Chapter 18

First Female Friend

Physically and emotionally depleted from the seier vision, the enchanted trance, and the ill effects of the bitter herbs, úlvhild hunched forward in her chair.

The Celtic healer in Ylva responded at once. She helped the exhausted v?lva to bed, covering her in a sheet of cool silk rather than heavy fur, for it was very warm inside the smoky hut. The black cat curled up in a protective ball beside his mistress’ prone body, his loud purring a calming chant. “We must take good care of her, Kól. She needs us to watch over her.” Ylva caressed the sleek feline fur, then crossed the room to fetch a pitcher of water.

She moved the seier chair back into a corner of the hut, poured some liquid into a small pot, and set it over the fire to heat. Among the herbs hanging from the ceiling, she selected a stalk of chamomile with fragrant yellow flowers, which she would steep in a ceramic mug when the water was hot. She found nettles, a few sprigs of basil, and dandelion flowers hanging upside down to dry. With mortar and pestle from the v?lva’s shelf, Ylva carefully crushed the selected herbs, preparing the flowers, leaves, and stems for a cleansing infusion to restore úlvhild’s weakened, ravaged body.

A frantic female voice floated into the cottage through the open window. “úlvhild? Are you all right? Why are there armed guards at the door?”

Ylva set the stone pestle down on the counter and rushed to the entrance of the hut. She peered outside and was surprised to see a young woman with a long cascade of flaming red hair, vibrant green eyes, and a splattering of freckles across her distraught face. Dressed in a simple homespun gown and beige linen apron, she was holding a pair of strung rabbits—ready to cook—an overflowing basket stuffed with fresh vegetables, a baked tart, and a large loaf of barley bread.

Ylva nodded to her wary guards and spoke reassuringly to the young woman. “úlvhild is inside the cottage, resting. She’s recovering from a seier vision. I’m a healer, and I am caring for her. Who are you, might I ask?”

The maiden’s eyes widened, her mouth agape in astonishment at the recognition of Ylva. She quickly curtseyed as best she could with her arms full. “Sweet Brigid’s Breath! You’re Ylva Rikardsdóttir. Lady of Ch?teaufort and Countess of the Pays de Caux!” Recovering from her awkward obeisance, she stammered, “I’m Maeve MacCleirigh. A neighbor—keepin’ an eye on úlvhild. I’ve just come from the village, with all the fixin’s to make a fine rabbit stew. Might I come in and set these things down?”

Ylva motioned for her guards to step aside and allow Maeve to enter. “Of course,” she said cheerfully, taking the fruit tart and barley bread to ease Maeve’s overburdened load as she led her into the cottage. “I’m preparing a tisane for when úlvhild awakens. To rid her body of the harmful herbs used for the seier vision.”

Maeve nodded with a knowing smile, scurrying into the area that served as a small kitchen. She laid the basket and pair of rabbits on a counter next to the hearth. “Thank you, my lady,” she murmured, curtseying again as she took the bread and pie from Ylva’s hands and placed them down next to the basket. Although she spoke Norman French, her accent was odd and unfamiliar. Maeve peeked at the sleeping v?lva in the back of the hut.

While Ylva removed the steaming water from the hearth, pouring it into the ceramic cup and stirring in the chamomile and crushed herbs to make her cleansing tisane, Maeve strode over to the bed and checked on úlvhild. Like a doting mother hen, she clucked as she tucked the silk covering over the v?lva’s exposed shoulder. “She’ll sleep for hours,” she informed Ylva. “She always does after a seier vision.” The intriguing, flame haired neighbor caressed Kól, crooning at the cat as if he were a baby. “Sure and you’re a beautiful boy, with whiskers like reeds by the river. You’re the perfect guard, aren’t you now. You’ll watch over your mistress while she sleeps.”

Maeve scratched the purring cat’s head, then returned to the kitchen area to join Ylva. She brushed a bit of dirt off the front of her linen apron and unloaded the items from her basket. “I like to keep an eye on her, don’t you know.” Compassion shone in her kind gaze as she glanced at úlvhild on the bed. “She’s been teachin’ me galdr magic—Norse healin’ with crystals and gems. In turn, I repay her by cookin’ and cleanin’. Gatherin’ herbs, mushrooms…berries.” She grinned, an adorable dimple forming in her freckled cheek. “I’m a fine cook, if I do say so meself. And I’m goin’ to fix her a fine rabbit stew. When she wakes up—even if it’s not until tomorrow morn—she’ll have a delicious meal now, won’t she?”

