Chapter 34

Preparing for Battle

Ylva gripped Sk?rde tightly with arms and legs as he rhythmically pummeled into her. While the inexorable waves crashed against the white chalk cliffs below the castle, she rode the mounting crest of pleasure, the increasing tension unbearable until at last she shattered—like stars splattered across the sky—clenching him inside and out as he arrowed into her and filled her with his seed. Her body clamped his, the contractions of her climax drawing his essence into hers from within while she held him tautly with her limbs from without, unable and unwilling to let him go.

Finally, when his body slipped from hers and he laid down at her shaking side, he kissed her softly and held her gaze. In the depths of his dark blue eyes she glimpsed the same sorrow that squeezed her throat in a suffocating vice that made it nearly impossible to breathe. “I must go. Gods willing, I shall return. But if I do not, set sail for Denmark right away. Before the seas are too icy and King Lothaire decides to attack Chateaufort.” He rose to his feet, fetched his hose and linen undertunic, and sat on the edge of the bed to pull them on. “If I fall but Richard survives, I want him to arrange a quick marriage for you. As Countess of the Pays de Caux , you must continue to rule after I am gone. We cannot allow the Franks to conquer Chateaufort or permit Lothaire to drive the Vikings from Normandy. You must remarry to retain our castle and help Richard rule. ”

Ylva could not even begin to contemplate such a future. She shook her head and refused to meet Sk?rde’s imploring, insistent eyes.

“Promise me, Ylva.” With a bent finger, he gently lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Promise me, my Viking Wolf.”

She swallowed a lump of grief and finally found her quavering voice. “I promise that I will rule as Countess of the Pays de Caux. And if my father forces me to marry another… know this, Sk?rde Haraldsson. My Celtic Viking heart will always belong to you .” She rose up onto her knees, walked nude upon them across the bed, and straddled his lap. “Dragon of Denmark,” she whispered into his open mouth as she wrapped her arms behind his blond head. “Dragon of Normandy.” She shared his shallow breath, tracing his bearded lips with the tip of her tongue. “Dragon of Chateaufort.” She cupped his chin within her hands, lowered her face upon his, and swallowed his soft lips into her own.

He laid her back down upon the bed and leaned over her, his long hair tumbling over tensed shoulders. His braided beard bristled her cheek as he nuzzled her neck and showered her face with fervent kisses. “Odin’s eye, I want you. But I must go down to the solar, coordinate with Richard, and prepare to depart.” He stood back up and stared down at her. Love, lust, and longing blazed like blue fire in his ravenous eyes. Inhaling deeply, he backed away. And began to don his chain mail armor.

Ylva slipped from the bed and retrieved the emerald talisman from the side table. She stared at the trio of runes, remembering how she’d used Freyja’s Whisper to etch them with her blood as she imbued them with galdr magic.

Tiwaz, for Tyr, the Norse God of War, to grant his strength to Sk?rde. Algiz , to ward off evil and protect him from harm, and Eihwaz, the tree of life connecting the physical and spiritual realms, for Sk?rde to summon the Nordic gods to aid him in his time of need.

She walked up behind him and kissed his broad shoulders.

When he turned around, she reached up and tied the black leather cords of the talisman behind his thick neck. She smoothed it over his chest and tucked it beneath his linen undertunic. “Wear this amulet at all times to give you strength and protection in battle. And remember to call upon the gods for assistance when you need them.” She traced his jagged scar, now hidden under the linen tunic. “May Thor infuse you with the same thunder which blazes across your rugged chest.” Ylva kissed his torso and stepped back, steeling herself for his imminent departure. She looked up at him, willing him to see all the love which surely burned in her fiery eyes. “I will pray at the waterfall cave every day. Come back to me, Sk?rde. I love you.”

Dragonfire sizzled in his scorching gaze. “And I will love you—and only you—until the day I die.” His eyes held hers as he donned his chain mail armor and strapped on his Ljósálfar sword. The deep green emerald in Duradrakk’s silver hilt danced with otherworldly verdant fire. In the leather scabbard, a trio of gems glittered in the early morning light.

