Page 1 of Wolf of the Nordic Seas (Valiant Vikings #2)
A Forced Marriage
The jarring clash of steel and the horrific shrieks of dying men reverberated in her bones and tore out her heart. Frustration and fury surged as Elfi struggled in vain to open the heavy wooden door. But her Viking father—knowing that she would want to be at his side, wielding her lethal blade to defend their castle against yet another attack by the ruthless Count of Soissons—had locked her in the fortress tower.
And bolted the door from outside.
She peered out the small window, where waves of the turbulent Narrow Sea crashed against the towering white chalk cliffs of the Pays de Caux below the castle. The familiar red and white striped sails of their drakkar warships were still safely docked in the harbor, and she could discern no enemy ships in the sheltered inlet of étretat. Which meant that the Frankish attack had come from the south. Through the dense forest of beech trees which she could not see.
Seething with rage, Elfi hurled a pewter goblet against the thick oak door and slammed her body against the stone wall in the opposite corner. She was a skilled shield maiden warrior-- as proficient with her peerless sword as the older brother who had trained her—yet, locked in this dismal cell with her grandmother Oda on the third floor of the tower, there was nothing she could do but wait.
“It does no good to scream, elska . We must pray that Thor guides your faeir to victory. ” Resignation and defeat edged her grandmother’s frail voice. “Or that the Valkyries will claim him. To join your bróeir in Valhalla.”
Tears streamed down Elfi’s cheeks at the mention of her beloved older brother who had died defending the castle in a bloody battle against the same Frankish count four months ago.
Now, as le Chateau Blanc was under siege yet again, Elfi groaned at the injustice of being born a woman.
She was the reason for Alberic of Soissons’ renewed attack. And why her father had locked her in this tower.
To prevent her from falling prey to the Frankish count’s undaunted, relentless pursuit.
For Elfi — as the unmarried Heiress of étretat — was her father’s most prized possession.
I am nothing but property, like this castle. Or the white chalk cliffs of the Pays de Caux. Dear Goddess Freyja, why was I not born a man?
Elfi shuddered at the possible outcome of this battle. If the Frankish army succeeded in conquering the castle, her father would be forced to concede to the Count’s demand of marriage. As Elfi’s husband, Alberic of Soissons would become the new lord of le Chateau Blanc as well as the ruling Count of étretat.
Providing King Lothaire of West Francia a Frankish fortress in Normandy and a viable means of dispelling the Vikings from the white chalk cliffs of the coveted Pays de Caux .
To reclaim the fertile plains of Normandy for his West Frankish crown.
Elfi ground her teeth, growling like a caged animal while she paced back and forth. Being a woman, she was deemed more valuable as a bride and brood mare than a valorous Viking warrior.
Seething with suffocating rage, she dropped to the floor.
Covered her face in her hands.
And smothered a maniacal scream.
Hours later, as the setting sun streaked the sky with soft shades of violet, pink, and mauve, Elfi listened for signs of continued battle. But an ominous silence had settled, and the eerie stillness sent dread shivering down her spine.
At a sudden rattle of the lock and metal thud of the bolt, Elfi shot to her feet as the heavy wooden door swung open. Clad in chain mail armor, his hulking body caked with dried blood and streaked with gore and grime, Varg, valiant warrior of étretat — the Viking village in Normandy which the castle defended—proclaimed the victory she was desperate to hear. “We have prevailed, my lady. The Frankish army has retreated, and although the outer curtain wall surrounding the castle was badly damaged, le Chateau Blanc was not breached.” Despite the triumph of his exultant missive, despair and defeat dimmed his deep voice.
“The city has been decimated. And… your father Thorfinn has been captured.”
Blood oozing from a vicious gash in his shield arm, Varg groaned as he spat out the horrid truth. “The Count of Soissons demands your hand in marriage. He insists that you, Lady Elfi — accompanied by no more than a dozen of your personal guards— must come to the Christian church in the Frankish city of Reims, where the Archbishop will perform the wedding on the first of October.” Anguish blazed in his valorous gaze. “If you refuse, he shall execute your father. And attack le Chateau Blanc repeatedly until it falls.”
