Chapter 45
A Song of Sails and Steeds
When úlvhild and the women returned to Chateau Blanc, the castle was in a flurry of activity, for Tryggvi had arrived from Heieabyr with the three Danish warships.
Crews scrambled along the wooden decks, checking sails and sealing planks with hot pine resin, while Thorfinn’s huscarls loaded supplies and weapons onto the trio of drakkar which would sail with Njord’s fleet to Paris on the morning tide.
That evening, Thorfinn hosted another feast, both to welcome Tryggvi and his Danish hird—and bid farewell to the warriors who would ride the trail or sail the tide toward war.
Ylva and Vivi sat with Sk?rde, Skjold, Skadi, and Tryggvi, the two priestesses bestowing the sacred talismans they had crafted in úlvhid’s hut.
As the fire crackled in the enormous hearth, vibrant melodies of lyres and lutes floated in the festive air, the reunited family sharing meal, mead, and blessing in the jubilant Great Hall.
After the farewell feast, úlvhild and Haldor made love in the moonglow and starlight of their private quarters of Chateau Blanc, the fragrant fire crackling in the hearth, the briny scent of the sea wafting into their chamber through the partially open windows.
When the morning sun basked them in golden light, they made love again, their coupling urgent, primal, and raw, for they both knew it might be their last.
Desperate arms gripping his taught back, long legs clamped around his pounding hips, she clenched him tightly inside and out, as if she would never let him go.
When he thrust in deep and gave her his seed, she convulsed in release, the rhythmic contractions of her body drawing his essence into hers.
They rose and washed in sacred silence.
Standing nude before his naked body, she stroked the dark hair across his broad, scarred chest. Tender fingertips caressed the iridescent feathers of Freyja’s Mark which enabled him to fly as a falcon. With her tongue, she traced the seierfjáer mark above his heart which bound their souls.
She retrieved the amber talisman from the pouch of her belt which she had laid across the bedside table and returned to Haldor’s side.
Fierce devotion blazed in his dark falcon gaze.
“You must wear this into battle,” she whispered, kissing his soft lips as she tied the black leather around his corded neck.
“It is imbued with Freyja’s blessing…and sealed in my blood and breath.
” She looked up at him, tears welling in her adoring eyes.
Her bottom lip trembled as her voice broke on a choked whisper. “Promise you will come back to me.”
He raised her shaking hand to his full lips and bestowed a reverent kiss.
“I will always come back to you.” Feral eyes held hers, his piercing gaze penetrating her soul.
“Even if my human body should fall, my falcon spirit will always fly home to you.” He cradled her head over his pounding heart, the amber talisman gilded in golden sunlight.
“I love you, úlvhild. I am yours, forevermore. In this life and the next.”
Her legs quivered as she donned a deep purple gown—the vibrant hue of the seier heart inside their soulbound rune.
She left her long black tresses free, the way he liked, as she helped him don his distinctive armor with its long, lamellar plates shaped like feathers and etched with falcons and runes.
Tucking the amber talisman beneath his padded gambeson, she tied the leather straps and fastened the buckles of his dark brown leather armor with loving, practiced hands.
She watched him paint intricate peregrine feathers across his fierce face, the Kaun rune of fire blazing beneath each predatory eye.
He strapped the vambraces woven with real falcon feathers across his brawny forearms, then donned the magnificent helm with its striking peregrine plume.
He strapped his Dwarven spear ísfalkr across his broad back, the gleaming sword Seiervingr— bequeathed years ago by King Harald Bluetooth—sheathed in the studded scabbard at his sinewy waist.
úlvhild donned her white catskin gloves and her lynx fur cloak, grasping her moonstone staff near the wall by the heavy oak door.
Together, they exited the castle and headed toward the grassy path that led down to the pebbled shore, where a crowd had gathered to see the nine ships set sail for Paris.
Into the small fire which crackled inside a circle of stones, úlvhild tossed juniper berries, meadowsweet, and thyme. The crisp, cleansing scent of herbs mingled with the salty spray of the sea.
