Brandewyne, Rebecca (29 page)

"Well,
well, Wulfgar," he drawled, in the habitually insolent tone Wulfgar
recalled only too well, "it would seem that the gods and the Norns have
granted you their favor; for your fortunes are much improved since last I saw
you. The lowly
bóndi
has
risen not only to the rank of
Víkingr,
but also to that
of
jarl.
Who would have thought that your saving of my sword hand would reap such
rewards? But, then, the gods have ever been fanciful, have they not? And what
they bestow today, they may as easily take away tomorrow."

"
'Twas your life I saved, Ivar," Wulfgar rejoined tersely, blandly ignoring
Ivar's veiled threat and deliberately addressing his half brother by his given
name instead of his title, relishing the way in which Ivar's brows rose in
reaction to that, his eyes hardening a little, and his half-smile tightening at
the corners.

"Aye,
but my life would have been nothing without my sword hand, which, as you can
see"— with an elegant motion born of his body's uncanny limberness, Ivar
raised his hand and flexed his wrist to demonstrate that it had lost none of
its strength or suppleness— "is quite mended and still serves me as well
as ever."

"As
does my battle-ax serve me. What do you want, Ivar?"

"A
cup of
nabid
would
do for a start— or is the bold wolf, in truth, yet such a scraggly animal
beneath his newly acquired fine fur that he would deny me the hospitality of
his
hof?"
The
words stung, as intended; for they were an insulting reminder of the fact that
Northmen prided themselves on
their hospitality, which they would not refuse any
but an outlaw, not even a foe.

"If
an animal is scraggly, 'tis due to the fleas who bite him. Once rid of them,
why, then his true coat is revealed," Wulfgar observed smoothly, his smile
sardonic, his blue eyes glinting with a guile and malice to match Ivar's own.

"Your
wits have grown sharp."

"Aye,
now that they are no longer dulled by those who fear to have their own barbs
returned in kind."

"What
are a few barbs between adversaries?" Ivar shrugged nonchalantly, a fluid
motion that seemed the merest ripple of his shoulders, sinewy with muscle.
"A trifling annoyance, perhaps, but no more than that— hardly enough to
inspire fear in one who wields a gilt-bronzed shield against them. But my
tongue thirsts from all this talk. I have always been a man of action myself.
Do you offer
nabid
or
nay?"

"Aye,
if you would have it. Do you and your men dismount and come inside. You will
not judge my great mead hall so grand as Ragnar's, perhaps; but it serves me
well enough, because 'tis mine. For that alone, the taste of the
nabid
served therein
is sweet upon my tongue, although you may find it a trifle sour, Ivar, I am
thinking."

"Well,
we shall soon see, shall we not?" With a curt command to his
thegns,
Ivar swung down
from his saddle to follow Wulfgar into the longhouse.

Inhaling
sharply, unable to conceal his surprise, Ivar momentarily drew up short as he
beheld the interior of the great mead hall, the ornate twin pillars flanking
the dais at the far end, upon which sat Wulfgar's high seat, the elaborately
carved chair that had replaced what had previously been little more than a low
stool. Slowly, his eyes narrowed, Ivar gazed at the beautifully painted wooden
panels pegged to the walls— even the wooden screen that set apart the kitchen
had been so decorated; the striplike tapestries, cleaned and so expertly mended
by Rhowenna and Morgen that the repairs were hard to see; the long, intricate
bronze hooks for storing the tables and benches; the furniture itself, uncommon
in the Northland and, so, highly prized; the fresh rushes mingled with
sweet-scented heather that strewed the hard-packed earth floor; and the
abundance of whale-oil lamps and rushlights that illuminated even the shadowy
corners.

