Chapter 32

La Foire de Saint-Denis

“These are the documents you will need to pose as Frisian shipping merchants selling wool at la Foire de Saint-Denis in Paris.” Seated in the solar of Chateaufort , Richard laid the necessary documents on the oak table before Sk?rde. “The trade license… receipt for taxes paid… and the letter of safe content—all with the official seal of Hugh Capet, the Count of Paris.” Richard leaned back in his chair while Sk?rde examined the required forms. “The feast day of Saint-Denis—which is the official start of the annual autumn fair—is not until the ninth of October. But since merchants are permitted to set up their stalls a week early, you should depart for Paris right away. The sooner we free your brother, the better. The crew is checking the rigging, the hull… cleaning the ship, and loading supplies for the return voyage. I suggest you leave tomorrow morning on the outgoing tide. With favorable winds, you can arrive at l’ ?le de la Cité within three to five days. And return here in less than two weeks.”

“Sweyn is being held in the north tower of the royal palace, near la Rive Droite —the right bank of the Seine where ships will dock for la Foire de Saint-Denis.” Haldor Falk observed Sk?rde with the keen, predatory eyes of a peregrine falcon.

“You saw my brother?” Sk?rde’s pulse raced with a surge of adrenaline.

“I did indeed. He seems to be well cared for, with a woman attendant inside the apartment with him. There are two armed guards stationed in the hallway outside the door and two more at the base of the stairwell. The nursemaid was playing a board game with Sweyn—perhaps Hnefatafl— and the boy was laughing and enjoying himself.” Haldor drank from his mug of mead and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I spotted a platter of food on the table. And two beds in opposite corners along the back wall. One for the boy and the other for the woman, I presume. He is being treated more like a pampered royal guest than a prisoner.” Haldor took another long pull of mead and set the goblet down. “The window is small—too narrow for even a child. But large enough to accommodate a bird.” A sly grin spread across his bearded face.

“When we arrive in Paris,” he continued, glancing at Gunni and Viggo to include them as he spoke, “we’ll dock along the riverbank of la Rive Droite , and have the crew of Ran’s Ram unload the bales of wool and set up a tent on the fairground to display our wares as Frisian merchants at the Foire de Saint-Denis . While they assemble our market stall, the four of us and six armored knights will purchase a wooden cart at the dock and unload four barrels of mead from our ship, which we will deliver to the service entrance of the royal palace. We’ll cross the Pont-au-Change —the bridge leading from the Right Bank of the Seine onto l’ ?le de la Cité —the island in the middle of the river where the royal palace is located. Thanks to Hugh Capet, we have the official documents which will gain us admittance into the Palais de la Cité.”

Richard summoned a servant to refill the mugs of mead. “Hugh will meet you and sign for the delivery, as if he ordered the mead for the Foire de Saint-Denis . He’ll show you the pathway which connects the main building of the palace to the north tower where the boy is being held. You and your knights—with your armor and weapons concealed under cloaks—will swiftly and silently take out the guards at the base of the stairwell and the pair posted at the entrance to Sweyn’s room.”

Haldor Falk leaned forward across the table, a shrewd glint in his dark brown eyes as he spoke to Ylva, sitting at the table beside Sk?rde. “We’ll need an elegant cloak and hat for both the nursemaid and the boy, so that they can disguise as nobles attending the fair. Have your servants gather the items, with a brooch for the lady and a feathered cap for Sweyn.” He turned toward Viggo, who sat at his side with Gunni. “In Paris, we’ll bring the clothing in a bag when we enter the royal palace. Once we’re inside Sweyn’s room, he and his nursemaid can quickly don the hats and cloaks.”

The Duke of Normandy directed his attention to Sk?rde. “Whisk them down the stairwell of the north tower, out the service entrance, and across the Pont au Change to the right bank of the Seine and the Foire de Saint-Denis . You and your knights can assume the role of the noblewoman’s personal guards as you escort her and her young son to the fair.” A broad grin stretched across Richard’s blond bearded face.

