by Swan Road
"Why— why should you care what happens to me?" Rhowenna asked, bewildered by Wulfgar's wholly unexpected offer of protection and assistance.
"Because I have never before seen a woman such as you. You are rare and beautiful, like a black swan, and I would not see you cruelly ravaged."
"That is no answer. You are as barbarous as the rest of your kind. 'Twas you who kidnapped me and brought me on board this vessel!"
"Would you rather I had left you amid the battle and the corpses, where I found you, perhaps to be raped or even killed by the Berserks or the other warriors? Nay, I thought not. What answer will you believe, then, lady? I have no other save what I have already told you."
"You are a liar!"
"May the gods strike me dead if I am."
His blue eyes held her own violet ones steadily, and try as she might, Rhowenna could discern nothing but earnestness in his gaze. She did not understand it, but it represented hope and a chance for her that she was reluctant to reject.
"I— I do not know why you should wish to— to help me, but I will— I will ask Morgen if she will agree to the exchange," she said slowly at last, still puzzled by his behavior toward her and half suspecting some trickery. Still, he had sworn by his gods, and perhaps that did mean something to him, although he was no Christian, to whom such an oath was holy. Turning to Morgen, she explained what Wulfgar had told her.
"Do you believe what he has said, my lady?" Morgen queried thoughtfully.
"I— I don't know."
"Still, you are yet a virgin, and afraid. But this I tell you, my lady: If your rank will not spare you from rape before you are ransomed, your shame will be more easily borne if it comes at the hands of one man rather than many. Although he is a savage and a heathen, the Northman is handsome and, if he speaks truly, perhaps not so cruel as the others." Morgen's dark eyes studied him covertly as she considered this. "Mayhap he is indeed sorry for you, as I am, and does, in truth, want only to help you— or perhaps he is not so kind, and not only lusts for you, but also is greedy and thinking to win your ransom solely for himself. Even so, I do not see what other choice you have at the moment in this matter, my lady, but to trust him; and I am not so hard and unfeeling that I would condemn you to endure my own fate this day. Tell the Northman that we will go along with his plan for now— but add that if he is bent on some treachery, we will presently discover it, and he will regret it. Say that if such a day should come, we will reveal the deception and denounce him to any and all who will listen as a traitor to his king and his homeland. Say further that on that day, we will seek refuge with those who oppose him and will beg of them his head for his perfidy."
"In the great mead hall of my enemies, you would soon learn that you had left the lair of a lone wolf for that of a vicious pack," Wulfgar declared soberly when Rhowenna had related Morgen's words and warning to him, "as I have good cause to know. Still, 'tis a fair enough bargain when you've no reason to trust me save for my word, and I will hold to my end of it." So saying and after glancing about covertly to make certain he was unobserved, he swiftly bent and, removing the gold circlet from Rhowenna's head, placed it upon Morgen's own. " 'Tis little enough protection I offer you, lady. Even so, you shall be glad of it, I am thinking, before this game is done."
Miserably contemplating the price he might demand she pay in return for that protection, Rhowenna did not answer, but swallowed hard and turned away. Morgen's words rang in her mind: Better one man than many. Surely, that was true.
As the square red sail of the longship was hoisted and caught by the wind to send the vessel skimming swiftly over the waves, Rhowenna watched the rugged green mountains of her homeland, Walas, grow smaller and smaller in the distance, perhaps never to be seen by her again— and it suddenly occurred to her that she did not even know her captor's name.
Chapter Seven
Where the Wild Swans Soar
The abomination of the journey by longship to the Northland was surpassed, in Rhowenna's mind, only by her memory of that brief, brutal battle at Usk. Except for the small roof above the stern, there was little shade and, so, little relief to be found from the hot summer sun that beat down unmercifully upon her and the rest of the women, burning and blistering the delicate skin of Rhowenna, Morgen, and the other few serving maids, who, unlike the female ceorls, were not accustomed to working long hours in fields exposed to the sun. Fresh water, for drinking, was strictly rationed, and there was none at all for bathing, only the harsh, salty seawater for washing away the grime, blood, and defiling seed that soiled the women and their tattered garments. Nor was there any privacy whatsoever, any escape from the men's prying eyes, their plainly lewd if unintelligible jests in their foreign tongue, their raucous laughter, their slaking of their lust whenever they desired. Worst of all was the fact that the corpses of the slain Víkingrs still lay upon the deck. The jarl Olaf the Sea Bull and his thegns were to be taken to the Northland for interment; only the bodies of freedmen and slaves were pitched overboard at death. This was the custom unless it was a vessel's maiden voyage, in which case it was considered bad luck to bring home a corpse.
