Brandewyne, Rebecca

by Swan Road

  To the nine-day festival, the bóndi from all the surrounding farms brought nabid, a strong beer, horses, and other offerings to the goddess of spring. The animals were ritually slain, after which the walls of the templum, the temple, that stood in the lundr, the Sacred Grove, on Ragnar's markland, were smeared outside and inside with the fresh, warm blood, and the meat itself cooked slowly in earth-covered pits lined with hot stones, in preparation for the feasting later in Ragnar's hof, his large longhouse, which looked especially splendid. Inside, the timber walls, packed with clay, showed evidence of having been freshly scrubbed, although even this had not removed the dark stains left by the ubiquitous smoke from the hearth and the whale-oil lamps; and all along the langpallar, the raised side aisles of the skáli, the great mead hall, long benches spread with plump cushions had been placed before long, narrow tables. Such furniture was rare in the Northland, belonging solely to konungrs and to the richest of jarlar, and used only for festivals and other special occasions. The shutters of the tiny, high-set windows covered with pigs' bladders admitted only the dimmest of sunlight. But the numerous whale-oils lamps hanging from the smoke-blackened, freestanding posts that supported the thatched roof burned brightly, illuminating the walls adorned by bleached-linen tapestries elaborately worked in colored wool. Although several feet wide, the striplike tapestries were also very narrow, no more than a foot high, and placed at a man's eye-level, so that they could be seen in the dim, smoky atmosphere of the great mead hall. Near the hearth, the skálds, accompanied by flutes and lyres, sang their epic poems, and jugglers and acrobats performed to entertain the jarlar.

  Wulfgar had not stepped foot inside the hof since leaving the hut he had previously inhabited within the palisade, and he had no wish to linger now as he made his obeisance before Ragnar, regally ensconced upon the high seat on the central dais flanked by two mammoth, intricately carved pillars at the far end of the great mead hall. Upon Ragnar's head was his ornate, gilt-bronzed, horned helmet, never worn into battle, but only upon ceremonial occasions and for the initiation of young men as warriors; and his blue eyes, behind the helmet's masklike eyeholes, were hard and cold as he stared down at Wulfgar. After paying his respects to Ragnar, Wulfgar quickly made good his escape, eager to be gone and to take part in the games outside.

  The Northmen were fond of all sort of games, particularly board games such as chess, draughts, and fox-and-geese; and several of the women, as well as the grey-bearded men too old for physical sport, had laid their boards on the tops of stout, iron-ringed barrels and, seated on low stools, were deeply engrossed in their next moves. But the games Wulfgar joined were strenuous contests such as running, swimming, and rowing, designed to challenge a man's physical strength and agility so the jarlar might judge his worth before accepting his oath as a thegn. His age and prowess were such that he easily stood out from the crowd of mostly untried youths against whom he competed. But it was as Yelkei had warned him: Even bold Björn Ironside and Hasting, for all that they had brought about his chance to become a Víkingr, gave no sign of being disposed toward accepting him as their man; nor, to Wulfgar's discouragement, had Olaf the Sea Bull shown a flicker of interest— and Ivar's arrogant, mocking half-smile was a barb that stung and made Wulfgar burn with anger and shame.

  "Be patient," Yelkei counseled, her black eyes narrowed to cunning slits, her voice low, "like the lone wolf who lurks in the reeds at the edge of the misted mere, waiting for the ducks to grow greedy and careless as they fatten on the fish."

  Eight times the sun rose and set, and the maiden chosen to play the roll of Eostre, the goddess of spring, was driven about in her elaborately carved, ox-drawn cart to be feted by all present; and afterward, a solitary slave was beheaded each day and seven animals slain, all of which were hanged from the trees in the Sacred Grove as Eostre's sacrifice, so that at the end of the festival, seventy-two corpses, a magic number, would have been offered to the goddess.

  And still, Wulfgar had not pledged himself as a thegn.

  "The ducks waddle from the fullness of their bellies, and bask in the sun while preening their feathers. Now does the wise wolf draw near— but slowly, stealthily, Wulfgar," Yelkei cautioned, "so the whisper of his coming is but the wind among the reeds."

