Brandewyne, Rebecca (17 page)

The
other
Víkingrs
were
scrambling about the longship, furling the sail, clearing a space on the deck
for the duel and tossing the heavy iron anchor overboard from the bow to hold
the vessel in place until the matter of its captaincy was decided. Shouts flew
back and forth across the sea to the other two longships,
and those
vessels, too, lowered sail and, drawing alongside the
Dragon's Fire,
dropped
anchor, their crews lining up to watch the combat. When all was in readiness,
Wulfgar and Knut began to circle each other warily, testing nerves, evaluating
skill. Then, with a sudden, jolting clash of weapons that made Rhowenna flinch
and gasp, the fierce battle was joined.

It
was not, for Wulfgar, a fight of thrust and parry, for the battle-ax he wielded
precluded that; but as a result, it also spoiled much of Knut's swordsman's
technique, as well, compelling him to engage in a like hacking and slashing
attack, during which his lumbering gait left him more vulnerable than he would
have been against an opponent armed with a broadsword. Still, his strength
coupled with his weight was such that he drove Wulfgar back short moments after
the duel had begun. Wulfgar recognized immediately that brute force alone would
not win for him, that his best strategy would lie in wearing Knut down by
prolonging the battle. Wulfgar concentrated on defending himself and on
conserving his own strength, relying on his greater quickness and agility to
elude whatever blows he could, his shield to hold firm against those he could
not. Still, each mighty
thwack
Knut landed with his blade sent a
bone-jarring
tremor up Wulfgar's shield arm, making him grit his teeth to keep from crying
out and bringing a malevolent grin to Knut's ugly face as he pressed his
assault.

There
was much to be learned about a man from a duel; and as Rhowenna watched, she
discerned Wulfgar's cunning and proficiency against an opponent who, while
stronger, was less clever and adept, having for so long triumphed through his
brawn that he had grown smug and secure in thinking he needed nothing more. But
as the sun crept higher into the sky, the conflict wore on, and as time and
time again he failed to penetrate Wulfgar's guard, Knut's smile gradually faded
to be replaced with a dark scowl of murderous rage, and his onslaught grew
increasingly violent and reckless. His fury reminded Rhowenna of an afternoon
in the bailey of her father's palisade, when she had watched Brynmawr training
several young men who had been sent to Pendragon's court for fostering. One of
them, finding victory elusive, had lost his temper in just such a manner, so
Brynmawr had disarmed him and struck him hard with the flat of a blade,
knocking him on his back before pressing the honed point to the young man's
throat.

"Never
let anger get the best of you in a fight, lad!" Brynmawr had chided
sharply.

"
'Twill cause you to grow rash— and that is a mistake that will cost you your
life!"

Anger
now seemed to possess Knut Strongarm, Rhowenna observed, and perhaps, as a
result, he might indeed make some fatal error. Wulfgar's eyes, although narrowed,
did not blaze with wrath, but with calculation and exhilaration. He moved like
a magnificent mountain cat, she thought, his tawny mane of hair streaming from
his face in the wind, his hard, supple body crouching and whirling, his
sealskin-booted feet dancing and springing lithely across the deck, the muscles
in his naked, sweat-sheened arms, chest, and back quivering and rippling,
filling her, as she watched him, with some peculiar sensation she had never
felt before, a roaring of her blood in her ears, a fierce pounding of her
heart.

Both
combatants were covered with blood from minor wounds inflicted; the broadsword
and battle-ax that earlier had gleamed in the rising sun now were dulled with
red; the wooden shields were cracked and broken from forceful blows and now
impatiently tossed aside as hindrances. Rhowenna feared greatly for Wulfgar
then, for surely Knut's broadsword was the superior weapon, quicker, more
flexible, less unwieldy. But then, she had never before seen a battle-ax
wielded as, now,
since casting away his shield, Wulfgar suddenly began to employ his as though
it were not only a battle-ax, but also a staff. Deftly he twirled it through
his fingers, holding its long haft raised and lengthwise to block Knut's
increasingly slower, wilder downward swings; abruptly, Wulfgar reversed it and
jammed the end of its leather-wrapped grip into Knut's stomach, doubling him
over.

