Brandewyne, Rebecca (31 page)

"I
hope that you are right, Yelkei." Wulfgar's face was grave with worry as
he gazed down at Rhowenna, who wept quietly against his chest. "For she
who took my lady's place was ridden hard at the battle of Usk— and mayhap even
before, if I am any judge of a maiden— and so Ragnar and Ivar will learn if
they seek to climb into her saddle. But you are right; I must see to my lady.
Come,
kjœreste.
Let
me put you to bed." Sweeping Rhowenna up in his arms, he carried her
unprotesting figure into the sleeping chamber and laid her gently on the bed,
the touch of his hand a loving caress as he brushed her hair back from her face
and the tears from her cheeks. "Oh, sweeting, what I would give to have it
all to do again!" he whispered fiercely, anguished by the shock and agony
that filled her wide violet eyes. "I would not so much as breathe your
name to Olaf the Sea Bull!"

"And
what would that change, Wulfgar, save that I, not Morgen, would now be in
the cruel hands
of Ragnar Lodbrók and Ivar the Boneless? Usk would still lie in ruins; my
parents... my parents would still be... dead— Ivar would still have killed
them—" Sobbing softly again, Rhowenna closed her eyes, feeling as though a
ponderous weight were bearing down on her, crushing her, as she thought of her
father and mother, images she could not put from her mind: her father, laughing
in his great hall, wine cup in hand; her mother sitting before the large loom,
her beautiful face illuminated by the fire and the candlelight. "Oh,
Wulfgar, it hurts," she said, reaching instinctively for his hand, for
comfort. "It hurts so bad."

"I
know,
elsket,
I
know. So I felt when, as a lad, I lost my mother, Goscelin. Here."
Gathering Rhowenna in his arms, Wulfgar lifted her a little, so she was cradled
against him. "Here is Yelkei with the sleeping potion. Do you drink it
down now, and try to rest."

Obediently,
Rhowenna did as he commanded, too dazed by the day's events, too grief-stricken
to object. She did not care if the yellow slave, Yelkei, poisoned her; she even
half hoped that it was so, although she could think of no reason why the old
woman would want to do such a thing, save that Yelkei was a witch, and
therefore wicked, in league with the devil. For how else could
she have known
that Rhowenna, not Morgen, was the princess of Usk? But when she looked up at
the old woman's wrinkled moon face, into her perceptive black eyes, Rhowenna
saw nothing but kindness and pity, and she felt suddenly ashamed of her
suspicion.

"You
need not fear, lady. 'Tis only a mixture of herbs and spices," Yelkei told
her, as though reading her mind. "For all that Wulfgar blames me for what
was the gods' decree, I wish you no harm. You will sleep now— and dream no
dreams."

And
at last, it was as Yelkei had predicted: Rhowenna did sleep— and she did not
dream.

Surrender the
Night

The
Shores of the Skagerrak, the Northland, A.D. 865

Now
that Ivar the Boneless had ridden away with the woman he thought was the
princess of Usk, Wulfgar knew he and his markland would be safe for a time from
Ragnar Lodbrók and the army of mercenaries he had been amassing since his
return from the Southlands. Wulfgar would have liked nothing better than to
slay Ivar and the band of
thegns
who had accompanied him, and might have
done so with few losses to his own warriors. But that would have brought Ragnar
down upon him; and even while aboard the
Dragon's Fire,
Wulfgar had
known he and his men were no match for Ragnar's larger forces. If Ragnar
marched upon him, Wulfgar would be defeated and probably killed in the
battle. Even
so, only the thought of what Rhowenna would suffer should that prove his fate
had compelled him to stay his hand against his half brother; for he would
rather have wandered the Shore of Corpses to the barred gates of Hel than to
have swallowed his pride and stood silently by, while Ivar had manhandled both
Rhowenna and Morgen. Yet to have acted, as reckless Flóki would have done,
would have been foolhardy, Wulfgar knew. Still, he felt guilty and ashamed that
he had done nothing, that Rhowenna had learned in so cruel a manner of her
parents' deaths, and that he had allowed Morgen to be carried away from Flóki,
who so plainly loved and desired her.

