Rowena's Song: Prologue and Chapter 1

Working Title: Welcome to the Sneak Peak of my debut novel and the first book from Romantasy Realms Publishing 💖💖💖Coming Spring 2025

Two women in traditonal Viking era dress at the Ribe Viking Center in Ribe, Denmark. Photo taken by Ivy C.Dally in 2021.

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Prologue: Anglen

Had I known galdera wove through my breath like threads in a tapestry, I would have been more careful with my words. The twin dangers of magic and monsters are ever present in the wild lands of the north. I learned this early on from our gleeman, whose fearful tales of the outside world were at odds with the sweet notes of his lyre. Dragons guarding their hoards, dead warriors leaving their barrows at night, shapeshifting ice-giants—every song featuring my great ancestors and their adventures was more fantastic than the last. Yet the gleemen never warned me that great power, and its associated peril, can lie waiting within the heart of a little girl.

My kin still lived beneath the gilded rafters of King Whitlaeg’s Great Hall the night my magic woke. Famed warriors moved through the meadhall, boots thumping on the plank floor like the beat of a drum. Father presided at the head table next to the king, golden hair not yet gray, mouth smiling as he joked with Uncle Horsa. Mother wended about the room in a green overdress, her garnet necklace gleaming as she filled horns despite her overly round belly. Pungent perfume from far-off lands tangled together with the scent of meaty stew. How dearly I loved my home on the Oster Sea.

Yet the wants of a child were easily overlooked amid the feast. I grew cross when Mother said my new doll was not welcome amid the benches. How unfair. I sat on a stool and pouted. As my short legs swung back and forth, my mind pondered how to atone the blow to my sense of honor. Or perhaps that was pride.

Regardless, the answer came from a most unexpected source. A draft of air tugged a lock of my winter-wheat hair. “Rowena,” whispered a voice.

Was that my doll speaking? I stared at her red yarn mouth, waiting for it to move, but Amelia remained silent. Another breeze pulled the hem of my dress. The wind addressed me again, this time in a sing-song. “Rowena . . .”

“Who are you?” I asked, wide-eyed.

The wind answered my question with a question. “Daughter of Hengest, what might your gleeman say to capture the attention of your kin?”

It wasn’t a proper riddle, but I jumped down from the stool with eagerness, answer on the tip of my tongue.

“Hwaet!” I did my best to imitate the gleeman’s booming intonation at the start of a song, thinking it a showy way of saying “Listen!”

How wrong I was.

Hwaet is a spellword. It commands us to be filled with the wisdom of the gods and land-spirits when spoken by one with love in their heart. But it can also render the listener’s heart susceptible, especially if the speaker of the spell is motivated by selfish desires, as I was all those nights ago. That sublime word from the language of the ancestors ought not be uttered carelessly, let alone with the reckless abandon of a small child.

My voice, laced with the forbidden magic of galdera, thundered in King Whitlaeg’s Great Hall. The latent magic inside me unfurled like a raven taking to the skies. I looked for my nurse, Mayda, a smile on my lips and wonder in my heart, for such a trick was worthy of Woden himself.  A bone-deep dread replaced that surge of awe as I realized silence had replaced the sounds of merriment. That, and an unnatural stillness.

I’d enchanted them, one and all. King Whitlaeg in his helm, Father, Mother, the warriors. Even the soot-stained thralls stood like uncanny wooden statues amid the benches. Each cupped a hand to their ears, obeying the spell on my lips and the command in my heart.

Listen to me!

Indeed, they were capable of nothing else.

My doll fell to the floor, her pretty smile at odds with the fear rising in my chest. I opened my mouth to call for Father. No sound came, for Mayda swept me up in her arms.

“Hush, little Wynn,” she cooed, repeating my nickname as she stroked my unbound hair. I inhaled the familiar scent of the balm she rubbed into her knuckles as her thick wool overdress scratched my cheek. Comforted, my ever-present curiosity piqued.

“What happened Ma? How come no one can move?” Surely an ancient woman and a little girl couldn’t avoid a spell powerful enough to enthrall the king. At least, that’s what I believed then, since the gleeman never sang about women.

Mayda set me on my feet, the scuff of my boots audible in the silence. The pearlescent sheen of the dragon talon amulet around her neck shimmered as she placed a knobby finger on her lips. “It’s your turn to listen.” A solitary nod indicated my agreement. Her sparkling blue eyes locked with mine. “Repeat what I am about to say, but never utter these words again. Can you promise me to never use your voice to sing?”

