Chapter 14

Silver, Sword, and Skalds

The touch of Sk?rde’s soft lips sent a jolt of lightning surging through Ylva’s body. Limbs shaking, heart racing, she detected a flash of red movement from the corner of her eye.

Richard had leaned forward to chide them with a teasing chuckle. “If you two can keep your hands off each other long enough to finish dessert, we can proceed to the presentation of gifts.”

Sk?rde laughed and popped a stuffed date into his mouth. “Mmm,” he moaned, closing his eyes in delight. “Try this.” He lifted the same treat from her plate and held the dessert to her lips.

When she opened her mouth, he slid it in.

The rich, chewy texture of the sweet fruit was a delicious contrast to the tang of creamy goat cheese and the savory crunch of walnuts. Ylva watched Sk?rde suck his fingertips, her nipples hardening as she imagined his lips on them. Realizing she was staring, she quickly spooned some wild plum tart into her agape mouth and washed it down with a gulp of mead.

Richard arose from the table and—escorted by two of his personal guards—descended the steps of the elevated wooden dais. Red ducal robes flowing behind him, he strode across the limestone floor to the center of the Great Hall, lifting his arms to silence the clamorous crowd. His sonorous bellow resounded throughout the chamber. “Tonight, in honor of my daughter’s royal wedding, I would like to present a gift to the groom. Lord Sk?rde, please come join me.” While two of Richard’s knights escorted Sk?rde to the center of the room, the Duke of Normandy nodded to his highest-ranking warrior Gudmund, standing at attention with a bevy of armored knights near the entrance door.

Chain mail glinting in the candlelight, surcoat emblazoned with the ducal coat of arms of Richard the Fearless—two golden lions rampant on a background of solid red—Gudmund marched a procession of knights across the stone floor of the Great Hall of Chateaufort. To the blare of a trumpet, a standard-bearer carrying Richard’s red banner as the Duke of Normandy led an armored knight who clutched a black silk tufted pillow upon which perched a thick silver arm ring engraved with Nordic runes.

Richard exalted Sk?rde before the enthralled throng. “Seven years ago—as Viking warlord for your royal father, King Harald Bluetooth—you led the Danish army to defend Normandy against the invading Franks. In recompense for your incomparable valor, you received a silver arm band and the esteemed title Dragon of Denmark . Tonight, I—Richard I, Duke of Normandy—bestow upon you another silver arm band of Viking honor. And hereby appoint you with a new, equally prestigious title. I officially proclaim you Lord of Chateaufor t and Count of the Pays de Caux .” Richard ceremoniously lifted the engraved torque from the black silk pillow and presented it to Sk?rde.

A glorious grin stretching from ear to ear, Sk?rde accepted the silver arm band with a bowed his head. He proudly placed the silver torque above his left bicep and fisted his chest in allegiance to Richard, the reigning Duke of Normandy.

Richard raised his goblet in tribute. “All hail Sk?rde Haraldsson, the Dragon of Normandy! ”

Amid riotous cheers of “ Skál!”, the wedding guests shot to their feet and toasted their lord’s distinguished new title.

When the crowd quieted and returned to their seats, Richard introduced his honored guests. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my privilege to present two Ljósálfar who have come bearing wedding gifts for the bride and groom. Please welcome Lord Lugh and Lady Luna, the Light Elves who defend the Pays de Caux.”

Murmurs of awe and admiration mingled with fervent applause. Together, Lugh and Luna—escorted by liveried attendants clad in heraldic silver and green—filed from the royal table, down the steps of the elevated wooden dais, to join Richard and Sk?rde in the center of the Great Hall.

In a crystalline voice clear as a clarion bell, Luna addressed Ylva, seated at the table of honor. “Lady of Chateaufort , Countess of the Pays de Caux , I bring a wedding gift from the Ljósálfar. Please come, that I may formally present it to you.”

Ylva rose to unsteady feet upon the wooden dais, excitement and anticipation weakening her trembling legs as a liveried attendant escorted her to the center of the Great Hall of join Sk?rde, her ducal father, and the two extraordinary Ljósálfar guests.

