by Swan Road
Chapter Seventeen
Aella's Snake Pit
Although not mortally, the Siren's Song was indeed badly wounded, Wulfgar saw by the dawn that broke, bleak but at least clear, upon the horizon after the long, terrible night. They had ridden out the storm beneath the hides stretched across the longship, rudder and oars drawn in finally, leaving the vessel to the mercy of the wind and sea. In his hope to outrun the storm, Wulfgar had waited too long to order the sail furled and lowered, so there had been no time to take down the mast and to stow it upon the trestles that rose from the deck. During the storm, it had been struck by lightning, the top third charred and, breaking away, sent hurling into the sea, crippling the longship. The strakes on the side that had struck Ragnar's own mighty vessel were deeply gouged, although the rivets had somehow held fast. Those on Ragnar's longship had not, loosening from the repeated blows against the Siren's Song; the strakes had buckled and given way, and the vessel had sunk. Wulfgar could, however, no longer be certain the caulking of tarred animal hide between the strakes of the Siren's Song would hold. He needed to put in to port somewhere to effect repairs; and he thought how ironic it was that the nearest harbor should be the mouth of the river Humber, in that kingdom of Britain, Northumbria, ruled by Aella, who had put a rich price on the head of Ragnar Lodbrók.
Yet as Wulfgar gazed at his father lying trussed hand and foot upon the deck, he found to his deep anger and frustration that despite himself, regret stirred in his soul for this man who had given him life, and that there was pity in his heart for this great king of the Northland, this worthy foe, once so high, who had been brought so low. Gladly in his fear and rage of last night in the storm, Wulfgar would have sunk his grappling hook into Ragnar's head or heart, slaying him. But this morning, with those turbulent emotions drained from him, with Rhowenna lying safe beside him, Wulfgar somehow could no longer summon his hate; and he thought that, after all, he did not care to have upon his conscience his own father's death.
His face impassive, he rose to move toward Ragnar's prone figure, hunkering down beside him and staring at him silently. Sensing Wulfgar's eyes on him, Ragnar blearily opened his own. Last night, he had thought to drown in the treacherous sea into which his own sail had knocked him. Then, when he had felt the savage hooks pierce his body, tearing his flesh, he had been certain at least one had stabbed some vital organ and that he would die. When he had been roughly hauled onto the deck of the Siren's Song and bound hand and foot, he had believed he would surely bleed to death. But he was an incredibly strong giant of a man; and now that none of these things had come to pass and he was still alive, he knew that the gods had in mind some other fate for him, and he chafed against what he feared would be the ignominy of it. He wished violently that he had not retched up the foul seawater he had swallowed, that it had poisoned him or swallowed the breath in his lungs, that the bleeding of his wounds had not been staunched as well as possible under the circumstances by Wulfgar's woman. Had he proved able to free himself from his restraints, Ragnar would have thrown himself overboard or cut his own throat.
"Why did you not kill me— or at least let me die?" he asked sourly, coughing a little, his face as grey as the morning light. "Then would I already be in Valhöll."
"I do not know— save that when I was born, you allowed me to live instead of leaving me for the wolves to devour or the foul weather to finish on a Northland heath," Wulfgar confessed honestly.
"Aye, well, better I had done so than to listen to Goscelin's insistence that you were my son and no one else's, and giving in to her tears by permitting you to take suck from her breast."
"Do you then look at me and doubt still that you are my sire? People say that I bear a strong and marked resemblance to Ivar— and although I've no love for him and no liking for his looks, either, I am forced to admit that seeing him is like looking at my reflection in the polished-bronze mirror of my lady wife."
"Were you his twin, I'd not give a damn!" Ragnar insisted scornfully; then he spat contemptuously on the deck at Wulfgar's feet. "Nor claim you as the seed of my loins, you bloody bastard bóndi! I curse the day you were born, and the day you slew Loki's wolf so Ivar might live; for 'twas that act that freed you to climb so high that you became a great threat to my sons, to my kingdom and throne. I should have smothered you at birth; I should have killed you the day of the hunt rather than let Björn Ironside and Hasting goad me into allowing you to take oath at the festival of Eostre; and when you stole the princess of Usk and Olaf the Sea Bull's markland, I should have marched on you and destroyed you, or had you named an outlaw by the Thing!"