Knut's
breath came in hard rasps now— through his mouth. Elation rose within Wulfgar
at the sight, for a man who breathed so was not getting enough air into his
lungs and was exhausted, too, ripe for defeat. Now Wulfgar began to press his
own attack furiously, permitting Knut to become aware that he had only been
toyed with before as a deliberate ploy to tire him. At the realization, Knut
became even more infuriated, his blows more brazen, those of a man desperate,
sensing he was but minutes from death. Eyes glowing with bloodlust, the
Víkingrs
were on their
feet, cheering and yelling grisly, bloodthirsty exhortations. The women cringed
on the deck, forgotten for the moment by their captors. Only Rhowenna stood
upright, her eyes wide and dark, her face pale, her hands clenched so tightly
at her sides that her knuckles shone white, her
nails dug into her palms. In
moments, not only Wulfgar's fate, but perhaps also her own would be determined.
She would not meet her destiny cowering, but as bravely as Wulfgar had dared to
seek it out, knowing what it might mean to them both.

Broadsword
and battle-ax sang, a song of death, savage and discordant, punctuated by sharp
rings and whacks as iron-hooped barrels and the Y-shaped trestles that rose
from the deck and, once, even the mast were struck by the blades, sending
wooden shards sailing. The planks were slick and scarlet with the blood that
had trickled from the combatants' wounds. Now Knut lunged forward, sliding in
the blood, his broadsword thrusting to stab viciously into Wulfgar's belly,
only to be knocked aside at the last instant, struck hard by the blade of
Wulfgar's battle-ax. Metal scraped upon metal, colliding in such a way that the
hilt of Knut's broadsword was caught and jerked from his grasp, his weapon sent
flying upward in a silvery arc that flashed in the sun against the blue of the
sky before the blade swooped like a falcon to plunge into the sea. Wulfgar
sidestepped and pivoted with a macabre gracefulness, the haft of his battle-ax
hitting Knut in the back, driving him to his knees. Then Wulfgar caught the
leather-wrapped grip, and the blade swung
high, up and around, glittering, poised
in the air for a moment before descending to bury itself in Knut's nape,
decapitating him. Rhowenna cried out, horrified, as, seeming to move in slow
motion, Knut's head flew from his torso to bounce upon and then to roll across
the deck, and blood spurted and spewed from his neck, spraying Wulfgar's
handsome face and broad chest. For an eternity, it seemed, Knut's body remained
kneeling on the planks before gradually crumpling to sprawl upon the deck.

Breathing
hard, Wulfgar stood there in the sudden silence, battle-ax in his blood-covered
hands, and looking, Rhowenna thought, involuntarily shrinking from him, like
some wild, savage predator as his eyes, burning with triumph, found hers. As he
watched her cringe from him, his gaze hardened, growing distant and wintry, and
a muscle pulsed in his set jaw, so that she knew she had angered him by
recoiling from him instead of exulting in his victory. For all his previous
kindness and gentleness toward her, she now knew he could be as brutal and
deadly as the rest of the
Víkingrs,
a dangerous man to cross; and she
shuddered and cast down her eyes, afraid that in his rage, he would strike her,
or, worse, would suddenly seize her and rape her as was a man's wont toward a
woman when
he was filled with bloodlust. Perhaps he would even withdraw his protection of
her.

But
instead, he turned, and his voice rang out harshly, authoritatively, in the
stillness.

"Is
there another man among you who would seek to challenge my captaincy of this
vessel? If so, let him come forward now and make his claim— or else hold his
peace until this voyage is done!"

There
was an interminable moment of tension and silence broken only by the soughing
of the wind, the lapping of the waves against the hulls of the longships, the
faraway cries of the flock of swans winging their way northward. Then, at last,
when no one stepped forward to continue the battle Knut Strongarm had begun,
the strained atmosphere slowly eased, and Wulfgar felt some of the tautness
drain from his muscles.

