Chapter 26
The Bride Price of Peace
Skjold took his seat at his father’s side and swallowed a steadying gulp of mead.
His grandfather, clad in his scarlet surcoat emblazoned with two golden lions rampant—the distinctive emblem of his ducal heraldry—inclined his head with measured authority as he drew Skjold into the council’s grave discussion.
“You bring welcome news of úlvhild’s recovery.
” Rikard took a swallow of mead, eyeing Skjold over the rim of his silver goblet.
“But what of Haldor’s response to Sigurd? ”
Skjold inhaled deeply, summoning the courage to deliver the dreadful blow. “Haldor is soulbound to úlvhild, He refuses to wed anyone but her.”
Rikard sighed in exasperation. “For years, King Harald pressed for this marriage, to ally the Orkney and Faroe Islands with Denmark and Norway.” He glanced at Sk?rde, who nodded in agreement and raised his mug to blond, bristled lips.
“Now Sweyn Forkbeard is even more eager than his father. The new king has his eye on reclaiming Norse territories in Aengaland.”
Skjold’s áfi leaned back in his ornate chair, arms folding across his chest in frustration. “We cannot enrage Sigurd with a refusal. To do so would insult his honor—and turn a valuable ally into a formidable enemy.” Rikard’s shrewd gaze swept the table, weighing each man in turn.
“He would likely strike Tórshavn first.” Sk?rde’s deep voice was ominous. “Especially if he learns Haldor is in Norway, tending his wounded lover.”
The dire warning hung heavy in the somber solar, thickening the silence that followed.
Rikard tapped a bejeweled finger against the rim of his goblet.
“Then we must offer a more attractive groom. To honor Sigurd, rather than insult him.” He looked at Skjold, brows raised, commanding voice calm and deliberate.
“You are of age, my grandson. Unwed. Of royal Danish blood through your grandsire King Harald. And noble Norman blood through me. You would make a fitting match for Svanhild.”
Sk?rde stiffened in his chair and spoke before Skjold could respond. “That is impossible.”
A hush swept through the solar as Rikard’s sharp gaze fixed upon Sk?rde.
His faeir’s bearded face broke into a proud grin as he glanced at Skjold. “My son has not come home alone.” He gestured toward the hallway beyond the solar. “He is soulbound to Skádi of the Ljósálfar. A jótunn warrior and frostdragon.”
Lugh inclined his silvery blond head in quiet approval. “She fought at our side in ísland. But for her, we would not have prevailed.”
A thoughtful silence settled over the solar once more, the weight of Lugh’s words lingering in the air. Sk?rde stared into the fire, his pensive brow deeply furrowed.
Then his head lifted.
A flicker of light sparked in his eyes, as if an idea were taking shape. He straightened his back, squaring his wide shoulders. “There is another way.”
All eyes turned toward him, eager to hear his proposed plan.
“My second son, Tryggvi, is of age,” Sk?rde ventured, holding Rikard’s wary gaze.
“He bears the same royal blood as Skjold, but unlike his brother… is unpromised.” He glanced around the table, seeking support for his suggestion.
“If Sigurd seeks a groom of worthy blood to bind his house to ours… then let it be Tryggvi.”
Rikard leaned back in his chair, stroking his silver-streaked golden beard as he considered the offer.
A slow nod followed, approval glinting in his astute eyes.
“A bold, wise proposal.” His commanding ducal gaze swept from Sk?rde to the others.
“This will please Sweyn even more than the match with Haldor. Tryggvi is his blood. Haldor is not.”
Sk?rde lifted his goblet, deep voice steady with conviction.
“Sweyn has not forgotten that it was Haldor—in falcon form—who found him in the north tower of Le Palais Royal in Paris where King Lothaire had imprisoned him as a young boy.” He downed a bracing gulp of mead.
wiping his bearded chin with the back of a scarred hand.
“He is deeply indebted to us for freeing him. And will be honored not only to spare Haldor from Sigurd’s wrath, but to unite our houses in a powerful Norse alliance against Saxons and Franks alike. ”
A murmur of assent rippled through the room.
“Sweyn will be generous.” Rikard nodded in contemplation as he drained his silver goblet.
“He might offer the Isle of Sheppey, one of his land holdings just off the Kentish coast of Aengaland. Sweyn will grant it to Tryggvi, if the match is made.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.
“And if Sigurd is wise, he will match it with a dowry of his own. The Isle of Skye, perhaps.”
Sk?rde pledged a generous bride price for his second son’s betrothal. “As a mundr for Svanhild, I offer ten drakkar longships, five hundred Danish warriors seasoned in raids and battle, and fifty pounds of fine silver to honor this invaluable alliance.”
Rikard nodded gravely. “The dukedom of Normandy will stand with you. I also pledge ten ships and five hundred of my finest men. A noble mundr worthy of Jarl Sigurd’s only daughter.”
Thorfinn frowned, hesitant and uncertain. “Tryggvi is but sixteen winters. He is just a boy.”
Sk?rde inclined his head in respectful contradiction.
“Sixteen winters, já—but already Sweyn Forkbeard’s Danish warlord.
Tryggvi commands the king’s army, leads lucrative raids across the Baltic coast, and returns wreathed in glory and valiant victory.
My broeir trusts him with both strategy and steel.
” He grinned conspiratorially at Skjold’s áfi.
“Jarl Rikard became Duke of Normandy at just fourteen winters. Younger than Tryggvi is now.”
Thorfinn’s expression became pensive and solemn. “Then he
is no ordinary boy.” Reverence and respect tempered his humble tone.
