Brandewyne, Rebecca (23 page)

"Lord?"
a voice called tentatively from beyond the hide-curtained doorway of the
sleeping chamber. "Lord?"

"Not
now, damn it!" Wulfgar snarled, his breath coming harsh and fast, his arms
tightening about Rhowenna, feeling her stiffen and, regaining her senses, begin
once more to struggle against him as the mood was inevitably lost, the spell
broken. Knowing that what they had shared could not be recaptured at the
moment, he reluctantly released her,
his eyes raking her intently,
ravenously, for a long moment before, with a muttered curse, he strode to the
doorway and murderously yanked back the curtain. "What in Hel is it?"

"Ah!
My timing is indeed as bad as I feared." Flóki the Raven took half a step
backward, a rueful smile playing about the corners of his lips, although his
eyes were wary, as though he believed he would be soundly cuffed or kicked for
the interruption. "I am sorry, lord, but as you gave no orders not to
disturb you, I thought that you would wish to know right away that Ingeborg
instructed the drivers of the ox-carts to convey her and her belongings to
Ragnar's mark-land."

"Aye...
I expected as much," Wulfgar said slowly, some of his anger draining away;
for in truth, had he wished to remain undisturbed, he ought to have given
orders to that effect. He was not yet accustomed either to the responsibilities
or to the privileges of his new rank as
jarl;
that he could demand that he be
left alone was an unfamiliar notion— one to be savored at his leisure. But
Flóki had been right to interrupt him with the news of Ingeborg's destination,
which would surely have an impact on them all.

"Do
you wish me to send riders after her
to bring her back, lord?" Flóki
asked.

"Nay,
for I'll not have her as mistress of my
hof
and she'll not be happy with less
than that, but stirring pots of trouble in the kitchen and sowing seeds of
dissension in the fields. Why Olaf ever tolerated her, I'm sure I do not know;
no doubt, she was why he spent so much of his time in his cups! Nay,
Flóki." He shook his head. "If not from Ingeborg, Ragnar will learn
soon enough from some other that I am
jarl
here now. Such news travels fast,
as will the news of our raid's success, also; so there is no point in chasing
after her. Let her go— but post men in the watchtowers to give warning if
Ragnar or his sons should approach."

"It
shall be done, lord," Flóki declared, then pivoted on his booted heel.

Allowing
the curtain to fall back into place then, Wulfgar turned back to Rhowenna,
acutely aware of how violently she trembled as he neared her. From the corners
of his eyes, he had watched how she had quickly turned from the doorway, so
Flóki would not see her disarray; and how, with shaking hands, she had fumbled
to draw up her sleeves and to smooth back into place the strands of her hair
that had been pulled loose from her long braid; and how she had then crossed
her arms over her breasts, hugging herself
tightly and swaying a little on her
feet, as though she would faint. Now, as she stood with her back to him, her
head bowed, Wulfgar almost took pity on her. She was yet innocent, a maiden,
and frightened by his passion for her. But then he thought of her lying in the
arms of Ragnar Lodbrók or Ivar the Boneless— or both— taught cruelly the
lessons he would teach her with such caring and tenderness; and he strengthened
his resolve to win her however he could.

"Lady...
Rhowenna..."He spoke quietly, noting sadly how she tensed as he laid his
hands upon her shoulders, caressing her lightly, pulling aside her braid to
brush his lips against her nape. "My desire for you is such that I press
you too hard, perhaps. I am a man, with a man's wants and needs, and I have not
had a woman since the festival of Eostre, this past spring— and never a woman
like you. Still, I will wait until you are ready and willing to receive me, as
I have said I would do. That being so, I will leave you now, so you may perform
the chores I have set for you— and if you would not bestir me to jealousy and
rage, do you keep your eyes cast down while about your work, like the modest
maiden I know you to be, and tempt no man upon my markland to forget that you
are my slave and woman. For
know you this, lady: I will slay the man who dares
to touch you, who would seek to earn your favor by helping you to escape from
me— and he will not die pleasantly, I promise you, but a death you will not
care to have upon your Christian soul. Do you understand?"

