Brandewyne, Rebecca (28 page)

Wulfgar
sighed heavily at her reply. Still, he would have pressed her, would have
argued the issue further, would have carried her to the bed and laid her down
upon its soft pallet to try with his mouth and tongue and hands to persuade her
to give in to him. But there came a knock upon the door and then the sound of
Flóki the Raven's voice, saying:

"Lord,
I am sorry to disturb you, but 'tis important. One of the messengers you dispatched
to the Southlands has finally returned— from Mercia, lord— and he has Prince
Cerdic's answer to your ransom demand for the princess!"

Hearing
this news, Rhowenna felt her heart give a sudden lurch and then begin to hammer
violently in her breast, and Wulfgar's hands tightened so painfully on her
shoulders that she flinched. For an eternity, it seemed, neither she nor he
moved or spoke. Then, at last, he released her, turning to open the door.

"Come,"
he demanded quietly, holding out his hand to her, his face impassive, his eyes
hooded so she could not read his thoughts, although there was a certain
grimness about the corners of his mouth, a tenseness to his body that let her
know how unwelcome he found the missive from Mercia.

Perhaps
even if Prince Cerdic had agreed to pay her ransom, Wulfgar would not return
her, Rhowenna thought, startled by the abrupt realization that this prospect
neither frightened nor dismayed her as wholly as it ought, but gave her instead
a peculiar pleasure. Surely, she had been beset by some madness to feel so.
Despite the freedoms he had permitted her, she was still his prisoner, his
slave; she should be glad to escape from him, not experiencing such a queer
pang at the idea of never seeing him again.

Aye,
I am mad, or ill,
she
told herself,
or
else Wulfgar has entranced me with some Northland magic. Perhaps that old slave
woman who reared him, Yelkei, has cast a spell upon me
to tempt me
from my loyalty and my duty to Usk into wickedness and wantonness in Wulfgar's
arms— for did he not say that she was a spaewife, that she possessed the power
of prophesy born of fires and mists and the rune stones? Surely, such a one is
a witch....
But then Rhowenna remembered her own prophetic dream and how,
for it, she had feared to be accused by Father Cadwyr as the devil's
handmaiden; and she knew that she was being unfair to the old slave woman. It
was Wulfgar himself who attracted her, despite herself.
Have I somehow
fallen in love with him?
she wondered.
Nay, that cannot be. Of course it
cannot....

Determinedly
dismissing the notion, she followed Wulfgar from the sleeping chamber,
anxiously settling herself in her position at his feet as he sat down on the
high seat upon the dais between the two large pillars at the end of the great
mead hall. Unless he was swearing oath, it was not the custom in the Northland
for a man to kneel before his lord. Instead, with his right fist, the
messenger, Naddod, struck his chest over his heart in a brief salute to Wulfgar
before handing him a scroll of parchment sealed with beeswax, into which was
stamped what Rhowenna recognized as Prince Cerdic's seal. Breaking the seal,
Wulfgar slowly unrolled the scroll,
frowning as he stared down at it.

"
'Tis not written in the
dönsk tunga"
he announced finally, referring
to the language of the Northland, "but some tongue I know not."

"Latin,
lord"— Naddod elucidated— "which, begging your pardon, lord, Prince
Cerdic charged me to say that he doubted that you would understand, as 'tis the
language of the learned, and despite your calling yourself a
jarl
of the
Northland, you are, in truth, naught save an unlettered pagan barbarian and a
Víkingr."

"Well,
by the gods, that is a case of the troll's calling the dwarf ugly"—
Wulfgar's snort of laughter rang out amid that of the
thegns
at this insult—
"coming from a Saxon sea wolf whose own ancestors were both savages and
pirates, and a bold statement, besides, for a man whose betrothed I hold
utterly at my mercy! Either this Cerdic of Mercia is a prince I'd like to cross
blades with, or else he's a fool; and if the latter is so, why, then, he's not
deserving even of my scorn! Say on, Naddod. Did Prince Cerdic tell you what is
written herein this scroll?"