“Aye,” I said, old enough to understand the importance of oaths. I repeated the strange phrase rendered in the ancestor’s tongue, not knowing what I said. “Blētsiġen geclihte cyneþrymmas forġiet ġealdor. Onlīes fram galdorléoðes.” The words swirled in the air like morning mist, magic settling over the room like a bridal veil. The spell released guests and Angles alike from their unnatural stillness.

No one was the wiser that one with galdera woven in her breath lived among them.

Father shook his head, looked at his horn, then shrugged as he took another sip. The feast continued. I picked up Amelia and hugged her tight against my chest, then scampered off to play with the other children.

The following day, Father and a host of Scyldings sailed to the port of Finnesburg in Frisia to meet with King Finn. Weeks stretched into months. He returned a different man after the long winter.

While I was afraid to ask what a massacre was, I understood the peace between our kin and the Frisians was forever sundered. My happy life fell into ruin. Thanes and thralls alike whispered the Three Norns, the weavers of fate, had turned against us. Mother died along with the little babe who never got a name. The Scyldings branded Father a traitor and denied him access to their ports in Sealand. King Whitlaeg banished us from Angeln—our ancestral homeland. Then came the war. I didn’t recognize how this series of events broke Father until I was older.

We were without a gleeman until Hardel joined us at our new homestead on the western coast of Jutland. Years had passed since I last heard anyone play the lyre. Now I sat next to Mayda rather than on her lap, excited to listen to the songs of our tribe once again.

The onslaught of memory overpowered me as Hardel’s deep voice echoed within the freshly hewn walls of Hestesteld.

“Hwaet! Winter is nigh. Night rules the land.

The Wind Weavers warble, galdera their glamor,

toying with time, thought, and truth.

Banished, aye, but have they withdrawn?

The cursed are covert, shadowy secrets concealed.

Protect yourself thrice, in body, mind, and luck,

against women who weave threads of wyrde.”

I hadn’t heard that word since the night my magic woke. Hwaet. Understanding dawned, shining light on things that ought stay hidden. I’d bewitched King Whitlaeg’s meadhall with my voice. Should anyone recall I’d cast a spell upon Father’s mighty host before they sailed to Finnesburg, they might blame me for our misfortune. In that moment, I realized my magic played a role in our downfall, knew it as surely as I know my name. Even before I finished the thought, a draft of air brushed my cheek, frosty fingers confirming the truth. Tendrils of shame and remorse rooted deep into the core of my being.

Was the Massacre at Finnesburg all my fault? That was the first time I wondered, but not the last. I shut down the question in my heart with a renewed promise to never use galdera again.

Father would have no choice but to banish me if he discovered my secret. Wind Weavers are not allowed to dwell in the villages of men. Where would I go? Without the safety of the walls, I might as well throw myself to the wolves. Yet that is the tradition of our people. Women who possess mighty magic are too dangerous to keep near and dear. I know this for true. Galdera’s song wants to soar like a bird on wing.

Chapter One

Sunlight streamed in through the open door, illuminating my fingers as I moved the shuttle between the red and white woolen threads, though it did little to warm me as I stood before the loom. The massive sail for the unnamed dragonship was nearly complete, possessing neither gap nor knot. I should have taken pride in my work, but an ache lingered in my chest, the knowledge that I was the source of our misfortune. To have fallen into a life trading stolen goods rather than ruling over the lands of Angeln as King was not only a blow to Father, but to every man still sworn to his sword. 

I stood alone, listening to the women of my household chatting away in the main room. When they ran out of gossip, Greta clapped her hands and started a round of silly weaving songs. Kit joined in with exuberance—the child had little love for her chores. I glanced up to see her unruly red curls bouncing in time to the beat. My stepsister Millie followed suit, her voice a tinkling chime at odds with the tinny click of her tablet loom. Our thralls, Thura and Thorleif, changed up the words, much to Kit’s amusement.

My lips twitched. Even after all these years, I haven’t quite suppressed the desire to sing despite my promise to Mayda and the ever-present threat of banishment. If anyone discovers my voice can enchant even the strongest of warriors—

My fingers faltered at the thought. I readjusted my grip on the shuttle, all the while pressing my jaw shut till my teeth ached. When that failed to distract me from their good cheer, I held my breath until the longing passed. Fili sensed my struggle. Brr-meow. I reached down and scratched the brown and white fluff between my cat’s ears. She remained near my feet as I continued to weave in silence. My fingers worked of their own accord for the rest of the morning, passing the shuttle through the warp threads, lowering the weaving bar, and pulling the weft strand up. With a heavy grasp on the sword stick, I beat the edge of the fabric along with my lingering unease.