"Curse
you, Wulfgar! If you balked at slaying Ivar because he is your half brother,
why did you not let me do the deed?" Flóki asked angrily later.
"Gladly would I have slit his throat or driven my blade through his heart—
and well you know it!"

"Aye,
as would I also have done, for there is no love lost between Ivar and me—"

"Then,
why—"

"You
know why, Flóki!" Wulfgar snarled, scowling darkly. "And if you
don't, you're a fool! Ivar is not just my half brother, but the son and heir of
my father, the great Ragnar Lodbrók, a
konungr
of the
Northland. Even
my half brother Halfdan, who is so ambitious and hungry for power that he would
gladly slay Ivar and Ubbi both to claim Ragnar's throne, does not dare to lift
a hand against Ivar for fear of our father's reprisals. Are you so eager to lie
in the arms of a Valkyrie that you would have Ragnar come here with his army of
thegns
and mercenaries to slaughter us all like sheep, as Ivar did the
men of Usk?"

"Nay,
of course not. But neither would I see the princess of Usk held at Ragnar's and
Ivar's mercy!" Like a caged beast, Flóki paced the floor, restless and
agitated.

"Nor
would I; but there was no other choice, and so I did what I must.
A jarl
cannot think
only of himself, Flóki, but must think of those who are bound to him, as well.
Still, Yelkei has spoken truly, I believe; the princess is in no danger at the
moment. Unlike Ivar, Ragnar will not be so desirous of harming one who may yet
be of use to him."

"Aye,
well, I hope that you are right, lord." Flóki's reply, while grudging, was
calmer at least. "For I did not like Ivar's behavior toward the princess,
as though she were a common slave he might have as he pleased, and no royal
maiden at all!"

"We
will get her back," Wulfgar insisted stoutly. "In the meanwhile, we
must concentrate
on completing the new longship, so 'twill be ready if Ragnar decides to declare
war on us, or to see us all branded as outlaws by the
Thing
so that we
are compelled to flee from the Northland."

Together
in silence, each dwelling on his own thoughts, the two men walked down to the
strand, where, resting on its log rollers, the new longship that Wulfgar had
ordered built was slowly taking shape. Soon, it would be completed; and as he
gazed at it, his heart burst with pride stronger than any he had ever before
felt. Not only was the vessel his own, but also of his own design. Eirik and
his cadre of woodcarvers had outdone themselves to bring it to fruition,
Wulfgar thought, as he looked up at the towering stempost and sternpost that
seemed to pierce the sky. The dragon's-head stempost was long; the mouth was
open, breathing wooden flames; the dragon's outstretched neck was gracefully
curved and unusually notched down its length with scales that stood upright;
its throat was deeply and beautifully chiseled with countless runes and other
magic symbols and scenes of battle and of tales of the gods. The bow of the
longship formed the beast's belly; and along the vessel's sides, Eirik and the
rest had engraved a set of sweeping wings, so it appeared as though the mighty
creature had
folded them against her body. Also notched with upright scales, the
dragon's-tail sternpost rose behind, culminating in a triangular point. Never
had there been a longship so magnificent; even Ragnar's own great vessel would
pale to insignificance alongside it, Wulfgar told himself. In honor of
Rhowenna, he had decided to call it the
Siren's Song.

A
basket
in hand, she and several of the other slave women had come down to the beach
from the longhouse, to catch fish and to gather seaweed in preparation for the
mørketiden,
the long, dark
winter that would soon be upon them. Already, the days had grown cool and
shorter; the leaves had begun to turn on the deciduous trees of the dark
forests; and snow had fallen in upper reaches of the mountains. Presently,
winter would spread its white mantle over the heaths, the meres, and even the
strands. Before then, cattle, sheep, pigs, and chickens must be butchered; game
from the woods must be hunted and killed; and fish must be speared or netted,
all to be preserved by being dried and smoked, salted, or pickled, and sealed
in barrels or jars so there would be food enough to last through the long
months of winter and none on the markland would go hungry. Vegetables, fruits,
and grains, too, must be prepared and hoarded.

