Brandewyne, Rebecca

by Swan Road

  "The Valkyries are as fair as you are dark, lady," Wulfgar had said to her, "and every Víkingr prays to lie in their arms at his death. But willingly would I wander the Shore of Corpses to the barred gates of Hel, lady, to lie in your arms instead."

  And so now, he lay, his powerful body weighing her down as he clasped her to him, his mouth and hands everywhere upon her, his hard, massive thighs holding her prisoner, brushing intimately against her own thighs, making her acutely aware of his virility and desire. She had never been so close to a man before. A low whimper escaped from her throat at the feel of him, at the caress of his strong hands upon her shoulders, pushing the sleeves of her gown down her arms to expose her light woolen shift beneath, her breasts that strained against the thin-woven fabric, rising and falling quickly, shallowly, with her every ragged breath, their dusky-rose nipples taut, alluring.

  "Don't, Wulfgar. Please, don't," Rhowenna pleaded softly.

  "Shhhhh, sweeting. You cannot sleep in your gown."

  Slowly, he eased it from her, leaving her clad in her soft, loose shift, which clung to her body enticingly, revealing not only the white slope of one shoulder, but also the generous swell of her ripe, round breasts, the soft curve of her hips, and the long, lean line of her graceful legs. A door was opened in the great mead hall beyond and a gust of wind swept beneath the hide-curtained doorway of the sleeping chamber, ruffling the long, raven skeins of her hair and billowing the white folds of her shift about her, so that to Wulfgar she looked very like a lorelei, the beautiful, enchanting sirens of the seas' far strands and who, with their bewitching songs, would tempt a Víkingr to his death, luring his longship into shattering upon the rocks. The whale-oil lamps flickered in the draft, alternately illuminating her face and then casting it into shadow. Her sloe-violet eyes were closed; her thick, sooty lashes spread like delicate wings against her cheeks; her moist mouth was parted. Wulfgar's eyes and his lips drank her in as his palms cupped her breasts possessively through the fabric of her shift, his thumbs gliding in a slow, circular motion across her nipples, sending waves of pleasure radiating through her body. The neckline of her shift was wide, so it was easy for him, after a moment, to slip it off one shoulder, pulling it down low to expose her breast. His mouth trailed fervent kisses down her throat to the deep valley between her breasts, then closed hungrily over the dark-pink nipple he had bared. Greedily, he suckled her, his tongue swirling, tantalizing, causing Rhowenna to inhale sharply and to shiver with delight and then with a wild, exigent desire as an unbearable, burning ache erupted at the very core of her being, so she longed instinctively to be filled by him. Sensing her need, Wulfgar slid his hand lower, tugging at the hem of her shift, dragging it upward.

  "Nay!" she cried, suddenly afraid and beginning desperately to struggle once more against him, twisting and writhing to free herself from his embrace. "Nay, don't! Please don't, Wulfgar!"

  For a long moment, Rhowenna thought he would not heed her entreaties, and her heart pounded with both fear and the passion he had aroused in her. But finally, sighing and swearing softly, Wulfgar rolled off her, flinging himself down next to her on the pallet, his breath coming in hard rasps. Trembling, she fumbled with her shift to cover herself, abruptly stricken and ashamed by what she had almost allowed to happen between them. She did not understand how she could have let him kiss and fondle her so; truly, he was a devil who had tempted her to wickedness, and she was a wanton to have responded to him as she had. At the thought, tears began to trickle without warning from her eyes, glistening like silvery dew upon her cheekbones in the shadowy light before dripping slowly, like rivulets, into the hair at her temples.

  "Hush, sweeting. Hush," Wulfgar said kindly, half turning now to draw her into the circle of his arms, cradling her head gently against his shoulder and stroking her hair soothingly. "You've no cause to weep. Much as it tried my heart and soul, I kept my word. You are a maiden still."

  He meant to comfort her with his words. But to his dismay, Rhowenna only sobbed all the harder, and Wulfgar did not know why— nor, strangely enough, did she.