Lost in thought, I failed to notice my stepmother’s arrival. Mother Matilde was tall, even for a Jute. A headband laced with silver thread kept her sleek chestnut-brown hair in place. She always maintained an impeccable appearance, finding solace in her vanity. Her marriage to Father, a former hero turned outlaw, had wounded her pride. Unfortunately, no amount of jewelry could bring her joy or curb her sharp tongue. “Why aren’t you getting ready, Rowena?” The question was an accusation.

The shuttle fumbled in my hand. “Getting ready for what?” The singing and clickety-clack of the tablet looms in the main room faded to silence.

“Two ships of Scylding traders have arrived to sup with Hengest. Clean your face and put on your umber-hued overdress.” said Matilde.

“Scyldings? In Hestesteld?”

“Aye, and they’ve requested a husting. You’re to serve as cupbearer.” Her normal grimace was replace with a small smile of satisfaction.

Excited murmuring replaced the silence in the other room, the women’s glee at odds with my rising panic. Serving the warriors I’d put in peril with my misuse of galdera all those years ago was the last thing I wanted to do. Sweat pricked beneath my arms. Perhaps I misunderstood. “You’re sure it’s the Scyldings? I can’t believe they’ve forgiven Father for the deaths of Hanef and Hildeburh.”

Matilde’s smirk was answer enough. “Hengest was specific. He wants you serving the Scyldings in your finest overdress with your peace-weaver band upon your brow.”

Peace-weaver. A pretty title for an impossible task. I shook my head in disbelief even as I tucked a stray lock of hair back in place. Peace-weavers are maids who reconcile blood feuds and end wars through marriage. At least, that’s what they’re supposed to do. The never-ending wars among the tribes told a different tale.

“Old maid no more!” Thura cried. The women dropped their work and pulled me into the main room amid a cloud of chatter. Kit’s keen eyes met mine before she slipped through the still open door, likely to eavesdrop for information about the newly arrived ships. She knew I wouldn’t tattle on her if she shared whatever she discovered with me later.

Matilde sent Thura and Thorleif off with instructions to help Agnes prepare the evening feast. Then I was queen bee at the center of a hive of activity.

“I’ll braid your hair,” Millie said as she clasped my hands, green eyes sparkling like emeralds, rosy cheeks extra pink. “It’s dark from spending winter indoors, but with a few beads woven in, we can make it gleam.”

“Where’s the headband?” asked Greta. I pointed to my hefty wooden trunk beneath the bench. Her raven-black braid swung with the effort of lifting the lid and riffling through my possessions.

My peace-weaver’s band was an item I ought wear every day, if only to keep my hair in place. But its magic spoke to mine in a way that hovered between uncomfortable and dangerous. Though crafted of ordinary love spells rather than galdera, it had a bad habit of tickling my throat.

“Why would you hide this away, Wynn? It’s so pretty.” Greta placed the red, blue, and white headband over her midnight locks.

I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to see how the magic might hurt her. To my surprise, the love spell didn’t object to sitting on the wrong head. I exhaled in relief. On the rare occasions when Father paraded me before one potential bridegroom or another, I’d felt that magic spark like a hot coal against my forehead. I decided years ago the best course of action was to never wear it again.

“It looks lovely next to your raven hair. You ought keep it,” I said, hopeful Matilde wouldn’t notice.

“Don’t be silly,” Millie said. She snatched it away from Greta, then pushed down on my shoulders, forcing me to sit on the bench. The goodwives clucked like mother hens as they combed my hair and painted my face, making comments on how pretty I’d look when they were done.

Yet no one voiced any of the questions in my head. Were they not concerned a tribe who’d turned traitor was suddenly on our shores? Seeking an alliance no less? King Hoc of the Scyldings was the primary force pushing for our banishment from Anglen. If he knew of my role in the Massacre of Finnesburg, I’d be the last maid he’d ever want as a peace-weaver uniting our tribes. While I usually kept my thoughts to myself, my curiosity got the better of me. “Did Father say why he chose today to show me off like a cow at market?” 

