heieabyr next week . I need to recruit warriors to refurbish my Viking army and build dozens of drakkar warships to replace the fleet I bequeathed to you.”

“We are most grateful for the generous gift , Faeir.” Sk?rde drained the rest of his mead and set the goblet down, suddenly introspective and withdrawn. His brow furrowed into a scowl of concern. “I only hope you have not compromised the defense of Denmark with such a magnanimous gesture.”

Harald downed a hearty gulp of mead and scoffed. “You recently repelled the Frankish forces in the glorious victory at Dorestad.” He grinned at Ylva. “Your husband—the valiant Dragon of Denmark—drove the invading enemy all the way back to Frisia. Where he vanquished West Francia’s finest knight—the leader of King Lothaire’s royal army—and seized the Frankish blade which he gave to you in tonight’s wedding ritual, during the exchange of swords.” The Danish king reached across the table, grasped Ylva’s hand, and raised it to his bearded lips. “A priceless heirloom for your future son.”

Ylva shuddered at the thought of bedding her brutal husband and bearing a Viking son.

An animated Richard leaned forward, anxious to join the conversation. “My grandfather Rollo built this fortress fifty years ago, to house a thousand of his Viking warriors.” Nostalgic pride illuminated his gruff, grizzled face as he gestured to the forested cliff overlooking the river, the woodland clearing filled with jubilant guests dancing, and the expansive castle grounds surrounding Chateaufort where they now sat at the royal wedding table. He glanced admiringly into the distance, where dozens of newly thatched huts now sheltered many recently married couples. “With all the current construction, we’ve doubled that capacity. With plans to build even more.”

Ylva’s father directed his attention to Sk?rde. “Once we finish construction here, and fortify the harbor for your new Viking fleet, I suggest we divide the five thousand men who have relocated from Denmark. Send a group to each of the five planned Viking settlements along the Pays de Caux.” He glanced at Harald, who nodded in approval, before refocusing on a solemn, contemplative Sk?rde.

He is sullen and withdrawn. Like me, he is unhappy with this arranged royal marriage and forced relocation to Normandy. Sk?rde and I are both victims. Political pawns for our fathers to form a powerful Viking alliance.

“The men will chop timber,” Richard continued, “build longhouses, harvest the crops for the Haustblót fall festival, and settle into the new villages with their French Norman wives.” Richard wrapped an arm around the beguiling brunette on his left. “We’ll also fortify my ducal palace in Fécamp. Where Gunnor and I will reside when we visit the Pays de Caux. ”

An exuberant Harald expressed his enthusiastic support. “With all the new craftsmen and merchants from Denmark, you’ll soon have five thriving villages. Each defended by an army of a thousand Viking warriors and a formidable fleet of drakkar ships.” He raised his goblet of mead. “To Sk?rde Haraldsson, the Count of the Pays de Caux. The vital link in the Viking alliance between Denmark, Norway, and Normandy. An invaluable asset to us both.”

Everyone drank to honor Sk?rde, and Richard rose from the table. “Harald, please join us,” he said, gallantly taking hold of Gunnor’s hand and helping her to stand at his side. “I’d like to mingle with our wedding guests. Meet the men who voyaged with you from Denmark and introduce Gunnor as the future Duchess of Normandy.” He grinned at Ylva and Sk?rde. “I’m sure my dóttir and her new husband are eager to join the revelry and dance around the summer solstice fire.”

As Harald stood, preparing to leave, two breathless warriors—gleaming swords at their waists and glistening sweat on their exhilarated faces—rushed to the table and claimed their leader. “Sk?rde! We need you. The mock battles have begun!”

Instantly alert and alive, Sk?rde bolted to his feet and made his excuses to Ylva. “I must go—my men need me.” He darted a glance at Gyda and úlvhild, sitting on her other side. “But perhaps, while I’m gone, my grandmother and the v?lva can tell you what to expect as the wife of a Danish jarl.” He bent to kiss Ylva’s hand, his eyes feral and fierce. “I’ll be back soon to dance with my Breton bride.” A grin stretched across his scarred, savage face. In a flash, he dashed off with his men.

She watched her warrior husband lope across the glen, like a predator pursuing its prey. How his spirit sings when he’s summoned to fight. No wonder he’s called Sk?rde the Scourge. The Dragon of Denmark. He was born and bred for battle.