Still,
Ivar said nothing as Wulfgar gave orders for the tables and benches to be set
up and for food and drink to be brought, then settled himself upon the high
seat, motioning
for Ivar to join him at the high table, along with Flóki the Raven, as well as
Ivar's own second-in-command and some of the other, higher-ranked warriors.
Neither Rhowenna nor Morgen was anywhere in sight, Wulfgar noted with relief.
Rhowenna was in the kitchen, he knew; Morgen, he correctly assumed, had been
locked in the storeroom by Flóki for safekeeping. It was the slave women who
waited upon the men, bringing forth pitchers of
nabid
and
bjórr,
and
from the hearth and the oven, platters of flaky fish baked on iron-barred
griddles and served with vegetables, berries, and nuts; bowls of steaming beef
stew made with potatoes, onions, and carrots, and seasoned with salt, garlic,
and cumin; and fruits and slabs of cheese and thick, crusty, hard bread, along
with the pork-fried laverbread and jars of honey and butter. It was as fine a
midday meal as any ever served at Ragnar's
hof,
and Wulfgar's heart
swelled with pride as he gazed at his laden high table, glad that he should not
be shamed by having but scanty fare to offer Ivar.

As
the men ate, the talk at the high table was of inconsequential matters; and
such was Ivar's behavior that had Wulfgar not known him so long and so well, he
would surely have been deceived into thinking that Ivar
had come to the
longhouse this day as a friend instead of a foe. But Wulfgar was on his guard
and so not gulled into making this mistake; and at last, as the meal drew to a
close, Ivar began to tell the tale of the great raid made five years previously
by Björn Ironside and Hasting.

With
a fleet of sixty-two vessels, the two
jarls
had ventured as far into the
Southlands as north Africa, sacking towns all along the way and filling their
longships with gold, silver, and exotic prisoners known as
fir gorm,
blue men, and
blámenn,
black men.
Eventually, during the course of their journey, they had penetrated the Middle
Sea, where Hasting had led upon Italy a raid that had since become legend in
the Northland. Spying a great, white-walled city he had believed to be no less
than Rome itself, but judging that its defenses were impenetrable, Hasting had
sent a message to its inhabitants, falsely proclaiming himself a dying
chieftain far from home and in need of a Christian burial. Taking pity upon him,
the city had opened its gates to admit the now "dead" Hasting and his
procession of
Víkingr
mourners.
Once at the graveside, Hasting had, during the funeral ceremony, risen from his
coffin to plunge his broadsword into the officiating bishop, after which he and
his men had rioted in the streets,
committing mayhem and murder. In the
process, Hasting had somehow learned that the city was not Rome, after all, but
Luna. Incensed by his error, he had ordered the city burned to the ground and
all the townsmen slaughtered. The women he had spared, taking them captive to
sell them later, as slaves, to the Moors.

"So
it was that Hasting profited from his mistaken raid," Ivar ended the story
to a roar of laughter from the listening
thegns.
Only Wulfgar did
not share in the mirth, for he knew in his bones what Ivar was leading up to
with the tale; and finally, as the laughter in the great mead hall died away,
Ivar continued, his voice low now, as insidious as a serpent. "Now, then,
Wulfgar, it seems that, like the bold Hasting, you, also, would profit from a
mistaken raid. But the prize you plundered, Ragnar would have claimed as his
own; and so I have come to bring you word from him, your king, that he would
have you deliver it unto him. So, where is she? Where is the princess of Usk,
whom my father sent me to Walas to fetch?" Ivar paused for a moment. Then
he said softly, " 'Twould not be wise to deny that you have her, Wulfgar,
for I know that you do."

"Aye,
she is here," Wulfgar answered reluctantly at last, glancing at the
storeroom,
where Flóki had locked up Morgen when the horns had blown their warning.

"And
unharmed... untouched? I ask because I heard that you had taken one of the Usk
women as your concubine, Wulfgar. Yet you did not see fit to show her to us, to
have her sit beside you at the midday meal.... So, naturally, one must wonder:
Can it be because you have dared to claim not only a markland, but also a
princess as your own?" Ivar's brows rose faintly in inquiry, but his
saturnine smile did not quite reach his narrowed eyes, which were as hard and
icy as an arctic winter.

"That
would be not a barb, but a blade to crack a gilt-bronzed shield, then, would
it, Ivar?" Wulfgar needled, deliberately mocking, so Ivar should not guess
how his stab in the dark had struck home. "But, nay, 'tis the princess's
waiting woman who is my concubine. You've not seen her because she is willful
and disobedient, and so I punished her earlier by relegating her to the
kitchen, where she does the work of a scullion this day. However, I will send
for her if you wish."

