Page 6 of Wolf of the Nordic Seas (Valiant Vikings #2)

Wolf of the Nordic Seas

Njord ívarrsson had grown up in the fishing village of Bj?rgvin on the western shore of Norway, the bastard son of an unknown father whose mother Hlíf had died when he was just a babe. His maternal grandfather ívarr had taken care of him for six years, but just before the old man’s death, he’d sent his grandson to be fostered with the fisherman Kálf, who had taught Njord not only his highly skilled trade, but also how to swim and sail the fjords, lakes, and rivers of Norway. And the frigid depths of the Nordic Seas.

As a young boy, Njord had discovered that he possessed extraordinary, preternatural senses of sight, smell, and sound. He could hear fish swimming under the surface of the sea, glimpse a distant shore that others could not discern, or catch the elusive scent of hunted prey in a dense forest. Taller, stronger, and swifter than all the lads his age, Njord had realized, once he’d begun training with weapons, that his strength and speed were unsurpassed, even by warriors considerably older than he.

The white wolf had first appeared when he was six winters old.

Njord had been cleaning and gutting fish from the day’s catch in front of the hut where he lived with Kálf. He’d spotted the wolf at the edge of the forest and had assumed that the animal had been attracted by the scent of the salmon. When Njord had looked up from his work and beheld the magnificent beast, he’d not experienced the slightest trace of fear, despite the massive size and menacing stance of the enormous carnivore. Instead, Njord had sensed an immediate, innate bond. As if the wolf were part of him.

Or an otherworldly guardian, sent by the Norse gods to protect him.

Kálf, who had seen the white wolf as well, remarked that mayhap the god Odin had assumed lupine form to walk among mortals in Midgard. Or perhaps the white wolf was one of the legendary Volsung —the demi-god descendants of the Allfather who could assume the shape of a wolf.

From that day on, the white wolf had always lived in the thick forest near Njord.

When he was fourteen winters old, Njord won the intense competition among the Viking warriors of Bj?rgvin. Easily defeating all of his opponents with sword, axe, and spear, he’d astounded the jarl, who had been so impressed by the stellar performance of the young champion that he’d awarded Njord a silver armband inscribed with Nordic runes. And had granted him the incredible opportunity to go raiding, trading, and exploring with the experienced Viking warriors of their local clan.

With Njord’s superior size, strength, and speed, he’d become a truly exceptional swordsman and fearsome Viking raider, enriching his grateful jarl and generous king with silver, spices, silks, and swords. To reward Njord’s astounding prowess and promising potential, King Harald Bluetooth had summoned him from Norway to Denmark.

To become the Jarl of the thriving Viking trade center in the Danish seaport of Ribe.

Throughout the years, as he’d approached manhood—even while aboard longships, sailing the Nordic seas—Njord had always been intrinsically connected to the white wolf, who had remained in the forest near the cabin, awaiting his return.

He’d known immediately when the white wolf died.

The connection between them had been suddenly severed, like a cord cut with a knife.

Njord had found the massive, furry white body in the dense forest where the wolf had always lived, stretched out upon a soft, earthy bed of leaves, grass, and moss. When he’d dug the grave to bury the beast, a deep, otherworldly voice had resonated in his mind.

Wear the skin of the sacred white wolf in battle, that he may protect you, even from the afterlife. Keep the two solid bones from his lower jaw, for they are the strongest, most powerful in his rugged lupine body. You will need them one day. For white wolf weapons to protect your future mate.

Njord had carefully cleaned and cured the wolfskin, retaining the two large bones from the animal’s lower jaw. After burying the body—with a sacrificial offering of his own blood from a knife sliced across his palm—he had marked the grave with a large stone inscribed with the Nordic rune of Ansuz , to symbolize the divine wisdom and communication of Odin. Njord had subsequently sought the advice of Astrid, a Viking volva whose practice of seier magic enabled her to foresee the future or perceive the past.

“ Your fate… and your mate… the siren with sea goddess eyes…lie on distant shores, across the Nordic Seas .” Her ethereal voice had been haunting, her white face painted with black Nordic runes, her kohl-smeared eyes glassy and glazed, as she’d glimpsed visions from beyond the mortal realm. “ You will discover the truth. And fulfill the prophecy. For you are destined to wield the Dwarven sword .”

