Brandewyne, Rebecca (18 page)

For
a timeless moment, he stared down at her, taking in the dishevelment of the
long black tresses that tumbled, witchlike and beguiling, about her piquant
face; her wide, startled, sloe eyes, drugged with passion, fear, and confusion;
the dark, crescent smudges her thick, sooty lashes cast against her pale cheeks
when she closed her eyes against his piercing scrutiny; her finely chiseled
nose, its nostrils flaring slightly, like those of an alarmed animal poised for
flight; her tremulously parted lips, as lush and crimson as a full-blown rose,
bruised and swollen from his unbridled kiss; the small pulse that beat jerkily
at the hollow of her throat; the swell of her ripe, melon breasts beneath her
bodice, rising and falling
quickly, shallowly, straining enticingly against
the coarse material.

She
was his for the taking.

Wulfgar's
loins quickened sharply at the knowledge. But then he saw how Rhowenna's hand
shook as she suddenly scrubbed fiercely at her mouth, how she flushed scarlet
with outrage and embarrassment at the taunts and laughter of the men; and he
felt an abrupt sense of shame and anger. He was no better than any other
Víkingr,
he thought,
disgusted, no better than Ragnar, no better than Ivar. Still, if he had not
responded as he had to the jesting of the men, they might have wondered at his
manhood; they might have doubted his ability to captain the
Dragon's Fire;
they could so
easily turn on him at any time. And for her own safety and well-being, Rhowenna
must learn to behave like a slave, a woman who belonged to him— and not a proud
princess.

"Haul
up the anchor! Hoist the sail!" Wulfgar barked abruptly, slinging over his
shoulder the looped thong of his battle-ax's grip, so the weapon hung at his
side. "We are wasting time here. Flóki the Raven, take the tiller, while I
tend these wounds of mine. You will be my second-in-command. Some of the rest
of you men get Knut Strongarm's body stowed in the hold." Then, turning
back
to Rhowenna but still speaking his own Northland tongue, he demanded imperiously,
"Wench, fetch that bucket of seawater over here!" using gestures to
punctuate his words so she would understand what he said.

For
a moment, Rhowenna stood there stupidly, not quite certain he was speaking to
her, such was the disrespect in his tone and the way in which he addressed her.
But then, thinking of how he had killed Knut Strongarm before her very eyes
and, afterward, had kissed her so savagely, she grew frightened by the fury
that flared in his eyes when she did not respond, and she moved hurriedly to do
as he had bidden, picking up the heavy wooden pail of seawater she and Morgen
had used earlier for washing and, with difficulty, lugging it over to where
Wulfgar stood impatiently.

"The
next time I tell you to do something, wench, you had best not keep me
waiting!" he snapped, still speaking in his own language and in a voice
overloud, to be certain he was heard by the
Víkingrs.
"You are my
slave, and if you are not quick to obey my orders, I will beat you. Do you
understand?" At Rhowenna's mute, scared nod— for if she had not fully
comprehended his words, she had caught their gist— he bent without warning and
roughly tore away a strip of material
from her tattered skirts. "You
will cleanse my wounds," he said, handing her the cloth and then settling
himself upon a stout, iron-ringed barrel, from where he eyed her expectantly.

"Have
you— have you soap?" she inquired hesitantly, in the Saxon tongue, as she
nervously dipped the cloth into the seawater, then wrung it out.

"Nay."
Wulfgar spoke quietly now and in the same language. "But the salt will
serve to stave off putrefaction, if that is your concern."

"Why
should it be?" she dared to ask, her voice low and tremulous with emotion.
"When you have this day proved you are no better than the rest of the
brutes aboard this godforsaken vessel! I care not if you live or die!"