"Then why did you not?"
"Because that yellow witch from the Eastlands put a curse on me, that's why. She swore by the gods that if ever my hand struck you down, however indirectly, I should die a coward's death, unsung, unremembered, and that none of my sons would live to rule after me. It would be as though I never existed; and by the God of the Runes and Valhöll, I'm the greatest Víkingr ever to sail the seas, and I'll be remembered as such! A thousand years from now, long after you're less than worms' excrement and forgotten, rotting on the Shore of Corpses in Hel, the skálds will still sing my praises in the Northland. But mark me: When I'm dead and swilling mead and whoring with the Valkyries in Valhöll, I will have my revenge, for Ivar will rid himself of you soon enough."
"Are you sure?" Her black eyes glimmering avidly, Yelkei squatted beside Ragnar, her head cocked to one side, like that of a raven when it has found something to interest it.
"You've no cause to curse Ivar, you evil old witch!" Ragnar hissed, his eyes narrowing. "Nor would that stay his hand against this bloody bastard bóndi, anyway, I am thinking; for there is aught in Ivar's soul that belongs not to a Víkingr, but to Loki and Nidhögg and Hela."
"Aye." Yelkei nodded thoughtfully. "It may be that you are right, for Ivar has always been like a maggot, crawling into the labyrinth of a man's heart and soul to feast on his dreams. But malice and guile are poor weapons compared to the greatest of them all, Ragnar Lodbrók: ambition and determination; and while Ivar has his share of both, make no mistake, the flame that burns within him is as cold as the tundra in winter compared to what burns within Halfdan, white-hot, like the blazing midnight sun of summer."
"Aren't you forgetting Ubbi?" Ragnar inquired mockingly.
"Nay." Yelkei chortled contemptuously. "For in truth, he is no more than a crude lump of peat that Ivar and Halfdan will consume between them."
"Be that as it may, your foundling here shall not live to see it!"
"Are you sure?" Yelkei prodded again wickedly, her eyes alive with malice.
"Aye, for he is weak; even now, his soul balks at slaying me."
"What you think of as a weakness is his greatest strength; for from it spring all his strengths: his love, his honor, his loyalty, his courage, and his conviction. Wulfgar"— Yelkei turned to him— "do you give Ragnar Lodbrók into my keeping, to do with him as I see fit; for in truth, 'tis not meet that you kill your father, and I've an old score to settle with him, besides, the reason for my curse upon his soul."
"And what is that?" Wulfgar asked, curious, for never in his life had Yelkei made mention of this, although he felt, of a sudden, that the answer would make much clear to him.
"Many years ago, when I was scarce older than your lady wife, I myself was a princess, a princess of the people who ruled the grassy steppes of the Eastlands as far as the eye could see. But then Ragnar came, with his Víkingr hordes, and made of me a slave. I was the bride of a prince, and carrying his child; and I wept and begged Ragnar to ransom me. But after the many long months it took for his message to reach my people, who were nomads, and for the coffer of gold and silver and jewels my husband sent in return for me to be delivered to the Northland, Ragnar broke his promise and would not release me. By then, Goscelin had borne you, her son and Ragnar's; and after three days, her milk had dried up, while my own milk, for my own son, born a month before you were, still flowed. R
agnar thought to put you to suck at my teat so Goscelin would cry no more, but I had not milk enough to feed two. And so, one day, when my son screamed loudly with hunger, Ragnar picked him up by the heels and, swinging him hard, bashed his tiny head against the wall of the hof— my son, who would have been a king of the East-lands." Tears trickled slowly down Yelkei's face at the memory. "As I sat there, with you and my dead son in my lap, I saw that his blood had marked your face in the way of a hunter, a warrior; and I knew then that my son had chosen you to fulfill his own destiny, to become a king, Wulfgar Bloodaxe. All I have done has been to accomplish that end. Now, do you give me Ragnar Lodbrók, to do with as I will, in the name of my son."
