Brandewyne, Rebecca (16 page)

Then
he did no more than to settle himself like a guard dog beside them, so they
were
between him and the sternpost. Still, he unsheathed his battle-ax and placed it
close at hand; and Rhowenna knew from the tautness of his body next to hers
that he was not so untroubled about the possibility of a nighttime attack as he
would have her believe.

Although
she was numb and cold in her sodden clothes, and exhausted, sleep did not come
easily to her. She lay awake for hours, it seemed, unable to shut her ears to the
dreadful, unnerving sounds of the
Víkingrs
forcing
themselves upon the pitifully moaning and weeping women, or to the agitating
drone of the flies belowdeck, a constant, hideous reminder of the hold's
contents, although the offensive smell had dulled, carried away by the wind, or
else her nostrils, unable to evade it, had grown used to the odor. Even the
soothing lap of the waves against the longship was a painful reminder of how
far from home she was. As she thought of her father and mother, hot tears scalded
her cheeks. Did her parents miss her? she wondered. Did they cry for her
tonight? Surely, they did, for she was certain of their love. And what of
Gwydion? Had he escaped the carnage at Usk? Did he even now lie in the darkness
thinking of her and wishing he had begged her to run away with him when he had
learned of her betrothal?

Until
this moment, she had never in her life slept beside a man, and this, too, kept
slumber at bay. Although her initial, wild fear that Wulfgar intended to rape
her and Morgen both had dissipated, Rhowenna nevertheless remained all too
aware of his big body beside her own smaller one, of the subtle scents of sun
and sweat and sandalwood that emanated from his flesh. She lay very still,
trying hard not to touch him. But their quarters were cramped, and Morgen, on
the other side of her, slept restlessly, so that now and then, Rhowenna was
compelled to brush against him. He was warm, much warmer than she, as though a
fire burned within him; and at last, gradually, that warmth seeped into her
bones, and it and the gentle rocking of the longship lulled her into slumber.
Her breathing grew soft and rhythmic; and at the sound, Wulfgar felt some of
the tension drain finally from his body.

He
had not realized that lying next to Rhowenna would affect him so strongly. He
had had his fair share of women over the years. But he had spoken truly when he
had told her that he had never before known one like her, with hair as black as
a midnight sky, and eyes the color of violets. Her skin was softer and whiter
than mist; her dusky cheeks were like rose petals; her mouth was
as scarlet and
moist as a sail kissed by spindrift. From her silken tresses and pearlescent
flesh wafted the sweet fragrance of the heather that bloomed upon the sweeping
hillsides of the Northland and that apparently grew also in Walas. There would
be that, then, in his homeland to remind her of her own, so perhaps she would
not feel so miserable and lost there as she obviously felt now upon the
Dragon's
Fire.
No wonder Prince Cerdic of Mercia had wanted her. What man would not?
Her beauty was the tale of bard song. Lucky would be the man who claimed her
purity and heart, and who, in return, wakened her to passion and love. But
neither Ragnar Lodbrók nor Ivar the Boneless would show her such caring and
tenderness, Wulfgar knew, and his heart went cold and sick with dread at the
thought. They would not have her, he vowed silently, fiercely. They would not
despoil her and then make of her a slave and a whore if, afterward, her betrothed
and her father refused to pay the ransom demanded for her return.

Yelkei,
Wulfgar
thought,
you
were wiser than I knew when you bid me beat Ivar to the prize. Surely,
Rhowenna, princess of Usk, is a maiden fashioned by the gods or from a man's
dreams— and when has Ivar ever had a care for either? Sooner will I wander the
Shore
of Corpses to the barred gates of Hel than will I see her lie in his brutal
arms, I swear it!

Toward
dawn, he slept at last, lightly, one hand on his battle-ax, the other wrapped
tentatively in Rhowenna's long, unbound hair.