Stunned by the startling revelation, the otherworldly order to wear the white wolfskin cloak, and the command to keep the lupine bones to protect his future mate, Njord had obeyed the mystical voice and his majestic king, sailing from Norway to Denmark with a fleet of Viking warriors towards his foreseen future and fabled fate.

As the Danish jarl of Ribe, he’d led numerous raiding and trading expeditions, always clad in white wolfskin over his gleaming chain mail armor. Brandishing both Viking sword and bearded axe, he’d soon earned the fearsome name Wolf of the Nordic Seas, certain that he would meet his fated mate in the vibrant trade center of Ribe, or in one of the exotic seaports during his many voyages to the distant Baltic, Caspian, and Black Seas.

But when King Harald Bluetooth summoned him to fortify the Viking alliance between Norway, Denmark, and Normandy through an arranged marriage to Lady Elfi Thorfinnsdóttir, the Heiress of étretat, Njord knew that his fate—and his fated mate—awaited on the distant shores of Normandy.

On the alabaster coast of the Pays de Caux.

The Land of the White Chalk Cliffs.

****

Njord now sat at the large table in the Viking longhouse that Jarl Rikard had converted into a royal hall for his Danish chieftains and him, finishing the dagmál morning meal of fish, barley bread, porridge, and fruit. He glanced around at the elaborately decorated wooden walls, where images from Norse legends and Nordic runes had been carved into the richly polished oak. Woven tapestries embroidered with rich colors and silken silver threads depicted epic tales and heroic deeds of the various Viking gods. Through the open door, the salty brine of the Narrow Sea wafted in on a soft summer wind.

He washed down a mouthful of lingonberries and oats with a hearty gulp of ale, reminiscing about last night’s welcoming feast. He smiled, remembering the epic battle of skaldic poets and the inimitable Drápa of Dag. Dancing deliciously around the bonfire with Elfi in his grateful, possessive arms.

His fated mate. His bewitching betrothed. His siren with the sea goddess eyes .

He’d known at once that she was the one. He’d sensed the irresistible lure of the sea in the depths of her blue green gaze. And the same instant, innate, immutable bond that had linked him to the sacred white wolf.

She wants me to train her. Teach her weaponry. Like her brother Dag always did before his death. So she can become a skilled shieldmaiden warrior. Like the legendary Lagertha of Nordic lore .

Njord reached his arms overhead to stretch his back, shifting his focus from his fetching future bride to the daunting task of restoring le Chateau Blanc and the Viking fortress of étretat.

He, Jarl Rikard, Count Sk?rde, and Bjarke had divided the men yesterday as his Danish army had unloaded ships in the harbor and stored supplies in the castle. The four of them had distributed the workload which would begin in earnest today, assigning teams to harvest the autumn crops, rebuild homes in the village, construct new longhouses and huts near the castle, and repair the damaged defensive wall around the city of étretat.

Swallowing another gratifying gulp of ale, he contemplated the Danish army he’d proudly brought to fortify the Norman coast of the Pays de Caux . Not only were his Viking warriors experienced in battle, they were also seasoned sailors and expert navigators, each one a highly skilled craftsman as well. Among the tradesmen Njord had personally selected to accompany him to étretat were carpenters, farriers, leather workers, woodcutters, armorers, millers, and farmers. They would rebuild the damaged homes, restore the castle, and construct new merchant shops to expand and enrich the city encircling le Chateau Blanc, as well as the surrounding villages beyond the protective barrier of the defensive curtain wall .

étretat. The Viking settlement in Normandy which Njord—as Elfi’s wedded husband and Thorfinn’s proclaimed heir—would soon rule as a Danish jarl and Norman Count.

“Dreaming of bedding your beautiful betrothed?” áki, Njord’s second in command, smirked as he sat down at the enormous table. “She’s not what you expected, is she? Hardly the hideous, unmarriageable daughter of an aging Norman noble. Attractive only for her coveted dowry.” He tore off a hearty chunk of salted pork, washed it down with ale, and swiped his grinning, bearded mouth with the back of his huge hand. “Her silken hair touches her hips…Lady Elfi of étretat must surely tempt the savage Wolf of the Nordic Seas.” áki leaned toward Njord, a lusty gleam in his lewd gaze. “If sh e weren’t your betrothed, I’d bed her myself.”