A Light Elven gift for me? What could this possibly be?

Luna’s long white dress graced the limestone floor. The moonstone gem at the base of her throat glowed in the incandescent light. Her fluid voice flowed like clear water in a cool stream. “You are a trained Druid priestess. A gifted Celtic guérisseuse , skilled in the healing herbs of the forest. You wield galdr magic through curative crystals and gems. My gift to you, Ylva Rikardsdóttir, is the Light Elven magic of nen glir . The song of water. Like a vardlokkur chant to summon the spirits, you may call upon the curative essence of sacred springs. With nen glir— the Ljósálfar song of water.”

White sleeves unfurling like the wings of a swan, Luna lifted her arms above her head. Long fingers swirling and curling in a slow descent over Ylva, the lovely Ljósálfar sang a lucid melody in an otherworldly, ephemeral voice.

The limpid notes of Luna’s song cascaded upon Ylva like a waterfall from álfheim . As a ripple of energy coursed through her body, Ylva emitted a radiant glow, illuminated from within. When Luna’s song ended, the glimmer subsided, absorbed into Ylva’s skin. She examined her hands, which appeared normal, but palpable power pulsed in her veins.

Unsure how to respond or what to do, Ylva lowered her head and bowed at the waist. “I humbly thank you for your generous gift. May Eir, the Nordic Goddess of Healing, guide me in wielding the Ljósálfar magic of nen glir .”

Luna smiled graciously and bowed in return.

Ylva’s breath hitched when the Light Elven Lord Lugh stepped forward to present his gift to Sk?rde. He gestured to a pair of knights wearing chain mail armor and Sk?rde’s coat of arms. One carried the heraldic banner of the Dragon of Normandy, and the other bore a large, unwieldy black sack strapped across his shoulder. At the sound of the trumpet, the duo strode in proud precision from the castle entrance to the center of the Great Hall.

Lugh’s deep, melodic voice carried across the rapt room. “Sk?rde the Scourge, Dragon of Normandy. son of King Harald Bluetooth of Norway and Denmark. Lord of Chateaufort and Count of the Pays de Caux . Please accept this gift from the Ljósálfar.” Retrieving the black bag from the armored knight, Lugh removed a magnificent sword sheathed in a leather scabbard adorned with sparkling gems. He withdrew the blade, handed the scabbard to the attendant knight, and—laying the superb weapon across the palms of his outstretched hands—extended his arms and offered it to Sk?rde. “In recognition of you as Dragon of Normandy, Defender of Dieppe, and Count of the White Chalk Cliffs, I have crafted this Light Elven blade, Duradrakk. Forged in dragonfire in the realm of álfheim. Imbued with Ljósálfar magic. May you wield it as the Dragon of Normandy to defend the Land of the White Chalk Cliffs.”

Eyes widened in awe and astonished appreciation, Sk?rde accepted the sword, grasping the hilt to heft the weapon, admiring the enormous emerald in the pommel. The radiant gem sparkled like green fire in the candlelight. “I am honored to receive this magnificent blade. Thank you for this unparalleled gift.”

“The emerald in the hilt is imbued with Ljósálfar magic. It will defend you, Dragon of Normandy. Including your lands, your people, and your castle . The gems in the scabbard are enchanted, too. To protect you and the Pays de Caux .”

Belting the leather scabbard around his hips, Sk?rde sheathed the sword and bent his head before Lugh and Richard. Right fist clenched over his heart, he roared an oath of fealty. “As Dragon of Normandy, I swear allegiance to you, Richard the Fearless, my sovereign lord. May I valiantly wield Duradrakk to defend this castle and the White Chalk Cliffs . ”

To thunderous applause, Richard gripped Sk?rde’s forearms in acceptance of his pledge. Turning to face the boisterous crowd, he raised his arms once again to command silence. “And now, the culmination of tonight’s entertainment… the competition of skalds! The winner shall receive a bag of silver. And serve Lord Sk?rde, the Dragon of Normandy, as castle poet of Chateaufort!”

