Brandewyne, Rebecca

by Swan Road

  The battle was dying down now, although the palisade upon the hill still stood strong and unravaged because the Usk warriors had hailed arrows and poured hot oil upon the Northmen who had attempted to breach the circular timber wall and forced them to retreat. As this was only a raid, the Víkingrs had not come prepared to conduct a lengthy battle or siege. They had thought to storm the palisade, set it afire, and take its inhabitants by surprise; they had not expected to find the Usk men on guard and ready for battle. Because of this, the princess's dowry was no doubt forfeit. Still, she herself would surely be worth her weight in gold, Wulfgar reflected as he gazed down at her in his arms. After speaking to him, she had swooned, overcome by fright and smoke, he surmised, and now lay with her head resting against his shoulder, her black lashes like fragile butterfly wings against her cheeks. So she would look when sleeping, wrapped in a man's embrace, he thought. Never had he seen a woman so fair, as lovely and graceful as the rare black swans he sometimes saw at the lakes and meres of the Northland, her bones delicate and finely molded. Suddenly, the idea of her belonging to Olaf the Sea Bull or, worse, Ragnar Lodbrók and Ivar the Boneless, angered and appalled him; for he could not believe that upon seeing her, any man could help but desire her. That she should be brutally dishonored and defiled sickened and shamed him. He had not thought of her as a woman before, with feelings, but only as the princess of Usk, a prize to be won and exchanged for riches. He should have left her in peace instead of listening to Yelkei's cryptic prophesying.

  Almost, as these thoughts filled his mind, was Wulfgar tempted to leave Rhowenna behind. But the notion of laying her down amid the bodies that strewed the bloody ground as though it were Náströnd, the Shore of Corpses, filled him with revulsion and misgiving. Already, several of the other Víkingrs had the captive Usk women spread-eagled upon the earth, their skirts rucked up about their thighs, and were ruthlessly and raucously raping them before snatching them up and carrying them toward the longships. Such might prove Rhowenna's fate, Wulfgar thought, if he relinquished his hold on her; for in their frenzy, the Berserks, especially, might not notice the gold circlet about her head, which marked her as the princess of Usk, the one woman not to be harmed. So reasoning, he at last turned and made his way down the narrow, serpentine track that led to the strand below, where he bore Rhowenna on board the Dragon's Fire and set her down gently in the stern.

  Her lashes fluttered slowly open then. Her tearful eyes were wild and dark with fear and hatred as she stared up at him, mute and trembling and offering no resistance. But when he tentatively stretched out one hand toward her, she abruptly jerked free the knife at her waist and attempted savagely to stab him. Reflectively, Wulfgar seized the wrist of her upraised hand in a cruel grip that made her cry out softly and that he knew to his regret would leave bruises on her tender flesh tomorrow. He had not wanted to hurt her. But despite his powerful hold on her, she continued to struggle like a wild thing against him, the fingers of her free hand curled like talons to strike viciously at his face before he managed to restrain her, compelling her to drop the knife and then pinioning her arms behind her back. At that, her chin setting mutinously, her violet eyes blazing with reckless anger, Rhowenna hissed some heated words at him in her strange Christian tongue that he could not understand, then spat contemptuously in his face.

  "Be still!" he growled, infuriated, as he wiped the humiliating spittle from his face, then gave her a rough shake. "Be still! I am not going to hurt you!"

  Rhowenna was startled and disbelieving as, to her confusion, she half grasped the meaning of his foreign words. Then, her voice low and trembling with emotion, she spoke to him again, this time, to his surprise, in the Saxon language of her betrothed, Prince Cerdic.

  "Lying dog! Let me go— or I swear the first chance I get, I'll cut your heathen throat!"

  "An evil deed for a Christian maiden," Wulfgar rejoined slowly, the Saxon language he had learned as a child at his mother's knee rusty from years of disuse. "For do not your priests claim that murder is a mortal sin, for which a Christian soul will be condemned to everlasting Hel?"

  "Aye, but I would sooner burn in Hel than submit to you!" Rhowenna shot back, quivering at her own temerity before this Northman who now held her very life in his hands.

