Page 9 of Dragon of Denmark
Viking Wedding
Along the clifftop edge of the Arques River which emptied into the Narrow Sea, where dappled sunlight shimmered on the fast-flowing water and filtered through the leafy canopy of beech trees, dozens of elegantly dressed royal wedding guests were gathered in a wide clearing on the forested grounds of the imposing stone fortress of Chateaufort.
As Richard escorted Ylva from the castle onto the grassy meadow strewn with wildflowers in full bloom, she spotted the hulking bulk of her betrothed standing beside his royal father. Sk?rde watched her glide across the glade on her father’s arm, an implacable scowl etched upon his fierce, feral face.
The setting sun gilded his golden hair and braided blond beard. Glittering silver torques encircled his oxlike neck and massive arms. Bedecked in deep blue velvet and white ermine fur, he resembled a mythical Nordic god from Viking legends and lore.
Ylva’s stomach dropped at the terrifying thought of him claiming her untouched body in the marriage bed. A violent shudder shivered down her spine.
Dear Divona, please give me the strength to endure.
In the distance, along the grassy riverbank, Ylva glimpsed crowds assembled around Christian priests attired in long black robes.
Her father had explained that, for the past six weeks since the arrival of Harald Bluetooth and his Danish army, each Friday—Frigg’s Day—he had organized mass weddings for hundreds of Nordic warriors and Norman brides. And today, to emulate the royal wedding between the Viking son of the Danish king and the Celtic daughter of the Norman Duke, one hundred couples would marry, like Sk?rde and Ylva themselves, in a traditional Viking ceremony officiated by the Christian Church. Since today was also S ankthansaften— the pagan celebration for the summer solstice and the Christian observance of the Eve of Saint John—the combined festivities would be opulent and extravagant indeed.
When she and Richard reached the gathering where King Harald Bluetooth and his royal Danish guards flanked the towering Viking brute who would soon become her husband, Ylva swallowed an enormous lump of dread as her father handed her over to Sk?rde. “I give you my dóttir Ylva to take as your wedded wife. May Freyja bless her fertile womb, that she may bear you many healthy sons.”
Sk?rde took hold of her hand and bowed his head to Richard. “I am honored to accept your daughter as my Breton bride.” He pulled her close, his touch sending a current sizzling up her arm as he pierced her with his penetrating stare.
In the depths of his turbulent gaze, dark and violent as the stormy sea, swirling waves engulfed her, as if filling every empty recess of her parched soul with Divona’s healing waters.
Laguz. The Nordic rune for my element of water. It flows in Sk?rde’s deep blue eyes. And, like the vision in the sea cave of the thunderbolt I saw blazed across his chest, his sizzling current ripples through my veins. How can he have this effect on me? I’m inexplicably drawn to him. A magnetic pull I cannot escape. Yet, he is a Viking brute. Like the Norse raiders who pillaged my Breton village and the Viking father who captured, conquered, and claimed my Celtic mother. The loathsome enemy I now despise.
Sk?rde released her hand and unsheathed the magnificent sword from the jeweled leather scabbard belted at his waist.
Upon the intricately carved silver hilt inlaid with burnished gold, an enormous faceted sapphire of deepest blue glinted in the golden sun. Laying the magnificent blade flat across his outturned palms, he presented the weapon to Ylva. “I offer you this heirloom sword. A priceless blade from the Carolingian dynasty of Frankish kings. Accept this gift as my Viking bride, Ylva Rikardsdóttir. And keep it safe for our future son.” He placed the gleaming sword into Ylva’s outstretched hands and indicated the silver ring attached to the hilt with a ribbon of golden silk. “This is the wedding ring I present to you.”
The Archbishop of Rouen—clad in white satin robes, a silk maniple embroidered with gold draped over his left arm—officiated the royal ceremony. His resonant voice resounded in the clearing as he solemnly addressed Ylva. “Remove the silver band from the sword. Place the ring on your finger and recite your wedding vows.”
Ylva accepted the sword from Sk?rde, untied the ring from the hilt, and reverently handed the Frankish blade to Norhild, one of the two attendants serving at her side. As she gazed up at the fearsome brute who was her betrothed, Ylva placed the silver band on the third finger of her right hand, in accordance with Viking tradition. “With this ring, I bind myself to you as your wedded wife.”
Ylva’s father unsheathed the Viking sword strapped in the studded scabbard at his own waist and handed her the heirloom blade.
“Please accept this gifted sword, which once belonged to my father.” Ylva presented the weapon to Sk?rde and waited while he untied the wedding ring attached to the hilt and sheathed the sword.
