Brandewyne, Rebecca

by Swan Road

  "Do you not think, then, to call Mercia such when you are wed to Prince Cerdic?" Wulfgar asked, a note of curiosity in his tone.

  "My thoughts about Mercia and my betrothed are none of your concern, and so I shall not make you privy to them," she rejoined stiffly.

  "You just did— for if you found joy in the match your father arranged for you, you would be glad to tell me that, to use the knowledge like a scourge against me, to hurt me, knowing how I desire you. Instead, you are silent; so you are no more eager, then, to lie in Prince Cerdic's bed than in my own, are you? Still, you will submit to him— although, like a fox the hound, you do seek to elude me, lady, and doubtless pray every night to your Christian God that I do not grow weary of the chase."

  "Cerdic of Mercia is a prince and soon to be my husband— not a heathen marauder who savagely plundered my father's kingdom, committing mayhem and murder before kidnapping me to hold me hostage for ransom!"

  "Lady, if I thought that such would bring about your surrender, gladly would I marry you and make you a queen of the Northland, I swear it! Only tell me that you will be mine, and when I sit upon the high seat in Olaf the Sea Bull's great mead hall, you shall sit at my side as my bride— and not at my feet as my slave."

  "You are mad!" Rhowenna cried softly, stricken by the sudden, unwelcome, unnerving thought that perhaps Wulfgar would force her to undergo some pagan wedding ceremony and then proclaim her his wife, his for the taking if she dared to refuse him.

  "Mad with wanting you, lady? Aye, I'll not deny it. To look at you is to feel a thunderbolt from Thor's hammer, Mjöllnir, coursing through my blood and my loins. Lying beside you these past nights and willing myself not to touch you, to take you, has been an unbearable torture to my heart and soul. Yet have I compelled myself to endure it— for your sake— and claimed no more than a few kisses from your lush red mouth that, soft and trembling, invites the hard feel of a man's certain possession. As that fox-hunting hound strains at its leash, lady, so do I chafe impatiently at my own restraint where you are concerned, longing to be rid of it. Do you think that Cerdic of Mercia will prove any different, that he will want less of you than I? You do not love him— how can you when you do not even know him? And if your father were willing to marry you to one sea wolf, why not to another? What does it matter if 'tis I and not Prince Cerdic to whom you plight your troth?"

  To her despair, Rhowenna had no good answer to that.

  "It matters," she insisted, the words sounding lame even to her own ears.

  "In time, 'twill cease to," came the sure, cavalier response.

  "You are arrogant, Wulfgar Bloodaxe."

  "And you are proud, lady, and strong-willed. But my own will is stronger, as you will come to learn, as the fox learns of the will of the hound when the chase is done and she is run to ground by him. Yield to me, lady! You will not regret it, I swear it!"

  "Nay, I cannot! I will not!" Rhowenna's face was anguished as she spoke the words, and her mouth quivered, her white throat worked, so Wulfgar knew she was more tempted by his offer than she would have him believe.

  Without a doubt, her future must look very bleak to her at the moment, with her being so very far from home and not knowing whether, in truth, her betrothed or her father would pay the ransom demanded for her safe return. The idea of being his, Wulfgar's, bride instead of his slave must therefore hold a certain undeniable appeal, which he had counted on. That Rhowenna had rejected him annoyed but did not truly trouble him. He had not expected her acceptance, but only hoped to give her food for thought, to weaken her resolve. Satisfied that he had accomplished this, Wulfgar spoke no more, but turned his attention to the sounder in the bow, watching for the signal that would indicate that they were nearing the shoals, that the sea had grown shallow enough that the sail must be lowered, the rudder raised, and the oars put to use. When the time came, he gave the orders easily, with an authority and assurance he had not so much felt as pretended in the beginning, after he had fought Knut Strongarm for captaincy of the vessel.

