Chapter 33
Skjold’s Return
Flames crackled the crispy skin, sending swirls of smoke into the cloudy sky as úvhild turned the four small birds on the birchwood spit.
She tossed a few juniper berries into the fire, the sharp pine scent and the delicious aroma of roasting game wafting into the cold, salty air.
Although icy mist stung her cheeks, the curved stone wall of the cave provided shelter from the worst of the winds which swept the Dragon’s Leap ledge.
And she didn’t want the thick smoke inside the cave.
While the snow buntings sizzled over the fire inside a circle of stones, she simmered a pot of fish stew—seasoned with wild onions, foraged herbs, and lemony sorrel— over the same small hearth.
As she cooked their midday meal, úlvhild leaned back against the wall of the cave and stroked the soft fur of her lynx cloak, a recent gift from Haldor.
He’d found the majestic cat severely injured, crumpled among the rocks where he often hunted white hare.
The lynx had fought hard—perhaps against another wild cat—but was bloodied and broken.
Unable to rise, it had growled and snarled, its amber eyes clouded with pain.
Haldor had whispered a prayer and swiftly ended the animal’s agony with his Dwarven spear, offering the sacred blood to Freyja—the goddess who had blessed them both and who loved cats as much as úlvhild.
She’d lined the silvery pelt, mottled with tawny beige and winter white, with soft grey wool brought by the Blóesmier from V?gan.
Now, the lynx’s head rested atop her own, its black-tipped ears rising like a feral crown.
With the fur of its forelegs folded around her shoulders and fastened with a moonstone brooch, the black tip of its tail and powerful rear legs draped down her back, úlvhild was cloaked in feline majesty, wrapped in the fierce spirit of the lynx and the divine love of the goddess who had healed her.
She glanced over at Haldor, the sharp scrape of his knife echoing against the stones as he skinned and cleaned the six white hares he’d caught this morning.
His dark brown locks and beard were threaded with the first hints of silver, and the thick fur of the heavy reindeer hide he wore—much warmer and more suited to the bitter cold of northern Norway than his falcon cloak—ruffled in the gusty wind.
Although nearly forty winters, like úlvhild herself, he still bore the strength of a seasoned warrior, skilled with axe, spear, and sword.
O, Freyja…how I love him.
These past few weeks had been the happiest of her life. úlvhild could almost believe they might stay here forever, hidden from the world, in the Dragon’s Leap cave atop V?gakallen mountain.
But she knew that was impossible.
Haldor needed an heir. And though he would not leave her side throughout the long winter, he would have to send the Blóesmier to carry the message to Sigurd by the winter solstice.
That Haldor would accept the offer.
And take Svanhild to wife.
Though grief clenched her heart and stole her breath, úlvhild knew it had to be. She’d foreseen that Svanhild would bear five sons. Haldor’s heirs would become jarls of the Faroe Islands, forming powerful Norse alliances with Jarl Sigurd, Sweyn Forkbeard, and Jarl Rikard.
In the spring, Haldor would sail to Siguresholl to marry Svanhild.
And úlvhild would return to the Pays de Caux. With Skjold.
She watched him skin the hares, the white fur pelts yielding as easily to his skilled touch as her own body did inside the cave.
Freyja had told Haldor that making love to úlvhild—pouring seier magic into her with his seed—was the best way to restore her strength and spirit.
And so, every night—and most mornings, too—Haldor made úlvhild’s body sing and her spirit soar like a falcon taking flight.
Across the clearing, where light snow dusted the frozen grass, he set the clean pelts to dry on a rack of branches, their soft fur already catching the pale sunlight that filtered through the mountain mist. Wrapping the fresh meat in linen cloth to bring into the cave for tonight’s náttmál, he strode toward her, a broad grin stretching across his scarred, handsome face.
“That smells like a feast. Tell me it’s ready.”
She laughed with sheer delight. “It is indeed. Bring these inside,” she said, handing him the wooden platter upon which she’d laid the skewered birds.
The crispy skins glistened golden in the morning sun, and the rich aroma made her belly rumble.
Wrapping a thick cloth around her hand, she lifted the bronze pot of fish stew to carry into the cave. “Let’s eat before it goes cold.”
He parted the reindeer hides for her to enter the cavern, following her inside where the fire crackled in the small stone hearth, the crisp scent of juniper wafted in the warm air, and soft furs spread on the ground promised comfort.