He placed the ring on the third finger of his left hand, as was customary for the Viking groom. When he declared his vows, his deep voice reverberated into her very bones. “With this ring, I bind myself to you as your wedded husband.” Sk?rde traced a calloused fingertip along the intricate pattern of symbols carved into each of the silver rings they now wore. “These wedding bands are inscribed with our Nordic runes. Ingwaz for me and Laguz for you. May the Viking gods and the elements of Nature protect and bless our marriage.”
The archbishop ceremoniously joined Sk?rde’s and Ylva’s hands, wrapping the white silk maniple over their clasped fingers. Elevating his right hand over their bowed heads, he blessed the couple with a murmured benediction in Latin. He then announced to the jubilant crowd, “I hereby proclaim that Sk?rde Haraldsson and Ylva Rikardsdóttir are duly wedded husband and wife. In this official ceremony, sanctioned by the Christian Church.”
Amid the roar of the wildly cheering crowd, Ylva trembled, transfixed by her towering husband’s compelling presence. I’m both terrified and tantalized. I see Divona’s sacred springs in Sk?rde’s deep blue eyes and feel Thor’s thunder in his sizzling touch. A Celtic goddess and a Nordic god, embodied in Sk?rde and me. Drawing the two of us together, as if we were destined for each other. Never have I felt this way before.
Richard shouted to her above the deafening din. “Time for the bruehlau— the bride’s race. To the tables, as fast as you can!” Red velvet robe fluttering in the briny summer breeze, her ducal father dashed across the heathered meadow like a joyous, carefree adolescent.
“Come, wife. Let’s celebrate our summer solstice wedding . With a feast fit for the gods.” Sk?rde grabbed Ylva’s hand and ran with her, from the forest clearing on the grassy, flower-strewn riverbank, to the castle grounds where dozens of long tables were laden with appetizing platters of aromatic food. As thralls served roast boar, venison, swan, and fresh fish, Sk?rde grinned at her and said, “We lost the race. So we serve the mead.”
He led Ylva toward the royal table where King Harald, resplendent in a cloak of blue brocade, embroidered with silver and embellished with sparkling gems, sat beside a smiling Gyda, shimmering in soft rose silk.
“Congratulations on your wedding,” the jovial king boomed, rising to greet the newly married couple. He kissed Ylva’s hand and grinned, revealing the blue tooth for which he was named. “I am most pleased to welcome Sk?rde’s beautiful Breton bride as my dóttir.” When a thrall approached, summoned by Sk?rde to bring a pitcher of mead, Harald retook his seat upon the informal throne at Gyda’s side.
Richard, clad in luxurious red velvet and glittering gold, whispered to a stunning young woman with long dark hair seated on his left. He stood to make the formal introductions. “May I present my daughter Ylva and her husband Sk?rde.” Lovelight danced in his eyes as he smiled at the alluring brunette. “And this is Gunnor. My more danico . ”
While Sk?rde bowed gallantly at her side, Ylva lowered her head to courteously acknowledge Richard’s new Viking wife.
A wave of bitter irony surged through her as the pain of Richard’s abandonment resurfaced. Unlike her maman, who had suffered in solitude, her Viking father had found love and happiness once again. And from the look in her eyes, Gunnor was as smitten with him as he was with her. Perhaps she would bear him the male heir he so desperately desired.
“I’m delighted to meet you both. Congratulations on your royal wedding.” Gunnor’s lilting voice was as lovely as her looks.
Ylva suppressed her rancor and resentment. Gunnor was not to blame for Richard’s reprehensible past. And, as the future Duchess of Normandy, it would be essential to have her as an ally. “Thank you very much.” Ylva forced a polite smile and respectfully bowed her head.
Her breath hitched at the startling sight of the striking woman seated beside Gunnor.
Deep blue woad painted her oval, angular face. Jagged black streaks lined her chin, extending from a thin, grim mouth down her long neck. Glistening jewels were braided into her wiry black hair, and a wide silver band inscribed with Nordic runes encircled her painted blue throat. Attached at her shoulders by an ornate brooch with a dazzling blue stone, the woman’s black silk cloak was strewn with feathers, beads, trinkets, and charms. Pulsating power emanated from the witch, engulfing Ylva in her otherworldly aura.
Richard noticed Ylva’s fixated fascination and introduced the cryptic sorceress. “ Dóttir , I’d like you to meet úlvhild, our v?lva— a Viking seeress with the extraordinary gift of seier magic. She has come from Fécamp to bless your royal marriage. We’re honored to have her join us.”
Ylva’s mouth went dry and her voice faltered under the v?lva ’s disquieting stare. “I am pleased to meet you. Thank you for coming to my wedding.”
