Chapter 15 #2
A hush spread across the hearth room as all eyes turned to the Wolf of the Nordic Seas whose white wolfskin cloak imbued the hall with Brokk’s spirit, as if the fylgya which the father had sent from the Otherworld to protect the son lingered amongst them now.
“To deliver a message from Sigurd Hlodvirsson, Jarl of Orkneyjar, who hosted us in Siguresholl on our way here to Tórshavn.” Njord’s booming bellow captivated the entire hall, the blue beads braided into his dark beard glistening like waves of the Nordic Seas.
“He offers you his daughter Svanhild in marriage, and demands your answer by the winter solstice. Sigurd wishes to seal her betrothal with a celebration and feast during the season of Jól.”
Fury flared in Haldor’s falcon eyes. He clenched his jaw and pressed his lips into a firm grimace, as if to prevent the stark refusal from spilling forth.
úlvhild observed the man she loved struggle with an impossible choice.
He knows that King Harald wanted the alliance with Orkneyjar through the marriage to Svanhild.
And now that Sweyn Forkbeard is king, he is even more eager than his father, for he has his eye set on reclaiming Norse territories in Aengaland.
Jarl Rikard favors the marriage as well.
A Viking alliance that unites Norway, Denmark, and Normandy with the Faroe and Orkney Islands is an offer that Haldor cannot refuse.
úlvhild forced a swallow of mead down her painfully constricted throat.
He will grieve my death. But he will send word this winter solstice that he accepts Sigurd’s offer.
And with the endless negotiations for the mundr bride price and the handsome dowry that Sigurd will undoubtedly offer, Haldor shall have the winter to mourn.
She nearly choked on her mead at the memory of casting runes to foresee the future of the jarl’s fertile daughter.
Svanhild will bear five healthy sons. Haldor will have heirs for Fálkholl.
A family—and the crucial Viking alliance—will ease the pain of losing me.
Haldor inclined his head to Njord. “You have fulfilled your oath and delivered Sigurd’s message.
” He paused, letting silence hang heavy in the Great Hall.
Raising his horn of Fálkamjoer bilberry mead, he forced a magnanimous grin.
“Let the music and dancing begin! And when our feet grow weary, bring forth the skalds!”
As lively melodies from lyres and lutes filled Fálkholl, Haldor took úlvhild’s hand, raised her from the seat at the high table, and led her down the steps from the elevated wooden dais to the gleaming pinewood floor.
He pulled her into his arms, swooped down upon her like a falcon seizing prey.
And possessively claimed her with a feral kiss.
“I will never marry Svanhild—or any other,” he growled in her ear.
“You are the only woman I will ever love.”
úlvhild’s heart soared as he spun her in his arms, determined to absorb every moment of joy they had left. She knew what the Norns had revealed in the vision. And she would fully embrace her fate.
She watched Elfi dance with Njord, and Bodo twirl Sif in his brawny arms. Njáll and Luna were clearly smitten with each other, for he kissed her openly, with unabashed passion.
úlf danced with Vigdis, the bruggyfr who had brewed the delicious mead.
úlvhild chuckled into Haldor’s shoulder at the sight of the tiny widowed brew-wife dancing with the enormous grey wolf.
Several of Haldor’s Blóesmier crew were dancing with women from the village who had come with their families to welcome Haldor home to Fálkholl. It was a truly glorious feast.
* * * *
At the end of the evening, after hearing skalds sing epic tales of Norse gods and legendary battles, villagers went home to their huts, warriors retired to the longhouses, honored guests to their private chambers, and Haldor led úlvhild to bed.
Inside his private quarters, he bolted the door and stoked the fire while úlvhild poured water into the basin and washed with chamomile soap. Once again, he sensed profound sorrow in her. And an ominous, pervasive foreboding.
She fears for my death in the upcoming battle, for she has foreseen the Snake Warrior and his Dokkálfar sword. And she believes I will be forced to wed Svanhild. She knows not the depth of my devotion.
Haldor removed his grey cloak and hung it on a hook near the door.
He unstrapped his falcon feather vambraces and Seiervindr sword and slung them onto iron pegs, standing his leather boots against the wall.
He shed his woolen tunic embroidered with falcons and runes which he folded carefully and laid upon the bedside table.
As úlvhild dried her face with a linen cloth, he slipped up behind her, wrapped an arm around the front of her slender waist, and lifted her thick mane of black hair to nuzzle the nape of her neck.
She shivered at his touch.
“After eight long winters apart, I want to savor every moment that we’re together.
