by Swan Road
* * * * *
The gods are capricious.
And what they bestow today, they may as easily take away tomorrow, Ivar the Boneless had said, as Wulfgar was to remember for many a long day after he dispatched Gwydion's message to Ragnar Lodbrók, in the hope that obtaining the ransom for the woman he thought was Rhowenna, Ragnar would send Morgen back to Usk, never knowing how he had been deceived. Morgen would be glad to return to her homeland; she would explain to Gwydion all that had happened, and if brazen Flóki truly wanted her, he could go after her. It would, Wulfgar thought, tie all the loose ends up quite nicely and settle everything to everyone's satisfaction.
And perhaps it would have, if not for the gods and Ivar the Boneless, who saw fit to thrust a malicious hand into the affair, and for the recklessness of Flóki the Raven.
It was Flóki whom Wulfgar entrusted with
the delivery of the scroll; and truth to tell, when he first entered Ragnar's great mead hall, Flóki had no notion of doing anything rash, having heard Wulfgar's plan and agreed that it was for the best. But after Ragnar and his sons were apprised of the letter's contents, Ivar— who had been awaiting his chance— announced wickedly that while they could be certain the princess of Usk was unharmed, they could not be sure she was a virgin, and that perhaps they should verify that fact before sending her back to Usk, lest its new king think they had cheated him. A huge clamor of ribald laughter and lewd remarks erupted in the great mead hall at that; for with winter coming on, there was little for the thegns to do save to sit, play board games, and drink, and the nabid and the bjórr had flowed freely all day. Ragnar had swilled more than his share, and like his son Ivar, he was not loath to rape an unwilling wench. The only thing that had saved Morgen thus far was that he believed her to be the princess of Usk and her virginity of some use to him. Now that her ransom was to be paid, however, there was no reason not to take her; for now by the time she could inform Gwydion, king of Usk, of her fate, it would be too late. Ragnar would have her blood money in his grasping hands.
So thinking, he jerked Morgen up from where she sat at his feet and, throwing her roughly over his shoulder, carried her into his sleeping chamber, shouting back to his sons that they could have her when he was finished with her. It was all Flóki could do then to keep from running after Ragnar and cutting him down; but that would have been to sign his own death warrant, as well, and he was not quite so rash as that. Instead, in all the cacophony, he slipped from the great mead hall and sneaked around the side of the hof to the exterior door of Ragnar's sleeping chamber. It was fortunate, Flóki thought, that Ragnar had not decided to rape Morgen in front of all his warriors, and so had taken her to his sleeping chamber; no doubt, he had feared he had drunk so much that his shaft might fail him, provoking his men to laughter and jesting at his own expense. Stealthily, Flóki pressed his ear to the door and tried the handle to be certain it was not locked. It was not. After a few minutes, when he heard screams and what was clearly a struggle inside, he quietly eased open the door and stepped into the sleeping chamber. Ragnar had Morgen down on the bed and was tearing at her clothes, so intent on sating his lust that he did not hear the intruder. Again, Flóki thought about drawing his broadsword. But slaying a king was a serious crime indeed; and finally, he contented himself with creeping up on Ragnar and, with a heavy soapstone wine cup that lay on the floor, bashing him over the head, knocking him unconscious. With a groan, Ragnar rolled slowly off Morgen, falling with a thud to the floor, his head bleeding profusely from the wound Flóki had inflicted. Morgen's eyes were filled with fury and fright. But then she recognized Flóki.
"Shhhhh," he hissed, holding a warning finger to his lips. "Come on. I'm taking you out of here— now." Grabbing up one of the pelts from the bed, he continued, "I needs must bundle you up in this, lady, so no one will see you and try to prevent us from leaving.
"What about the King?" Morgen asked, looking with disgust at Ragnar's senseless form.
"If we're lucky, he'll be unconscious for hours, with no one the wiser; for no man— except perhaps Ivar the Boneless— will be brave enough to interrupt what all think is going on in here. By the time Ragnar finally does wake up, we'll be long gone."
