Brandewyne, Rebecca (27 page)

"How
can I reply when I do not myself know the answer?" she cried softly,
turning her face away from him in shame that he would speak of last night and
how she had responded to him. One hand fluttered to her slender throat, as
though to still the sudden, wild beating of the pulse that lay at its delicate
hollow. "No man has ever had of me what you have taken from me, my lord;
and although I would hate you for it with all my heart, I find I cannot. I do
not understand these strange feelings you have stirred within me. 'Tis as
though my mind and my will melt away when you touch me—" A small, ragged
sob issuing from her throat, Rhowenna broke off abruptly, stricken by her
confession, her eyes cast down to avoid his, her mouth so vulnerable and
tremulous that Wulfgar longed to possess it with his own as a thrill of triumph
shot through him at her anguished admission. After a long moment, she
continued. "Through you, a sinful pagan, does the devil, who is unholy and
iniquitous, tempt me to wantonness and wickedness, I fear, to test my faith as
a Christian maiden; and I pray earnestly for my swift deliverance and,
if that be not
granted me, for strength to hold fast against you as long as need be."
When she paused, drawing a long, uneven breath that revealed how difficult she
feared that the struggle against him— and against her own self— would be, he
was filled with elation. Then, her voice poignant with sorrow, she went on.
"As for my heart, if once it belonged to my kinsman Gwydion, it does no
longer; for he would not have it in his keeping—"

"What?"
Wulfgar exclaimed harshly, shocked that any man could not want her as his and
angered by the hurt and rejection she had so obviously and painfully suffered.
"What fool was he? Was he blind that he could not see your rare beauty?
Deaf, that he could not hear your siren's song of enchantment? Mute, that he
could not speak to you the words of love and desire for you that I would shout
unto the very halls of Asgard, the barred gates of Hel, if the gods and Hela,
who is Death, would deign to hear my cry?"

"Nay."
Rhowenna shook her head slowly, her countenance wistful, her gaze distant, as
before. "He was only a man who did not dare to dream."

"I
am not such a man as that, lady. For I
do
dare to dream. I dream of holding
you
in my arms and of feeling you tremble with passion beneath me, your white
thighs spread wide to receive me as I fill you to overflowing with a nectar far
sweeter and headier than wine, as I would show you if you would but yield to
me. I dream of waking every morning for the rest of my life to see you lying
beside me, the waves of your raven hair rippling across the pillows, a black
sea in which I would gladly drown forever. I dream of watching your soft body
ripen and swell with a babe of my making, here"— he laid his hand upon her
belly, a tender caress that made her shudder, despite herself, with a sudden,
strange longing, a deep, instinctive, maternal ache she had never before felt.
"I dream not only of life within you, but also of life
with
you, of
you sitting beside me in my great mead hall, your face aglow with the light of
the fire and of the whale-oil lamps of many a long, dark winter's eve. I dream
of growing old with you. I dream that when I die in battle, 'twill be you
instead of a golden Valkyrie who comes for me, and that we will live together
until the very end of time, on some enchanted isle that is neither my Asgard
nor your Heaven, but a place for souls who love so deeply that they can never
be parted. All this, I dare to dream for love of you, Rhowenna. What more would
you have me say?"

"Say
that you will take me home to Usk, my lord," she implored quietly,
although the reply was not what her heart prompted her to speak, and the hand
she laid upon his arm trembled not with fear, but with the passionate yearning
his eloquent words had aroused within her. No man had ever spoken to her so,
plucked the strings of her heart so surely that they echoed with a melody so
sweet she ached to sing a harmony in answer. "Tell me that, Wulfgar, if
you love me as you claim."