  At long last, she slept— and dreamed a haunting dream of a great, burning sun that shone in a sky blacker than black, and of a mammoth, crimson-sailed longship that carried her far beyond the charted seas, to the place where it was written that dragons were, and the old gods reigned, and Wulfgar stood upon a distant shore, his gilded head thrown back, his hand outstretched to her, strong and sure and waiting.

  Chapter Ten

  The Chatelaine

  When Rhowenna awoke in the morning, Wulfgar was gone, leaving behind on his side of the pallet only the deep indentation of his powerful body to tell her that he had slept beside her. If not for that, she might have convinced herself that what had passed between them last night had been only a dream such as she had so many times before, of that she had only imagined it in a mead-soaked stupor. But although she longed to believe otherwise, she knew that his kissing and caressing her had been more vivid than anything her imagination could have wrought. She could not deny the truth of that; still, the light of day brought no understanding of her own behavior in the shadowy gloaming of last night. She had never in her life felt so confused as she did now, so incapable of sorting out her emotions. She yearned for guidance, but there was no one to whom she could turn, no Gwydion now to weave a tale that would satisfy. There was only Wulfgar— who wanted her and who bided his time, knowing her to be vulnerable. The thought unnerved her. How long could she continue to resist him when in his embrace her own body traitorously betrayed her? She did not know, and she prayed that Prince Cerdic or her father would ransom her quickly.

  As Rhowenna rose from the pallet, there appeared in the doorway two of the slave women who had assisted her with the cleaning yesterday. Both were Saxon captives, so she was able to speak to them, and she learned that for this reason, Wulfgar had assigned them to serve as her waiting women. They carried several garments she was to have as her own, as well as a small ivory casket of jewelry, all of which had come from the bartering at Sliesthorp. When she had finished sponging off with hot water from the soap-stone bowl the waiting women had also brought, they helped her to dress, showing her how to fasten at her shoulders, with two beautiful wrought oval bronze brooches, the sleeveless scarlet tunic that went over her finely pleated white gown, in the fashion of the Northland. No girdle of fine mesh or laced leather, such as was worn in the Southland, was among the clothes. Instead, a chain of colored beads was suspended between the brooches; and from this hung the implements of a chatelaine— a needle-case, a pair of small scissors, and the key to the storeroom, as well as her own small dinner knife, which Wulfgar had returned to her. Then the waiting women bedecked Rhowenna with necklaces, armlets, and bracelets of gold and silver, which, it was explained to her, a lady of the Northland wore as evidence of her husband's or her paramour's riches. Next, the women, each taking a side, combed her long black hair back from her face and plaited it in two thick braids into which they wove a profusion of ribands. When they were finished, they handed Rhowenna a polished-bronze mirror, which had also come from Sliesthorp, Wulfgar having apparently given considerable thought to a woman's wants and needs.

  Seeing her reflection, Rhowenna felt that for the first time since being taken captive, she was garbed as befitted her rank, although she never would have worn such finery at home, except for special occasions. Yet this was the everyday dress of ladies of the Northland, she was informed by the waiting women. Suddenly, she felt a longing for the plain, workaday gown of undyed wool that she had worn yesterday; for this clothing and these adornments marked her as Wulfgar's concubine. It was as though she had, in truth, lost her maidenhead to him last night, and now was no more than his slave and whore. She had a wild urge to snatch off everything he had bestowed upon her, and she was only deterred by discovering, in answer to her inquiry, that the course slave's garments he had bought for her in Sliesthorp had been taken away by him earlier, the waiting women knew not where.
She must wear what she had on.

