Chapter 29

A Cleansing Catharsis

Ylva, Maeve, and úlvhild chanted a vardlokkur on the grassy riverbank in front of the castle of Chateaufort. The v?lva rhythmically thumped her staff on the ground as the trio of melodic voices wafted on the wind that whipped the blue square sail of the outgoing ship. Surrounded by servants, knights, and Viking warriors who had come to see Richard, Haldor Falk, and the crew of Ran’s Ram depart from the dock, the three priestesses summoned the protective spirits and sought the blessing of the Nordic gods as the Frisian vessel headed west to the seaport of Le Havre to sail up the Seine River and onward to Paris.

The divine musical invocation continued until the ship disappeared on the horizon.

Bj?rn, the knights of Chateaufort, and the Danish Viking warriors who had come to Normandy with Sk?rde returned to the port, reinforcing the defensive ramparts along the harbor.

Enguerran—Richard’s man from Rouen—rode west toward Fécamp with a bevy of knights to meet the reinforcements from Bayeux, Caen, and Rouen and coordinate with the army sent by the Count of Anjou.

Castle servants resumed their various tasks, and the trinity of healers went back to tend the wounded on the straw pallets in the Great Hall.

Ylva changed the bandages on a seriously wounded soldier’s leg, applying the yarrow, comfrey, and honey ointment that she had concocted the previous day. “I don’t understand why my gift of nen glir cannot cure these wounds. I have tried using it several times, but it has no effect. And yet—it healed Sk?rde’s injured leg at once.”

úlvhild, kneeling beside an injured warrior, helped him drink from a cup of herb-infused water. She replaced the stopper on the vial of elderflower extract, tucked it into the pouch at her waist, and rose to her feet, straightening her stooped back. “That is because Sk?rde was stricken by a D?kkálfar blade. Your Ljósálfar gift enables you to cleanse such a wound of Dark Elven magic.” She gestured to the bloodied, broken bodies strewn on the straw pallets. “Since none of these men were wounded by the Raven Warrior’s sword, there is no D?kkálfar magic for you to wash away. We must treat their injuries with herbal tinctures, healing ointments, and curative crystals imbued with galdr magic. And pray that the goddesses of healing will guide us to cure them.”

After they’d treated the wounded warriors, the three priestesses left their patients under the watchful care of Gyda, Dagny, and women from the village. They returned to the herbal workshop, each creating more tinctures and salves. Maeve—who seemed preoccupied and pensive—set down her mortar and pestle and turned expectantly toward úlvhild, who was steeping juniper berries in red wine. “I am grateful you have taught me galdr magic. And now, I would like very much to learn seidr. Will you please train me to become a v?lva ?”

Ferocity blazed like fire in úlvhild’s golden eyes. “No.” She removed her berry-stained goatskin gloves and set them down on the oak counter. Tenderness and affection in her shrewd gaze softened the sting of her waspish retort. With a slender finger, she gently brushed a wisp of red hair which had escaped from Maeve’s long thick braid away from her freckled, crestfallen face. “The flame of your hair reflects the fire in your heart. You are filled with passion and zest for life. You will make a fine wife and fiercely protective mother. The isolated, lonely life of a v?lva is not for you.”

“But you were young—close to my own age—when you became a v?lva . Why would you deny me the spiritual knowledge that you chose to seek for yourself?” Maeve searched úlvhild’s resolute expression with beseeching, bewildered eyes.

“Because I can never bear a living child.” úlvhild grasped the counter with shaking hands. She hunched forward, her strangled voice tense and tight. “I married the love of my life. ívarr .” A sorrowful smile stretched across her tortured face as she regarded Maeve and Ylva. “He was my childhood sweetheart. We grew up together in a coastal village in southern Norway, on the North Sea.” Tears streamed down her pale cheeks. “ívarr was a skilled leather craftsman,” she said, admiration and pride lacing her nostalgic voice. “He made the finest belts, boots, cloaks, and bags. Even leather armor, scabbards, and shields. We always knew we would marry one day, and when ívarr asked for my hand, my father was pleased to give it.”

