Chapter 42
Stratagems and Skógahjarta
“Lothaire might very well send a fleet of Frankish ships to sail up the Seine and reclaim Paris once Capet has left l’ ?le de la Cité.
” King Sweyn tugged on his forked, braided beard, contemplating strategy.
“I’ll send Tryggvi—with a fleet of Danish drakkar —to reinforce your harbor at Le Havre.
If Lothaire wants Paris, he’ll have to sail up the Seine.
” He took a long pull of mead and slammed his goblet on the polished oak table.
“So we intercept him at the mouth of the river on the Narrow Sea.”
The piney, resinous tang of juniper rose from the fragrant fire which crackled and snapped in the hearth of Lord Thorfinn’s solar.
Morning sunlight danced on the white-capped waves which curled and crashed against the craggy shore far below the clifftop castle.
Skjold gazed out the partially open window, breathing in the cleansing scent of the sea which wafted in on the briny breeze.
Jarl Rikard’s commanding voice interrupted his reverie and dragged him back to the war council.
“Lothaire is allied with the Dokkálfar. We’ll need the úlfhéenar to battle them.” Rikard’s resolute gaze fixed on Njord. “Wolf of the Nordic Seas—you, úlf, and Hrólf Redbeard commanded the ships which sailed to ísland. Lead us now…and defend Paris for Hugh Capet.”
Njord nodded once, firmly. “Agreed.”
“I shall accompany Capet to Noyon. He will be guarded by a retinue of one hundred and fifty armored mounted knights, with fifty scouts riding well ahead. I shall bring one hundred Norman knights to ride beside him. The Count of Anjou and the Duke of Aquitaine are each sending a contingent of one hundred mounted guards to ride with us from Paris. Together, we shall have five hundred men. A formidable force to face the Frankish king.”
Njord strode to the window and stared out at the sea. He turned to face the council gathered around Thorfinn’s large table. “úlvhild foresaw that the battle would take place near la Montagne Couronnée—Lothaire’s mountaintop castle in Laon.”
Thorfinn leaned forward, arms crossed, the firelight catching the iron rings of his brynja.
“Laon lies to the north,” he stated flatly, stabbing a finger at the roughly sketched map, its corners pinned by daggers to the table.
“Capet and Rikard are riding from Paris to Noyon, which lies to the east. The direct road runs through Compiègne.” He glanced up at Sk?rde, dark eyes shrewd and steady.
“No army marches north to reach the east.” Silence stretched across the sun-filled solar.
“So tell me, husband of my beloved daughter…why are you proposing we storm into Lothaire’s shadow? ”
Sk?rde stood and bent over the map, tracing the sinuous line of a river. Pride surged through Skjold as he watched his faeir—the renowned Dragon of Denmark and seasoned commander of Jarl Rikard’s Danish army throughout the Pays de Caux—outline his stratagem.
“The most direct route is through Compiègne, as you say, Thorfinn. But it also follows the river Oise.” Sk?rde’s resolute gaze was sharp as steel.
“The council convenes on the vernal equinox—in the midst of the spring thaw. The banks of the river will be underwater, the dirt roads impassable. If we attempt to march an army of five hundred mounted men through that, we’ll have broken horse legs, clogged supply wagons, and men mired in mud. ”
He drew his finger eastward, toward the royal fortress of Laon. “The only solid route is along this old Roman road, which runs just below la Montagne Couronnée— Lothaire’s mountaintop castle. He knows we’ll be forced to take it. And that is why he’ll strike us there.”
Sweyn stood beside Sk?rde, leaning over the map. As he beheld his uncle and his faeir— both towering blond brutes, born to his áfi, King Harald Bluetooth—Skjold remarked how alike the two broeir were.
And how much he resembled them both.
“Use it to your advantage.” Sweyn cast a cunning grin over the war council.
“March right through, as if you are unaware of the ambush.” He spun to Jarl Rikard.
“Send your scouts ahead. Fifty men. Thorfinn’s knights and Capet’s.
Lothaire will wait for them to pass through.
But when he sees Capet’s new banner—blue as the river Seine, the silver ship of Paris gleaming for la Ville Lumière beneath a trio of golden fleurs-de-lys, emblems of the Frankish monarchy itself—then he will strike. In livid fury.”
Sweyn’s deep voice was calm and cold, treacherous as the icy fjords of Norway.
“And when the ambush is in full force, the rear guard closes in. Sk?rde’s men attack from the east. Haldor Falk’s birds, from the skies.
The úlfhéenar and Ljósálfar turn the Dokkálfar to stone.
” His scarred, tattooed face broke into a broad grin as he glanced at Skadi, seated beside Skjold.