* * * * *

Rhowenna
awoke bewildered, not knowing at first where she was, only that she could not
move for the bodies pressed close against her and for her own hands and feet,
bound fast. Then, in a rush, yesterday came flooding back to her, and she
remembered she was aboard the
Dragon's Fire,
lying upon
Wulfgar's wolfskin between him and Morgen. Morgen was turned with her back to
Rhowenna, but Wulfgar was facing her, his battle-ax between them, one hand
tangled in her hair, the other around her slender waist, his face so close to
her own that she could see the rough blond stubble of his beard, she could feel
his warm breath upon her skin. Somehow, he looked younger asleep and, in the
pale dawn light, not so hard and fierce as he had seemed before, when she had
first beheld him on the shores of Usk, at the vanguard of the
Víkingrs.

There
was an intimacy, however unconscious, in the way he touched her, held her,
which unsettled her; and her breath quickened, her heart beat fast when his
eyes slowly
opened and he did not at once release her, but lay there staring at her, in his
gaze a hunger that he did not trouble to disguise and that, despite herself,
sent a strange, disturbing shiver through her body. Rhowenna had never before
slept beside a man, nor had she ever awakened beside a man— and, moreover,
known that he desired her at that moment. It was, to her confusion, not a
wholly unpleasant experience; she did not understand why she should feel so in
the arms of her enemy. She wished he would let her go. But when he did, slowly
and reluctantly, it seemed, a peculiar pang shot through her, as though,
somehow, there should have been something more; and she found she could no
longer go on meeting his eyes. He had been kind to her when he might have been
cruel, she told herself; that was all. She must not forget that he was her foe.

"Good
morning, lady," Wulfgar said as he untied her, his voice low, his hands
seeming to linger over the task. "I hope that you are rested, although
your bed was no doubt not what you are used to. If you will look after your
serving woman, I will fetch you something to eat and water for washing."

"I...
thank you for your consideration," Rhowenna replied gravely, still not
sure she could trust him, still marveling at his behavior
toward her,
when she had thought him a barbarian and a heathen, and still half expected
rape or some other brutality at his hands. "I slept as... well as might be
expected under the circumstances."

She
loosed Morgen's bonds, then got slowly to her feet, her muscles aching even
worse this morning, after the night spent upon the hard deck, than they had
yesterday. In her life, Rhowenna had known pain and sadness and loss; but until
now, she had never truly known hardship, she realized. She had been loved,
sheltered, and pampered— princess of Usk. Now her world had been suddenly and
savagely turned upside down, and she had become a captive and a slave. Was it
any wonder, then, she asked herself, that she should be drawn, however
unwillingly, to the one man who had treated her courteously, as befitted her
breeding and rank, and who had offered her protection and assistance? Her
mother would have counseled her to use Wulfgar's kindness and desire for her to
her advantage, to gain from him as much information as she could about the
Northland, its people, and its customs— because knowledge was power. The more
she knew about her enemies, the more likely it was that she would survive her
ordeal among them, would perhaps even manage to escape. The
Dragon's Fire
was not going
to remain at sea forever; and while she could not hope to sail such a large
vessel alone, she and Morgen together could handle a small boat the size of a
coracle, if need be. She should have thought of all this before, Rhowenna told
herself, angry at her dulled wits and resolving to do better. She was princess
of Usk; she ought to have been acting as such, seeing to the welfare of the
other women, giving them hope and reassurance instead of cowering in the stern,
worrying about her own uncertain fate.

Wulfgar
returned with a single bowl containing more of the dried meat and fruit and a
slice of the hard bread; he gave the two women a cup of ale and one of fresh
water to share as well. He also brought them a pail of seawater with which to
perform their limited toilette. Clearly, his own ablutions were finished, for
he had once again stripped off his leather tunic, and his hair and bare arms
and chest were dripping water. But he carried a bowl of food for himself, and
he hunkered down beside Rhowenna to eat, talking to her quietly during the
meal.

"Lady,
I will try to take the tiller again this morning. But I do not think that Knut
Strongarm will easily relinquish it; for he was Olaf the Sea Bull's
second-in-command aboard this vessel and so no doubt believes
that its
captaincy by right belongs to him now. If that is the case, I shall be forced
to fight him. If I am killed, do not forget what I told you about making your
true identity known at once. It may serve to protect you from Knut and the rest
of these men— although not from Ragnar Lodbrók and Ivar the Boneless. So if
'tis the will of the gods that I perish this day and the time should come when
you must choose between father and son, be wise and heed my advice: Cast your
lot with the old wolf instead of the cub, for Ivar is cleverer and crueler than
Ragnar and more like to hurt you in ways of which I shall not speak, as you are
a maiden and a lady. Do you understand?"

