Brandewyne, Rebecca (22 page)

"Cerdic
of Mercia is a prince and soon to be my husband— not a heathen marauder who
savagely plundered my father's kingdom, committing mayhem and murder before
kidnapping me
to hold me hostage for ransom!"

"Lady,
if I thought that such would bring about your surrender, gladly would I marry
you and make you a queen of the Northland, I swear it! Only tell me that you
will be mine, and when I sit upon the high seat in Olaf the Sea Bull's great
mead hall, you shall sit at my side as my bride— and not at my feet as my
slave."

"You
are mad!" Rhowenna cried softly, stricken by the sudden, unwelcome,
unnerving thought that perhaps Wulfgar would force her to undergo some pagan
wedding ceremony and then proclaim her his wife, his for the taking if she
dared to refuse him.

"Mad
with wanting you, lady? Aye, I'll not deny it. To look at you is to feel a
thunderbolt from Thor's hammer, Mjöllnir, coursing through my blood and my
loins. Lying beside you these past nights and willing myself not to touch you,
to take you, has been an unbearable torture to my heart and soul. Yet have I
compelled myself to endure it— for your sake— and claimed no more than a few
kisses from your lush red mouth that, soft and trembling, invites the hard feel
of a man's certain possession. As that fox-hunting hound strains at its leash,
lady, so do I chafe impatiently at my own restraint where you are concerned,
longing to be rid of it. Do
you think that Cerdic of Mercia will prove any
different, that he will want less of you than I? You do not love him— how can
you when you do not even know him? And if your father were willing to marry you
to one sea wolf, why not to another? What does it matter if 'tis I and not
Prince Cerdic to whom you plight your troth?"

To
her despair, Rhowenna had no good answer to that.

"It
matters," she insisted, the words sounding lame even to her own ears.

"In
time, 'twill cease to," came the sure, cavalier response.

"You
are arrogant, Wulfgar Bloodaxe."

"And
you are proud, lady, and strong-willed. But my own will is stronger, as you
will come to learn, as the fox learns of the will of the hound when the chase
is done and she is run to ground by him. Yield to me, lady! You will not regret
it, I swear it!"

"Nay,
I cannot! I will not!" Rhowenna's face was anguished as she spoke the
words, and her mouth quivered, her white throat worked, so Wulfgar knew she was
more tempted by his offer than she would have him believe.

Without
a doubt, her future must look very bleak to her at the moment, with her being
so very far from home and not knowing
whether, in truth, her betrothed or her
father would pay the ransom demanded for her safe return. The idea of being
his, Wulfgar's, bride instead of his slave must therefore hold a certain
undeniable appeal, which he had counted on. That Rhowenna had rejected him
annoyed but did not truly trouble him. He had not expected her acceptance, but
only hoped to give her food for thought, to weaken her resolve. Satisfied that
he had accomplished this, Wulfgar spoke no more, but turned his attention to
the sounder in the bow, watching for the signal that would indicate that they
were nearing the shoals, that the sea had grown shallow enough that the sail
must be lowered, the rudder raised, and the oars put to use. When the time
came, he gave the orders easily, with an authority and assurance he had not so
much felt as pretended in the beginning, after he had fought Knut Strongarm for
captaincy of the vessel.

In
the end, when the
Dragon's
Fire
was
at last moored to the wharf that stretched into the sea, Wulfgar took
possession of Olaf the Sea Bull's markland just as easily, somewhat astonished
by how simple it proved. It was as Yelkei had told Wulfgar: Olaf's wife and
sons were dead; the husbands of his daughters had the spines of jellyfish, and
as they had not protested his assuming command
of the
Dragon's Fire,
they
did not now voice objection to his seizing Olaf's markland, but slunk away home
to their wives. So there was no great battle as Wulfgar had half feared. In
fact, no man resisted him as, after the traditional wassailing in the Sacred
Grove on Olaf's markland to give thanks to the gods for a successful voyage and
raid, Wulfgar strode through the gates of Olaf's palisade and into the great
mead hall of the
hof.
The
thegns
and freedmen left behind to
guard the longhouse in Olaf's absence were stunned and disarranged by the news
of their master's death. Instinctively, they looked for guidance and did not
question Wulfgar's commands, which the warriors who had been aboard the
longship were seen to obey without hesitation. Only Olaf's concubine, Ingeborg,
protested, shrieking and tearing like a crazy woman at her long, greying blond
hair— although not from any real grief at Olaf's demise, Wulfgar soon
discerned, but from fear of what was to become of her now that her paramour was
dead.

