Chapter 31 #2
The Duke of Normandy slid a scarred, swarthy hand to the wide silver torc etched with scrolls and blackened runes that gripped his upper right arm. He removed it, held the armband high, and turned it to catch the golden light as he spoke with solemn reverence.
“Tonight, I bestow that same honor upon Dag’s sister.
The shieldmaiden who heard the sea’s warning in the dead of night.
Who blew the ulfrtíri and summoned the wolf warriors.
Who avenged her blood, defended her castle, and stood unshaken—sword in hand, storm in her veins, and a child cradled in her womb. "
White wolf fur draped over her shoulders, sea wind stirring the folds of her deep blue gown, Elfi’s spirit soared as Jarl Rikard, the Viking Duke known in Norman French as Richard Sans Peur—Richard the Fearless—placed the thick silver torc on her upper right arm.
He turned to face the gathering, his voice rising like a war horn from the craggy cliffs.
“Elfi Thorfinnsdóttir has many names. In a volva’s prophecy, she was called the Siren with the Sea Goddess Eyes. Here in the Pays de Caux, she is known as the Mermaid of étretat.”
He paused, his solemn words hanging heavy in the silence. “And tonight, as I bequeath this silver torc to commemorate her valor, I also bestow upon her a third name. An illustrious title of tribute.”
Gilded in the golden sun like the Shining God Baldr, Jarl Rikard swept his commanding gaze across the awestruck crowd. “Henceforth, she shall be named La Louve Blanche, the White She-Wolf. Shieldmaiden of Chateau Blanc.”
With the gravity of a king and the warmth of kin, the Duke of Normandy kissed Elfi’s cheeks in a warrior’s blessing and a sovereign’s tribute. He raised his elkhorn at last, voice echoing off the craggy cliffs like the clash of steel on stone.
“All hail La Louve Blanche, Shieldmaiden of Chateau Blanc! Long may she guard the White Chalk Cliffs.. Long may her howl surge across the Narrow Sea!”
Amid elated cries of “La Louve Blanche!”, the Ulfhéenar howled. The raw, primal roar rumbled like thunder and shook the leafy ground beneath Elfi’s feet.
Norman knights struck fists to their armored chests. Danish warriors clashed sword against shield. Villagers shouted her new name. “La Louve Blanche! La Louve Blanche!”
Amid cheers and clinking horns, the feast erupted in raucous revelry as the festive notes of lyres, lutes, and flutes floated on the salty autumn breeze.
A regal smile stretched across Jarl Rikard’s scarred, bearded face. He bellowed above the jubilant din. “Let the mead flow, the music play… and the feast begin!”
With a ravenous roar and a hearty clatter of benches, the merry guests took their seats beneath the golden beech trees.
Servants moved swiftly, filling horns with mead and passing platters piled high with steaming crab, roasted boar, and honeyed apples.
Music stirred once more as the lyres and flutes found their tune.
Jarl Rikard seated Elfi on his right at the table of honor.
“Dag now rests in peace in the sacred grove.” His solemn smile was tinged with sorrow as he sat down beside her.
“You kept your vow to avenge his death by slaying the Count of Soissons. You laid Galadir at his rightful side. And returned his whalebone flute.” Lifting her hand to his bristled lips, he pressed a soft kiss on her curved fingers.
“Because of you, Dag feasts in honor with the Allfather and the einherjar in the glory of Valhalla.” He raised his horn of mead.
“To you, Elfi. La Louve Blanche. Shieldmaiden of Chateau Blanc.”
Elfi’s lips trembled as a deluge of emotions flooded her.
She had fulfilled her vow to Dag—and avenged his death with the very sword he had used to train her.
She’d discovered her innate sjóvaettir magic as a mermaid, with which she had saved her faeir, family, and friends.
And she had wielded the white wolf weapons to kill the troll and summon the wolves.
Elfi bowed her head to the Duke of Normandy, raised her elkhorn, and drank, accepting his words of praise. Tonight, he’d made her childhood dream come true—and more. For not only had he declared her the Shieldmaiden of Chateau Blanc, he’d given her a title worthy of Nordic legend and lore.
By proclaiming her La Louve Blanche.
Thorfinn, seated at her side, kissed her cheek and whispered in her ear.
“You have made me very proud, dóttir. You are as valiant as your noble broeir.” A paternal smile lit his scarred, weathered face.
“Your moeir would also be proud to know that the sjóvaettir magic you inherited from her saved us all…and le Chateau Blanc.” He raised his elkhorn and inclined his head.
“To you, Elfi. La Louve Blanche. Shieldmaiden of étretat.”
Elfi’s heart swelled, nearly beyond bearing. Her father—who had once scoffed at the idea of a woman wielding weapons—had just praised her as a warrior.
