Dark Viking

by Sandra Hill

  “Michael? Are you serious? Thorfinn had been searching for years for his missing son Miklof. Could it be . . . nay, ’tis not possible.”

  “Well, the little boy does resemble Thorfinn. In fact, he has the same color eyes as you and your brother.”

  “He does? Oh, what a wonder it would be if Finn finally found his son again!”

  “There’s more, actually.”

  He hesitated to ask.

  “Your brother and Lydia are pregnant. She is expecting twins before Christmas.”

  “Twins?” Tears filled his eyes then. He could not help himself. If only it were true! He could accept Finn’s being gone if he knew he was happy. “Let us go there on the morrow,” he said. “I would visit my brother and see with my own eyes that he is well.”

  “Uh, there might be a small problem.”

  He frowned.

  “I have no idea how I got here. Nor do I know how to return.”

  “What? Does that mean you are going to disappear in a poof of smoke one day without warning?”

  “I don’t know about the poof of smoke, and actually I don’t know if I can go back at all.”

  “You sound very calm about this, as if you accept your fate, no matter what.”

  “I’m not calm at all. Do you really think I want to live in such a primitive time?”

  “I do not think we are so primitive.”

  “Believe me, you’re primitive.”

  “So, you might stay here then?”

  “I hope not. Don’t worry. If I get stuck here, I won’t be your responsibility.”

  “Oh, really? Then whose?”

  “My own. I’ve been taking care of myself from a very young age. I don’t need some man to take care of me.”

  “And what would you do here, except cause trouble?”

  She stuck out her tongue at him, which he was fairly sure was an insult. Or was it an invitation of sorts?

  “You think I have all the answers. I don’t even know if I’ve really time-traveled, and if I have, why? But there are lots of things I could do. Teach children, for example.”

  “Teach them what? How to fall off cliffs?”

  She did not laugh at his jest, which was not really a jest, now that he thought on it.

  “Reading, math, history, exercise. Or, hey, how about a women’s studies class to teach females that they have as many rights as men do?”

  “Odin spare me!”

  “I could even entertain at banquets and stuff with my acrobatic talents. I do a mean triple backflip on parallel bars.”

  “That is all I need!”

  “Hey, I could be the official jokester here. I know a bunch of dumb man jokes.”

  “Do not dare—”

  “Some men drink from the fountain of knowledge, but most of them only gargle.”

  “How about women? They no doubt sip.”

  “Just think, if it weren’t for marriage, most men would go through life thinking they had no faults at all.”

  “You should have met Oslac’s wife Girda. A great pair you would have made.”

  “Why do men find it difficult to make eye contact with a woman? I’ll tell you why. Breasts don’t have eyes.”

  He just stared at her, unsmiling. “If those were jests, I do not see the humor. I assume that making mock of men is considered good entertainment in your country.”

  She shrugged. “Okay, if you don’t like my sense of humor, maybe I could set up a business cutting women’s hair.”

  He could tell she was just trying to needle him. Still, he ordered, “Never!”

  “Or there must be some open-minded military commander in this blasted country who could use my fighting skills.”

  He put his face in both hands and rubbed hard. When he looked back at her, he said, “I suspect you are going to turn my life upside down and inside out.”

  “Ditto, babe. Ditto.”

  When she began to yawn, not once but five times in a row, he told her, “Go to your bed. We will talk more in the morning.”

  She nodded.

  “Do you want me to accompany you?” he asked, recalling her earlier words of concern about walking amongst his men.

  “Why?”

  “I could tuck you in.”

  “Hah! I know what you want to do, and it’s not tuck, buddy.”

  His eyes went wide when he realized what she meant. Never had he met a woman with such a frankness of manner about her, except mayhap his cousin Madrene, who had been beyond shrewish. Rita’s bluntness was not shrewish, however, just surprising, and, in truth, rather refreshing.

  She made her way down the dais and along the outer rim of the great hall. He and Oslac both watched her progress and the several times one or another of his men stood, about to approach her, but then stopped when they looked his way and saw the admonition in his expression.

  “You are different already,” Oslac remarked as he took a long draw on his horn of ale.