"Aye,"
Rhowenna whispered, trembling, all her earlier bravery and resolve seeping from
her bones at his words, leaving her weak and cold despite the warmth of the sun
that had crept up over the eastern horizon, dyeing the grey fabric of the
morning sky in rich shades of rose and gold and aquamarine.

In
the distance, a flock of swans soared, northward bound, their long necks
outstretched, their white wings spread wide, their strange, wild, forlorn cries
echoing on the wind, a song as plaintive as what she now heard in her mind
plucked on the strings of her heart. When, at last, Wulfgar laid aside
his bowl and
slowly stood, of its own volition, her hand reached out to draw him back, then
instead fell back lamely at her side. His impassive bronze visage was set,
determined. She knew instinctively that it would prove futile to plead with him
not to embark upon a course of action that might result in his death. She was
nothing to him, nor he to her. Still, somehow, Rhowenna could not refrain from
saying, very low:

"Have
a care, Wulfgar Bloodaxe."

Have
a care, Wulfgar.
The
words rang eerily in his mind, sending a chill up his spine. He could hear
Yelkei saying them a lifetime ago, it seemed, that morning of the roe-deer
hunt, when he had slain his brother spirit, the wolf, to save Ivar's life and,
in so doing, had won the chance to fulfill his own lifelong dream of becoming a
Víkingr.
That
Rhowenna should speak those same words to him now seemed an omen, but whether
good or ill, Wulfgar did not know. He stretched out one hand to her, the brush
of his fingers against her skin like the kiss of the wind as he touched her
cheek gently, then turned away.

"I
will take the tiller now, Knut," he said, calmly enough, although his
every muscle felt drawn as tight as a thong inside him, his every nerve raw;
for he sensed that here and now, he would either win the chance to seize Olaf's
markland for
himself or lose his life— and while he was not afraid for himself, Rhowenna's
pale face haunted him.

"Oh,
you will, will you?" Knut snarled, in a voice both challenging and overloud,
so a sudden silence fell upon the longship, and the air became thick with
tension and avid anticipation. "By whose authority?
I
was Olaf's
second-in-command, while you were naught but an oarsman, Wulfgar
Bloodaxe!"

"Strange
that you did not remark upon that yesterday, when I stood in the stern as
steersman, because Olaf was dead— and you were too drunk on wine and ale and
bloodlust to remember your duty to the
Dragon's Fire
and to her
captain and crew!"

"A
valid point, Wulfgar Bloodaxe," spoke another man, Flóki the Raven,
Wulfgar observed from the corners of his eyes, a warrior bolder and more
honorable than most of Olaf's
thegns.
"How do you
answer it, Knut Strongarm?"

"With
the point of my blade in this upstart bastard's throat— and that of any other
man foolish enough to think he can best me!"

"So
be it, then," Wulfgar growled, drawing his battle-ax from its leather
scabbard at his back and taking up his shield, "for I'll not sail under a
fat-bellied old tosspot who cannot keep his wits about him and his shaft in his
breeches when
the battle's done and the sail's in need of hoisting!"

Knut
Strongarm was so named for the strength of his sword arm, with which he had
slain many a foe; and although he had twenty years on Wulfgar, he had not lived
so long by being unable to defeat a younger opponent. He was not so tall as
Wulfgar, but heavier, thick-necked, and resembling a walrus— slow and
ponderous, but dangerous when attacked. His left eye was drawn down by a
disfiguring scar from the slash of an adversary's scramasax during some raid
years ago, and scars left by other wounds from other battles were revealed when
he tugged off his leather tunic. After deliberately flexing his powerful
muscles to demonstrate his strength, he pulled his broadsword from its sheath
and picked up his own shield. Rhowenna thought she had never seen anyone so
fearsome-looking; surely, Wulfgar could not hope to prevail against such a man.
Her heart went cold and sick with fear at the thought.