Njord spluttered his mouthful of ale, gripped by a sudden, intense surge of jealousy. áki wooed women in every port, undoubtedly siring a string of bastards along the various Viking trade routes. Njord didn’t want áki anywhere near Elfi. He was possessive and protective of his fated mate. His siren with the sea goddess eyes .

“Well, I’m off to supervise the carpenters repairing homes east of the castle. Sverre has a crew working in the south, and Gisli’s team is covering the village west of the city wall. With a hundred men apiece, we’ll finish repairing the damage done by the recent attack in plenty of time for Haustblót,” he said, referring to the upcoming autumn harvest festival that would hopefully coincide with Lord Thorfinn’s anticipated release from the Frankish prison of Count Alberic of Soissons. “After that, we’ll start with new construction—longhouses, huts, cabins, and merchant shops—so that everything will be complete in time for your Yuletide wedding to Lady Elfi, the Heiress of étretat.” áki grinned as he rose from the table. “See you tonight for náttmál .” He clasped Njord on the shoulder in a friendly farewell and strode out of the longhouse through the heavy wooden door.

Njord lingered at the table, savoring his last swallow of ale and reliving the memory of his promise to Elfi last night. Her lovely eyes had come alive when he’d agreed to teach her weaponry and resume her training with a sword.

A wave of unease flooded him as he remembered the otherworldly voice in the woods of Norway when the white wolf had died. Keep the two solid bones in his lower jaw… You will need them one day. For weapons to protect your future mate.

He would honor his promise to Elfi and mold her into a mighty shield maiden. A warrior wife who would rule at his side when he was here in Normandy and in his place when he sailed across the Nordic Seas. But mayhap, like the whisper in the woods had suggested, he should have special weapons crafted for her protection .

As he rose from the table and brushed off his woolen breeches, he made a mental note to visit the castle armorer. And bring the jaw bones of the sacred white wolf.

****

“Good morning, Njord! Bjarke, Varg, Sk?rde, and I have assembled the stone masons who are supervising repairs on the castle wall. We are all anxious to hear your suggestions for improvements in defending étretat.” Jarl Rikard welcomed him into the Great Hall of le Chateau Blanc where an attentive group of skilled workers—a combination of bricklayers from the village and some of his own craftsmen from the Danish port of Ribe — were gathered around a large table. “We have brought materials for you to sketch your designs. Please, enlighten us.”

In the center of the table were several sheets of sheepskin parchment, ink made from soot and pine oil, and a feather quill for him to illustrate the proposed plans.

Njord selected a thin layer of parchment and smoothed it out on the tabletop. He dipped a quill in the pot of ink and sketched the ramparts surrounding le Chateau Blanc with the distinctive pattern of rises and dips like jagged teeth along the battlements of the outer stone wall.

“In Constantinople, I observed a unique architectural advancement which we can incorporate as we rebuild the damaged ramparts and parapets surrounding the castle.” He drew an image of a protected, enclosed extension projecting from an exterior wall. “These are called mashrabiya in the Byzantine Empire. Although many are intended simply for architectural adornment, some are used for defensive purposes as well.”

Njord added arrow slits to the walls of the image he had drawn. “If we build projections such as these from the ramparts encircling the castle, our archers can position themselves inside, and be shielded from enemy arrows by the protective side walls.” With a few strokes of the ink-dipped quill, he added another feature to his sketch. “With strategic openings at the bottom, castle defenders can pour boiling water and burning oil onto the attacking enemy. We can drop heavy stones, thick logs… even quicklime .”

Twenty sets of fascinated eyes fixed upon him from the men seated around the table.

“ Greek fire . Another treasure I discovered in my voyages to the regions you call outre-mer .” Njord grinned at the enthralled expressions of the stone masons. “The Pays de Caux is named for its towering cliffs of white chalk, which can be cut into slabs when the stone is wet. If we heat the chalk over hot flames, we can reduce the limestone to a fine white powder which burns like fire-- which we can hurl into the eyes of the invading army. Quicklime instantly blinds and incapacitates, so our archers can drop them in droves.”