Disgusted,
Wulfgar slapped her across the face to bring her to her senses, then directed
her to pack her clothes and jewels, and to be gone from the
hof
within the hour—
he cared not to where. Olaf's concubine was not the woman Wulfgar wanted as
mistress of
his longhouse. Ingeborg was sly and grasping; he felt sure she had cheated Olaf
outrageously over the years, hoarding much of what the Sea Bull had given her
to manage the
hof
and to spend in the marketplaces. Wulfgar was equally
certain that once she had departed, Ingeborg would waste no time in hurrying to
Ragnar's longhouse to inform him of her master's death and Wulfgar's claiming
of Olaf's markland. Still, there was no way, Wulfgar knew, that he could
prevent that news from spreading like wildfire, so it seemed a wasted effort to
try. The most he could realistically hope for was that neither Ragnar nor Ivar
had yet returned from raiding the Southlands, thereby giving him time to secure
his position as the markland's
jarl
and to fortify the palisade against
his father and half brothers in case they should decide to march forth and
attack him. At the very least, they were bound to come to demand that he
relinquish the prize he had snatched from them— the princess of Usk— and if he
did not deliver her up to them, they would surely declare war against him.
Worse, perhaps they would even call for an assembly of the
Thing
and
insist that he be branded an outlaw. Then he would be an outcast in the
Northland, driven from his markland, deserted by his men, unprotected by the
laws, having no rights whatsoever, no hope of succor from even the lowliest
slave, upon pain of death for any and all who aided and abetted him. Wulfgar
would not let that happen.

He
gave instructions for ox-carts to be driven to the beach so the goods aboard
the
Dragon's
Fire
could
be unloaded, as well as the decaying bodies in the shallow cargo hold. Then,
with great reluctance, he ordered the mighty longship itself dragged onto the
shores of the Skagerrak, for interment in the burial mound of Olaf the Sea
Bull. Wulfgar could not dishonor his dead lord by doing any less. Still, he
deeply regretted the loss of the vessel, his first command, and resolved to set
the men to work building another longship as soon as possible. In the
meanwhile, there was much to be done to put the markland in order. Many of the
fields lay fallow and needed to be planted, come next spring; byres and fences were
tumbling down, and the
hof
itself was a veritable pigsty. It was no
wonder, he thought as he abruptly viewed the longhouse through Rhowenna's
assessing eyes, that as she gazed about the dismal great mead hall, she looked
so disheartened, her mouth and shoulders drooping.

"Lady,
I would you had received a better welcome," he told her gently. "As
you can see, my lord, Olaf the Sea Bull, had little
care for aught
beyond his cups and comfort. But now that I am
jarl
here, I will soon
set matters aright."

Before
Rhowenna could respond, Ingeborg reappeared from the lord's private sleeping
chamber beyond the great mead hall, bearing a large jewel chest and still
shrilling about the treatment she had received at Wulfgar's callous hands. In
her wake trailed several slaves she had pressed into service, dragging her
heavily laden coffers between them. She cast at Wulfgar a glance of utter
loathing before tossing her head and flouncing out of the
hof.
From beyond its
low doorway, with wry amusement, he heard her commandeering two of the ox-carts
to carry her and her possessions away; he made no attempt to countermand her
orders, thinking himself lucky to be well rid of her and with so little
trouble.

"Come,
lady." Wulfgar held out one hand to Rhowenna, leading her reluctantly
drawn figure into the gloomy sleeping chamber Ingeborg had vacated. "Since
I have claimed you as my slave, and mine alone, this is where you will sleep—
with me," he announced casually, "for the women in the slave pens may
be used freely by the
thegns,
and
so I will not have you there. That being the case, if you would be comfortable
this night, you
would do well to clean my sleeping chamber first, before attending to my great
mead hall. Also, my men and I will be hungry tonight and will expect to be well
fed, so you had best see to the kitchen, as well. You may have as many of the
other slaves as you need to help you with your tasks; I will ensure that they
follow your directions."

"I
am— I am to be as mistress here, then?" Rhowenna asked tentatively, still
not quite certain of the role he meant her to play.

"Aye,
that is my desire. I have just thrown Olaf's shrewish concubine out on her ear,
and there is no other woman here with your knowledge of how to manage a lord's
household, lady. In this way will you earn your keep while you are under my
protection."

"And
is it your intention that I— that I earn it also in your bed, my lord?"
Now that he was a
jarl
of
the Northland, she could address him thus, as his rank alone demanded, without
feeling she demeaned herself by speaking the title.

