Brandewyne, Rebecca

by Swan Road

  "Gwydion!" she breathed, hardly daring to believe that she was still alive, that he stood before her in reality and not in a dream. Tears started in her eyes at the realization. "Oh, Gwydion, at long last, after all this time, I have come back to Usk!"

  And such was his joy at that, that it was some moments before he realized that the last word she had whispered had been "Usk" and not "you."

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The Reckoning

  With autumn nipping at their heels, the great Víkingr army marched from Cerdic's principality back to Northumbria, to York, to reassert their authority there over the Saxons who had defied them. Afterward, the Víkingr forces descended again on East Anglia, where, at Thetford, they established a base to serve as their winter quarters when the season came. Then, at Hoxne, they engaged and defeated the troops of Edmund, the king of East Anglia who was later to become a saint and martyr, and executed him; so it began to appear as though there would not be a single king left in all of Christendom when Ivar had finished carving out his own and greatest kingdom of all.

  Through all this, Wulfgar behaved so strangely that people began to speak of him as mad; and in battle, he fought so wildly and savagely that it seemed he had found the Berserks' Way— or else that he hoped to be slain. Even Ivar, in those days, kept out of Wulfgar's path, haunted more deeply than he cared to admit by Wulfgar's soulless eyes; for Ivar felt somehow as though he looked into a polished-bronze mirror and saw his own reflection in that blind and empty gaze. In the evenings, in the abandoned great halls of dead kings and earls, Halfdan sat and contemplated the two men silently, looking thoughtful and troubled. Yelkei, too, watched and waited and, for the first time that any of them could ever remember, held her tongue.

  But then, one night, there came to Ivar's fire a bard, Owain by name, with a tame ferret wrapped around his arm and a wild Celtic harp slung over his shoulder. He was not a skáld of the Northland, but still, none offered him insult or injury; for a bard was a caste unto himself, respected by all, welcome anywhere to sing for his supper, and might as easily be found in some peasant's cottage as in the great hall of a king. After he had hungrily consumed his bowl of thick, savory mutton stew, a hunk of hard bread spread with honey and butter, and a cup of mead, Owain slipped from its soft leather drawstring case his harp, made of ash and beautifully carved. He tuned the strings, then plucked a few scattered notes and chords before beginning to play a soft ballad; and despite himself, as Wulfgar heard the foreign but achingly familiar words Rhowenna had used to sing, something sparked deep inside him and started to burn like a rare candle in the wind. After a moment, he somehow could not refrain from drawing near to the fire and the harper, Yelkei like a shadow at his side.

  The ferret sat upon Owain's shoulder, its tiny eyes gleaming in the firelight, its nose and whiskers twitching; and Wulfgar thought how Rhowenna would love it, and there was a lump in his throat at the thought. The bard played for a very long time; for save in his own land of Walas, he had seldom, to his surprise, had a more appreciative audience than the Víkingrs, whose warrior souls stirred to music and poetry and art, knowing death so intimately and so being the more strongly drawn to all that enriched life. Then, at last, laying aside his harp, Owain took notice of Wulfgar's interest in the ferret. With a treat he took from his pocket, the harper tempted the small creature down his arm and then into Wulfgar's hands, saying:

  "Her name is Cariad. 'Tis a word that in the language of Walas means—"

  "Elsket... beloved." His head bowed, Wulfgar gently stroked the beast's soft fur, pretending to concentrate on the ferret, so the bard could not see his face.

  "Aye." Owain nodded. Then he laid his hand on Wulfgar's shoulder and drew near to say, very low, so no one should overhear, "She is alive, your beloved, Wulfgar Bloodaxe. She bade me tell you so and that you have a fine son— Please, my lord, if you must break my wrist, have mercy, and choose not the hand that plucks my harp—"

  "Lying bastard! How much did Ivar pay you?"

  "Nothing, nothing. I do speak the truth, I swear it! Ask the yellow woman!"

  Wulfgar inhaled sharply at that, turning to stare hard at Yelkei, his eyes leaping of a sudden with hope and a wild blue fire that was like the eerie blue spheres of light born of a highly charged storm.

  "Yelkei... ?" His voice was low and pleading.

