by Swan Road
To the longhouse, Rhowenna brought not only order and cleanliness, but also a sense of dignity and grace that it had previously lacked and that the Víkingrs, with their— to her, startling and unexpected— love of beauty and art and poetry, approved and appreciated. Knowing she was accustomed to finer things, sensing how important her surroundings were to her, and wishing to please her, Wulfgar had the craftsmen fashion exquisitely painted wooden panels, which were pegged to the timber walls, as was the custom in many a wealthy household; and to these were fastened big, elaborately formed bronze hooks on which to store, when dismantled after meals, the trestle tables and long benches the woodcarvers built. On the dais sat a thronelike chair that served as Wulfgar's high seat. An abundance of whale-oil lamps and rushlights brought light into the shadows, and sweet-smelling rushes strewed the hard-packed earth floor. There were trestle tables for the kitchen, as well, and shelves now to hold pots and dishes, with barrels and chests neatly lined up underneath on the floor. To all this, Wulfgar made two further— and swiftly completed— contributions: The hide curtain in the doorway of the sleeping chamber was replaced by a stout, ornately carved oak door with iron fittings and a sturdy lock; and in the sleeping chamber itself stood a massive bed— the seng. That word had puzzled Rhowenna the day of Wulfgar's discussion with Eirik, the chief woodcarver, but she now knew its meaning as she learned daily more and more of the language of the Northland.
When the door and the bed were installed, Rhowenna's heart turned over in her breast; for she knew they meant that although Wulfgar perhaps would keep his word and would not force her to submit to him, he was determined to win her surrender, nevertheless. He continued his loverlike assaults upon her body and senses, and she did not know how long she could go on holding out against him. She was virtually his wife in all but his bed; and even there, she lay in his embrace at night, trembling with the feelings he had wakened within her and went on nurturing, filling her with an unendurable ache she knew instinctively that only he could ease. Fiercely, trying to convince herself of it, she told herself that she wished he would not kiss her, would not caress her. Once, she even asked him not to touch her again; but he only laughed softly and said that that had not been part of the bargain, that he had promised only not to rape her.
Still, although it was potent with meaning, the bed, made of oak, was undeniably beautiful. Eirik and his cadre of woodcarvers must have labored many days and long into the nights to finish it, Rhowenna thought when she first saw it, and she was touched despite herself by the work and obvious care that had gone into it. The two tall, highly detailed posts of the headboard each resembled the dragon-headed stempost of a longship; the headboard itself had intricately carved upon it a great, stalking wolf at the edge of a reed-grown mere, upon whose quietly rippling waters a graceful swan floated— beautiful, serene, unaware. The footboard and its shorter posts were a luxuriance of forested mountains sweeping to the sea. Ells of walrus hide stretched between the sideboards supported the eiderdown-stuffed wool pallet.
"Do you like it?" From behind her, Wulfgar's hands slid slowly back and forth along her shoulders and arms; his breath was warm against her nape, making her shiver. " 'Tis built so it can be dismantled for traveling. The konungrs and rich jarlar often have more than one such bed in their hofs; sometimes, they are even interred with them, as in his longship, Olaf the Sea Bull was with his own possessions and food and drink for his afterlife as one of the Einheriar, in Valhöll."
"The bed is lovely," Rhowenna admitted honestly, for it was not the bed itself, but only the thought of sharing it with him that disturbed her— although why it should be any different from the deck of the longship or the pallet alone, she did not know.
"I would make love to you in it, elsket." His lips brushed her hair, her ear, the side of her neck, sending another shudder of excitement through her. "Why do you not yield to me? You know that you want me as much I want you. You cannot deny that."
"Nay, I cannot," she rejoined softly, after a long moment; for in her heart, she knew that he had spoken truly. Despite everything, she did desire him, her enemy, her captor. She did not know why, but it was so. "But I will deny you, Wulfgar. You are a heathen, and I am a Christian, betrothed to Prince Cerdic, whom I cannot wed and to whose own bed I cannot go as a sullied bride, lest he cast me off and I be compelled to return home to Usk, disgraced, a disappointment to my father and mother, a sinner in the eyes of the Christ and the Church."