úlvhild assessed her with more than mere human eyes. “It’s a privilege to finally meet the dóttir of Jarl Rikard,” she crooned, referring to Ylva’s father with his Viking title in Old Norse. “A Celtic Druid priestess with the gift of sight… through waters of the sacred springs. ” The v?lva purred like a contented cat and flashed an elusive, enigmatic grin. “After the goei performs the blood ritual of blessing, I’ll cast my runes to foresee your future.”
While Ylva stood in stunned silence, entranced by the enchanting witch, Sk?rde placed his hand on the small of her back to redirect her attention. He announced with a throaty chuckle, “Losers serve the mead.”
His deep voice and gentle touch brought her focus back to the royal table.
Between King Harald and Richard were the two wooden chairs—adorned with ribbons of silver silk—reserved for Sk?rde and Ylva as the bridal couple. In the middle of the large oak table sat a pewter pitcher, etched with ornate decorations and Nordic runes.
Sk?rde smirked as he picked up the ewer, poured goblets of honeyed wine, and served them to Harald, Gyda, Richard, Gunnor, and úlvhild. He handed the pitcher to Ylva, gesturing to the large silver chalice placed on the table between the two chairs reserved for them. “You pour the mead for us to share. We must drink from the same cup. Another Viking wedding tradition.” His disarming smile sent another shiver down her spine.
When he passed her the pitcher of mead, Sk?rde’s fingers brushed hers. A sudden jolt—like a surge of lightning—rippled up her arms and flowed into her veins. Waves washed over her, flooding her with sparking energy and sizzling strength. Shaken and disoriented. she accepted the pewter vessel with unsteady arms and poured the goblet of mead. Golden wine sloshed onto the table, soaking the surface of the smooth, polished oak.
Deep laughter rumbled from Richard. “It appears my Ylva is a nervous bride.” He patted the chair beside him. “Come, dóttir. Sit down. We don’t want to waste the mead.”
Sk?rde chuckled, seated her next to Richard, and took his place at her other side.
As she and Sk?rde followed Viking tradition and sipped from the same goblet, Ylva stared at her husband’s bearded lips and shared his warm breath. His alluring scent—a sensuous blend of rich leather, fresh sweat, and pungent herbs—was as stimulating and unsettling as his compelling presence.
Her legs trembled under the table. Why does he have this effect on me? I’ve never felt this way before. Is it fear? Or fate?
Harald raised a royal hand and summoned a pagan priest, clad in tooled leather and assorted pelts of fur, whose heavily bearded face and sinewy arms were covered in dark tattoos. The goei approached, carrying a wooden twig and an elkhorn filled with red liquid. He stopped in front of the bride and groom, lowering his head in reverence to the royal wedding guests.
Bluetooth rose majestically from his informal throne, immediately silencing the convivial crowd. A heavy hush settled across the clearing, the rush of the river the only sound.
“To culminate this royal ceremony and bless the Viking marriage between Ylva and Sk?rde, a goei will perform the blood ritual.” The king gestured to the shaman, whose haunting voice hallowed the gloaming glen.
“With this sacrificial blood, we honor and thank the gods Odin, Thor, and Freyja.” He dipped the slender twig into the elkhorn and solemnly anointed Sk?rde’s and Ylva’s foreheads with painted droplets of the dark red liquid. Tattooed arms raised toward the evening sky—where the last rays of the setting sun streaked the twilight with soft shades of violet, pink, and mauve—the goei concluded his pagan evocation . “And seek their divine blessings of fertility and prosperity for the bride and groom on this summer solstice wedding day.”
His blood ritual complete, the fur-clad priest bowed before the Danish king, the Norman Duke, the Viking v?lva , and the royal couple. Clutching the elkhorn in his wrinkled hands, the white-haired goei strode across the clearing and poured the remainder of the blood sacrifice onto the ground before the roaring bonfire encased in a protective wall of large, smooth stones. He tossed the fir twig into the flames and joined a raucous group of revelers seated at a distant table.
While Ylva surreptitiously wiped the sacrificial blood off her face with a linen cloth from the table, Harald raised his chalice high, prompting the jubilant guests to follow his lead. “To my son Sk?rde and his beautiful bride Ylva. May the gods bless your marriage and grant you many heirs. And may you reign in a realm of peace and prosperity in the Land of the White Chalk Cliffs.”
Amid riotous cheers of “Skál!” and thunderous applause, everyone drank to honor the newly wedded couple.
Sk?rde the Scourge and Ylva Rikardsdóttir.
Count and Countess of the Pays de Caux .