While formal attendants escorted Richard, Lugh, Luna, Ylva, and Sk?rde back to the table of honor, the first competitor took his place before the jubilant throng.

As cupbearers refilled goblets of mead and chalices of wine, the skald Geirr introduced himself and sang in Old Norse, the language of Nordic lore. His poem, "Sails of Valor”—evoked the drakkar ships and Viking army that Sk?rde the Scourge, Dragon of Denmark, had brought to defend Normandy.

When his skaldic rendition was complete, Geirr bowed before the cheering audience and the second performer entered the room.

Vauquelin greeted the bride, groom, and wedding guests, explaining that he was a trouvère from Paris who had performed in the courts of Frankish and Norman nobles alike. As he drew the bow across the taut strings of his vielle, the plaintive notes of his wooden instrument and Vauquelin’s melodic voice carried across the Great Hall. In the language of Norman French, he sang a chivalrous, eloquent poem, “ La Danse des ?mes ”—"The Dance of Souls”—to enthusiastic, appreciative applause.

The third and final competitor introduced himself as Bragi, a skald originally from Norway who had accompanied his master throughout the French-speaking courts of Anjou and the southern region of Aquitaine, where he had also learned the Occitan language and the lyrical poetry of troubadours. His rendition of “Wedding Song at Chateaufort ” was a tribute to the Celtic and Nordic blend of cultures in Ylva and Sk?rde’s Viking marriage.

In poetic verse of Old Norse and Norman French, accompanied by a poignant, alternating musical pattern of lute and lyre, the troubadour Bragi’s impassioned performance brought tears to Ylva’s eyes.

“On the white chalk cliffs where banners soar,

Stands a warrior worthy of Nordic lore,

With Viking blade and dragon’s roar,

He defends the castle of Chateaufort .

Beside him stands his priestess fair

Of golden hair and Celtic air

With runes and charms she casts her spell

In the clifftop castle where legends dwell.

Their love, a bond of ice and fire

Of which I sing with lute and lyre

With vows they weave a heritage strong

Of Nordic might and Celtic song

In Chateaufort, where love takes hold

A wedding song, their story told.”

While the throng roared in approval and Bragi took a bow, Sk?rde squeezed Ylva’s hand under the table and whispered in her ear. “Which one did you prefer? I want you to choose the winner.”

He values my opinion and wants me to decide. For the first time in my life, I am given a choice. Dear Goddess, I’m grateful for this husband.

“I prefer the troubadour, Bragi. He’s a Scandinavian skald who sings in Old Norse and Norman French. He can even compose in the proven?al dialect of Occitan, should we ever entertain guests from Aquitaine.” Ylva watched the talented poet bow before the appreciative audience. He was young, like she and Sk?rde, and would entertain their castle guests for many years to come. With his chestnut curls and neatly trimmed beard, green tunic embroidered with silver thread, he was perfect to represent them as Count and Countess of the Pays de Caux . “Bragi’s voice is uplifting and inspiring…and his poem was a tribute to the Celtic and Nordic blend of our marriage. He’s even wearing the colors of our new heraldry. He’s perfect to serve as castle poet of Ch?teaufort. Do you agree?”

“Absolutely. Bragi it is. Our steward Ingolf will reward him with the promised pouch of silver. Stand with me now. We’ll announce the winner together. And set the example that we’ll always rule as one.”

Joyous wings of a lark fluttered in Ylva’s heart. Not only was Sk?rde’s touch sizzling and his kiss scorching, but he made her spirit soar. He respected her as his equal. And treated her like a queen.

As Ylva and Sk?rde rose to their feet, the two previous poets came back into the Great Hall, having entertained the crowd outside. Now, as the three competitors stood before the royal table, the raucous crowd quieted to hear the winner’s name.

Sk?rde’s deep voice reverberated through the room. “Each one of you has exceptional skill and commendable talent. My wife and I thank you for entertaining our castle guests and offering us a wedding gift of song.” He smiled at Ylva. “The Lady of Chateaufort has selected the winner and will make the announcement now.”