Ylva watched as úlvhild wiped away her tears, the cleansing catharsis like the healing waters of Divona’s sacred springs. She wondered if this was the first time the v?lva had ever spoken of her painful past.

“Freyja blessed me with the gift of fertility. I conceived ívarr’s child right away.” úlvhild’s terse tone was sarcastic and bitter. “We were happy together, living in our simple thatched roof hut. The first spring after we married, ívarr and several craftsmen from the village went on a trading expedition to sell their wares. When he returned in September, expecting to find me heavy with child, he was shocked to discover that I had lost the babe during the summer. Our tiny son had been born much too soon to survive.” úlvhild dashed away her angry, anguished tears. “Of course, I conceived again quite quickly. And the following summer—when our babe would be born—ívarr did not go on the annual trading voyage, for he wanted to be home to welcome our child. But once again, I started bleeding very heavily. And—during the spring equinox festival of Disting , when the entire village was celebrating fertility, renewal, and birth—I lost another son. He was perfectly formed and beautiful in every way. But born much too small and too young to survive.” She choked on a strangling sob, but forged forward, determined to finish her harrowing tale. “ívarr and I both grieved, but in different ways. He focused on his work, and I retreated into myself. I spurned his touch, refused to let him make love to me. After months of trying to reach me, he sought solace in another woman’s bed. When he told me he didn’t love her, that he only loved me, he begged for my forgiveness and wanted to try for another child. I forgave him and reluctantly agreed. But when I lost our third son, the midwife told me that my womb was misshapen and could never expand enough for breeding. Once the babe reached a certain size, my womb would expel it much too soon. I would never bear a living child.” Agony distorted the v?lva’s wretched face. “ívarr divorced me during the Thing —the public assembly in a Viking village where legal disputes are settled. Of course, it was granted. I was infertile. And the woman ívarr had slept with was with child. So, when he divorced me, he married her. And I—a withered, wizened crone at the ripe old age of twenty winters—fled the Viking village and sought solace in seier magic.”

Maeve flung her arms around úlvhild and tried to comfort her, but the v?lva scoffed at being coddled. Shrugging off her maudlin emotions like a burdensome cloak, she redonned her stern, unwavering countenance. “Now you understand why I chose my solitary path.” Tenderness softened her tenacious tone. “You, fireheart , may yet find love and become a mother. The herbs used in seier visions ravage a woman’s body and will harm an unborn child. I will not expose you to that.” úlvhild snapped on her goatskin gloves and returned to her juniper berry tincture. “Come, let’s finish our work. I need to go home and check on Kól.”

Maeve flashed a frustrated glance at Ylva, heartache and empathy shining in her compassionate, healing eyes. “I’ll go with you. I need to help Gillie with the household chores. It’s hard for her with me being here at the castle every day.”

Ylva’s heart was heavy with úlvhild’s pain and loss. She couldn’t bear it if she lost Sk?rde’s sons and he divorced her for being infertile. And, to have her husband seek comfort with another woman…get her with child and marry her… no wonder úlvhild had chosen the lonely life of a v?lva. Silently mourning for her friend and mentor, Ylva crushed the calendula in her stone mortar with a bone pestle .

Maeve looked up from grinding her herbs. “Are you going to the waterfall cave?”

Ylva had been praying there every day since Sk?rde’s departure. It was a ritual she felt compelled to repeat, so that the trio of goddesses would bring him safely home. “Yes… to make offerings to Divona, Freyja, and Rán.” She added soft beeswax to the ground calendula in her dish, blending the crushed herbs thoroughly into the base with her bone pestle. She scraped the herbal salve into a ceramic jar and sealed it with a wooden stopper. “I always pray for Sk?rde’s safe return. And today, I’ll also ask the goddesses to guide my father and Haldor Falk to Paris. And bring them quickly home.” At the mention of the Falcon, Ylva remembered the sizzling current she had detected between Haldor and úlvhild the previous evening. She wanted to ask úlvhild if he had been her lover. But since that was too personal a topic to broach, she inquired instead, “How were you able to summon the Falcon?”

