by Swan Road
"Well, well, Wulfgar," he drawled, in the habitually insolent tone Wulfgar recalled only too well, "it would seem that the gods and the Norns have granted you their favor; for your fortunes are much improved since last I saw you. The lowly bóndi has risen not only to the rank of Víkingr, but also to that ofjarl. Who would have thought that your saving of my sword hand would reap such rewards? But, then, the gods have ever been fanciful, have they not? And what they bestow today, they may as easily take away tomorrow."
" 'Twas your life I saved, Ivar," Wulfgar rejoined tersely, blandly ignoring Ivar's veiled threat and deliberately addressing his half brother by his given name instead of his title, relishing the way in which Ivar's brows rose in reaction to that, his eyes hardening a little, and his half-smile tightening at the corners.
"Aye, but my life would have been nothing without my sword hand, which, as you can see"— with an elegant motion born of his body's uncanny limberness, Ivar raised his hand and flexed his wrist to demonstrate that it had lost none of its strength or suppleness— "is quite mended and still serves me as well as ever."
"As does my battle-ax serve me. What do you want, Ivar?"
"A cup of nabid would do for a start— or is the bold wolf, in truth, yet such a scraggly animal beneath his newly acquired fine fur that he would deny me the hospitality of his hof?" The words stung, as intended; for they were an insulting reminder of the fact that Northmen prided themselves on their hospitality, which they would not refuse any but an outlaw, not even a foe.
"If an animal is scraggly, 'tis due to the fleas who bite him. Once rid of them, why, then his true coat is revealed," Wulfgar observed smoothly, his smile sardonic, his blue eyes glinting with a guile and malice to match Ivar's own.
"Your wits have grown sharp."
"Aye, now that they are no longer dulled by those who fear to have their own barbs returned in kind."
"What are a few barbs between adversaries?" Ivar shrugged nonchalantly, a fluid motion that seemed the merest ripple of his shoulders, sinewy with muscle. "A trifling annoyance, perhaps, but no more than that— hardly enough to inspire fear in one who wields a gilt-bronzed shield against them. But my tongue thirsts from all this talk. I have always been a man of action myself. Do you offer nabid or nay?"
"Aye, if you would have it. Do you and your men dismount and come inside. You will not judge my great mead hall so grand as Ragnar's, perhaps; but it serves me well enough, because 'tis mine. For that alone, the taste of the nabid served therein is sweet upon my tongue, although you may find it a trifle sour, Ivar, I am thinking."
"Well, we shall soon see, shall we not?" With a curt command to his thegns, Ivar swung down from his saddle to follow Wulfgar into the longhouse.
Inhaling sharply, unable to conceal his surprise, Ivar momentarily drew up short as he beheld the interior of the great mead hall, the ornate twin pillars flanking the dais at the far end, upon which sat Wulfgar's high seat, the elaborately carved chair that had replaced what had previously been little more than a low stool. Slowly, his eyes narrowed, Ivar gazed at the beautifully painted wooden panels pegged to the walls— even the wooden screen that set apart the kitchen had been so decorated; the striplike tapestries, cleaned and so expertly mended by Rhowenna and Morgen that the repairs were hard to see; the long, intricate bronze hooks for storing the tables and benches; the furniture itself, uncommon in the Northland and, so, highly prized; the fresh rushes mingled with sweet-scented heather that strewed the hard-packed earth floor; and the abundance of whale-oil lamps and rushlights that illuminated even the shadowy corners.
Still, Ivar said nothing as Wulfgar gave orders for the tables and benches to be set up and for food and drink to be brought, then settled himself upon the high seat, motioning for Ivar to join him at the high table, along with Flóki the Raven, as well as Ivar's own second-in-command and some of the other, higher-ranked warriors. Neither Rhowenna nor Morgen was anywhere in sight, Wulfgar noted with relief. Rhowenna was in the kitchen, he knew; Morgen, he correctly assumed, had been locked in the storeroom by Flóki for safekeeping. It was the slave women who waited upon the men, bringing forth pitchers of nabid and bjórr, and from the hearth and the oven, platters of flaky fish baked on iron-barred griddles and served with vegetables, berries, and nuts; bowls of steaming beef stew made with potatoes, onions, and carrots, and seasoned with salt, garlic, and cumin; and fruits and slabs of cheese and thick, crusty, hard bread, along with the pork-fried laverbread and jars of honey and butter. It was as fine a midday meal as any ever served at Ragnar's hof, and Wulfgar's heart swelled with pride as he gazed at his laden high table, glad that he should not be shamed by having but scanty fare to offer Ivar.
