Brandewyne, Rebecca

by Swan Road

  "You know why: You are my brother. I cannot... I will not turn kinslayer for you, Ivar. I will not!" Wulfgar muttered fiercely.

  "Damn you!" Ivar cried again. "You sold Ragnar to Aella!"

  "Nay, 'twas Yelkei who did that, in revenge for Ragnar's murder of her son."

  "You cannot leave me here like this! You cannot! I am maimed, and without my sword hand, I shall never be able to fight again. What is that but a life of endless torture for me? You are not so hard and cruel as to condemn me to that! I know that you are not, Wulfgar!"

  "I will not listen to you, Ivar! You are out of your mind with shock and pain. Halfdan and the others are building the fire. We will seal the stump so the bleeding will stop. You can learn to wield your sword with your left hand."

  "And with what will I hold my shield to defend myself, the reins of my horse as I ride into battle?" Ivar laughed shortly, bitterly. "You've never been a fool before, Wulfgar, so do not you be one now! Show me the same mercy you showed Ragnar when you handed his sword down into Aella's snake pit!"

  "That was different! He was already a dead man!" Wulfgar declared stubbornly, turning away to begin walking toward Halfdan and the fire he, Owain, and Yelkei had built upon the beach and that now blazed high.

  "And I am not? Wulfgar! Damn you, Wulfgar! You owe me! I set you free that day of the deer hunt! Now do you the same for me!"

  In his heart, Wulfgar knew that all Ivar had said was truth, that it would be a mercy to kill him; yet, despite that, Wulfgar kept on walking. Then he heard Ivar utter very softly, in his voice an agonized note of entreaty:

  "Please... brother."

  Wulfgar halted in his tracks then, stiff and trembling with emotion, sudden tears stinging his eyes, a lump rising to his throat to choke him. With difficulty, he forced it down, saying, "This one stain of dishonor upon my soul, in exchange for your death... brother," and then he laughed as harshly and mockingly as Ivar had earlier, the laugh turning abruptly into a terrible, anguished cry. "Ah, gods! It sounds like a fair bargain to me!" Shouting to Odinn, the tears raining down his cheeks, Wulfgar whirled about and leaped forward, his battle-ax swinging high, glittering as bright and silvery in the sun as the mail of a golden-haired Valkyrie.

  The song Blood-Drinker sang was a song of death; still, Ivar was smiling that strange caricature of a smile, and his eyes shone with a queer light of triumph as the blade bit deeply into his neck, taking his head.

  * * * * *

  Ceremoniously, they burned Ivar's body in the fire upon the beach. Afterward, although weapons were highly prized family heirlooms, handed down from father to son, Wulfgar raised Soul-Stealer high and, with all his might, flung the blade out into the sea. Like a beautiful white swan or a dragon breathing fire, it flew through the air, long neck outstretched, gleaming in the sun, until it dived straight downward to disappear forever beneath the frothy waves. Ivar the Boneless had been a king of the Northland, a great Víkingr; it was not right that his weapon be wielded by any other man.

  " 'Twas a glorious death at your hands he wanted, Wulfgar," Halfdan said quietly as they stood together, staring out at the place where the blade had vanished, "what he sought all his life, I somehow do believe. 'Twas his fate and yours to come to this. You were everything he always wanted to be and could not: a true Víkingr, heart and soul, the stuff of which heroes and legends are fashioned; and he was the one thing you always wanted to be and never would have been: Ragnar's best-beloved son." Halfdan paused for a moment, dwelling on this irony. Then, at last, he turned to address the harper. "Owain the Bard, when you sing of this day, as you will, let the death of Ivar the Boneless remain a mystery. 'Tis not within most men to understand the fatal obsession in his flawed soul— and the burden Wulfgar now must carry on his own is enough."

  "So 'twill be, King Halfdan, if you will permit me to accompany you back to Britain," Owain said gravely. "For although I know in my heart now the remainder of Wulfgar's own verses, my song is not yet finished. 'Tis the tale of Ragnar Lodbrók and his sons, all four; and like your brother Ivar the Boneless, you, too, will prove a great Víkingr, I believe."