Flóki wrapped Morgen up in the fur, then carried her outside, where he slung her over the front of his saddle, hoping that the sentries in Ragnar's watchtowers would not remember whether he had had the pelt thrown across his horse when he had ridden in. It was becoming dark now, so perhaps the guards would not be able to see him very well, or would be so busy quaffing wine or ale to warm themselves on this chilly evening that they would not bother looking too closely at him. To his relief, his luck held. Spying him coming, the gatekeepers merely opened the gates to allow him to pass, waving him on through and paying no attention when he galloped by. He could hardly believe he and Morgen had made good their escape, and so easily. Once they were out of sight of Ragnar's palisade, Flóki drew his steed to a halt and unrolled Morgen from the pelt so she could finish the remainder of the ride mounted pillion behind him.
"There will be a moon, lady," he observed as he gazed at the swiftly darkening sky. "We will be able to make it to Wulfgar's markland this night."
"And then? What then, Flóki?" Morgen's face was anxious.
He shook his head, his own dark, handsome visage creased with worry now that he considered the enormity of what he had done in attacking his king and stealing away the princess of Usk.
"I don't know, lady. I don't know."
Then, setting his heels to his horse's sides, he urged the animal on across the frost-encrusted heaths, racing the darkness and the moon rising slowly on the horizon.
* * * * *
There was nothing to do but to make a run for it, Wulfgar thought, his heart heavy as he listened to the story told by Flóki and Morgen. The crime Flóki had committed of assaulting his king was so terrible that Ragnar would not be satisfied with less than Flóki's death by the Blood Eagle, a hideous ritual. Wulfgar could not allow that to happen to Flóki, who had been his staunch supporter from the time of the duel with Knut Strongarm aboard the Dragon's Fire. Further, even if Flóki alone were to flee and Morgen return to Ragnar, since Flóki was Wulfgar's second-in-command, entrusted to deliver the message from Usk, Ragnar was sure to claim that Wulfgar was behind Flóki's actions, to use the attack as an excuse to march on Wulfgar's markland, to have him branded an outlaw by the Thing. The risk of remaining in the Northland was now too great even to consider; they must all flee and hope that Ragnar and his sons did not pursue them.
Wulfgar's longship, the Siren's Song, was finished, although she still sat on her log rollers upon the strand, unconsecrated, not yet named ceremoniously, unsoaked by the sea, her maiden voyage not yet made. He had planned to sail the vessel following his wedding rite, perhaps on a seal hunt in the Grey and Frozen seas, to test her. But there was no time for that now. They must put to sea and hope that the longship proved herself worthy of a Víkingr.
"But it means giving up everything you have gained, Wulfgar!" Rhowenna exclaimed, anguished, when he announced the decision he had made.
"Elsket, 'tis a great loss to me, aye. But it does not matter, if only we are together. What will become of you if Ragnar marches on my markland or persuades the Thing to proclaim me an outlaw? Nay, I cannot risk that. I will not. Go now. Gather those possessions you need most. We shall not sleep this night, but must make haste to escape before Ragnar wakes or is discovered before the dawn."
Seeing Wulfgar's determination, Rhowenna knew that it was useless to argue with him, and silently, she went to do as he had bade her, her heart overflowing with love and pain. That he should give up for her all he had gained was to her the greatest of both joys and sorrows; she could not help but think of Gwydion in comparison, whose own sacrifice in running away with her would have been small and yet who had not been willing to make it, rejecting and abandoning her to Prince Cerdic. Only Wulfgar had proved himself constant, and Rhowenna had never loved
him more than she did in that moment.
By the light of the pale, sickly moon that had risen in the night sky, augmented by whale-oil lamps that flickered in the moaning wind, the longship was loaded and provisioned, then shoved over its log rollers into a sea that shone silvery dark and cold, roiling and white with foam. The vessel rocked on the waves, tugging so hard at the mooring ropes the thegns had tethered to temporary posts driven into the sand that it seemed it would tear free and take with it the only chance at escape. Rhowenna's heart pounded as she saw how violently the longship heaved on the rough water, for she knew that this was a bad time to be out on the sea, that even the Víkingrs did not care to take such a chance unless compelled to.