  In the end, when the Dragon's Fire was at last moored to the wharf that stretched into the sea, Wulfgar took possession of Olaf the Sea Bull's markland just as easily, somewhat astonished by how simple it proved. It was as Yelkei had told Wulfgar: Olaf's wife and sons were dead; the husbands of his daughters had the spines of jellyfish, and as they had not protested his assuming command of the Dragon's Fire, they did not now voice objection to his seizing Olaf's markland, but slunk away home to their wives. So there was no great battle as Wulfgar had half feared. In fact, no man resisted him as, after the traditional wassailing in the Sacred Grove on Olaf's markland to give thanks to the gods for a successful voyage and raid, Wulfgar strode through the gates of Olaf's palisade and into the great mead hall of the hof. The thegns and freedmen left behind to guard the longhouse in Olaf's absence were stunned and disarranged by the news of their master's death. Instinctively, they looked for guidance and did not question Wulfgar's commands, which the warriors who had been aboard the longship were seen to obey without hesitation. Only Olaf's concubine, Ingeborg, protested, shrieking and tearing like a crazy woman at her long, greying blond hair— although not from any real grief at Olaf's demise, Wulfgar soon discerned, but from fear of what was to become of her now that her paramour was dead.

  Disgusted, Wulfgar slapped her across the face to bring her to her senses, then directed her to pack her clothes and jewels, and to be gone from the hof within the hour— he cared not to where. Olaf's concubine was not the woman Wulfgar wanted as mistress of his longhouse. Ingeborg was sly and grasping; he felt sure she had cheated Olaf outrageously over the years, hoarding much of what the Sea Bull had given her to manage the hof and to spend in the marketplaces. Wulfgar was equally certain that once she had departed, Ingeborg would waste no time in hurrying to Ragnar's longhouse to inform him of her master's death and Wulfgar's claiming of Olaf's markland. Still, there was no way, Wulfgar knew, that he could prevent that news from spreading like wildfire, so it seemed a wasted effort to try. The most he could realistically hope for was that neither Ragnar nor Ivar had yet returned from raiding the Southlands, thereby giving him time to secure his position as the markland's jarl and to fortify the palisade against his father and half brothers in case they should decide to march forth and attack him. At the very least, they were bound to come to demand that he relinquish the prize he had snatched from them— the princess of Usk— and if he did not deliver her up to them, they would surely declare war against him. Worse, perhaps they would even call for an assembly of the Thing and insist that he be branded an outlaw. Then he would be an outcast in the Northland, driven from his markland, deserted by his men, unprotected by the laws, having no rights whatsoever, no hope of succor from even the lowliest slave, upon pain of death for any and all who aided and abetted him. Wulfgar would not let that happen.

  He gave instructions for ox-carts to be driven to the beach so the goods aboard the Dragon's Fire could be unloaded, as well as the decaying bodies in the shallow cargo hold. Then, with great reluctance, he ordered the mighty longship itself dragged onto the shores of the Skagerrak, for interment in the burial mound of Olaf the Sea Bull. Wulfgar could not dishonor his dead lord by doing any less. Still, he deeply regretted the loss of the vessel, his first command, and resolved to set the men to work building another longship as soon as possible. In the meanwhile, there was much to be done to put the markland in order. Many of the fields lay fallow and needed to be planted, come next spring; byres and fences were tumbling down, and the hof itself was a veritable pigsty. It was no wonder, he thought as he abruptly viewed the longhouse through Rhowenna's assessing eyes, that as she gazed about the dismal great mead hall, she looked so disheartened, her mouth and shoulders drooping.

  "Lady, I would you had received a better welcome," he told her gently. "As you can see, my lord, Olaf the Sea Bull, had little care for aught beyond his cups and comfort. But now that I am jarl here, I will soon set matters aright."

&nbs
p; Before Rhowenna could respond, Ingeborg reappeared from the lord's private sleeping chamber beyond the great mead hall, bearing a large jewel chest and still shrilling about the treatment she had received at Wulfgar's callous hands. In her wake trailed several slaves she had pressed into service, dragging her heavily laden coffers between them. She cast at Wulfgar a glance of utter loathing before tossing her head and flouncing out of the hof. From beyond its low doorway, with wry amusement, he heard her commandeering two of the ox-carts to carry her and her possessions away; he made no attempt to countermand her orders, thinking himself lucky to be well rid of her and with so little trouble.

  "Come, lady." Wulfgar held out one hand to Rhowenna, leading her reluctantly drawn figure into the gloomy sleeping chamber Ingeborg had vacated. "Since I have claimed you as my slave, and mine alone, this is where you will sleep— with me," he announced casually, "for the women in the slave pens may be used freely by the thegns, and so I will not have you there. That being the case, if you would be comfortable this night, you would do well to clean my sleeping chamber first, before attending to my great mead hall. Also, my men and I will be hungry tonight and will expect to be well fed, so you had best see to the kitchen, as well. You may have as many of the other slaves as you need to help you with your tasks; I will ensure that they follow your directions."