"Aye,
lord, and he commanded me to commit it to memory and to repeat it to you thus:
'To Wulfgar Bloodaxe,
jarl
of
the Northland, I greet you. In reply to your letter
regarding my
betrothed, Rhowenna, princess of Usk, I must inform you that as her dowry has
never been delivered to me, I consider that both our betrothal and the treaty
with Usk have been broken, and so I feel no obligation to pay from my own
coffers the gold demanded as my lady's ransom. You must do with her as you
will. Hereto, I have affixed my seal this fourteenth day of August in the Year
of Our Lord 865.' Signed 'Cerdic, prince of Mercia.' "

"By
the God of the Runes and Valh
öll!" Wulfgar roared, slamming his fist down on
the arm of his chair, then springing to his feet and throwing the scroll to the
floor. "The man's a contemptible, callous coward with more care for his
purse than for what is right and honorable toward his lady, who is powerless
against this wicked wrong done her! Whatever the reason for it, 'tis not her
fault that her dowry has yet to be delivered to him. By Thor's hammer, my
battle-ax is too good for the likes of him; why, I'd sooner use a horsewhip to
teach that Saxon dog a lesson!" Still, his eyes glittered not murderously,
but with an eager, triumphant light when he gazed down at Rhowenna, and she
knew he was thinking, as she was, that she was not yet to leave him, and that
she could no longer use her betrothal as an excuse for refusing to lie with
him.

Frightened
more by this than by his anger, which she knew was not directed at her, she
cringed at Wulfgar's feet, stricken that Prince Cerdic, not knowing whether she
was treated well or ill, should so cruelly relegate her to her fate in the
Northland. This was not what she had thought to hear from the man to whom her
father had betrothed her, the man who had sent her the gold necklace set with
amethysts, which she had believed such a caring, considerate gift, a mark of
his esteem for her. That he should now so easily and heartlessly abandon her
for lack of her dowry filled her with despair. Something must have happened,
she thought with a sudden sense of foreboding. Although Prince Cerdic's missive
had hinted at no discord between them, her father would never, without just
cause, have reneged on his agreement with Prince Cerdic. Was Mercia now once
more Usk's foe, then? Rhowenna shivered at the idea, for in her heart, she knew
that Usk was not strong enough to fight off a concerted attack from Mercia and
Glamorgan or Gwent, especially after the brutal raid by the Northmen, during
which Wulfgar had taken her captive. She worried for her parents, and for
Gwydion, and thought how ironic it was that she might actually at this moment
be safer
in the Northland, under Wulfgar's protection, than in her own homeland.

How
prophetic was that observation, Rhowenna was to think over a fortnight later,
when the
thegns
in
the watchtowers sounded their horns in warning, and one of the men descended
his ladder to report grimly to Wulfgar that a band of armed men approached the
palisade, at their vanguard, mounted upon a snowy white horse, Ivar the
Boneless, son and heir of the great Ragnar Lodbrók, a
konungr
of the
Northland.

The Reckoning

Rhowenna
had dreamed a horrible dream the night before. She had dreamed of wandering on
the shores of Usk, and of crimson-winged sea dragons, breathing fire and death,
their riders dismounting to plunge into the frothy brine, shouting mighty
battle cries, weapons raised high to lay waste to Usk, at the vanguard of the
warriors a gold-headed demon. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she had run and
run through the melee, frantically turning over one by one the corpses that lay
facedown, strewn upon that bloody earth. To her horror, every man had borne the
face of her father, every woman, that of her mother. She had screamed and
screamed at the sight; but as is often the way of a nightmare, no sound had
issued from her throat until she had wakened herself with her shrieks and sobs,
and Wulfgar, too, her heart pounding,
her body drenched with a cold sweat.

"Shhhhh,
elsket"
he
had murmured soothingly, gathering her into his arms, stroking and kissing her
gently as he had cradled her against his chest. " 'Twas only a dream, only
a bad dream, that's all. I'm right here beside you, and I won't let anything
happen to you, I swear it. You're safe, sweeting; you're safe here with me. So,
hush, now. Hush."

