Brandewyne, Rebecca (48 page)
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Authors: Swan Road
"
'Twas a glorious death at your hands he wanted, Wulfgar," Halfdan said
quietly as they stood together, staring out at the place where the blade had
vanished, "what he sought all his life, I somehow do believe. 'Twas his
fate and yours to come to this. You were everything he always wanted to be and
could not: a true
Víkingr,
heart
and soul, the stuff of which heroes and legends are fashioned; and he was the
one thing you always wanted to be and never would have been: Ragnar's
best-beloved son." Halfdan paused for a moment, dwelling on this irony.
Then, at last, he turned to address the harper. "Owain the Bard, when you
sing of this day, as you will, let the death of Ivar the Boneless remain a
mystery. 'Tis not within most men to understand the fatal obsession in his
flawed
soul— and the burden Wulfgar now must carry on his own is enough."
"So
'twill be, King Halfdan, if you will permit me to accompany you back to
Britain," Owain said gravely. "For although I know in my heart now
the remainder of Wulfgar's own verses, my song is not yet finished. 'Tis the
tale of Ragnar Lodbrók and his sons, all four; and like your brother Ivar the
Boneless, you, too, will prove a great
Víkingr,
I believe."
"Aye,"
Halfdan agreed, "for I'm a king of the Northland now, and I'll be king of
Britain and mayhap even Erin, too, before I'm through. Still, 'tis Wulfgar who
is destined to become the greatest one of us all, I am thinking. By the gods! I
believe that before all is said and done, with his lady wife, fey Rhowenna the
Fair, by his side, he will be king of all the Danes!"
Sweeter Than Siren's Snare
A Tall Red Sail
The
Southern Coast of Usk, Walas, A.D. 867
Gwydion's
heart ached with love and sorrow as he stared at the solitary figure who stood
at the top of the stony, narrow, serpentine track that led to the beach below,
overlooked by his palisade, which perched like a falcon's aerie above the
strand. She came here every day, her son in her arms, to stand and to gaze out
over the sea, searching, he knew, for a tall red sail spread wide against the
blue spring sky and billowing in the wind as the sea dragon beneath heaved and
plummeted on the frothy waves, drawing ever nearer.
That
Rhowenna should love an enemy Viking! That she should have willingly become his
whore, borne a child to him! Even now, after all these months, Gwydion could
hardly believe it. Still, he would have taken her back, would have taken her as
his wife, in a proper Christian marriage ceremony— for no matter what she said,
she was not truly wed in the
eyes of the Church and of the Law to that pagan
barbarian she called her husband!— but she had obstinately refused even to
consider his proposal. Now, sighing heavily, he thought that it was doubtless
hopeless, useless, to implore her yet again to change her mind. Still, he felt he
must try.
Slowly,
he walked down to where, still staring out over the sea, Rhowenna stood on the
high ground overlooking the beach below. Although she heard Gwydion's approach,
she did not turn, but continued to study the far horizon, as though if she only
looked at it hard enough, she could somehow magically make a crimson sail
appear there. In her dreams, she had seen it; in her heart, she knew somehow
that Wulfgar was still alive, that he would come for her and their child. But
as though reading her mind and attempting to convince her otherwise, as he so
often had since she had returned to Usk, Gwydion said:
"Wulfgar
Bloodaxe is dead, Rhowenna! He
must
be dead, or else he has run off
and deserted you, returned to the Northland and left you behind— and you've
simply
got
to
put him from your heart and mind, I tell you! 'Tis morbid and unhealthy of you
to stand out here day after day like this, like a wraith haunting the shore.
People are
whispering about you, calling you mad— among other things not so pleasant— and
if you're to be queen of Usk—"
"Gwydion,
I am not!" Rhowenna declared impatiently, turning at last to face him.
"Why can you not understand that? The princess Mathilde of Mercia is your
betrothed, and if you had any decency or feeling for her, you would honor your
agreement with Prince Cerdic to marry her. She loves you! She will make you a
fine and devoted wife—"
"You
would have— once— before that damned Viking carried you off and seduced and
ruined you! How you can flaunt yourself here, with his bastard child in your
arms—"
"Gwydion,
please. We've been over this before, and I don't want to hear it again. Wulfgar
is my husband; our son is not a bastard. The royal blood of generations of
kings of the Northland runs in his veins, and someday, he will be a great
jarl
there."
"Nay,
your marriage is not legitimate, Rhowenna; in your heart, you know that, for no
Christian priest did speak his blessing upon you!"
"In
my heart, since living in the Northland, among people who are, I think,
something like what our own ancestors, the Picti and the Tribes, must have
been, I have come to believe that all the gods are one God, Gwydion,
and that to
Him, each of us must find his own way. Mine lies out there." With a
sweeping hand, Rhowenna gestured toward the sea. "Wulfgar is
not
dead!
I would feel it here, I tell you!" She laid her hand upon her breast,
where her heart beat strongly. "He
will
come for me! He loves me!
He—" She broke off abruptly, her violet eyes shining, her heart swelling
inside her, her scarlet mouth parting in a small gasp of surprise, of
disbelief, of joy, of wonder.