As the men ate, the talk at the high table was of inconsequential matters; and such was Ivar's behavior that had Wulfgar not known him so long and so well, he would surely have been deceived into thinking that Ivar had come to the longhouse this day as a friend instead of a foe. But Wulfgar was on his guard and so not gulled into making this mistake; and at last, as the meal drew to a close, Ivar began to tell the tale of the great raid made five years previously by Björn Ironside and Hasting.
With a fleet of sixty-two vessels, the two jarls had ventured as far into the Southlands as north Africa, sacking towns all along the way and filling their longships with gold, silver, and exotic prisoners known as fir gorm, blue men, and blámenn, black men. Eventually, during the course of their journey, they had penetrated the Middle Sea, where Hasting had led upon Italy a raid that had since become legend in the Northland. Spying a great, white-walled city he had believed to be no less than Rome itself, but judging that its defenses were impenetrable, Hasting had sent a message to its inhabitants, falsely proclaiming himself a dying chieftain far from home and in need of a Christian burial. Taking pity upon him, the city had opened its gates to admit the now "dead" Hasting and his procession of Víkingr mourners. Once at the graveside, Hasting had, during the funeral ceremony, risen from his coffin to plunge his broadsword into the officiating bishop, after which he and his men had rioted in the streets, committing mayhem and murder. In the process, Hasting had somehow learned that the city was not Rome, after all, but Luna. Incensed by his error, he had ordered the city burned to the ground and all the townsmen slaughtered. The women he had spared, taking them captive to sell them later, as slaves, to the Moors.
"So it was that Hasting profited from his mistaken raid," Ivar ended the story to a roar of laughter from the listening thegns. Only Wulfgar did not share in the mirth, for he knew in his bones what Ivar was leading up to with the tale; and finally, as the laughter in the great mead hall died away, Ivar continued, his voice low now, as insidious as a serpent. "Now, then, Wulfgar, it seems that, like the bold Hasting, you, also, would profit from a mistaken raid. But the prize you plundered, Ragnar would have claimed as his own; and so I have come to bring you word from him, your king, that he would have you deliver it unto him. So, where is she? Where is the princess of Usk, whom my father sent me to Walas to fetch?" Ivar paused for a moment. Then he said softly, " 'Twould not be wise to deny that you have her, Wulfgar, for I know that you do."
"Aye, she is here," Wulfgar answered reluctantly at last, glancing at the storeroom, where Flóki had locked up Morgen when the horns had blown their warning.
"And unharmed... untouched? I ask because I heard that you had taken one of the Usk women as your concubine, Wulfgar. Yet you did not see fit to show her to us, to have her sit beside you at the midday meal.... So, naturally, one must wonder: Can it be because you have dared to claim not only a markland, but also a princess as your own?" Ivar's brows rose faintly in inquiry, but his saturnine smile did not quite reach his narrowed eyes, which were as hard and icy as an arctic winter.
"That would be not a barb, but a blade to crack a gilt-bronzed shield, then, would it, Ivar?" Wulfgar needled, deliberately mocking, so Ivar should not guess how his stab in the dark had struck home. "But, nay, 'tis the princess's waiting woman who is my concubine. You've not seen h
er because she is willful and disobedient, and so I punished her earlier by relegating her to the kitchen, where she does the work of a scullion this day. However, I will send for her if you wish."
"And for the princess, as well," Ivar reminded him dryly.
"All right," Wulfgar agreed slowly, his face impassive as he forced himself to remain outwardly calm, although, inwardly, he was a mass of turmoil; for he knew that this was a crucial moment. If Ivar, clever Ivar, should suspect that Rhowenna, not Morgen, was the princess of Usk... "Flóki, do you fetch my concubine and the princess."
"Aye, lord."
Rhowenna was elbow deep in soapy water, washing pots and dishes in the kitchen when Flóki came for her, although she was scarcely aware of her actions, even so. She labored perfunctorily, from habit, accustomed to busying her hands at a woman's tasks. Her mind was a room away, in the great mead hall, with Wulfgar, wondering anxiously what was happening between him and Ivar the Boneless. Although all seemed amicable enough, her sense of dread had not lessened, but deepened. Now, after she dried her hands, she slowly followed Flóki from the kitchen. Her palms were wet again, she realized dimly, sweating profusely; nervously, she wiped them on the cloth she still carried, unconsciously wringing it between her hands. Her face was ashen; her eyes were huge as they met Wulfgar's own; her body trembled as, not knowing what to do, she bowed her head and sank respectfully to a curtsy before the high table.