” He traced warm lips over her pale skin as he unfastened her leather belt filled with pouches of herbs, amulets, and bone runes, laying it tenderly atop the small oak table.
Haldor turned her to face him, easing her deep red gown over her shoulders, letting it spill onto the pinewood floor.
He slipped the soft white chemise underdress down her arms, and pulled his naked volva against his pounding chest.
When she looked up at him, resignation and regret shone in her golden gaze.
“You must wed Svanhild,” she whispered, tracing the dark hair on his chest and the shimmering feathers of Freyja’s Mark, the gift of the goddess which enabled him to shift into a falcon.
“You need an heir for Fálkholl. And the wedding will form the crucial alliance that Sweyn Forkbeard, Jarl Rikard, and even Sk?rde are anxious to obtain.” She placed her fingertips on his lips to silence his attempt at refusal.
“If you reject his daughter, you will insult and enrage Jarl Sigurd. And turn a valuable ally into a formidable enemy who could very well attack Tórshavn to avenge his wounded honor.”
She kissed the seierfjáer mark above his heart.
The fjórún which bound them as one. “After the battle in ísland, I shall return to Normandy with Elfi and Njord. We’ll bring Skjold home to the Pays de Caux.
” Her wide amber eyes implored him. “You and the Blóesmier must return to Fálkholl. Where you can send a message to Sigurd on the winter solstice. And accept Svanhild as your betrothed.”
He desperately wanted to show her the Dwarven wedding rings—Freyja’s Eyes—that Dvalinn had crafted and ask for her hand once again.
But she would refuse.
He would wait until the winter solstice, when they were back in Normandy, and he had the chance to speak with Jarl Rikard, Sk?rde, and Sweyn. Haldor had no intention of marrying Sigurd’s daughter—or any woman other than úlvhild. For now, he would hold his tongue.
And wait for his plan to unfold.
He placed a curved finger under her stubborn chin and raised it so that her sorrowful but resolute eyes met his. “We have been apart for eight long winters. Let’s not waste a moment more.” He lowered his lips to hers, drawing them into his own, forcing them apart with a penetrating tongue.
She moaned when he probed and explored the depths of her luscious mouth, his eager hands kneading her firm bottom as he pressed his hardened length against her flat belly.
He laid her atop the pile of soft furs and hovered over her, suckling her neck, her pink nipples, and the irresistible flesh between her taut thighs.
He lapped and sucked the tender folds and sensitive bud, her writhing and moaning driving him wild with need and desire. He rose onto his knees, flipped her onto her stomach, and—tilting her hips up with both hands—impaled her from behind.
She slipped a finger between her legs to rub the little bud in rhythm with his pounding thrusts. And when she clenched him, squeezing in spasms of release, she extracted every drop of the seed which burst from him like a fountain.
He held her tight, pinned beneath him, as their shudders slowly subsided. Sweeping her long locks away, he lowered his lips and kissed her slender back. “You are mine. And I am yours. Forevermore.”
Haldor lay down at her side, cradled her on his chest, and kissed the top of her beloved head.
“I love you, úlvhild. And I always will. You are my heart, hjarta mitt.” He pulled a soft reindeer hide over them both, the pine scent of the wild forest still clinging to the soft, thick fur.
Like her black cat Kól, she purred in contentment, snuggled against him, and slowly succumbed to sleep.
In the morning, as the first rays of the sun sliced through the narrow east facing window, and the tumultuous sea crashed against the black cliff far below, Haldor made love to úlvhild one last time before they set sail for ísland.
She straddled him, riding him like a stallion, and collapsed upon his chest as waves of pleasure overtook her. He gripped her hips, pulled her down hard, and thrust deep inside, filling her womb with his seed.
She kissed him softly, tears filling her golden eyes and spilling down her smiling cheeks. “I love you, Haldor. In this life and the next.” With the tip of her tongue, she traced the feather shaped seierfjáer, sending a sizzle of magic up his spine. “There is no one for me but you. Forevermore.”
Withdrawing a leg from him, she stepped from the bed onto the floor. With a sorrowful smile that pierced his soul, she left his side to wash, dress quickly, and quietly braid her long black hair.
He rose from the bed, donned a plain woolen tunic and breeches, leaving his elegant attire for Viggo to pack in his bags. He would need them for Elfi and Njord’s wedding in ísland. And for his own wedding to úlvhild on the winter solstice, if all went according to plan.
“Ready?” he asked her, taking her hand when she nodded. With one last kiss, he led her from his private chambers, out into the Great Hall to join the others for dagmál.
And the seven day voyage to ísland.