"Gladly
would I take you there, although I should sicken and die of unrequited love and
desire for you at our parting; so much, I know in my heart. But I have no way
at present to return you to Usk, Rhowenna. The
Dragon's Fire
was Olaf the Sea
Bull's longship, not mine; even now, it lies in the hollow of a heath on this
markland, waiting to become part of Olaf's burial mound when the priest of
Odinn at the
templum
in
the Sacred Grove has finished his preparations to speak the funeral prayers to
the gods. And I dare not take you on board a cargo vessel, where your beauty and
desirability might bestir its captain and crew to turn upon me and to slay me,
so they can take you prisoner and rape you at their leisure before selling you
at a slave
market— or, if they should somehow learn your identity, hold you hostage
themselves for your ransom. Either way, you would represent a profit to such
men, lady, many of whom are
Víkingrs
or other sea wolves, as well as
traders. Do you understand?"

"Aye."
Rhowenna nodded, swallowing her disappointment, inwardly torn by the knowledge
that it was not so acute as it ought to have been, that some tiny, traitorous
part of her was glad she must remain in the Northland, with Wulfgar.

Turning
from him, carrying her empty basket, she went at last into the longhouse, into
the gloomy great mead hall, where the fire burned in the central hearth— and
now, of a sudden, she felt a pang at the unbidden thought that perhaps she
would not be there to see it of a long, dark winter's eve in the Northland.

Swift Flies the
Summer

The
summer was short in the Northland, and seemed to fly by so swiftly that
Rhowenna, whenever she thought of it, could not believe how long she had been
gone from Usk. Yet, strangely, despite being Wulfgar's captive and slave, she
could not honestly have declared herself discontent. Because he had given her
the duties of his chatelaine, her days soon settled into a pattern that was not
dissimilar to that of her life in Usk. Time no longer hung heavily on her
hands, as it had aboard the
Dragon's Fire,
but was taken up by her multitude
of tasks as mistress of the
hof.
It was almost as though she were, in
fact, Wulfgar's wife, Rhowenna sometimes reflected, such was the respect and
deference with which she was treated by all, the way
in which her
soft-voiced commands to the
thegns,
the freedmen, and the slaves were
obeyed. Still, she would have been surprised to learn that this was due as much
to her own noble nature as it was to Wulfgar's august authority. She did not
realize how her outer beauty and grace, her inner caring and compassion touched
the hearts of even the hardest of the men, who, no more than Wulfgar, had never
before known her like.

To
the
thegns,
Rhowenna
was a living symbol of their lord's boldness and virility; that he should hold
such a coveted prize was proof indeed of his might and worth as a
jarl,
and so of their
own as his warriors. Thus did they also come to revere her, as Wulfgar did. As
the days passed, she learned that they were not quite the savages she had at
first thought them, that although still boisterous, they usually comported
themselves more decorously, the ribald revelry they had engaged in during the
voyage and on the night of their homecoming being celebrative rather than
everyday behavior. To the freedmen, Rhowenna quickly became a mistress who
valued their skill as artisans and laborers, fishermen and farmers, and who was
never too busy to praise their talents and to take pride in their work. She
soon knew all their names and their jobs, from Gudrod, the temperamental
potter,
to Arngrim, the taciturn blacksmith, from Magnus, the tranquil fisher, to
Thorvald, the thoughtful shepherd. They were, she discovered, not so very
different, after all, from the people of Usk, the craftsmen and
ceorls
she
had known and cared for all her life. To the slaves, Rhowenna seemed from the
beginning a savior who did whatever she could to better their lowly lot, for
she could not help but pity them. There were no slaves in Walas; and even
though there were laws to govern the treatment of those in the Northland, the
slaves were often miserable. All worked long, hard hours; the women bore the
additional burden of being prey for any lustful
jarl
or
thegn
who
desired them, and this practice, Rhowenna could not stop. But at least she
could make certain the slaves were not denied proper food or clothing, and she
had a kind word for everyone.