  On the ninth day, the longships were named and consecrated with blood, pushed over the log rollers on the sand and then, just before being shoved into the sea, the bodies of slaves were crushed to death beneath the massive hulls to assure the blessing of Aegir, the sea god, and his wife, Ran. The waves of the sea were the nine daughters of Aegir and called by such sinister names as Grasper and Howler. No man wished to lie in their watery arms; and a prudent warrior always carried a single piece of gold with him on board a longship, to pay their mother, Ran, should he drown, so he could be certain of gaining entrance into Valhöll. Even if it meant distributing coins or jewelry from his own hoard, it was the duty of every good jarl who captained a longship to ensure that each of his Víkingr could afford this offering. But despite Yelkei's words of wisdom, Wulfgar despaired of the chance to know that in his purse, he bore a Vikingr's piece of gold for Ran. But then Yelkei said:

  "There is a fat old duck who has foolishly strayed from the rest at the mere and fallen into a little crevice, easy pluckings now for a hungry wolf. Go you down to the foot of that small hill yonder and see if I do not speak the truth."

  And indeed, she did; for that was how he found Olaf the Sea Bull— lying facedown in a rill that gurgled through a shallow clove at the foot of the small hill— so that afterward, he was never certain whether Olaf had toppled in a drunken stupor from the knoll, or whether Yelkei had given him a shove. Wulfgar always suspected the latter. Hastily, he dragged Olaf's heavy bulk from the stream, relieved that as he pressed down hard upon Olaf's back, the grey-beard began to cough and to sputter, a trickle of water running from his mouth. After a moment, the Sea Bull lurched to his hands and knees, retching, and Wulfgar smelled the stench of sour wine and ale and the remnants of the midday's horsemeat stew. Then, at last, his stomach purged of its contents, Olaf managed to sit up and, bleary-eyed, peered at Wulfgar beside him.

  "That'd not be something stronger than water in that flask of yours, would it?" he asked Wulfgar, indicating the leather flask slung over the younger man's shoulder. "Ale, perhaps, to wash this foul taste from my mouth."

  "Nabid," Wulfgar returned shortly, unstoppering the flask and handing it to him, "but you are more than welcome to it, lord."

  Taking a generous swig, Olaf swished the beer around vigorously in his mouth for a moment, then spat it out on the ground before gulping another long draught, which he swallowed. After recapping the flask and passing it back to Wulfgar, Olaf rose and staggered to the rill. There, hunkering down and cupping his hands, he splashed his pasty face several times with cold water, shaking his head to sling his wet hair from his eyes and, with one hand, wiping his scraggly, dripping mustache and beard.

  "How I came to roll down that hill, I do not remember," he said finally, grimacing as he gingerly probed his brow, which he had struck on a rock in the stream. "There must have been more of a bite to old Brunhilde's ale than I thought, or else, more like, she tried to poison me— which I'd not put past her, the vile-tempered shrew. Ah, well. 'Tis no matter. I reckon 'tis thanks to you, lad, that I'll not be going to my burial mound this day."

  "Aye, well, 'twas no more and no less than any other man would have done had he spied you lying there, lord." Wulfgar carefully kept his eyes lowered, his tone respectful, knowing how another in his place would have roared with laughter at Olaf's tumble and made him the butt of many a jest far and wide. "You'd have pulled your own self out of the water had I not happened along— for surely, 'tis Odinn's fondest desire that a jarl such as Olaf the Sea Bull die in battle, to be borne by the Valkyries to Valhöll."

  "You know me, then, do you?" Olaf inquired, obviously flattered and pleased.

  "Why, who does not, lord? 'Tis said from shore to shore of the North
land that a man may count himself lucky to serve as thegn to Olaf the Sea Bull— and so I would count myself, lord, if you would have my pledge."

  "What, lad? You've not yet sworn oath? Why, what ails you?"

  "Naught, lord, save that I came late to the festivities," Wulfgar lied boldly, realizing suddenly that Olaf was not only still slightly drunk and dazed, but also short of sight and so had not recognized him. With his mustache and beard shaved off, Wulfgar thought that Olaf, in his stupor, had probably mistaken him for one of the younger, untried men who had come to the midspring blót in search of a jarl. "And no matter a man's worth, there is only so much space on a longship— and much of that has already been claimed by those who arrived sooner than I."

  "Well, by the gods, my Dragon's Fire has room for one more, if you're of a mind to bend knee before me!" Drawing the broadsword at his back, Olaf plunged it, point down, into the soft earth along the stream, so the blade stood upright, quivering a little before him. "So, kneel you, then, lad, and set your right hand to her hilt and swear your fealty."