“And our frostdragon,” he whispered, sending shivers up Skjold’s spine, “will unleash her icy flame… and turn them all to ash.”
“I leave Rouen on the tenth of March and meet Capet in Paris on la Rive Droite—the Right Bank of the Seine, where his army will converge.” Jarl Rikard spoke to Thorfinn, seated across from him at the council table.
“Bring the fifty men who will serve as scouts to Rouen. We’ll ride to Paris together and join Capet’s forces, departing on the fourteenth of March.
We’ll arrive at the Roman road below la Montagne Couronnée on the vernal equinox. ”
Rikard turned to Skjold. “The prophecy proclaims that the Son of the Dragon will shield the cape and defend the future crown. You, Haldor, and Skadi will ride to Paris with me, as will Luna and Lugh. Once you return to Normandy from the Dragon’s Leap cave, come to my hall in Rouen on the ninth of March.
We’ll depart for Paris the following day.
You will be Capet’s personal guard, entrusted with defending him with your Dwarven shield. ”
The duke frowned, glancing down at the map, as if a disturbing thought had just occurred to him.
“Adalbero, the Archbishop of Reims, and several members of the Christian clergy will be riding with Capet. Shield them as well.” His concerned gaze swept over Lugh and Luna.
“And protect the Ljósálfar with their gildir starstones. They will be crucial against the Dokkálfar.”
“I will ride with you as well, Jarl Rikard.” Njáll’s low growl hung heavy in the silent solar. “I shall defend Luna, along with Skjold. No one will harm her while I live.”
Rikard’s fierce gaze held Njáll’s. He nodded once, in solemn acceptance.
“I’ll place three hundred men here.” Sk?rde indicated the dense forest to the northeast of the Roman road.
“With Ildris and Olvir, my two Ljósálfar… and Bodo and Flóki, my two úlfhéenar.” His gaze shifted to Jarl Rikard and Skjold.
“Once the ambush is under way, we’ll close in from behind. And Skadi can swoop down from the sky.”
Jarl Rikard stood and stretched his arms overhead. He reached for his goblet and raised it high, prompting everyone at the table to follow his lead. “To victory at Noyon on the vernal equinox. And to the new king of a united Francia— Hugh Capet. Skál!”
As the war council filed out of the solar, Skjold noted that Skadi and Luna had been the only women present, since none of the others would be riding into battle at Noyon. He took Skadi’s hand and followed Luna and Njáll out the door.
“I’d like to wash up and prepare for tonight before we go to álfheim.” Skadi whispered into his ear.
Skjold hailed Njáll and Njord. “We’ll join you in the sacred grove at sunset. See you soon.”
With a nod, Njáll led Luna downstairs, while Njord headed to the quarters he shared with Elfi at the end of the hall.
Skjold slipped with Skadi into their private chamber, closing and bolting the heavy wooden door.
“I’m glad the battle of Noyon is still three moons away.
All that talk of war made bile rise in my belly.
” Skadi rummaged through her trunk and selected a deep amethyst gown.
Stepping out of her grey woolen dress, she slipped into the dark violet and turned her back toward Skjold so that he would tighten the laces in her bodice.
He wanted to untie them, throw her onto the pile of furs, and make her cry out in ecstasy.
But instead, he did what she wanted, then sat down upon the bed. With appreciative eyes, he watched her braid shiny silver ribbons into her long, luxurious blonde locks.
When she was ready, she turned to face him, swirling slowly to show off her lovely gown. “It’s the same hue as the amethysts in the wedding rings your Maman offered us.” Gratitude and joy shone in her pale blue eyes as she proudly displayed the pair of glittering gems.
“You called her by the French name for moeir.” Skjold kissed her softly, enormously pleased. “Just as I always have.”
A wistful smile curled her luscious lips.
“You’ll have to teach me more Norman French.
After all, we’ll be living here—at least some of the time—for many years to come.
As Comtesse de Saint-Valéry-en-Caux,” she giggled with delight at her new title of nobility, granted by Sk?rde, “I will need to speak the language of our people.”
While Skjold donned his white bearskin, Skadi fastened the glorious silver fox fur cloak that úlvhild had so lovingly stitched in the Dragon’s Leap cave. Eyes wide with excitement, she whispered, “Let’s go.”
At the base of the stairwell, Elfi and Njord waited in the vestibule. Elation lit up Elfi’s pretty face. With her elegant white ermine cloak and Njord’s intimidating white wolfskin, the pair of sea wolves made a striking couple indeed.
“It’s time to go to the sacred grove.” Elfi could barely contain her enthusiasm as she linked her arm through Njord’s. When Skadi hooked her elbow through Skjold’s, a jubilant Elfi led them out of the castle.
And into the glorious, golden light of the setting solstice sun.
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