With the details of the daring rescue falling perfectly into place, Sk?rde’s pulse pounded in his ears. As he squeezed Ylva’s hand under the table, his right leg bounced with nervous energy upon the balls of his booted foot.

“Lead them to our stall at the fair, and have the nursemaid and Sweyn slip into the tent. They can remove the disguise and act as if they are Frisian wool merchants like us. Carry a few supplies down to the ship, board quickly, and hide them below deck in the cargo hold. Sail up the Seine, past the port of Le Havre. And east, back to Chareaufort .”

“I want to come with you.” Ylva’s beautiful eyes were wide with worry, imploring Sk?rde with her intense, insistent gaze.

“No, you must stay here where it’s safe. In Paris, we might encounter unexpected guards at the royal palace, a disturbance at the dock, even an attack on the Seine or at sea. If you’re with me, I’ll be distracted, concerned for your welfare. And I need to concentrate on freeing Sweyn.” Sk?rde gripped her hands and kissed her knuckles, willing her to understand.

She exhaled with displeasure but nodded in grim acceptance. “Of course you’re right. I’ll stay here with Gyda, úlvhild, and Maeve. We still have wounded warriors who need healing.”

Relief flooded through him. “We’ll bring Sweyn here to you. And then prepare for the siege of Fécamp.” He lifted her chin and held her reluctant, unwilling gaze. “Remember your promise to me, Ylva. If we should fall at Fécamp, you must bring Sweyn to his mother Tova. At the Trelleborg castle, on the Danish island of Zealand. I told my father to send her there because Heieabyr is no longer safe.” He kissed her knuckles again, tightly gripping both of her trembling hands. “I’m counting on you to return the heir of Denmark and Norway to his mother the queen. Promise me, wife.”

She regarded him with the calm, regal demeanor and commanding gaze of the Countess of the Pays de Caux “I promise, husband. You have my word.”

****

That night, as moonlight cast an incandescent glow over their nude bodies, Ylva clutched Sk?rde with four tightly woven limbs, pulling him deeper inside, drawing his very essence into hers. Legs wrapped around his thrusting hips, arms tightly gripping his muscled back, she clenched him inside and out, holding him as if she would never let him go. Higher and higher they rode the peaking crest, until they crashed together, like waves against the white chalk cliffs.

Panting with exertion, he lay down at her side and pulled her over his thundering heart. “Odin’s eye, I will miss you.” He kissed her tousled hair.

Entwined in his arms, Ylva caressed the jagged outline of his scar and nuzzled the dense blond hair on his chest. She deeply inhaled his salty, scintillating scent. “You must wear the enchanted emerald talisman I made for you. Under your tunic, when you go to Paris. And under your chain mail armor, for the battle at Fécamp.” She suckled his neck and kissed his shoulders, tracing the thunderbolt tattoo with the tip of her tongue.

He moaned with pleasure. “I will. And you must keep this for me.” Sk?rde removed the ornate dragon ring from his finger and wrapped it inside her palm. “It will attract too much attention. Something I must definitely avoid.”

Ylva rose from the mattress and lifted the lid of the elaborate wooden coffer on the floor at the foot of the bed where she kept her personal belongings. Withdrawing a black velvet pouch, she placed Sk?rde’s ring into the drawstring bag, tucking it securely at the bottom of the trunk with her other jewelry items, underneath her fine silk gowns. She crawled back into bed beside him .

Enveloped in his strong, sinewy arms, she felt his limbs twitch as he drifted off to sleep. But Ylva watched the moon rise in the starry night sky and listened to the thunderous roar of the Narrow Sea. And prayed once again for Sk?rde’s safe return.

In the morning, they made love again to the squawks of sea gulls and the scent of the sea. Knowing that this might be their last time together, urgency fueled their passion. As Ylva succumbed to the irresistible throes of pleasure, she glimpsed the lunula—the Viking fertility symbol which Gyda had given her as a wedding gift—tied to the bedpost near her head. When Sk?rde shuddered in climax and filled her with his seed, she prayed she would conceive his son.