"If
I should die, the day will come when you
will
care, lady!" Wulfgar
rejoined heatedly to hide how she had hurt him with her words. "You will
care very much, I am thinking, when you find yourself at the mercy of Ragnar
Lodbrók and Ivar the Boneless— who will take more than a kiss from your lovely
lips, and take it brutally, without care for your pain or shame—" He broke
off abruptly, gasping, as, without warning, Rhowenna pressed the wet cloth to
his chest
and began to rub the seawater deeply into his injuries, so the salt stung and
burned him unmercifully. His hand shot out, closing like an iron band about her
wrist. "Lady, you did that apurpose!"

"You
did
order
me to cleanse your wounds, did you not... my lord"— a falsely brave note
of sarcasm crept into her tone as she addressed him thus— "and declared
that as your slave, I must be quick to obey, else you would beat me?"

"Words
spoken for the benefit of the
Víkingrs"—
Wulfgar scowled
at her darkly—"as I thought that you would prove wise enough to
understand, your having so far given me no cause to believe that you lack wits.
Well do I know that you are not accustomed to such rough treatment as I have
this day dealt you, lady. But if I am to protect you, 'twas necessary that I
claim you as mine before the men; and for your own sake, they must believe you
to be my slave, in truth—lest they learn that you are the true princess of Usk
and reveal that knowledge to Ragnar Lodbrók or Ivar the Boneless. Do you
understand, lady? I have this morn slain Knut Strongarm and so won the
captaincy of this vessel, aye. Still, I would be a fool to think that what I
have gained is by any means secure when 'tis not. 'Twould take only the
suspicion that
I have lied to them and deceived them to turn these men once more against me—
and against you, as well. That is why the kiss I forced upon you was also
necessary— although, in all honesty, I do not regret taking it, even so."

Wulfgar's
eyes burned again as they had before he had kissed her, like twin flames, blue
heat that scalded Rhowenna as his kiss had scalded her. She did not understand
why he should make her feel as she did: confused, conflicted, and as breathless
as though she had run a long way. Her cheeks blushed crimson with indignation,
humiliation, and some other emotion she could not name as she remembered the
feel of his mouth upon hers, his tongue invading her, in a way she had not
known that a man would dare. Her hands faltered over the washing of his wounds,
trembled against his chest.

"You
are not chivalrous, but crude— a beast!— to say such a thing to me," she
whispered, her eyes downcast, unable to meet his own.

"Lady,
I would be even more dishonorable and brutish if I lied to you— and that, I
will not do. I am a man, aye, with a man's wants and needs, and you are a
beautiful and desirable woman. Still, 'tis as I have told you: I will not harm
you, so you need have no
fear of me. I will have you willing in my arms, or not at all. The gods, in
their wisdom, did not fashion you for less than that."

"How
do I know that you speak the truth, that you do not seek to deceive me in some
terrible manner?"

"I
swear it, by the gods."

"You
are a heathen, and so your oath means nothing. Your gods are false idols, so
the priests say. There is only the Christ, who is the one true God." She
touched the gold Celtic crucifix that she always wore about her neck and that
had not yet been taken from her by the
Víkingrs.
"Will you—
will you swear by Him?"

"Nay,
I am no Christian, lady, but a
Víkingr
and so Odinn's
warrior. When I die in battle, as every
Víkingr
longs to die,
'tis one of the Einheriar that I will become, and so be borne by the Valkyries
to Valhöll, Odinn's great mead Hall of the Slain, in Asgard. If I am chosen as
worthy of that honor. I will not be taken up unto your Heaven, by your God,
about whom I know nothing, save that He was no mighty warrior and so cannot
know the souls of such men."

"The
priests say that He does, that He is all-knowing and all-powerful."

"Mayhap.
Still, I do not fear the Christian God as some Northmen do, but only the gods
of Asgard, and
the giant Loki, who is wickedness. They are ancient— older than your Christ,
lady, older than this earth, elemental and eternal, like the wind and the sea
that carry us up the Swan Road to the Northland. Do you not sense the gods,
lady? Do you not feel them— those guardians of fate, of destiny?"

