| Copyright © 2004, Joan
Høiness Bouchelle Reviews For SAGANATT DOOMED LOVE IN VIKING TIMES by Joan Høiness Bouchelle Rating: 4 Cups Saganatt is a bittersweet tale of a family that is trying to find its place in a changing world and adapting to survive. This historical romance has a beautifully crafted, mythical feel to it, like the ancient Norse legends. It's rooted in the sometimes gory and brutal way of life the Vikings lived. However, this does not subtract from the strong family values Sigurd laid down for his children and that stays with them and carries them through the dark times. Unlike most romances, there is no central couple on which the plot pivots. Instead, the focus moves from one family member to the other, charting the progress of their life and how they find love as they carve out their own destinies. Each of them is touched by love and tragedy in equal measure and none more than Bjorn and Rakkel. The seeds of their tragic love are sown when Alfil, Sigurd’s daughter, is kidnapped and he stages a daring rescue. Sigurd is killed in battle and in grief and jealously, his wife, Jotfil, sends their three teenage sons away. This is to keep them from being held hostage by King Olaf, who would force them to turn to Christianity. Unable to stand her grief, she kills herself and leaves her young daughter, Alfil, to pick up the pieces. The three sons of Sigurd go into the
world in search of adventure and love, and after many setbacks, they
finally find peace. However, two of Sigurd’s restless Saganatt is not a traditional historical romance. The historical detail is not there to color the background and add depth to the plot, but it's almost a living, breathing character in the book. If you're a fan of the Viking era, this book is priceless. The romantic element of the book is subtle and tender, but not passionate and some of the references to violence can be a little disturbing, but all of it is in context with the story. Gen Thomas "This book is full of loves found and lost. We are taken on a great adventure through 10th century Scandinavia and Europe. Ms. Bouchelle shows us how the people of this time lived and loved in epic proportions. As we travel through each town and region, Ms. Bouchelle quietly interjects translations of words and traditions so it is not hard to feel part of that era. I really enjoy this kind of historical fiction. It makes me remember that the past is not made up of events, but flesh and blood people who experienced those events. For any romantics who are history buffs out there, I recommend this book." Reviewed by: Kathy 4 Angels Fallen Angel Reviews Sample Chapter For SAGANATT
DOOMED LOVE IN VIKING TIMES by Joan Høiness Bouchelle
The ice-blue fjord sparkled and shimmered in the pale northern sunlight like clear gemstones cast upon satin. Chilled water was edged with sheer granite cliffs, which, in places, plunged straight into the frigid water to unknowable depths. Menacing in their unyielding power, these granite giants were topped with ghostly morning mists, reluctant remnants of night, leaving spectral strands of palest white caught in the dark green spires of the trees. The chill in the air gave emphasis to the otherwhere quality in this place of bleak beauty. Sigurd, tenth century warrior-king and lord of this manor, loved it and not for its enviable location. It lay below him with its large manor house and a sprawl of smaller outbuildings around a grassy common. His heart lived here, and his family thrived, as did the rest of the household, down to and including the slaves. Sigurd loved the commodious yield of his beloved Trollviken as much as he loved and understood the barely hidden sense of danger that seemed to stand behind every tree. Wisdom can hide, but not stupidity. With that thought in mind, Sigurd took his ease against a large boulder which was warming very slowly in the early sunlight. His beloved Trollviken spread between him and the fjord. Sigurd thought long and hard. This, the family home and headquarters for his extensive and hard-won holdings along the deeply-indented coast in west Norway, lay slightly above sea level at the head of a long fjord which led to the edge of the sea. From this vantage point no enemy or friend, for that matter, could pass unobserved. All appeared to be calm and serene. It was a matter of some satisfaction that Trollviken had been won with every one of Sigurd’s soldiers free men. There were many burial mounds in the area attesting to that fact. No slaves were expected to fight for Sigurd. No one had time to think about what happened when a slave dies. Then Sigurd thought about the rumors that King Olaf would make true his pledge to Christianize Norway. That would be bloody. It was much on everyone’s mind, but what an undertaking that would be! The warrior-king marveled that Olaf would even attempt a confrontation against Odin. Who would even try such a thing with all the phalanxes of Valhol, Middle Earth and the Underworld not only at his disposal—if their mood was amenable—but, Sigurd knew, Odin could call upon quite an army all by himself, if he set his mind to it. That King Olaf and the hated Bishop Grimsdal had made holy vows to spread Christianity throughout the northern lands was well-known. The two leaders vowed to imprison the eldest boy in every family which showed the slightest resistance to the religious upheaval. If that resistance did not stop, the boy would be murdered. More blood. Not that the spilling of blood was abhorrent to Sigurd. He just hated to see it wasted on a doomed plan. Odin or Someone would be obeyed. As the sun rose higher in the sky the
welcome warmth reached Sigurd, and he threw his heavy woolen cloak back
over his shoulders, revealing a sturdy torso and well-muscled legs.
