Chapter 8

A Captive Bride

Ylva stared out the pair of windows of her private bedroom on the upper floor of Chateaufort —the Viking fortress originally built by her great-grandfather Rollo and reinforced by her ducal father—which would soon belong to her. She gazed beyond the dense forest of leafy beech trees surrounding the castle to the rapid flowing river which emptied into the Narrow Sea at the base of the towering white chalk cliff.

She marveled at the luxury of the castle, with windows made of glass brought back from Viking expeditions to the distant Mediterranean Sea. Tapestries, woven with silver and golden threads, adorned the massive stone walls. The pinewood floors gleamed with sweet-smelling beeswax polish—so vastly different from the rush-covered bare earth of her small, humble cottage. Mauve velvet draperies enclosed her elegant bed, and the walnut table and pair of matching chairs were richly carved and expertly crafted.

My betrothed made this furniture as part of my mundr—the bride price he and Harald Bluetooth paid to my father as part of Viking wedding traditions. Gyda says he’s an expert woodcarver and craftsman. Ylva ran appreciative fingers over the intricately carved wood. Sk?rde’s skill is evident in the magnificent carving of this fine bridal gift.

But no gift can compensate for my inconceivable loss as I’m forced to surrender my inheritance, my freedom, and my body.

A knock at the door interrupted her disturbing thoughts. Dagny—the kind servant who had joined Gyda in welcoming Ylva and preparing her for the rituals involved in a Viking wedding—peered into the room, her face alight with a warm smile. “We’ve come to bathe you and braid your hair. Your wedding gown is ready, and Gyda has a special gift for you.”

The plump woman bustled into the room, displaying the dress of billowy blue silk that Ylva would soon wear to the ceremony. Behind her was Sk?rde’s white-haired grandmother, whose kind eyes twinkled above soft, crinkled cheeks as she followed Dagny through the door and deposited a parcel wrapped in soft white linen upon the walnut table.

As Ylva watched in wariness and wonder, Gyda unwrapped a thin, delicate coronet of intricately carved silver. “This is called a kransen . Young Viking girls wear them in their unbound hair as a symbol of maidenhood. A kransen is given to a young girl by her mother, who removed it on her own wedding day and saved it for her daughter. This one was mine.” Gyda placed the silver headpiece into Ylva’s trembling hands. “I saved it for my daughter’s wedding day. But my beautiful Katla caught the eye of the Danish king Harald Bluetooth, who took her as a concubine rather than a wife.” Remorse and regret tinged her velvety voice. “There was no wedding for my daughter, who died giving birth to Sk?rde. I kept this kransen to give to my grandson’s future bride.” Unshed tears welled in Gyda’s expressive eyes. She kissed Ylva on both cheeks and caressed the silver circlet clutched in her upturned palms. “You must now save this for your daughter. If indeed, the Goddess Freyja blesses you with one of your own.”

Ylva smiled sadly at the wizened, loving woman who had welcomed her from the first day she’d arrived in Normandy.

She remembered how terrified she’d been at the sight of her future husband—a beastly brute who was taller, bulkier, and even more heavily scarred than her ruthless Viking father. Ylva had been grateful for Gyda’s gentle guidance as she adjusted to her new surroundings. Gradually, over the past four weeks of Gyda’s constant support and endless patience, Ylva had come to realize that, just like her mother Lova and both of her grandmothers, she had no freedom to plan her own future. Ylva, like her three female ancestors, was forced into an unwanted marriage as a captive Viking bride.

But, unlike her predecessors, Ylva would inherit a castle.

Marry the son of a king.

And rule as Countess of the vast Pays de Caux.

Gyda stroked Ylva’s hair, the gentle touch redirecting her divergent attention. “On a Viking bride’s wedding day, her mother removes the young woman’s kransen and replaces it with an heirloom crown.” She flashed a grin at Dagny, who stood beside the canopied bed, next to the magnificent blue silk wedding gown.

At Gyda’s nod, Dagny reached under the voluminous fabric to fetch a slender, intricately carved silver crown, adorned with glittering gems. The smiling servant carefully handed the coronet to her mistress.

Gyda placed the sparkling circlet on the table in front of Ylva.

Amidst silver peaks and dips resembling waves of water, brilliant blue gems were encased in swirls and scrolls. An alternating pattern of Nordic runes and flowing ripples was engraved around the base. “Sk?rde had this crown made especially for you.” Gyda indicated the brilliant azure gems. “These gemstones are called turquoise. They come from Persia—a land in the Far East where Vikings trade with the Byzantine empire. Since you worship the Celtic Goddess of Sacred Springs, Sk?rde selected these rare blue gems to honor you and your divine element of water.”

Ylva recognized the runes which were engraved in the silver crown.

Laguz. The Nordic rune for water. The symbol Gyda chose to represent me. The rune now inscribed in the wedding tattoo inside my left wrist.