  "Aye," Halfdan agreed, "for I'm a king of the Northland now, and I'll be king of Britain and mayhap even Erin, too, before I'm through. Still, 'tis Wulfgar who is destined to become the greatest one of us all, I am thinking. By the gods! I believe that before all is said and done, with his lady wife, fey Rhowenna the Fair, by his side, he will be king of all the Danes!"

  Epilogue: Sweeter Than Siren's Snare

  A Tall Red Sail

  The Southern Coast of Usk, Walas, A.D. 867

  Gwydion's heart ached with love and sorrow as he stared at the solitary figure who stood at the top of the stony, narrow, serpentine track that led to the beach below, overlooked by his palisade, which perched like a falcon's aerie above the strand. She came here every day, her son in her arms, to stand and to gaze out over the sea, searching, he knew, for a tall red sail spread wide against the blue spring sky and billowing in the wind as the sea dragon beneath heaved and plummeted on the frothy waves, drawing ever nearer.

  That Rhowenna should love an enemy Viking! That she should have willingly become his whore, borne a child to him! Even now, after all these months, Gwydion could hardly believe it. Still, he would have taken her back, would have taken her as his wife, in a proper Christian marriage ceremony— for no matter what she said, she was not truly wed in the eyes of the Church and of the Law to that pagan barbarian she called her husband!— but she had obstinately refused even to consider his proposal. Now, sighing heavily, he thought that it was doubtless hopeless, useless, to implore her yet again to change her mind. Still, he felt he must try.

  Slowly, he walked down to where, still staring out over the sea, Rhowenna stood on the high ground overlooking the beach below. Although she heard Gwydion's approach, she did not turn, but continued to study the far horizon, as though if she only looked at it hard enough, she could somehow magically make a crimson sail appear there. In her dreams, she had seen it; in her heart, she knew somehow that Wulfgar was still alive, that he would come for her and their child. But as though reading her mind and attempting to convince her otherwise, as he so often had since she had returned to Usk, Gwydion said:

  "Wulfgar Bloodaxe is dead, Rhowenna! He must be dead, or else he has run off and deserted you, returned to the Northland and left you behind— and you've simply got to put him from your heart and mind, I tell you! 'Tis morbid and unhealthy of you to stand out here day after day like this, like a wraith haunting the shore. People are whispering about you, calling you mad— among other things not so pleasant— and if you're to be queen of Usk—"

  "Gwydion, I am not!" Rhowenna declared impatiently, turning at last to face him. "Why can you not understand that? The princess Mathilde of Mercia is your betrothed, and if you had any decency or feeling for her, you would honor your agreement with Prince Cerdic to marry her. She loves you! She will make you a fine and devoted wife—"

  "You would have— once— before that damned Viking carried you off and seduced and ruined you! How you can flaunt yourself here, with his bastard child in your arms—"

  "Gwydion, please. We've been over this before, and I don't want to hear it again. Wulfgar is my husband; our son is not a bastard. The royal blood of generations of kings of the Northland runs in his veins, and someday, he will be a great jarl there."

  "Nay, your marriage is not legitimate, Rhowenna; in your heart, you know that, for no Christian priest did speak his blessing upon you!"

  "In my heart, since living in the Northland, among people who are, I think, something like what our own ancestors, the Picti and the Tribes, must have been, I have come to believe that all the gods are one God, Gwydion, and that to Him, each of us must find his own way. Mine lies out there." With a sweeping hand, Rhowenna gestured toward the sea. "Wulfgar is not dead! I would feel it here, I tell you!" She laid her hand upon her breast, where her heart beat strongly. "He will come for me! He loves me! He—"
She broke off abruptly, her violet eyes shining, her heart swelling inside her, her scarlet mouth parting in a small gasp of surprise, of disbelief, of joy, of wonder.

  For now, as though she had indeed somehow wished it there, there had appeared on the far horizon a single phantom rider as crimson as blood, mounted upon the spiny back of a monstrous sea dragon that rose and plunged upon the foamy waves, drawing ever nearer to the coast, as swift as the wind, as silent as the earth. Along the dragon's long, outstretched neck and upraised tail was a distinctive ridge of scales that Rhowenna knew belonged to the Siren's Song and none other.

