Chapter 38

Victory Celebration

An enormous green and silver banner with his coat of arms as the Dragon of Normandy was proudly and prominently displayed over the oaken entrance doors leading into the vast Great Hall. Branches of oak, beech, fir, and ash decorated the doorways inside the vast chamber where the jubilant melodies of harps, flutes, and lyres entertained the exuberant guests. Tapestries woven with metallic threads glistened in the flickering light of candles in metal sconces along the high wooden walls. The crisp, clean scent of pine blended with the clove and cinnamon spice of mulled wine. Trestle tables, lavishly set with silver goblets, plates, and spoons, were topped with luxurious dark green woolen tablecloths and lined with silver silk runners, evoking his heraldic colors. As servants scurried about with platters of sumptuous food and pitchers of golden mead, the tantalizing aromas of roasted meats, herbs, and pastries permeated the festive air.

From his seat at the table of honor, Sk?rde observed the hundreds of Norman knights, Viking warriors, and elegant ladies who had gathered to celebrate the Viking victory at Fécamp. Although the stitches in his side ached and throbbed, his spirit soared. Not only had he aided Richard the Fearless and saved the Falcon, he had reunited his brother and father. In Harald’s eyes, Sk?rde had finally seen the profound pride and paternal love that he had been seeking his entire life. Now, as he and Sweyn flanked their royal father upon the elevated dais with Richard, Haldor Falk, úlvhild, Gyda, Gunni, Maeve, and Ylva, his healing heart overflowed with gratitude.

Harald, as the highest ranking monarch, was seated in the center of the table of honor. Royal blue cloak draped over his broad shoulders, chain mail armor gleaming in the incandescent light, the majestic King of Denmark and Norway rose to his feet, his goblet held high in tribute. Rich, resonant, and regal, his deep voice reverberated through the Great Hall.

“Knights, warriors, and ladies of Chateaufort ! Tonight, we celebrate victory. To Richard the Fearless, Viking Duke of Normandy who reclaimed his ducal palace at Fécamp!”

Riotous cheers resonated across the room.

Harald continued his toast of triumph. “To the vitki who summoned swarms of birds to peck out the eyes of our enemy. Whom the Goddess Freyja herself healed in this very castle. To Freyja’s Falcon , Haldor Falk!”

Thunderous roars of “ Skál !” rumbled throughout the hall.

“And to my son, Sk?rde the Scourge. The Dragon of Denmark who freed his brother Sweyn from the prison of the Frankish King. The Dragon of Normandy who saved the Falcon, Haldor Falk. The Dragon of Chateaufor t, the vital link in the Viking trinity which triumphed at Fécamp. To Sk?rde Haraldsson. Lord of Chateaufort. Count of the Pays de Caux!”

Everyone shot to their feet and shouted. “To the Dragon of Normandy! Skál !”

Sk?rde grinned and cautiously rose to his feet, clutching his injured side. His deep, solemn voice carried across the hushed silence. “I am honored by my father’s tribute and proud to form the Viking alliance between Normandy, Norway, and Denmark. But victory would not be ours tonight were it not for the sacrifice of hundreds of fallen warriors who surely feast with Odin and the einherjar in the glory of Valhalla. To the valiant Vikings who died in battle. To the Norse gods who granted us victory. Tonight, we feast in their honor. Skál !”

The exuberant throng erupted in riotous cheers .

When the crowd quieted, the music resumed, and everyone began to feast.

Richard leaned forward to address Sk?rde from his seat at Ylva’s side. “We honored your chieftain Viggo, and my Marshal Enguerran in a special funeral tribute. We placed each of their bodies in a separate karvi, with their swords, axes, and personal items. Since Viggo was a shipbuilder, his funeral boat contained tools of his trade. For Enguerran, who was an avid horseman, the head of his beloved stallion. We set the boats to sea, and my finest archers set fire to the karvis with flaming arrows shot from the beach. The remainder of our warriors were burned in nine funeral pyres, with the sacrificial blood of nine cows—the sacred number to honor Odin and the nine days he hanged himself from Yggdrasil. We roasted the meat, feasted to honor the fallen, and thanked the gods with horns of mead.”

Sk?rde’s heart clenched at the memory of Viggo’s gruesome death. He feasts in Valhalla tonight, as I feast here in Chateaufort. In response to Richard, Sk?rde bowed his head and nodded in solemn gratitude. He raised his silver chalice in tribute. “To Viggo, Enguerran, and the warriors who died in battle. May they feast in the glory of Valhalla.”

All goblets at the table of honor were raised in tribute as combined voices cheered. “Valhalla!”

