Brandewyne, Rebecca

Swan Road

Rebecca
Brandewyne

Standing
on the cliff edge, Rhowenna let her black hair blow wildly in the sea wind,
knowing the time for her destiny had come. Her gift of the Welsh "second
sight" had brought a vivid vision of her future: one of a man far more
passionate than the callous English prince who was her betrothed. Her true fate
must be with the raiding Norseman on the red-sailed ship she saw coming across
the sea... the blond-haired giant who stepped out of her dreams and into her
arms... the Viking Wulfgar Bloodaxe who was her enemy and wanted her to be his
mate. For here, at last, was a man able to ignite a desire no king could
extinguish, and no force on earth could end.

Copyright
© 1994 by Rebecca Brandewyne All rights reserved.

Published
in 1994 by arrangement with Warner Books, Inc.

Thorndike
Large Print Romance Series.

The
tree indicium is a trademark of Thorndike Press.

The
text of this Large Print edition is unabridged.

Other
aspects of the book may vary from the original edition.

Set
in 16 pt. News Plantin by Ginny Beaulieu.

Printed
in the United States on acid-free, high opacity paper.®

Library
of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Brandewyne,
Rebecca.

Swan
road / Rebecca Brandewyne. p. cm.

ISBN
0-7862-0132-0 (alk. paper : lg. print) 1. Large type books. I. Title.
[PS3552.R296S8 1994]

813'.54—dc20
 93-47341

For
Loyal and Use Gould, Basil C. Raffety, and in memory of Thomas H. Thompson, all
the best and wisest of mentors and friends. With much love and appreciation.

The Players

In
Walas:

Pendragon,
king of Usk,

Igraine,
queen of Usk, wife to King Pen-dragon

Their
daughter: Rhowenna, princess of Usk

Gwydion,
kinsman to the House of Pen-dragon

Morgen,
a serving woman

Father
Cadwyr, a priest

Owain,
a bard

In
Northumbria and Mercia:

Aella,
king of Northumbria

Cerdic,
a prince of Mercia

Mathilde,
a princess of Mercia, sister to Prince Cerdic

In
the Northland:

Ragnar
Lodbrók, a Viking
konungr

His
sons:

Ivar
the Boneless

Ubbi

Halfdan

The
Viking
jarlar:

Björn
Ironside

Flóki
the Raven Hasting

Olaf
the Sea Bull Wulfgar Bloodaxe

Yelkei,
a slave and spaewife

Swan Road

The
old gods touch her sleeping thoughts

With
a dream that soars on night's soft breath

'Neath
outstretched wings of long-necked swans

And
mighty dragons breathing fire and death

From
a-crest foam-flowered waves

Swelling
o'er seafarers' graves

Of
shifting bones that seaweed shrouds enwind.

By
fair winds caressed and deeply kissed,

Hoist'd
on high and billowing wide

Against
the sun-washed blue of summer skies,

Sails
spill like blood, a crimson tide

That
flows unchecked to distant strands,

And
in its wake, on violated sands,

In
silent voices speak the corpses left behind.

Yesterday's
princess is tomorrow's slave,

Quick
as the moment between beats of a heart

That
pounds with terror, blind and cruel,

And
weeps for lovers torn e'er apart

As
warriors, each riding serpent's spine,

Dismount
and plunge into frothy brine

That
seethes and swirls like a storm before

Violent
surge the sweeping combers in

Upon
what was, just past, the tranquil beach

O'er
which the misted mountains rose

And
palisade kept watch from falcons' reach.

Now
shouts a wild, barbaric cry—

And
from dying lips, the last, low sigh

Of
those who'll fight the battles brave no more.

With
baubles and bangles of amber and silver

And
a treasure far more precious than gold

Loaded
onto their longships of mammoth oaks felled,

Set
sail, homeward bound, those marauders so bold.

Swift
up the Swan Road do they flee,

North,
toward the white Frozen Sea,

At
whose edge lie the lands of the midnight sun,

Where
swords light the heav'ns when on
snowy steeds

Odinn's
Valkyries come to fetch home the slain,

And
in the great mead halls, by low-burning fires,

The
skalds
sing
a tale of Wulfgar the Dane And of fey Rhowenna the Fair;

Sweeter
than siren's snare,

Is
love when two hearts twine fore'er as one.