Matilde’s mouth formed a grim line of disapproval. “Cupbearers do not ask questions, nor do they need to know the men’s business. Do as you’re told, and everything will be fine.”

As the men would say, horseshit. My silence was necessary for reasons I prayed my stepmother would never discover. But I refused to remain willfully ignorant, especially if I was going to wed and bed the enemy.

Luckily, she didn’t impart any further advice. She was checking the pouch attached to her belt frantically. “I forgot the rings,” Matilde said before leaving to fetch them from the Great Hall.

Don’t hurry back.

As soon as she left, Greta stopped braiding my hair to wag the comb at me. “Wynn, you need to learn about being a wife.”

I looked up expectantly.

“There’s more to it than laying on your back. If you do it right, it’s even better than stolen honey-cakes.” My eyes widened, and Greta burst out laughing.

“I know enough,” I muttered, though I didn’t meet their eyes. My traitorous cheeks heated, confirming the lie. The goodwives cackled like crones.

“Do you really?” Gunna said in a tone that implied she didn’t believe me.

“I’ve been to the holy day feasts. Blankets slip and corners are not as dark as they seem.” I gave a pointed look towards Gunna’s babe, who was sleeping in the cradle near the hearth. My face scrunched up at the memory of her and Trophin during Yule, her back against the wall, legs wrapped round him and his white arse―

Greta chortled as Gunna blushed. Mille sniffed, pretending to be above it all, though everyone knew she’s sweet on Gan. The teasing continued until Matilde returned. I endured it, never daring to admit I was dying to fully understand what happens between men and women under the blankets. But that line of questioning quickly morphed to curiosity about the contents of the tiny trunk cradled against Matilde’s chest, saving me from further embarrassment. My stepmother took a key from her belt and opened the lid. Millie gasped at the treasure trove inside.

“Is that from the dragon’s hoard?” I asked, eyes going wide.

“Aye.” Matilde’s finger sifted through the gold and gems, metal clinking softly. When she located the enormous finger rings she sought, she held them up for all to admire. “Gifts to give at table.”

“Wouldn’t men prefer arm-rings?” I asked.

“Those will be part of your dowry,” Matilde answered flatly. “Expensive, but worth it. Maids as old as you are often out of luck.”

Being unwed at nineteen was unheard of. But I forgot the sting to my pride when Millie held up the mirror. My dark-blond hair gleamed, two tiny braids framing my face. The kohl made my eyes look enormous, though the polished metal didn’t quite reflect their blue-gray hue. My lips were as red as my mother’s garnet, and I touched the heirloom adorning my neck in disbelief. A peace-weaver stared back at me. Father ought be pleased, though my stomach twisted in knots at the idea of facing the Scyldings, of meeting the man I was to wed. “Wish me luck,” I said, not meeting anyone’s eyes as I turned to leave.

“May the Norn’s loom favor you,” said Greta as she clasped her hands over her heart.

“Oh Rowena, your hair is going to flop in your face if you don’t wear your peace-weaver’s band.” Millie grabbed my arm and turned me back around. She placed it in my unwilling palm.

I inhaled sharply as its magic tickled the tips of my fingers. I didn’t want to look at it, let alone wear it. One wrong word would ruin years of rebuilding. Thunnor’s Hammer, where is Mayda? Perhaps she can weave me a decoy.

“Make haste,” Matilde said in a huff.

“Don’t worry,” said Millie with a crooked smile, misunderstanding the dread on my features. “Whoever they sent to meet you will be kind, and if you’re truly blessed, handsome as well.”

As if I’d be content with nothing more than an attractive face. I knew wives who were beat until they were violet and blue, others whose husbands who had as much wit as the pile of rocks used to keep a ship upright. Living with the fights between Father and Matilde made me wish more than anything for a husband I could respect. With shaking hands, I placed the band on my head. It felt as heavy as a crown. “Is it even?” I asked, no longer wanting to see my reflection.

With a gentle touch, Millie adjusted it slightly before nodding in approval. Greta clapped. Gunna said, “You’ll be a beautiful bride.” The magic stirred at that word, a tiny whirlpool in the pit of my gut. It wanted to enchant my potential husband, twisting him like carded wool into thread.

Yet I could not allow that. Never again would I let magic trick me into following the selfish desires of my heart. And perhaps he wouldn’t be so bad after all, this mysterious Scylding who had come in search of a wife. I swallowed down the newly awakened galdera as Matilde pushed me out the door.

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