  "Would you? Nay, I think not; for Hel is no fiery place such as you have been taught by your priests, lady, but a world of nine lands, cold and dark, and the worst of these is Náströnd, the Shore of Corpses, where there stands a bleak black fortress filled with hideous monsters to torture you and to devour your flesh from your bones forever, since in Hel, you are already dead and so there is no release for you— a cruel fate for one of your spirit... and beauty."

  Deliberately, Wulfgar brushed the tangled mass of long, heavy black hair back from her face, then set his hand beneath her chin, tilting her face up to his, feeling his heart swell strangely with triumph and pleasure and desire at the way in which her eyes fell before his. A crimson blush stained her cheeks, and her breath came quickly and shallowly, making her breasts rise and fall enticingly beneath her bodice.

  "Do not touch me so, brute!" All too aware of his overwhelming strength and nearness, the way he held her, his hand locking her arms behind her back, pressing her against his broad chest and preventing her from struggling to escape, Rhowenna tried to wrench free of him, to no avail. She was caught as fast as though by an iron band. "Let me go!"

  "Look about you, lady, at the carnage and violation done to your people, and be glad that 'tis I and none other who holds you captive— and that I knew you for the princess of Usk, besides— else you would even now be laid upon the ground, your skirts thrown up over your head, your maidenhead forfeit to a moment's brutal lust, and you yourself carried away afterward to the Northland to become a slave and a whore of men far crueler than I. Do you doubt it?" When she did not respond save for the widening of her eyes, the paling of her face, the erratic beating of the pulse at the small hollow of her throat, Wulfgar continued more gently. "I do not wish to harm you, lady. But 'tis my duty to bind your hands and feet lest you make some foolish attempt at escape before we are under way; and much as I dislike the idea, if you persist in fighting me, I shall be forced to some unpleasantness you will regret, I promise you. So do not try my patience further."

  At that, slowly loosing his steely grasp on her and drawing the scramasax from the leather belt at his waist, he swiftly sliced off an ell of spare rigging that lay coiled nearby on the deck. Then, being careful not to wrap the single strip of walrus hide so tightly that he cut off her circulation, he deftly tied Rhowenna's wrists behind her back and her feet together at the ankles, so her lissome body was bent like a supple bow and she could not even stand, much less make any attempt, however futile, to run away. She could only sit where she was, heartsore and sick and afraid, longing for death and knowing with a terrible certainty that even that escape was to be denied her. She was a prisoner of the barbaric Víkingrs who had descended so suddenly and swiftly upon Usk, and they did not intend that her release should come easily— if at all. This morn, she had been a princess— and a virgin. Now she was a slave— and perhaps was soon to become a whore, as well; for had not that threat been implicit in the Northman's words to her? With difficulty, Rhowenna fought down the hysteria that threatened to overcome her at the thought, realizing that she would need to keep her wits about her if she was to survive.

  Some primal instinct made her cling to that thought, and when Wulfgar again squatted beside her, an unstoppered flask in his hands, she did not refuse the bjórr he pressed upon her. The wine had an unfamiliar, fruity flavor and was far more potent than that to which she was accustomed. But she was glad of the sudden warmth that spread from her belly to the rest of her body. She had not recognized until now how strangely cold she was, despite the summer sun that shone brightly overhead. At Rhowenna's greedy gulps, Wulfgar swore softly, angrily, causing her to cringe as, fearing she intended to drain it dry, he abruptly snatched away the flask
he had held to her lips.

  "You must drink slowly, lady," he cautioned sternly, "small sips, or you will grow drunk and violently ill, besides, once we've put out to sea. I have seen it happen before— even to men with stout heads and strong stomachs."

  Rhowenna nodded weakly to show she understood. Even so, Wulfgar offered her no more of the bjórr. The last of the Víkingrs were now approaching the beached longships, laden with the corpses of their slain companions, with screaming, weeping, and struggling women, and with booty plundered from the dead bodies of the Usk men and from the burning village of the ceorls. Many a flask was uncorked and tilted high, spilling wine and ale down throats hoarse from the shouts of victory and all over the triumphant Víkingrs themselves as they tossed their captives and spoils into the longships, then dragged the vessels from the sand into the sea. Rhowenna's heart ached with horror and pity as she saw the hysterical women carelessly cast onto the decks of the longships, battered and bruised, half naked, their clothes ripped and begrimed, and blood staining the thighs of those who had been maidens earlier that day. Highly valued armor and weapons callously stripped from the dead Usk men, jewelry and cloth, tools and utensils, and other goods stolen from the blazing huts and byres of the ceorls were tossed, as well, into piles soon heaped high upon the decks. Alongside, the corpses of the reivers were ceremoniously laid out with their arms folded across their chests and their shields placed upon them.