A sly, feline grin stretched across úlvhild’s flushed face. “Although I will never marry again, nor bear a child, that does not mean I deny myself the pleasures of the flesh.” An impish glint gleamed in her golden eyes. “Haldor and I were lovers. Briefly. In Harald’s royal court, before the Falcon was sent to the Faroe Islands. Because he and I shared our magic—as well as our bodies—I can communicate with him as v?lva to vitki .” She strained the juniper berries from the wine and poured the tincture into a ceramic vessel, which she sealed with a stoppered cork.

Maeve tittered with titillation. “He’s so handsome and exotic.” She held Ylva’s bemused gaze and leaned toward úlvhild. “Is he a skilled lover?”

The v?lva stored the juniper elixir in the cupboard amongst the jars and vials of herbal remedies. Amber eyes aglow, she purred like a contented cat. “He is indeed.” úlvhild removed her gloves and placed them on the shelf with her supplies. When she turned to face Maeve and Ylva, her whisper was laced with wonder. “He has falcon wings that stretch across his chest and back. At first, I thought they were tattoos. But they’re not etched in ink. They shimmer with iridescent light… and ripple li ke feathers in flight.” She wiped off her workspace with a clean linen cloth. “When Freyja granted Haldor the power to shift into a falcon, she molded him with her magic. Those wings are Freyja’s mark .”

****

Ylva placed the trio of wildflowers she had picked in the meadow upon the altar at the yew sculpture’s feet. Today, she offered wild roses, which the Norman French called églantines. Honeysuckle, known locally as chèvrefeuille. And sweet cicely— cerfeuil musqué —whose aromatic white flowers and anise flavored seeds were often steeped for herbal teas or added to make spiced mead. As the heady floral fragrances mingled with the salty breeze, Ylva looked longingly at the enchanted emerald ring that úlvhild had given her, remembering the v?lva’s prophecy that she was destined to conceive Sk?rde’s son.

The child born to the son of the Danish king and the daughter of the Norman duke will forge a dynasty which will unite this land and rule for a thousand years.

As Ylva stared at the sparkling green gem, she wondered if the reason her courses had come a week ago—the irrefutable sign that she had not conceived Sk?rde’s child—was because she had sacrificed her fertility along with the emerald ring. It mattered not if she failed to fulfill the prophecy, she told herself, for if she had not healed Sk?rde’s grievous wound he would have died. And if he did not come back to the Pays de Caux , úlvhild’s foretelling would never come true either. Ylva had been right to sacrifice the ring. Even úlvhild herself, when she had noticed Ylva’s bare finger, said that the most precious sacrifices were the prayers that were most often heeded.

Although she longed to slip the fertility ring back onto her finger, Ylva dared not take back the precious offering until and unless Sk?rde returned to Normandy. And even then, with the upcoming rescue attempt of Sweyn from the royal prison of Paris, and her father’s planned siege against the Franks at Fécamp, Ylva didn’t dare reclaim the ring, lest Divona retract her divine protection.

She knelt before the shrine, bowed her humble head, and prayed that the trinity of goddesses would guide her husband and father—each sailing on separate Frisian ships—safely and swiftly back to Chateaufort.

When she and her guards climbed back up the grassy path to the meadow at top of the white chalk cliff, Ylva felt an irresistible, inexplicable pull from the sea. As she turned to gaze at the glimmering waves on the endless horizon, a faint flicker of reflected light in the distance caught her keen eye.

“Behold, the Sea Siren returns to port! Raise the chain boom and prepare the dock!” The sentinel hollered from the watchtower post, his bellowing voice floating upriver to the gathering castle guards.

Ylva’s heart soared in the late summer sky.

Sk?rde had returned to Chateaufort.