Gyda lifted the crown and traced the runes with her fingertip. “He commissioned the royal silversmith to craft this for you to wear during the ceremony. Engraved with the same Nordic runes as your wedding tattoo. Laguz —for your worship of the Goddess Divona and your affinity for her healing waters.” Gyda brushed a lock of long blonde hair from Ylva’s cheek, her eyes alight with love. “And now, you have an heirloom to pass on to your future daughter with Sk?rde.”

Ylva was speechless at the generosity and warm welcome from the Vikings she had loathed and feared. Instead of treating her like chattel, as she’d expected, Sk?rde and his Danish family were revering her like a queen. “Thank you,” she stammered, her voice quavering with emotion and gratitude. “The kransen and silver crown are the most beautiful things I have ever seen.”

“And this is your wedding gown. Turquoise blue, like the waters of your Celtic Goddess.” Dagny’s exuberant face beamed with pride as she displayed the elegant dress she had carefully laid upon the bed. “Gyda and I made it for you—with silk, imported from Persia. Just like the gemstones in your bridal crown.”

As Ylva stood, mouth agape, stunned by the elegance which surrounded her, two female thralls entered the room, their arms laden with blue and white wildflowers. “We picked snowdrops, primroses, and cowslips. While you bathe the bride, we’ll weave them into her wedding crown.”

Gyda hummed her approval and smiled fondly at Ylva. “Another Viking tradition.” To the servants, she said, “ Takk, Eydis and Norhild. Thank you. These are lovely.” She peered through the doorway into the next room. “Is the bath ready?”

Eydis, the young thrall with shorn black hair, responded in a meek voice. “Yes, my lady. We prepared it with fragrant herbs and rosewater, just as you requested.”

“Perfect.” Gyda’s eyes twinkled with youthful delight. “Come, Ylva. It’s time to wash away the past and prepare you for the future. As Sk?rde’s Viking bride.” She took hold of Ylva’s hand and led her—with Dagny close behind—into the adjoining antechamber where a large, steaming tub sat before the fire in the hearth.

Ylva recognized the soothing aroma of sage and the soft floral fragrance of roses.

Lovely embroidered tapestries adorned the thick stone walls. The pinewood floor gleamed with sweet-smelling beeswax. Through the open window, the tangy brine of the sea and the crisp, green scent of the forest wafted into the welcoming room. A bar of herbal soap, a silver comb, and a soft white drying cloth lay upon the table near the blazing hearth.

Gyda announced softly, “Dagny and I will now bathe the bride.”

The two older women helped Ylva out of her brown woolen gown, linen smock, and deerskin leather boots. They eased her into the aromatic tub, and Gyda poured warm water over her head. “We’ll wash and braid your long blonde tresses. Hair is the essence of female beauty. A Viking bride’s most beautiful asset.”

Gyda lathered Ylva’s hair with scented soap, and Dagny poured warm water to rinse out the suds. After bathing her thoroughly, they helped Ylva out of the tub and dried her off. Gyda wrapped Ylva’s hair in an absorbent cloth and helped her into a clean white linen smock. “Come, sit at the table so I may comb out your hair. Dagny and I will braid it while Eydis and Norhild weave the wildflowers into your wedding crown.”

Back in her bedroom, Ylva sat at the carved walnut table and, while Gyda and Dagny plaited her long hair in elaborate braids, watched as the two thralls interlaced the white flowers among the delicate filigree pattern of the slender silver crown with silken, sparkling thread.

“Absolutely beautiful.” Satisfaction and pride laced Gyda’s glowing voice. “We left most of your hair loose, like a maiden’s, and looped braids from each side into an intricate pattern on the back. Simply exquisite.” She kissed Ylva’s cheek and gave her a smooth silver handpiece to see her reflection and express her approval.

Ylva held the reflective oval and admired the delicate braids which graced each side of her smiling face. “It’s very pretty. Thank you both.”

“Now, let us help you into your wedding gown. Your father will be arriving soon with his heirloom blade—for the ritual exchange of swords.” Gyda took Ylva’s hand and raised her to a stand while Dagny, Eydis, and Norhild held the dress for her to step into. They eased it up over Ylva’s body and laced the bodice tight in the back.

“One last finishing touch before the crown.” Gyda placed a silver necklace around Ylva’s throat. “Sk?rde had the royal silversmith craft this to match your wedding crown as part of your mundr —his bride gift to you. This beautiful turquoise stone is from Persia,” she said, indicating the large blue faceted gem, “and the Laguz runes inscribed in the silver represent your element of water.”

Ylva traced the precious gemstone with delicate fingertips. Even the droplet shape represents water. Like the sacred springs of my goddess Divona. May this amulet bless me with her divine protection. “ I’m honored by my future husband’s generosity. The crown, the necklace, the silk for my gown…I am overwhelmed. I’ve never received such elegant gifts.”