Now,
as Wulfgar watched Rhowenna at her work, he thought that even had he not loved
and desired her, he would have been a fool not to have kept her with him; for
truly, he could not have accomplished half so much or managed the markland half
so well without her guidance. The knowledge and training she had received as
the princess of Usk had proved invaluable to him, and he had not hesitated to
make use of it. As, with his stern but fair authority, he had won the hearts of
his people, so she had won them with her goodness and gentleness and grace; and
if she were at times proud, stubborn, and defiant, well, were not those faults
his own, also? Aye, he had chosen well, he thought. He and she were like what
the
Víkingrs
called
hacksilver, two halves of the same coin. If only Rhowenna would come to see
that, would agree to be his wife, and would yield to him in bed, gladly would
he go down to the barred gates of Hel at his death, having known on earth the
blessings of Odinn's Valhöll.

Sensing
Wulfgar's eyes upon her, Rhowenna glanced up from where she waded in the
seawater off the shore, her long skirts drawn up and tucked into a belt she had
borrowed from his coffer and fastened about her hips. She shivered as she
looked at him, but it was not from the cold water that lapped
about her bare
legs, and not with the fear of him that she had felt in the beginning, but with
an ache that deep down inside, she knew was both love and longing for him. If
she were honest with herself, she could no longer deny that. Despite
everything, Wulfgar had found his way into her heart, and she could not now
imagine her life without him. Over and over, she had told herself that she was
vulnerable because of her deep grief at the deaths of her parents, that she had
become like a coracle adrift upon madding seas— blown off course, lost, and
alone— and he was like a haven in the storm. But in her heart of hearts,
Rhowenna knew that it was more than that. Still, she withheld herself from him,
anguished and afraid. Wulfgar was her enemy, her captor. How could she have
forgotten that? How could she have fallen in love with him?

He
was nothing at all like Gwydion, nothing at all like any man she had ever
before known, able to swing a warrior's battle-ax at one moment and to sing a
bard's song the next. Despite herself, the juxtaposition intrigued her, as the
man himself fascinated her. Surreptitiously, through the ebony strands of hair
that had come loose from her braid, she studied him, her eyes drinking him in.
Tall, fair, and handsome, he stood with his head
thrown back, his long mane of
hair gleaming golden in the sun and rippling like wheat in the wind, as the
hard muscles in his strong, supple body rippled with his every movement,
speaking to something within her that yearned wistfully to answer, a slow, swooning
sensation that made her feel as though she were melting inside, trickling down
into one of the quiet pools of the Northland forests. His blue eyes shone with
pride and excitement at the longship of which he would soon be master. The
vessel was nearly finished. The hard work was done; the rest was simply a race
against time now, until winter fell.

Winter.
Rhowenna could hardly believe that so much time had passed since Wulfgar had
abducted her from her home. Once, she had prayed desperately to go back to Usk,
and he had had no longship in which to take her. Now that he would soon have a
vessel, she had no home to return to. Ivar the Boneless had destroyed it. The
first messenger Wulfgar had sent to Usk had not come back; perhaps he had been
killed in the melee when Ivar had descended upon the small kingdom. After Ivar
had taken Morgen away, Wulfgar had dispatched another messenger to Usk, in an
attempt to discover if anyone or anything had survived the battle with Ivar.
But there had not yet been enough time for the
messenger to get there and back;
and Rhowenna held out little hope that when he did return, his report would
contradict Ivar's story. All she had cared for, all that had mattered to her
was gone; she had no one and nothing save Wulfgar.

Abruptly
startled from her reverie by the sound of shouts, she spied Naddod racing down
the shore, his sealskin boots sending foam and sand flying. Something had
happened, she realized, glancing around fearfully, thinking that perhaps Ragnar
Lodbrók and Ivar the Boneless had decided to march on Wulfgar's markland, after
all. Leaving her half-full basket on the strand, she, too, began to run toward
Wulfgar, instinctively relying on him to protect her. But then she understood
at last what Naddod was yelling and that, to her relief, they were not under
attack.