A while later, they broke their fast in the solar and shared a passionate embrace on the quay near the ship. Ylva watched as Sk?rde, Haldor Falk, Gunni, Viggo, and their knights boarded Ran’s Ram .

Standing on the grassy riverbank with úlvhild and Maeve—who had come up to the castle from the village—she chanted a vardlokkur to invoke the protective spirits and incur the gods’ blessings as the Frisian ship sailed to Paris.

The men at the gates cranked the winch and hoisted the chain boom out of the brackish water. Casting off the mooring lines which secured the vessel to the dock, the crew maneuvered out of the harbor with wooden oars and hoisted the sail to catch the westerly wind. Blinking back tears, Ylva chanted, the clear, crystalline notes floating on the breeze as the Frisian shipping vessel headed out of the inlet and into the Narrow Sea.

****

“We’ll dock here, directly on the riverbank, and secure the vessel to the mooring. With the prow facing downstream and the ship alongside the shore, it will be easier to unload supplies and make for a quick departure.” Bavo, the captain, maneuvered Ran’s Ram parallel to the right bank of the Seine.

While Viggo presented the required documents to the customs officials and fair organizers, the crew began unloading supplies and setting up the stall for them to pose as wool merchants selling their wares at la Foire de Saint- Denis . Sk?rde and Haldor Falk obtained a wooden cart to transport the four barrels of mead taken from the storage cellar of Chateaufort . Members of the crew helped them unload the barrels from the ship and settle them into the hand-held wagon. Once the mead was secure, Sk?rde, Gunni, Viggo, Haldor, and six knights maneuvered the draught cart up the riverbank, across the Pont au Change bridge to l’ ?le de la Cité , through the meandering medieval streets of Paris to the delivery gates of the royal palace.

Le Palais de la Cité.

Sk?rde presented the delivery documents to the castle servants, who sent word to Hugh Capet that his barrels of mead had arrived.

A few minutes later, a distinguished nobleman of average height with shoulder-length dark brown hair and brown eyes, clad in a green velvet cloak over his brown tunic, greeted them in the castle courtyard, flanked by guards and servants. One of the attendants made the formal introduction. “May I present Hugh Capet, Count of Paris.”

While Sk?rde and his men inclined their heads in deference, Hugh greeted them with a cordial smile. “Good day, gentlemen. I am delighted that my order has arrived in time for la Foire de Saint-Denis .” He made a theatrical show of inspecting the barrels of mead before signing the paperwork to accept the delivery. “Come to my office for payment. Right this way.” Hugh led them from the courtyard to the entrance of his private apartment. While the six knights waited outside, Sk?rde, Viggo, Gunni, and Haldor followed the count through the large wooden door.

Inside the private apartment, a reception area offered a table and chairs beneath a window draped in green velvet which overlooked the courtyard. In an adjacent room stood a large oak writing desk and matching chair. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the scent of pine from the torches on the wall filled the autumn air. Tapestries depicting hunting scenes were displayed along the wooden walls, offering warmth and a touch of elegance to the comfortable, simple abode.

Hugh handed Sk?rde an iron key with a long shaft, a loop at the head, and two intricately shaped teeth. “This is a duplicate of the key to the private apartments where Sweyn is being held. Once you eliminate the guards, lock the bodies inside the room. It will gain you more time to escape.” Pointing to an area outside the window, he indicated a covered pathway which led from his apartment to a tall, cylindrical stone building. “That is the north tower. There is an exit on the ground level which leads to the Pont au Change . Sweyn is on the top third floor, in the front room facing the Seine.” He met Haldor Falk’s fierce gaze. “The Falcon knows where it is.” Hugh exhaled and adjusted his fine woolen cape, preparing to depart. “I have arranged a meeting with masters of various guilds to discuss the Foire de Saint-Denis. Witnesses will attest that I was nowhere near the north tower when Sweyn was freed.” He grinned as he donned a velvet cap. “Lothaire will have his suspicions, of course. But no proof to implicate me.” Encouragement shining in his steadfast gaze, he guided them toward the large wooden door. “Good luck, gentlemen. Que Dieu vous protège. May God protect you.”