A
chill shivered up Rhowenna's spine at Wulfgar's words, making the fine hairs on
her nape rise; for, in her dream, had not the old gods warned her of her fate,
her destiny? Had she not sensed them, felt them all her life, and known that
they existed, no matter what the priests said? Such beliefs were heresy,
sinful; she knew she should confess them. But there would be no Christian
priest in the heathen Northland; there would be nothing there of the life she
had known in Usk, of the world she had left behind when this bold
Víkingr
had swept her up
in his arms and carried her aboard the longship that now sailed so swiftly
northward toward the cold, wintry lands of the midnight sun.

"Nay,
I do not," she replied at last to Wulfgar's question. "The old gods
are dead."

"I
do not believe that, lady— nor, in your heart, do you, I am thinking."

Rhowenna
did not answer him, but concentrated instead on the cleansing of his
wounds, rubbing
more lightly than before, so the salt of the seawater would not hurt him so
badly, although she knew that it must give him pain, even so. Still, after that
initial outburst, he bore her ministrations stoically; and in the silence, she
became aware of the feel of his flesh beneath her palms, of the massive muscles
that corded his arms and layered his chest and belly. She had never before
known a man so big and so tall; she felt small and fragile in comparison, and
she was not sure she liked the feeling. All her life, as princess of Usk,
Rhowenna had wielded power. Now she did not. More than just physically, this
man was more powerful than she— and the only thing standing between her and the
rest of the
Víkingrs.
When, finally, she was done washing away the blood
that encrusted his skin, she dropped the cloth into the bucket of seawater and
spoke.

"Have
you a healing salve for these injuries?"

"Aye."
He pointed to his sea chest, which, having been moved by some of the men, now
sat in the stern. "In there."

Rhowenna
turned and, kneeling, slowly lifted the lid of his sea chest, feeling a sudden
awkwardness as she did so, an unwelcome sense of prying and yet also of
intimacy as she fumbled through his belongings, searching
for the healing
salve. His sea chest was nearly empty, containing little more than a change of
clothes and a purse that, by the look and feel of it, held no more than a few
coins at most. Wulfgar was not a rich man, she judged, only a bold one, a
warrior bent on seizing what he could so that he might rise in rank and power—
as he had seized her and the
Dragon's Fire,
and would no doubt take the
markland of his lord, Olaf the Sea Bull. Perhaps Morgen was right, and Wulfgar
had offered her, Rhowenna, his protection and assistance because he sought her
ransom for himself alone. She could not deny the possibility. Still, she must
admit that so far he had kept her safe, as he had promised; so what did it
matter if he was motivated to do so by greed instead of kindness?

Taking
up the small clay jar of healing salve, she uncorked it and sniffed it
tentatively, recognizing the scents of various herbs with medicinal properties.
Satisfied that the jar contained nothing harmful— with which she might be
accused of poisoning Wulfgar— Rhowenna dipped her fingers into the healing
salve and began to spread it on his injuries.

"The
wounds are not serious and will not require bandaging," she observed when
she was finished. Replacing the cork in the jar,
she returned the healing salve
to his sea chest and closed the lid. "They need only to be kept clean to
avoid infection."

"You
are wise as well as beautiful. I thank you, lady."

"Then...
grant me a small boon as a token of your gratitude, Wulfgar Bloodaxe,"
Rhowenna dared to entreat; for although he had claimed her as his slave, she
knew that she could never accept that role willingly, that she must not permit
herself to forget that she was the princess of Usk.

"What
is it?" he asked, his eyes narrowed, so that she understood that he was
not so bewitched by her beauty that he would allow her to make a fool of him.
She was glad then that she had not demeaned herself by trying.

"Only
this: that I and the other women no longer be kept bound hand and foot. Your
men are many, and my women are few in comparison, and this vessel, this...
Dragon's Fire,
is many leagues
out to sea, besides. There is no hope of our overpowering or escaping from you.
Surely, then, we may be permitted some freedom of movement so we can more
properly bathe and tend our own wounds?" Wisely, she asked for no more
than this, knowing that to demand that the women be returned to Usk, or at
least left alone at night, would prove fruitless.