Brandewyne, Rebecca (12 page)

Rising
slowly from where she squatted upon the pelts that served as Wulfgar's blankets
and pallet, Yelkei drew on her cloak and slipped away as silently as she had
come, leaving Wulfgar gazing after her, scowling darkly with anger at the guilt
and shame he always felt whenever he rejected the counsel born of her powers.
She had not told him everything, he sensed, and that, too, troubled him; for he
could not guess what she might have held back and what it might portend for
him. He should not have been so impatient and irritated with her. If he had
been wise, he would have held his tongue and listened to Yelkei more closely,
as she had advised, Wulfgar thought, cursing himself for his foolishness.
Truly, he must learn to restrain his temper and to overcome his fear and
suspicion of Yelkei's prophesying; for he had seen for himself the truth of her
words far too often to doubt them.

Muttering
under his breath, he lay down upon his pelts, but his emotions were in such a
turmoil that sleep would not come easily. His last thought as he finally
drifted into slumber was a nebulous notion that perhaps
it would do no
harm, after all, to speak to Olaf the Sea Bull about the princess of Usk and
her dowry. Then the matter would be out of his hands, Wulfgar told himself; its
disposition would then be Olaf's decision to make. If Olaf chose to risk the
ire of Ragnar Lodbrók by racing Ivar the Boneless to Walas for possession of
the maiden and her dowry, then he, Wulfgar, surely could not be held to blame
for whatever repercussions might follow. The responsibility for those would
fall on Olaf's head. Yet even as Wulfgar comforted himself with that idea, he
could not rid himself of the gnawing disquiet that somewhere in Asgard, the
gods heard his thoughts— and laughed.

* * * * *

Rhowenna
ferch Pendragon was happier than she had been in many a long week. Since she
had told Gwydion about her dream, it had not come to her again; and now that
summer had arrived and still nothing untoward had occurred, she had begun to
think that the dream had not been a true vision, but nothing more than a
nightmare, after all. Still, it was a relief to know that the false story she
and Gwydion had spun of a fisherman's warning them of recent attacks along the
coast, by Northmen, had resulted in the King's posting watchers along the
shore. Rhowenna
had observed that the Queen's dark-blue eyes had been thoughtful when she had
heard the tale and that she had glanced at Father Cadwyr's avid face, then back
at Rhowenna's own pale countenance, but had chosen not to probe too deeply into
the origin of the lie. Rhowenna felt as though a great burden had been lifted
from her shoulders; and grateful for that, she had tried very hard to prepare
herself for her coming nuptials if not gladly, at least diligently. Prince
Cerdic had sent envoys to Pendragon's court; and she had lessons daily with
them to learn the Saxon customs and the language of her betrothed so she would
not disgrace either herself or Prince Cerdic before his courtiers. Although the
emissaries had on the surface been polite, she had nevertheless indignantly
discerned from their attitude toward her that they— whom she had always thought
of as ignorant savages and sea wolves— believed her to be both uneducated and a
backward barbarian, lacking more than a few words of Latin, the tongue of the
learned, and Pendragon's great hall judged poor and crude by their scornful eyes.
Because of this, she was proud that she had proved a quick learner and was
gradually earning the envoys' respect.

But
today on this warm summer afternoon, Rhowenna
had forgone her lessons to
search for cockles and mussels along the seashore. With knife, rake, and basket
in hand, she had set out earlier with several others of the young housecarls
and serving maids from the royal manor; and now, her skirts pulled up and
tucked into her mesh girdle, she waded, bare-legged and bare-footed, in the
salty, sun-dappled water, using her blade to dig the cockles from the sand and
her rake to probe the deeper waters favored by the mussels. Her basket was
nearly full; the sun and water felt good against her skin, and her spirits were
higher than they had been in weeks. Only an occasional glimpse of Gwydion in
the distance marred her happiness. No matter how hard she tried, Rhowenna could
not forget how everything was changed between them, how easily he had
relinquished her to Prince Cerdic of Mercia. Each time she thought of it, her
heart ached in a way she had not known was possible. Because it hurt her so to
see Gwydion, she avoided him as much as she could; and he, doubtless
understanding her feelings, did not press himself upon her— although, despite
herself, she sometimes wished fervently that he would come to her and tell her
what a fool he had been, that he would take her away with him before it was too
late. Rhowenna knew that this was foolish, wishful thinking, but she could not
seem to stop herself from imagining how wonderful it would be to marry him.