Wulfgar was shouting orders, the words ripped away by the wind, his face grim. Flóki was doing the work of ten men, in an attempt to make up for all the trouble he had caused. He knew that it was bad luck, an offense against the gods to set sail in a vessel that had not yet been consecrated or named in the sacred ritual; that for that reason, many of the warriors would consider the longship accursed; and, considering that if they embarked upon this voyage, they might be leaving their homeland forever, they would refuse to sail upon the Siren's Song, perhaps even rendering the vessel shorthanded. Then Wulfgar would be forced to press his male slaves into service. But in the end, there were enough thegns to man the oars, although the shifts would have to be staggered.
Shivering, Rhowenna stood with her white bearskin cloak pulled close about her to ward off the chill. She could hardly believe that the events of this night were taking place, were real; everything seemed to have happened so fast. She was almost as sick and frightened as she had been when the Northmen had descended upon Usk; for although she had never thought to call it so, the Northland had become her home. Glancing back toward the heath, she could see in the distance the palisade that surrounded the hof upon which she and Wulfgar had worked so hard, where they had built so much, planning a life together. Tears started in her eyes. Somehow, it was like losing Usk all over again; and when Wulfgar gathered her up in his arms to carry her to the longship, she buried her face against his chest so he would not see how she wept for her own loss and his. She must be strong, she told herself, as strong as he, who loved her so.
The sea frothed and swirled about them; the vessel pitched so, that it was several moments before he was able to hand her aboard. But finally, she and Morgen were settled in the stern, as they had been once before, on their journey to the Northland. As much for comfort and safety as for warmth, they huddled together between the coffers and sea chests on the deck. Flóki joined the two women, while Wulfgar took the tiller. Then, at last, the mooring ropes were cast off, and to the soft, low beat of the drummer's instrument, the oarsmen began quietly to row, the longship to move slowly out of the harbor, all aboard aware that if anyone spied them sneaking away like thieves in the night, an investigation would ensue and an alarm would doubtless be raised. But no one ventured forth in the darkness, lamp in hand, to witness the passage of the Siren's Song and to wonder why the vessel of the jarl Wulfgar Bloodaxe had put out upon such a rough sea, on such a cold, windy night.
Wulfgar did not know where they would go, although he had a vague notion of settling in the Frankish kingdoms, in Normandy, where many Víkingrs had already carved out marklands for themselves. So he set a northerly course, intending to follow the coast of the Northland up and across to the Shetlands and Orkneys, and thence down the shoreline of Britain, rather than along those of Jutland and Frisia, until he reached the Frankish kingdoms. He thought that this route might help to throw Ragnar off the scent should he pursue them. It also meant that if, instead, Ragnar, too, sailed down the coast of Britain, Wulfgar could turn the Siren's Song east, across the savage North Sea if he was compelled to, and end up, if the gods so willed, in harbors more familiar to him, harbors more accustomed to the sight of long-ships moored at their wharves, for the purpose of trading rather than raiding. Crossing the North Sea was not a course Wulfgar liked to consider taking; for it was a rough sea, frequently cloaked with mist and beset by storms, especially at this time of year, and no Víkingr willingly ventured across it. But it would be better than winding up as prisoners of Ragnar Lodbrók after the crime Flóki had committed against him.
Shuddering at the thought that Ragnar might somehow learn of Rhowenna's true identity, Wulfgar decided that if worse came to worst and the Siren's Song was taken captive and boarded, he would slay Rhowenna himself rather than let her fall prey to Ragnar and his sons. For if ever they discovered that she, the true princess of Usk, had willingly married Wulfgar, they would see it as a sign that she had considered him royal enough of lineage, blue enough of blood to claim her hand, a legitimate heir to Ragnar's kingdom and throne; and her fate would be even more cruel than slavery and whoredom. They would torture her and put her to death, Wulfgar thought, for daring to wed an upstart who had dared to aim so high. His child, too, if she even now carried a babe of his making, they would not suffer to live, but would expose it to the elements or put it to the sword, as was the custom for unwanted children in the Northland. As he glanced at Rhowenna's face, small and ashen in the moonlight, Wulfgar shivered again with fear for her; and he prayed to the gods that he would not be forced to kill her, that they would escape Ragnar's long, vengeful arm to build a new home together somewhere, some way.