  Two spots of color staining her cheekbones, Rhowenna drew back the hide curtain of the sleeping chamber to survey the great mead hall. Wulfgar was there, talking earnestly to Flóki the Raven and a few of the other thegns; and although the rest of the warriors had not yet stirred from their sleeping quarters all along the langpallar, the slaves were up and about their morning chores. Upon his arrival, Wulfgar had made it clear that there would be no slackness or slovenliness tolerated under his authority, and this warning had been taken to heart, it seemed. Rhowenna observed with approval that the fire in the central hearth had been stoked; and as she smelled the fragrance of the thick porridge bubbling in a cauldron on the blaze, she became aware that she was very hungry. Still, like the slaves, she must attend to her duties before breaking her fast.

  As Wulfgar was absorbed in conversation, she hoped to escape his notice; she did not know that he had spied her the moment she had appeared in the doorway of the sleeping chamber, that he had, in fact, been watching and waiting impatiently for her to appear. Now, as she started toward the kitchen, he caught her wrist, drawing her into his arms and kissing her deeply before she could protest or struggle, prompting low laughter and a few good-natured jests from Flóki and the other men, who had come to know and to like her.

  "Good morning, sweeting," Wulfgar drawled lazily after a long moment, with a slow, knowing grin. She yearned to scratch his eyes out as they raked her appreciatively, delighting in her beauty and her body so finely arrayed. The fury that sparked in her own eyes that he should act as though he had taken her last night and had found the experience pleasurable indeed seemed to add to his enjoyment at her expense. Still, it would not be wise to provoke him before the rest, she knew. He might feel the need to demonstrate his power over her with more explicit actions here and now. "I trust that you... slept well?" he asked.

  Unable to trust herself to speak, she merely nodded, humiliated by the blush she could feel deepening on her cheeks as, unbidden, the memory of him pressing her down upon the pallet stole into her mind. Would he do as much to her tonight? she wondered, mortified as she realized she felt tantalized as much as fearful at the thought. Aye, he would do as he pleased— tonight and every night until she at last submitted to him, yielded herself willingly to him, desiring him as much as he desired her. He was a monster, a fiend to torture her so, she told herself, far worse than all the other Víkingrs put together— when she had hoped and half believed he was better. But how could she escape from him, and even if she did somehow manage to flee, where could she go, knowing so little, as she did, of this Northland? Yesterday, when she and the rest of the women had been brought from the Dragon's Fire to the longhouse, she had seen the fenced meadows where the horses ran free in the summer, horses that could be ridden to chase her down; and the kennels in which the hunting dogs were kept, dogs that could be set to track a lone woman as easily as they tracked game. Even if she were able to steal a small boat, who knew what might befall her on the long journey between the Northland and Walas? Much as she wished otherwise, common sense told her that realistically, until she was ransomed, there was surely little hope of her getting away from Wulfgar.

  When he released her reluctantly, Rhowenna moved quickly lest he take her back to the sleeping chamber to finish what he had only started last night. The insolent, unexpected smack he gave her bottom as she walked on toward the kitchen jarred her to the bone, adding injury to insult. How dare he treat her in so ill-bred a manner? she fumed to herself, although she knew with certainty that it was to make his possession of her plain, so no other man would dare to touch her or even to think of helping her to run away from him. And if she were honest with herself, Rhowenna knew she must admit that perhaps this itself was for her protection, as well; for who was to say whether another man, after assisting her to escape, would not turn on her and force himself upon her once they were well beyond Wulfgar's reach? Surely it was as she kept reassuring herself: that her anger and embarrassment and the advances she suffered at Wulfgar's hands were preferable to what she might endure at those of another man.

