Page 5 of Wolf of the Nordic Seas (Valiant Vikings #2)
Welcoming Feast
Slanted rays of the setting sun filtered into the cavernous Great Hall from narrow slits in the high stone walls, glimmering upon silver platters of sumptuous fare arrayed upon linen covered tabletops. The delectable aroma of beef braised with garlic and onions, salted boar dripping with honey, roasted pheasant, quail, and duck mingled with the appetizing scents of frumenty porridge, fruit tarts, cinnamon, and spice.
Castle servants flitted between crowded tables of ravenous men, serving savory bread topped with sage, lugging enormous platters of steaming seafood, refilling endless goblets of golden mead.
Scattered throughout the Great Hall and spilling out onto the castle grounds, Danish warriors, Norman Vikings, and villagers alike gorged greedily on the decadent feast. When night fell, thralls cleared the tables, refilled mugs of mead, and lit a huge bonfire in the clearing on the castle grounds. Enlivened by lively melodies of lyres, lutes, and lurs, warriors and widows danced around the flickering flames, their lonely faces alight with joy, finding solace in a warm, welcoming embrace.
At the table of honor, seated between Jarl Rikard and Njord, Elfi sipped her mead, entranced in the painful past as an amorous couple swirled, twirled, and laughed around the fire.
Blurred, nostalgic images of Dag and his lost love Guri danced in front of her mournful, tearful eyes.
Four months ago — at the Sigrblót festival celebrating the fertility and plentiful bounty of spring — her beloved brother and his beautiful betrothed had also swayed and spun in each other’s arms, in joyful anticipation of their upcoming summer solstice wedding and the Nordic festivities of Sólmánudur .
But Alberic of Soissons attacked le Chateau Blanc and killed Dag, who died defending étretat. The fiendish count had hurled a Dark Elven spear which had impaled her valiant brother, penetrating his chain mail armor and causing Dag’s deadly plummet from the crenellated battlements atop the castle ramparts.
Soissons had stolen Dag’s Light Elven sword Galadir. The priceless gift that Jarl Rikard had bequeathed to him for saving the Duke’s life in a bloody battle against the Franks.
After the tribute honoring Dag’s death and burial — without the traditional Viking privilege of interment with his sacred sword — a devastated Guri and her bereaved family had moved west to the Viking settlement of Rouen.
Elfi had not seen Guri since.
Not only had she lost her sole sibling, but Elfi had also lost her closest friend. For she had loved Guri like the sister she’d never had.
Oda, seated next to Elfi on one side with Bjarke and Varg on the other, addressed Njord, her courteous voice interrupting Elfi’s sorrowful reverie. “ Wolf of the Nordic Seas ,” Oda mused aloud, smiling brightly at the enormous Dane who, to Elfi’s profound relief, was not wearing his otherworldly white wolfskin cloak tonight. “Please tell us, Jarl Njord, how did you acquire such an illustrious name?”
Casting his long, dark hair away from his bearded face with a toss of his head, Njord grinned at Elfi’s grandmother. “I grew up swimming and fishing the fjords of Norway with my foster father, a fisherman in the seaport harbor of Bj?rgvin. I was aptly named after the Viking God of the Sea,” he quipped with a wolfish grin and a wink at Elfi, “for I’ve spent my whole life on the ocean. As a lad, I sailed every day, hauling cargos of freshly caught salmon, halibut, and haddock.” He took a hearty gulp of mead and wiped his bearded lips with the back of a scarred hand. His deep blue eyes sparkled in the firelight. “My foster father Kálf was also a seafarer, so I learned to sail drakkar and skeid longships, like those in the fleet I have brought to the Pays de Caux , as the wedding gift offered by my generous king.”
Count Sk?rde, seated beside Jarl Rikard, gulped his mead and wiped his blond beard with calloused fingers as he addressed Njord. “I grew up in Norway, just like you. My foster father was a craftsman who taught me to be a woodcarver. I’ve carved a few of the dragon prows on the drakkar ships I brought from Chateaufort . We’ve had similar upbringings, you and I.” He grinned and took another long pull of mead, friendship glinting in his blue eyes like sunlit waves on the Narrow Sea.
“Njord has always worn his white wolfskin cloak to sail the Nordic Seas.” The Viking warrior named áki—the tall, blond, bearded brute seated next to Njord — grinned from ear to ear. “He’s pillaged wealthy Frisian ports, Frankish monasteries, and Christian churches. With all the gold, silver, and priceless jewels from his profitable raids, King Harald summoned him from Norway to Denmark, to establish a Viking trade center as the Danish Jarl of Ribe.” Admiration and respect resonated in the rich timbre of the Dane’s deep voice. “A seafaring marauder and incomparable warrior. Wolf of the Nordic Seas .”