"You may have him, Yelkei," Wulfgar said softly, deeply moved by the unbearable sacrifice she had suffered for him, "and if the gods are willing, I will be a king of the Northland, I swear it!"
* * * * *
The storm had blown the Siren's Song many leagues off course. Wulfgar's sun board, a bearing dial marked with compass points and held to the rising or setting sun, and his sun shadow board, which determined latitude by the shadow cast by the sun at midday, were frequently useless to him in the mist that blanketed the North Sea. He resorted, therefore, to finding his way by means of his sunstone, a strange, crystalline rock that was yellow in color but that when held at right angles to the light from the sun, turned instantly a dark blue. This enabled him eventually to seek out the proper latitude that would take them to the kingdoms of Britain, to Northumbria; and some days later, on a shortened sail, the Siren's Song limped into the mouth of the river Humber. By now, winter had arrived in earnest; and to Wulfgar's relief— although he did not fear the Saxons, of whom he reckoned his own thegns were worth at least fifty men apiece— the harbor was inactive, with only some crude sailing vessels and rowboats in evidence, nothing that his own longship, injured though it was, could not easily outrun, if need be.
The villages and farms that dotted the coast were likewise quiet, for the Saxons were holed up like hibernating bears for the winter, smoke wafting from what Rhowenna informed him were called chimneys, of which there were none in the Northland. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he studied them. Having previously perceived the advantages to this method of ridding a house of smoke, Wulfgar asked her why she had not demanded that such a hearth be installed in the long-house, when she had not hesitated to hound him for furniture.
"Because, my love, a chimney is not so easily built as a bed— and, if improperly constructed, will explode when a fire is lighted within it," she explained, then blushed with shame and embarrassment as she saw how his eyes danced wickedly at her inadvertent analogy.
"Like a man, you mean," he teased, pulling her into his arms and kissing her mouth.
"There is nothing wrong with your construction," she said before she thought, flushing even more scarlet as the impulsive words left her lips.
"Hmmm. I am very glad you think so, elsket."
Satisfied that there was no immediate threat to them, Wulfgar ordered the anchor dropped in the port and the mooring lines tied to the wharf. He was somewhat amused by the sight of the few villagers and farmers, who were out and about, running away with fright when they spied the Siren's Song. Still, he did not discount the possibility of an armed band's returning, and posted guards around the long-ship, sending a handful of other thegns to inquire about procuring the materials they needed to repair the vessel and to discover whether there were lodgings available nearby. Presently, the warriors came back to report that supplies necessary to mend the longship were readily at hand and that there was an abandoned farm not far from the shore, the apparent victim of a Víkingr attack, which could be made habitable with a little hard work.
As Wulfgar had expected, it was Yelkei's wish to sell Ragnar to the Northumbrian king, Aella, whose seat was in the city of York, north of the river Humber. But having no good reason to trust that Aella was an honorable man— he had, after all, seized his kingdom and throne by overthrowing its previous king, Osberht, with whom he was still feuding— Wulfgar had decided to wait until the Siren's Song was once more seaworthy before dispatching an emissary to York, with the news that Ragnar Lodbrók had been taken prisoner. Meanwhile, inspecting the farm that had clearly once been prosperous but was now abandoned, Wulfgar saw that if the stone cottage, stables, and byres were cleaned and repaired— they had been set afire, and most of the thatched roofs were gone— the farm could indeed be made livable and would serve them well as winter quarters, fronting a small, sheltered cove and so having a beach onto which the longship could be dragged to ride out the winter. He moved the Siren's Song there at once to work at restoring her to her previous condition; and thus began what Rhowenna was to think of ever after as the quiet time. They bothered no one; no one bothered them. It was as though time stood still and, after the winter snow fell, silent and deep, they had somehow been cut off from the rest of the world.