With a proud sweep of her hand, Maeve gestured to the items she’d spread upon the counter. “Carrots, potatoes, mushrooms, garlic, and onions. And a wild plum tart for dessert.” She nodded at the dried herbs hanging from the rafters. “There’s fresh rosemary, sage, and thyme. I’ll add a dollop of lard to the stew, so the meat’s good and tender. And a cup of red wine for a rich, hearty broth.” Maeve fetched an iron cookpot from the shelves on the wall, poured in water from the pitcher, and returned to place the container on the counter. She selected a smooth wooden board from the shelves, retrieved a sharp seax knife from the sheath at her waist, and began skinning the two rabbits. Humility and generosity laced her gentle, lilting voice. “It’s not elegant fare for a lady so fine as you, but I’d be honored if you joined me. Would you like to stay …and share my rabbit stew?” Golden light from the afternoon sun set Maeve’s dark red hair aflame, and hope glittered like emeralds in her deep green eyes.

A thousand thoughts raced through Ylva’s mind as she beheld Maeve’s eager, optimistic gaze.

She was expected to return to the castle.

Although she had originally planned to practice galdr magic with úlvhild this afternoon, now—with Ylva’s sighting in the waterfall cave and the v?lva depleted by her seidr vision—all that had changed. And Gyda would surely be worried.

Yet, Ylva wanted to be here when úlvhild awakened. She needed the seeress to explain the unsettling seier vision about the boy imprisoned in a tower. And the mysterious man named the Falcon whom the v?lva had summoned.

She didn’t want to go back to the castle and do nothing but fret. Sk?rde would be gone all day, and she had no desire to sit in the salon with Gyda, trying to weave on the whalebone loom. Ylva was frantic to know who the raven warriors were that she’d glimpsed in the waterfall pool. And what the seier vision meant with a trio of evil who would betray the Danish king.

Ylva needed to stay here. Hopefully úlvhild would awaken soon. In the meantime, she would be with Maeve. And share the delicious rabbit stew.

Her decision finally reached, a stark realization hit Ylva.

For the first time in her lonely life, she had just made a female friend.

“I’d love to,” she beamed. “But I must send a message up to the castle. They’re expecting me, so I need to let the steward know that I’ll stay here to watch over úlvhild—with the royal guards that my husband insists I need for protection,” she smirked. “That way, everyone will know I am safe. And I can spend the afternoon with you.” With a warm smile, Ylva slipped to the door and sent a knight to deliver the message. She also requested a change of guards so that the men could return to the castle and eat.

Despite her distress over the disturbing visions, Ylva was content with her decision to stay. Exhaling in relief, she returned to the counter to help Maeve make the rabbit stew.

“I lived alone before I came to Chateaufort, so I’m used to cooking,” Ylva said, withdrawing her own small knife that she always kept sheathed at her belt. “While you skin the rabbits, I’ll peel the vegetables. And you can tell me how you came to Normandy.”

“With pleasure, my lady. But you must tell me your fascinatin’ story as well. How the daughter of a Norman duke married the son of a Danish king. Sweet Brigid’s Breath, you’re practically a queen!” Her freckled face flushed, Maeve curtseyed again .

“Please call me Ylva. And no more bowing as if I’m royalty. I’m just a simple shepherdess from Bretagne.”

Maeve shook her head, chuckling softly. With her sharp blade, she meticulously separated the rabbit meat from the pelts of fur. “I’ll wash and dry these later, to save them for úlvhild,” she explained, while Ylva peeled the carrots and potatoes. “Sometimes she needs animal hides to cast certain spells.” As Maeve diced the meat on the wooden cutting board—scraping the morsels of rabbit into the iron pot—she told Ylva the tale of her turbulent past.

“I grew up in Ireland, in a seaside village at the mouth of a river—just like the Arques River we have here at Chateaufort . Me da was a blacksmith, don’t you know, and Mam was a skilled herbal healer. I had three older brothers who worked in the shop with Da—craftin’ tools and plows, hammers and nails, horseshoes, weapons, and armor. With me mam, I harvested shellfish in the bay, fished in the lake, cared for the chickens and sheep. We dried herbs, made ointments and potions, sellin’ them at the market in the village. The two of us grew vegetables and herbs in a garden behind the house, right next to Da’s blacksmith shop.”

Maeve added the last of the chopped meat into the pot and wiped her sweaty brow with the sleeve of her dress. Since she’d finished with the morsels of rabbit, she washed the cutting board with soap and water in a basin on a nearby table, drying it off with a linen cloth. When she returned to Ylva’s side and began chopping the onion and garlic, she took a deep breath, as if summoning the courage to continue. “Mam died when I was but nine winters old. And the following spring… the Vikings came .”