  "I am— I am to be as mistress here, then?" Rhowenna asked tentatively, still not quite certain of the role he meant her to play.

  "Aye, that is my desire. I have just thrown Olaf's shrewish concubine out on her ear, and there is no other woman here with your knowledge of how to manage a lord's household, lady. In this way will you earn your keep while you are under my protection."

  "And is it your intention that I— that I earn it also in your bed, my lord?" Now that he was a jarl of the Northland, she could address him thus, as his rank alone demanded, without feeling she demeaned herself by speaking the title.

  "If that is your desire, lady."

  " 'Tis not— and well you know it!"

  "Aye, for so you have told me often enough. Still, 'tis a woman's prerogative to change her mind, and that, you will do in time, I am thinking." He reached out and, with his hand, cupped her chin, tilting her face up to his and running his thumb slowly across her lower lip. "I have learned that much comes to a man who waits, as a wise wolf bides patiently among the reeds at the edge of the mere, waiting for the lone swan to draw near before pouncing on it."

  His analogy was all too clear. Her eyes flashing sparks, her cheekbones high with color, Rhowenna jerked her head away from him, causing him to laugh softly.

  "I am not so unwary as your careless swan, my lord!"

  "Not now, perhaps," Wulfgar conceded. "But 'twill take time to send messages to Mercia and Walas, to Prince Cerdic and to your father, time for their replies to reach us here in the Northland, time for you to be safely returned to them if the ransom demanded for you is paid— in short, time enough for much to happen, much to change between us, lady. Time, you see, is on my side, and 'tis a powerful ally, as you will come to learn. Meanwhile, I will wait and watch, like the wolf who stalks the swan."

  "And I will wait and watch, also, my lord," Rhowenna rejoined, falsely sweet, "for the time when I may take flight, homeward bound."

  At that, Wulfgar's mocking smile turned so abruptly to a dark scowl that she could not restrain the mirth that bubbled from her throat at her having got a bit of her own back against him. It was, Wulfgar realized suddenly, the first time he had ever heard her laugh; and her face, as lovely and distant as the swan to which he had likened her, was transformed with radiance and warmth, growing even more beautiful, he reflected, like the frosty, breathtaking beauty of the tundra when touched by the midnight sun. He inhaled sharply at the sight of her, her head thrown back a little, the slender white column of her swan's throat bared, her eyes half closed, her moist mouth parted. So would she look when being made love to by a man, he thought, and he felt his loins tighten with desire for her, and a sudden, wild urge to throw her down where she stood and to claim her as his, only his, forever his. Something of this must have shown upon his face, Wulfgar recognized; for after a long moment, Rhowenna's laughter slowly died away, and she stared up at him breathlessly, as still as a startled doe poised for flight, the tiny pulse at the hollow of her throat fluttering like the wings of a moth beating helplessly against a flame.

  "Lady... Rhowenna..." he murmured, his voice low and thick, speaking her name for the first time, so she would know that now that he was a jarl, he considered himself her equal.

  His eyes darkened with passion as he drew her into his arms, his fingers entangling the tresses at her temples, turning her face up to his, his mouth finding hers, his tongue cleaving her lips, thrusting deep into the dark, moist cavity of her, seeking... finding. The taste of her was sweeter than costly Rhenish wine, he thought, and he savored it, only dimly aware of her small fists hammering against his broad chest as she struggled to free herself from his strong embrace— futilely. For Wulfgar did not release her, but went on kissing her hungrily until at long last, with a long, soughing moan of helplessness and defeat, Rhowenna melted against him, her hands slipping up to twine about his neck. Her fingers burrowed in his long mane of tawny hair, twisting and tightening convulsively as his tongue wreathed hers, searching out the innermost secrets of her mouth until her lips softened beneath his, yielded tremulously, a scarlet rosebud unfurling to surrender the nectar at its heart. She gasped for breath. Feverishly, his mouth burned across her cheek to her temple then, pressed kisses upon the silky strands of her hair, her shell-like ear. The scent of her was intoxicating; she smelled of soap and sunshine and spindrift. Gently, Wulfgar bit her earlobe and felt his blood leap and surge as she inhaled raggedly and shuddered hard against him, her full breasts soft and swelling against his chest, exciting him beyond belief. He bent her back, his lips sweeping down her throat to those breasts with which Rhowenna taunted and tempted him so unconsciously, he was sure, unaware of how alluring they felt to him, their nipples taut and straining against the light woolen fabric of her gown, hard twin little peaks he longed to nibble with his teeth, to suck with his mouth, and to lave with his tongue until she moaned and writhed beneath him with a desire to match his own. He buried his face between her breasts, his hands sliding down to her shoulders, tugging impatiently at the sleeves of the gown he yearned to tear away from her savagely, stripping her naked.