Elfi was curious about the white wolfskin, but held her tongue as Njord spoke again.
“I’ve voyaged down the Volga River from Novgorod, all the way south to the Caspian Sea. Traded with merchants from the Byzantine Empire in the capital city of Constantinople. Which is where I obtained the personal bridal gift which I would now like to present to Lady Elfi.” Njord gestured to two male thralls who stood nearby, waiting alongside the castle wall. On the grassy ground between them was a large, ornately carved wooden chest. At their jarl’s signal, the men hoisted the trunk, carried it to the table, and placed it graciously at Elfi’s booted feet.
Her mouth dropped open. Stunned, she raised curious eyebrows and looked expectantly at Njord. “Another bridal gift? But you’ve already offered an army of a thousand Viking warriors. And a fleet of drakkar ships!”
“From my magnanimous king, to bless our Viking marriage.” Njord nodded to the engraved wooden coffer. “This is my gift to you. Please, open it.” His lupine grin sent shivers down Elfi’s spine.
The heavy wooden lid, incised with intricate detail and inscribed with Nordic runes, opened by ornate brass hinges. Inside the trunk, voluminous folds of shimmery silk sparkled in the moonlight. Neither blue nor green, but an intriguing blend of both, the unique color captured all the essence of the cerulean sea. “It’s exquisite!” Elfi exclaimed in awe, lifting a corner of the exotic fabric for Oda to see.
“Perfect for your wedding gown.” Oda’s velvety voice expressed appreciation and approval. “And blue is the most highly prized color for a bride.”
“Thank you, Jarl Njord. This is a truly exceptional bridal gift.” Elfi folded the silk neatly and tucked it back into the chest.
“There is a small box underneath the silk.” Njord flashed her a brilliant, almost boyish grin. “Another gift, to go with the first.”
Reaching under the layers of luscious blue silk, Elfi retrieved a slender silver case which was engraved with intricate swirls and scrolls. Inside — upon a bed of smooth black velvet — lay a magnificent necklace with three tiers of finely wrought silver chain. Suspended from the delicate metal links, droplet shaped gems in an alternating pattern of blue and green glittered in the golden glow of the fire.
“The small blue stones on the top tier are turquoise from distant lands in the Far East. And these are lapis lazuli,” Njord whispered, tracing the large, dark blue droplets dangling along the bottom strand with reverent fingertips. “See how the finely woven threads of gold shimmer in the moonlight?” Delight danced in his dark, seductive eyes. “And the green jewels in the center strand are emeralds from Egypt.” His scarred, savage face was alight with pride. “This necklace once belonged to a Persian princess. I knew — the moment I saw it — that it was destined for my future bride. The blue and green gems have all the color, sparkle, and fire of the ocean. The essence of the Nordic Seas.”
Elfi was as mesmerized by the dazzling necklace as the intensity in Njord’s scorching gaze. Both sparkled with blue fire like the flames leaping inside the huge stones of the enclosed outdoor hearth. Or the sunlit depths of the secret coves and hidden inlets along the Narrow Sea.
“Wear it for me, Elfi.” His penetrating gaze pierced her very soul. She was irresistibly and inexplicably drawn to him. Like a moth to a flame.
“Now?” she stammered, rattled by his magnetic presence.
“Tonight we celebrate your father’s imminent return. The fortification of étretat. And our upcoming wedding for the Nordic Yule. A perfect occasion for you to wear it.” Njord carefully removed the necklace from the case and leaned close, prepared to place it around her neck. “May I?” His warm whisper caressed her cheek.
Elfi lifted her long hair and held her breath as the dark hair on his arms brushed against her skin. His intoxicating scent—an earthy blend of leather, pine, woodsmoke, and musky male , awash in the seductive, salty spray of the sea — inundated her senses and stirred her soul.
“A magnificent necklace! You shine like the sea goddess Rán.” Jarl Rikard bellowed his approval, to the hearty agreement of everyone seated at the table.
“Dance with me. I want to show off my beautiful bride.” A wolfish grin spreading across his bearded face, Njord rose to his feet and pulled Elfi to a stand.
Her hand clutched possessively in his, he led her toward the raging bonfire, where the mead flowed freely and the beguiling music beckoned. Wrapping a trembling Elfi in a brawny, protective embrace, Njord swept her away to the lively melody of lyres, lutes, and flutes.
