Brandewyne, Rebecca (38 page)

"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. Ragnar
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.