  This, Wulfgar did, and when he rose, he was at long last a Víkingr.

  Chapter Five

  The Taking of the Bride

  What Olaf the Sea Bull thought when he sobered up and discovered the trick Wulfgar had played him, Wulfgar never knew. Olaf said naught of the matter to him— or indeed to anyone Wulfgar knew— doubtless because the older man would have been made to look worse than a fool in light of Ragnar's open enmity toward Wulfgar. Although Olaf was drunk more often than not, he had both vanity and pride; and so in the end, he put on a brave face and declared that he would not be told how to stoke his own hearth fire, not even by his king, and that it would be a sorry day in the Northland when the jarlar could not count themselves masters of their own marklands. So unexpectedly shrewd and potentially incendiary were these words that afterward, doubtless fearing the hue and cry that would be set up against him by every freeman entitled to speak at the Thing, Ragnar prudently offered no challenge to Olaf, but chose instead to bide his time, pretending as though the entire business of Wulfgar's oath-swearing were beneath notice.

  Wulfgar strove mightily to ensure that Olaf should have no other cause, save that of Ragnar's animosity, to regret accepting his fealty. Wulfgar rose earlier and worked harder than half a dozen of Olaf's other men, which was not difficult, considering how shiftless and lazy they had grown, serving a lord who seldom made his authority felt.

  Olaf's longship, the Dragon Fire, was beached on the shores of the Skagerrak, where she had ridden out the winter; and now, the first thing his thegns did after the midspring blót was to clean and to repair the vessel to make certain she would be ready to sail, come summer. That was the time when the Víkingrs rode the seas. They set sail for home when the first of the trees began to change color, so as not to be caught without winter quarters, or upon the seas when they turned rough and stormy with winter winds so cold that sometimes, to the west, the Baltic Sea froze and the Kattegat became a solid mass of ice between Smaland, Sjælland, and Jutland.

  The thegns carefully scraped the Dragon Fire's sides free of the now-dead marine life and debris, recaulked her strakes, and retouched her paint where necessary. Then they shoved her over log rollers into the harbor and moored her to the wharf, where they scrubbed her deck and polished it with holystones until it shone as smooth as new, mended her square red sail, and replaced oars too battered by heavy seas to be of further use. She was not so grand a longship as some; still, Wulfgar's heart burst with pride when he gazed at her bobbing on the waves. Almost, he could imagine that she were his; and he dwelled on Yelkei's description of a man bold enough to seize Olaf's markland at his death. Wulfgar rebelled at the thought of the Dragon's Fire's being dragged inland and covered by the earth that would serve as Olaf's burial mound. Would that she could be Wulfgar's own longship instead!

  Olaf had originally planned to go a-víking that summer down the river Elbe, into Frisia and the Germanic kingdoms of the Southlands, where good wines, fine weapons, jewelry, and cloth could be found, and pottery and glass that could be traded in the marketplaces at Sliesthorp, Ribe, Kaupang, and Birka. But that was before Yelkei slipped away one night from Ragnar's hof to Olaf's own, where Wulfgar lived now that he was Olaf's thegn. All along the langpallar of Olaf's great mead hall stones were set to divide the raised side aisles into sleeping quarters for his men. Wulfgar had been allotted one of these alcoves, which afforded him and Yelkei a modicum of privacy as she bent near to him, her black eyes glittering with such excitement that he knew, even before she said as much, that she had news of great import. Still, she restrained herself long enough to inquire about Wulfgar's welfare before saying, very low, so as not to be overheard:

  "Now, then, do you listen sharp to me, Wulfgar, for here is a tale that could win a bold man riches beyond counting! It happened that this day, a skáld, Sigurd Silkbeard by name, came to Ragnar's great mead hall, from Jutland, where he traveled the Hærvej, the Army Road, up from Sliesthorp to Schleswig, Jelling, Vor-Basse, and thence to Viborg, with a small detour, on the way, to the marketplace at Ribe. 'Twas there that this skáld, Sigurd Silkbeard, heard from a trader newly arrived from the kingdoms of Britain that Cerdic, a prince of Mercia, is to wed at summer's end. Prince Cerdic's bride is the only daughter of Pendragon, king of Usk— which lies in the land of Walas, west of that dike built by the sea wolf Offa, who was the Saxons' Bretwalda."