But
hours had passed before Rhowenna had finally fallen back to sleep. Now, as she
heard the horns sounding their warning, she thought of her dream last night and
of the horns echoing up and down the coast of Usk before the Northmen in their
longships had swooped upon her homeland; and she was gripped by a fearful
premonition. So strong was this feeling of foreboding that she did not move
when Wulfgar turned and spoke to her, but stood where she was, caught up in the
chaotic images of violence that, unbidden, erupted in her mind, memories of the
actual battle at Usk, when she had been taken prisoner, and unreal scenes from
her dreams. Her countenance was pale; her violet eyes were wide and dazed and
scared, uncomprehending as, abruptly grabbing her, Wulfgar pulled loose several
strands of hair from her braid and then, bending to scoop up a handful of dirt,
rubbed her face and gown with it.

"There,
that's better; you are less likely to attract Ivar's attention, I am thinking.
Now, go back inside the
hof,
to the kitchen, and stay there until I
send for you, Rhowenna," he ordered harshly, afraid for her and savage in
his fear. Then, angered by her lack of response, he snarled, "Do as I say,
wench!" giving her a rough little shove toward the longhouse.

Rhowenna
did as Wulfgar had commanded then, her heart racing, her hands trembling as she
gathered up her skirts and hastened into the
hof,
to the kitchen.
She had been in the process of making laverbread when the horns had begun their
clamor; and now, despite her agitation, she forced herself to continue her
work. But even so occupied, she could not quell the dread that filled her at
the news that Ivar the Boneless was coming.

By
now, Rhowenna knew the sequence of events that had followed the tale told by
the
skáld
Sigurd
Silkbeard in Ragnar Lodbrók's great mead hall: how it was that Wulfgar had
sailed to Usk to take her captive before Ivar the Boneless could seize her as
his own prize and why Ivar would feel he had a right to claim her from Wulfgar.
But in the beginning, some days after their arrival in the Northland, word had
reached them at Wulfgar's mark-land that neither Ragnar nor his sons had
yet returned
from their respective raids upon the Southlands; and so, as the summer had
flown by, it had been easy for Rhowenna to push the threat of their homecoming
to the back of her mind. Some part of her, she now realized, had even half
thought— half hoped— that Ragnar and his sons would be killed in battle while
away a
-viking,
as Olaf the Sea Bull had been killed. But now, the threat
they posed to her, and to Morgen, could no longer be dismissed. Ivar the
Boneless was alive; he was here.

Through
a chink in the longhouse's timber wall, Rhowenna watched as the gates of the
palisade swung open to admit the band of riders who galloped inside; and as she
spied the man mounted upon the pure-white steed at their fore— Ivar the
Boneless, surely— her breath caught in her throat and her heart seemed to stop
beating for an excruciating eternity before starting up again with a
frightening jerk. It was
he,
the gold-headed demon of her horrifying
dream last night, a sinister portent not to be ignored by one whose dream of
Wulfgar and the Northmen's raid upon Usk had come true. Her sense of impending
doom grew; she shivered uncontrollably. Without even realizing she did so, she
grasped the gold Celtic crucifix about her neck and began to pray, her lips
moving soundlessly,
the laverbread forgotten.

In
the bailey, Ivar drew his prancing horse up short, lifting one hand to bring
the rest of his
thegns
to
a halt behind him. For a long moment, he did not dismount, but sat there
staring down at Wulfgar, in his eyes that strange, leaping light Wulfgar had
seen that winter's day of the roe-deer hunt, on his face that peculiar
half-smile that somehow bespoke both challenge and admiration, and that caused
the fine hairs on Wulfgar's nape to lift. Yet, for the first time in his life,
he found to his surprise and fierce gladness that he was able to look at Ivar
without a sense of lowliness and jealousy, of dread and humiliation; and he
somehow knew he would never again feel those emotions in Ivar's presence.
Hatred still roiled within him at the memory of Ivar's ill-treatment of him
over the years, his refusal to recognize him as a brother; but now Wulfgar's
feeling was that not only of a man toward his enemy, but toward his equal. As
though Ivar sensed this, he at last spoke.