Rhowenna did not understand this at first, not until, once they were well out to sea, the oars were drawn in, and the sail was raised, the marauders pulled up several of the loose planks that formed the deck of the longship to reveal a shallow cargo space beneath, into which the bloody, stiffening bodies were carefully lowered, along with the plunder from Usk. Only then did she grasp the fact that the corpses would not be buried at sea, as she had initially assumed. Never had she imagined even the savage Víkingrs capable of such a barbaric practice as this; for as the afternoon wore on, it soon became clear what the gruesome result of storing bodies in the stuffy, humid hold would be. The smell alone was vile, nauseating, making Rhowenna and the rest of the women, some of whom were already seasick, retch violently over the side of the longship. But then, from nowhere, it seemed, the flies came in swarms, until Rhowenna thought that there must be millions of them aboard the vessel, so loud was the sickening drone of their buzzing in the hold. Drawn by the blood on her clothes and that of the other women, the flies came up through the planks to settle on the living as well as the dead, their bites making her skin sting; for with her hands bound, Rhowenna had no means of swatting the flies away. Only by tossing her head and writhing could she shoo them off; and she loathed the Víkingrs more than ever for their ribald gibes and howling laughter at her suffering and that of the other women.
Only her captor, Wulfgar Bloodaxe, did not take part in the malicious merriment, but stood protectively close at hand at the tiller, his face impassive, so she could not guess what he was thinking. Like the rest of the men, he had stripped off his bloodstained leather tunic and was now naked to the waist, clad only in his leather belt and breeches and sealskin boots. Despite herself, Rhowenna found her eyes surreptitiously straying more than once to his tall, powerful figure. His long tawny hair gleamed like burnished gold in the light of the sun creeping slowly toward the western horizon; his eyes shone as blue as the infinite summer sky. Like the body of some strong, sleek predator, his massive bronze arms, back, and chest rippled sinuously with hard muscle, disturbing her in a way she could not understand. There was something almost larger than life about him, she thought, as though he were indeed one of the old gods— for so had she imagined them.
Under his guidance, the longship sped forward, like a swan, Rhowenna reflected, long neck outstretched, wings spread wide upon the cool sea wind that was the only relief from the heat, the stench of the corpses, and the sting of the flies. She was glad of the small roof above the stern; at least she had a modicum of shade. Still, sweat beaded her body, making her thin, fine summer gown cling to her sticky flesh in a way that Wulfgar was only too aware of. Linen was rare and costly in the Northland, brought back from raids upon the Southlands and worn only by the wives and daughters of konungrs and the richest jarlar. It would mark Rhowenna as such, he realized suddenly, frowning, for
he had not thought of this before. She and Morgen would have to exchange garments, as well as identities. This, he explained softly to them when, at sundown, he was, to his wary surprise, spelled at the tiller by a stout, bleary-eyed Knut Strongarm, reeking of blood, sweat, alcohol, and rutting, but lately Olaf's second-in-command aboard the Dragon's Fire and so the relief steersman.
"I am sorry for your discomfort and lack of privacy, lady," Wulfgar told Rhowenna as he knelt to untie her bonds and those of Morgen, also. "I know that you are gently bred and not used to such hardships as you have suffered this day. I will do what I can to ease your unhappy lot. But know you this: I have with no man's consent seized command of the Dragon's Fire, and it may be that at any moment, Knut Strongarm or one of the others will grow bold or sober enough to challenge my authority. Should that happen, I will be fighting not only for the captaincy of this vessel, but also for my very life." He did not add that until today, he had never fought a real battle, but only mock training duels within Olaf the Sea Bull's palisade. "If I am killed, you must reveal your true identity at once, else you will not be safe from the rest of the Víkingrs. They are hard men, lady, and ruthless. Trust them not."
"No more than I trust you— which is not at all!"
To Rhowenna's surprise, for she had expected Wulfgar to be angered by her words, he cupped her face gently in his strong hands, his fingers weaving through the tresses at her temples as he gazed down at her, his blue eyes glittering with approval in the fiery light of the sun sinking slowly into the sea.
"Good," he said shortly. "You will be safer that way. I have brought a bucket of seawater for you and Morgen to wash yourselves and your clothes; you can trade gowns while you do that. Then will I bring you food and drink." Briefly, his hands tightened in her hair before he loosed her and, getting to his feet, turned away.
