Brandewyne, Rebecca (35 page)

So
thinking, he jerked Morgen up from where she sat at his feet and, throwing her
roughly over his shoulder, carried her into his sleeping chamber, shouting back
to his sons that they could have her when he was finished with her. It was all
Flóki could do then to keep from running after Ragnar and cutting him down; but
that would have been to sign his own death warrant, as well, and he was not
quite so rash as that. Instead, in all the cacophony, he slipped from the great
mead hall and sneaked around the side of the
hof to
the exterior
door of Ragnar's sleeping chamber. It was fortunate, Flóki thought, that Ragnar
had not decided to rape Morgen in front of all his warriors, and so had taken
her to his sleeping chamber; no doubt, he had feared he had drunk so much that
his shaft might fail him, provoking his men to laughter and jesting at his own
expense. Stealthily, Flóki pressed his ear to the door and tried the handle to
be certain it was not locked. It was not. After a few minutes, when he heard
screams and what was clearly a struggle inside, he quietly eased open the door
and stepped into the sleeping chamber. Ragnar had Morgen down on the bed and
was tearing at her clothes, so intent on sating his lust that he did not hear
the intruder. Again, Flóki thought about drawing his
broadsword. But
slaying a king was a serious crime indeed; and finally, he contented himself
with creeping up on Ragnar and, with a heavy soapstone wine cup that lay on the
floor, bashing him over the head, knocking him unconscious. With a groan,
Ragnar rolled slowly off Morgen, falling with a thud to the floor, his head
bleeding profusely from the wound Flóki had inflicted. Morgen's eyes were
filled with fury and fright. But then she recognized Flóki.

"Shhhhh,"
he hissed, holding a warning finger to his lips. "Come on. I'm taking you
out of here— now." Grabbing up one of the pelts from the bed, he
continued, "I needs must bundle you up in this, lady, so no one will see
you and try to prevent us from leaving.

"What
about the King?" Morgen asked, looking with disgust at Ragnar's senseless
form.

"If
we're lucky, he'll be unconscious for hours, with no one the wiser; for no man—
except perhaps Ivar the Boneless— will be brave enough to interrupt what all
think is going on in here. By the time Ragnar finally does wake up, we'll be
long gone."

Flóki
wrapped Morgen up in the fur, then carried her outside, where he slung her over
the front of his saddle, hoping that the sentries
in Ragnar's watchtowers would
not remember whether he had had the pelt thrown across his horse when he had
ridden in. It was becoming dark now, so perhaps the guards would not be able to
see him very well, or would be so busy quaffing wine or ale to warm themselves
on this chilly evening that they would not bother looking too closely at him.
To his relief, his luck held. Spying him coming, the gatekeepers merely opened
the gates to allow him to pass, waving him on through and paying no attention
when he galloped by. He could hardly believe he and Morgen had made good their
escape, and so easily. Once they were out of sight of Ragnar's palisade, Flóki
drew his steed to a halt and unrolled Morgen from the pelt so she could finish
the remainder of the ride mounted pillion behind him.

"There
will be a moon, lady," he observed as he gazed at the swiftly darkening
sky. "We will be able to make it to Wulfgar's markland this night."

"And
then? What then, Flóki?" Morgen's face was anxious.

He
shook his head, his own dark, handsome visage creased with worry now that he
considered the enormity of what he had done in attacking his king and stealing
away the princess of Usk.

"I
don't know, lady. I don't know."

Then,
setting his heels to his horse's sides, he urged the animal on across the
frost-encrusted heaths, racing the darkness and the moon rising slowly on the
horizon.