  " 'Tis true, Wulfgar," she confessed, half fearful and ashamed that she had kept this knowledge from him, although she had thought it in his best interests to do so. "I did not tell you before, because your lady wife said that if she survived, she would send Owain the Bard to me— for she would trust no other messenger or her words to a letter that might fall into Ivar's hands— and that if Owain the Bard did not come, there was no need for you ever to know what she did for love of you and your child—"

  "What did she do? I don't understand. How can she be alive? Yelkei, I held her lifeless body in my arms, and kissed her breathless mouth—"

  "Nay, 'twas but the deep, dark sleep from which one sometimes does not awaken. Your lady wife drank a potion I mixed, Wulfgar, so that abysmal slumber would come upon her. Far to the east beyond the Eastlands, there are tribes even older than my own, who know the secrets of such things, and one of their ilk did teach me, many years ago. But 'tis dangerous. Too much of this, too little of that, and one slips across the gloaming into Asgard, or Hel. So, 'twas best we did not tell you before now; for had you known, had you not believed your lady wife truly dead, Ivar might have guessed at our trickery— But now, Owain the Bard is here, and all is well— although he has been a long time coming...."

  "The time of your lady wife was long and difficult, my lord," the harper explained, as, taking up a soft hide cloth, he began to polish his harp. " 'Twas not an easy birth. Then, afterward, the childbed fever set in, and we feared to lose her still. So I saw no point in telling you she lived, when it seemed she might yet die, grieving you all over again. Since her recovery, I have spent many weeks trying to find you, my lord. As well you know, all of Britain is in a state of war and upheaval, and when King Ivar travels, he moves hard and swift, so his enemies have little warning of his approach."

  "There is still more, Wulfgar," Yelkei said, "for men do fear to cross a true spaewife, especially when she has paid them well for their silence; and so I've messages of my own to impart. Flóki the Raven serves you still as your second-in-command, and he has gathered the thegns who accompanied you here to Britain but were scattered by Ivar's men when they seized your Dragon Ship; and thanks to your famous prowess in battle, your own warriors have been joined by many others eager to pledge oath to you. Together with Flóki, they have reclaimed the Siren's Song, and he captains her now in your stead. She lies just off the coast of East Anglia, awaiting your return."

  "I can't believe it! 'Tis just too much to take in all at once! I am overwhelmed with emotion—" Wulfgar broke off, trying to contain himself. Then, after a long moment, he continued. "Yelkei, you have been busy." His voice was wry with the first hint of humor she had seen from him since he had held Rhowenna's still and silent, drugged figure in his embrace, and Yelkei was immeasurably cheered. But then his face turned dark with sorrow again, and he cried softly, "Ah, gods! I should have been there for her, Yelkei! To think of Rhowenna giving birth to our child, without me, frightened and alone—"

  "Frightened? Aye." Owain smiled kindly, clucking to the ferret in Wulfgar's hands and giving the creature another treat. " 'Tis an awesome thing, the birth of a babe. But never you fear, my lord. Your lady wife was not alone, although 'twas you for whom she called out, and no other. She grieves that you have yet to see your son."

  "My son..." Wulfgar's face was filled with wonder at the thought.

  "A fine, strong lad, like his father— so says your lady wife."

  "And does he have a name, this son of mine?" Wulfgar inquired.

  "He does, my lord. Your lady wife calls him Leik the Bold."

  "Leik the Bold. Rhowenna chose well."

&nb
sp; "I am beginning to think so, my lord," the harper remarked enigmatically, folding away the cloth with which he had polished his harp and sliding the instrument itself into its case. "Come, Cariad." He patted his shoulder, and the beast leaped on it from Wulfgar's hands. "The hour grows late, and there are songs to be sung on the morrow." Slinging his harp over his shoulder, Owain stood. "My lord. Princess Yelkei. I will bid you a good night."