  "Lord?" a voice called tentatively from beyond the hide-curtained doorway of the sleeping chamber. "Lord?"

  "Not now, damn it!" Wulfgar snarled, his breath coming harsh and fast, his arms tightening about Rhowenna, feeling her stiffen and, regaining her senses, begin once more to struggle against him as the mood was inevitably lost, the spell broken. Knowing that what they had shared could not be recaptured at the moment, he reluctantly released her, his eyes raking her intently, ravenously, for a long moment before, with a muttered curse, he strode to the doorway and murderously yanked back the curtain. "What in Hel is it?"

  "Ah! My timing is indeed as bad as I feared." Flóki the Raven took half a step backward, a rueful smile playing about the corners of his lips, although his eyes were wary, as though he believed he would be soundly cuffed or kicked for the interruption. "I am sorry, lord, but as you gave no orders not to disturb you, I thought that you would wish to know right away that Ingeborg instructed the drivers of the ox-carts to convey her and her belongings to Ragnar's mark-land."

  "Aye... I expected as much," Wulfgar said slowly, some of his anger draining away; for in truth, had he wished to remain undisturbed, he ought to have given orders to that effect. He was not yet accustomed either to the responsibilities or to the privileges of his new rank as jarl; that he could demand that he be left alone was an unfamiliar notion— one to be savored at his leisure. But Flóki had been right to interrupt him with the news of Ingeborg's destination, which would surely have an impact on them all.

  "Do you wish me to send riders
after her to bring her back, lord?" Flóki asked.

  "Nay, for I'll not have her as mistress of my hof and she'll not be happy with less than that, but stirring pots of trouble in the kitchen and sowing seeds of dissension in the fields. Why Olaf ever tolerated her, I'm sure I do not know; no doubt, she was why he spent so much of his time in his cups! Nay, Flóki." He shook his head. "If not from Ingeborg, Ragnar will learn soon enough from some other that I am jarl here now. Such news travels fast, as will the news of our raid's success, also; so there is no point in chasing after her. Let her go— but post men in the watchtowers to give warning if Ragnar or his sons should approach."

  "It shall be done, lord," Flóki declared, then pivoted on his booted heel.

  Allowing the curtain to fall back into place then, Wulfgar turned back to Rhowenna, acutely aware of how violently she trembled as he neared her. From the corners of his eyes, he had watched how she had quickly turned from the doorway, so Flóki would not see her disarray; and how, with shaking hands, she had fumbled to draw up her sleeves and to smooth back into place the strands of her hair that had been pulled loose from her long braid; and how she had then crossed her arms over her breasts, hugging herself tightly and swaying a little on her feet, as though she would faint. Now, as she stood with her back to him, her head bowed, Wulfgar almost took pity on her. She was yet innocent, a maiden, and frightened by his passion for her. But then he thought of her lying in the arms of Ragnar Lodbrók or Ivar the Boneless— or both— taught cruelly the lessons he would teach her with such caring and tenderness; and he strengthened his resolve to win her however he could.

  "Lady... Rhowenna..."He spoke quietly, noting sadly how she tensed as he laid his hands upon her shoulders, caressing her lightly, pulling aside her braid to brush his lips against her nape. "My desire for you is such that I press you too hard, perhaps. I am a man, with a man's wants and needs, and I have not had a woman since the festival of Eostre, this past spring— and never a woman like you. Still, I will wait until you are ready and willing to receive me, as I have said I would do. That being so, I will leave you now, so you may perform the chores I have set for you— and if you would not bestir me to jealousy and rage, do you keep your eyes cast down while about your work, like the modest maiden I know you to be, and tempt no man upon my markland to forget that you are my slave and woman. For know you this, lady: I will slay the man who dares to touch you, who would seek to earn your favor by helping you to escape from me— and he will not die pleasantly, I promise you, but a death you will not care to have upon your Christian soul. Do you understand?"