Page 37 of Dragon of Denmark
Aftermath of Battle
Ylva helped Sk?rde sit in a chair and removed the blood soaked gambeson under his chain mail armor. She exhaled in relief when she saw that the slice across the ribs under his left arm was shallow. But since it was still bleeding, she pressed a clean linen cloth against the wound, positioning Sk?rde’s hand over the compress to hold it in place. “I need to staunch the bleeding first. Then I’ll stitch the wound closed with needle and thread. Try to relax while I get my supplies.”
While úlvhild fussed over the Falcon, serving him herb-laced water from the sacred spring and feeding him oat porridge, baked fish, and salted pork that she had ordered from the castle kitchen, Maeve tended Gunni, who was laying on a straw pallet upon the floor. She had removed his armored leggings and linen hose and was washing a nasty gash on the outer portion of his upper left thigh. “Sure and it’s a good thing you have such strong legs. The armor blocked the brunt of the blow, and your thick muscles prevented the blade from cuttin’ too deep. Sweet Brigid be praised, it’s just a flesh wound. I’ll have you stitched up in no time.”
Ylva mixed ground comfrey and yarrow into the garlic and honey salve that Maeve had made. She fetched a flagon of wine, needle and thread, and a ceramic bowl, bringing the supplies and the garlic ointment to the table between them so that she could share everything with Maeve. Removing the linen compress from Sk?rde’s injured left side, she washed away the blood while she soaked the needle and thread in a bowl of wine. “This will sting,” she warned him, pouring the wine into the wound and sopping up the spill with a soft linen cloth.
He hissed and clenched his teeth as she made a meticulous row of neat, precise stitches. When she was done, she applied the herbal garlic and honey salve over the stitches and carefully bandaged the wound.
She helped him don the clean tunic which Jofroi had brought and asked the chamberlain to help Sk?rde up the stairs to their private chambers. “I’ll come up with you. To settle you into bed,” she said to her husband. “You need to sleep. We have a victory celebration tonight.”
He grinned wearily, the exhaustion of battle, the stress of saving the Falcon, the harrowing sea voyage, and his own injury all taking its toll on his beloved, bearded face.
Maeve finished the stitches on Gunni’s leg, applied the same garlic and honey poultice to the wound that Ylva had used for Sk?rde, and painstakingly bandaged the redbeard’s injured thigh.
“Take him up to our chamber,” úlvhild said to Maeve. “I’ll bring the Falcon to my hut in the village. We’ll come back to the castle and join you this evening for the victory celebration. It will be much calmer for Gunni in the chamber upstairs. And the servants can prepare the Great Hall for the feast.”
“I’ll find a couple servants to help you.” Ylva went out into the foyer and returned with two strong valets, who raised Gunni to his feet. “Go with him,” she said to Maeve. “Summon Norhild or Eydis if you need anything. I’ll see you tonight.” She kissed her friend’s freckled cheek and watched her leave with Gunni, supported under the shoulders by strong servants on either side.
The Falcon shook Sk?rde’s hand, profound gratitude shining in his dark eyes. “Thank you, Dragon of Normandy. I owe you my life. Perhaps one day I can repay you.”
úlvhild kissed Ylva’s cheek, then Sk?rde’s, and led her Falcon out the door.
Gyda and Dagny came into the Great Hall to check on Sk?rde. “Odin be praised,” she exclaimed when Ylva informed the old woman that her grandson was fine. Gyda hugged Sk?rde, kissed both him and Ylva, and promised to see them at the victory feast.
Her heart soaring like Freyja’s swan, Ylva accompanied her wounded husband—aided by his competent chamberlain—upstairs to their room.
Jofroi helped Ylva settle Sk?rde into the large feather bed. When the chamberlain discreetly left the room, affording them privacy, she poured a mug of water from the sacred spring and withdrew a vial of herbal tincture from the leather pouch at her waist. She measured three drops of the elderberry, thyme, and calendula elixir into the healing water and offered it to Sk?rde. After he’d consumed it all, she helped him lay down on the downy mattress and placed the empty chalice on the nearby bedside table. She sat down on the bed and kissed her haggard husband, relief crashing through her like waves against the white chalk cliffs. “Thank the gods you’re alive. I knew you had been wounded.” She traced his bristled cheek with tender fingertips and brushed his soft, smooth lips with her own. “I prayed to Thor, Tyr, and Odin to give you strength in battle. And offered my blood to them in sacrifice.”
He reached up and pushed a long blonde wisp which had escaped her braid back into place. A weary grin stretched across his bearded face. “The emerald talisman saved my life.” He grasped her hand and fervently kissed it, overcome with emotion as he relived the intensity of combat. “We were losing the battle. An enemy sword had struck my helmet, and my head was spinning. I saw Viggo and Gunni fall. Another savage blow sliced through my armor and split my side, and a third strike dropped me to my knees. In that instant, when I knew I would die—for the Frank had raised his blade to sever my head—I thought of you. And remembered the amulet imbued with your blood.” Dragonfire blazed in his intense blue eyes, transfixing her with a penetrating stare. “I called upon the gods, like you said. Tyr gave me his strength, Thor’s thunder sparked from my sword. And Odin blessed us with victory.” He pulled her down onto his uninjured side and smothered her hair with breathless kisses. “I saw your face…longed for yo ur touch…couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you.” He rocked her in his strong, sinewy arms. “Your love saved my life.”