  In the kitchen, Rhowenna saw that the slaves had already milked the cows, for buckets white with foam sat to one side, along with crocks of honey and butter, and loaves of the bread baked yesterday, as well as eggs gathered earlier from the chicken coop. But she knew from experience in her father's royal manor that bread and eggs and porridge were not enough to feed a great hall full of hungry men, and so she ordered what remained of the roasted sheep from last night set out, as well as bowls of fruits and nuts. There was no cheese, and she made a mental note to find out whether this was due simply to the previous mismanagement of the household and markland or whether this was a staple unknown in the Northland. In addition to the milk, she directed that mead, ale, and beer be served. All the while, Rhowenna thought to herself how cramped and inefficient the kitchen was, how inconvenient the great mead hall was, both lacking trestle tables and benches, so the slave women must sit upon the low stools or the floor to prepare the meal and be constantly stooping to wait upon the thegns, who, having been rousted from their pallets, were now taking their places on the cushions around the central hearth. Given the vast forests she had seen, the dearth of furniture could not be due to an equal dearth of wood, so there must be some other reason why there was none. She would ask Wulfgar about it; surely, some of the male slaves or the freedmen could construct something so simple as trestle tables and benches if she were to explain the rudiments of what she wanted. There were other things she would change, too, Rhowenna decided resolutely. After all, if Wulfgar was right, she might be here for a while; and just because the Northmen lived like savages, there was no cause why she should. She was civilized, a lady, a princess; she must not let herself forget that. She must not let her spirit be crushed, her dignity stripped from her, as had obviously been the fate of many of the poor slave women who toiled in the kitchen this morn.

  Only Morgen, as she had yesterday, escaped the work, sitting languidly on a cushion on the dais between the two huge pillars at the sleeping-chamber end of the great mead hall. She had spent last night locked in the storeroom, whose door had been guarded by Flóki. She, too, had been given two slave women to wait upon her, and clothes and jewelry, and now, she was even more lavishly attired than Rhowenna. Morgen's pleated gown was the color of amber; her indigo over-tunic was bordered by wide bands of elaborately embroidered riband and fastened with gold brooches at her shoulders. Countless necklaces of gold and amber draped her neck, and armlets and bracelets of gold and silver gleamed at her arms and wrists; even rings, which were rare and thus costly, adorned her slender fingers. Her black hair was intricately braided, woven with ribands, and pinned atop her head, giving her an undeniably regal air. Even Rhowenna, knowing the truth, could believe Morgen a princess.

  When the morning meal was finished and the last of the pots and dishes were cleared away, Rhowenna discussed with Wulfgar what she had in mind in the way of furnishings for the great mead hall and the kitchen. To her surprise, he said she might do as she pleased to make the longhouse more comfortable; and presently, freedmen armed with axes were dispatched to the woods to choose and to cut down trees suitable for Rhowenna's purposes. She herself, she learned, was to be permitted to roam the markland freely, so long as she was accompanied by some of the thegns— for her own protection rather than to prevent her from escaping, Wulfgar informed her with a bland smile, so she knew he was on guard against her instinctive urge to flee and would thwart any such attempt. After ensuring that the household chores were under way, she and a few of the other slave women, laden with baskets, ventured down to the seashore, where they searched for seaweed, with which Rhowenna planned to make laverbread. If Wulfgar would allow one of the pigs in the pigsty to be butchered, she could fry the laverbread in the rendered pork fat and make hog's-head cheese, a jellied meat, at the same time, a method her practical mother had always favored.

  As it had ever since her abd
uction, Rhowenna's heart ached when she thought of her mother and father; she wondered how they fared without her in Usk, so distant from the Northland. Although she had been gone from her home only days, to her, it seemed like forever, as though she had lived her years there in another life far away and long ago— or in a dream. It was as though only the Northland existed for her now. Earlier, she had taken off her slippers; and now she thought that even the sand here felt different from that of the beaches of Usk, rougher, grainier, and that the water felt colder, despite the warmth of the summer sun. As she filled her basket with seaweed, it suddenly occurred to Rhowenna that she had been doing something quite similar when the Northmen had attacked Usk; and for a moment, she glanced around uneasily, half fearing that here, too, she would face an assault. While aboard the Dragon's Fire, Wulfgar had told her that Northland feuds were infamous, with Northmen battling one another as frequently as they did their enemies of the Eastlands and the Southlands, and that the Víkingrs often hired themselves out as mercenaries, also, to the Greeks and to the Slavic kingdoms especially. But to her relief, she saw no one hovering near except the other slave women and the thegns who guarded them.