* * * * *

There
was nothing to do but to make a run for it, Wulfgar thought, his heart heavy as
he listened to the story told by Flóki and Morgen. The crime Flóki had
committed of assaulting his king was so terrible that Ragnar would not be
satisfied with less than Flóki's death by the Blood Eagle, a hideous ritual.
Wulfgar could not allow that to happen to Flóki, who had been his staunch
supporter from the time of the duel with Knut Strongarm aboard the
Dragon's Fire.
Further, even if
Flóki alone were to flee and Morgen return to Ragnar, since Flóki was Wulfgar's
second-in-command, entrusted to deliver the message from Usk, Ragnar was sure
to claim that Wulfgar was behind Flóki's actions, to use the attack as an
excuse to march on Wulfgar's markland, to have him branded an outlaw by the
Thing.
The risk of
remaining in the Northland was now too great even to consider; they must all
flee and hope that Ragnar and his sons did not pursue them.

Wulfgar's
longship, the
Siren's
Song,
was
finished, although she still sat on her log rollers
upon the
strand, unconsecrated, not yet named ceremoniously, unsoaked by the sea, her
maiden voyage not yet made. He had planned to sail the vessel following his
wedding rite, perhaps on a seal hunt in the Grey and Frozen seas, to test her.
But there was no time for that now. They must put to sea and hope that the
longship proved herself worthy of a
Víkingr.

"But
it means giving up everything you have gained, Wulfgar!" Rhowenna
exclaimed, anguished, when he announced the decision he had made.

"Elsket,
'tis
a great loss to me, aye. But it does not matter, if only we are together. What
will become of you if Ragnar marches on my markland or persuades the
Thing
to proclaim me
an outlaw? Nay, I cannot risk that. I
will
not. Go now. Gather those
possessions you need most. We shall not sleep this night, but must make haste
to escape before Ragnar wakes or is discovered before the dawn."

Seeing
Wulfgar's determination, Rhowenna knew that it was useless to argue with him,
and silently, she went to do as he had bade her, her heart overflowing with
love and pain. That he should give up for her all he had gained was to her the
greatest of both joys and sorrows; she could not help but think
of Gwydion in
comparison, whose own sacrifice in running away with her would have been small
and yet who had not been willing to make it, rejecting and abandoning her to
Prince Cerdic. Only Wulfgar had proved himself constant, and Rhowenna had never
loved him more than she did in that moment.

By
the light of the pale, sickly moon that had risen in the night sky, augmented
by whale-oil lamps that flickered in the moaning wind, the longship was loaded
and provisioned, then shoved over its log rollers into a sea that shone silvery
dark and cold, roiling and white with foam. The vessel rocked on the waves,
tugging so hard at the mooring ropes the
thegns
had tethered to
temporary posts driven into the sand that it seemed it would tear free and take
with it the only chance at escape. Rhowenna's heart pounded as she saw how
violently the longship heaved on the rough water, for she knew that this was a
bad time to be out on the sea, that even the
Víkingrs
did not care to
take such a chance unless compelled to.

Wulfgar
was shouting orders, the words ripped away by the wind, his face grim. Flóki was
doing the work of ten men, in an attempt to make up for all the trouble he had
caused. He knew that it was bad luck, an offense against the gods to set sail
in a vessel that
had not yet been consecrated or named in the sacred ritual; that for that reason,
many of the warriors would consider the longship accursed; and, considering
that if they embarked upon this voyage, they might be leaving their homeland
forever, they would refuse to sail upon the
Siren's Song,
perhaps even
rendering the vessel shorthanded. Then Wulfgar would be forced to press his
male slaves into service. But in the end, there were enough
thegns
to
man the oars, although the shifts would have to be staggered.

Shivering,
Rhowenna stood with her white bearskin cloak pulled close about her to ward off
the chill. She could hardly believe that the events of this night were taking
place, were real; everything seemed to have happened so fast. She was almost as
sick and frightened as she had been when the Northmen had descended upon Usk;
for although she had never thought to call it so, the Northland had become her
home. Glancing back toward the heath, she could see in the distance the
palisade that surrounded the
hof
upon which she and Wulfgar had
worked so hard, where they had built so much, planning a life together. Tears
started in her eyes. Somehow, it was like losing Usk all over again; and when
Wulfgar gathered her up in his arms to carry her to the longship, she buried
her face
against his chest so he would not see how she wept for her own loss and his.
She must be strong, she told herself, as strong as he, who loved her so.