She suckled his neck under the braided beard, nuzzling the blond tuft at the base of his throat as she inhaled his scent deep into her lungs.
I always despised my Viking heritage and Nordic roots. They were a stigma of shame and hatred. But now, I fiercely love my Viking husband. And my Nordic magic saved his life.
Ylva lifted her head from his chest and smiled down at the man she loved. She longed to feel him inside her, to reunite their bodies and souls. But that would have to wait until he’d healed. Rising to her feet, she bent down to kiss him, whispering into his open mouth. “You must rest. I will come back later. Sváfa vel, ást mín. Sleep well, my love.” She tucked the covers around him, kissed his relaxed forehead, and quietly slipped out the door.
The castle was in a flurry of activity, preparing for the evening feast. A messenger had ridden from Fécamp to inform them that Richard was sailing with Harald, so that he would also be at Chateaufort to celebrate their victory over the Franks and the triumph of the Viking alliance. Ylva was thrilled that Sk?rde would reunite his father and brother. And that she would celebrate with her own father.
The Viking faeir she had finally forgiven. The prodigal father she had always loved.
****
Lothaire gripped his sapphire chalice and swallowed the gulp of exquisite Frankish wine as his royal valet Ragno escorted the harried messenger into the antechamber where he now sat upon his gilded throne. Visibly distraught, the spy from the village of Fécamp removed his woolen cap and bowed before the powerful King of West Francia.
“Your Majesty, I regret to inform you that Fécamp has been lost. Richard the Fearless has reclaimed his castle. There are no survivors.” Legs shaking, voice stammering, he shifted nervously and fixed his eyes on his booted feet.
Lothaire stared in shock and disbelief, as stark horror descended upon him .
“Badelbert was defeated? How is this possible? I sent numerous reinforcements. Armored knights, supplies, and weapons!” Spittle flew from his frothy mouth.
The messenger stammered his reluctant response. “They were intercepted, my king. Richard had allies. Conan, Duke of Brittany. Geoffroi, Count of Anjou. And William Towhead, Duke of Aquitaine. Each sent armies to reinforce Fécamp.” He wrung his hat with trembling hands. “Harald Bluetooth did not attack Chateaufort , Your Highness. He and his bastard—the Dragon of Normandy—allied with Richard. And attacked Fécamp from the sea. But there was another assault, my king. Thousands of birds swarmed the skies and swooped down to attack the defenders along the battlements and in the towers. Pecking out eyes with beaks and talons…our men were blinded by the birds. And succumbed to an insurmountable, three-pronged Viking assault. By land, sea, and air.” He exhaled with audible despair. “Richard’s banner flies from the highest tower in the keep, where Badelbert once held his Frankish court.”
Lothaire hurled his sapphire chalice, slamming it against the stone hearth. The sharp, metallic clang resonated with an icy echo in the empty room. “Get out. Be grateful that I have spared your wretched life.”
As the messenger scrambled from the glacial room, Lothaire bolted to his feet and stormed across the antechamber to the window overlooking la Montagne Couronnée.
The forested mountaintop where his magnificent castle perched like a royal crown.
He gripped the wooden table, seething with impotent fury.
Once again, the damnable alliance between Richard the Fearless and Harald Bluetooth had triumphed against him. But now, with Bluetooth’s bastard in a position of power, Lothaire faced a trinity of Viking rulers defending the dukedom of Normandy. A Viking trident which had impaled his Frankish army and pierced the Pays de Caux.
Bluetooth would pay for this betrayal. Lothaire would aid his covetous cousin Otto the Red and invade the most lucrative seaport in Denmark. Under the combined might of the Holy Roman Empire and the kingdom of West Francia, Heieabyr would fall to the Franks.
And Lothaire would crush the traitorous Danish king.
As for Richard the Fearless and Sk?rde the Scourge, he would exact revenge on them as well. Although the battle of Fécamp had resulted in a devastating loss, Lothaire had managed to claim a Norman castle and—albeit briefly—establish a Frankish colony in the Pays de Caux . He was determined to drive the Vikings from Normandy and reattach the fertile farmlands and towering white chalk cliffs to the kingdom of West Francia.
Lothaire withdrew from the shelf of his private walnut cabinet the strange silver coin with shadowy swirls and sinister scrolls. As he examined the ominous markings and blackened runes, the words of the Dark Elven blacksmith Guldur floated like smoke from his D?kkálfar forge.
“Should you ever need an exceedingly rare royal favor, present this enchanted coin to me in the Sapphire Chalice Tavern.”
He squeezed the coin and grinned. Guldur would soon return from the Faroe Islands. Lothaire would visit him at the Sapphire Chalice Tavern in Dorestad, present the enchanted coin, and request the exceedingly rare royal favor.
For Guldur and the D?kkálfar Dark Elves to aid in his unerring, implacable quest.
To drive the Viking heathens from Normandy.
And reclaim Richard’s dukedom for the West Frankish crown.