"If
that is
your
desire,
lady."

"
'Tis not— and well you know it!"

"Aye,
for so you have told me often enough. Still, 'tis a woman's prerogative to
change her mind, and that, you will do in time, I am thinking." He reached
out and, with his hand, cupped her chin, tilting her
face up to his
and running his thumb slowly across her lower lip. "I have learned that
much comes to a man who waits, as a wise wolf bides patiently among the reeds
at the edge of the mere, waiting for the lone swan to draw near before pouncing
on it."

His
analogy was all too clear. Her eyes flashing sparks, her cheekbones high with
color, Rhowenna jerked her head away from him, causing him to laugh softly.

"I
am not so unwary as your careless swan, my lord!"

"Not
now, perhaps," Wulfgar conceded. "But 'twill take time to send
messages to Mercia and Walas, to Prince Cerdic and to your father, time for
their replies to reach us here in the Northland, time for you to be safely
returned to them if the ransom demanded for you is paid— in short, time enough
for much to happen, much to change between us, lady. Time, you see, is on
my
side, and 'tis a
powerful ally, as you will come to learn. Meanwhile, I will wait and watch,
like the wolf who stalks the swan."

"And
I will wait and watch, also, my lord," Rhowenna rejoined, falsely sweet,
"for the time when I may take flight, homeward bound."

At
that, Wulfgar's mocking smile turned so abruptly to a dark scowl that she could
not restrain
the mirth that bubbled from her throat at her having got a bit of her own back
against him. It was, Wulfgar realized suddenly, the first time he had ever
heard her laugh; and her face, as lovely and distant as the swan to which he
had likened her, was transformed with radiance and warmth, growing even more
beautiful, he reflected, like the frosty, breathtaking beauty of the tundra
when touched by the midnight sun. He inhaled sharply at the sight of her, her
head thrown back a little, the slender white column of her swan's throat bared,
her eyes half closed, her moist mouth parted. So would she look when being made
love to by a man, he thought, and he felt his loins tighten with desire for
her, and a sudden, wild urge to throw her down where she stood and to claim her
as his, only his, forever his. Something of this must have shown upon his face,
Wulfgar recognized; for after a long moment, Rhowenna's laughter slowly died
away, and she stared up at him breathlessly, as still as a startled doe poised
for flight, the tiny pulse at the hollow of her throat fluttering like the
wings of a moth beating helplessly against a flame.

"Lady...
Rhowenna..." he murmured, his voice low and thick, speaking her name for
the first time, so she would know that
now that he was a
jarl,
he
considered himself her equal.

His
eyes darkened with passion as he drew her into his arms, his fingers entangling
the tresses at her temples, turning her face up to his, his mouth finding hers,
his tongue cleaving her lips, thrusting deep into the dark, moist cavity of
her, seeking... finding. The taste of her was sweeter than costly Rhenish wine,
he thought, and he savored it, only dimly aware of her small fists hammering
against his broad chest as she struggled to free herself from his strong
embrace— futilely. For Wulfgar did not release her, but went on kissing her
hungrily until at long last, with a long, soughing moan of helplessness and
defeat, Rhowenna melted against him, her hands slipping up to twine about his
neck. Her fingers burrowed in his long mane of tawny hair, twisting and
tightening convulsively as his tongue wreathed hers, searching out the
innermost secrets of her mouth until her lips softened beneath his, yielded
tremulously, a scarlet rosebud unfurling to surrender the nectar at its heart.
She gasped for breath. Feverishly, his mouth burned across her cheek to her
temple then, pressed kisses upon the silky strands of her hair, her shell-like
ear. The scent of her was intoxicating; she smelled of soap and sunshine
and spindrift.
Gently, Wulfgar bit her earlobe and felt his blood leap and surge as she
inhaled raggedly and shuddered hard against him, her full breasts soft and
swelling against his chest, exciting him beyond belief. He bent her back, his
lips sweeping down her throat to those breasts with which Rhowenna taunted and
tempted him so unconsciously, he was sure, unaware of how alluring they felt to
him, their nipples taut and straining against the light woolen fabric of her
gown, hard twin little peaks he longed to nibble with his teeth, to suck with
his mouth, and to lave with his tongue until she moaned and writhed beneath him
with a desire to match his own. He buried his face between her breasts, his
hands sliding down to her shoulders, tugging impatiently at the sleeves of the
gown he yearned to tear away from her savagely, stripping her naked.