Violent spasms of horror, furor, and shock shook Elfi’s entire body.
Alberic of Soissons killed my brother Dag and stole his Elven sword. Now he’s captured my father and demands my hand in marriage. He wants this castle. The walled city of étretat. And the white chalk cliffs of the Pays de Caux. For his cunning Frankish King.
Dag died defending le Chateau Blanc. He would never want me to concede to the bloody Count of Soissons. But if I refuse, he’ll kill Faeir and attack again. Goddess Freyja, give me strength!
Anger spiked and adrenaline surged as she leapt to her feet, smoothed her crumpled gown, and gave her first orders to Varg as Heiress of étretat. “Bring the wounded into the Great Hall. Find healers to treat them. Arrange funeral pyres for our fallen — who surely feast now with my brother Dag in the glory of Valhalla.”
Elfi glanced at her grandmother Oda, still seated on the edge of the bed. Worry dimmed her amma’s bright eyes and furrowed her wrinkled brow. Elfi spoke again to Varg. “Send an urgent message to Chateaufort and alert Count Sk?rde of the Frankish assault. Request reinforcements to defend us in the event they strike again. Dispatch an additional rider to Fécamp and summon Jarl Rikard. Inform him that the Count of Soissons has once again attacked le Chateau Blanc and that my father Thorfinn has been captured. Request that he bring men to fortify and repair the damaged castle. Tell him Elfi of étretat needs the aid of Richard Sans Peur . Richard the Fearless. The Viking Duke of Normandy.”
Varg fisted his chest and inclined his head in salute. “As you command, my lady. I shall dispatch riders at once.” He nodded to the guards at his side, who dashed down the hall to obey.
Oda rose to unsteady feet, placing a gnarled hand on the sore hip which often plagued her. She hobbled toward Elfi, taking hold of her cold hands. “Your faeir is strong and stubborn, elska,” she said, using the affectionate Nordic nickname she called Elfi. “Don’t worry — he’ll be fine. And Jarl Rikard will find a way to free him. Without surrendering this castle. Or marrying you to the Frankish count.” She raised Elfi’s shaking hands to her wrinkled lips. “We must have faith in the Nordic gods.”
Regret and remorse laced Varg’s voice as he reluctantly delivered the rest of his report. “Lady Elfi…Bjarke has been critically injured. He’s with the healer Gorm — in a private nook near the castle kitchen.”
Elfi’s knees nearly buckled from the blow. Bjarke was not only her father’s highest-ranking knight of le Chateau Blanc , but he had also been Dag’s closest friend. And Elfi loved him like a brother. She glanced at her grandmother, whose sorrowful eyes reflected her own grief at the grievous news. “Take us to him.”
Varg escorted Elfi and Oda down the dimly lit corridor to the stairwell at the end of the hall. At the bottom of the stone stairs, chaos unfolded as knights hauled wounded warriors into a section of the Great Hall which had been transformed into a chamber for healing.
Servants scurried about with pallets and blankets, linens for bandages, and cauldrons of steaming water. Men howled in unspeakable agony as healers closed gaping wounds with red-hot irons from the fire in the blazing hearth. The clean scent of sage and soap warred with the coppery stench of blood and the noxious odor of vomit and bowels.
Varg led them past the havoc to a quiet room off the kitchen where the castle cooks often slept. There, stretched out on a clean straw pallet in the corner of the nook, lay a wounded, bloodied Bjarke, being tended by an elderly healer.
Elfi dashed to the bed and knelt at his side. “Bjarke , I am here .” Her frantic eyes scanned his lacerated face, where a deep gash had sliced his cheek from temple to chin. On the chair beside the bed, she spotted the blood-saturated linen gambeson he’d worn under his chain mail armor, the left shoulder of which had apparently been slashed by a sword. Relief washed over her when Bjarke—despite his obvious pain—attempted a lopsided grin.
