Chapter 27 #3
He raised her hand to his bearded lips and placed a reverent kiss upon her fingers. “I shall carry the Sea Wolf and the Sun Falcon to safety across the sea. I swear my life, my sword, and my seier to protect your child — the Dragonslayer’s dóttir, who shall rise as a warrior queen.”
The skilled crew of Sigurd’s new Sea Wolves, recruited and trained by Hródvarr Ironfang, guided úlfalkr through a sinuous tributary of the Rh?ne, threading the dark waters through the narrow valley until the monastery lay within walking distance.
Kveld, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan carried Sigurd ashore, while Brynhildr followed at their side. The crew remained on the ship, hidden in the river’s shadows.
“Wait here while I knock on Brother Pierre’s door.
” Kveld slipped down the cobbled stone path and disappeared around the back of the monastery.
A few moments later, he reappeared with the familiar monk who had once been a Norse warrior.
The bald top of his shorn blond head glistened in the moonlight.
“You are welcome to the same stone cottages where you sought shelter before.” He glanced at Sigurd, slumped on the grass between Tryggvi and Hálfdan.
Motioning with a nod for Brynhildr and Kveld to follow, he led them toward the cottages.
Unlocking the door to Bynhildr’s cottage with a key at his waist, he fetched a bar of edelweiss soap and fresh linens from inside, placing them in her shaking hands.
“Bathe the injured Sea Wolf in the sacred spring. It will cure him, as it healed you.” He smiled, the enormous wolf inked on his thick neck gleaming in the starlight.
“Rest here tonight. Since you wish your visit unannounced, I shall bring you bread, cheese, and smoked fish when I rise at first light, before the brothers gather for matins. The river mists are thick at dawn. You may depart unseen.” He then unlocked the door to the other cottage, which Tryggvi, Hálfdan, and Kveld would share.
“I bid you good night. Until dawn.” Inclining his head, Brother Pierre crossed the wildflower-strewn meadow and disappeared into the shadowed cloister.
Amidst the gentle rush of the waterfall trickling down the mountain and splashing into the shimmering pool, owls hooted from the dense forest which sheltered the stone cottages. The sweet floral scent of wildflowers mingled with the misty spray of the sacred spring.
Brynhildr shed her cloak, belt, and boots, while Kveld helped the two brawny húskarlar lay Sigurd on the grass beside the glimmering pool.
Kveld removed the Volsung crown, the sheathed sword Gramr, and the Blárúlfr cloak, while Tryggvi and Hálfdan unfasted the golden brynja and stripped Sigurd of his boots, tunic, and breeches.
Together, they lowered him into the chilly water, and Sigurd opened his bewildered eyes.
When they fixed on Brynhildr, he frowned, as if trying to remember her face.
“We are at the monastery with the sacred spring,” she whispered, coaxing him to sip from her cupped hand. “The healing waters will cure you. Drink.”
While he complied, she looked up at the Nightwolf and Sigurd’s two trusted guards. “I shall bathe him now. I plan to get into the pool with him. Thank you for bringing us here.”
“We’ll carry Sigurd’s armor and Blárúlfr into your cottage,” Kveld said, as Tryggvi and Hálfdan gathered the crown, brnyja, sword, and cloak in their arms. “If you need me, just knock. I shall not sleep until you are both safe inside.”
The Nightwolf’s amber eyes glowed golden as he held Sigurd’s confused gaze.
“You once brought Brynhildr here to cure her. And now, it is her turn to heal you.” He gestured to the grassy meadow strewn with white edelweiss blossoms, the sparkling waterfall pool, and the starlit night sky.
“Here, beside the sacred Lindsvier spring, you and she were wed in moonlight.” He inclined his black wolfskin-clad head and bowed slightly at the waist. “May the sacred spring where you were wed reawaken your love. And may the dragonfire of the ouroboros which binds your souls burn away all traces of the malva’s curse.
” Kveld smiled softly at them both and backed away from the pool.
When Tryggvi and Hálfdan emerged from Brynhildr’s cottage, where they had stored Sigurd’s belongings, the Nightwolf followed them into their shared dwelling, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.
While Sigurd drank deeply from the curative waters of the sacred spring, Brynhildr removed her dark green gown and linen chemise, laying them atop her cloak. She unbraided her hair and slipped into the cool water beside him.
“I wish to bathe you,” she said softly.
He looked at her with lovelight shining in his brilliant blue eyes. “Brynhildr,” he whispered, raising her hand to his blond bearded lips. “My Sun Falcon, my Valkyrie…my wife.” Sigurd pulled her into his arms, cradled her on his broad chest, and claimed her lips with his own.
Brynhildr’s spirit soared like Himingdrápa’s white wings as the ouroboros blazed above her fierce falcon heart.