by Swan Road
Muttering under his breath, he lay down upon his pelts, but his emotions were in such a turmoil that sleep would not come easily. His last thought as he finally drifted into slumber was a nebulous notion that perhaps it would do no harm, after all, to speak to Olaf the Sea Bull about the princess of Usk and her dowry. Then the matter would be out of his hands, Wulfgar told himself; its disposition would then be Olaf's decision to make. If Olaf chose to risk the ire of Ragnar Lodbrók by racing Ivar the Boneless to Walas for possession of the maiden and her dowry, then he, Wulfgar, surely could not be held to blame for whatever repercussions might follow. The responsibility for those would fall on Olaf's head. Yet even as Wulfgar comforted himself with that idea, he could not rid himself of the gnawing disquiet that somewhere in Asgard, the gods heard his thoughts— and laughed.
* * * * *
Rhowenna ferch Pendragon was happier than she had been in many a long week. Since she had told Gwydion about her dream, it had not come to her again; and now that summer had arrived and still nothing untoward had occurred, she had begun to think that the dream had not been a true vision, but nothing more than a nightmare, after all. Still, it was a relief to know that the false story she and Gwydion had spun of a fisherman's warning them of recent attacks along the coast, by Northmen, had resulted in the King's posting watchers along the shore. Rhowenna had observed that the Queen's dark-blue eyes had been thoughtful when she had heard the tale and that she had glanced at Father Cadwyr's avid face, then back at Rhowenna's own pale countenance, but had chosen not to probe too deeply into the origin of the lie. Rhowenna felt as though a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders; and grateful for that, she had tried very hard to prepare herself for her coming nuptials if not gladly, at least diligently. Prince Cerdic had sent envoys to Pendragon's court; and she had lessons daily with them to learn the Saxon customs and the language of her betrothed so she would not disgrace either herself or Prince Cerdic before his courtiers. Although the emissaries had on the surface been polite, she had nevertheless indignantly discerned from their attitude toward her that they— whom she had always thought of as ignorant savages and sea wolves— believed her to be both uneducated and a backward barbarian, lacking more than a few words of Latin, the tongue of the learned, and Pendragon's great hall judged poor and crude by their scornful eyes. Because of this, she was proud that she had proved a quick learner and was gradually earning the envoys' respect.
But today on this warm summer afternoon, Rhowenna had forgone her lessons to search for cockles and mussels along the seashore. With knife, rake, and basket in hand, she had set out earlier with several others of the young housecarls and serving maids from the royal manor; and now, her skirts pulled up and tucked into her mesh girdle, she waded, bare-legged and bare-footed, in the salty, sun-dappled water, using her blade to dig the cockles from the sand and her rake to probe the deeper waters favored by the mussels. Her basket was nearly full; the sun and water felt good against her skin, and her spirits were higher than they had been in weeks. Only an occasional glimpse of Gwydion in the distance marred her happiness. No matter how hard she tried, Rhowenna could not forget how everything was changed between them, how easily he had relinquished her to Prince Cerdic of Mercia. Each time she thought of it, her heart ached in a way she had not known was possible. Because it hurt her so to see Gwydion, she avoided him as much as she could; and he, doubtless understanding her feelings, did not press himself upon her— although, despite herself, she sometimes wished fervently that he would come to her and tell her what a fool he had been, that he would take her away with him before it was too late. Rhowenna knew that this was foolish, wishful thinking, but she could not seem to stop herself from imagining how wonderful it would be to marry him.
All her life, she had witnessed the deep love between her parents; and she yearned for such a love for herself but thought it unlikely she would find it with Prince Cerdic, who, for all that he was to be her husband, was still a Saxon. Old prejudices died hard; and despite all her lessons, Rhowenna was uncertain whether she could ever grow to embrace life willingly in Mercia, much less Prince Cerdic himself. It was a disheartening thought; determinedly, she shoved it from her mind, knowing that it would do no good to dwell upon it, that she could not change her future and so must learn to make the best of it.
She hunkered down, and with the sharp point of her knife, she dug again into the wet sand, taking pleasure in the feel of the sodden grains that squished between her toes as she pried another cockle from its hiding place, then tossed it into her basket. Those at the royal manor would eat well this night, she thought, smiling with satisfaction as she gazed at her booty.