"And
for the princess, as well," Ivar reminded him dryly.

"All
right," Wulfgar agreed slowly, his face impassive as he forced himself to
remain
outwardly calm, although, inwardly, he was a mass of turmoil; for he knew that
this was a crucial moment. If Ivar, clever Ivar, should suspect that Rhowenna,
not Morgen, was the princess of Usk... "Flóki, do you fetch my concubine
and the princess."

"Aye,
lord."

Rhowenna
was elbow deep in soapy water, washing pots and dishes in the kitchen when
Flóki came for her, although she was scarcely aware of her actions, even so.
She labored perfunctorily, from habit, accustomed to busying her hands at a
woman's tasks. Her mind was a room away, in the great mead hall, with Wulfgar,
wondering anxiously what was happening between him and Ivar the Boneless.
Although all seemed amicable enough, her sense of dread had not lessened, but
deepened. Now, after she dried her hands, she slowly followed Flóki from the
kitchen. Her palms were wet again, she realized dimly, sweating profusely;
nervously, she wiped them on the cloth she still carried, unconsciously
wringing it between her hands. Her face was ashen; her eyes were huge as they
met Wulfgar's own; her body trembled as, not knowing what to do, she bowed her
head and sank respectfully to a curtsy before the high table.

"Well,
I see that the strap I laid to your
backside has much improved your
manners, wench," Wulfgar growled as he gazed down at her, so, gratefully,
she understood from his lie that he knew how frightened she was and was giving
her a plausible reason to appear so. "Perhaps you have now learned that
although I have chosen you as my concubine, and accorded you the privileges of
such, I can just as easily send you to the slave pens."

"Aye,
my lord," Rhowenna replied quietly, as though duly chastened, glimpsing,
from beneath the fringe of her lashes, the man she knew was Ivar the Boneless.

As,
surreptitiously, she watched him, Ivar abruptly stood and walked toward her.
Towering over her, he stretched out one hand and, cruelly grabbing the back of
her hair, roughly jerked her head back so he could see her face. Involuntarily,
she gasped, stricken, for his resemblance to Wulfgar was unmistakable. They
were brothers, she thought— and Wulfgar had never told her. Suddenly panicked,
she wondered wildly if everything he
had
told her had been a hideous lie
to deceive her into surrendering to him. But then Rhowenna saw the murderous
rage that flared in Wulfgar's eyes at how Ivar touched her, and she recalled
his bitterness at being a bastard his father would not even deign to
acknowledge; and she knew to her
relief that whatever lay between
Wulfgar Bloodaxe and Ivar the Boneless, it was not love.

"Well,
I suppose the wench is comely enough after a fashion— although 'tis hard to
tell, since you have had her toiling like a drudge all morning and she is none
too tidy at the moment." Ivar's cold blue eyes raked her indifferently,
making her shudder as unbidden in her mind rose an image of this man kissing
and caressing her brutally, as Wulfgar had warned her Ivar would do. After a
tense moment, spying Flóki emerging with Morgen from the storeroom, Ivar
released Rhowenna, turning his attention to Morgen, who was so finely dressed,
with not only the gold circlet of Usk, engraved and nielloed, about her head,
but also silk ribands intertwined in her intricately braided hair, that she
did, indeed, look every inch a princess. "That is the princess of
Usk?"

"Aye."
Wulfgar nodded, his eyes warning Rhowenna to stay where she was, silent and
unassuming, drawing no further attention to herself. "As you can see, she
has not been harmed or touched, but has been well cared for and treated with
every courtesy and consideration due her rank. But if you have come on Ragnar's
authority, Ivar, to wrest her from me for the ransom she will bring as your
hostage, your
ride here was for naught. In response to my own demand for payment for her safe
release, I have received a message from Cerdic, prince of Mercia and her
betrothed. It seems that as the princess's dowry was never delivered to him, he
considers both the betrothal and the treaty with Usk broken and feels no
obligation to come to his lady's rescue. Nor have I heard from her father,
Pendragon, king of Usk."