When the music slowed to a more seductive rhythm, he pulled her close, running his hands down the length of her loose hair, which fell to the curve of her hips. “Long hair is the essence of a Viking woman’s beauty.” His heavy breath whispered into the shell of her ear. “Yours is irresistible.”
Elfi’s legs quivered under her grey wool gown. Like the wings of a frightened sparrow taking flight, her heart fluttered wildly in her constricted chest.
How can he have this effect on me? I have never felt like this before.
“The necklace is the same color as your eyes. Blue and green, like the Nordic Seas.”
Unused to overt attention from an attractive male, Elfi was unsure how to respond. Her gaze kept returning to the irresistibly alluring tuft of dark hair beneath his neatly trimmed beard, at the base of his corded neck. Resisting the almost impossible urge to nuzzle it with her nose, she decided to dodge his amorous advances and change the subject instead.
“I am most grateful that you and your army have arrived. With such powerful fortification for le Chateau Blanc , the Count of Soissons will be forced to release my father. Return my brother Dag’s stolen sword for a proper burial. And abandon any future attacks on étretat.”
“I shall help Jarl Rikard free your father. Fortify this castle. And defend the Pays de Caux .” Njord tightened his arms around the back of her waist. “Alberic of Soissons cannot have you. Because you, Elfi of étretat, are mine .” He lifted her chin with a curved finger. A fierce, feral hunger blazed in his lupine gaze. Slowly, possessively, he lowered his mouth and claimed hers.
He drew her bottom lip into his, the wet warmth sending surprising shivers of pleasure straight to her toes. Tracing the outline of her lips with the tip of his tongue, he washed her with waves of unexpected, unknown longing. With one hand firmly centered on her upper back, he lowered the other behind her hips, pressing his hardened length against her soft stomach.
Elfi’s wobbly knees went weak with desire.
The music suddenly stopped.
As Elfi caught her breath and collected her thoughts, Jarl Rikard’s booming voice bellowed across the grassy glen.
“Come, everyone… find a seat. It’s time for an epic battle of skaldic verse!” Blond bearded face aglow in the moonlight, the Duke of Normandy waited eagerly as the dancers dispersed, settling in at animated tables under the starry night sky, seating themselves upon large smooth rocks, spreading out amongst the wildflowers under the canopy of beech trees along the castle wall.
Jarl Rikard presented the first of the three Nordic poets—his own skald Hrafn, from the ducal court of Fécamp. Clad in a long cape of finely woven chestnut wool, his shoulder length brown hair and beard neatly trimmed, Hrafn seated himself upon the large stump of an oak tree which had been reserved for the bards to entertain the enthralled crowd.
As he drew his wooden bow across the horsehair strings of a talharpa, Hrafn regaled the enrapt throng with Triumph of the Viking Trident— the epic tale of how Jarl Rikard, Count Sk?rde, and King Harald Bluetooth formed a three-pronged Viking alliance to defeat Frankish forces and reclaim the seized ducal fortress in the heroic, victorious Battle of Fécamp.
After a hearty round of applause and more mugs of golden mead, Richard the Fearless introduced the second bard to enchant the audience with the magic of poetic verse. His divine voice the sole source of music, Stig — Njord’s renowned skald from the Danish court of Ribe—praised his jarl’s legendary voyages as Wolf of the Nordic Seas in a rendition entitled “ Saga of the Savage Sea Wolf.”
Elfi immediately recognized the long grey hair and waist-length beard of the third skald who bowed before the assembled crowd, for Egil had been her father’s court poet in le Chateau Blanc since well before her birth. With loving eyes, she watched him — a woven wreath of rowan leaves atop his humble head—settle onto the smooth oak stump with his elegant lyre of curved, ornately carved wood. A flutist lowered himself to the leafy ground at the master poet’s side.
Egil’s skaldic poem — the Drápa of Dag— was a glowing tribute to her fallen brother, the valorous Viking who died defending his father, his castle, and his beloved sister, Elfi of étretat.
With clever kennings and eloquent heiti, Egil extolled the virtues of Dag’s skilled Elven sword Galadir, imbued with the otherworldly power of the Ljósálfar Lugh who crafted it and the divine blessings of the Nordic gods. He depicted Dag’s prowess and dauntless courage in defeating the enemy and dying in triumph, his valiant soul carried by Valkyries to Odin’s glory in Valhalla.
Elfi was overwhelmed with emotion as she listened to Egil’s lyrical accolade for her beloved brother. But when the skald recited the refrain—the distinguishing characteristic of a drápa poem of tribute—and the flutist’s plaintive melody began, the ethereal notes of the instrument that Dag himself had played filled Elfi’s empty spirit with the replenishing music of her brother’s loving soul.