  "Good night, Owain the Bard, and thank you, for everything," Wulfgar answered. Then he turned to Yelkei, saying, "You made plans with Rhowenna. Now, 'tis long past time that you made plans with me, as well. The horses Ivar has confiscated are valuable and, so, closely guarded; 'twould be hard to steal even one, much less two. So, we will do better with a small sailing boat to make good our escape to the Siren's Song, I am thinking—"

  "East Anglia has its fair share of traders and fisher folk, and Thetford is no exception. There are rowboats and small sailing boats beached upon the banks of the little river from Thetford that leads to the Great Ouse and thence to the Wash and the North Sea. The theft of one vessel will surely not be noticed; many have been abandoned by the villagers who fled at the approach of Ivar's great army—"

  "We'll need provisions, too, for the journey south, down the coast of East Anglia—"

  "Those, I can get—"

  "Then we will steal away just before dawn— Yelkei, you should have told me that Rhowenna was alive! I curse you that you did not!"

  "You will have cause to thank me for it in the end, I am thinking. Remember that to you, my tongue has always spoken truly— and that there is purpose in all I do. Before, you did not know what it was to lose what mattered most to you in all the world. Now you do, and you will be the stronger for it, as the fire and the folding of the metal strengthen a blade. Now, let us speak no more. Ivar is watching us— Nay, do not glance in his direction! Ah, 'tis too late! Too late! Now he knows! He knows that something has happened tonight to change you."

  "Oh, Yelkei, how? How can he possibly know?"

  "The light of your soul has come back into your eyes."

  * * * * *

  Before the pale, cold light of day glowed at the edge of the horizon, Wulfgar and Yelkei sneaked from the great hall of the abandoned manor Ivar had appropriated for his own winter quarters. The mist that billowed in with the wind across the sweeping land hung thick and low in the hollows, and as he slipped through its veils in the darkness lighted only by the silvery, ringed moon and dimming stars that still shone in the sky, Wulfgar thought of Flóki out on the rough North Sea, blind in the mist, and was glad the Siren's Song lay instead safe at anchor at the mouth of the river Blackwater, off the southeastern shore of East Anglia. At this hour, the night was as quiet as the grave, save for the distant, wild, and forlorn cries of the wolves and birds, and just as eerie, giving Wulfgar and Yelkei the feeling that they had stepped from the earth that was real into one that was mystical and fey, a siren's place. Frost encrusted the ground, crunching beneath Wulfgar's booted feet as he slowed his pace to accommodate Yelkei, whose legs were not nearly so long as his and so who could not walk as fast as he. Every now and then, he glanced back over his shoulder, for all the good it did him. In the mist, he could not see if anyone was following them, although he thought he would have heard the crunch of boots upon the rime, if so. But perhaps he would not over the pounding of his heart, the harshness of his breath, making white clouds in the wintry air. From behind him now, Yelkei's own breath came in quick, hard little pants as she struggled to keep up; and Wulfgar realized then that he was now running along the reed-grown riverbank, through the mist, running like a lithe, mighty stag bounding and leaping in flight, as though his very life depended on it, his long hair streaming from his face in the wind. He knew he must stop and wait for Yelkei, but he could not seem to halt, or even to slow down. Something wild and primitive had seized hold of him, now possessed him, and he was both the hunter and the hunted, running from the darkness that swallowed all in his wake, and toward a distant, bright and shining light that was like the North Star, guiding him home.

  At last, when he reached the place where the rowboats and sailing boats of the Thetford villagers were beached upon the riverbank, Wulfgar did stop, his heart racing, his lungs ready to burst from the chilly air he had drawn into them. Exhilaration surged through him. His face was flushed; his eyes gleamed with an excitement that was like that before a battle; and as he gazed toward the east where, he knew, far away, lay the dark and boundless North Sea, it came to him of a sudden, somehow, that his destiny awaited him there.

  Gasping for breath, Yelkei trudged up beside him, small and stooped beneath the heaviness of the leather sackfuls of supplies she carried slung over her shoulders. So all-consuming had been the unknown, unbridled thing that had gripped him that Wulfgar had not even felt the weight of his own burdens. But Yelkei was not young, and now he felt shame that she had been forced to hurry because of him. Still, she said naught, as though she understood the madness that had come so unexpectedly upon him. Instead, dropping her bags to the ground, she began to move among the rowboats and sailing boats that lay like hulking beasts among the reeds that lined the riverbank.

  "That one," she said after a moment, choosing a sturdy sailing boat.

