Chapter 31
La Louve Blanche
Shades of silver and lavender streaked the dawn sky as enemy bodies burned in the courtyard behind the castle.
Thorfinn’s men had dragged the corpses far from the sacred site of ritual bonfires and divine offerings to the gods, where the victory feast would take place in the golden light of the setting sun.
Njord’s Danish warriors and Jarl Rikard’s Norman knights worked with the úlfhéenar and Ljósálfar to haul the three dozen petrified statues from the sacred grove to the edge of the cliff.
Lugh, Luna, and Ildris cleansed all traces of Dokkálfar darkness from the sacred grove, la Forêt du Loup, and the stone figures.
In four rows of the divine number nine, they lined up the Dokkálfar to be cast into the Narrow Sea as an offering to Elfi’s grandmother, the Sea Goddess Rán.
Elfi would wear the necklace Njord had given her as a wedding gift—the one which had belonged to the Persian princess and Rán herself had imbued with sjósongr magic—during the ritual offering, so that she could summon her amma when the statues were tossed into the sea.
As she gathered herbs with Ylva and Vivi to burn in the sacrificial fire, Elfi picked sprigs of meadowsweet, the delicate floral scent cleansing and light.
Vivi and Ylva gathered clusters of mistletoe and rowan, their berries and branches sacred to the Ljósálfar whom Elfi would honor with the offering to Rán.
For it had been the ulftiri, crafted by Lugh, the restoration of Galadir by Ildris, and the wards of Ljósálfar protection in la Forêt du Loup and the sacred grove that had saved Chateau Blanc.
Though Elfi was indeed grateful that Jarl Rikard would feast in her honor, her true tribute was for the Light Elves who defended étretat.
While a boar roasted in the enormous castle kitchen, fishermen hauled nets heavy with writhing cod and haddock, alongside woven baskets of glistening mussels, clams, crabs, and lobsters which they’d harvested along the rocky shore.
As they carried the catch into the castle, the briny scent of the sea mingled with the tantalizing aroma of roasting meats and the zesty tang of fresh herbs.
Since Jarl Rikard would sail to Paris at twilight, servants scurried to set tables and benches under the canopy of beech trees, hastening to decorate for the late afternoon feast.
Inside the castle, while servants helped Ylva and Vivi dress for the feast, Sif plaited Elfi’s long, light brown hair into elaborate braids with silver ribbons to catch the sunlight.
She fastened Rán’s necklace beneath the heavy braids, the three tiers of sea-colored gems a perfect complement to Elfi’s deep blue linen gown.
For a final touch—as a tribute to the úlftiri made by Lugh with bones of Njord’s sacred white wolf, and to the magnificent cloak which her Wolf of the Nordic Seas husband always wore—Elfi draped a white wolf pelt around her own shoulders.
She fastened the soft fur, pale as snow, with a lapis lazuli clasp that matched the glistening gems at the base of her throat.
Outside, as everyone gathered around the roaring bonfire in the castle clearing near the cliff, Ylva and Vivi tossed juniper berries into the flames, chanting a vardlokkur to summon the gods and benevolent spirits to join the feast. The crisp pine scent mingled with woodsmoke, roasted meat, and the salty scent of the sea.
Jarl Rikard escorted Oda from the castle, her lovely gown the same soft shade of pink as the églantine roses draped among the beech trees.
The Duke of Normandy was resplendent in his scarlet cloak trimmed with ermine fur, a slender circlet upon his regal brow, heavy silver torcs upon each brawny arm.
Thorfinn’s black cloak and moonstone clasp shimmered in the sunlight like the white capped waves which crashed against the chalky cliffs as he ushered Elfi toward the clearing where Danish warriors, Norman knights, and villagers waited for the ritual to begin.
As the drums began to beat, women from the village joined Ylva and Vivi in the vardlokkur, the chant increasing in intensity with the steady, pounding thrum.
With Thorfinn at the place of honor on her right, Jarl Rikard on her left, and Bjarke close behind—carrying Shadowbane like a relic across his reverent arms—Elfi strode through the clearing and halted near the edge of the cliff.
When the drums and chanting stopped, an expectant silence fell over the still glen where the crashing of the waves against the white chalk cliffs and the cawing of gulls in the golden sky were the only sounds.
The strong, salty breeze whipped Elfi’s deep blue gown and the white wolf fur draped over her shoulders. As Ylva and Vivi added the meadowsweet, mistletoe, and rowan to the fire, the floral, spicy smoke blended with the briny bite of the sea.