"Aye."
The word was soft, broken, her earlier defiance and laughter stilled now, as
though she feared to arouse him again.

And
Rhowenna had such apprehensions, for quite simply, she did not know if she was
strong enough to resist another such onslaught upon her senses. No man, not
even Gwydion, had ever dared to make so bold with her, to kiss her so fiercely,
so ardently, forcing her lips to part, to yield to his plundering tongue,
taking her breath— and her reason, scattering her senses to the four winds. She
could not seem to think when Wulfgar kissed her, but only to feel exquisite
sensations that he had wakened within her, a fire in her blood, spreading and
burning, charring her bones to ashes and leaving her weak, dizzy, pliant, as
fluid as quicksilver, like wet clay in his embrace, his to shape and to mold as
he willed. She was powerless against him, dependent upon him for her food, her
clothes, her very life; she should have hated him for that. She did not know
what was wrong
with her that she did not. She did not understand these strange, disturbing
emotions and sensations he evoked inside her. She thought she must be a wanton
or mad to feel as she did in the arms of her enemy, her captor, the man who had
stolen her from Usk and made of her a slave. Had Flóki the Raven not
interrupted them when he had, Rhowenna had no doubt that Wulfgar would in
moments have been forcing her down to slake his lust on her upon the pelts that
covered the pallet on the hard-packed earth floor.

At
the thought, she inhaled raggedly, one hand going to her tremulous mouth,
knuckles pressing hard to still the quivering of her lips, to hold back sobs of
confusion and despair. Presently, as she became aware of the silence in the
sleeping chamber, she realized dully that Wulfgar had indeed left her, slipped
away as quietly as a stealthy predator on the prowl; and recovering some of her
composure, she turned finally to the tasks he had assigned her.

Only
the burning whale-oil lamps that hung from the smoke-blackened, freestanding
poles that supported the thatched roof chased away the shadows with which the
sleeping chamber was long and dark. Little light came through the two small,
high-set windows that were
covered with pigs' bladders instead of being set
with glass. The room itself— little more than a lean-to attached to the great
mead hall, really— was sparsely furnished. Piled high with a multitude of
pillows and fur blankets, the huge, thick, eiderdown-stuffed wool pallet that
lay upon the floor was its only luxury. Other than this, the sleeping chamber
contained only a few coffers, low stools and cushions, and a big wooden bathtub
ringed with iron hoops. Striplike tapestries hung upon the walls; fur rugs were
scattered upon the floor, and in one corner was a small stone hearth. That was
all. When she thought of her own sleeping chamber in Usk, with its large bed,
wooden dressing table, polished bronze mirror, bronze bathtub, iron brazier,
and stone floor, she knew with certainty that she had come to a hard, barbaric
place, to a way of life much more difficult than she had known before Wulfgar
had swept her up in his arms and carried her on board the
Dragon's Fire.

The
great mead hall was as dark with gloom and smoke as the sleeping chamber, and
so was equally depressing, lacking even such basic furniture as the trestle
tables and benches that had filled her father's own great hall, although a
large loom stood in one corner. On the dais at the sleeping-chamber end,
between two massive, intricately carved pillars
there sat a high seat; but even
it was just a more elaborate version of the low stools to be seen elsewhere. At
the opposite end was the kitchen, no more than a small area separated by a
wooden screen from the rest of the great mead hall and boasting few
conveniences besides a shallow wooden tub for washing pots and dishes, which
were stored in chests that sat alongside barrels and jars of provisions. Just
beyond the kitchen, in the great mead hall itself, was a domed baking-oven of
stone. Save for that, meals themselves, it seemed, must be cooked over the
central hearth. Facing the kitchen was a modest storeroom, largely empty when
it ought to have been filled with supplies.