While everyone grinned at the prospect of such a potent weapon, Galfrid — one of Jarl Rikard’s men — studied the mashrabiya extensions in Njord’s drawing. “We can add these murder holes along the battlements of the ramparts surrounding the castle, and also up here — on the rooftop of the keep itself.”

Helgi, one of Njord’s shipbuilders, grinned in garish delight. “We can also dig a trench between the outer and inner curtain walls. Embed wooden spikes pointing upward from the waters of the moat—so that if attackers do breach the outer wall, they’ll be impaled on sharpened spears.”

Amid murmurs of agreement among the workers, Bjarke, Galfrid, and Helgi divided the men into teams for construction to begin.

Sk?rde enthusiastically shook hands with Njord. “These are excellent designs. I’m anxious to get started right away.” He rolled up the dried parchment of plans and tucked them under his arm. With a respectful nod to the Duke of Normandy , Sk?rde led a group of eager stone masons out of the boisterous, bustling Great Hall.

Njord spoke quietly to Jarl Rikard. “I’ll join you soon. I made a promise to Elfi last night. I intend to show her that I’m a man of my word. ”

Richard the Fearless grinned. “Best not keep the Heiress of étretat waiting. See you later. And Njord—” he said, as he headed toward the door— “thank you for the suggestions to bolster our castle defenses. I plan to implement them at my ducal residence in Fécamp. And at all of our fortresses throughout Normandy. A superb improvement in architectural design. You will be an exemplary Count of étretat.”

Njord watched the Duke of Normandy exit the castle, the silver torque around Richard’s thick neck glinting in the morning sun. A surge of pride washed over him at the honor of being selected by King Harald Bluetooth to strengthen the alliance with Jarl Rikard and Sk?rde the Scourge— Bluetooth’s bastard son and Count of the Pays de Caux. As the finest warrior from Norway and Denmark , Njord had been chosen by his king to join the alliance which defended the dukedom of Normandy against the treacherous Count of Soissons and the continuous threat of a Frankish attack.

I’ll fortify the castle and rebuild the city. Jarl Thorfinn will return to le Chateau Blanc. My Danish army will defend the Pays de Caux. And Elfi —my warrior wife—will rule as Countess of étretat.

Once all is secure, I’ll return with áki to sail the Nordic Seas. We’ll voyage to the distant Orkney and Faroe Islands. To Kernow, éirann, or Skótland. I’ll raid and trade. Enrich my king, my duke, and my wife. A glorious future for the Wolf of the Nordic Seas.

Then why did the prospect of sailing to distant shores plague him with a sense of foreboding doom? Once again, the seeress Astrid’s unearthly, visionary voice haunted him from the past.

“ You will discover the truth. And fulfill the prophecy. For you are destined to wield the Dwarven sword .”

Shaking off his disquieting reverie, Njord decided that he would consult the village volva tomorrow morning. But in the meantime, he headed toward the castle kitchens where he hoped to find Elfi’s thrall. He smiled at the irony of her name. Sif. A dark-haired slave, named after a blonde goddess. The glorious, golden wife of the thunder god Thor.

The thrall Sif was indeed in the kitchen, peeling vegetables and adding them to a steaming cauldron in the enormous stone hearth. At the sound of his booted footsteps, she spun around, obviously startled to see him. “My lord! Why have you come to the kitchen? Are you hungry? I can serve you a bowl of stew…”

Njord chuckled. “No, thank you. I’m looking for Elfi. Where is she?”

Panic flared in Sif’s desperate eyes. She glanced around the kitchen, as if seeking a means of escape.

Njord remembered that Elfi had said her father Thorfinn was against the idea of women wielding weapons. Sif obviously wanted to protect her mistress’ secret. Njord suspected that Elfi was in the sacred grove right now, doing her ritual dance with the sword.

My rebellious shieldmaiden warrior.

“You can trust me, Sif.” He approached her slowly, like a frightened colt, trying to soothe the frantic thrall with his calm, gentle tone. “Elfi told me how she practices the routine that Dag taught her. And how her father would disapprove. She’s in the sacred grove, isn’t she?” He smiled reassuringly, but fear still froze her stricken face.