Chafing her wrists, Rhowenna herself rose slowly, unsteadily, her back and legs cramped and aching from the unaccustomed position in which she had been forced to sit for the last hours. But finally, she got her sea legs and managed to stand upright, glad she had lived all her life on the sea and had never suffered from seasickness. It was the foul odor wafting from the shallow hold that was making her feel so queasy. There was at least more privacy in the stern than elsewhere on the longship, and Wulfgar's tall, watchful figure as he stood between them and everyone else provided something of a screen. Even so, Rhowenna and Morgen did not linger as they stripped to their shifts and laved themselves and their garments as best they could in the wooden pail and without any soap. Despite its salty abrasiveness, the seawater was cool and welcome; Rhowenna longed to immerse herself in it, to scrub and to scrub until she was certain every part of her was washed clean, untainted by the blood of the dead and the dying. It even occurred to her, suddenly, wildly, simply to leap overboard into the sea itself, where she would surely drown; and she chided herself as a coward because something deep inside her strove to survive, no matter what might become of her.
Furtively, she and Morgen exchanged clothes, she donning Morgen's coarser gown, in worse shape than her own; and as she remembered the reason why, Rhowenna felt a sudden, deep sense of guilt and shame that she alone among all the women taken captive should yet be chaste. She had never been particularly close to Morgen; there had been some days when she had actually disliked her. But now, as she thought of the other serving maids and her own dear waiting woman, Enid— most of them still safe in Usk, behind the palisade of Pendragon's royal manor— Rhowenna knew she had rather have Morgen at her side now than any other: dark, bold Morgen, stronger in her own way than the rest, and not so hard and unfeeling as Rhowenna had once supposed.
"I won't forget what you've done for me, Morgen, I swear it! When my father ransoms me, I shall insist he pay whatever price is demanded for your own freedom, as well."
"I am counting on that, my lady, for no more than you do I wish to spend the rest of my life as a slave and a whore of these barbaric Northmen!" Morgen declared, the glint in her dark, narrowed eyes bespeaking a fierce sense of self-preservation— so Rhowenna realized that this, perhaps even more than pity, had driven Morgen to aid her.
When they had finished dressing in their wet raiment, Wulfgar brought the two women a cup of fresh water and one of ale, a single bowl of dried meat and fruit, and a thick slice of hard bread for them to share. As she and Morgen sat down to eat, Rhowenna observed to her relief that the other women had also been untied, permitted to wash, and were now being fed. At least their captors did not intend to starve them, she recognized, although none of the women, including herself, was especially hungry and some were plainly having difficulty keeping the food down. The Víkingrs, however, ate with gusto, seemingly unperturbed by the flies or by the stench of the corpses in the cargo space, and consumed large quantities of wine and ale, besides, talking and laughing all the while— although Rhowenna, who understood snatches of the conversation because of the similarity of the Northmen's language to that of the Saxons, felt that despite their apparent congeniality, there was among the men a certain wariness and tension that had not been present earlier, when their battle fever and bloodlust had still been upon them.
Now that the sun had set and twilight was seeping into darkness, the whale-oil lamps on board the Dragon's Fire had been lighted; by their soft glow, she could see Wulfgar's face, his guarded eyes, the muscle that throbbed in his set jaw. When he spoke, his voice was low but strong and sharp; and although he did not glance in her direction, the other men did, their eyes hard, sly, speculative, openly appraising, their voices heated, so she knew that they and Wulfgar were discussing her— or, more likely, Morgen, whom they must believe was the princess of Usk, if Wulfgar had kept his word. Remembering his warning earlier that he might be forced to fight for command of the longship, Rhowenna shivered, apprehensive that such a duel might be imminent. But at long last, it seemed that some sort of agreement was reached; for despite a few muttered curses, no weapons were drawn, no blows were exchanged. The Víkingrs finished their supper; then all of them, including Wulfgar, drew lots for the women, all of whom, save for Rhowenna and Morgen, were then dragged away to the men's sleeping pelts now unrolled upon the deck. Rhowenna's heart leaped to her throat as she watched Wulfgar spread a huge wolfskin in the stern, then motion her and Morgen toward it; for she did not know what he intended, and from its dregs, her mind conjured shadowy images of rape and even worse perversions about which she had overheard whispered tales. But after binding their hands and feet again, Wulfgar said only:
"The gods are often capricious; but tonight, thanks be to Odinn, they decided to be generous, so I did not have to fight for you, lady. My straw was the shortest— and so my choice was the first. I chose you, lady, so you have naught now to fear. I will not force myself upon you. Lie down and go to sleep. 'Tis not confrontation, but rutting the men have upon their minds this night, so I do not think that any attempt to challenge me will occur before morning."
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 c
ertain 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.