by Swan Road
There was an interminable moment of tension and silence broken only by the soughing of the wind, the lapping of the waves against the hulls of the longships, the faraway cries of the flock of swans winging their way northward. Then, at last, when no one stepped forward to continue the battle Knut Strongarm had begun, the strained atmosphere slowly eased, and Wulfgar felt some of the tautness drain from his muscles.
"Then, henceforth, let no man aboard the Dragon's Fire defy my commands," he said, "and the first of those is this: There is the princess of Usk"— he pointed to Morgen— "she for whom we sailed from the Northland to Walas and for whom our lord, Olaf the Sea Bull, lies dead, slain in the battle with the Usk men. She is the only daughter of a king and betrothed to a prince, and while her dowry is lost to us, she herself is still a valuable hostage, worth her weight in gold—but only if she is unharmed and a virgin. Last night, there were among you those who would have cost us that ransom by slaking your lust upon her had not cooler heads prevailed. Now, I tell you that no man is to touch her, that he who is foolish enough to disobey this order will die, and that his corpse will not journey to the Northland for burial, but will be cast overboard to feed the fish." Wulfgar paused, allowing this warning to penetrate. Then he continued.
"This woman, the princess's waiting woman"— without warning, he reached out, taking Rhowenna unaware as he grabbed her by the wrist and possessively jerked her to him— "I claim as my own— and mine alone! Likewise will I slay the man who dares to lay a hand on her!"
At that, the silence of the Víkingrs was finally ended as first one and then another and yet another called out slyly— coarse jests and gibes that roused a great howl of laughter from the rest of the men and that, after a moment, caused a slow, deliberately wolfish smile to curve Wulfgar's carnal lips as he stared down at Rhowenna, his eyes dark, unfathomable. Before she realized what he intended, he ensnared one hand in her tresses and roughly yanked her head back. Startled, filled with sudden apprehension, she cried out softly, a small sound he smothered with savage triumph as, with a low snarl, he abruptly crushed his mouth down on hers— hard, hungrily, shattering her senses and taking her breath away.
No man had ever in her life dared to make so free with her, to kiss her so; and so Rhowenna had not known, had never in her wildest imaginings dreamed that a man would or could kiss her as Wulfgar did, as though he were draining the very life and soul from her body and then pouring it back in. She was totally unprepared for the shock and invasion of his kiss, for the hitherto unknown sensations he expertly wakened within her, frightening her and yet somehow perversely exciting her, as well, making her feel as though she would faint as his insistent tongue brazenly forced her resisting lips to yield and boldly insinuated itself inside, exultantly plundering the moist sweetness within, leaving no part unexplored, unravaged. Sparks of light, like the bursting of a falling star, exploded behind her eyelids, and her blood rushed to roar in her ears as a wild, unexpected thrill shot through her at his remorseless assault, dizzying her so, that years afterward, she was never to remember clearly that moment aboard the Dragon's Fire when Wulfgar claimed and kissed her as his. Instead, she was to see it only as though through a glass darkly, like the mørketiden, the murky time of the Northland she was to come to know. She had dreamed of this man; and now, he held her in his arms— no longer a dream, but vividly real, devouring her with his mouth. She felt as though the deck had suddenly canted beneath her, making her knees buckle, so she would have fallen had he not clasped her so tightly, bending her back, inexorably molding her body against his own, making her intensely aware of him as a man— and one who wanted her.
Scared, dazed by the magnitude of his desire, by his determined onslaught upon her senses, Rhowenna began belatedly to struggle against him, pummeling his naked, bloody chest, trying desperately to free herself from his imprisoning embrace, to no avail. Wulfgar was far stronger than she; if she had not known that before, she knew it now. She was frail, helpless against him, like a reed before the wind. He could do whatever he liked with her, to her, and she would be powerless to prevent him.
"Stop fighting me, vixen!" he muttered hotly against her lips, his hand tightening painfully in her hair to compel her to comply with his demand. "You will cause all I have gained to be lost, making me vulnerable, a laughingstock! Do you want these Víkingrs to think that while I can slay a man in battle, I cannot defeat a mere slip of a wench?"