  "Wulfgar..." she whispered, and then, "Wulfgar!"— a cry from the heart as, clasping her son, Leik, tightly to her breast, she started forward eagerly toward the mighty sea dragon even now swooping toward shore, furling its wings, floating as gently as a swan now on the combers that rushed in upon the sands, watching, waiting.

  "Rhowenna, nay! I love you!" Gwydion insisted, his voice low and raw, as he seized her arm, staying her flight. "Do not go to him. I love you! And you cannot love him! You cannot!"

  "Oh, Gwydion... when my father betrothed me to Prince Cerdic and I thought I would die of love for you, you, who had so little to lose, would give up nothing out of love for me. Yet Wulfgar, who had gained so much, who had everything to lose, gave it all up for me. How could I not love him, then? He and I are like what we in the Northland call hacksilver, Gwydion, two halves of the same coin— one heart, one mind, one soul. Let me go to him. Please. If you do not, he will come for me...." Slowly, shuddering at the thought of a Viking warrior ever setting foot on the shores of Usk again, Gwydion at last released her, his face anguished as she said softly, "Farewell, Gwydion."

  Rhowenna did not even hear him wish her, finally, sadly, Godspeed. She was already running urgently down the wending path that led to the beach below, wading headlong into the breakers that swirled white with froth about her, toward the strong and loving arms that waited, joyously outstretched, to pluck her and Leik from the sea.

  * * * * *

  Author's Note

  Dear Reader:

  I would like to take this opportunity to thank both my editor at Warner Books, Fredda Isaacson, for many reasons of which she is aware, and you, the reader, for buying and reading this book, Swan Road. I certainly hope that you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. If you would like to write to me about Wulfgar and Rhowenna, or simply to receive a free copy of my semiannual newsletter about my books, you may address your letter to me in care of Warner Books, 1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020. Please enclose a business-sized, stamped, self-addressed envelope for reply— and on it, please be sure to print your name and address clearly. I read each and every one of your letters personally and am always delighted to hear from you!

  Now, let me tell you a little bit about the historical and background material for Swan Road. As literature about King Arthur has become known as the Matter of Britain, and that about Charlemagne, the Matter of France, so I suppose that literature about the Vikings might be legitimately referred to as the Matter of Scandinavia— and there is a vast and wonderful body of works about the Vikings, dating back for centuries. Unfortunately, however, with the obvious exception of Edison Marshall's classic, The Viking, most authors of modern romantic novels about the Vikings have tended to ignore the tales told of them by history's skálds and scholars. For Swan Road, I have drawn principally upon the stories of Ragnar Lodbrók and his sons, the Arthurian matter regarding Morgen Le Fey and Ogier the Dane, Scandinavian as well as Germanic mythology, and the Carolingian matter regarding Ogier the Dane.

  Ragnar Lodbrók (Ragnar Hairy Breeches), the great chieftain, jarl, or king— depending on what material one reads— of the Northland, may or may not have actually existed. Because, like King Arthur, his image is overlaid with a heavy patina of mythical saga and heroic symbolization, today's scholars have argued both for and against his being a real historical personage. He is difficult to locate in both time and place, and various estimates make him at least 150 years old when he died in the snake pit of King Aella of Northumbria (who is known definitely to have existed).

  However, I would like to point out that King Arthur, also, is difficult to locate in both time and place, and various estimates make him at least 100 years old when he was carried away to Avalon— having died in battle, no less. Yet since most modern scholars do give credence to a historical King Arthur, I see no good reason to discount the existence of Ragnar Lodbrók on bases that, over the years have gradually proved unconvincing with regard to King Arthur.

  Generally speaking, Ragnar Lodbrók is credited with having had definitely three and possibly four sons: Ivar the Boneless (there are numerous spellings for his name; I have used the simplest), Ubbi (also given as Hubba, Ubba, and Ubbe), and Halfdan (also given as Halfdane and Healfdene). The fourth son is said to have been alternatively:

  1) Björn Ironside, which involves equating Björn Ironside's father, Lothrocus, king of Dacia (Denmark) with Ragnar Lodbrók;

  2) Sigefridus, which involves equating Sigefridus's brother Halfdan with Halfdan Ragnarsson or Lodbróksson (both forms are used), when they may not be one and the same; or 3) some other unnamed Viking. Because this fourth son is in dispute, I have felt free to appropriate him for my own use, giving him the name of Wulfgar Bloodaxe and making him a bastard, as is indeed perhaps one of the reasons why he remains such a shadowy, elusive figure.