  Rhowenna gasped and then cried out softly as Morgen, moaning with pain and bound hand and foot, was roughly thrown down beside her in the stern of the longship. Like the rest of the women, Morgen had obviously been beaten and raped, perhaps even by more than one man. Her face was bruised, her lower lip cut and bleeding; her bare shoulders and half-exposed breasts showed the marks of brutish mauling, and her soiled bodice and skirts were nearly torn away. For a long moment, the wind knocked from her by the violent force with which she had struck the deck, she lay sprawled upon its planks, unmoving.

  "Morgen—" Rhowenna whispered urgently, her voice catching on a broken sob, for she half feared that the serving maid was dead. "Oh, dear God, please let her be all right! Morgen! Can you hear me? Are you all right?"

  "Aye, as well as... can be... expected, my lady," came the low response at last as Morgen slowly raised her head and began weakly to inch her way across the deck to where Rhowenna sat braced against one side of the longship. "At least, I'm... alive," she continued as she struggled with difficulty into a sitting position. "Did they... did they... hurt you, my lady?"

  "Nay, not yet, anyway. One of them... one of them recognized the circlet I wear as princess of Usk, and so I was spared— Oh, Morgen! I am sorry, so very sorry for what has happened to you and the others—"

  " 'Tis not your fault. You are not to blame for it, my lady— and I, at least, was no virgin." Morgen confessed this last wryly. "How I thank God for that! Some of the rest were not so lucky; and worse lies ahead for us all, I fear, slavery and whoredom, if the tales of the Northmen are to be believed— and after today, who among us could doubt them? Not I."

  "Nor I," Rhowenna replied, tears stinging her eyes and a hard, painful lump rising in her throat as she looked at all the women ravished and taken captive, and then back at the corpses that littered the burning village and the ravaged shores of Usk. It was very like the Shore of Corpses the Northman had described to her.

  She realized suddenly— stricken— that she did not even know if Gwydion was among the dead. She had not seen him fall in battle, as she had envisioned in her dream; and as the Víkingrs shoved their longships into the sea, she clung fast to the slender thread of hope that perhaps Gwydion was still alive, that he had somehow survived the terrible battle, despite the fact that so much of what she had foreseen had indeed come to pass when the tall, gilt-haired Northman had swept her up and carried her to the vessel. Even now, she could feel his intense blue eyes upon her, and she shivered uncontrollably, her own gaze involuntarily drawn to him. He seemed different from all the others. Perhaps he would not use her too cruelly, Rhowenna thought; for she had witnessed his desire for her earlier, and she felt that despite his assurances to the contrary, it was only a matter of time before he forced himself upon her. Why should she alone escape rape, or worse, at the hands of these savage Northmen?

  * * * * *

  "Where is Olaf the Sea Bull?" Wulfgar inquired as he and the rest of the Víkingrs leaped from the lapping waves into the vessels. The oarsmen were taking their places on their sea chests and the drummers beginning to beat the rhythm to which the oars now rose and fell in unison to send the vessels shooting forward over the waves of the Severn Sea.

  "Chosen this day by the Valkyries to drink forever with Odinn, in Valhöll!" One of the men pointed to Olaf's bloody body, stretched out on the deck of the Dragon's Fire. "May we all prove so fortunate as to die so gloriously in battle, to become one of the Einheriar of Odinn!"

  "Aye!" the other men crowed loudly, laughing, drunk on wine and ale, on battle fever and bloodlust, and on the sweet, heady taste of their victory this day. "Aye!"