In some dim corner of her mind, Rhowenna glimpsed an inkling of his purpose then. But before she could respond, his mouth closed over hers again, swallowing her breath until her hands ceased slowly to beat against his chest, creeping up of their own accord to twine about his neck, and a low, unwitting moan of understanding and acquiescence issued from her throat. A ribald bellow of approval rose from the men; and at that, at last, Wulfgar released her.
For a timeless moment, he stared down at her, taking in the dishevelment of the long black tresses that tumbled, witchlike and beguiling, about her piquant face; her wide, startled, sloe eyes, drugged with passion, fear, and confusion; the dark, crescent smudges her thick, sooty lashes cast against her pale cheeks when she closed her eyes against his piercing scrutiny; her finely chiseled nose, its nostrils flaring slightly, like those of an alarmed animal poised for flight; her tremulously parted lips, as lush and crimson as a full-blown rose, bruised and swollen from his unbridled kiss; the small pulse that beat jerkily at the hollow of her throat; the swell of her ripe, melon breasts beneath her bodice, rising and falling quickly, shallowly, straining enticingly against the coarse material.
She was his for the taking.
Wulfgar's loins quickened sharply at the knowledge. But then he saw how Rhowenna's hand shook as she suddenly scrubbed fiercely at her mouth, how she flushed scarlet with outrage and embarrassment at the taunts and laughter of the men; and he felt an abrupt sense of shame and anger. He was no better than any other Víkingr, he thought, disgusted, no better than Ragnar, no better than Ivar. Still, if he had not responded as he had to the jesting of the men, they might have wondered at his manhood; they might have doubted his ability to captain the Dragon's Fire; they could so easily turn on him at any time. And for her own safety and well-being, Rhowenna must learn to behave like a slave, a woman who belonged to him— and not a proud princess.
"Haul up the anchor! Hoist the sail!" Wulfgar barked abruptly, slinging over his shoulder the looped thong of his battle-ax's grip, so the weapon hung at his side. "We are wasting time here. Flóki the Raven, take the tiller, while I tend these wounds of mine. You will be my second-in-command. Some of the rest of you men get Knut Strongarm's body stowed in the hold." Then, turning back to Rhowenna but still speaking his own Northland tongue, he demanded imperiously, "Wench, fetch that bucket of seawater over here!" using gestures to punctuate his words so she would understand what he said.
For a moment, Rhowenna stood there stupidly, not quite certain he was speaking to her, such was the disrespect in his tone and the way in which he addressed her. But then, thinking of how he had killed Knut Strongarm before her very eyes and, afterward, had kissed her so savagely, she grew frightened by the fury that flared in his eyes when she did not respond, and she moved hurriedly to do as he had bidden, picking up the heavy wooden pail of seawater she and Morgen had used earlier for washing and, with difficulty, lugging it over to where Wulfgar stood impatiently.
"The next time I tell you to do something, wench, you had best not keep me waiting!" he snapped, still speaking in his own language and in a voice overloud, to be certain he was heard by the Víkingrs. "You are my slave, and if you are not quick to obey my orders, I will beat you. Do you understand?" At Rhowenna's mute, scared nod— for if she had not fully comprehended his words, she had caught their gist— he bent without warning and roughly tore away a strip of material from her tattered skirts. "You will cleanse my wounds," he said, handing her the cloth and then settling himself upon a stout, iron-ringed barrel, from where he eyed her expectantly.
/> "Have you— have you soap?" she inquired hesitantly, in the Saxon tongue, as she nervously dipped the cloth into the seawater, then wrung it out.
"Nay." Wulfgar spoke quietly now and in the same language. "But the salt will serve to stave off putrefaction, if that is your concern."
"Why should it be?" she dared to ask, her voice low and tremulous with emotion. "When you have this day proved you are no better than the rest of the brutes aboard this godforsaken vessel! I care not if you live or die!"