At the top of the cliff, Elfi bid Njord a tearful farewell, for she was much too heavy with child to follow the treacherous path down to the shore. Njord reluctantly withdrew from her embrace, descended the path, and leapt onto his Drakkíúlfr ship.
Ylva, Vivi, Skadi, and Skjold bid goodbye to Tryggvi, at the helm of Vindbjorn—Wind Bear—the fierce black bear on the vivid blue sail snapping in the gusty wind.
They embraced Sk?rde, whose drakkar, Thor’s Roar, bore the image of Mjollnir, its hammer crackling with jagged streaks of lightning—a bold reminder of the Thunder God’s mark upon the commander of the ship.
In the harbor, ready to sail to the mouth of the Seine with Njord, úlf stood at the helm of Hrafnvarg, while Hrolf Redbeard commanded Skollrokr.
Atop the mast of each drakkar, the heraldic banner of the Wolf of the Nordic Seas—a fierce white wolf on a field of deep green, outlined in embroidered silver runes—flapped and snapped in the briny breeze.
Haldor bid farewell to the Blóesmier crew aboard Freyja’s Falcon.
Above the carved image of Freyja at the prow—a spear clutched in her right hand, a peregrine perched on her left—the iridescent silver and blue feathers of the dark brown falcon in flight glinted across the pale cream sail.
While Gr?skegg and Bjarni stood on the deck, Yrjar waited with watchers on the shore, for the berserker would ride into battle alongside Haldor and Skjold.
Skjold spoke to Hjálmarr and the crew of Dragonfire, the blue dragon woven into the Sámi sail of his snekkja as fierce as the sinuous beast coiled around his neck beneath the white bearskin cloak.
Billowing in the briny breeze, the blue beast on the sail roared above the dragon prow carved by Gunnar, skilled woodcutter of the dwarf Dvalinn.
Nearby, his new ship Hrímdreki floated on the white-capped waves, the silver scales of the frostdragon on its blue sail and proud prow shimmering with iridescent violet in the misty morning sun.
On the shore, Haldor inscribed runes in the sand with the end of his Dwarven spear. Skjold joined him, drawing Sámi symbols with bare, calloused hands and softly chanting a joik.
As they had done to bless the ships sailing to ísland, Ylva sliced the bodies of three fish, and Vivi collected the sacrificial blood in a sacred silver bowl while úlvhild thumped her moonstone staff on the rocky beach strewn with seaweed.
The trio of their melodic voices echoed off the white chalk cliffs, floating over the Narrow Sea.
The rapt crowd watched as úlvhild removed her catskin gloves and carried the silver bowl of sacrificial blood to the nine longships beached upon the shore. Dipping her bare fingers into the red liquid, she anointed the dragon prows of each ship, invoking the blessing of the gods.
“O Rán and Njord, by the sacred blood of this sacrifice, I bind these ships to you. May your waves grant them safe passage, your winds fill their sails, and your divine blessing guide them to victory at sea.”
úlvhild poured the sacred blood from the silver bowl into the waves lapping at the pebbled shore.
Vivi tossed fragrant primrose blossoms and sweet violets into the frothy sea.
And Ylva poured mead from the same silver chalice they had used in crafting the protective talismans which their men now wore beneath glinting armor as they sailed on the tide off to war.
Single ships carefully maneuvered out of the sheltered port, their dragon prows cutting through the churning surf as they formed ordered pairs behind Njord’s flagship, Drakkúfr.
When Kjártan blew the long horn, its deep note echoed off the white chalk cliffs, signaling the fleet’s departure.
Oars slapped against the rolling surf, sails flapped in the salty wind, and the nine drakkar disappeared on the horizon, sailing west to the mouth of the Seine.
As the main fleet sailed west on the outgoing tide, Sk?rde sailed Thor’s Roar east to his clifftop castle of Chateaufort.