Moonstone, like Luna’s Ljósálfar pendant.

Starstone, like Lugh’s enchanted brooch.

And emerald, for Sk?rde’s heraldic color as the Dragon of Normandy.

Protective power pulsed from the trinity of stones.

Ylva scrambled from the bed, quickly dressed in a dark green gown, and ran an antler comb through her long blonde hair. Eydis and Norhild would have insisted on braiding it in an elaborate coiffure with a silver coronet, but she didn’t want to wait for her attendants. She needed to go to the solar with Sk?rde. This morning marked the final conference with the war council prior to their imminent departure. She had to stay with him until he boarded the dragon ship and sailed away. Sorrow constricted her throat, making it difficult to breathe.

Harald’s fleet of fifty drakkar warships, carrying two thousand Viking warriors and mercenaries provided by Mstivoj—ruler of the Obotrites and his wife Tova’s royal father—were expected to pass by Chateaufort in the next hour or two. The port was already in a flurry of frenzied activity as Sk?rde’s men readied the ships while Richard’s knights loaded the horses and prepared to ride west to Fécamp.

In the solar, Richard sat with Haldor Falk, Bj?rn, Gunni, and Viggo, finishing up the dagmal morning meal. Richard’s armed guards stood at attention along the wall facing the door. In preparation for the impending battle, Haldor Falk’s fierce face was intricately painted with falcon feathers and Nordic runes. Everyone looked up and nodded to greet Sk?rde and Ylva as they entered the room and joined the conference at the war council table.

A servant poured mugs of ale and served them each a wooden plate piled with appetizing, aromatic food. Sk?rde dug in heartily, but Ylva couldn’t eat. Her stomach was clenched in tight knots. She sipped from her goblet and listened as her father finalized their plan of attack.

“You and Harald will dock your warships along the beach on either side of my castle at Fécamp. Disembark and attack the Frankish defenders from the coast in continuous, coordinated waves of assault. I will employ Conan’s soldiers and the trebuchets to attack the defense tower on the southwest corner—the castle’s weakest point.” Richard pensively tweaked his long braided beard and turned toward Haldor Falk. “Summon birds to attack the defenders along the castle ramparts, when we approach with the siege towers. We’ll have a hundred armed warriors inside each, ready to breach the broken wall. Frankish archers will undoubtedly be firing flaming arrows, trying to light the wood as we wheel them into position. With birds swooping down from the skies and attacking their eyes, they won’t be able to fire upon us.”

Haldor’s dark eyes gleamed with predatory power. “I’ll summon hawks, falcons, ospreys, and owls. Hundreds of squawking, swarming birds. And stinging hornets, wasps, and bees. The air assault will aid our men arriving on shore.”

“William Towhead’s men will attack from the south. And the knights of Anjou from the east.” Richard sopped up honey from the salted pork with a hunk of barley bread and popped it into his mouth. He washed it down with a long gulp of ale and wiped his blond mustache with the back of his swarthy hand. “Lothaire has already made several unsuccessful attempts to reinforce his man Badelbert, the Count of Embda in charge of defending the fortress. None of the weapons, equipment, soldiers, or supplies ever reached him. We intercepted them all. Badelbert will not be able to hold Fécamp.”

“And with Harald sailing directly to Fécamp—rather than stopping here at Chateaufort to rest his men and replenish supplies—Lothaire will not learn that he has joined us in a surprise attack until after the battle is over. And we have eliminated every Frank from Fécamp.” Gunni grinned above his dark red beard.