The
sea frothed and swirled about them; the vessel pitched so, that it was several
moments before he was able to hand her aboard. But finally, she and Morgen were
settled in the stern, as they had been once before, on their journey to the
Northland. As much for comfort and safety as for warmth, they huddled together
between the coffers and sea chests on the deck. Flóki joined the two women,
while Wulfgar took the tiller. Then, at last, the mooring ropes were cast off,
and to the soft, low beat of the drummer's instrument, the oarsmen began
quietly to row, the longship to move slowly out of the harbor, all aboard aware
that if anyone spied them sneaking away like thieves in the night, an
investigation would ensue and an alarm would doubtless be raised. But no one
ventured forth in the darkness, lamp in hand, to witness the passage of the
Siren's Song
and to wonder
why the vessel of the
jarl
Wulfgar
Bloodaxe had put out upon such a rough sea, on such a cold, windy night.

Wulfgar
did not know where they would go, although he had a vague notion of settling in
the Frankish kingdoms, in Normandy,
where many
Víkingrs
had already
carved out marklands for themselves. So he set a northerly course, intending to
follow the coast of the Northland up and across to the Shetlands and Orkneys,
and thence down the shoreline of Britain, rather than along those of Jutland
and Frisia, until he reached the Frankish kingdoms. He thought that this route
might help to throw Ragnar off the scent should he pursue them. It also meant
that if, instead, Ragnar, too, sailed down the coast of Britain, Wulfgar could
turn the
Siren's Song
east, across the savage North Sea if he was
compelled to, and end up, if the gods so willed, in harbors more familiar to
him, harbors more accustomed to the sight of long-ships moored at their
wharves, for the purpose of trading rather than raiding. Crossing the North Sea
was not a course Wulfgar liked to consider taking; for it was a rough sea,
frequently cloaked with mist and beset by storms, especially at this time of
year, and no
Víkingr
willingly ventured across it. But it would be
better than winding up as prisoners of Ragnar Lodbrók after the crime Flóki had
committed against him.

Shuddering
at the thought that Ragnar might somehow learn of Rhowenna's true identity,
Wulfgar decided that if worse came to worst and the
Siren's Song
was taken
captive
and boarded, he would slay Rhowenna himself rather than let her fall prey to
Ragnar and his sons. For if ever they discovered that she, the true princess of
Usk, had willingly married Wulfgar, they would see it as a sign that she had
considered him royal enough of lineage, blue enough of blood to claim her hand,
a legitimate heir to Ragnar's kingdom and throne; and her fate would be even
more cruel than slavery and whoredom. They would torture her and put her to
death, Wulfgar thought, for daring to wed an upstart who had dared to aim so
high. His child, too, if she even now carried a babe of his making, they would
not suffer to live, but would expose it to the elements or put it to the sword,
as was the custom for unwanted children in the Northland. As he glanced at
Rhowenna's face, small and ashen in the moonlight, Wulfgar shivered again with
fear for her; and he prayed to the gods that he would not be forced to kill
her, that they would escape Ragnar's long, vengeful arm to build a new home
together somewhere, some way.

But
to Wulfgar's despair, the gods chose not to hear his prayers; for a few days
later off the coast of Caledonia, when the grey dawn came, he spied in the
distance a widespread sail as crimson as his own, and he
recognized
Ragnar's mighty longship, which was lying in wait. Such was Ragnar's rage at
the assault upon him that he had gambled all on correctly guessing which course
Wulfgar would choose to set and had himself daringly crossed the North Sea at a
much wider point rather than to follow the safer shoreline route as Wulfgar
had. Ragnar was now hard on the heels of the
Siren's Song,
bearing down
rapidly from the northeast; and now Wulfgar wondered uneasily if his vessel
was, in fact, accursed because he had not consecrated her to the gods and named
her in accordance with the proper ritual.