Richard laughed as Sk?rde disappeared into the dense woods, then turned toward Ylva. “I leave you in very capable hands, dóttir. Gyda raised the son of our Danish king.” Richard bowed his head reverently to Sk?rde’s grandmother and kissed her wrinkled hand. “And úlvhild has foreseen a prosperous future for you as Countess of the Pays de Caux .” He ducked his chin in deference to the Viking v?lva . With a hearty smile, the fearless Duke of Normandy led Gunnor and King Harald Bluetooth into the crowd where the summer solstice celebration of S ankthansaften and the sumptuous royal wedding feast continued in wild, festive abandon.

Alone at the royal table with Gyda and úlvhild, Ylva gratefully accepted Dagny’s offer to refill her goblet of mead, while the thralls Eydis and Norhild cleared away silver platters piled high with empty seafood shells.

úlvhild arose from the table. “I’ll circulate among the wedding guests and cast my runes to predict futures. With a hundred couples who married tonight, I’ll be busy all evening.” She bowed her gem-studded head to Ylva. “Congratulations on your royal wedding. And the Viking alliance between Harald Bluetooth of Denmark and Richard the Fearless of Normandy. My blessings for a most fertile marriage.” The v?lva grasped her iron staff with the glowing moonstone gem and sauntered off to mingle with other jubilant guests.

“It’s wonderful that you and your mother raised sheep in Saint-Suliac.” Gyda smiled as Dagny refilled her chalice and left to attend the wedding celebrants at other tables. “You already know how to shear fleece, clean and prepare wool.” Kindness shone in her empathetic gaze. “I’ll teach you how to spin yarn and weave on my whalebone loom.” She squeezed Ylva’s hand encouragingly. “We have the finest silks, brocades, and gemstones from Sk?rde’s trading expeditions to Constantinople. I’l show you how to embroider his formal tunics with silken thread. How to embellish his regal cloaks with the finest furs. And you, dear Ylva, will wear elegant gowns and govern this castle. As Countess of the Pays de Caux .”

Gyda reached into the velvet pouch belted at her waist and placed a parcel wrapped in golden silk on the table in front of Ylva. “This is my wedding gift to you.”

Surprised and delighted at the unexpected present, Ylva carefully unfolded the glistening fabric to reveal a crescent-shaped amulet of elaborately decorated silver. Engraved with an intricate pattern of Nordic runes and a trio of glowing moonstone gems, the intriguing talisman was suspended from a braided black leather cord.

“This is a lunula—shaped like the moon, which marks a woman’s monthly cycles. It’s carved with runes and imbued with moonstones, which represent Freyja, the Nordic Goddess of Fertility.” Gyda’s wise eyes glinted in the glowing firelight. “Hang this lunula over the headpost of your marriage bed, for Freyja to bless your fertile womb.” Wrinkled lips kissed Ylva’s forehead as Gyda whispered softly. “So that you may conceive Sk?rde’s son. The heir to the Pays de Caux .”

As Ylva tucked the lunula into the bodice of her gown, she shivered with a contradictory blend of revulsion and anticipation at the thought of sharing Sk?rde’s bed.

His eyes wash me in waves of desire. His touch sends a current coursing through me. I glimpsed a vision of him in the pool of the waterfall cave. And yet, he’s a Viking conqueror. Like my father and grandfather. Even my ancestor Rollo. All of them took Celtic women—my mother and both of my grandmothers—as captive concubines. But, unlike them, I am married to the son of a king. In a Viking wedding ceremony that is both pagan and Christian. Am I doomed to be abandoned, like they were? Or destined to bear the heir of the Pays de Caux?

A sudden commotion caught her attention. Ylva looked up just as her flustered husband—flocked by a dozen bawdy Viking warriors and accompanied by King Harald, Richard, and Gunnor—returned in high spirits to the wedding table.

“It’s time for the bride and groom to leap over the flames.” Richard indicated the roaring bonfire where an expectant crowd had gathered. He gestured to Sk?rde’s raucous companions. “These witnesses will escort you to the bridal bed. And ensure that the marriage is consummated.”

Ylva’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened with horror. His warriors will watch us? No—I cannot bear it!

Sk?rde took hold of her sweaty palm. “Come, wife. Hold my hand as we jump over the wedding fire together. Another Viking tradition.”

On wobbly legs, clutching her husband’s strong, calloused grip, Ylva tucked the hem of her turquoise silk wedding gown in her other hand. And—heart hammering furiously against her ribs—leapt with him over the flickering flames.