Everything
was layered with soot and dust, and festooned with cobwebs, as though it had
not been cleaned in many a long year; and Rhowenna knew she had her work cut
out for her. Hesitantly, remembering what had passed between them only moments
ago in the sleeping chamber, she approached Wulfgar, who stood to one side,
giving commands to his men. When he had finished, she asked him to translate
her instructions to the slaves allotted to assist her; and presently, several
women laden with cloths and pails of hot, sudsy water were busy scrubbing the
walls and the freestanding poles, while
others took down tapestries, carrying
them and the cushions and rugs outside to beat them vigorously until they were
free of their burden of dust. Still other women labored in the kitchen and at
the hearth and oven, preparing fruits and vegetables, roasting a sheep Wulfgar
had ordered slaughtered, and baking fresh bread for supper. Male slaves emptied
overflowing slop buckets and, armed with scythes and rakes, were dispatched to
the heaths and marshes to cut rushes to lay upon the floors, there being none
of the grassy plants dried and in storage, for this custom was not prevalent in
the Northland. The
thegns
and freedmen Wulfgar had put to work, as well,
cleaning weapons and armor, and repairing the palisade's fortifications. Only
Morgen, the "princess" of Usk, was spared from the hard chores, which
no doubt suited her just fine, Rhowenna thought with a trace of wry amusement
as she glanced at Morgen sitting idly on the edge of the dais, a piece of
tapestry that required mending half sliding from her lap, a cup of wine and a
bowl of fruits at her side.

Despite
their terrible ordeal, Morgen was obviously enjoying the role she played to the
hilt, her lovely face cool and haughty— so Rhowenna, stricken with a twinge of
guilt, wondered if she herself had often looked so
at her father's
royal manor, distant, disdainful; and she thought of Wulfgar's calling her
proud, and she knew in her heart that it was so. Generations of royal blood ran
in her veins, and all her life she had been made aware of that heritage and
taught to honor it. Now she was a captive, a slave, and she saw the world
through different eyes— not as the secure, happy world she had known, but as
one fraught with peril and hardship and suffering. No matter what happened, she
knew she would never again be the same woman she had been before the Northmen
had descended upon Usk. Much of her innocence of youth was now lost to her, she
realized, and she would never find it again. The thought saddened her; with
difficulty, she forced herself to put it from her mind, remembering suddenly
the words of advice her mother had often spoken to her:

Yesterday
is an old sheet of parchment whose words can never be rewritten or its mistakes
blotted clean; but tomorrow is a new page, and wise are those who take up
quills afresh instead of wasting precious time by rereading old scrolls long
yellowed with age.

She
would heed her mother's sage counsel, Rhowenna told herself fiercely. Come what
may, she would not look back, but only ahead. Determinedly, she pressed on with
her work.

It
was not, of course, to be supposed that the longhouse could be set to rights
within a day. But by the time the sun had dipped below the western horizon,
leaving behind a grey twilight that would not fade to darkness for many hours
still, she had made a good start. The
hof
at least was clean, and there was
a hot, appetizing supper waiting for Wulfgar and his men. They wolfed the meal
down with gusto, drinking and shouting and laughing boisterously as they
toasted one another to celebrate their successful voyage and raid, and told the
tale of their battle with the Usk men, which H
åkon, the
skáld,
wove into
a spirited song. Morgen had the good grace to blush when he sang her praises as
the "princess" of Usk.

Rhowenna
was both attracted and repelled by the
Víkingrs'
unbridled
behavior. Truly, she thought, they were savages, sitting cross-legged on their
cushions on the floor, using their strong hands to tear off huge chunks of the
meat roasting on the spit over the hearth, pouring onto their heads quantities
of wine and ale from overflowing horn cups, and openly kissing and fondling the
slave women, sometimes pulling them down upon the floor of the great mead hall
to slake their lust upon them, while the rest of the men roared encouragement
and approval. To Rhowenna,
seated on the dais at Wulfgar's feet, such raucous,
ribald revelry was shocking and mortifying. Her father's housecarls had never
demonstrated such lack of restraint. Still, she was forced to admit that the
Víkingrs
also possessed a vitality, a zest for life that she had seldom before
witnessed and that held its own strange, wild, earthy appeal; these were men
who lived hard and died hard, unafraid of what tomorrow might bring. There were
few warriors greater.