A visible shudder shook Maeve, her quavering voice haunted with horror. “The dragon ships sailed right up the river—all the way to Lough Gill, the lake where we lived in the village. Like a swarm of locusts, they poured off those boats, screamin’ warriors swingin’ axes and swords. They slaughtered the men—includin’ Da and me brothers. Took all the weapons and armor. And me—along with all the other young girls they stole from the village.” Hands shaking violently, she gripped the counter, leaning against it for strength and support. “They roped us like cattle… herded us onto their ships. We couldn’t understand their harsh language. Didn’t know where they were takin’ us. We were horrified by the slaughter of our families. Terrified of what they would do to us. The seas were so rough, I was sick for the whole miserable voyage. Thought for sure I would die on that boat. We ended up in a slave market in Rouen. That’s where Ingi bought me… and took me home to his wife Gillie. They had no children of their own—and Gillie wanted one so badly, he went to the market and bought me.”

Maeve dashed tears from her eyes and barked out a bitter laugh, dumping the chopped onions and garlic into the pot. While she fetched herbs from the rafters and added rosemary, thyme, and sage to the stew, a solemn Ylva added her peeled potatoes and carrots as well. “They were kind to me,” Maeve continued, a smile softening her crumpled, anguished face. “They didn’t want a slave, they wanted a daughter. So, Blessed Danu be praised, that’s how they treated me. And even though we lived among Vikings, the Norsemen in Normandy were nothing like the monsters who destroyed my village. Slowly, over the past ten years, I’ve learned to deal with the grief. Adapted to new ways and customs. Learned Old Norse and Norman French.” Wrapping a thick cloth around her hands, Maeve removed úlvhild’s cauldron from the fire, setting it carefully upon the stone hearth on the floor. She returned to the kitchen area, added a cup of wine and a bit of lard to the rabbit stew. “Now, we let it simmer.” Covering the pot, she centered it over the fire. With a long iron rod, she poked the embers and rekindled the flames in the hearth. Sighing in satisfaction, she wiped her hands on her apron and poured two generous cups of ale. As she headed toward úlvhild’s small table, she gestured for Ylva to come join her.

Ylva collected the goblets of mead that she and úlvhild had drunk earlier, carrying them to the kitchen for washing. She eyed the v?lva’s silver chalice, remembering the bitter brew and the mysterious seier vision. Although she was anxious for úlvhild to wake up and interpret the images she had seen, for now, Ylva would sit with Maeve. And listen to the tale that in many ways paralleled her own.

“I came here from Rouen with Ingi and Gillie, my foster parents,” Maeve continued, handing Ylva a cup of ale as she sat down at the table. “Like me da in Ireland, Ingi is a blacksmith. And there was a great need for farmin’ tools, weapons, and armor in the new Norman settlements along the Pays de Caux . So when your father, Duke Richard, sent families here to settle in Chateaufort , Ingi jumped at the chance. And that’s how I met úlvhild.” Maeve smiled at the sleeping v?lva . “Since me ma was a healer, I already knew about herbs. So úlvhild is teaching me galdr magic—to cure with the sacred stones.” She leaned back in her chair and raised her cup of ale. “Now that you know my story, I’m anxious to hear yours.”

Ylva’s spirit soared at the many similarities she and Maeve shared. She sipped her ale and smiled, wondering where to begin. “úlvhild’s teaching me galdr magic, too. Every afternoon since the wedding, I’ve been practicing the vardlokkur chants. Like you, I’m an herbal healer who learned from her mother.”

Ylva traced a pensive fingertip around the rim of her ceramic cup. “ Maman was a Celtic priestess from Bretagne. She studied with Druids in the seaside village of Saint-Suliac—which the Vikings attacked, just like yours. They slaughtered our strongest warriors, turned the rest of the men into slaves. Took the women as concubines and thralls. My father, Jarl Rikard , was the Viking chieftain who conquered the village, captured my mother, and made her his pagan wife. He transformed Saint-Suliac into an enormous Viking settlement, with a harbor for hundreds of dragon warships.”

A soft saline breeze caressed Ylva’s cheek, reminding her of the beloved Breton sea. “Unlike you, I never saw the Vikings attack my village or kill my family. Quite the contrary. I was born to the Viking chieftain and his more danico , the pampered daughter of the ruling jarl and his beautiful Breton concubine. For ten years, my mother and I lived in luxury in my father’s Viking longhouse. But when Richard the Fearless became the Duke of Normandy, he cast aside his pagan wife and illegitimate daughter to marry a bride from Paris in an official Christian wedding.” Ylva swallowed several gulps of ale, washing down the bitter bile of the past. Sympathy and compassion shone in Maeve’s empathetic eyes.