"If I should die, the day will come when you will care, lady!" Wulfgar rejoined heatedly to hide how she had hurt him with her words. "You will care very much, I am thinking, when you find yourself at the mercy of Ragnar Lodbrók and Ivar the Boneless— who will take more than a kiss from your lovely lips, and take it brutally, without care for your pain or shame—" He broke off abruptly, gasping, as, without warning, Rhowenna pressed the wet cloth to his chest and began to rub the seawater deeply into his injuries, so the salt stung and burned him unmercifully. His hand shot out, closing like an iron band about her wrist. "Lady, you did that apurpose!"
"You did order me to cleanse your wounds, did you not... my lord"— a falsely brave note of sarcasm crept into her tone as she addressed him thus— "and declared that as your slave, I must be quick to obey, else you would beat me?"
"Words spoken for the benefit of the Víkingrs"— Wulfgar scowled at her darkly—"as I thought that you would prove wise enough to understand, your having so far given me no cause to believe that you lack wits. Well do I know that you are not accustomed to such rough treatment as I have this day dealt you, lady. But if I am to protect you, 'twas necessary that I claim you as mine before the men; and for your own sake, they must believe you to be my slave, in truth—lest they learn that you are the true princess of Usk and reveal that knowledge to Ragnar Lodbrók or Ivar the Boneless. Do you understand, lady? I have this morn slain Knut Strongarm and so won the captaincy of this vessel, aye. Still, I would be a fool to think that what I have gained is by any means secure when 'tis not. 'Twould take only the suspicion that I have lied to them and deceived them to turn these men once more against me— and against you, as well. That is why the kiss I forced upon you was also necessary— although, in all honesty, I do not regret taking it, even so."
Wulfgar's eyes burned again as they had before he had kissed her, like twin flames, blue heat that scalded Rhowenna as his kiss had scalded her. She did not understand why he should make her feel as she did: confused, conflicted, and as breathless as though she had run a long way. Her cheeks blushed crimson with indignation, humiliation, and some other emotion she could not name as she remembered the feel of his mouth upon hers, his tongue invading her, in a way she had not known that a man would dare. Her hands faltered over the washing of his wounds, trembled against his chest.
"You are not chivalrous, but crude— a beast!— to say such a thing to me," she whispered, her eyes downcast, unable to meet his own.
"Lady, I would be even more dishonorable and brutish if I lied to you— and that, I will not do. I am a man, aye, with a man's wants and needs, and you are a beautiful and desirable woman. Still, 'tis as I have told you: I will not harm you, so you need have no fear of me. I will have you willing in my arms, or not at all. The gods, in their wisdom, did not fashion you for less than that."
"How do I know that you speak the truth, that you do not seek to deceive me in some terrible manner?"
"I swear it, by the gods."
"You are a heathen, and so your oath means nothing. Your gods are false idols, so the priests say. There is only the Christ, who is the one true God." She touched the gold Celtic crucifix that she always wore about her neck and that had not yet been taken from her by the Víkingrs. "Will you— will you swear by Him?"
"Nay, I am no Christian, lady, but a Víkingr and so Odinn's warrior. When I die in battle, as every Víkingr longs to die, 'tis one of the Einheriar that I will become, and so be borne by the Valkyries to Valhöll, Odinn's great mead Hall of the Slain, in Asgard. If I am chosen as worthy of that honor. I will not be taken up unto your Heaven, by your God, about whom I know nothing, save that He was no mighty warrior and so cannot know the souls of such men."
"The priests say that He does, that He is all-knowing and all-powerful."
"Mayhap. Still, I do not fear the Christian God as some Northmen do, but only the gods of Asgard, and the giant Loki, who is wickedness. They are ancient— older than your Christ, lady, older than this earth, elemental and eternal, like the wind and the sea that carry us up the Swan Road to the Northland. Do you not sense the gods, lady? Do you not feel them— those guardians of fate, of destiny?"
A chill shivered up Rhowenna's spine at Wulfgar's words, making the fine hairs on her nape rise; for, in her dream, had not the old gods warned her of her fate, her destiny? Had she not sensed them, felt them all her life, and known that they existed, no matter what the priests said? Such beliefs were heresy, sinful; she knew she should confess them. But there would be no Christian priest in the heathen Northland; there would be nothing there of the life she had known in Usk, of the world she had left behind when this bold Víkingr had swept her up in his arms and carried her aboard the longship that now sailed so swiftly northward toward the cold, wintry lands of the midnight sun.