The Dream

The
Southern Coast of Usk, Walas, A.D. 865

Rhowenna
awoke with a start.

Panicked,
she gasped and cried out, sitting bolt upright in bed and clutching her fur
blankets tight against her trembling body. Wildly, she gazed about her shadowy
sleeping chamber, fearing to be set upon at any moment, seized by the strong,
barbarous hands of which she had dreamed so vividly that even now, she could
still feel them upon her, sweeping her up, crushing her against a broad,
hard-muscled chest that belonged to no Usk man, or even to a man of Walas, but
to a stranger, a savage worse than those who inhabited the lands to the east
and, across the sea, the isle of Erin to the west. But as always, she found no
one in her chamber save her waiting woman, Enid, who slept on a pallet at the
foot of the bed, her slumber undisturbed by the low wail of terror that had
issued from Rhowenna's lips. Although she was now fully awake, Rhowenna's
fright
did not diminish. Rather, it increased. This was not the first time she had had
the nightmare. Each time it recurred, she grew more frightened, worried lest
she had been beset by some madness. Part of her even hoped that it was so, for
if it were not, she must accept the fact that she possessed the Sight and
confess as much to Father Cadwyr. He would surely think her accursed; perhaps
he would even accuse her of being a witch. And perhaps he would be right.

Even
now in her ears, the primitive drums still pounded, the arcane chanting still
echoed, and the piercing screams still rang — although her father's royal manor
was as silent as a grave and, outside, only the raw night wind stirred. As
though she had run a long way, her heart beat as loud and fast in her breast as
the drums in her mind; and despite the winter cold, she was so drenched with
sweat that her fine white wool nightgown clung to her skin. The fire in the
brazier had burned low, and as the wind snaked through her father's royal manor,
slithering over her clammy body, she shivered violently.

Pushing
back her tangle of long, heavy black hair, Rhowenna slowly rose, dragging one
of the fur blankets about her for warmth. Quietly, so as not to waken Enid, she
moved to pour herself a cup of dark, rich, spicy mead
from a clay jug
set nearby. Then, grasping the goblet, she knelt beside the brazier to feed
sticks of wood to the blaze. Soon, the tongues of flame licked high, and they
and the mead, of which she drank deep, pervaded her body with their welcome
heat.

It
was still night, when not only the wild animals, but also the old gods roamed
the earth. This, despite her Christian upbringing, Rhowenna deep in her bones
believed; for on the wings of the night wind, had not the ancient ones come to
her again, bringing the dream? It was a premonition, a warning, she knew. She
had spoken of it to no one — not even to Gwydion, her beloved kinsman — for she
longed with all her heart to deny that it was a true vision. If she remained
silent, she felt she might somehow prevent it from breathing life, from
becoming real. Still, it so terrified her that tonight, she was sorely tempted
to rouse the household, to speak of what she had seen. Only the thought of
Father Cadwyr's penetrating eyes and thunderous wrath as he denounced her as
unholy, the devil's handmaiden, dissuaded her. Still, compelled by her inner
turmoil, Rhowenna rose abruptly. Despite the inclement weather and the
certainty that she would be punished if she were caught sneaking from her
father's royal manor into the night, she knew she must
go down to the
Great Sea, whence came what haunted her.

She
gathered up her warm fur cloak, wrapped its folds about her, and tugged on soft
leather boots. Then, willing its creaking iron hinges to silence, she carefully
eased open the door to her sleeping chamber and peeked out. By the light of the
low-burning fire in the central hearth of the great hall beyond, she saw to her
relief that the housecarls — her father's warriors — and the servants slumbered
on, undisturbed by her furtive gambit. Her feet whispering across the rushes
that strewed the stone floor, she swiftly ventured past them and into the
darkness.