All
her life, she had witnessed the deep love between her parents; and she yearned
for such a love for herself but thought it unlikely she would find it with
Prince Cerdic, who, for all that he was to be her husband, was still a Saxon.
Old prejudices died hard; and despite all her lessons, Rhowenna was uncertain
whether she could ever grow to embrace life willingly in Mercia, much less
Prince Cerdic himself. It was a disheartening thought; determinedly, she shoved
it from her mind, knowing that it would do no good to dwell upon it, that she
could not change her future and so must learn to make the best of it.

She
hunkered down, and with the sharp point of her knife, she dug again into the
wet sand, taking pleasure in the feel of the sodden grains that squished
between her toes as she pried another cockle from its hiding place, then tossed
it into her basket. Those at the royal manor would eat well this night, she
thought, smiling with satisfaction as she gazed at her booty.

"
'Tis indeed a fine haul, my lady," Morgen, who worked beside her,
observed, plainly glad to take a break from their
laborious task. Getting to her
feet, Morgen stretched lazily, like a sinuous cat, her hands at her back,
which, like Rhowenna's own, ached from stooping. Then, pulling her tucked-up
skirts from her girdle, Morgen slowly wrung out the most sodden portions of the
fabric. "We'll not be able to lift the basket between us if we fill it
much fuller."

"One
of the men can carry it, then," Rhowenna said carelessly, sitting back and
driving her blade into the sand beside her. She untied the thong that bound her
long, damp braid, then loosened the plait and shook her hair free, running her
fingers through the tangled mass. The wind caught the strands, whipping them
about her gently as, after a moment, she closed her eyes drowsily and lifted
her face to the sun, basking in its heat. "Fetch Hueil or Daffyd or one of
the others."

"Aye,
my lady." Morgen nodded, pushing her own heavy black mane of unbound hair
back from her face as she turned away. Then, suddenly, her attention caught by
an unfamiliar shimmering on the far horizon, she paused, her hand held to her
brow to shade her eyes against the glare of the sunlight reflecting off the
waves of the Severn Sea. "Good Lord in heaven, what is that? Some kind of—
of horrible sea monster, it looks
like. Two of them! No, three! Look, my
lady!"

For
a moment when Rhowenna opened her eyes, the sun blinded her, and she could see
nothing. But then, at last, as she stared off into the distance to where Morgen
pointed, she spied the clutch of sea dragons that rose and plunged upon the
waves, widespread crimson sails spilling like blood across the deep-blue summer
sky. Her breath caught in her throat; her heart leaped with terror at the
sight— for this time, she knew that it was no dream, no vision, but the
terrible reality she had foreseen and feared. Grabbing her knife from the sand,
she lurched to her feet, glancing about wildly for the housecarls. But while the
men were within shouting distance, they were still well down the coast.
Rhowenna had not realized until now how far she and Morgen had strayed from the
rest and from the royal manor, too.

"Those
are not sea monsters!" she blurted, her voice rising. "They're ships...
longships! Dear God! 'Tis the Northmen! They're coming! They're coming to Usk!
Run, Morgen! Run!"

Morgen's
eyes widened. Her face blanched with fright as she suddenly understood the
danger. Abandoning their rakes and basket, the two women gathered up their
skirts and
pounded desperately down the shore, crying out as they ran, their bare feet
skimming the edges of the combers and sending water and sand flying. Rhowenna's
heart lodged in her throat as she glanced back over her shoulder and saw how
rapidly the longships were gaining on them, drawing ominously nearer and nearer
to the coast, square red sails billowing in the wind. She had never seen
vessels sail so swiftly, as though they flew over the sea; and she realized in
terror that Morgen and she would not reach the palisade in time. Her breath
came in hard rasps, and she had a painful stitch in her side that, without
warning, doubled her over.

"My
lady!" Morgen whirled about, racing back to Rhowenna. "Are you all
right?"

"Aye.
I just... need to... catch my breath...."

"There
is not time! We must hurry! Come on!"

Clutching
her aching side, Rhowenna forced herself to stagger on, sobbing, hearing now
the urgent, warning wail of the horns blown by the watchers stationed along the
coast, the shouts of the housecarls and the screams of the serving women who
had been among those digging for cockles and mussels earlier and who now, like
Morgen and Rhowenna, fled in fear for their lives toward
the haven of
the palisade. But already, flight was futile, Rhowenna recognized with a
sinking heart. The sea dragons were swooping with impossible speed toward the
beach, furling their wings, long necks outstretched, bellies heaving and
shuddering as their fierce riders, yelling mighty battle cries, dismounted and
waded thigh-high into the frothy waves to drag the longships halfway up onto
the sand. After that, everything happened so fast that for ever after, it was
only a terrible blur in Rhowenna's mind, a nightmare that became reality.