"Then,
henceforth, let no man aboard the
Dragon's Fire
defy my
commands," he said, "and the first of those is this: There is the
princess of Usk"— he pointed to Morgen— "she for whom we sailed from
the Northland to Walas and for whom our lord, Olaf the Sea Bull, lies dead,
slain in the battle with the Usk men. She is the only daughter of a king and
betrothed to a prince, and while her dowry is lost to us, she herself is still
a valuable hostage, worth her weight in gold—but only if she is unharmed and a
virgin. Last night, there were among you those who would have cost us that
ransom by slaking your lust upon her had not cooler heads prevailed. Now, I
tell you that no man is to touch her, that he who is foolish enough to disobey
this order will die, and that his corpse will not journey to the Northland for
burial, but will be cast overboard to feed the fish." Wulfgar paused,
allowing this warning to penetrate. Then he continued.

"This
woman, the princess's waiting woman"— without warning, he reached out,
taking Rhowenna unaware as he grabbed her by the wrist and possessively jerked
her to him— "I claim as my own— and mine alone! Likewise will I slay the
man who dares to lay a hand on her!"

At
that, the silence of the
Víkingrs
was finally ended as first one and then
another and yet another called out slyly— coarse jests and gibes that roused a
great howl of laughter from the rest of the men and that, after a moment,
caused a slow, deliberately wolfish smile to curve Wulfgar's carnal lips as he
stared down at Rhowenna, his eyes dark, unfathomable. Before she realized what
he intended, he ensnared one hand in her tresses and roughly yanked her head
back. Startled, filled with sudden apprehension, she cried out
softly, a small
sound he smothered with savage triumph as, with a low snarl, he abruptly
crushed his mouth down on hers— hard, hungrily, shattering her senses and
taking her breath away.

No
man had ever in her life dared to make so free with her, to kiss her so; and so
Rhowenna had not known, had never in her wildest imaginings dreamed that a man
would or could kiss her as Wulfgar did, as though he were draining the very
life and soul from her body and then pouring it back in. She was totally
unprepared for the shock and invasion of his kiss, for the hitherto unknown
sensations he expertly wakened within her, frightening her and yet somehow
perversely exciting her, as well, making her feel as though she would faint as
his insistent tongue brazenly forced her resisting lips to yield and boldly
insinuated itself inside, exultantly plundering the moist sweetness within,
leaving no part unexplored, unravaged. Sparks of light, like the bursting of a
falling star, exploded behind her eyelids, and her blood rushed to roar in her
ears as a wild, unexpected thrill shot through her at his remorseless assault,
dizzying her so, that years afterward, she was never to remember clearly that
moment aboard the
Dragon's
Fire
when
Wulfgar claimed and kissed her as his. Instead,
she was to see it only as though
through a glass darkly, like the
mørketiden,
the murky time of the
Northland she was to come to know. She had dreamed of this man; and now, he
held her in his arms— no longer a dream, but vividly real, devouring her with
his mouth. She felt as though the deck had suddenly canted beneath her, making
her knees buckle, so she would have fallen had he not clasped her so tightly,
bending her back, inexorably molding her body against his own, making her
intensely aware of him as a man— and one who wanted her.

Scared,
dazed by the magnitude of his desire, by his determined onslaught upon her
senses, Rhowenna began belatedly to struggle against him, pummeling his naked,
bloody chest, trying desperately to free herself from his imprisoning embrace,
to no avail. Wulfgar was far stronger than she; if she had not known that
before, she knew it now. She was frail, helpless against him, like a reed
before the wind. He could do whatever he liked with her,
to
her, and she
would be powerless to prevent him.

"Stop
fighting me, vixen!" he muttered hotly against her lips, his hand
tightening painfully in her hair to compel her to comply with his demand.
"You will cause all I have gained to be lost, making me vulnerable, a
laughingstock!
Do you want these
Víkingrs
to think that while I can slay a man in
battle, I cannot defeat a mere slip of a wench?"

In
some dim corner of her mind, Rhowenna glimpsed an inkling of his purpose then.
But before she could respond, his mouth closed over hers again, swallowing her
breath until her hands ceased slowly to beat against his chest, creeping up of
their own accord to twine about his neck, and a low, unwitting moan of
understanding and acquiescence issued from her throat. A ribald bellow of
approval rose from the men; and at that, at last, Wulfgar released her.