The stone cottage was adequately appointed, with a hall, a kitchen, and two small sleeping chambers, one of which she and Wulfgar claimed for themselves. The other was taken, with a defiant glance in Wulfgar's direction, by Flóki and Morgen, who plainly expected resistance to the arrangement. But much to Flóki's obvious surprise and confusion, although Wulfgar raised one eyebrow coolly at this presumption, he said nothing at all, thereby giving tacit approval to whatever might take place behind the closed door at night. Rhowenna was safe in his arms, Wulfgar thought; that was all that mattered. And Flóki and Morgen, who had risked so much, deserved whatever happiness they might find together now. Yelkei slept on a pallet in the hall, where she kept both one eye and a scramasax on Ragnar, who now wore an iron slave collar that had been fortuitously discovered in the empty slave pens, and with which Yelkei had chained him to an iron ring set into one of the hall walls, so he could not escape. Ragnar appeared to accept his captivity calmly, even affably; but not one of them made the mistake of forgetting that he was a cruel, dangerous man who would slay them all if afforded half the chance. Rhowenna continued to tend the tears in his flesh made by the grappling hooks, while Wulfgar stood wordlessly by, battle-ax in hand, lest Ragnar seek to grab hold of her and do her some injury. The warriors bedded down in the stables, while the byres were given over to housing the livestock that had escaped during the Víkingr assault and that the men now rounded up— a cow, a goat, a Utter of pigs, and some chickens. Food was scanty; but between what Wulfgar bartered for in the villages and the winter berries, nuts, and roots that Rhowenna, Morgen, and Yelkei managed to forage from the land, hunger was held to a dull, gnawing ache in the belly, which was at least tolerable.
Life had never been harder, more uncertain. But at night, when Rhowenna lay in Wulfgar's embrace, she could forget everything but him; and when she thought of all he had gained and then given up for her, her heart overflowed with all the love it held for him. She knew that so long as she lived, there would never again be any man for her save Wulfgar. When she found out she was to have his child, she was filled with joy that not even the worry for her that shadowed Wulfgar's eyes could dim.
" 'Twill be all right, my lord, my love, I promise you," she reassured him softly after she had told him the news and they lay in bed, basking in the sweet afterglow of their lovemaking. "I am strong, and you are stronger yet. Together, we will manage somehow."
"Oh, Rhowenna, kjœreste!" he whispered fiercely, his hands tightening on her slender hips, his face buried against the softness of her naked belly, where their babe grew within her. His lips kissed her feverishly there. "I do not know what I ever did that the gods should have blessed me with you! I love you! Gods, how I love you...."
Once more together then, they lay, breast to breast, thigh to thigh, no space between or in their hearts for any other; nor would there ever be. His hands were beneath her hips, lifting her to meet his own until the rapturous flame that burned between them was more brilliant than the Northern Lights that scintillated gloriously in the night sky of the Northland, more beautiful
than the boundless sea that swept in upon the bold and wild strands.
* * * * *
It could not last. In her heart, Rhowenna knew that the winter was but an interlude in their lives, a moment out of time. Spring would come, and did, the snow that had enwrapped them like a white silk-spun cocoon melting away, the world once more intruding. The repairs to the Siren's Song were finished; and finally, when the new green shoots budded across the land, Wulfgar could no longer delay sending a messenger to York, to Aella, king of Northumbria. They could not keep Ragnar a prisoner, chained up forever; they dared not simply abandon him— not only because of Wulfgar's promise to Yelkei, but also because if Ragnar were somehow to get free, he would hunt them to the ends of the earth. So it was that one morning, the thegns dragged the longship into the sea, and then, with Wulfgar at the tiller, the vessel sailed slowly up the river Humber until it reached the river Ouse. There, they dropped anchor; and dressed in his best and mounted upon a fine steed Wulfgar had gained in trade at a nearby village, Flóki the Raven galloped away toward York. In a leather pouch at his waist was the missive Rhowenna had written in the Saxon tongue to Aella and sealed with wax into which she had pressed Wulfgar's seal.
