Chapter 32 #2
“Her blade struck true, avenging her brother’s death and her father’s honor by slaying the Frankish foe who thrice attacked this castle, with Dokkálfar darkness trailing in his wake.
” Rikard glanced at the dense forest of the sacred grove where Ljósálfar wards of protection had turned the Dark Elven enemies to stone.
The petrified statues they had offered to her grandmother Rán.
Returning his attention to the rapt faces of the throng, he grinned at Elfi.
“But as La Louve Blanche so wisely said, the Norns weave the threads of fate in most unexpected ways. Through sorrow and shadow, they brought justice for the Shieldmaiden of Chateau Blanc to honor her sacred vow. And in so doing, they exposed the perfidy of the Frankish crown.”
Jarl Rikard’s gaze turned sharp as steel.
“The Count of Soissons—vassal of the Frankish King Lothaire—spilled Norse blood, imprisoned Lord Thorfinn, and allied with Dokkálfar sorcery to violate the peace treaty between Viking and Frank. His severed head will sail with me to l’ ?le de la Cité in Paris.
Hugh Capet and his council of clergy and nobles will behold this irrefutable proof that King Lothaire must be dethroned.
The time has come to elect a monarch deserving of the West Frankish crown. .”
When he redirected his attention to Elfi, another shiver rippled up her spine.
“Your wisdom honors the gods, La Louve Blanche. And your courage gives us hope that this realm may yet be ruled by worthy men.” The Duke of Normandy lifted his drinking horn high, his resolute voice filled with pride as he offered a toast to Elfi.
“To La Louve Blanche. Shieldmaiden of étretat.”
Guests leapt to their feet, horns and mugs of mead clinking in a storm of jubilant shouts. “Skál!”
White wolf fur draped around her proud shoulders, silver torc on her right arm glinting in the firelight, Elfi embraced an elated Sif as guttural growls rumbled from the úlfhéenar.
úlf approached Bodo, the great grey wolfskin cloak glinting silver beneath the howling moon. In stoic silence, he extended a scarred hand to his wolf brother.
Bodo took it, head bowed, as the alpha clasped his forearms in kinship and respect.
One by one, the remaining úlfhéenar formed a circle around Bodo.
Njáll, the golden eyes of his black wolfskin aglow in the firelight.
Hrólf Redbeard, his thick russet pelt the same burnished hue as the braided beard which bore his name.
And Flóki—the brown, white, and grey of his wolf pelt reminding Elfi of the peregrine feathers in Haldor’s falcon form.
Together, they lifted their lupine faces to the full moon and howled.
Not in rage or mourning, but in welcome.
To accept Bodo back into the pack.
Like wolves greeting a brother who had strayed and returned, they closed in with fierce affection.
Cuffing him on the shoulder, slamming fists into his back, they shoved, grabbed, and pulled him into the middle of their knot.
Njáll tousled the brown fur of Bodo’s wolfskin, úlf cracked a fist into his ribs with a lupine grin, while Hrólf Redbeard and Flóki nipped at his neck with mock teeth and grizzled growls.
Bodo stumbled, laughing through tears, the weight of their rough love knocking him to his knees.
“Don't ever stray again,” úlf muttered. “Or we’ll gut you and feed you to the fjord.”
As the music and revelry resumed, Bodo took Sif’s hand and, despite his limp, danced with her around the bonfire to the pounding of drums and the strumming of lyres. They spun, swayed, and laughed, the weight of pain sloughed off like melting snow in spring.
Njáll held Luna close, swirling her in his protective embrace while around them, the úlfhéenar stomped and whirled — more beasts than men — wild and grinning, horns sloshing mead onto the leaf-strewn earth.
Elfi missed Njord.
She remembered the first time they’d danced here.
He’d taken her to the edge of the forest, where he’d promised to train her in the sacred grove as Dag had always done.
While tears of longing welled in Elfi’s eyes, Thorfinn took her hand and kissed it gently.
“I’m not Njord,” he said, a wry grin spreading across his beloved face.
“But I would be honored to dance with la Louve Blanche. Come, dóttir—the music beckons.”
As her faeir’s loving arms wrapped around her, Elfi rested her head on his broad chest, her heart filled with joy. He was home again, hale and whole. He’d honored her skills as a warrior.
And he’d called her La Louve Blanche.
The lyres, lutes, rebecs, and flutes played a lively melody. Elfi smiled up at her father as they circled the fire, her spirit soaring at the realization that her childhood dreams had come true.
She had wielded Dag’s sword to avenge his death as the Shieldmaiden of Chateau Blanc.
She truly was a mermaid, as she’d used to pretend, for she was the daughter of Dúva, with the sjóvaettir magic of Rán.
She’d wielded the white wolf weapons—the úlfblad dagger, to slay the troll in ísland.
And the úlftiri whistle to summon the wolves and save étretat.
And now, here she was, at a triumphant feast in her honor. Given the prestigious title of La Louve Blanche by Jarl Rikard himself. And Egil had named her The She-Wolf of the Sea in a skaldic poem worthy of legend.
Her heart soared like sparks from the bonfire into the starry night sky.
Nearby, Jarl Rikard danced with Oda, her wrinkled cheeks crinkled with joy to be dancing with the handsome Duke of Normandy alongside Thorfinn and Elfi.
As they all swirled to the music, Rikard’s man Halvar approached, bending to murmur in the duke’s ear.
Rikard nodded. He turned to Oda and offered his arm, escorting her back to the head table, his scarlet cloak and silver circlet shimmering in the starlight.
He lifted his elaborate horn high, the amber beads glowing like molten gold.
The music stopped, the dancers paused, and the murmurs around the fire faded into silence as all eyes and ears focused on Jarl Rikard.
“The tide calls me to Paris,” he bellowed, his deep voice echoing through the clearing.
“But this feast—” he gestured to the roaring bonfire and jubilant faces around him— “belongs to Elfi and the úlfhéenar. Let the revelry continue through the night! All hail la Louve Blanche! She-Wolf of the Sea!”
With cheers of “Skál!” and raucous howls, the music and dancing resumed. Jarl Rikard kissed Oda’s gnarled hand, left her in Vilde’s capable hands at the head table, and returned to bid farewell to Elfi and Thorfinn.
“La Louve Blanche, your valor brings honor to Normandy. Dag will raise his horn to you in Valhalla—for you fought with his sword, avenged his death, and held the castle he died to defend.” Rikard pressed his bearded lips against Elfi’s smooth brow.
“And Njord will be proud to hear of the She-Wolf of the Sea who summoned the wolves to save étretat.” An impish grin lent a youthful glow to his scarred, seasoned face.
“I will return to see you married, during the trio of winter solstice weddings here at Chateau Blanc.”
While Elfi reeled at the thought of marrying Njord a second time, Rikard clasped Thorfinn’s arms in firm, familiar trust. “Hold étretat well in my absence.” The duke inclined his silvered head to Bodo. “You are a wolf redeemed. I’ll see you and Sif wed on the winter solstice, too.”
With a final glance at the firelit gathering, the Duke of Normandy crossed the leafy glen, his scarlet cloak billowing in the rising wind.
Torches held high, armor clinking, the knights from Fécamp led Jarl Rikard down the steep path from the grassy ledge at the top the cliff to the pebbled beach where his two ships awaited, ready to depart for Paris with the outgoing evening tide.
Elfi stood with Thorfinn, watching moonlight dance on white-capped waves as the crews of Rán’s Ram and Riverwolf maneuvered the duke’s two ships out of the sheltered port, unfurled the square sails, and headed west on the Narrow Sea.