Sif searched the depths of his eyes. She must have seen the honesty and loyalty he was trying to convey, for she looked at the floor and nodded guiltily. “She goes there every morning, while Lady Oda is busy with the servants. But she’ll be back soon, Jarl Njord.”

“Please tell me how to find the sacred grove. Is it west of the castle?”

“Yes, it is,” she said, wiping her hands on a linen cloth. She hesitated—as if contemplating a decision—then exhaled, her mind obviously made up. “There is something important I must show you. Please wait here for just a moment. I’ll be right back.” She scooted across the kitchen and spoke quietly to several other thralls who were also preparing food. Njord recognized one of the older women as Oda’s personal thrall, Vilde.

Sif returned quickly to his side. “Please come with me, Jarl Njord.”

She led him from the busy kitchen, through the wide foyer, to the stone stairwell in the corner of the vestibule. “Since you’ll soon be lord of this castle and Count of étretat, there is something you should be aware of,” she said, as the two of them climbed up the stone steps. “There is an escape passage which leads from the upper floor of the castle to a secret tunnel burrowed into the cliff .”

At the top of the stairs, they arrived at a landing where torches in wall sconces and a small window at the end of the hall lit the dim corridor. As he followed Sif’s lead, Njord glimpsed heavy wooden doors on either side of the long, dark passageway.

“These rooms are Lord Thorfinn’s,” Sif explained, nodding to the two enormous chambers they passed on the left. She gestured to another pair of heavy oak entrance doors on the right. “Those are for Lady Oda and her personal thrall—my mother Vilde. The two chambers on the left at the end of the hall once belonged to Lord Dag, but Jarl Rikard and Count Sk?rde are each staying in one now. And these…” she said, as they passed an antechamber entrance and arrived at the elegantly carved, massive wooden door at the far end of the hall on the right, “…are Lady Elfi’s.”

With a key attached to a belted chain at her waist, she unlocked the heavy oak door and led Njord into a large chamber where banked embers glowed in a stone fireplace on the right. A wooden canopied bed enclosed in rich red velvet stood against the tapestried wall on the left, and a carved oak table with two matching chairs were arranged in the nearby corner. On the north facing wall, an open window looked out over the craggy cliff, down onto the sheltered cove far below. The salty scent of the sea floated in on the briny breeze.

I remember seeing Elfi in this window. The day our ships arrived. When I stood on the beach and looked up at the castle.

“I sleep in the antechamber right next to Lady Elfi’s room,” Sif explained, pointing to a small door in the corner of the room near the window. “So I’m available if she needs me during the night.” Her dark eyes shone with loyalty and love. “But what I wanted to show you, Jarl Njord, is this.”

Sif lifted the long, embroidered tapestry on the wall near the canopied bed to reveal a concealed door with an unlatched heavy metal bolt. “This is the hidden stairwell that leads to the bottom of the keep. It’s unlocked, so Lady Elfi can come back into the castle.” She opened the door and pointed into the descending darkness. “At the base of the stairs, there’s a heavy door that opens into a tunnel. It leads away from the castle — and empties into a cave in the forest. That’s where Lady Elfi will be. Near Lord Dag’s burial mound in the sacred grove.”

She glanced into the hall outside Elfi’s chamber. “You’ll need a torch,” she said, fetching one from a wall sconce and returning to his side. She leaned through the hidden door, illuminating the dark passageway with the burning torch. “This secret stairwell was designed for the lord’s family to escape, should the castle come under siege. But Lord Thorfinn refused to use it either time when the Count of Soissons attacked. Instead, he locked Lady Elfi and her grandmother in the tower. And fought the Frankish army with Lord Dag at his side. Although he didn’t want to flee the castle, that decision took the life of his only son. And now, Lord Thorfinn is a prisoner of the ruthless Count of Soissons.”