His heavy hair and beard echoed the soft yellow of the northern sun
and his blue eyes reflected the blue of the sea and sky, and, perhaps,
beyond. Trollviken was a busy place, and Sigurd was glad. He counted himself fortunate to have three teenaged sons—at the moment away for the requisite year of apprenticeship at a nearby fortification, for their education—then Alfil, his daughter and, just recently, the as yet unnamed infant boy. His good fortune began, he always said, when the gods smiled on him and gave him his Joftil, love of his life and proud bearer of his children. Sigurd had more than that. He ran a thriving raid and trade business while Joftil ran the productive manor. He left the operation of the manor in Joftil’s capable hands, although right now she was recovering from the difficult delivery of their new son. Alfil was pressed into service temporarily. Their reputation as generous hosts to strangers and friends alike was known over a wide area. Far below Sigurd, the icy fjord eased its way inland between steep cliffs thrown high out of the sea by some ancient paroxysm of the gods. The sheer granite cliffs plunged straight into the water to, maybe, Middle Earth. The high gray rock piles were topped with stately pines, so dark in their greenness they were very nearly black. From his vantage point above the innermost reaches of the fjord, Sigurd took a quick look about him from ingrained habit born of years of vigilance. Guards were stationed here, of course, and he chatted briefly with the young men. Sigurd had ensured the security of the place with the blood of hundreds, and pledged its continued prosperity with the blood of hundreds more. Having earned this place of comfort and repose, to which he could return after summer raids and trade, he found it, for the most part, a place of familial content. He missed his sons and he did wish that Joftil would return to his side in the high seat at the manor house, but she did not care to return until her recovery was complete. Sigurd was well-used to this reaction of hers, although this time it went on longer than he liked. In general, though, he thought things were much as they should be on this day at the beginning of a most welcome spring. Sigurd gazed down at the commotion around Trollviken and what commotion there was! The cattle, sheep, goats and their young girl caretakers were scheduled to leave for the sæter that day. Since the main house was the focal point of a ring of buildings arranged in a loose circle around a wide grassy common, a natural gathering place for large groups. Today Sigurd watched as the grass was pounded underfoot while cows, goats and sheep milled about in confusion with laughing young men and women making half-hearted efforts to keep them under control. Perhaps it was just as well that Joftil was not in control today. His beloved was not known for her patience. Long experience told him that her reaction to men behaving like children would not soon be forgotten or forgiven. Hard-working household women, both free and slave, gathered the fractious animals for the yearly move to the high mountain pastures at the family sæter. Sigurd was grateful that the gods had been generous with snow during the past winter, leaving the spring grasses lush and green. Good grazing in the high valleys boded well for fine, fat cattle come fall. The rigors of the winter had ensured heavy coats of wool on the sheep, as well, so that the women’s looms would be busy for months. Sigurd was properly grateful for these benefices and began planning appropriate Midsummer sacrifices. As he caught sight of Alfil, his daughter of thirteen years, in the midst of all the activity in the courtyard, a smile and gentle laugh crinkled his face. Nissen pricked his ears and ambled toward Sigurd. The man stroked the rich tan hide and roughed the white standup mane rimmed with black. “Well, Nissen, you old Elf, shall we go down and see Alfil off?” Then to Røyke, “Come you, smoky-dog, we go down the trail!” Sigurd mounted, knowing that Nissen would stand like a rock until all the rituals had been honored. When Sigurd’s seat was secure, Røyke exploded out of the long grasses. His coat was smoky silver with coal black tips on the ends of the guard hairs. His compact body resembled a small wolf, and, like the wolf, Røyke had phenomenal hearing. Sigurd knew from long experience that this dog, typical of his breed, was agile almost beyond belief. Bred to hunt moose, powerful hindquarters and quick intelligence kept the dogs beyond the killing reach of frantic hooves, while unusual stamina kept them following the quarry until the hunters arrived and killed the animal. Røyke’s alert eyes and ears located Sigurd and Nissen. He ran flat-out to the pair waiting for him. This was an old game and Sigurd had taught Nissen to lean into the coming assault. He opened his arms and the moose-dog flew off the ground landing neatly in front of the saddle. Røyke covered Sigurd with dog kisses and Nissen pranced and sidled like the old campaigner he was. “Yes, Røyke, we three shall go down and bid Alfil ‘Farvel.’” Under ordinary circumstances, of course, Joftil would have