" 'Tis indeed a fine haul, my lady," Morgen, who worked beside her, observed, plainly glad to take a break from their laborious task. Getting to her feet, Morgen stretched lazily, like a sinuous cat, her hands at her back, which, like Rhowenna's own, ached from stooping. Then, pulling her tucked-up skirts from her girdle, Morgen slowly wrung out the most sodden portions of the fabric. "We'll not be able to lift the basket between us if we fill it much fuller."
"One of the men can carry it, then," Rhowenna said carelessly, sitting back and driving her blade into the sand beside her. She untied the thong that bound her long, damp braid, then loosened the plait and shook her hair free, running her fingers through the tangled mass. The wind caught the strands, whipping them about her gently as, after a moment, she closed her eyes drowsily and lifted her face to the sun, basking in its heat. "Fetch Hueil or Daffyd or one of the others."
"Aye, my lady." Morgen nodded, pushing her own heavy black mane of unbound hair back from her face as she turned away. Then, suddenly, her attention caught by an unfamiliar shimmering on the far horizon, she paused, her hand held to her brow to shade her eyes against the glare of the sunlight reflecting off the waves of the Severn Sea. "Good Lord in heaven, what is that? Some kind of— of horrible sea monster, it looks like. Two of them! No, three! Look, my lady!"
For a moment when Rhowenna opened her eyes, the sun blinded her, and she could see nothing. But then, at last, as she stared off into the distance to where Morgen pointed, she spied the clutch of sea dragons that rose and plunged upon the waves, widespread crimson sails spilling like blood across the deep-blue summer sky. Her breath caught in her throat; her heart leaped with terror at the sight— for this time, she knew that it was no dream, no vision, but the terrible reality she had foreseen and feared. Grabbing her knife from the sand, she lurched to her feet, glancing about wildly for the housecarls. But while the men were within shouting distance, they were still well down the coast. Rhowenna had not realized until now how far she and Morgen had strayed from the rest and from the royal manor, too.
"Those are not sea monsters!" she blurted, her voice rising. "They're ships... longships! Dear God! 'Tis the Northmen! They're coming! They're coming to Usk! Run, Morgen! Run!"
Morgen's eyes widened. Her face blanched with fright as she suddenly understood the danger. Abandoning their rakes and basket, the two women gathered up their skirts and pounded desperately down the shore, crying out as they ran, their bare feet skimming the edges of the combers and sending water and sand flying. Rhowenna's heart lodged in her throat as she glanced back over her shoulder and saw how rapidly the longships were gaining on them, drawing ominously nearer and nearer to the coast, square red sails billowing in the wind. She had never seen vessels sail so swiftly, as though they flew over the sea; and she realized in terror that Morgen and she would not reach the palisade in time. Her breath came in hard rasps, and she had a painful stitch in her side that, without warning, doubled her over.
"My lady!" Morgen whirled about, racing back to Rhowenna. "Are you all right?"
"Aye. I just... need to... catch my breath...."
"There is not time! We must hurry! Come on!"
Clutching her aching side, Rhowenna forced herself to stagger on, sobbing, hearing now the urgent, warning wail of the horns blown by the watchers stationed along the
coast, the shouts of the housecarls and the screams of the serving women who had been among those digging for cockles and mussels earlier and who now, like Morgen and Rhowenna, fled in fear for their lives toward the haven of the palisade. But already, flight was futile, Rhowenna recognized with a sinking heart. The sea dragons were swooping with impossible speed toward the beach, furling their wings, long necks outstretched, bellies heaving and shuddering as their fierce riders, yelling mighty battle cries, dismounted and waded thigh-high into the frothy waves to drag the longships halfway up onto the sand. After that, everything happened so fast that for ever after, it was only a terrible blur in Rhowenna's mind, a nightmare that became reality.