Sif shook her head, visibly casting aside her sorrow. She inhaled deeply and looked up at Njord, a nostalgic glow illuminating her pretty face. “When they were children, Lady Elfi and Lord Dag used this secret passage to escape to the woods every day. He shared his skills with her. Trained her to wield his sword.” She flashed him a heartwarming, heartbreaking smile. “I’m glad that you’ve agreed to train her. She misses her brother so very much. Practicing weaponry with you will help her overcome the grief of his loss.” Sif’s limpid eyes glistened in the morning sunlight shining through the window as she handed him the lit torch. “Follow the tunnel to the cave in the forest. That’s where Lady Elfi will be. Good day, my lord.” With a slight curtsey and a humble dip of her dark head, she slipped out the bedroom door.

Clutching the torch, Njord descended the hidden stairwell, arriving on the earthen floor at the bottom of the keep. He opened the unlatched door and entered the dark tunnel where the rich, fecund aroma of dark loam and the pine scent of the forest blended with the salty tang of the nearby sea. As he followed the sinuous path leading away from the castle, the rhythmic pounding of thunderous waves crashed against the craggy cliff far below.

A glimmer of light up ahead illuminated the gloom, increasing in intensity until he came to the mouth of a cave which opened into the forest. An extinguished torch stood in the leafy earth near the cavern exit. Njord doused his flame in the dirt, grateful for the flint in his pouch which he would need to rekindle the fire, and placed his torch next to Elfi’s.

Through the cave opening, he glimpsed the sacred grove of tall, dense trees enclosing a grassy area where an alignment of stones marked a burial ground. And there — in the clearing at the edge of the forest — was Elfi.

The sight of her took his breath away.

Clad in snug brown breeches and fitted leather armor, her long hair plaited into a thick braid which touched the top of her curved hips, she swirled, spun, and sliced with her sword.

Njord hovered in the shadows at the mouth of the cave, watching her limber form move with the lithe grace of a lynx. Rosy cheeks flushed from exertion, full lips pursed in concentration, her sinewy muscles flexed with lissome agility and sleek strength.

Enchanted and entranced, he stood in awe before his betrothed. A valorous shieldmaiden of Viking legend and lore.

She stopped abruptly, having spotted him just inside the cave. Elation lit up her beautiful face. “You kept your promise.”

He walked out of the cave and strode across the clearing to join her. In the distance, through the dense foliage of beech, ash, and fir trees in the sacred grove, Njord glimpsed the curved shoreline and towering white chalk cliffs enclosing the secluded inlet below.

Breath heaving, skin glistening, Elfi swiped the arm of her linen tunic across her sweaty brow and sheathed her sword in the leather scabbard at her narrow waist.

He grinned down at her. “I’m impressed. Dag taught you well.”

“Will you spar with me? I’d like to show you my skill.” She implored him with beseeching eyes.

“Not without a shield.” Regret washed over him when her ecstatic face fell. “Bring one tomorrow, and I’ll meet you here again. So we can spar properly.”

Like a gleeful child, she jumped for joy. And kissed his bearded cheek. “Thank you, Njord. I can’t wait!”

“In the meantime, we can have our first lesson in hurling a dagger. Do you have one of your own?”

“Just this knifr,” she said, indicating the small knife encased in a sheath beside her sword.

“Then we’ll use mine.” Njord removed a blade with a carved wooden handle inscribed with Nordic runes from its casing on his leather belt. “We’ll use that tree trunk as a target,” he said, indicating a large oak a few feet away. He motioned for Elfi to come stand beside him.

“Your form and stance are very important.” He turned her so that she faced the target. “Put your left foot forward, with your right foot back and slightly turned, like this.” He bent down to move her feet, a surge of desire sweeping over him as he gripped the slender, sinewy muscles of her lower legs.

“Now bend your knees, and lean your weight back onto your right foot.” He nodded when she adjusted her position, raising her eyebrows to seek his approval.

“Wrap your fingers around the grip, with the blade sticking straight up. Yes, just like that.” He smiled as she held the knife properly. “To help you at first with your balance and aim, point both of your arms toward the target.”

He placed himself behind her, the touch and scent of her supple body stirring his senses and distracting his train of thought. “Keep your left arm pointed at the target to help guide your aim.” He spoke into her left ear as he supported her arm, inhaling the floral fragrance of her hair and the alluring, intoxicating scent of warm woman. “Now lift your right arm up like this,” he explained, raising her limb which held the knife over her head. “Shift your weight forward onto your left foot. Release the blade when your right arm comes down, even with your left.” He guided her through the motions, then stepped back and inclined his head, encouraging her to try.

