Page 7 of Dragon of Denmark
A Condemned Man
Sizzling steam rose through the wooden slats in the bath house as male thralls poured water over the heated coals. While the moist heat washed away the grime and soothed the aching muscles of his exhausted body, Sk?rde reflected on the recent frenzy of activity in preparation for his imminent royal marriage to Ylva, daughter of the Duke of Normandy.
The Viking fleet from Denmark had landed four weeks ago at the base of the white chalk cliffs of the Pays de Caux. They’d docked in the harbor at the mouth of the Arques River on the Narrow Sea where a shelter, similar to the Danish port of Heieabyr, now protected hundreds of drakkar warships and trading vessels.
Sk?rde and Harald had been welcomed into the castle of Ch?teaufort in the city of Dieppe by the awaiting servants and defending soldiers of Richard the Fearless, who had ventured to the Breton village of Saint-Suliac to fetch his daughter, the intended bride.
The Danish immigrants and Viking army from Heieabyr had settled into the numerous longhouses and huts established by the Duke of Normandy on the castle grounds and upon the banks of the Arques River. Working collaboratively with the Vikings of Normandy, the Danes had built clusters of longhouses and huts in the new settlements along the alabaster coast where Sk?rde and his bride would soon rule as Count and Countess of the Pays de Caux.
For the past month, every Friday—Frigg’s Day, when Viking marriages were performed in honor of the Nordic Goddess—Sk?rde and his father had organized mass Viking weddings between their Danish warriors and newfound Norman brides. The ceremonies, officiated by ordained priests and celebrated with Viking rituals, were a blend of both Christian and pagan traditions.
Sk?rde stared at his new wedding tattoo, where the Viking rune Ingwaz , symbol for Ing, the Nordic god of virility, was inscribed inside his left wrist.
He scoffed in disgust.
Ing was another name for Freyr, the Viking god of peace and plentiful harvest.
What cruel irony that I—infallible leader of the voracious Viking army—am now banished to Normandy. Reduced to rule over feckless farmers and fertile fields. I’m Sk?rde the Scourge, Dragon of Denmark. Born and bred for battle. I know nothing of peace. Thor’s thunder, I do not want this forced marriage to a Celtic Breton bride!
A violent shiver rippled up his spine as he remembered the first time he’d seen her.
Atop a magnificent grey horse, long blonde hair gilded in a golden halo of setting sunlight, she’d embodied Sól, Nordic Goddess of the Sun.
The blinding vision had robbed him of breath and coherent thought.
Richard’s servants had rushed out to greet her, welcoming Ylva and celebrating the return of their jarl and sovereign lord. The Duke of Normandy and his golden daughter had settled into royal rooms in a reserved wing of the castle, and Richard had joined Harald and Sk?rde in building longhouses and huts for the Danish army who would henceforth defend the Pays de Caux .
Now scowling in the bathhouse, his mood foul at the prospect of the impending marriage and future sovereignty over a Viking army transformed into feeble farmers, Sk?rde’s anger dissipated somewhat at the thought of his gentle grandmother.
He was immensely grateful that Gyda had come to Normandy with him. Not only did her steadfast presence calm him, but she had also taken Ylva under her maternal wing like a protective, brooding hen.
Since his betrothed had no female family members to prepare her for the rituals involved in an elaborate Viking wedding, Gyda and the servant Dagny had promised to fulfill the required roles and ensure that Ylva would be a perfectly prepared royal bride.
Dutiful male thralls interrupted Sk?rde’s reverie as they readied him for the afternoon wedding ceremony. They lathered his scarred body, long blond hair, and thick beard with lye soap scented with beeswax and cleansing herbs. When finished, the four servants led him from the steaming bathhouse to a clearing in the nearby forest of beech trees surrounding the castle where a deep freshwater pool, formed by an underground spring, fed into the fast-flowing river. As they plunged him into the cold water—symbolic of washing away the past and invigorating him for the future—Sk?rde reflected that similar ministrations were being simultaneously performed on his beautiful Breton bride.
Amma and Dagny are bathing her now, too. To prepare her for me.
He envisioned the long limbs and slender torso of the golden goddess he’d glimpsed upon her grey horse. Despite the chill from the brisk pool and the early summer breeze, his body stirred at the sublime, sensual image of Ylva.
I’ll wed her, bed her, and get her with child. Establish the new Viking settlements in the Pays de Caux. Form the alliance with Normandy. Then leave her to rule with her father the Duke. While the Dragon of Demark returns to the seas.
Sk?rde’s focus shifted to his attendants as they wrapped him in a drying cloth of soft linen, led him across the clearing, and hustled him into a room inside the castle where his elaborate wedding attire awaited.
A silver armband, adorned with engravings of the Viking rune Ingwaz, now encircled both of Sk?rde’s enormous biceps. Around his thick neck, an intricately carved pendant of Thor’s hammer was suspended from a silver torque inlaid with gold filigree and black amber dragons. His tunic was vivid blue velvet, lovingly embroidered with silver thread by Gyda, his black woolen leggings finely woven on her whalebone loom. The dense, wiry fur of a great grey wolf wrapped his elk hide leather boots. And—in honor of his Breton bride—a full-length cloak of white ermine, heraldry of Ylva’s native land, draped across Sk?rde’s broad shoulders and down his massive back.
“Your father has sent for you, my lord. King Harald and Richard the Fearless are ready to begin the ceremony.” The thrall Kofri handed Sk?rde the prized Frankish sword with the enormous sapphire in its hilt, which he sheathed in the jeweled scabbard belted at his waist.
With a deep intake of breath, Sk?rde summoned his strength as a fearless Viking warlord and ventured forth to face his Breton bride.
But behind the intrepid fa?ade of the Dragon of Denmark and the Count of the Pays de Caux was the gnawing apprehension and grim acceptance of a doomed, condemned man.