She had never seen such savages as the Víkingrs; even the Saxon wolves east of Offa's Dyke were not so barbaric, she thought as, stricken, petrified where she stood, she watched the marauders surge forward from the sea, at their vanguard the gold-headed god she had seen in her dream. Aye, it was he! She was so stunned by the realization that only Morgen's screams of dread and frantic jerking on her hand urged her to movement when the tawny-haired giant of a Northman suddenly disappeared from her view, swallowed by a fearsome wave of horrifying warriors who howled and leaped forth like madmen, stark naked save for the bearskins flung about their massive shoulders. Rhowenna had heard macabre tales of such Northmen, who were said before battle to acquire the bears' ferocious strength and power by drinking the beasts' blood and by wearing their hides. From these bearsarks, bear shirts, had such warriors received their name— Berserks— a name that struck terror into the heart of all who heard it; for the Berserks were said to be not just fearless, but actually mindless in battle, bolstered by strong alcohol and so vicious and pathological that when battle fever and bloodlust were upon them, they could bite through an ironclad shield or walk through fire, without suffering any pain. Invariably, they led the foremost ranks of the Northland's warriors; and it was said that even the other Northmen were afraid of them— proof indeed of their fiendishness.
Like a pack of starving wolves, the Berserks fell upon the housecarls and ceorls who, alerted by the bellow of the watchers' horns, had charged forth from the palisade, the village, and the fields of Usk alike, shouting their own calls to arms, weapons in hand, to fend off the brutal attack of the Northmen. Everywhere Rhowenna turned, cacophony and confusion reigned as the first of the sickening blows were struck and the bloody battle was joined, the men becoming in moments a blur of flying pelts, bloodstained leather garments, and hacking and slashing weapons as each vanguard bravely met the other's assault. The harsh, metallic clanging and clashing of the warriors' broadswords and battle-axes and iron-bossed, gilt-bronzed shields filled the air, accompanied by the stout, ferocious thwack of the ceorls' wooden clubs, staffs, hoes, and rakes, the deadly whoosh of scythes and spears and knives that flashed in the sun as the reivers drove forward, the Berserks leading the way, swarming up from the shore to higher ground, an army of huge, crazed men against whom the warriors and ceorls of Usk could not stand fast. They buckled and broke ranks, scattering and falling back toward the knoll from which the palisade rose— so near and yet so far.
As the Northmen pressed on relentlessly, the high, piercing shrieks of fleeing women and children echoed above the clamor of the battle, mingling with the screams of animals that, in their panic, broke loose from tethers and pens to run about chaotically, adding to the pandemonium. Blood spattered and gushed, seeping into the rich, moist earth; and black clouds of acrid smoke billowed on the wind as torches were scooped up from their sconces, ignited by the marauders, and then tossed onto the thatched roofs of the ceorls' huts and byres, setting the village ablaze. There was no way to reach the safety of the palisade, no place to hide, Rhowenna numbly understood with utter despair as she stumbled on blindly through the cruel conflict, Morgen half dragging her forward as they slipped and slid upon the bloody ground, striving desperately to escape from the terrifying melee that had enveloped them. But there was no route to freedom, no refuge to be found from the fighting and dying. The battle was thick all around them, the Berserks cutting a wide swath in the ranks of Pendragon's housecarls and ceorls, and the rest of the Northmen coming hard and fast behind. In their wake, corpses littered the ground, people Rhowenna had known and cared for all her life, although there was no time to mourn for them. It seemed a miracle to her that she and Morgen were still alive and somehow as yet unharmed. But surely, they would not remain so much longer, Rhowenna realized as, now, from the circular timber wall of the palisade, arrows began to rain down, the iron barbs with which they were tipped finding their marks. One of the Berserks staggered back, an arrow protruding from his eye; another of the reivers was shot through the throat, his frenzied gnashing of teeth and howling abruptly muted to a blood-bubbling gurgle, his back arching spasmodically before he toppled facedown into the dirt.
Reins trailing, a riderless horse galloped by, white-eyed and snorting, nearly knocking the two women down, and as, with all her strength, Rhowenna pulled Morgen from its furious path, they tripped over a body, sprawling headlong upon the earth. The stench of fresh-spilled blood filled Rhowenna's nostrils, and she could feel it, warm and slick and sticky, upon her flesh. Crying and gasping for breath, she lay there beside the corpse, shaking and thinking dully that surely in moments, she would be dead herself. All around her, men were at one another's throats, fighting to the death. To her utter horror, a ceorl was decapitated right before her eyes, his head flying away, a fountain of blood spewing from his neck. Another man had his belly ripped open, his insides spilling out as he slowly crumpled forward and collapsed. Gorge rose uncontrollably in Rhowenna's throat at these unspeakable sights, and she retched violently onto the ground before struggling mindlessly to crawl on toward the royal manor.