Outside Hugh’s private apartments, Sk?rde and his men disappeared into the covered passageway and dashed toward the north tower. The six knights quickly dispatched the two royal guards, dragging the bodies behind the stone spiral stairwell before following Sk?rde, Gunni, Viggo, and the Falcon up to the top level of the tower.

“You three and Gunni take the guard on the right.” Sk?rde divided his knights into two groups. “You and Viggo take the other. The Falcon and I will go into Sweyn’s room.” He turned toward Haldor Falk. “We need a noise, to distract the guards.” Sk?rde retrieved a coin from his pouch and tossed it down the hall. While one sentinel left his post to investigate, the other watched, allowing Sk?rde’s men to sneak up from behind and quickly eliminate the two guards posted at Sweyn’s door.

With shaking hands, he fumbled with the large key. Perhaps because it was a duplicate, the fit was off just a bit. Tamping down a wave of panic, he finally fit it into the lock and opened the enormous oak door.

Inside the room, Sweyn and the nursemaid were seated at the table, playing a game of Hnefatafl. The frightened woman looked up in abject terror and was about to scream when Sweyn bolted from his chair, hurled himself against his big brother, and shouted, “Sk?rde!” He wrapped small arms around Sk?rde’s waist, snuggling his head against the hard stomach.

As Haldor came into the room, Sk?rde quickly explained the rescue plan to Sweyn as he hugged his tense little brother. “I’ve come to free you. And take you with me to Faeir . But we must hurry. And you must don a disguise.” He turned toward Haldor, who handed him the bag of clothing. Sk?rde removed the woman’s cloak and hat, which he gave to the nursemaid. “You must pose as Sweyn’s mother. You are Isabelle d’ Alen?on, and he is your son, Philippe.” He looked down at Sweyn, whose big blue eyes regarded him with utter adoration and unflinching trust. “You must pretend to be Philippe d’ Alen?on. And call your nurse Maman . Just until we get on the boat. Agreed?”

Sweyn nodded stoically as Sk?rde clasped the velvet cloak with a silver brooch and placed the feathered cap on his brother’s head.

When Gunni, Viggo, and the knights dragged the bodies of the two guards into the room, Sk?rde stepped in front of Sweyn to block his view of the slain men and distracted his little brother by placing the feathered cap securely on the boy’s small head. Grasping Sweyn by the hand, he swept him swiftly into the hall and waited for the nurse and his companions to exit the private chambers before locking the enormous oaken door.

“We are going out the door at the bottom of the stairs and crossing the Pont au Change bridge. You will walk with your nurse and pretend she is your mother who is taking you to the fair. The knights and I are going to pose as your mother’s guards while we weave through the Foire de Saint-Denis and make our way toward the ship. We must go quickly and stay together. Ready?” As Sk?rde looked down at the trusting little boy who regarded him with widened, adoring eyes, he felt a surge of fierce, fraternal love. Sweyn was his little brother. He was depending on him. And Sk?rde would die to defend him.

“Ready.” Courage and determination shone in the bright blue eyes that were so like his own. Hooking his arm through the nursemaid’s elbow, Sweyn followed Sk?rde and the Falcon down the spiral stairs, with Gunni, Viggo, and the knights close behind.

They exited the tower and headed toward the Pont au Change, with Sk?rde and his men encircling Sweyn and the nurse like the personal guards of a wealthy noblewoman and her pampered young son. Just as they were about to cross the bridge, Haldor muttered under his breath. “Two guards have spotted us. Cross the bridge and wait for me at the Hammered Hearth metalwork shop. I’ll join you there.”