She
had never seen such savages as the
Víkingrs;
even the Saxon
wolves east of Offa's Dyke were not so barbaric, she thought as, stricken,
petrified where she stood, she watched the marauders surge forward from the
sea, at their vanguard the gold-headed god she had seen in her dream. Aye, it
was
he! She was so
stunned by the realization that only Morgen's screams of dread and frantic
jerking on her hand urged her to movement when the tawny-haired giant of a
Northman suddenly disappeared from her view, swallowed by a fearsome wave of
horrifying warriors who howled and leaped forth like madmen, stark naked save
for the bearskins flung about their massive shoulders. Rhowenna had heard
macabre tales of
such Northmen, who were said before battle to acquire the bears' ferocious strength
and power by drinking the beasts' blood and by wearing their hides. From these
bearsarks,
bear shirts, had such warriors received their name— Berserks— a name that
struck terror into the heart of all who heard it; for the Berserks were said to
be not just fearless, but actually mindless in battle, bolstered by strong
alcohol and so vicious and pathological that when battle fever and bloodlust
were upon them, they could bite through an ironclad shield or walk through
fire, without suffering any pain. Invariably, they led the foremost ranks of
the Northland's warriors; and it was said that even the other Northmen were
afraid of them— proof indeed of their fiendishness.

Like
a pack of starving wolves, the Berserks fell upon the housecarls and
ceorls
who, alerted by
the bellow of the watchers' horns, had charged forth from the palisade, the
village, and the fields of Usk alike, shouting their own calls to arms, weapons
in hand, to fend off the brutal attack of the Northmen. Everywhere Rhowenna
turned, cacophony and confusion reigned as the first of the sickening blows
were struck and the bloody battle was joined, the men becoming in moments a
blur of flying pelts, bloodstained leather garments, and hacking and slashing
weapons as
each vanguard bravely met the other's assault. The harsh, metallic clanging and
clashing of the warriors' broadswords and battle-axes and iron-bossed,
gilt-bronzed shields filled the air, accompanied by the stout, ferocious
thwack
of the
ceorls'
wooden clubs, staffs, hoes, and rakes, the deadly
whoosh
of scythes and spears and knives that flashed in the sun as the reivers
drove forward, the Berserks leading the way, swarming up from the shore to
higher ground, an army of huge, crazed men against whom the warriors and
ceorls
of Usk could not stand fast. They buckled and broke ranks, scattering and
falling back toward the knoll from which the palisade rose— so near and yet so
far.

As
the Northmen pressed on relentlessly, the high, piercing shrieks of fleeing
women and children echoed above the clamor of the battle, mingling with the
screams of animals that, in their panic, broke loose from tethers and pens to
run about chaotically, adding to the pandemonium. Blood spattered and gushed,
seeping into the rich, moist earth; and black clouds of acrid smoke billowed on
the wind as torches were scooped up from their sconces, ignited by the
marauders, and then tossed onto the thatched roofs of the
ceorls'
huts and byres,
setting the village ablaze. There was no way to reach the safety
of the palisade,
no place to hide, Rhowenna numbly understood with utter despair as she stumbled
on blindly through the cruel conflict, Morgen half dragging her forward as they
slipped and slid upon the bloody ground, striving desperately to escape from
the terrifying melee that had enveloped them. But there was no route to
freedom, no refuge to be found from the fighting and dying. The battle was
thick all around them, the Berserks cutting a wide swath in the ranks of
Pendragon's housecarls and
ceorls,
and the rest of the Northmen coming
hard and fast behind. In their wake, corpses littered the ground, people
Rhowenna had known and cared for all her life, although there was no time to
mourn for them. It seemed a miracle to her that she and Morgen were still alive
and somehow as yet unharmed. But surely, they would not remain so much longer,
Rhowenna realized as, now, from the circular timber wall of the palisade,
arrows began to rain down, the iron barbs with which they were tipped finding
their marks. One of the Berserks staggered back, an arrow protruding from his
eye; another of the reivers was shot through the throat, his frenzied gnashing
of teeth and howling abruptly muted to a blood-bubbling gurgle, his back
arching spasmodically before he toppled facedown into the dirt.