Wulfgar sighed heavily at her reply. Still, he would have pressed her, would have argued the issue further, would have carried her to the bed and laid her down upon its soft pallet to try with his mouth and tongue and hands to persuade her to give in to him. But there came a knock upon the door and then the sound of Flóki the Raven's voice, saying:
"Lord, I am sorry to disturb you, but 'tis important. One of the messengers you dispatched to the Southlands has finally returned— from Mercia, lord— and he has Prince Cerdic's answer to your ransom demand for the princess!"
Hearing this news, Rhowenna felt her heart give a sudden lurch and then begin to hammer violently in her breast, and Wulfgar's hands tightened so painfully on her shoulders that she flinched. For an eternity, it seemed, neither she nor he moved or spoke. Then, at last, he released her, turning to open the door.
"Come," he demanded quietly, holding out his hand to her, his face impassive, his eyes hooded so she could not read his thoughts, although there was a certain grimness about the corners of his mouth, a tenseness to his body that let her know how unwelcome he found the missive from Mercia.
Perhaps even if Prince Cerdic had agreed to pay her ransom, Wulfgar would not return her, Rhowenna thought, startled by the abrupt realization that this prospect neither frightened nor dismayed her as wholly as it ought, but gave her instead a peculiar pleasure. Surely, she had been beset by some madness to feel so. Despite the freedoms he had permitted her, she was still his prisoner, his slave; she should be glad to escape from him, not experiencing such a queer pang at the idea of never seeing him again.
Aye, I am mad, or ill, she told herself, or else Wulfgar has entranced me with some Northland magic. Perhaps that old slave woman who reared him, Yelkei, has cast a spell upon meto tempt me from my loyalty and my duty to Usk into wickedness and wantonness in Wulfgar's arms— for did he not say that she was a spaewife, that she possessed the power of prophesy born of fires and mists and the rune stones? Surely, such a one is a witch.... But then Rhowenna remembered her own prophetic dream and how, for it, she had feared to be accused by Father Cadwyr as the devil's handmaiden; and she knew that she was being unfair to the old slave woman. It was Wulfgar himself who attracted her, despite herself. Have I somehow fallen in love with him? she wondered. Nay, that cannot be. Of course it cannot....
Determinedly dismissing the notion, she followed Wulfgar from the sleeping chamber, anxiously settling herself in her position at his feet as he sat down on the high seat upon the dais between the two large pillars at the end of the great mead hall. Unless he was swearing oath, it was not the custom in the Northland for a man to kneel before his lord. Instead, with his right fist, the messenger, Naddod, struck his chest over his heart in a brief salute to Wulfgar before handing him a scroll of parchment sealed with beeswax, into which was stamped what Rhowenna recognized as Prince Cerdic's seal. Breaking the seal, Wulfgar slowly unrolled the scroll, frowning as he stared down at it.
" 'Tis not written in the dönsk tunga" he announced finally, referring to the language of the Northland, "but some tongue I know not."
"Latin, lord"— Naddod elucidated— "which, begging your pardon, lord, Prince Cerdic charged me to say that he doubted that you would understand, as 'tis the language of the learned, and despite your calling yourself a jarl of the Northland, you are, in truth, naught save an unlettered pagan barbarian and a Víkingr."
"Well, by the gods, that is a case of the troll's calling the dwarf ugly"— Wulfgar's snort of laughter rang out amid that of the thegns at t
his insult— "coming from a Saxon sea wolf whose own ancestors were both savages and pirates, and a bold statement, besides, for a man whose betrothed I hold utterly at my mercy! Either this Cerdic of Mercia is a prince I'd like to cross blades with, or else he's a fool; and if the latter is so, why, then, he's not deserving even of my scorn! Say on, Naddod. Did Prince Cerdic tell you what is written herein this scroll?"