Because
Rhowenna's father, Pendragon, was king of Usk, his royal manor not only
occupied the central position in the village, but was also the grandest
dwelling of all, the only one constructed of stone. Situated on a knoll
overlooking its domain, it contained a great hall, a kitchen, and private
chambers for the royal family. It was surrounded by the chapel, various
outbuildings, and an earthwork girded with a wide ditch and topped by a stout
wooden palisade. Beyond the palisade were the huts and workshops of the
ceorls,
the serfs, each
structure built of wattle and daub, roofed with thatch, and located on a hide,
a single measure of land.

The
village itself sprawled along the shores of the river Usk, which poured into
the Severn Sea and thence into the Great Sea to the west, with the gentle green
hills and the rugged, mist-enshrouded mountains of Walas rising behind.

Her
father's small kingdom of Usk was bordered by the larger ones of Glamorgan to
the west, Gwent to the north, and, beyond the immense ditch and earthwork
erected by the Bretwalda Offa and known as Offa's Dyke, vast Mercia to the
east. In these uncertain times, when war was all too common and alliances
shifted as suddenly as the wind, all three larger kingdoms posed a threat to
Usk — but Mercia threatened most of all. To the south, across the Severn Sea,
loomed the isles of what had once been the Summer Country, the largest and
holiest of these the Tor that rose above Glastonbury or
Yniswitrin,
the Isle of
Glass, as it was sometimes called. Woad, used to make blue dye, grew there, and
apple trees; and there, too, the High King Arthwr and his second queen,
Gwenhwyfar, were buried. In Arthwr's time, the Tor and Glastonbury had been
places of the old gods; now, like much else, they belonged to the Christ and to
the priests who served Him. Once, long ago, beyond the craggy black cliffs of
West Walas in the
distance, had stretched the land of Lyonesse, where fortresses had towered more
magnificent even, it was claimed, than those of the Romans. On a cloudless day,
some said, one could see the strongholds shimmering beneath the Great Sea; for
Lyonesse was lost now, drowned by the treacherous, unending, whitecapped waves
that rushed in to batter the coast relentlessly, crumbling and eroding the
land, leaving long, gnarled fingers of black rock behind, which would someday
also disappear. What lay beyond the isle of Erin to the west, beyond the Great
Sea itself, no one knew. On the few maps Rhowenna had seen, dragons were
pictured as inhabitants. Bards sang also of another drowned land, called Ys, to
the south, which had once lain beyond Brittany, and of a mighty kingdom,
Atlantis, even farther away, which had once risen from the waves, and of its
towering, magic crystal mountain, so powerful that it had even harnessed the
sun. But in the end, the forces the mountain had sought to command had proved
too potent for it, and it had exploded, wreaking havoc upon the kingdom and
causing it, like Lyonesse and Ys, to sink into the Great Sea. Although she had
never been beyond the boundaries of Usk, Rhowenna had acquired this information
through the years by listening intently to those who came to her father's royal
manor to seek his favor.

By
the priests, she had been tutored about the Christ who was the one true God.
From the bards, she had learned of the old gods and of those who had, with
blood sacrifices, worshiped them: her ancestors, the Picti— the Old People of
the Hollow Hills— and the Tribes, who had tattooed themselves with blue woad
and who had understood, or so she had been told, even the mysteries of the
standing stones and all the lore that had been lost through the ages, since the
advent of the Christ. There had been wise and learned men and women in the old
days— the priests and priestesses of the Druids and of the Houses of Maidens.
But when the High King Arthwr had fallen in battle at Camlann, a great and
terrible darkness had come upon the land— the twilight of the gods, some called
it; and as the Great Sea had drowned Lyonesse, Ys, and the mighty kingdom of
Atlantis, so the Christ had vanquished the old gods. The merchants who traveled
far and wide— from the east by horses across the mountains, and from the west
by ships upon the Great Sea, up the rivers Usk and Severn— told their own tales
of foreign and forgotten lands; and from these, as well, had Rhowenna gleaned
further erudition.

As
a squirrel stores nuts for the long winter,
so did she hoard in her eager mind
every scrap of information that came her way. Knowledge was power, her mother,
Queen Igraine, often said to her, a weapon more formidable even than a
broadsword or a battle-ax— and one that a woman who was wise would learn to
wield skillfully, both to defend and to advance herself in a man's world. Yet
there was a force even more powerful than knowledge, Rhowenna thought,
troubled: fate, destiny. It was this she believed she had seen in her dream,
written in the stars, immutable; and despite all her learning, she felt herself
helpless against it.