“I’ll send a small, swift ship out now to deliver a message to Harald. He’ll recognize my banner and know it’s an urgent missive. I’ll inform him that your fifty ships will land on the beach west of the castle for the first naval assault,” Richard said to Sk?rde. “He’ll land on the eastern shore and launch a second wave after yours. With you and Harald attacking from the sea, the Falcon from the sky, and my combined allied forces by land, we’ll overwhelm the Franks and take back the fortress with minimal damage to the castle.” Richard rose from his seat, adjusted his sword, and nodded to his knights, indicating his intent to depart. To Sk?rde, Gunni, Viggo, and Haldor, he said, “I’ll meet you down on the docks.” He bent to kiss Ylva’s cheek. “Take good care of Sweyn. You’ll be well defended, dóttir. Odin willing—a swift, decisive victory will be ours, and we will return soon to Chateaufort. ” A proud grin stretched across his heavily bearded face as he whispered in her ear. “ Je t’aime, ma fille. ” Rising to his full, towering height, he bowed before her as chatelaine of the castle and bid her a formal adieu. “ Farewell, Lady of Chateaufort and Countess of the Pays de Caux.” He donned his impressive armored helmet with nose and cheek guards, topped with its striking, distinctive red crest. Upon the surcoat which covered his glistening chain mail armor stood a shield containing his heraldic ducal emblem: two golden lions rampant on a background of solid red. With a clinking of chain mail links and a swish of his swirling surcoat, the regal Duke of Normandy led his personal retinue of armored knights out the oaken door.

Sk?rde had finished his meal and stood, brushing crumbs from his lap and adjusting Duradrakk strapped upon his hip. The large emerald in the hilt and the trio of gems in the scabbard sparkled in the early morning sun. As he took Ylva’s hand and helped her rise from the table, Sweyn burst into the room, followed by his nursemaid, Helga .

“May Odin grant you victory or Valhalla!” The future king of Denmark and Norway hugged his older brother tight. “I wish I were old enough to go with you into battle.” He raised his face to look up at Sk?rde. Ferocity and courage blazed in his brilliant eyes.

“One day, Sweyn, you will lead warriors as a powerful Viking king. But for now, I need you to protect my wife, grandmother, and castle until I return.” He regarded the young boy with the savage, steely stare of the Dragon of Denmark. “ Faeir and his fleet of ships will soon pass by Chateaufort. When you hear the sentinel’s cry, go to the top of the main tower facing north toward the sea. You’ll recognize his flagship—the largest drakkar— and his royal standard, with the golden crown on a background of solid blue. Position yourself under my banner on the north tower and wave as he passes by. He’ll sound the horn to signal that he sees you as he sails west to Fécamp.”

“I will accompany him to the north tower and ensure that he, Lady Ylva, and Lady Gyda always have a half dozen knights each to protect them.” Bj?rn fisted his chest in fealty to Sk?rde as his sovereign lord. Honor and valor blazed in the Viking warrior’s stalwart gaze.

Sk?rde nodded in silent gratitude and respect. He hugged Sweyn and kissed Gyda’s cheek, for she had entered the room to say goodbye. Stark, and solemn, he kissed Ylva’s lips, sending a spark surging through her veins. He whispered softly so only she could hear. “I love you, my Viking Wolf. Remember your promise.” Blue fire sizzled in his scorching gaze. Stepping back, he turned away from her. With a curt nod to his men, he led Haldor Falk, Gunni, Viggo, and several mail clad Viking warriors out the solar door.

“úlvhild and Maeve are waiting for you on the riverbank to chant a v ardlokkur.” Gyda spoke to Ylva, then motioned to Helga and Sweyn. “Come, let’s join them. A lot of the villagers have come to watch the ships set sail.”

They exited the castle together and joined the crowd assembled on the grassy riverbank overlooking the bustling port where warriors boarded ships, preparing to depart. On the opposite eastern bank of the Arques River, an even larger throng had gathered. While wispy white clouds streaked the pale autumn sky and the saline breeze stung Ylva’s cheeks, she observed the Falcon of the Faroe Islands saying a private goodbye to úlvhild at the edge of the oceanfront cliff.

At the sight of them together, Ylva reflected upon yesterday’s ritual when they had blessed the warriors and ships for today’s impending battle.