"Aye, lord, and he commanded me to commit it to memory and to repeat it to you thus: 'To Wulfgar Bloodaxe, jarl of the Northland, I greet you. In reply to your letter regarding my betrothed, Rhowenna, princess of Usk, I must inform you that as her dowry has never been delivered to me, I consider that both our betrothal and the treaty with Usk have been broken, and so I feel no obligation to pay from my own coffers the gold demanded as my lady's ransom. You must do with her as you will. Hereto, I have affixed my seal this fourteenth day of August in the Year of Our Lord 865.' Signed 'Cerdic, prince of Mercia.' "
"By the God of the Runes and Valhöll!" Wulfgar roared, slamming his fist down on the arm of his chair, then springing to his feet and throwing the scroll to the floor. "The man's a contemptible, callous coward with more care for his purse than for what is right and honorable toward his lady, who is powerless against this wicked wrong done her! Whatever the reason for it, 'tis not her fault that her dowry has yet to be delivered to him. By Thor's hammer, my battle-ax is too good for the likes of him; why, I'd sooner use a horsewhip to teach that Saxon dog a lesson!" Still, his eyes glittered not murderously, but with an eager, triumphant light when he gazed down at Rhowenna, and she knew he was thinking, as she was, that she was not yet to leave him, and that she could no longer use her betrothal as an excuse for refusing to lie with him.
Frightened more by this than by his anger, which she knew was not directed at her, she cringed at Wulfgar's feet, stricken that Prince Cerdic, not knowing whether she was treated well or ill, should so cruelly relegate her to her fate in the Northland. This was not what she had thought to hear from the man to whom her father had betrothed her, the man who had sent her the gold necklace set with amethysts, which she had believed such a caring, considerate gift, a mark of his esteem for her. That he should now so easily and heartlessly abandon her for lack of her dowry filled her with despair. Something must have happened, she thought with a sudden sense of foreboding. Although Prince Cerdic's missive had hinted at no discord between them, her father would never, without just cause, have reneged on his agreement with Prince Cerdic. Was Mercia now once more Usk's foe, then? Rhowenna shivered at the idea, for in her heart, she knew that Usk was not strong enough to fight off a concerted attack from Mercia and Glamorgan or Gwent, especially after the brutal raid by the Northmen, during which Wulfgar had taken her captive. She worried for her parents, and for Gwydion, and thought how ironic it was that she might actually at this moment be safer in the Northland, under Wulfgar's protection, than in her own homeland.
How prophetic was that observation, Rhowenna was to think over a fortnight later, when the thegns in the watchtowers sounded their horns in warning, and one of the men descended his ladder to report grimly to Wulfgar that a band of armed men approached the palisade, at their vanguard, mounted upon a snowy white horse, Ivar the Boneless, son and heir of the great Ragnar Lodbrók, a konungr of the Northland.
Chapter Twelve
The Reckoning
Rhowenna had dreamed a horrible dream the night before. She had dreamed of wandering on the shores of Usk, and of crimson-winged sea dragons, breathing fire and death, their riders dismounting to plunge into the frothy brine, shouting mighty battle cries, weapons raised high to lay waste to Usk, at the vanguard of the warriors a gold-headed demon. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she had run and run through the melee, frantically turning over one by one the corpses that lay facedown, strewn upon that bloody earth. To her horror, every man had borne the face of her father, every woman, that of her mother. She had screamed and screamed at the sight; but as is often the way of a nightmare, no sound had issued from her throat until she had wakened herself with her shrieks and sobs, and Wulfgar, too, her heart pounding, her body drenched with a cold sweat.
"Shhhhh, elsket" he had murmured soothingly, gathering her into his arms, stroking and kissing her gently as he had cradled her against his chest. " 'Twas only a dream, only a bad dream, that's all. I'm right here beside you, and I won't let anything happen to you, I swear it. You're safe, sweeting; you're safe here with me. So, hush, now. Hush."
