Chapter 30
Shieldmaiden of Chateau Blanc
Elfi awakened with a sudden jolt.
Moonlight shone through the open window of her silent chamber onto the wooden floor. The banked embers in the stone hearth cast a dim glow in the darkened room. Stars sparkled in the night sky, and the saline scent of the sea wafted in on a crisp, cool breeze..
But her sjóvaettir magic flared in warning.
Something was dreadfully wrong.
She slipped from the warm pile of furs on her bed and peered out the window toward the sheltered inlet at the bottom of the cliff below the castle.
Where the glint of steel flashed like lightning in the moonglow.
Warriors. Climbing the path.
Coming for the castle.
Elfi stood at her window, heart pounding as moonlight glinted off the chain mail armor of warriors on the northern beach.
And there—in the full light of the howling moon—stood the Count of Soissons, the distinctive fleur-de-lys emblem of his Frankish king gleaming with golden menace. Flanked by men moving like shadows across the shore, the insidious count crept up the grassy path.
Her breath caught as the whispered warnings of her sjóvaettir magic flared again, a ripple of dread shivering up her spine.
For amidst the armored warriors slinking toward the castle, reptilian eyes glinted like embers in the moonlight. Sinister shapes spilled from two sleek snekkja ships as dozens of Dokkálfar poured onto the pebbled shore, slithering like snakes up the cliff.
I must summon the wolves.
Elfi dashed to the bedside table where the úlftiri lay strung on its black leather cord. Crafted by Lugh with the bones of Njord’s sacred white wolf, the úlftiri had enabled her to summon the úlfhéenar in ísland. And now, she needed to call them again.
Pressing the wolf whistle to her lips, she blew a furious note that only lupine ears would hear.
She prayed that Njáll, Hrólf Redbeard, Flóki, Bodo, and úlf would rally the Ljósálfar.
And destroy the Dokkálfar before they reached the castle.
Her shieldmaiden mind swiftly analyzed the enemy’s strategy. The Count of Soissons was attacking again. But this time, with only two ships and a small warband. Far too few for a siege.
If not by force, then how would Soissons take the castle?
Elfi’s belly clenched as stark realization dawned.
They weren't here to storm the walls. The Count knew another way in.
The secret tunnel from the sacred grove!
Her thoughts raced to the ring of keys at Sif’s waist. Sif and Bodo often spent the night together in his hut in the village, slipping back into the castle through the tunnel.
And Bodo—he’d worn that strange ring, the one that cured his limp but bound him to the troll she’d slain in ísland. The ring cursed by the crimson-eyed witch who nearly destroyed úlvhild. Bodo said the troll was a shapeshifting spy who served the Count of Soissons.
What if the troll had discovered the tunnel? And told Soissons the way into the keep? He might have ordered Bodo to obtain the keys from Sif. And had copies made for the Count.
Elfi’s shrewd gaze shifted west, toward the sacred grove and the hidden entrance at the base of the castle. Her eyes flicked to the floral tapestry hanging on the wall which concealed the secret door at the top of the stairs.
Soissons is coming through the tunnel.
He has the keys.
And this time, he’s here for me.
Shadowbane hung in honor on the wall of her chamber, sheathed in its weathered scabbard.
The steel crossguard still bore faint runes now dulled with age, the leather grip darkened with years of Dag’s sweat and blood.
In the past, Elfi would have strapped the scabbard at her slender waist and felt its welcome weight like a second skin.
But not now. Not with her belly swollen with Njord’s child.
And not with Soissons within her castle walls.
Elfi unsheathed the blade and gripped it bare. Her shieldmaiden hand knew its shape, the smooth grooves where Dag’s fingers had clenched and clung.
This was the beloved blade her brother had trained her with under the ash trees of the sacred grove.
The sword she had offered Njord on their wedding day in ísland.
The weapon she had vowed to wield when she avenged Dag’s death.
By slaying the Count of Soissons.
Elfi needed to hide.
But not behind the tapestry — that was where he would enter. Instead, she eased open the small side door and slipped into the antechamber which connected her quarters with Oda’s.
She couldn’t risk waking or endangering her amma. But through the narrow crack, she could watch.
And wait for the right moment to strike.
Elfi pressed her back against the antechamber wall. Blade pointed upright, held close to her body, she peered through the slight gap of the oak door. At the sound of booted footsteps and muffled male voices coming up the stairs, her muscles coiled and her grip tightened.
Metal scraped against stone as a heavy key slid into the lock and turned with a clank. The tapestry stirred. The secret door creaked open.
And the Count of Soissons, flanked by four Frankish guards, slithered into her still room.
He quickly scanned Elfi’s chamber, his gaze darting from the empty bed to the barely opened door where she hid.
He snickered, a wicked grin across his sneering face.
“Go quietly into the corridor,” he ordered his men.
“Dispatch any guards. No alarm.” When Soissons unsheathed his sword, the hiss of metal slithered up Elfi’s spine.
“Once I have his daughter hostage,” he growled, blade low as he crept toward the antechamber door.
“I’ll force Thorfinn to surrender the castle.
And remember—Richard the Fearless is mine. ”
Elfi’s heart hammered, her mouth bone dry.
From the corridor outside her room came the muffled grunts of a struggle. The heavy thud of bodies hitting the wooden floor. A sharp cry, cut short.