Elfi’s lyrical voice flowed over the Narrow Sea, the limpid notes floating like a siren’s song adrift on the rising wind. As she chanted the Ránlokkur to summon her grandmother goddess, the úlfhéenar, Ljósálfar, Norman knights, and Danish warriors cast the statues over the craggy edge of the cliff.
“By the bones of the sacred white wolf and the light of Lugh’s skilled hand, I give honor to the Ljósálfar who dispelled the D?kkálfar darkness, and offer these petrified foes as a gift for my amma, Rán. To lie among the wrecks and ruins in her undersea realm."
As the heavy stone figures sank into the churning surf below, sweet smoke from the burning herbs spiraled skyward, tendrils curling toward the billowing clouds that kissed the golden sun.
Below the sparkling surface of the Narrow Sea, Rán rose slowly from the cerulean depths, long tresses of midnight blue streaked with silver, seafoam, opal, and pearl.
Like the three strands of enchanted gems which pulsed at Elfi’s throat, Rán’s tailfin shimmered with pale turquoise, emerald green, and lapis lazuli.
The striking sapphire eyes of her goddess grandmother met Elfi’s across the spray-tossed surf.
In silent recognition and solemn acceptance, she bowed her divine, crowned head and sank back into the mystic deep, the swirling sea folding over her like a sacred, silken shroud.
As the sea stilled and the goddess slipped beneath the waves, Jarl Rikard’s regal voice rang out across the grassy glen. Crimson cloak snapping in the salty wind, he shouted for all to hear.
“The Sea Goddess has accepted our offering and blessed these white chalk cliffs. Now, let us pay tribute to the shieldmaiden who heard the sea’s warning and summoned the wolves to save Chateau Blanc. Come, let us feast in her honor. The tables await.”
Under the setting sun, which gilded the autumn leaves of the beech trees, Jarl Rikard offered his arm to Elfi. Beaming with pride, she hooked her elbow through his, the white wolfskin cloak flowing behind her like the ebbing tide.
With quiet reverence, Thorfinn followed with Oda, her bright eyes brimming with tears of joy, as they strode to the table of honor heaped with platters of sumptuous food under the canopy of gold.
The úlfhéenar, Danish warriors, Norman knights, villagers, and Ljósálfar gathered around the long wooden tables set with platters of roast boar, steaming crabs, grilled haddock and cod, piles of mussels, clams, and lobsters glistening in the firelight.
As castle attendants served drinking horns and pewter mugs of mead, everyone stood in expectant silence, waiting for Jarl Rikard to speak.
The setting sun illuminated his noble face, silver armbands glistening, scarlet cloak flapping in the salty autumn breeze. His deep voice, commanding and clear, resonated across the grassy glen.
“Before we raise our horns—before the feast and fire fill this night—we must first honor the shieldmaiden whose valor turned the tide and granted us victory upon these white chalk cliffs.”
Silence swept through the enthralled crowd.. The bonfire crackled, waves crashed against the rocky shore, and smoke still laced with the scent of meadowsweet, mistletoe, and rowan floated in the salty air.
Elfi’s legs trembled with anticipation as she stood beside her proud father and faced the powerful duke.
Jarl Rikard’s blond hair and braided beard gleamed silver in the setting sun.
Though nearing sixty winters, he still carried the brute strength of a Viking warlord—broad-shouldered, battle-scarred, and unbowed.
A seasoned commander and sovereign duke, his voice was steadfast and solid as the stones of the clifftop castle.
“Many of you remember the day I placed a silver torc on the arm of Dag Thorfinnsson — a warrior as valiant as he was loyal. His heroic deeds live on in the Drápa of Dag, composed by Thorfinn’s skald Egil, in a tribute worthy of his noble sacrifice.
Dag gave his life defending Chateau Blanc from the Frankish count who dared strike us not once, but thrice.
Dag’s name will echo in shield-halls as long as wolves howl and waves crash below these cliffs. ”
As solemn silence reigned, honoring the fallen son of Chateau Blanc, Elfi’s sjóvaettir magic stirred, drawing her gaze toward the sunlit sea.
Amidst seafoam spray and white-capped waves, a shimmer glided in the inlet far below, glinting just beneath the surface. A salty wisp of wind caressed Elfi’s cheek, then floated back out to sea.
A mermaid’s kiss.
Their mother Dúva had come to honor Elfi and Dag.
Jarl Rikard’s commanding voice brought Elfi back to the feast.
“Today, the vile Count of Soissons lies dead—struck down not by sword or shield alone, but by the vow of a valiant sister. A shieldmaiden with sjóvaettir blood who stood where her brother once stood, wielding his sword to vanquish the Frankish foe.”