A
silver moon ringed with pearly mist shone in the black-velvet night sky,
illuminating her way as she slipped through the postern gate of the palisade to
traverse the stony, narrow, serpentine track that led down from her father's
royal manor to the shore below. From past experience, she knew she would spy
nothing there. Still, she could not banish the frisson of fear that this time
she would see in reality what she had hitherto seen only in her mind; and she
was driven to reach the strand, to make certain all was as it should be. If she
did not, she would not sleep again this night.

The
winter wind, while not strong, was nevertheless bitter, permeated with drifting
mist, drizzle,
and salty spindrift from the Severn Sea. Against the chill, Rhowenna drew her
cloak even more closely about her as she hurried along. So often had she made
this short journey of late that her feet seldom faltered upon the rough,
frost-encrusted path, although it was occluded by mist and darkness. Regardless
of its possible dangers, she loved the night. It was magical, mystical; it
belonged to the old gods who called to her, came to her, as though to entice
her from the Christ, whose realm was of the light. Beneath her cloak, her hand
sought the Celtic crucifix that hung from a slender gold chain about her neck.
On such a cross had the one true God died, the priests said. But the old gods
lived, as elemental as wind and fire, as the earth and the Great Sea. Over all
things celestial, terrestrial, and infernal, they yet ruled. Rhowenna did not
doubt this, despite all she had been taught by the priests. The ancient ones
spoke with the voice of the wind— a sigh, a moan, a warning that prickled the
fine hairs on her nape; and in answer, the cry of some night creature echoed
through the mountains that hove up behind her, dwarfing her. What was she
compared to the mountains, to the old gods? The minutest grain of sand upon a
beach, cast hither and yon by the mighty sea whose name was fate, destiny. Had
she not seen in her dream that this was so?

She
had gained the shore; and now as she stood looking out at the cold, dark,
frothing water that sluiced in upon the strand, her hair and cloak billowing
about her in the wind, Rhowenna was struck anew by her own insignificance in
the vast scheme of things.

Yet
the old gods spoke to her now.

She
did not want to listen— but she heard them all the same. The surf pounded like
the drums in her mind; the wind chanted its lyrical refrain; the unknown beast
in the mountains screamed. All about her, the sinuous mist twisted and twined
like the ghosts of the blue-woaded pagans who had danced amid the standing
stones aeons ago. The Great Sea stretched before her— boundless, empty. Yet in
her mind's eye, the images unfolding in slow motion, Rhowenna saw upon the far
horizon a tide of phantom riders as crimson as blood, mounted upon the spiny
backs of monstrous sea dragons that rose and plunged upon the foamy waves,
drawing ever nearer to the coast, come to ravage and to rape, to maim and to
murder. Down from the north, along the Swan Road that was no road at all but
the course the migrating swans followed when they winged their way across the
Great Sea, the longships with their bloodred
sails came. As swift as the wind, as
silent as the earth. But in Rhowenna's ears rang the pounding of the drums, the
chanting of the pagans, and the screams of dread at the sight of those savage
riders of the seas.

Caught
up in the throes of her vision, she saw the vessels spill forth their army of
marauders. Shouting their war cries, their broadswords and battle-axes held
high, the giants leaped into the sea, a gold-headed god at their vanguard.
Against their massive thighs, the breakers crashed and churned; but still, the
giants surged forward, as though they and the sea were one. And now, the
screams of the wounded and of the dying began as her father's housecarls and
ceorls
were set upon
and slaughtered, as the women were flung down violently wherever they were
seized, skirts ripped away, thighs spread wide for the giants who defiled them.
All around Rhowenna, terror reigned. The acrid smoke that rose from the burning
village stung her eyes and filled her nostrils. Coughing and choking, she
stumbled on amid the cacophony and confusion, frantically seeking escape,
slipping on the blood that ran red upon the ground, seeping into the dark, dank
earth. Before her stricken, disbelieving gaze, a broadsword flashed in the
sunlight, then reddened as the blade bit deep into Gwydion's
neck, severing
his head from his torso.