To
the longhouse, Rhowenna brought not only order and cleanliness, but also a
sense of dignity and grace that it had previously lacked and that the
Víkingrs,
with their— to
her, startling and unexpected— love of beauty and art and poetry, approved and
appreciated. Knowing she was accustomed to finer things, sensing how important
her surroundings were to her, and wishing to please her, Wulfgar had the
craftsmen fashion
exquisitely painted wooden panels, which were pegged to the timber walls, as
was the custom in many a wealthy household; and to these were fastened big,
elaborately formed bronze hooks on which to store, when dismantled after meals,
the trestle tables and long benches the woodcarvers built. On the dais sat a
thronelike chair that served as Wulfgar's high seat. An abundance of whale-oil
lamps and rushlights brought light into the shadows, and sweet-smelling rushes
strewed the hard-packed earth floor. There were trestle tables for the kitchen,
as well, and shelves now to hold pots and dishes, with barrels and chests
neatly lined up underneath on the floor. To all this, Wulfgar made two further—
and swiftly completed— contributions: The hide curtain in the doorway of the sleeping
chamber was replaced by a stout, ornately carved oak door with iron fittings
and a sturdy lock; and in the sleeping chamber itself stood a massive bed— the
seng.
That word had puzzled Rhowenna the day of Wulfgar's discussion with Eirik,
the chief woodcarver, but she now knew its meaning as she learned daily more
and more of the language of the Northland.

When
the door and the bed were installed, Rhowenna's heart turned over in her
breast; for she knew they meant that although Wulfgar
perhaps would
keep his word and would not force her to submit to him, he was determined to
win her surrender, nevertheless. He continued his loverlike assaults upon her
body and senses, and she did not know how long she could go on holding out
against him. She was virtually his wife in all but his bed; and even there, she
lay in his embrace at night, trembling with the feelings he had wakened within
her and went on nurturing, filling her with an unendurable ache she knew
instinctively that only he could ease. Fiercely, trying to convince herself of
it, she told herself that she wished he would not kiss her, would not caress
her. Once, she even asked him not to touch her again; but he only laughed
softly and said that that had not been part of the bargain, that he had promised
only not to rape her.

Still,
although it was potent with meaning, the bed, made of oak, was undeniably
beautiful. Eirik and his cadre of woodcarvers must have labored many days and
long into the nights to finish it, Rhowenna thought when she first saw it, and
she was touched despite herself by the work and obvious care that had gone into
it. The two tall, highly detailed posts of the headboard each resembled the
dragon-headed stempost of a longship; the headboard itself had intricately
carved upon
it a great, stalking wolf at the edge of a reed-grown mere, upon whose quietly
rippling waters a graceful swan floated— beautiful, serene, unaware. The
footboard and its shorter posts were a luxuriance of forested mountains
sweeping to the sea. Ells of walrus hide stretched between the sideboards
supported the eiderdown-stuffed wool pallet.

"Do
you like it?" From behind her, Wulfgar's hands slid slowly back and forth
along her shoulders and arms; his breath was warm against her nape, making her
shiver. " 'Tis built so it can be dismantled for traveling. The
konungrs
and rich
jarlar
often have more
than one such bed in their
hofs;
sometimes, they are even interred with
them, as in his longship, Olaf the Sea Bull was with his own possessions and
food and drink for his afterlife as one of the Einheriar, in Valhöll."

"The
bed is lovely," Rhowenna admitted honestly, for it was not the bed itself,
but only the thought of sharing it with him that disturbed her— although why it
should be any different from the deck of the longship or the pallet alone, she
did not know.

"I
would make love to you in it,
elsket."
His lips brushed
her hair, her ear, the side of her neck, sending another shudder of excitement
through her. "Why do you not yield
to me? You know that you want me as much
I want you. You cannot deny that."

"Nay,
I cannot," she rejoined softly, after a long moment; for in her heart, she
knew that he had spoken truly. Despite everything, she did desire him, her
enemy, her captor. She did not know why, but it was so. "But I
will
deny you,
Wulfgar. You are a heathen, and I am a Christian, betrothed to Prince Cerdic,
whom I cannot wed and to whose own bed I cannot go as a sullied bride, lest he
cast me off and I be compelled to return home to Usk, disgraced, a
disappointment to my father and mother, a sinner in the eyes of the Christ and
the Church."