  Wulfgar nodded his agreement; and quickly, they loaded their provisions, then started to push the vessel into the water. But then Yelkei paused, her head cocked a trifle, listening intently, her eyes narrowed and alert.

  "Someone comes— Nay, there is no cause for alarm," she reassured him as he reached for his battle-ax. " 'Tis Owain the Bard."

  Now Wulfgar could hear, as well, the harper's rich, melodious voice, singing in hushed tones, and see the light of the whale-oil lamp he carried in one hand, flickering like foxfire in the mist. His wild Celtic harp was still, secure in the leather drawstring case that hung at his shoulder, along with another sack that contained his belongings. From beneath the strands of his long, dark chestnut hair that whipped about his face in the wind, Cariad's glowing eyes peeked from where she, too, clung to his shoulder.

  "Owain, what do you here?" Wulfgar asked quietly at the bard's approach.

  "Since your lady wife returned to Usk, many nights has she sat beside the fire in the great hall, cradling her son at her breast, and telling him tales of the Northland, and of his mighty father, Wulfgar the Dane. Now, it comes to me that there is a song in my mind and in my heart which will not go away, and I must learn the words to the melody." So saying, he set the whale-oil lamp and his sack down on a thwart of the sailing boat, then laid his harp carefully in the bottom for safekeeping. After that, he, too, bent his back to the task of shoving the vessel into the water. "Come. We must hurry. King Ivar was already astir when I slipped away, and on his face as he glanced at your empty pallet, my lord, was a strange and haunting smile that I did not care to see."

  Swiftly, between the three of them, they launched the sailing boat into the mist and water. Then Wulfgar took up one oar and Owain, the other, while Yelkei sat in the stern, her hand on the tiller. Much to Wulfgar's surprise, the bard's slender hands proved as sure upon the paddle as upon the strings of his harp; but then Wulfgar remembered that Usk, too, lay at the edge of the sea, and that Rhowenna had spoken of often riding the white-foamed waves, in a peculiar round boat she had called a coracle. No doubt, having been her father's harper, Owain, also, was no stranger to boats or to water. Rhythmically, the oars rose and fell in the imperceptibly thinning mist until, finally, the vessel was far enough from shore that the paddles could be drawn in and that Wulfgar could hoist the mast and the lugsail, and secure them. With a plaintive sough that echoed the distant cry of the night creatures, the freshening wind caught the white, four-sided sail so it billowed wide, sending the vessel skimming over the quietly rippling waves.

  By now, dawn streaked across the horizon, the sun pale and grey in the sullen sky pierced the last wisps of lingering mist, so the glimmering river wended like a riband of long, dark silk before t
hem. Wulfgar took the tiller from Yelkei then. Squatting in the bottom of the sailing boat, she opened the sacks of provisions they had brought, filling wooden bowls with chunks of cold meat, a handful of berries and nuts, and a thick slice of hard bread each, and, from a leather flask, pouring cups of mead. In silence, the three of them broke their fast, eating hungrily; for their exertions and the cold air had quickened their appetites. Even Cariad devoured the tidbits Owain fed her until the meager meal was done. Wulfgar felt ashamed that they had no better to offer the bard; but then he reminded himself that he and Yelkei had planned for only two, and that Owain had accompanied them of his own free will and so must accept what was given, without complaint.

  The wind stayed with them; and the days of their journey passed peacefully as they wound their way west along the little river, then north up the Great Ouse to the Wash, finally turning east into the North Sea, rounding the mammoth bulge of East Anglia to follow its coast south. As the winter wore on, the weather grew steadily colder. But Yelkei had brought a firepot to warm them; and when the sea grew too rough for sailing, they put in to shore, where they foraged for supplies and, dragging the vessel onto the sands, turned it upside down over themselves for shelter if there were no other to be found. They took turns spelling one another at the tiller; and now and then, to pass away the time, Owain withdrew his chessboard from his bag, and he and Wulfgar played long, fierce games of strategy and battle. But more often, observing Wulfgar suddenly grow silent and gaze off into the distance, lost in reverie, dwelling on his thoughts and memories of Rhowenna, the bard brought forth his harp and sang ballads of Walas that echoed the haunting ache in Wulfgar's heart for his lady wife.