"Well, I see that the strap I laid to your backside has much improved your manners, wench," Wulfgar growled as he gazed down at her, so, gratefully, she understood from his lie that he knew how frightened she was and was giving her a plausible reason to appear so. "Perhaps you have now learned that although I have chosen you as my concubine, and accorded you the privileges of such, I can just as easily send you to the slave pens."
"Aye, my lord," Rhowenna replied quietly, as though duly chastened, glimpsing, from beneath the fringe of her lashes, the man she knew was Ivar the Boneless.
As, surreptitiously, she watched him, Ivar abruptly stood and walked toward her. Towering over her, he stretched out one hand and, cruelly grabbing the back of her hair, roughly jerked her head back so he could see her face. Involuntarily, she gasped, stricken, for his resemblance to Wulfgar was unmistakable. They were brothers, she thought— and Wulfgar had never told her. Suddenly panicked, she wondered wildly if everything he had told her had been a hideous lie to deceive her into surrendering to him. But then Rhowenna saw the murderous rage that flared in Wulfgar's eyes at how Ivar touched her, and she recalled his bitterness at being a bastard his father would not even deign to acknowledge; and she knew to her relief that whatever lay between Wulfgar Bloodaxe and Ivar the Boneless, it was not love.
"Well, I suppose the wench is comely enough after a fashion— although 'tis hard to tell, since you have had her toiling like a drudge all morning and she is none too tidy at the moment." Ivar's cold blue eyes raked her indifferently, making her shudder as unbidden in her mind rose an image of this man kissing and caressing her brutally, as Wulfgar had warned her Ivar would do. After a tense moment, spying Flóki emerging with Morgen from the storeroom, Ivar released Rhowenna, turning his attention to Morgen, who was so finely dressed, with not only the gold circlet of Usk, engraved and nielloed, about her head, but also silk ribands intertwined in her intricately braided hair, that she did, indeed, look every inch a princess. "That is the princess of Usk?"
"Aye." Wulfgar nodded, his eyes warning Rhowenna to stay where she was, silent and unassuming, drawing no further attention to herself. "As you can see, she has not been harmed or touched, but has been well cared for and treated with every courtesy and consideration due her rank. But if you have come on Ragnar's authority, Ivar, to wrest her from me for the ransom she will bring as your hostage, your ride here was for naught. In response to my own demand for payment for her safe release, I have received a message from Cerdic, prince of Mercia and her betrothed. It seems that as the princess's dowry was never delivered to him, he considers both the betrothal and the treaty with Usk broken and feels no obligation to come to his lady's rescue. Nor have I heard from her father, Pendragon, king of Usk."
"Nor will you," Ivar declared shortly, with a supercilious smirk as he strode to stand before Morgen. Reaching out, his fingers digging viciously into her cheeks, he compelled her face up to his, his eyes dancing with spiteful amusement at how her own shot sparks at him, how she attempted— futilely— to wrench free of him. "When I arrived in Usk, 'twas to discover that you had been there before me, Wulfgar, and had taken half of what Ragnar had ordered me to obtain. In a way, you actually made it easy for me. Usk was neither expecting nor prepared for a second attack to follow so swiftly on the heels of the first— and I had three times as many longships and men under my command. The palisade fell on the third day. Pendragon is dead. I slew him."
Stunned, heartbroken, Rhowenna could not repress the low wail of agony and denial that issued from her lips. But even in her sudden state of shock and sorrow, she instinctively recognized not only her own danger, but also that battle threatened as Ivar glanced at her sharply, shrewdly, and Wulfgar stealthily laid his hand upon the scramasax sheathed at his belted waist. Like an animal, Morgen, too, sensed the abrupt deadliness of the moment, and she began again to struggle furiously against Ivar, reclaiming his attention and crying out to Rhowenna in the tongue of Walas, "What is it? What is it, my lady? What has happened?" so it seemed only natural that Rhowenna, her supposed waiting woman, should answer. Inhaling raggedly, fighting to hold her tears at bay, she spoke with anguish to Morgen in their own language, translating what Ivar had said, knowing that Morgen's knowledge of the Northland tongue was not yet so great as hers and praying that Ivar would grasp this fact and would attribute to it her own grief and Morgen's initial lack of response at the news of Pendragon's death.