“They’re an integral part of a Viking wedding. The husband’s family honors his betrothed with her mundr. And the bride’s father provides a dowry befitting her social status.” Gyda placed the flower-embellished silver crown, adorned with turquoise gems and Nordic runes, atop Ylva’s elaborately braided blonde hair. Her crinkled cheeks stretched into a satisfied smile. “Your generous dowry includes not only this exceptionally fine castle. But the entire alabaster coast of the Pays de Caux .”

A loud knock interrupted their conversation. The servant Norhild rushed to open the door.

Wearing a golden crown embellished with brilliant rubies, bedecked in a red velvet cloak trimmed in ermine, an ornate golden brooch clasped at the base of his thick neck, Richard the Fearless strode confidently into the room.

And—ducal eyes widened in awe—gasped at the sight of Ylva.

“Never have I seen such a beautiful bride! You make me immensely proud, dóttir. ” He bent down to kiss Ylva’s cheeks, the glow of admiration illuminating his blond, bearded face. “I’ve brought the sword for the ceremony. Sk?rde’s wedding ring is attached to the hilt.”

Richard showed Ylva the elaborate sword he had given her long ago as a child in the village of Saint-Suliac. The one she had kept on the wall of her cottage for the past ten lonely years. It had obviously been recently polished, for it gleamed in the afternoon sun .

“As part of the Viking marriage ritual,” he explained, “you and Sk?rde will exchange swords. You’ll give him this blade—which once belonged to me—to symbolize that he, as your husband, will protect and provide for you from now on.” With a scarred, swarthy finger, he indicated the ring attached to the sword hilt with a golden cord. “This silver band is inscribed with Nordic runes called Ingwaz, the emblem of your betrothed. Sk?rde will remove the wedding ring, place it on his left hand, and present you with his own heirloom Frankish blade. Which you will keep, of course. For the future son and heir you will bear your husband.” Richard’s eyes sparkled like sunlit waves of the brilliant Breton sea. “When you accept Sk?rde’s sword, you must remove your wedding ring from the hilt and place it on your right hand. Like your husband’s band, yours has also been etched with Nordic runes. Laguz —to represent your element of water.” A broad smile stretched across his weathered face. “You and he will declare your vows, the priest will bless your marriage, and the wedding concludes with the bruehlaup —the bride’s race. We dash from the riverbank, where the ceremony takes place, to the feasting tables set up on the castle grounds. The loser of the race serves the mead!”

He chuckled deeply, sheathed the sword in the jeweled scabbard belted at his waist, and adjusted his regal red velvet cloak. “Tonight is S ankthansaften— a Viking celebration of the summer solstice, blended with the Christian traditions of Saint John’s Eve. We’ll pay tribute to the gods and goddesses of fertility, renewal, and life. For our newly planted crops, recently wedded couples…and for your royal marriage to the son of the Danish king!” He raised Ylva’s shaking hand to his bristled lips and bestowed a proud, paternal kiss. “There will be a huge bonfire, lively music, dancing, feasting, and endless goblets of golden, honeyed mead. Tonight…and every night… for the rest of the month of June.”

His cheerful countenance became serious, his commanding voice gentle. “Tonight, at the royal wedding table, there will be a woman at my side. Her name is Gunnor, and she has been my companion for the past several weeks.” Richard’s solemn, apologetic gaze held hers. “I truly loved your mother. But political circumstances demanded that I renounce her in order to marry a Christian bride.” Tender calloused fingers caressed her cheek as he scoffed softly. “My Parisian wife Emma was barren and died childless.” With a curved finger, he lifted Ylva’s chin. In his entrancing eyes, she felt a little girl again, anxious for her adoring father’s approval. “As the reigning Duke of Normandy, I must produce a male heir, and Gunnor has agreed to become my wife.”

As if to regain his regal composure, Richard inhaled deeply, rose to his full, towering height, and adjusted his ermine-trimmed, red velvet cloak. An expansive smile spread across his face as he offered Ylva a bent elbow to escort her from the room. “Come, dóttir. Your betrothed and wedding guests await.”

Ylva reluctantly hooked her arm through his and shot an apprehensive glance at Gyda.

“Go with your father now,” she said, patting Ylva’s folded arm. “I’ll come join you shortly.” She nodded to the two thralls who had woven flowers into the silver wedding crown. “Eydis and Norhild will attend you. Dagny will help me dress for the ceremony. And I’ll meet you in the forest clearing—on the bank of the river—in just a few minutes.” Tears welled in her eyes as she kissed Ylva’s cheek. “Blessed Goddess Freyja…you, dear Ylva, are a beautiful Viking bride!”

Heart pounding, limbs shaking, her throat clenched and her mouth parched, Ylva followed her father through the bedroom door, along the dark hallway where tallow candles in metal wall sconces illuminated the musty gloom, down the stone steps to the ground floor.

And into glaring, golden light of the summer solstice sun.