“He relocated his entire Viking army east into Normandy,” Ylva continued, acrimony lacing her angry voice. “He abandoned my mother and me amidst a horde of angry villagers who hated us for collaborating with the enemy. They called my mother a whore and me a bastard, despising us for contamination by the Vikings who had destroyed our village and enslaved our people. Maman and I had to live in an isolated cottage on top of a cliff, at the edge of a dense forest. We survived by harvesting shellfish in the bay—like you did with your mother. We grew vegetables in the garden, cultivated herbs to make ointments and potions. We had a flock of sheep, so we’d shear the fleece, cleaning and combing the wool to sell in the market with our herbs. I lived alone with my mother Lova in that cottage for ten years. She died this past winter. A few months before my Viking father came back to reclaim me.”

The memory of Richard—standing at the top of the cliff, gilded like a Nordic god in the golden sun—flashed through Ylva’s mind. “For an arranged marriage of political alliance with the son of the Danish king. Like you, I was brought here by force. And like you, I’ve been welcomed by the Norman people. They’re a blend of Celtic and Nordic heritage, just like me. After ten years of isolation, humiliation, and misery, I finally feel that I belong—here at Chateaufort in the Land of the White Chalk Cliffs.”

Vicarious joy illuminated Maeve’s friendly face. “Me, too. But now I have an important decision to make. Whether to stay here in Chateaufort with Ingi and Gillie. Or return to Rouen with úlvhild. To study seier as her acolyte. And become a v?lva like her.”

“You mentioned that she was teaching you galdr magic. How long have you been studying with her?” Ylva was fascinated that Maeve was learning v ardlokkur chants, incantations, and spells—just like she was.

“Ever since we first settled here, about five months ago. She taught me how to imbue charms with wards of protection. Like this talisman I always wear—to defend against evil.” Maeve displayed the elaborate amber pendant draped around her neck. Intricately carved with the image of Freyja, the oval amber stone was encased in silver, inscribed with the Nordic rune Algiz , symbol of protection. Ylva recognized it as one of the three runes engraved on Sk?rde’s thick silver torque .

“I’d like to create such a talisman for my husband—to protect him in battle. Perhaps úlvhild can teach me to imbue a sacred stone like this one.” Ylva traced the amber face of Freyja, the Nordic Goddess of seier magic.

“Mayhap we could make one together—chantin’ the vardlokkur incantations here with úlvhild. When she wakes up, we’ll ask her. Three is a sacred number. Triple the magic of the protective stone.”

Ylva and Maeve shared a smile in companionable silence as they sipped their ale. After a few moments, Maeve set her cup down and raised a curious eyebrow. “After your father moved his Viking army to Normandy, did you ever see him during the years you lived alone with your mother?”

“Never. At first, I kept expecting him to come back and fetch us. Bring us away from the hatred and scorn, to come live with him in Normandy. But he never did.” Sorrow shone in Maeve’s sympathetic gaze. “Just recently—during my wedding preparations—he explained how he’d been forced to marry his Christian wife, Emma. She was the daughter of Hugh the Great, the Count of Paris—whose support my father needed to defend Normandy against the Frankish king. When Emma died childless, leaving him without an heir, he came back to claim me, his illegitimate daughter. For my arranged marriage to the bastard son of the Danish king.” Ylva scoffed and stared into her cup. “A marriage of abandoned bastard children—to form a political alliance between their powerful Viking fathers.”

Ylva took another swallow of ale and smiled sardonically. “My husband Sk?rde had also been abandoned as a child by his ruthless Viking father, King Harald Bluetooth. Neither one of us wanted this forced marriage. And yet, as it turns out, I find that I’m quite smitten with him. And I’m much happier here than I was in Saint-Suliac. The men in my Breton village hated me. And hunted me. Just before my father came, three of them had trapped me in the forest. Although they were wary and superstitious—they believed I was a witch—I’m certain they would have raped and killed me. I lived in loneliness, seclusion, and constant fear.”

“Well, sweet Brigid be praised, you’re here in Normandy now. You’ve a fine husband, a glorious castle…people who love you. You’ve reunited with your father, you’re learnin’ galdr magic with úlvhild. And by the grace of Danu, our paths crossed and we’ve found a kindred spirit in each other.” Maeve raised her cup of ale in tribute. “To the magic of friendship. Sláinte !”

As Ylva and Maeve toasted their new amity, an agonizing groan came from the bed in the back of the hut. “I’m glad to see you two have met. Now, would one of you get me a cup of that ale?”