“I’m glad you made us a table,” she said, nodding toward the wooden plank Yrjar and Bjarni had hauled by sled along with firewood, barley, honey, and salt. Worn smooth by years of wind and wave, it had once served as part of a dock in V?gan before breaking loose in a storm.
úlvhild set the pot down on the table and slipped off her lynx cloak, carefully hanging it on a wooden peg Yrjar had hammered into a crack of the cave wall with the back of his axe. Haldor shrugged off his heavy reindeer hide, looping it over a hook next to hers.
As he fetched the barley bread, bowls, and spoons, úlvhild stirred crushed hazelnuts and tangy bilberries with warm honey for a fruit dessert to savor after the stew.
She ladled the fresh haddock soup into the wooden bowls, then settled across from Haldor at their small table, seated upon folded hides and furs which served as soft cushions against the hard stone floor.
They ate the roasted birds straight from the skewers, tearing in with their teeth. The meat beneath was tender and rich, juices running down their fingers with each bite.
úlvhild closed her eyes, savoring the salt and smoke on her tongue. “Crisp skin and juicy meat. Just right,” she hummed, licking a bit of fat from the corner of her mouth.
Haldor grinned. “A feast fit for Freyja,” he said, reaching for another. “You are a fine cook, elska minn.”
She smiled, her heart overflowing with love. How happy she would be to live like this with him forever.
As his wife.
A gulp of water from her mug of melted snow caught in her throat, and she choked back tears that stung her eyes.
Inhaling deeply to steady herself, she smoothed the skirt of her warm woolen gown.
“Skjold and Skadi should be returning soon,” she said brightly, masking the heaviness in her heart.
“I’m sure he was overjoyed to see his parents and sister again.
And Sk?rde and Ylva must be so proud of the warrior he’s become.
With waves and runes inked on his arms… the massive blue dragon on his neck.
And the white bearskin cloak that gives him the savage look of a berserker…
I imagine they didn’t recognize him at first.”
When Haldor sucked his fingers, her nipples ached at the thought of his warm lips on her breasts. A wave of desire flooded her, pooling between her trembling thighs.
“He was nervous about asking for Sk?rde’s blessing to wed Skadi.
” Haldor drained his cup and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
The ouroboros ring on his small finger glinted in the firelight.
“But how could they refuse a Ljósálfar healer who shifts into a frostdragon?” His gusty laughter was like a song for úlvhild’s aching heart.
She broached the subject neither of them wished to face. “You must send the Bloesmier with your answer to Sigurd when Skjold returns. He demands a response by the winter solstice. You cannot delay any longer.”
Haldor’s brow furrowed and his face darkened. He stood abruptly, wiped the grease from his fingers, and turned away from her gaze. “I’m going to check the pelts,” he announced flatly. Grabbing his reindeer hide from the hook, he swung it over his shoulders and swept out of the cave.
She waited a while before donning the beautiful lynx cloak he had given her and stepping outside where the crisp mountain air and the fresh tang of the fjord blended with the brine of the sea.
The wind whipped strands of her long black hair—she wore it loose, the way he liked—as she made her way toward him, the frozen ground crunching under her boots. Overhead, guillemots and gulls squawked as they soared on the sea breeze through the wispy clouds.
He was venting his anger by kneading the pelts, working the leather so the fur would be soft. He didn’t look up as she approached, nor did he speak.
She ran her bare fingers through his thick hair.
He shot to his feet and spun toward her, crushing her in his arms and bending her back to claim her lips.
Rough, ragged, and raw, he devoured them, groaning as he plunged in with his tongue.
He kissed her face, neck, and shoulders, frantic and fierce, then growled into her ear.
“I will not wed Svanhild. I only want you.”
He tore his face from her throat, despair and desire raging in his dark falcon eyes. “And if you refuse to marry me,” he choked, “so be it. We’ll be lovers for the rest of our lives.”
úlvhild beheld the broken man she loved more than life. They had been apart for eight long, lonely years. And now that they were finally together, she wanted to treasure every last moment before fate tore them apart again.
She gazed into his pleading eyes, seeing the primal need laid bare before her.
Haldor had been nurturing úlvhild for weeks. Now, he was the one who needed healing.
Without a word, she took his hand and led him back into the cave.
To nourish his soul with her love.