But to Wulfgar's despair, the gods chose not to hear his prayers; for a few days later off the coast of Caledonia, when the grey dawn came, he spied in the distance a widespread sail as crimson as his own, and he recognized Ragnar's mighty longship, which was lying in wait. Such was Ragnar's rage at the assault upon him that he had gambled all on correctly guessing which course Wulfgar would choose to set and had himself daringly crossed the North Sea at a much wider point rather than to follow the safer shoreline route as Wulfgar had. Ragnar was now hard on the heels of the Siren's Song, bearing down rapidly from the northeast; and now Wulfgar wondered uneasily if his vessel was, in fact, accursed because he had not consecrated her to the gods and named her in accordance with the proper ritual.
The wind was with him, at least; but that was of little help, for it was also with Ragnar, whose own longship was as swift as the Siren's Song. It would be a race, then, between the two vessels and their captains, a test of skill, seamanship, and cunning; and Wulfgar had not Ragnar's years of experience at the tiller of a longship to draw upon. It was time for Flóki to spell Wulfgar at the tiller, but Wulfgar knew he could not relinquish the tiller now, when Ragnar was in sight. So he stayed where he was, his fatigue dispelled all at once by the sudden surge of adrenaline that pumped through his body, setting his pulse to pounding.
" 'Tis he. 'Tis Ragnar. I would know his Dragon Ship anywhere," Flóki stated grimly as he stared at the red sail in the distance. "He has come after us, as the hunter pursues the hare, and is bent on driving us into some snare, I am thinking."
"Aye, so I fear." Wulfgar's voice was grave and had a hard, serrated edge at the thought of how Ragnar had outfoxed him. "That is why I will keep the tiller for now, Flóki, until I am too weary to stand. Till then, do you rest and conserve your strength; for although Ragnar may have won this round, the battle is not over, and I do not mean to make it any easier for him. 'Tis a long race we shall run, and with a fight at the end of it, I am thinking. So 'twould not be wise for us both to be exhausted then."
"Nay, you are right, lord. Ah, Wulfgar!" Flóki cried with remorse. "I rue that I have with my rash action brought us to this terrible pass! But I could not just ride away and leave my lady to Ragnar's mercy. She, who is a virgin and the princess of Usk!"
Almost, Wulfgar was tempted to tell him that Morgen was neither, but in the end remained silent about how the two women had switched identities. If Ragnar should catch them, it might be that Flóki would blurt out the truth under torture or in a vain attempt to save Morgen against the attentions of Ragnar and his sons. Not even the fulfilling of Flóki's love and desire for Morgen was wort
h putting Rhowenna at such risk, Wulfgar told himself fiercely as he gazed at her pale, sleeping form curled up on his wolfskin in the stern, her own white bearskin cloak, for which he had traded a fine scramasax, wrapped around her. He thanked the gods that for the moment, she still slumbered, blissfully unaware yet of Ragnar's bearing down upon them. Would that she need never know, need never confront the threat the dawn had brought to them all, Wulfgar thought. She was weary to the bone, had endured too many grievous blows for one woman to suffer. Yet, with courage and conviction, she had borne them all, telling him, once, that God never gave anyone a burden too heavy to bear. This, however, Wulfgar did not believe. The Christ might be merciful, as Rhowenna claimed; but the gods were not, as he had good cause to know— and perhaps the Christ was angry with her for marrying him, a pagan. It could be that all of her Heaven and his Asgard had turned against them.
Yet, despite the adversity they faced, Wulfgar still could not repress the thrill of excitement and exhilaration that shot through him as the Siren's Song lifted and surged beneath his feet, driving forward across the waves, the wind filling her sail so that it billowed and whipped against the grey dawn sky. She was his vessel, just as Rhowenna was his wife. Come what may, nothing on earth could change that, he told himself fervently. The thought filled his heart to bursting. He would do whatever was necessary to protect them both, he vowed savagely, even if it meant dying in the attempt and spending his whole afterlife not in the Valhöll, but on the Shore of Corpses, forever at the mercy of Nidhögg, the bloodsucking monster of Hel.