Sk?rde made eye contact with Gunni and Viggo, conveying with a pointed look that they had encountered a problem but needed to continue and hurry without making a scene. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a startled flock of pigeons abruptly fluttering into the face of a flustered guard. Amidst chattering, chirping and screeching, a sudden swarm of sparrows swooped down upon the head of the other. Just as their small group arrived at the Hammered Hearth blacksmith shop, Haldor Falk appeared at Sk?rde’s side. “Quickly, dart behind this building and take the back roads heading toward the river. I will fly above you, guiding you east along the side streets as we weave through the fair. Wear a glove on your left hand. You’re my falconer.” With a whoosh and whir of flapping wings, a peregrine falcon took flight, soaring east in the autumn sky.

Following the falcon overhead, they wove through the winding, narrow streets of Paris, arriving at last upon the outskirts of the grassy riverbanks of la Rive Droite to la Foire de Saint-Denis.

Hundreds of colorful tents with vibrant banners flapping in the fluvial breeze were clustered in groups where merchants hawked their wares, their fervent shouts filled with exuberance and enthusiasm. Rows of makeshift wooden stalls showcased silk traders from Byzantium flaunting shimmery fabrics, while merchants from the Far East offered exotic fragrances of cinnamon and cloves that mingled with the crisp autumn air. The tantalizing aroma of roast chicken, pork, and lamb, seasoned with garlic and savory herbs, sizzled on spits over open fires. Freshly baked loaves of bread, sweet almond pastries, and fruit tarts mingled with the pungent tang of ripe brie and camembert and the sweet, spicy scent of mulled wine. Amidst the clinking of coins, animated chatter, laughter, and lively bartering of goods, the tinkling melodies of minstrels and troubadours echoed across the fair.

“Bonjour, Madame! Une galette pour votre fils?” A jovial baker selling an appetizing array of pastries, pies, gingerbread, and delectable confections offered a cinnamon honey cake for the nursemaid disguised as a noblewoman to purchase for her son Sweyn.

Sk?rde was instantly and profoundly grateful that Ylva had taught him to speak Norman French.

Because the Danish nursemaid from Heieabyr spoke nothing but Old Norse.

“ Merci beaucoup ,” Sk?rde said as he paid the baker with coin. “ Philippe adore les galettes.” He accepted the sweet cake wrapped in a leaf of lettuce and handed it to Sweyn, who was positively drooling over the delicious looking treat. “ Bonne journée, Monsieur .” Sk?rde thanked the smiling baker and led his overjoyed young brother, the discomfited governess, and the group of Vikings posing as personal guards in the direction of the falcon flying overhead.

Beyond the fairgrounds, in the distance, the masts of dozens of ships moored along la Rive Droite bobbed on the waters of the Seine. As they approached the wooden bollard where Ran’s Ram was docked, Sk?rde spotted a few members of the crew in front of the tent they had set up to pose as Frisian shipping merchants. While Viggo and Gunni conducted the nurse and Sweyn into the tent to remove their disguises, he hailed Bavo, the ship’s captain, to indicate their readiness to depart. Most of the crew had stayed aboard to guard the ship, but several had come ashore to procure supplies for the voyage home. Sk?rde was glad that Hugh Capet had kept the wooden wagon they’d purchased to transport the barrels of mead, for it would have been impossible to wind through the side streets of Paris hauling a cumbersome draught cart.

In the midst of bustling commotion as the crew hustled Sweyn and the governess aboard ship, a sudden tight grip clenched his left wrist when the Falcon swooped down to land on Sk?rde’s leather glove. Quickly, before the members of the crew disassembled the tent, Sk?rde slipped inside .

The peregrine flew from his gloved wrist to the grassy ground within the brown tent. And, before his very eyes, in a shimmery swirl of flashing colors and silken feathers, the Falcon of the Faroe Islands shifted back into Haldor Falk.

A dark gleam in his avian eyes, Haldor’s grin stretched across his bearded face. “Well done, Dragon of Denmark. You not only rescued your brother. You saved the heir to the throne. Let’s bring him back to Chateaufort .”