Her throat clenched in horror.
Bjarke… Varg… No!
They would be defending her faeir’s door. And his honored guest, Jarl Rikard.
A deluge of grief nearly brought Elfi to her knees.
Bjarke and Varg had been Dag’s closest friends. Bjarke had nearly died defending the castle the last time the Count of Soissons attacked—when he’d abducted her father. The gruesome image of the garish gash across his beloved face stole her heaving breath.
But she squelched her sorrow, burying it beneath cold focus. Drawing upon the years of training with Dag in the sacred grove, the relentless drills with Njord, Elfi channeled her prowess as a shieldmaiden warrior and watched in wait at the antechamber door.
The count’s gloved hand gripped the dark oak. With a soft creak, it swung inward, shielding her from his view as he stepped into the room.
Blade raised, he moved cautiously, stalking her in silence.
In a flash, Elfi surged forward, flinging the door open wide.
As the count spun in stunned disbelief, she swirled in a blinding arc of rage.
Shadowbane sang through moonlight.
And when the headless count fell lifeless before her bare feet, Elfi’s shieldmaiden spirit soared.
For she had kept her solemn vow to avenge Dag’s death.
By killing the Count of Soissons.
Pulse pounding, Elfi dashed from the antechamber, through her room, and out into the dim corridor, fearing the worst for Bjarke and Varg.
At the sight of her beloved friends alive and well, swords bathed in enemy blood, she fell to her knees as profound relief washed her in waves of gratitude. “Odin be praised,” she sobbed into her hands as Oda comforted her in a loving embrace. “I feared you were dead.”
Bjarke and Varg helped her stand, enveloping her with brawny, mail-clad arms.
úlf’s deep voice boomed from the foyer below the stairwell.
“The castle is clear, Lord Thorfinn and Jarl Rikard. The úlfhéenar—and Lugh’s Ljósálfar enchantments around the forest—turned three dozen Dokkálfar to stone in the sacred grove.
” His blond bearded face broke into a beastly grin.
“The wolves from la Forêt du Loup answered Elfi’s call as well—and tore through the Frankish warriors waiting at the gate for the Count of Soissons to let them in. ”
At Thorfinn’s bewildered glance, Elfi found her faltering voice.
“I blew the úlftiri, The whistle crafted from the bones of Njord’s sacred white wolf—the one whose cloak he proudly wears.
It once belonged to his father Brokk’s hamr—the spirit wolf he sent to guard Njord as a boy.
” She paused, calming her ragged breath as she smiled at her befuddled faeir.
“Lugh crafted two wolf bone weapons for me to defend against darkness. The úlfblad dagger with which I slew the troll in ísland. And the úlftiri—made to summon wolves. Both lupine… and human.”
She spoke quietly to Jarl Rikard. “Please wait here, my jarl. I have a gift to offer.”
Elfi slipped back into her chamber, wiped Soisson’s vile blood from Shadowbane, and sheathed her victorious sword.
Laying the leather scabbard with honor upon her bed, she returned to the corridor moments later, bearing a bundle wrapped in a white wolfskin pelt reminiscent of Njord’s sacred cloak.
The thick fur gleamed silver in the flickering torchlight.
Head high, shoulders back, she strode to the center of the corridor, where Jarl Rikard stood, flanked by Thorfinn, Oda, and the warriors who had defended the castle.
Her voice rang out, clear as a clarion bell.
“Jarl Rikard,” Elfi said with solemn pride, “I have fulfilled my sacred vow to avenge my broeir’s death. And I offer this gift as Shieldmaiden of Chateau Blanc to the Viking Duke of Normandy.”
She knelt and lifted the bundle high. “Like Dag—who died defending this castle and now feasts with the einherjar in Valhalla—I have defended le Chateau Blanc.”
When Rikard accepted her gift and unfolded the wolfskin, silence swept the hushed hall. Within the blood-soaked fur was the severed head of the Count of Soissons, his ignoble face frozen in ignominious defeat.
Jarl Rikard beheld her with astonishment and awe. “You have done more than fulfill your vow, Elfi. You have not only defended le Chateau Blanc, you have saved the Pays de Caux.”
Thorfinn helped Elfi to her feet, paternal pride ablaze in his shining eyes.
She smoothed the linen gown over her swollen belly, her shieldmaiden spirit soaring on swan wings like Freyja’s Valkyries.
Jarl Rikard addressed Thorfinn, the úlfhéenar, Ljósálfar., and warriors who defended the castle. “I will bring this to Hugh Capet in Paris. It is undeniable proof of Frankish treachery — and damning evidence that King Lothaire has once again violated the Treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte.”
His tone darkened, cold with conviction. “A king who breaks his oath does not deserve his crown. The council shall be urged to dethrone Lothaire and install a new sovereign.”
Jarl Rikard spoke to Halvar, his highest-ranking warrior from Fécamp who now stood at his side.
“Wrap it securely, store it in a wooden box with ice, straw, and salt, and load it on Rán’s Ram.
Stock supplies on Riverwolf as well, for an urgent voyage to Paris.
We’ll take the two ships and depart on the evening tide, after the victory feast.”
Silver beard shining in the torchlight, he grinned at Elfi. “To honor the Shieldmaiden of Chateau Blanc.”