She perfectly executed the sequence of motions, but when she hurled the knife, the handle—not the blade — hit the wide trunk of the oak. The weapon bounced off the bark and flopped onto the leaf-strewn ground. Elfi groaned in disappointment.

“That’s exactly what I did, too, the first time I threw a knife. It takes a lot of patience and practice to develop accuracy.” He walked across the grass and picked up the weapon, returning it to her. “Try again.”

She fired the knife several more times without much improvement. Once, she did manage to make the blade embed instead of bounce and flop, but it sank into the dirt instead of the tree. “I’ve had enough for today,” she fumed in frustration, blowing a wisp of hair from her frowning face. “But I am looking forward to sparring tomorrow.” She wiped the dirty blade with the hem of her tunic and returned the dagger to Njord.

“Come, I’ll escort you back to the castle,” he said, sheathing the knife at his waist. “But tomorrow — and every morning from now on — I’ll meet you here in the grove. It wouldn’t be proper for me to go up to your bedroom. At least, not until we’re wed.” He chuckled softly, took hold of her hand, and pulled her close. Discouragement and disappointment reflected in the irresistible pout of her lush pink lips.

He lifted her chin gently. And swooped down to swallow her lips into his own.

She moaned into his mouth and melted in his arms.

Wrapping his arms around her slender, sinewy back, he drew her against him, pressing his hardened length against her flat stomach. By the gods, he wanted her. But not here, in the dirt. She was a goddess he would worship on a sea of silk. Mustering all of his self-restraint, he released her and backed away, breathless with desire. He exhaled forcefully, shaking his hair over his shoulders, and—taking her by the hand—led her back to the mouth of the cave.

Njord gathered some mossy material near the roots of an oak and formed them into a small pile. He struck the sharp steel blade of his knife against the flint from his pouch, using the sparks to start a small fire on the floor of the cave. After relighting their torches, he handed one to Elfi and stomped out the flames, smothering the cinders with dirt. Then, torch held high, he escorted her through the secret tunnel, back to the bottom of the castle keep.

At the base of the hidden stairwell leading back up to her chambers, Elfi gazed up at him, delight dancing in her sea goddess eyes. “Thank you for today’s lesson. I’m determined to improve my aim.” She kissed his bristled cheek. The touch of her soft lips sent another wave of desire crashing over him. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.

“I’ll go back through the tunnel now, to join Jarl Rikard and the men repairing the castle wall.” He adjusted his breeches and shook his head, tossing back his long dark hair. “Let’s meet tomorrow, at the same time in the sacred grove. So I can join you in the dance of swords . Be sure to bring your shield.” He grinned, lowered his head, and kissed her hand.

“I will. And thank you again for training me. It’s the greatest gift you could ever give.” Eyes filled with wonder, respect, and gratitude, she beamed up at him, then watched as he turned away and entered the tunnel .

Torch held high to light his way, Njord heard the thud of the metal latch as she bolted the heavy wooden door behind him.

****

Stonecutters chiseled limestone blocks, which the masons stacked atop the castle wall, creating the mashrabiya murder holes along the battlements according to Njord’s innovative design. Men from the village joined thralls in digging a moat-filled trench between the outer and inner walls surrounding le Chateau Blanc . Njord, with a bit of experience building ships in Norway, worked alongside woodcutters to sharpen the spears which they drove into the defensive ditch. Varg, one of Lord Thorfinn’s top men, labored in the early September sun at his side.

Varg is the castle bowyer. He makes six foot longbows for the archers of étretat. But perhaps he has something smaller…

Njord decided to take advantage of the short break period provided for workers to eat, drink, and rest. He sat down beside Varg in the shade of an enormous oak and offered him a flagon of ale.

Varg accepted the flask with a grateful grin. He took a long pull, wiped his mustache, and handed it back to Njord. “Work’s progressing well. We should be finished by the end of the month, in time for Jarl Thorfinn’s return. He’ll be impressed with all the fortifications you suggested. The castle—and the entire city of étretat—will be much more extensively defended.”