  Only Wulfgar was silent, an icy grue creeping up his spine as he stared at Olaf's mortally wounded corpse, its sightless blue eyes gazing up unblinkingly at the sun, its scraggly grey beard fluttering a little in the wind. Was this the answer Yelkei had received in her casting of the rune stones? Wulfgar wondered uneasily, half afraid that for his heeding, however reluctantly, the counsel born of her sorcerous meddling in what was their business only, the gods would smite him down where he stood. Was this the knowledge she had withheld from him: that Olaf would not survive the raid upon Usk? Yelkei had claimed she had heard Hela's death rattle in Olaf's bones. But perhaps that had been only a lie, Wulfgar thought; perhaps he was responsible for his jarl's death— for surely if he had not suggested this venture, Olaf might still be alive.

  Yet, despite these fearful and guilty thoughts, Wulfgar could not still the sudden, irrepressible thrill of excitement that coursed through his veins at the realization that Olaf the Sea Bull was dead. Unbidden, Yelkei's vision of a man bold enough at Olaf's death to seize his markland crept into Wulfgar's mind; and it came to him then that he had already taken the first step in that direction: He had without even realizing it assumed Olaf's vacant place in the stern, at the tiller— and surprisingly, no man aboard the Dragon's Fire had challenged his authority to do so. Right now, they were probably all too drunk and buoyed up by their triumph to notice or to care who captained the longship, Wulfgar told himself. But surely when they sobered, one or more of the thegns would cry foul at his usurpation and would attempt to take his place. He would not let that happen, Wulfgar resolved. He could not— for whoever held the tiller of the Dragon's Fire could also surely claim Olaf's markland, as well as the princess of Usk; and as he gazed down at Rhowenna at his feet, Wulfgar was suddenly determined that no matter the cost, that man would be he.

  "Lady"— he spoke quietly to her so as not to be overheard, for he did not know which, if any, of Olaf's thegns might understand the Saxon language— "my lord, Olaf the Sea Bull, lies dead there on the deck, slain in the battle with your people. He was an old grey-beard, grown slack and slovenly with age, and more often than not, he was deep in his cups. But in his own way, he was a good lord to me, and it could be that I would have had some small influence with him where you are concerned. Now, we are both of us without his protection, and although you will doubtless not believe it, I am afraid for you.

  "There will be those besides myself who will covet Olaf's markland— and even more who will covet the ransom you are sure to bring from your betrothed, Prince Cerdic of Mercia, or your father, King Pendragon of Usk. There were others besides my lord Olaf who knew of your betrothal and dowry, and who intended to take you hostage, lady. They will be enraged that Olaf the Sea Bull beat them to the prize. Foremost among them are Ragnar Lodbrók, who is a powerful king of the Northland, and his son and heir, Ivar the Boneless. They are my bitterest foes, and so you may be certain that
upon our arrival in the Northland, they will demand that I deliver you up to them, and that if I do not, they will march upon me and Olaf's markland to take you by force.

  "Are you listening to me, lady?"

  "Aye— for all the good it may do me." Rhowenna, too, kept her voice low. "I am powerless to defend myself even against you, much less your enemies, so what do you hope to gain by telling me this tale— unless 'tis to terrify me into submitting to you?"

  "I would rather have you knowing naught but a maiden's fear of her first time with a man, and willing in my arms." The answer was blunt and made Rhowenna flush scarlet with shame at the image he evoked in her mind. "But neither Ragnar Lodbrók nor Ivar the Boneless is so particular; and although I doubt that Prince Cerdic will pay ransom for a sullied bride, your father might for a dishonored daughter."

  "Nay, he will not! Be sure of that, Northman!"

  "I cannot— nor can you be, I am thinking. Even so, I wish only to help you, lady. By the gods, I swear it! It has come to me that the wench beside you is a virgin no longer and, while not so beautiful as you, is much like you physically and comely enough to pass as the princess of Usk if she were of a mind to, with none but ourselves the wiser. We would need to keep our wits about us, for 'twould be a dangerous game we would play. Still, in this manner could I best keep you safe from harm, lady, for then you would be naught more than my slave and, as such, not likely to attract the interest even of Ragnar Lodbrók and Ivar the Boneless. But the switch must be made now, and quickly, while the Víkingrs aboard the Dragon's Fire are still drunk with wine and ale and victory, and so not likely to remember which ebon-haired woman was first wearing that gold circlet about your head."