There, he would disembark and lead an army of three hundred mounted warriors to meet their allies in the dense forest east of Laon, where they would await the arrival of Jarl Rikard and Hugh Capet.
The crowd that had gathered on the shore to watch the fleet depart now climbed the grassy path to the top of the cliff. Amid snorting steeds and stomping hooves, Thorfinn’s fifty knights prepared to ride southeast to meet Jarl Rikard’s forces in Rouen.
As the early spring wind whipped cloaks and banners, the tangy brine of the sea mingling with the crip pine scent of the nearby forest, úlvhild watched Haldor mount his magnificent chestnut Friesian, Bruni.
O, Freyja, how I love him. May the talisman which carries your blessing—bound in my blood and breath—shield him in battle. And guide his flight home to me.
Ylva brought úlvhild a silver bowl which contained the blood of a goat which had been sacrificed at dawn, for her to bless the mounted warriors riding to Rouen. Along the rim of the silver bowl, etched runes and embedded gems glittered in the morning sun.
As she, Ylva, and Vivi chanted a vardlokkur to summon spirits and the gods in blessing, úlvhild dipped bare fingers into the coppery blood, anointing each warrior who would ride the harrowing trail to war.
Mounted knights leaned forward in their saddles as she touched foreheads and talismans, the sacred blessing passing from her volva hands into their valiant Viking hearts.
Ylva and Vivi moved along the line, tracing protective runes on shoulders, shields, and swords.
úlvhild fought back tears as she blessed Thorfinn, who led the column of men to Rouen.
Each of the Ljósálfar riding with Thorfinn into battle— Lugh, Ildris, Aryndor, and Veldar—leaned down to receive the blood blessing of úlvhild’s sacred touch, the shimmering scales of their frostdragon armor glimmering in the early spring sun.
She anointed the foreheads of Bodo and Flóki beneath the thick fur of their wolfskin cloaks, their lupine nostrils flaring at the coppery tang of fresh blood.
Vivi handed her brother Skjold the garnet talisman she had crafted for Jarl Rikard. “Please give this to Grand-père and tell him I sealed it in blood and breath with the blessing of Tyr.”
“I promise.” Skjold accepted the black leather pouch, securing it at his waist beside Haldor’s gifted dagger with its glittering lapis lazuli stone.
He leaned down to kiss Vivi’s and Ylva’s cheeks, then waited for úlvhild to anoint his forehead, the trollkors talisman that Elfi had given him, and the lapis amulet imbued with his Maman’s breath and blood.
úlvhild blessed Skadi next, then Luna and Njáll, the amber eyes of his black wolfskin cloak gleaming with fierce lupine light. At Luna’s slim waist, leather pouches of healing herbs, gildir starstones, and flasks of sacred water from the ísilwen Spring of álfheim hung from her dragonscale belt.
When she anointed Haldor’s fiercely painted, beloved face and the sacred amber talisman, úlvhild’s legs shook under her deep purple gown.
As his ardent lips met hers for the last time, the seiefjáer rune burned at her breast, and the babe in her womb stirred at her faeir’s touch. “I love you, my Falcon,” she whispered. “May Freyja’s blessing—sealed in my blood and breath—bring you safely back to me.”
Gulls and gannets squawked in the pale sky, the pungent scent of herbs from the sacrificial fire wafting into the salty breeze. úlvhild’s volva voice floated over Thorfinn’s warband, invoking the blessing of the watchful gods.
“By Odin’s eye, Thor’s strength, and Freyja’s favor,” she intoned, her chant carrying across the snowy glen and the chalky cliffs.
“With this sacrificial blood, I bind you to victory on the fields of battle. May your swords strike true, your shields hold fast, and your courage never falter. Return safely to the Pays de Caux, and may your valor echo through the ages.”
Waves crashed against the cliffs.
Salt spray stung her cheeks.
The wind howled through the trees and whipped her long black hair.
Heart clenched in grief, tears streaming down her crumpled face, legs trembling beneath her gown, úlvhild watched Haldor ride off war, the cold wind carrying him away.