Faces painted for the ceremonial rite, clad in their respective feathered cloaks adorned with glittering gems and charms imbued with galdr magic, the volva and vitki had led the morning ritual sacrifice of four cows, with the sacred blood collected for the divine blessing upon the pebbled beach. Before the enthralled throng of villagers and castle occupants who had gathered along the riverbanks and clifftop edge to watch, the v?lva had chanted an incantation and drummed her staff upon the ground to invoke the blessing of the Nordic gods while the vitki had anointed with sacrificial blood each dragon prow of the fifty drakkar warships docked in the harbor of Ch?teaufort . While Ylva and Maeve had chanted with úlvhild, Haldor Falk had poured the remainder of the sacrificial blood along the beach and into the sea as an offering to honor the Nordic gods.

After the sacrifice, villagers had helped prepare for the evening feast, gathering tables, blankets, baskets of food, and vegetables from their recent fall harvest while castle cooks had butchered and roasted the meat. The crews of the ships had checked the sails, rigging, and oars, loading supplies for the voyage to Fécamp. Viking warriors and knights had cleaned their armor, fortified their shields, and sharpened axes, daggers, and swords.

In the evening, under the canopy of beech trees, in the moonglow and starlight, everyone had feasted, danced, and celebrated well into the night. The festivity had lasted all evening, spilling from the Great Hall out onto the moonlit castle grounds and along the grassy riverbanks under the starry night sky. Bragi—the castle skald of Chateaufort —had entertained them with epic poems and inspiring songs of valiant heroes and Viking gods.

Maeve—obviously quite smitten with Gunni—had danced around the bonfire all night long and disappeared with the redbeard, not returning to the castle until this morning. The two were now standing together on the grassy riverbank, sharing an emotional, poignant farewell.

As Ylva beheld úlvhild and Haldor Falk together at the edge of the oceanfront cliff, she sensed once again the pulsating power which emanated from the otherworldly pair. Last night, during the feast, Ylva had seen them laughing and dancing before finally slipping off into the castle together. She wondered if they had been lost in the throes of ecstasy amidst entangled limbs, as she and Sk?rde had been last night. And again this morning.

They presently stood together, locked in each other’s eyes, sharing an intense, impassioned gaze. Haldor fervently kissed úlvhild’s free hand, abruptly turned, and strode briskly away, headed toward the dock.

Ylva walked to the edge of the cliff where a tearful Maeve awaited. She smiled softly as úlvhild joined them. The v?lva’s deep blue face was again painted with woad and etched with Nordic runes in black ink. She began to sing a vardlokkur , as she had done yesterday during the sacrifice, the mellow notes of her velvety voice wafting in the tangy breeze as she thumped her staff upon the grassy ground in rhythm with the cadence of her chant. Maeve’s smooth melody and Ylva’s crystalline harmony blended with sonorous balance, the trio of voices summoning the protective spirits and the blessing of the Nordic gods as the drakkar ships slowly maneuvered from the sheltered harbor of Chateaufort and out into the Narrow Sea.

Like a gannet soaring on the tailwind rising up from the white chalk cliffs, Ylva’s spirit floated to Sk?rde as his drakkar ship, Dragonclaw, sailed out into the open sea. Pouring her heart and soul into her plaintive song, her vibrant voice carried across the windswept, whitecapped waves.

Sweyn, standing between Gyda and Helga at the edge of the cliff, waved furiously as the drakkar flagship—bearing banners emblazoned with the emblem of the Dragon of Normandy in Sk?rde’s heraldic colors of silver and green—sailed past the castle, heading west into battle at Fécamp.

The deep, resonant bellow of Sk?rde’s horn echoed across the inlet to acknowledge Sweyn in return.

As the ships disappeared on the horizon, Ylva said a silent prayer to the Nordic gods she now worshipped in her Celtic Viking heart.

Rán, Goddess of the Sea! Carry their ships swiftly and surely into battle. Thor, God of Thunder and Tyr, God of War! Grant them your fury, strength, and valor. Odin, blessed Allfather, guide them to victory and bring them safely home.

Tears blurred her vision. Sunlight glimmered on dancing waves like thousands of dazzling gems. Seafoam sprayed high into the salty sky, the tang tingling her nose. As she stood on the edge of the white chalk cliff and watched her husband sail away, Ylva vowed to make offerings to the Nordic gods every day as she prayed for him in the waterfall cave.