When guests had completed the second course of roast pheasant, steamed mussels, stuffed squash, and stewed lentils, Sweyn looked up at his father with wide, inquisitive eyes. “When do we sail for Heieabyr?”

“The crews are inspecting the ships, making repairs, loading supplies. We set sail in two days. But we’re not returning to Heieabyr. We’re sailing instead to Trelleborg Castle, where we’ll meet your mother. I’m sure she can’t wait to see you.” Harald spoke to Richard. “I plan to fortify Trelleborg with the superior defensive structures I have seen in your castles here in Normandy. I’m very impressed with the motte and bailey design—the castle keep built upon elevated ground, with defensive outer walls, moats, and ditches. I plan to implement a similar style and construct several ring forts throughout Denmark.”

Richard washed down his mouthful of pheasant with a gulp of mead, nodding in agreement. “And I plan to fortify Fécamp by rebuilding the entire castle in stone. Impervious to fire and much stronger than wood.”

When Sk?rde squeezed Ylva’s hand under the table, he noted that Haldor Falk did the same with úlvhild. I didn’t realize they were lovers. But now that I see them together, it’s obvious that they are. He asked the Falcon , “Do you plan to sail back to the Faroe Islands when Harald leaves for Denmark?”

Haldor, whose fierce face looked considerably less ominous without the intricately painted feathers and elaborate leather armor of the Falcon, raised úlvhild’s slender hand to his lips. He pierced the v?lva with a passionate, penetrating stare. “No. I plan to stay here through the Yuletide season. Perhaps sail home in the spring.”

Ylva smiled and lifted her goblet to full, luscious lips. Sk?rde’s lusty thoughts required a discreet adjustment of his breeches. Odin’s eye, I want her all the time!

“It will be a glorious Yuletide season in this splendid Norman castle. Maeve and I plan to marry, as soon as my leg is healed.” A broad grin illuminated Gunni’s beaming, bearded face. He wrapped an arm around Maeve, seated beside him. Pulling her close, he leaned down to kiss her smiling, rosy lips.

“Your babe will be born during the Yuletide season as well, isn’t that right, Bellerose?” Gyda sipped her golden mead, her wrinkled cheeks crinkling in content.

“Yes, in early December.” Bj?rn’s pretty brunette wife placed her hands behind her back and stretched in obvious discomfort. “But I’d be pleased if she came in November. My back aches from the strain of carrying her.”

“Of carrying him ,” Bj?rn chided, hugging her against his shoulder and kissing her long dark hair.

The conversation continued as they savored the final dessert course of honey cakes, lingonberry pudding, mead poached pears, and cinnamon apple tarts. When servants cleared away the empty platters, the castle troubadour Bragi, accompanied by his lute and lyre, regaled them with heroic, skaldic verse .

His first poem, “ Song of Freyja’s Falcon ”, honored the vitki Haldor Falk, who sailed from the Faroe Islands to aid his Viking allies. With poignant prose, melodic voice, and lyrical notes, Bragi lauded the sorcerer of the skies who summoned the winged creatures to attack the Frankish enemy in the bloody battle of Fécamp. How the Goddess Freyja, summoned by a vardlokkur chant, healed her wounded Falcon by bestowing him with Freyja’s Kiss . Bragi’s rendition of “ Triumph of the Valiant Vikings ” paid tribute to Harald, Richard, Sk?rde, and the hundreds of warriors who sacrificed their lives in victory and glory to reclaim Richard’s ducal castle. The skald’s final poetic tribute, “ Saga of Sk?rde the Scourge ,” told the epic tale of the Dragon of Denmark, son of Harald Bluetooth, who was sent to Normandy to wed the Celtic priestess Ylva, daughter of the Norman duke. As light, lifting melodies filled the Great Hall of Chateaufort , Bragi sang of the prowess and valor of the Dragon of Normandy, the Viking Count of the Pays de Caux .

Sk?rde rewarded Bragi with a silver armband engraved with Nordic runes and embellished with a dazzling emerald, representing the green and silver heraldic colors of the Dragon of Normandy, with a gemstone similar to the one which adorned the hilt of his legendary Lj?sálfar sword.

After Bragi’s stellar performance, the castle musicians resumed playing, and celebrants danced to the lively notes of rebecs, fiddles, harps, and flutes.

Although Sk?rde longed to twirl with Ylva, and he suspected Gunni wanted to glide Maeve across the castle floor, neither he nor the redbeard were able to dance, due to their recent injuries. Bj?rn remained at the table with Bellerose, who had declined his invitation to dance because of her aching back. Harald danced with Gyda, and Haldor Falk swirled a laughing úlvhild, whose long black hair floated around her, like the folds of her deep red garnet gown.