Amid ribald jokes and lusty grins, Sk?rde’s men ushered the newlyweds and eager witnesses into the castle, up the stone stairs, and down the dimly lit corridor, stopping before the open entrance to Ylva’s private room.

Inside the welcoming chamber, banked embers glowed in the stone hearth. Two goblets and a pitcher of mead stood on the bedside table.

As moonlight shone through the open window, and the alluring scent of roses wafted in the sultry summer breeze, Ylva watched in abject terror as Eydis and Norhild turned down the coverlet on the marriage bed.

And, whispering and giggling, disappeared out the door.

Sk?rde led her into the room, poured mead into the two goblets, and handed one to Ylva. He raised his chalice and grinned. “To us, my Breton bride. May the Nordic and Celtic gods alike bless our Viking marriage.”

Ylva forced a swallow of mead down her parched, constricted throat. Just as she thought she would collapse from fright, Sk?rde addressed his rowdy band of bawdy men.

“I assure you that my royal marriage will be consummated. But, out of respect for my timid wife, I prefer to do so in private. You are hereby dismissed. Takk. Góea nótt . Thank you and good night.”

Muttering and grumbling curses, the Viking warriors shuffled out of the room.

Sk?rde closed and bolted the door behind them. He strode across the room to Ylva, removed the goblet of mead from her tenuous grasp, and set it down upon the table with his own. Her heart leapt to her throat as he turned to face her, taking hold of her shaking hands. His fierce, intense gaze bore into hers. “I know you’re terrified of me. My disfigured face… scars… tattoos. My tremendous size alone intimidates even the most seasoned warrior.” He brushed a lock of hair from her face, the gentle tone of his voice surprisingly soothing. “The Vikings invaded your Breton village. Slaughtered your people. Captured thralls and concubines, like your mother.” He raised her slender fingers to his blond whiskered lips. “But I am not like those men. My mother—like yours—was the captured concubine of my Viking conqueror father.”

Sk?rde lifted her chin with a curved, calloused finger, his deep blue eyes locked with hers. “I promise you, my beautiful Breton bride. I will not come to your bed unless you ask me.” He bent down and softly brushed his lips against hers. “This wedding was forced upon us both. Neither of us wished to marry. We have now obeyed our royal fathers and formed their political alliance. But if ours is to remain a marriage in name only, then only you and I need know the truth.”

He handed her a goblet of mead and drained his own in one long gulp. “I’ll wake you when the sun comes up—before the servants arrive and see that we slept apart.” He set his empty chalice down upon the small table beside the bed and smiled softly. “There is one final Viking wedding tradition for tomorrow. When I give you the morgen-gifu . The morning after gift.” Sk?rde walked across the floor, hovering at the doorway to the antechamber where Gyda and Dagny had bathed Ylva for the wedding earlier that afternoon. “My room is on the other side of this vestibule. We’ll leave the connecting doors open. If you should ever need me—or want me—just call my name.” His eyes blazed in the candlelight. Another ripple surged up Ylva’s spine. “Goodnight, my Viking Wolf.” He smiled sadly and disappeared through the darkened door .

He called me his Viking Wolf. Of course he knows the Old Norse meaning of the name Ylva. He’s a Viking. Like my Nordic father who named me.

Profoundly relieved yet unexpectedly disappointed, Ylva plopped down on the edge of her bed and stared out the open window. Far below the towering cliff where the stone castle was perched, the raging river roared into the Narrow Sea under the silvery light of the crescent moon. The clean, salty tang of the brackish estuary and the ocean waves crashing against the white chalk cliffs wafted into the lonely room. Ylva removed the lunula from the bodice of her wedding gown, rising from the bed to shut it inside a drawer of the nearby wooden table. She scoffed at the irony. I don’t need an amulet of fertility. I’m a virgin Viking bride.

She slipped off her turquoise wedding dress, folding it carefully and placing it upon the walnut table where the lunula lay hidden. Unbraiding her long blonde hair, she removed the wedding crown, saddened at the sight of the wilted wildflowers. She set the beautiful bridal headpiece on the table beside the silken gown.

Ylva climbed into bed and gazed at the luminous moon. Her savage husband had not ravished her, for which she was truly grateful. Yet, despite the comfort of that consolation, solitude and sorrow ebbed in her empty soul.