“They thought my throat had been slashed, there was so much blood.. But it’s just this slit on my face.” He raised an unsteady hand to the garish wound on his right cheek. “The bastard sliced my face and severed the mail on my shoulder. But I ran him through with my blade…and stole his!” He turned his head on the down pillow and nodded to the weapon which stood proudly against the wall. “Frankish swords are the finest in the human realm — nearly as well-crafted as Elven weapons. Now I own the blade which carved my face. Well worth the price for such a prize.” He chuckled — wincing as his mirth caused apparent agony — and reached for her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m fine, Elfi. It looks much worse than it is.” The uninjured side of his mouth curled up in a smirk. “The scar will be hideous. Perfect for a savage Viking beast.” Rumbled laughter escaped his bearded, bloodied lips.
“Odin surely blessed him in battle. Bjarke is fortunate indeed that the slice is not deep. I cleansed the wound with wine…stitched up the gash… and coated it with a salve of comfrey, sage, garlic, and honey.” The white-haired healer Gorm spoke sternly to his stubborn patient. “Lord Bjarke, you have lost a great deal of blood. You must remain in bed for three days.” He motioned to a thrall, who brought forth a goblet of wine. Gorm fumbled in the leather satchel belted at his waist and produced a stoppered vial. He uncorked the container, sniffed the contents, then poured the mixture into the wine. “Drink this. It will prevent the wound from festering, soothe your pain, and help you sleep.” The wizened old healer handed the goblet to Bjarke, who dutifully drank the herbal potion. Gorm then spoke to Oda, the matriarch who had run the castle ever since the death of Thorfinn’s wife and Elfi’s mother, Dúva. “Make sure he rests. I must tend to the other wounded soldiers — but I’ll be back soon to check on him and change his bandages. He’ll need three days in bed to recover from the loss of blood, and two to three weeks for the wound to fully heal.” Gorm bowed his head respectfully to Oda, Elfi, and Varg. “Please excuse me. I’m needed in the Great Hall.”
“Thank you, Gorm. We are truly thankful for your exceptional skills.” Elfi smiled at the healer and watched him pack up his herbal satchel and depart. She bent forward to push a lock of dark hair from Bjarke’s weary, weakened face, leaning down to kiss his uninjured cheek. “Sleep. It’s what you need most.”
Grief ravaged his haggard voice as he struggled to resist the lull of herbs Gorm had laced in his wine. “The Frankish army destroyed the village…hundreds of men slaughtered defending their homes…Now we have widows with hungry children… and no men to harvest the crops. Or rebuild the damaged curtain wall surrou nding the castle.” He rolled his head, fixing Elfi with fiercely protective, fraternal eyes. “Alberic of Soissons captured your father and demands your hand in marriage. But Dag would never want you to wed a Frankish lord. Or surrender the castle that he died to defend.” He spluttered and choked, stifling an angry, bitter sob.
Elfi sat down on the bed at his side. Desperation shone in Bjarke’s bleak, anguished eyes. “I’ve already sent urgent messages to summon reinforcements.”
Bjarke’s heavy lids closed, but he fought to stay awake and listen to Elfi’s words.
“I’ve asked Jarl Rikard and Count Sk?rde to bring men to fortify the castle . They will help us find a way to free my father. And defend étretat against the Frankish count.” She kissed his bristled cheek again. “Varg will command the men until you recover. Oda and I will supervise the castle. And help will arrive very soon. Now sleep. I’ll come check on you in a little while.” She waited until he succumbed, relieved to hear his rhythmic breathing and soft snores.
Oda’s cheeks crinkled into a comforting smile. “ Bjarke is young, strong, and stubborn as a mule. He will be up and about in a day or two, you’ll see.” She took hold of Elfi’s hands and gave them an affectionate, reassuring squeeze. “Jarl Rikard and Count Sk?rde will answer your call. They will bring men to fortify this castle and defend étretat. Together, we will find a way to free your father and defy the Frankish count.”
An impish gleam flared in Oda’s knowing gaze. “Perhaps Jarl Rikard can even find a Viking husband for you . If you are married to a Nordic jarl, the Count of Soissons cannot insist on your coveted hand.” Still clutching Elfi’s fingers, Oda raised them to her soft, wrinkled lips. “ That is my Yuletide Wish, elska. For Jarl Rikard to free your father and defeat the Frankish Count. To find a husband worthy of you. And establish peace in the Pays de Caux .”