"Nay, I do not," she replied at last to Wulfgar's question. "The old gods are dead."
"I do not believe that, lady— nor, in your heart, do you, I am thinking."
Rhowenna did not answer him, but concentrated instead on the cleansing of his wounds, rubbing more lightly than before, so the salt of the seawater would not hurt him so badly, although she knew that it must give him pain, even so. Still, after that initial outburst, he bore her ministrations stoically; and in the silence, she became aware of the feel of his flesh beneath her palms, of the massive muscles that corded his arms and layered his chest and belly. She had never before known a man so big and so tall; she felt small and fragile in comparison, and she was not sure she liked the feeling. All her life, as princess of Usk, Rhowenna had wielded power. Now she did not. More than just physically, this man was more powerful than she— and the only thing standing between her and the rest of the Víkingrs. When, finally, she was done washing away the blood that encrusted his skin, she dropped the cloth into the bucket of seawater and spoke.
"Have you a healing salve for these injuries?"
"Aye." He pointed to his sea chest, which, having been moved by some of the men, now sat in the stern. "In there."
Rhowenna turned and, kneeling, slowly lifted the lid of his sea chest, feeling a sudden awkwardness as she did so, an unwelcome sense of prying and yet also of intimacy as she fumbled through his belongings, searching for the healing salve. His sea chest was nearly empty, containing little more than a change of clothes and a purse that, by the look and feel of it, held no more than a few coins at most. Wulfgar was not a rich man, she judged, only a bold one, a warrior bent on seizing what he could so that he might rise in rank and power— as he had seized her and the Dragon's Fire, and would no doubt take the markland of his lord, Olaf the Sea Bull. Perhaps Morgen was right, and Wulfgar had offered her, Rhowenna, his protection and assistance because he sought her ransom for himself alone. She could not deny the possibility. Still, she must admit that so far he had kept her safe, as he had promised; so what did it matter if he was motivated to do so by greed instead of kindness?
Taking up the small clay jar of healing salve, she uncorked it and sniffed it tentatively, recognizing the scents of various herbs with medicinal properties. Satisfied that the jar contained nothing harmful— with which she might be accused of poisoning Wulfgar— Rhowenna dipped her fingers into the healing salve and began to spread it on his injuries.
"The wounds are not serious and will not require bandaging," she observed when she was finished. Replacing the cork in the jar, she returned the healing salve to his sea chest and closed the lid. "They need only to be kept clean to avoid infection."
"Then... grant me a small boon as a token of your gratitude, Wulfgar Bloodaxe," Rhowenna dared to entreat; for although he had claimed her as his slave, she knew that she could never accept that role willingly, that she must not permit herself to forget that she was the princess of Usk.
"What is it?" he asked, his eyes narrowed, so that she understood that he was not so bewitched by her beauty that he would allow her to make a fool of him. She was glad then that she had not demeaned herself by trying.
"Only this: that I and the other women no longer be kept bound hand and foot. Your men are many, and my women are few in comparison, and this vessel, this... Dragon's Fire, is many leagues out to sea, besides. There is no hope of our overpowering or escaping from you. Surely, then, we may be permitted some freedom of movement so we can more properly bathe and tend our own wounds?" Wisely, she asked for no more than this, knowing that to demand that the women be returned to Usk, or at least left alone at night, would prove fruitless.
"It sounds like a reasonable enough request," Wulfgar agreed at last, after a long moment of consideration. "Very well. I will allow you and the rest of the women to remain unbound. But mark my words, lady: The first time that there is trouble or that one of your women decides to throw herself overboard, there will be an end to it. You will— all of you— be restrained again. Do you understand?"
"Aye."
"Make sure the other women do, as well."
"I will. Th-thank you... my lord." Because Rhowenna was proud, two spots of color stained her high cheekbones as she forced herself not only to voice her appreciation, but also to call him by the title with which she had addressed him so scornfully before, knowing that he was but a warrior and not deserving of the honorific, save from a wife— or a slave.