For
now, as though she had indeed somehow wished it there, there had appeared on
the far horizon a single phantom rider as crimson as blood, mounted upon the
spiny back of a monstrous sea dragon that rose and plunged upon the foamy
waves, drawing ever nearer to the coast, as swift as the wind, as silent as the
earth. Along the dragon's long, outstretched neck and upraised tail was a
distinctive ridge of scales that Rhowenna knew belonged to the
Siren's Song
and none other.
"Wulfgar..."
she whispered, and then, "Wulfgar!"— a cry from the heart as,
clasping her son, Leik, tightly to her breast, she started forward eagerly
toward the mighty sea dragon even now swooping toward shore, furling its wings,
floating as gently as a swan now on the combers that rushed in upon the sands,
watching, waiting.
"Rhowenna,
nay! I love you!" Gwydion insisted, his voice low and raw, as he seized
her arm, staying her flight. "Do not go to him. I love you! And you cannot
love him! You cannot!"
"Oh,
Gwydion... when my father betrothed me to Prince Cerdic and I thought I would
die of love for you, you, who had so little to lose, would give up nothing out
of love for me. Yet Wulfgar, who had gained so much, who had everything to
lose, gave it all up for me. How could I not love him, then? He and I are like
what we in the Northland call hacksilver, Gwydion, two halves of the same coin—
one heart, one mind, one soul. Let me go to him. Please. If you do not, he
will
come for me...."
Slowly, shuddering at the thought of a Viking warrior ever setting foot on the
shores of Usk again, Gwydion at last released her, his face anguished as she
said softly, "Farewell, Gwydion."
Rhowenna
did not even hear him wish her, finally, sadly, Godspeed. She was already
running urgently down the wending path that led to the beach below, wading
headlong into the breakers that swirled white with froth about her, toward the
strong and loving arms that waited, joyously outstretched, to pluck her and
Leik from the sea.
* * * * *
Author's Note
Dear
Reader:
I
would like to take this opportunity to thank both my editor at Warner Books,
Fredda Isaacson, for many reasons of which she is aware, and you, the reader,
for buying and reading this book,
Swan Road.
I certainly hope
that you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. If you would like to
write to me about Wulfgar and Rhowenna, or simply to receive a free copy of my
semiannual newsletter about my books, you may address your letter to me in care
of Warner Books, 1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020. Please
enclose a business-sized, stamped, self-addressed envelope for reply— and on
it, please be sure to print your name and address clearly. I read each and
every one of your letters personally and am always delighted to hear from you!
Now,
let me tell you a little bit about the historical and background material for
Swan Road.
As literature
about King Arthur has
become known as the Matter of Britain, and that about Charlemagne, the Matter
of France, so I suppose that literature about the Vikings might be legitimately
referred to as the Matter of Scandinavia— and there is a vast and wonderful
body of works about the Vikings, dating back for centuries. Unfortunately,
however, with the obvious exception of Edison Marshall's classic,
The
Viking,
most authors of modern romantic novels about the Vikings have
tended to ignore the tales told of them by history's
skálds
and
scholars. For
Swan Road,
I have drawn principally upon the stories of
Ragnar Lodbrók and his sons, the Arthurian matter regarding Morgen Le Fey and
Ogier the Dane, Scandinavian as well as Germanic mythology, and the Carolingian
matter regarding Ogier the Dane.
Ragnar
Lodbrók (Ragnar Hairy Breeches), the great chieftain,
jarl,
or king—
depending on what material one reads— of the Northland, may or may not have
actually existed. Because, like King Arthur, his image is overlaid with a heavy
patina of mythical saga and heroic symbolization, today's scholars have argued
both for and against his being a real historical personage. He is difficult to
locate in both time and place, and various estimates make him at least 150
years old when he died in the snake pit of King Aella of Northumbria
(who is known
definitely to have existed).
However,
I would like to point out that King Arthur, also, is difficult to locate in
both time and place, and various estimates make him at least 100 years old when
he was carried away to Avalon— having died in battle, no less. Yet since most
modern scholars
do
give
credence to a historical King Arthur, I see no good reason to discount the
existence of Ragnar Lodbrók on bases that, over the years have gradually proved
unconvincing with regard to King Arthur.
Generally
speaking, Ragnar Lodbrók is credited with having had definitely three and
possibly four sons: Ivar the Boneless (there are numerous spellings for his
name; I have used the simplest), Ubbi (also given as Hubba, Ubba, and Ubbe),
and Halfdan (also given as Halfdane and Healfdene). The fourth son is said to
have been alternatively:
1)
Björn
Ironside, which involves equating Björn Ironside's father, Lothrocus, king of
Dacia (Denmark) with Ragnar Lodbrók;
2)
Sigefridus,
which involves equating Sigefridus's brother Halfdan with Halfdan Ragnarsson or
Lodbróksson (both forms are used), when they may not be one and the same; or 3)
some other unnamed Viking. Because this fourth son is in dispute, I have felt
free to appropriate him for my own use, giving him the name of Wulfgar Bloodaxe
and making him a bastard, as is indeed perhaps one of the reasons why he
remains such a shadowy, elusive figure.