Njord tore off a chunk of barley bread with his teeth and washed it down with ale. “I’m looking forward to meeting Jarl Thorfinn. He’s well respected by all of his men.”

While Varg chewed on a piece of salted fish, Njord broached his intended topic. “As the castle bowyer, you must specialize in longbows. But do you have a smaller weapon—the right size for a lad of …say, thirteen winters?”

“I do indeed. Made from the finest yew. Strong heartwood for the belly, supple sapwood for the back. Just like the one the castle bowyer made for me when I was his apprentice. For my thirteenth winter, when I swore my oath of fealty to Jarl Thorfinn. And earned this.” He proudly displayed the elaborately decorated, thick silver arm band which glinted in the golden sun.

“Would you sell the smaller bow to me?” Njord finished his bread and drained the flagon of ale.

“Of course. It’s in my shop.” He glanced around at the stone masons enjoying the respite from heavy labor in the hot sun. “We still have a little while before work resumes. Want to go see it now?” Varg rose to his feet, dusting oak leaves off his breeches.

“ Já , I do. Let’s go.”

****

The hut and adjacent workshop where Varg lived with his wife Runa and their two small sons were located in the village within the walled city of étretat, a short distance from the castle. With an infant in her arms and a toddler hiding behind her skirts, Varg’s pretty, brunette wife waved in greeting as the two men headed into the wooden shop with its sloped, thatched roof.

“Normally, I have two or three apprentices working with me in here. But after the recent attack, everyone is needed to rebuild the village and fortify the castle. I’m very fortunate that my family is fine, and neither my shop nor my home were damaged.” Varg walked across the workshop and fetched a bow from a hook on the wall. He strung it with flax and handed it to Njord. “Here it is. A fine shortbow. Three feet long, made from the finest yew. Perfect for a lad of thirteen winters.”

As he examined the sleek, polished wood of the finely crafted bow, Njord spotted a leather quiver containing a sheath of fletched arrows. “I’ll take those, too.” He paid Varg, then asked for directions to the castle armorer’s smithy.

Varg indicated the blacksmith shop, not far from his own. “Tóki has taken on a few more workers, to forge weapons for the increased demand. If you’re interested in finely adorned swords or decorated shields, he’s also hired one of the new stone cutters — the one called Bodo le Bo?teux because of his lame foot. Bodo specializes in carving and engraving, creating intricate patterns with inlaid silver and gold. ”

Perhaps he can craft a weapon with the bones of the white wolf. I’ll stop by and inquire tomorrow. Njord thanked Varg, who headed toward his hut for a brief visit with Runa and his sons before returning to work repairing the castle wall. “See you back at the site.” With a wave goodbye, Njord went home to his longhouse near le Chateau Blanc .

He went inside the rectangular wooden building which Jarl Rikard had converted into a royal hall for him, passing the thralls who were busy preparing the evening meal. At the far end of the vast chamber, he ducked under the drapes which cordoned off his private quarters and stood the yew bow in the corner of his room. Placing the leather quiver of finely fletched arrows beside it, he smiled, admiring Elfi’s new gift.

He knelt beside the carved oak chest which stood on the floor at the base of his bed. With a key from the leather pouch belted at his waist, he unlocked the latch and lifted the lid of the wooden trunk where he kept his clothing, the white wolfskin, and—wrapped in wool, tucked protectively inside the sacred fur—the two jaw bones which the haunting voice in the forest of Norway had told him would protect his future mate.

Elfi needs a dagger of her own. I’ll take these to the castle armorer on the morrow. Mayhap the stone cutter Bodo can craft a superb weapon with a carved wolf bone handle. Inscribed with Nordic runes.

He tucked the bones carefully back into the wooden chest, closed the lid, and locked the latch. As he rose to his feet and tucked the key back inside the pouch at his waist, he glanced again at the bow and quiver of arrows leaning against the wall.

Tomorrow, we begin archery lessons.

Desire flared at the thought of holding her lithe body against his, inhaling the subtle floral scent of her long, silky hair.

With a wolfish grin, he left the longhouse.

Strode briskly across the wildflower-strewn castle green.

And rejoined the men driving stakes into the waters of the moat.