When Egil finished, the impassioned crowd roared in unanimous approval.
Jarl Rikard arose from the table, lifting his ducal arms to silence the raucous crowd. From the gleam in his glistening eyes, he had been as moved as Elfi by Egil’s incomparable skaldic verse. Richard’s vivid voice echoed through the trees.
“Tonight, we feast in Thorfinn’s castle and pray for his safe return.” Richard inclined his head respectfully to the esteemed guest of honor, a proud grin stretching across his bearded, weathered face. “We also welcome the Danish Jarl, Njord ívarsson, Wolf of the Nordic Seas. And the valorous Viking warriors who have come to fortify étretat.”
Amidst thunderous applause, the Duke of Normandy directed his regal attention to the trio of skalds standing under the canopy of an enormous oak, near the stump where they had enthralled the captive crowd. “Hrafn, Stig, and Egil — each of you has exceptional talent, composing unparalleled poetic verse of praise. But this evening, for his resounding tribute of Jarl Thorfinn’s fallen son, I shall honor the sublime skald Egil.”
Richard pushed aside his red velvet cloak to reveal the wide silver bands engraved with Nordic runes which encircled his massive arms. Of inestimable value, the jarl’s arm rings represented his sovereignty as Duke of Normandy and his sworn oath to protect the Norman people. Upholding the Viking tradition of bragarfull, Richard removed one of his ducal armbands and bestowed the rare silver gift to the awestruck skald. “Accept this ring as a token of my appreciation and admiration for the inimitable Drápa of Dag.”
While Egil marveled at the priceless ducal gift protectively cradled in the palms of his appreciative hands, Jarl Rikard raised his goblet of mead, prompting everyone to follow his commanding lead. “To the safe return of Lord Thorfinn! To the Danish army of Jarl Njord! To the poetic genius of skalds! And to the heroic Drápa of Dag !”
Exuberant cheers and jubilant shouts of “ Skál!” echoed across the Narrow Sea as musicians resumed their lively tunes. The trio of skalds joined Jarl Rikard, Count Sk?rde, and Oda, while Bjarke, áki, and Varg found widows who wanted to dance.
Njord led Elfi away from the head table, toward a more private area of the clearing at the edge of the forest. He pulled her into his arms, swirling her to the sway of the music. “The Drápa of Dag was a glowing tribute to your brother. I wish I could have met him.”
Elfi smiled sadly and stared into the fire. “Dag was not only my brother, but also my closest friend.” Tears blurred her vision as she looked up at Njord, surprised to find his intimidating size oddly soothing. “Although my father always treated me like a pampered princess, Dag trained me to be skilled with a sword.” Memories flowed over her, like the secret waterfall she and Dag had found in a hidden cave. “Every day, we would spar in the clearing near the sacred grove of fir trees—the burial ground of our fallen warriors. He even gave me my sword, Shadowbane — the one that had been his before Jarl Rikard honored him with Galadir.” She dashed the tears away from her cheek and exhaled in exasperation. “But now, since Dag’s death, no one will train with me. Not even Bjarke, who was his best friend. No one dares to defy my overly protective father. And no one would risk harming the Heiress of étretat.” She stopped dancing and pulled away from Njord, angry at the injustice of being born a woman. “My faeir insists that women have no place in battle and that I have no need to wield a weapon. My ability is waning from lack of use. Although I still do my daily dance with the sword —the routine of lunges, thrusts, and parries that Dag taught me—it is not enough to keep my skills sharp.” Cheeks flaming with frustration and fury, Elfi glared up at Njord. “I vow to avenge my brother’s death. I will reclaim Galadir so that Dag can be honorably buried with his Ljósálfar sword in the sacred grove. I will slay the Frankish bastard who took his life and stole his priceless blade. I will kill the bloody Count of Soissons!”
The steely eyes of a seasoned Viking warlord fixed her with a resolute stare. “I will spar with you, Elfi. Hone your skills with a sword. Teach you to hurl a dagger. And fire flaming arrows.” Njord grasped her hands and drew her close, his mesmerizing gaze never leaving hers. “Once we are wed, you will rule as my equal. Chatelaine of Chateau Blanc and Countess of étretat. You will defend our castle—and the Pays de Caux —as a warrior wife at my proud side.”
Elfi searched the scarred, savage face of her betrothed. Loyalty and sincerity blazed in his steadfast gaze. In the profound depths of his dark blue eyes, she—the girl who had grown up swimming in the secret coves and inlets of the Narrow Sea, whose immense love for the ocean had earned her the nickname “Mermaid of étretat” — felt an inexplicable, innate bond with the intriguing Wolf of the Nordic Seas.