As he beheld the vibrant, jubilant v?lva , Sk?rde remarked how she had always seemed like a withered old crone, but now radiated the vitality and vigor of youth. Lovelight sparkles in her eyes as she looks at him. úlvhild—the lonely, isolated v?lva who heals others with her powerful galdr magic— has been healed by the love of her Falcon.

Later that evening, when the feast had ended and revelers had retired to their respective rooms, lodging, or homes in the village, Ylva helped Sk?rde recline on their bed so that she could change the bandages on his wound.

He watched his golden haired beauty—the gifted Celtic healer who was now his beloved Viking wife—smooth a healing poultice over the neat row of precise stitches on his left side. She bandaged the wound with clean, soft linen, wrapping it around his body under his shield arm. When she had finished, she laid him down upon the bed, sealed the jar of ointment with its cork stopper, and placed the soiled bandages in a basket for later washing and reuse. Gathering her scissors, herbal poultice, and extra bandaging, she carried it all into the adjacent antechamber where she stored her herbal supplies.

Sk?rde stared into the fire which flickered in the stone hearth, profoundly grateful for gifts the gods had granted. He—the Dragon of Denmark, born and bred for battle—had scoffed at the idea of taking a wife. He’d considered being sent to Normandy for the arranged marriage and political alliance between Harald and Richard a banishment. A punishment. Another abandonment by the royal Viking father who had forsaken him as an infant and neglected his bastard son. He smirked at the irony. For in the forced marriage that he had so vehemently opposed, Sk?rde had found his fated mate. And as the Dragon of Normandy, had finally earned the paternal love he had sought his entire life.

Here, in the Land of the White Chalk Cliffs, he had found what he never even realized he was lacking. The love of a woman who fulfilled him.

Heart, body, and soul.

Like Sk?rde himself, Ylva had been abandoned by her fearless Viking father. Neglected and forgotten until she served a purpose through the arranged marriage for the alliance between the ruthless rulers, Richard and Harald. She, too, had been forced to abandon her home and voyage to Normandy. To marry the bastard son of the Danish king .

Forced into a marriage neither of them wanted, they had ironically found profound fulfillment in each other. And regained the paternal love that each of them had lost.

Ylva interrupted his thoughts as she returned to the room with a small object cradled in her palms. She sat down on the bed beside him and handed him a silver crescent-shaped amulet adorned with a trio of luminous, milky white stones. An intricately engraved pattern of three alternating Nordic runes curved along the outer edge. A black leather cord threaded through the top suspended the silver amulet. “This is the lunula that Gyda gave me on our wedding night.” She traced the trio of mystical gems. “Moonstones channel feminine energy. They are linked to the Goddess Freyja.” An enigmatic smile stretched her full, enticing lips.

“When you were injured by the Raven Warrior’s D?kkálfar sword, I sacrificed my emerald ring as an offering to Divona.” Long fingers traced Sk?rde’s right thigh where Anvarr’s Dark Elven blade had nearly killed him. “I prayed for my Ljósálfar gift of nen glir to heal you with water from her sacred spring in the waterfall cave.” Ylva’s limpid gaze washed him in healing waves. “I thought that I had sacrificed my fertility in sacrificing the ring that úlvhild had given me.” A mystical smile—as mysterious as the moonstones which glowed in his hand—illuminated Ylva’s luminous face. “But I was wrong. For this Viking lunula, as your grandmother explained on our wedding night, is an enchanted amulet. The moonstones are imbued with the feminine magic of Freyja. The goddess of love and fertility.”

Ylva traced the thunderbolt scar across his chest. When she looked up at him, her deep blue eyes sparkled like the Narrow Sea. “Do you remember úlvhild’s vision? The v?lva foretold that ‘the child born to the son of a Danish king and the daughter of a Norman duke would forge a dynasty to unite this land and rule for a thousand years.’”

Divine light emanated from Ylva’s radiant essence as she leaned forward and brushed her full lips against his. “The lunula worked, husband. For I have indeed conceived your child. Our son will be born in the spring.”

Sk?rde’s spirit soared as he pulled her into his loving arms.

Ylva, his Viking Wolf. Celtic priestess and Nordic healer. Fated mate and beloved wife.

As he cradled her over his thundering, grateful heart and fervently kissed her long blonde hair, he smiled with profound contentment. Like the thousands of Viking warriors he had brought to Normandy, the Dragon of Denmark had found love and happiness in the fertile Land of the White Chalk Cliffs.

Thank you for reading Dragon of Denmark. I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please consider leaving a review and continue reading for an excerpt from Wolf of the Nordic Seas, Book 2 in the Valiant Vikings Series.