Björn
Ironside and Hasting (Hastein) actually did exist, and Hasting's mistaken sack
of Luna, in the belief that it was Rome, is generally regarded as being factual—
although it seems unlikely to me that he would have made such an error, being
well acquainted, from numerous raids thereupon, with the European region. Flóki
the Raven and Olaf the Sea Bull are my own inventions, as are Yelkei, the
Eastland spaewife; the kingdom of Usk and all its inhabitants; and Prince
Cerdic and Princess Mathilde of Mercia.
The
invasion of Britain by the great army of Vikings and the events I have
described happened essentially as I have given them— with the exception of any
related to Prince Cerdic of Mercia. However, it must be noted that in reality,
these events took place over a period of years, not months. For purposes of
Swan Road,
I have, of
necessity, condensed the time in which they truly occurred. Kings Aella and
Osberht of Northumbria, and King Edmund of East Anglia all did die apparently
at the hands of Ivar the Boneless: Osberht in battle; Aella supposedly— in
revenge for throwing Ragnar Lodbrók into the infamous
snake pit— as a
victim of the grisly Blood Eagle ritual I have described herein, although other
sources state that he, like Osberht, died in battle; and Edmund by being
brutally tortured, beaten, and shot with arrows before he was finally beheaded
for refusing to renounce his Christian faith at Ivar the Boneless's demand.
This massive Viking invasion eventually led to the establishment, in Britain,
of the area known as the Danelaw.
Because
the Vikings were, in truth, the masters of the seas, their influence was felt
worldwide, in a way that I don't believe is actually realized by many people
today. They raided far into what is now Russia, giving one of their many names,
the
Rus,
to
Russia. As the mercenary Varangian Guard, they served the rulers of Byzantium,
modern Istanbul, Turkey. They raided south into Africa and west across the
Atlantic Ocean, settling Iceland, Greenland, and discovering America. They also
settled not only in Britain, but in portions of the Shetlands, the Orkneys,
Scotland (Caledonia) and Ireland (Erin), as well as France, principally Normandy;
the Low Countries (essentially Frisia), and Germany. Their ritual of naming and
consecrating their longships with blood has come down to us in the rite today
of smashing a bottle of
champagne against the bow of a vessel to christen her before her maiden voyage.
The
Viking religion, customs, society, and way of life are as accurate as I could
make them, given that data about this time period in Scandinavia is relatively
scarce and often speculative, much of it relying on the famous Sutton Hoo
excavation, as well as a few other gravesites and archaeological digs, and rune
stones erected to the dead. Because they were pagans, the Vikings had no
respect whatsoever for Christian churches or priests, frequently sacking and
burning the former, and killing the latter. Their crimes were considered
especially heinous by all of Christendom, when, in reality, they were no better
or worse than any other barbaric horde. In fact, where they could settle and
live peacefully, they often did; and many times, because of their mercenary
nature, they could be bought off with what later came to be called danegeld. In
their own lands, Ultima Thule as a whole, they had strict laws and severe
penalties for violations. I should also note here that long-houses such as
those of Ragnar Lodbrók and Wulfgar Bloodaxe were known as
hofs
because their
great mead halls, like their Sacred Groves, served as places of worship.
Smaller farms, however, would not have borne this designation. The town of
Sliesthorp was in
later years called Hedeby.
I
have also attempted to portray Ragnar Lodbrók and his sons as close to their
true natures as my research led me to believe they were. Gang rapes of female
captives were, apparently, not at all uncommon. Ragnar Lodbrók, for instance,
is said to have raped a victim before more than thirty men gathered in his
great mead hall, to the great sport of all present— except for the hapless
woman, one presumes. It was indeed evidently his lifelong ambition to conquer
Britain. His last words, supposedly spoken in Aella's snake pit, are said to
have been, "How the piglets would be grunting if they knew the plight of
the boar!" So perhaps this was his sons' incentive to invade Britain in
his stead.
Ivar
the Boneless was indeed, evidently, at the very least double-jointed and
possibly a contortionist of considerable agility; he was also extremely cruel,
being the one said to have perpetrated the Blood Eagle upon King Aella of
Northumbria and to have brutally tortured King Edmund of East Anglia before
beheading him. Following the murder of Edmund, Ivar the Boneless, en route from
Thetford to Reading, did, in fact, mysteriously disappear from the pages of
history, and no more was ever heard or known of him again— something I found
particularly intriguing.
It
does seem strange that while various accounts of the deaths of Ubbi and Halfdan
have come down to us, none at all is given for their greater brother, Ivar the
Boneless.
Ubbi
appears to have been, in reality, the "crude lump of peat" that I
have described him as being; he was apparently killed in battle during the
invasion of Britain by the great army, although other reports of his death are
given.
It
is said of Halfdan that he became a king of the Northland, Britain, and Ireland
(Erin). He may or may not have been killed in battle at Strangford Lough,
Ireland.
Of
the fourth and last of Ragnar Lodbrók's sons, it is claimed many things, not
the least of which is that he became king of all the Danes.
Rebecca
Brandewyne