Ylva had never addressed a large crowd. She had never seen so many people gathered together. She’d never been in a castle, nor worn a crown like the silver cornet adorned with emeralds which now sat upon her lowered head.

I am lady of this castle, and Countess of the White Chalk Cliffs. These are my people. Like my husband and me, they’re a blend of Nordic and Celtic heritage, forged together to form Normandy. At long last, I finally belong.

“Thank you all for your poetic verse. And the music which filled our hearts. After careful deliberation, my husband and I have selected the winner.” She beamed at the troubadour with chestnut curls, clutching his lute and lyre. “Bragi will be the castle poet of Chateaufort !” As the wedding guests cheered and cupbearers poured, Ylva nodded to Ingolf, who was standing with the seneschal Petroc and a bevy of armored knights near the castle door.

The steward inclined his head, acknowledging her unspoken command. He would ensure that Bragi received the promised bag of silver.

Sk?rde raised his goblet of mead in tribute. “To Bragi, the troubadour of Chateaufort. Félicitations ! Skál! Bravo!”

Ylva smiled as she raised her chalice to her lips. Sk?rde was learning the language of his people. He had said congratulations in Norman French.

“Poets, please join in the revelry. Let the music and dancing begin!” His boom bellowing across the Great Hall, Sk?rde grasped Ylva’s hand, sending another jolt coursing through her veins. “We’ll stay here with our guests a bit longer, but slip outside soon. I want to dance with you in the moonlight. And kiss you under the stars.”

Ylva’s legs weakened under her dark green gown.

Lugh and Luna arose from the table, preparing to depart.

“Congratulations again on your wedding,” Lugh said amiably, firmly clasping Sk?rde’s forearms. “It’s a pleasure to meet the Count and Countess of the Pays de Caux .” When Lugh’s cool lips brushed against Ylva’s hand, she noted how—unlike the Viking Danes and Norman knights in the castle—the Ljósálfar lord was clean shaven.

“Thank you both for the extraordinary wedding gifts. Sk?rde and I are honored and truly grateful.” Ylva bowed before Luna and Lugh, who smiled and said goodbye to Richard and Gunnor, Harald and Gyda, úlvhild, and the guests at the table of honor. With a swish of silk and a flash of light, they followed their escorts out the castle door.

“I’m going outside to cast my runes for more of the newly wedded couples. I’ll predict their future…earn a few coins.” úlvhild met Ylva’s gaze. “Tomorrow, we practice again. After the midday meal, in my cottage.”

Ylva nodded in agreement. “I’m anxious to learn more vardlokkur chants and the galdr magic of healing.” She wanted to kiss the v?lva’s cheek, but didn’t dare. Perhaps in time, she might. She watched while a pair of castle servants escorted úlvhild from the Great Hall.

Richard boomed above the clamorous din. “A magnificent Ljósálfar sword, like mine.” He inclined his head toward Sk?rde’s new blade Duradrakk , patting his own weapon strapped to his hip. “Enjoy the rest of the evening,” he shouted to Ylva and Sk?rde. “I plan to dance with my beautiful wife.” Red robes rustling, he led a jubilant Gunnor down the steps of the dais and out onto the festive floor.

“I’ll see you in the morning. Your grandmother has promised me a dance.” Harald chuckled and gripped Sk?rde’s shoulder, then turned to his new daughter-in-law. “Good night, lovely Ylva. Congratulations on your Ljósálfar gift of nen glir. The perfect wedding present for a Celtic healer.” He kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear. “You make my son happy. It gladdens my heart to see him smile. You’re the perfect bride for him. And I’m pleased to call you dóttir.” Dark eyes glistening in the candlelight, Harald smiled, then led Gyda—who had kissed both Sk?rde and Ylva goodnight—from the royal table to the center of the dance floor.

“I think we can slip out of the castle now. Come, wife. Let’s go dance in the moonlight.” Taking her hand—and sending a thunderbolt surging through her body—Sk?rde led Ylva from the castle, out into the starry night.