been in charge of the drive, as was her right and duty. The household women always took the cattle up to the sæter, with men guarding them on the trail. Once at the sæter, some of the older girls stayed on to care for the animals while the rest returned to the manor in order to keep things running smoothly at home. But Joftil was in no condition to make the long ride up to the sæter. The job had fallen to Alfil who was both nervous and excited by the whole prospect. It was not long before Sigurd, Nissen and Røyke, by now back on the ground and investigating everything, caught up to the slow-moving caravan which was just approaching the first steep hill. Affectionate greetings between father and daughter went on with Sigurd smoothing Alfil’s pale blond hair and stroking her excitement-reddened cheeks. She looked so young to him. He noticed, with a smile, that she wore the two intricately worked silver brooches he had given her for her name-day last. They stood out against the deep blue of her kirtle, which she had thoughtfully slid aside, allowing her light underdress to cover her legs modestly while on horseback. Like the good father he was, Sigurd stationed a trusted young jarl, Eldred, as Alfil’s protector. “By all of Valholl, Papa, we’re just going to the sæter! We’ll be there in half a day. And anyway, Tufeia says all the gods, even Loki, are behaving well. She read her runes and chanted a bit so she should know.” “Kjære, my dearest…” “Papa, it’s too much! Eldred and I have known each other forever. What kind of protection is that? “The very best kind, I hope, my dear, and praise heaven that my warriors are more obedient than my child! Farvel, Farewell” With that, Sigurd smiled his forgiveness and pulled off the trail allowing the caravan to pass. Catching Eldred’s eye he gave unmistakable signals that the young man was to do as he was told. Eldred fell in next to Alfil while Sigurd offered a prayer to Odin for the safety of all. Turning for home, Sigurd thought ahead to what waited for him there. Was his proud, passionate and sternly beautiful wife still in the loft in the women’s hall, where she had retired to bear their newest infant? It was a drafty old place, but he was sure Tufeia had filled it with skins and put clean rushes on the floor to make her mistress comfortable. Why did Joftil still remain there? The baby was born at least a week ago, and usually Joftil was back out on horseback or skis, depending on weather, long since. She couldn’t be so badly off since Tufeia was willing to leave her to go to the sæter with Alfil. It was a puzzle. Sigurd wanted to stride over to the loft, take Joftil in his arms and carry her across the grassy common to her proper place in the high seat at the head of the great table, and then to his bed. Nissen’s steady walk down the familiar trail left Sigurd free to think. Perhaps, he thought, hope rising even without cause, perhaps Joftil had already decided to return and was waiting for him to accompany her. The slight weight of her imagined arm warmed him as he fancied walking her across the common to the manor house. Back at Trollviken Nissen headed straight for his meal in the byre. Sigurd dismounted, gave the leather reins over to a yeoman and walked quickly to the great hall with Røyke at his heels. A fire blazed in an enormous fireplace taking the chill of early spring away from the room. Røyke was quick to find a leftover bone in the thick floor-covering of rushes. Joftil was not there. Thinking of her, Sigurd knew he loved her more than life itself. She was just across the courtyard, but he was beginning to think they could not possibly be farther apart. If he had been a vindictive, hot-headed man, he’d declare to the world that he’d had enough and then rid himself of this encumbrance. Encumbrance? How could his beloved Joftil be such a thing? She was no encumbrance! Divorce her? Never! According to their own Norse laws Joftil would have plenty to say about that. It did not occur to Sigurd that most of the household and people of the surrounding farms thought that was a reasonable solution and, without admitting it, rather looked forward to a good fight. He knew only that he could not even consider life without her. Perhaps, he thought, Joftil had demons to fight and had to fight them in her own way. But, if that were true, why could not his love sustain her in her battle and comfort her in times of despair? He just wanted her back, but he wanted her to want to come back. An alarming note of impatience began to enter his thoughts. Perhaps, if he gave her one more chance...but, why should he? Well, of course, he adored her...but she makes me look like a fool! It was the first time he’d even considered that! The earl will talk…let them! Can mere words bring down a powerful warrior? Indeed they can!! In the end a man’s honor and reputation are all that really matter! Sigurd began to understand about demons. It seemed he had a few of his own. At last, late in the day, he slammed his fists down on the armrests of the massive, heavily-carved chair where he sat. Rising quickly, he strode out across the common in the direction of the women’s hall. |