  Björn Ironside and Hasting (Hastein) actually did exist, and Hasting's mistaken sack of Luna, in the belief that it was Rome, is generally regarded as being factual— although it seems unlikely to me that he would have made such an error, being well acquainted, from numerous raids thereupon, with the European region. Flóki the Raven and Olaf the Sea Bull are my own inventions, as are Yelkei, the Eastland spaewife; the kingdom of Usk and all its inhabitants; and Prince Cerdic and Princess Mathilde of Mercia.

  The invasion of Britain by the great army of Vikings and the events I have described happened essentially as I have given them— with the exception of any related to Prince Cerdic of Mercia. However, it must be noted that in reality, these events took place over a period of years, not months. For purposes of Swan Road, I have, of necessity, condensed the time in which they truly occurred. Kings Aella and Osberht of Northumbria, and King Edmund of East Anglia all did die apparently at the hands of Ivar the Boneless: Osberht in battle; Aella supposedly— in revenge for throwing Ragnar Lodbrók into the infamous snake pit— as a victim of the grisly Blood Eagle ritual I have described herein, although other sources state that he, like Osberht, died in battle; and Edmund by being brutally tortured, beaten, and shot with arrows before he was finally beheaded for refusing to renounce his Christian faith at Ivar the Boneless's demand. This massive Viking invasion eventually led to the establishment, in Britain, of the area known as the Danelaw.

  Because the Vikings were, in truth, the masters of the seas, their influence was felt worldwide, in a way that I don't believe is actually realized by many people today. They raided far into what is now Russia, giving one of their many names, the Rus, to Russia. As the mercenary Varangian Guard, they served the rulers of Byzantium, modern Istanbul, Turkey. They raided south into Africa and west across the Atlantic Ocean, settling Iceland, Greenland, and discovering America. They also settled not only in Britain, but in portions of the Shetlands, the Orkneys, Scotland (Caledonia) and Ireland (Erin), as well as France, principally Normandy; the Low Countries (essentially Frisia), and Germany. Their ritual of naming and consecrating their longships with blood has come down to us in the rite today of smashing a bottle of champagne against the bow of a vessel to christen her before her maiden voyage.

  The Viking religion, customs, society, and way of life are as accurate as I could make them, given that data about this time period in Scandinavia is relatively scarce and often speculative, much of it relying on the famous Sutton Hoo excavation, as well as a few other gravesites and archaeological digs, a
nd rune stones erected to the dead. Because they were pagans, the Vikings had no respect whatsoever for Christian churches or priests, frequently sacking and burning the former, and killing the latter. Their crimes were considered especially heinous by all of Christendom, when, in reality, they were no better or worse than any other barbaric horde. In fact, where they could settle and live peacefully, they often did; and many times, because of their mercenary nature, they could be bought off with what later came to be called danegeld. In their own lands, Ultima Thule as a whole, they had strict laws and severe penalties for violations. I should also note here that long-houses such as those of Ragnar Lodbrók and Wulfgar Bloodaxe were known as hofs because their great mead halls, like their Sacred Groves, served as places of worship. Smaller farms, however, would not have borne this designation. The town of Sliesthorp was in later years called Hedeby.

  I have also attempted to portray Ragnar Lodbrók and his sons as close to their true natures as my research led me to believe they were. Gang rapes of female captives were, apparently, not at all uncommon. Ragnar Lodbrók, for instance, is said to have raped a victim before more than thirty men gathered in his great mead hall, to the great sport of all present— except for the hapless woman, one presumes. It was indeed evidently his lifelong ambition to conquer Britain. His last words, supposedly spoken in Aella's snake pit, are said to have been, "How the piglets would be grunting if they knew the plight of the boar!" So perhaps this was his sons' incentive to invade Britain in his stead.