Hearing what had come to pass, Morgen started to scream with wrath and pain and to strike out at Ivar blindly, clawing at his face, leaving bloody gouges upon his cheek before he backhanded her savagely with his fist, violently knocking her to the floor, where she lay, sprawled and dazed and weeping. Flóki's indrawn breath was a hiss of ire as his hand swept to the hilt of his own scramasax; and Rhowenna did not know if Wulfgar's sharply uttered "Nay!" was a command to stop Flóki from drawing the weapon or herself from running to Morgen's side. She, at least, paid it no heed; and as she bent over Morgen, the two of them clung to each other, Morgen sobbing wildly.
"I'll kill him! I'll kill that bloody bastard! Oh, my lady, my lady! We'll never get home now! We'll never see Usk again!"
"Shhhhh, don't say that! Don't say that! We will! Somehow, we will get home, I swear it! Mayhap this heathen Northman has but lied for some cruel purpose of his own. Perhaps my father... my father is not truly dead...." But in her heart, Rhowenna did not believe this; for in her horrifying dream last night, had he not been a corpse— and her mother, also? Her mother... A harsh sob of terror and torment caught in Rhowenna's throat at the thought, choking her. What had happened to her mother?
"Oh, my lady, I am sorry, so very sorry." Morgen's voice, while still raw with fury and loathing, tremulous with affliction, was nevertheless quieter now. "I am selfish, thinking only of myself— and not of you and the grievous blow you have suffered at this Northman's ruthless hands."
"I must know... I must know what became of my mother," Rhowenna murmured dully to herself, hardly aware of Morgen's words. "My lord... my lord"— for fear of what he would see in her eyes, she did not dare to look at Ivar as she addressed him in the Northland language— "the princess... the princess would know her mother's fate."
"Tell her that Igraine, queen of Usk, is dead, too. Tell her that as proof of all I have said, I offer this." From the pocket of his leather tunic, Ivar withdrew a gold necklace set with amethysts, which Rhowenna recognized at once as Prince Cerdic's gift to her, plundered by Ivar from her jewelry chest in her sleeping chamber in her father's royal manor.
It was all true,
then, as she had feared. Still, it was all she could do to keep from keening like a banshee again; she bit her lower lip so hard to remain silent that she drew blood, tasted it, coppery and bittersweet, in her mouth, upon her tongue. Now she knew why her dowry had never been delivered to Prince Cerdic, why he had refused to pay her ransom, why he did not care what happened to her. She was no longer of any use to him. Her father's palisade had fallen before the onslaught of Ivar the Boneless and his Víkingrs; her parents had been killed; their royal manor ravaged, perhaps even burned to the ground; Usk's people slaughtered, perhaps to the last man. For Rhowenna did not delude herself that Ivar's attack had been no more than a raid that, however brutal, had at least been brief. Nay, he had engaged in a long, hard battle. Perhaps even Gwydion now lay dead.
"The— the Queen?" Morgen asked hesitantly, her dark-blue eyes stricken as she saw the pain upon Rhowenna's face. "She— she is dead? The Northmen murdered her, also, my lady?"
"Aye..." Rhowenna whispered brokenly, drawing another long, uneven breath as she fought to keep from giving way to the sorrow and hysteria that threatened to overcome her.
A blinding rage and hatred such as she had never before felt welled within her breast. She could commit murder at this moment, she thought numbly; she could drive a dagger deep into Ivar's black heart, and never feel remorse for the deed, but take joy in his death.
"Damn you to Hel, you filthy whoreson!" Morgen spat in the tongue of Walas; and although Ivar did not comprehend the words, he got the gist.
He laughed, an ugly sound, as he gingerly touched his wounded cheek, then deliberately wiped his fingers across Morgen's upturned face, marking her with his blood, in the way a hunter did himself with the blood of his kill. Then, without warning, seizing hold of her hair hurtfully, he kissed her, grinding his mouth down on hers hard and long before, at last, he released her, his eyes raking her lewdly, lingering on her heaving breasts— although only his own men laughed, and the sound had a nervous ring; for in that moment, something vital and terrible leaped between Ivar and Morgen, and the air was fraught with a tension so strong as to be almost tangible.