Dimly, she realized she had lost Morgen in the fray, her last link with all she had ever known that was safe, secure, and sane in this world so suddenly and horribly gone mad. This could not be happening, she thought hysterically, tears streaming down her cheeks. This could not be real. But the arms that, without warning, caught hold of her, swinging her up and crushing her against a broad, muscular chest, were strong and warm and all too tangible. Shocked and dazed, her head rolling back against her captor's shoulder, Rhowenna stared up into eyes as blue as the summer sky, a face framed by a halo of hair gilded by the sun. It was he, the Northman she had seen in her dream.
"I knew that you would come for me—" she whispered, her voice catching on a ragged sob. "The old gods warned me that you would."
Then, as in her dream, a merciful blackness swirled up to engulf her, and she knew nothing more.
Book Two: Yesterday's Princess
Chapter Six
The Shore of Corpses
The Southern Coast of Usk, Walas, A.D. 865
Wulfgar had never before been in battle, so when the battle fever and bloodlust came upon him, he did not at first know them for what they were. He knew only that he burned with a raging madness that was consuming his entire body. Time and time again, his battle-ax, Blood-Drinker, soared and plunged and sang a Víkingr's song to Odinn, the god of war; and to Wulfgar's pride and satisfaction, many a Christian man of Usk fell beneath its whetted blade. Its engraved scenes of battle, the like of which Wulfgar had only imagined before, he now experienced firsthand. Only once, when he had first stood upon the deck of Olaf the Sea Bull's Dragon's Fire, with the endless blue sea shimmering and swelling all about him, had Wulfgar felt as exhilarated as he had when he had raced pell-mell behind the howling Berserks up from the shore of the Severn Sea, to the village of the Usk men and into the heart of the slaughter.
Presently, he was to learn there was a third cause for such a fire to blaze within a man. He felt its licking tongues of flame flicker deep inside him when, toward the end of the brief but devastating battle, he first beheld Rhowenna, princess of Usk, she whom the Northmen would in time come to call fey Rhowenna the Fair, because of the dreams sent to her by the old gods and because of her bea
uty. By Rhowenna's long, silky hair— as black as the ravens that nested in the woods along the strands of the Northland— and by the fine gold, engraved, nielloed circlet about her head did Wulfgar know her. Although he had not thought to find her outside the palisade that perched like a falcon's aerie upon the top of the hill, green and rocky, which towered over the burning village, he knew she could be none other. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her; and his heart leaped with excitement in his chest and, if he were honest in the telling, with coveting, too— for bedraggled as she was, her beauty shone forth.
She was half crawling, half dragging herself through the melee, trying desperately to reach the palisade; although she was weeping and obviously terrified, there was, too, upon her countenance a grim expression of bravery and determination that touched something deep inside him. Without thinking, Wulfgar hacked his way toward her through the fighting and caught her up, crushing her weakly struggling body close against him, as though to protect her from the mayhem and killing taking place all about them. She was not so tall and robust as a maiden of the Northland, but as light as a veil of mist in his arms, her garments torn and so covered with blood that for a moment, he feared she had suffered some wound during the battle, although he could discern no injury but a pale bruise upon her ashen cheek. When his eyes met hers, he saw that her own were a startling shade, as violet as the amethysts the Greeks had craved as protection against drunkenness— although Wulfgar himself had never known such a stone to keep a man sober. Her lashes were as black as soot and so heavy that they seemed to pull her sloe eyes down at the corners and cast crescent shadows upon her cheeks in the sunlight. When she spoke, her voice was like the gentle caress of the wind; and although Wulfgar could not understand her unfamiliar Christian tongue, he felt, eerily, that the gods had deliberately delivered her into his arms. It had happened just as Yelkei had known it would when she had told him of casting the rune stones nine times, with nine times the answer the same: He, Wulfgar, must go after the princess of Usk.