“Jarl Rikard, you have defended the Pays de Caux in countless battles. And Sk?rde, Dragon of Denmark, you’ve led more men into victory than most nobles see in a lifetime.
If Sweyn entrusts Tryggvi with command, and you both vouch for him, then I defer to your battle-forged wisdom. ”
“It is decided, then.” Rikard refilled Njord’s mug with deliberate care, the rich mead swirling into the silver goblet.
He passed the pitcher to Sk?rde with a nod, then turned back to the Wolf of the Nordic Seas.
“Njord—since it was you whom Sigurd trusted to deliver his proposal to Haldor, it must be you who carries our reply to Siguresholl.”
Rikard’s commanding gaze fixed on Sk?rde. “At dawn, you and Njord will sail to Heieabyr and speak to Sweyn and Tryggvi. The offer must reach Sigurd by the first week of December.”
Njord nodded solemnly. “Once we have Sweyn’s approval, I shall sail from Denmark to Orkneyjar and present the offer to Sigurd.
From there, I’ll voyage to ísland, where my crew can winter in ólafsvik.
I’ll return to étretat with Sigurd’s answer—through the cave portal to áfheim beneath the íslyra castle.
” He grinned at Thorfinn. “I’ll bring my moeir with me when I return.
So Queen íssla of the Ljósálfar can attend the winter solstice wedding that Thorfinn has planned for his daughter Elfi and me—her son. ”
Thorfinn nearly choked on his mouthful of mead. “It will be my greatest honor to host the Ljósálfar queen.”
Sk?rde grinned from ear to bearded ear. “When Sweyn and Tryggvi hear that Queen íssla will be at Njord and Elfi’s winter solstice wedding, I am certain they will wish to attend as well.” He raised his mug of mead to Thorfinn. “To royal weddings… and the winter solstice.”
Rikard rose from the table. “Now that we have resolved the matter of Sigurd, let us join the women and gather in the forest. It is time to honor Thorfinn’s son. And bury Galadir alongside Dag in his haugr of the sacred grove.”
Thorfinn announced that he would fetch Galadir from his private chambers. “We’ll meet downstairs in the Great Hall. And escort our women to the forest.”
As the council exited the solar, Skjold leaned toward his faeir and spoke quietly into Sk?rde’s ear. “Now that the discussion is over, I’d like you to meet Skadi.”
A hint of mirth glinted in Sk?rde’s warrior gaze. “Then let’s not keep her waiting.” He spoke to Rikard across the table. “Jarl Rikard,” he called, summoning the Duke of Normandy with a subtle toss of his head. “There’s someone Skjold would like you to meet.”
When Rikard joined them, Skjold told his father and grandfather of Skadi’s remarkable story. “She is half Ljósálfar and half jotunn,” he explained quietly, “but since her moeir died in childbirth, and her faeir was slain defending her from the Dokkáfar, she bears the shame of having no dowry.”
He showed them the fjórún mark inside his left palm.
“Skadi and I are soulbound through water and flame. She heals with nen glir, the same Ljósálfar magic with which I seek visions through water.” Skjold gestured to the ísfir shield strapped across his back.
“We are also bound through the flames of frostfire, which I wield with this Dwarven shield. And she unleashes as a frostdragon.”
Sk?rde’s eyes gleamed with fierce approval. “It matters not that she has no dowry. A frostdragon is worth far more than land or silver.”
Rikard nodded solemnly, his shrewd gaze introspective and intense. “Such strength…and shared magic…will bind this family much more than gold ever could.”
Skjold’s heart soared, wild and free, like Skadi’s shimmering wings. “Come. It’s time you met my soulbound mate.”
Skjold led his faeir and áfi down into the Great Hall, where flames of beeswax candles flickered in wall sconces and the sweet floral aroma of wildflowers mingled with the salty scent of the sea.
Skadi stood near the stone hearth, flanked by Ylva and Vivi, a garland of églantine roses in her pale hands, sparkling silver threads braided into her glorious blonde hair. She looked up as they entered, an otherworldly glow in her ice blue eyes
“Faeir…áfi…” Skjold’s voice rang with pride as he took hold of Skade’s hand and gently brought her to his side. “This is Skadi, my soulbound mate.”
Sk?rde smiled at her and gallantly bowed at the waist. He took hold of her porcelain hand, and lifted it to his bearded lips.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Skadi. Not only are you beautiful, but I’m told you’re invincible in battle.
” Straightening, he grinned with unmistakable pride, a vigorous glint in his warrior gaze.
“And truly, it is most fitting that the son of the Dragon of Denmark should choose a frostdragon for his mate.”
To honor Lord Thorfinn and his fallen son Dag at the ceremonial burial, Rikard had donned his ducal coronet, the faceted garnets sparkling within swirls of shimmering silver.
He approached Skadi with stately grace, the white ermine trim of his deep red cloak majestic and regal, the silver in his beard, ornate brooch, and etched armband glimmering in the golden light.
He cradled Skadi’s slender hand inside both of his, the welcoming gesture warm, paternal, and reverent.
Rikard pressed a gracious kiss to her pale knuckles.
“Welcome, Skadi,” he said, his rich voice both comforting and commanding.
“You are now kin to Normandy and Denmark alike. A daughter of our noble house.”
“Your welcome honors me, Jarl Rikard and Lord Sk?rde,” Skadi said with a graceful bow of her pale blonde head.
The silver threads Elfi had woven into her long, lustrous hair sparkled like captured starlight.
“By frost and flame, by blood and bond, I pledge my loyalty and kinship to you both.” Her crystalline voice softened as her ice blue eyes fixed upon Skjold: “And I am yours. Always.”