Like Dag, he sees the fire in my heart which fuels my sword. In his aquatic gaze, I feel the irresistible call of the sea. Njord is a fierce lupine warrior who will train and teach me. And awaken in me a passion I have never known.
Her voice quavered as she responded to his uplifting promise and unsettling presence. “There is no greater gift you could offer me. I’ll be forever grateful if you train me. And teach me to wield the weapons which I do not yet know.” Excitement and adrenaline surging at the prospect of practicing weaponry again, Elfi impulsively stood on her tiptoes and kissed Njord’s bearded cheek. The stroke of dark stubble and the scent of the sea inundated her senses and stirred her soul. Shaken, she stepped back to calm her ragged breath. She looked up at him expectantly, elated with anticipation. “When can we begin?”
He flashed her a wolfish grin. “Soon, my impatient bride. Very soon.” He glanced around at the dying fire and dwindling crowd, watching as several couples headed toward the village together. He chuckled softly. “Many of my warriors are quite taken with your widows. I suspect we’ll have weddings each week on Frigg’s Day,” he remarked, referring to Friday, the traditional day for Viking marriages. “Like our own. On the Nordic Yule.” Delight danced in his dark lupine eyes as he lowered his lips to softly brush hers.
A wave of longing washed over Elfi, drenching her with unexpected desire.
“Come, let’s rejoin the others. It’s time to say goodnight.” Njord took hold of her trembling hand and led a shaken Elfi back to the table of honor, where her grandmother chatted amicably with Jarl Rikard and Count Sk?rde.
Oda looked up and smiled at their approach.
“As much as I hate to give her back,” Njord quipped with a disarming grin, “I must return my betrothed to her amma .” He inclined his head to Oda, then fisted his chest in respectful salute to Richard, the Duke of Normandy, and Sk?rde, the Count of the Pays de Caux . “Thank you for honoring us with a welcoming feast fit for the gods. And for the longhouse you converted into a royal hall for my top-ranking men and me. Tomorrow, I’ll show you some of the architectural advancements I discovered during trading expeditions to the Byzantine Empire. We can greatly improve the defense of le Chateau Blanc by adding a few strategic fortifications along the battlements and ramparts of the outer curtain wall. I’ll explain everything, after we break our fast. For now, I bid you all goodnight.” He turned toward Elfi and bent to kiss her hand. “Until tomorrow, Lady Elfi of étretat.”
She watched him stride away, long dark hair tumbling in thick waves down his broad back, woolen breeches and leather boots outlining his rugged, muscular legs. My sparring partner. My weapons trainer. My future husband. Another shiver rippled up Elfi’s spine.
Later, after thralls had brought the carved chest with Njord’s bridal gift of blue silk up to her chamber, Elfi removed the exquisite necklace he had insisted she wear tonight. As she laid it upon the black velvet inside the silver case, the turquoise, lapis lazuli, and emerald gems glistened in the slivers of moonlight slicing through the open window.
This once belonged to a Persian princess. Njord knew at once that it was meant for his future bride. And now, it is mine. Freyja, forgive my foolish pride, but I love it. It has all the mystery of the Nordic Seas. Like Njord himself.
Sif came up behind her and whispered with awe. “It’s so beautiful…you will be a breathtaking Viking bride.”
Elfi beamed at the gentle thrall who was more like a sister than servant. She closed the silver case and tucked the necklace back inside the wooden chest with the blue silk which would soon be transformed into the wedding dress she would wear for her Yuletide marriage to Njord ívarrsson. Wolf of the Nordic Seas.
Sif unbraided the long, slender plaits which graced each side of Elfi’s face. Breathless with anticipation, the pretty young thrall excitedly shared a confidence. “I met someone tonight at the feast. His name is Bodo, and he’s a newcomer in the village. He’s a stone cutter who has come to rebuild the damaged wall around the castle.” She helped Elfi out of her grey woolen gown and into a cotton shift for sleeping. Sif’s mouth curled up into a sweet, shy smile. “I danced with him tonight, and he kissed me. I know, as a slave, I’m not free to marry without your father’s permission. But I can still hope and dream.” Her expressive brown eyes twinkled with delight. “Do you think it’s possible to fall in love so quickly?”
Elfi hugged Sif tight, rocking her back and forth with unabashed joy. “I’m so happy for you! And yes, I do believe it’s possible to fall in love so quickly.” She gazed up at the glowing moon, remembering her own seductive dance and exhilarating kiss with the enigmatic Wolf of the Nordic Seas.
Perhaps, sweet Sif, you are not the only one.