As if he’d read her thoughts, he added with a rueful smile, “I was wrong to forbid your training. And I am profoundly grateful that your broeir—and, from what I’m told, Njord as well—have honed your skills to rival Freyja’s Valkyries.”
His dark eyes misted in the firelight. “I am indebted to you, not only for alerting us to danger and saving the castle. But also for summoning Jarl Rikard to negotiate my release from the prison of the bastard who slew Dag. For reclaiming Galadir— and recognizing the curse that clung to it, so that it could be cleansed and laid at your broeir’s side. ”
He drew a deep breath. “And above all, for avenging Dag’s death. By slaying the enemy who took him from us. And nearly took le Chateau Blanc.” He raised his horn once more. “To you, dóttir min, my beloved daughter. For saving us all.”
As Elfi blinked back tears of joy, savoring her father’s rare praise, sweet as her swallow of mead, a soft strum floated on the wind, plucked from the strings of a lyre.
A hush swept through the glen.
Egil, her father’s sublime skald, had arrived.
In the firelight, his moonstone clasp winked pale in the gloaming. Silver runes glimmered faintly on the hem of his deep blue tunic, and the braided silver and bone in his beard caught the flames like ancient stars. The rowan wreath crowned his brow, as though la Forêt du Loup had sent him.
Cradling his curved wooden harp, he settled upon the same old stump where he had sung the Drápa of Dag. A flutist eased down beside him, reed at the ready.
Egil plucked a plaintive chord and lifted his wreathed head, velvety voice mellow as honeyed mead. “Hear now the saga of Elfi, daughter of Thorfinn and Dúva, granddaughter of Rán. I shall sing for you my skaldic song, She-Wolf of the Sea...”
As he had once given voice to sorrow in a mournful elegy for Dag, now Egil gave song to triumph, lifting Elfi’s name into legend.
The limpid notes of the lyre flowed like starlight on water, the flute’s melody like wind over waves as the skald strummed his harp and sang Elfi’s praise. As the last echoes of Egil’s song faded into the gathering dusk, the crowd roared in thunderous applause and riotous cheers.
Thorfinn rose slowly, the bonfire’s glow casting flickering shadows across his awestruck face. The revelers stilled, until only the crackle of flame and the distant crash of waves remained. The golden hush of twilight settled over them, silent with anticipation.
From beneath his cloak, Thorfinn drew a long, narrow bundle wrapped in deep blue wool, bound with a strip of leather. Gaze steady, he strode across the leafy ground to Egil, who sat upon the smooth stump, curved lyre cradled in his lap, rising moon glinting in his wreath of rowan leaves.
Reverence laced Thorfinn’s deep, resonant voice. “Egil, your words have given breath to my daughter’s deeds. You have shaped her courage into song, and song into legend. For this, I give you my profound thanks.”
He unwrapped the blue wool of the bundle with care, revealing a sleek dagger whose curved hilt gleamed silver in the firelight, its intricate pommel set with a smooth, pale moonstone.
Amidst waves and scrolls etched along its slender spine, Laguz runes glinted in the moonlight.
He solemnly offered it to Egil. “Accept this gift as a token of my gratitude.” A pleased grin stretched across Thorfinn’s proud face.
“Let this blade be your companion on dark roads, its edge sharp as your verse, its moonstone radiant as your voice.”
Egil rose, placed a hand over his heart, and bowed his rowan-wreathed head. “Lord Thorfinn, I am honored and humbled by your generous gift." The skald and his acolyte bowed before the crowd, then strode across the glen to sit at a table and enjoy the feast among the guests.
As the fire crackled, and waves crashed against the cliffs, úlf rose from a nearby table and strode across the leaf-strewn clearing.
Atop his human head, the ice blue eyes of the massive grey wolfskin gleamed with an otherworldly sheen in the moonlight.
The towering blond brute, alpha wolf of the úlfhéenar, gave a slow, respectful nod to Jarl Rikard, then to Thorfinn, and finally to Elfi.
“Shieldmaiden of étretat,” he rumbled, his deep voice feral and fierce.
“La Louve Blanche. The pack has heard your name sung by firelight. When Njord hears it upon his return, The Wolf of the Nordic Seas will be honored by your valor. Your skill as the warrior he trained. And your lupine title as the White She-Wolf.”
Growls of approval rippled through the úlfhéenar behind him.
“You blew the úlftiri to summon the wolves and save your castle. The úlfhéenar will carry your name into legend.” As if bowing before a queen, úlf swept his massive arm across his armored chest and bent regally at the waist. When he rose, his piercing gaze filled her with royal pride.
“Hail, Elfi. She-Wolf of the Sea. All hail La Louve Blanche!”
Lifting their shaggy, lupine faces to the twilit sky, úlf and the spirit wolves howled at the rising moon.