  "Aye, I am not so ignorant that I have not heard of this great earthwork, like the Danevirke the mighty King Godfred of Jutland built to hold back the advance of Charlemagne's Frankish hordes from the Southlands. But what has all this to do with me, old woman?" Wulfgar asked, beginning to grow impatient.

  "Hold your tongue till I'm done with my story, and you shall learn," Yelkei chided crossly, frowning at him. "And use the head on your shoulders for more than turning a comely wench's eye! Think you that the only princess of Usk goes empty-handed to her husband? Nay, she will carry a dowry of chests full of silver and gold and jewels— and that alone worthy plunder! But the maiden herself— if unharmed and yet a virgin— would be a hostage for whom either her father or her betrothed would pay a large ransom. Do you doubt it?"

  "Nay, I do not. But if the skáld Sigurd Silkbeard has told this tale in Ragnar's great mead hall, why, then Ragnar himself will set out to capture both dowry and maiden; for he's no fool and not slow to seek a prize that will prove to his advantage."

  "Ordinarily, nay. But he has burned his fingers more than once, stealing from the kingdoms of Britain, and there's a rich reward to be gained by the man who delivers Ragnar's head on a silver plate to King Aella of Northumbria. If Ragnar seeks to conquer all of Britain, he needs more treasure and thegns than even he has at his command; and he dare not trust Björn Ironside or Hasting not to sell him down the river Humber, to Aella, in York. So, instead, Ragnar sails up the river Seine to sack Paris again; twenty years ago, from King Charles the Bald, he got seven thousand pounds of silver there to take his plunder and to go in peace, and it may be he thinks to get twice as much now, with which to support an army. 'Tis your nemesis, Ivar the Boneless, whom Ragnar sends after the princess of Usk— may the gods have mercy on her if she's as fair as Sigurd claimed; for Ivar lusts for any pretty wench and won't scruple to play the cheat by taking her maidenhead and then saying he did not."

  "Aye, well, that is no doubt the truth, and in that case, I am sorry for her," Wulfgar said as he thought of the many young women his oldest half brother had raped on raids and brought home as his slaves. "For if her father or her betrothed learn that Ivar's plowed her field, they may not think her worth ransoming, and then she'll surely wind up a slave and a whore of the thegns— as my poor mother did when Ragnar had tired of her. Still, none of this has aught to do with me, old woman; so why do you tell me this tale?"

  "Because nine times this day, I cast the rune stones— for nine is a magic number—and nine times, they spoke to me the same: You must go after this prin
cess of Usk, Wulfgar! Ivar does not sail for several days yet. If you can persuade Olaf the Sea Bull that this venture is worth his while, you can be gone from the Northland before Ivar leaves—and capture the prize yourself ere he discovers that you seek it!"

  "Art mad, Yelkei?" Wulfgar stared at her, aghast. "What would that profit me? Save to give Ragnar and Ivar a good excuse to declare a feud against Olaf and to march on his markland. Moreover, whether seized by Ivar or Olaf, neither the maiden nor her dowry would be mine. 'Tis mad you be— or else you grow witless in your old age."

  "Haaa!" Yelkei snorted, a harsh sound like the call of the ravens that haunted the woods along the strands. "You did not think so when I told you to seek Olaf the Sea Bull as your jarl. But, so be it. There is no use wasting good reindeer milk on a babe who refuses to suckle. I must return to Ragnar's hof. Thorkell has concluded his business and is leaving. 'Twas he who brought me here in his ox-cart, and if I do not ride back, I must walk."

  Rising slowly from where she squatted upon the pelts that served as Wulfgar's blankets and pallet, Yelkei drew on her cloak and slipped away as silently as she had come, leaving Wulfgar gazing after her, scowling darkly with anger at the guilt and shame he always felt whenever he rejected the counsel born of her powers. She had not told him everything, he sensed, and that, too, troubled him; for he could not guess what she might have held back and what it might portend for him. He should not have been so impatient and irritated with her. If he had been wise, he would have held his tongue and listened to Yelkei more closely, as she had advised, Wulfgar thought, cursing himself for his foolishness. Truly, he must learn to restrain his temper and to overcome his fear and suspicion of Yelkei's prophesying; for he had seen for himself the truth of her words far too often to doubt them.