But hours had passed before Rhowenna had finally fallen back to sleep. Now, as she heard the horns sounding their warning, she thought of her dream last night and of the horns echoing up and down the coast of Usk before the Northmen in their longships had swooped upon her homeland; and she was gripped by a fearful premonition. So strong was this feeling of foreboding that she did not move when Wulfgar turned and spoke to her, but stood where she was, caught up in the chaotic images of violence that, unbidden, erupted in her mind, memories of the actual battle at Usk, when she had been taken prisoner, and unreal scenes from her dreams. Her countenance was pale; her violet eyes were wide and dazed and scared, uncomprehending as, abruptly grabbing her, Wulfgar pulled loose several strands of hair from her braid and then, bending to scoop up a handful of dirt, rubbed her face and gown with it.
"There, that's better; you are less likely to attract Ivar's attention, I am thinking. Now, go back inside the hof, to the kitchen, and stay there until I send for you, Rhowenna," he ordered harshly, afraid for her and savage in his fear. Then, angered by her lack of response, he snarled, "Do as I say, wench!" giving her a rough little shove toward the longhouse.
Rhowenna did as Wulfgar had commanded then, her heart racing, her hands trembling as she gathered up her skirts and hastened into the hof, to the kitchen. She had been in the process of making laverbread when the horns had begun their clamor; and now, despite her agitation, she forced herself to continue her work. But even so occupied, she could not quell the dread that filled her at the news that Ivar the Boneless was coming.
By now, Rhowenna knew the sequence of events that had followed the tale told by the skáld Sigurd Silkbeard in Ragnar Lodbrók's great mead hall: how it was that Wulfgar had sailed to Usk to take her captive before Ivar the Boneless could seize her as his own prize and why Ivar would feel he had a right to claim her from Wulfgar. But in the beginning, some days after their arrival in the Northland, word had reached them at Wulfgar's mark-land that neither Ragnar nor his sons had yet returned from their respective raids upon the Southlands; and so, as the summer had flown by, it had been easy for Rhowenna to push the threat of their homecoming to the back of her mind. Some part of her, she now realized, had even half thought— half hoped— that Ragnar and his sons would be killed in battle while away a-viking, as Olaf the Sea Bull had been killed. But now, the threat they posed to her, and to Morgen, could no longer be dismissed. Ivar the Boneless was alive; he was here.
Through a chink in the longhouse's timber wall, Rhowenna watched as the gates of the palisade swung open to admit the band of riders who galloped inside; and as she spied the man mounted upon the pure-white steed at their fore— Ivar the Boneless, surely— her breath caught in her throat and her heart seemed to stop beating for an excruciating eternity before starting up again with a frightening jerk. It was he, the gold-headed demon of her horrifying dream last night, a sinister portent not to be ignored by one whose dream of Wulfgar and the Northmen's raid upon Usk had come true. Her sense of impending doom grew; she shivered uncontrollably. Without even realizing she did so, she grasped the gold Celtic crucifix about her neck and began to pray, her lips moving soundlessly, the laverbread forgotten.
In the bailey, Ivar drew his prancing horse up short, lifting one hand to bring the rest of his thegns to a halt behind him. For a long moment, he did not dismount, but sat there staring down at Wulfgar, in his eyes that strange, leaping light Wulfgar had seen that winter's day of the roe-deer hunt, on his face that peculiar half-smile that somehow be
spoke both challenge and admiration, and that caused the fine hairs on Wulfgar's nape to lift. Yet, for the first time in his life, he found to his surprise and fierce gladness that he was able to look at Ivar without a sense of lowliness and jealousy, of dread and humiliation; and he somehow knew he would never again feel those emotions in Ivar's presence. Hatred still roiled within him at the memory of Ivar's ill-treatment of him over the years, his refusal to recognize him as a brother; but now Wulfgar's feeling was that not only of a man toward his enemy, but toward his equal. As though Ivar sensed this, he at last spoke.