  Steven ignored his friend’s remark, knowing he would not like his observation.

  “Seriously, the witches are right.”

  “Now, that comment I cannot ignore. Since when do you give credence to those lackbrained witches?”

  “Since the sea siren arrived.”

  Steven tossed his hands in the air in surrender. “Spill your guts. Tell me your wise words on the state of my being.”

  Oslac grinned. “The witches have predicted for months that a light would come to Norstead to sweep away the gloom.”

  “Now, see, I already disagree. Norstead is a prosperous estate. There is food, drink, and work aplenty. Why would it be gloomy?”

  “Because you are gloomy. The sheep follow the ram’s example.”

  Steven rolled his eyes. “Methinks you have your proverb twisted.” He took a drink of ale, then another. He may need it if he was going to let Oslac spew his nonsense.

  “I know you do not see the effect you have on those around you, but it is there nonetheless.”

  “Since when are Vikings supposed to be cheery all the time?”

  “Actually, Men of the North do have a reputation for enjoying life.”

  “I enjoy life,” he insisted.

  “But not like you used to.”

  “Ree-tah says I have the blues.”

  “ ’ Tis as good a name as any for ill temper.”

  “And now you say I am different all of a sudden, just because the sea siren has arrived?”

  “Not totally different, but you must admit, you have grinned more in the past day than you have in months.”

  “Mayhap all the jokes are finally having an effect on me.”

  Oslac cast him a disbelieving look. “And I can see that you enjoy her company.”

  “She may leave at any moment, Oslac. Do not put too much weight on her contribution to the light or aught else here at Norstead.”

  “I do not understand. How could she leave if you do not allow her to?”

  “Because . . . are you ready for this, my friend? She claims to be a time traveler come to us from a thousand years in the future. A place where she claims Thorfinn now resides with his new wife, her son Michael, and upcoming twins, though how she knows they are twins in the belly, I have no idea. And one more thing . . . no more swiving Lady Thora. Apparently she is setting a marriage trap for one of us, according to Ree-tah.”

  Oslac’s jaw dropped nigh to his chest before he snapped his teeth shut. “Asabor!” Oslac yelled then to a passing maid. “Bring us another jug of ale. Nay, make that two jugs.” Then he turned to Steven. “Dost believe her? About the time travel, I mean.”

  “Nay. Of course not. Mayhap. I do not know.”

  “Good gods, but it is wonderful to have you back again. You always were such fun in the old days.”

  “You think this is fun?”

  “More than we have had lately. Uh-oh. I just noticed that your sea siren has come back downstairs and is heading through the corridor to the kitchens. Dost think she plans to fly away?”<
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  Instead of answering, Steven stood, emptied his horn of ale, then stomped after her.

  What next? he thought.

  And smiled.

  He realized in that second that he was, indeed, having fun, never knowing what the wench would do next.

  To his surprise, he liked the not knowing.

  I’m gonna wash that man right out of my heart . . .

  Rita was in the laundry annex . . . an open-sided addition to the wooden castle . . . where kettles of water sat on low embers waiting for the morning wash.

  Exhausted, she still worked to clean her tunic and braies, although they might not be dry by morning at this rate. What she wouldn’t give for a washer and dryer! And she vowed that she was making herself some underwear tomorrow. How, she wasn’t sure, having no sewing talents, but this bare butt under her gown was kind of creepy. Hey, she thought with hysterical irrelevance, maybe she could set up her very own Dark Age Victoria’s Secret here. That would show that skeptical Steven of the Fjord that she could survive here, if she had to.

  “What in Blód hel are you doing now?” Steven yelled, storming out of the keep, coming toward her.

  “Laundering my clothes?”

  “Why?”

  She put both hands on her hips and blew an errant curl off her forehead. “Silly question. So I have something clean to wear tomorrow.”

  “I have laundresses to do that.”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders sagged with relief. “Will they do my laundry, too?”

  “They will do whatever laundry they are handed, or answer to me.”

  “Okay,” she said, and just left the garments soaking in water. She was too tired to care, as evidenced by her tripping and almost falling after a few steps.

  “Foolish wench!” he said, grabbing her at the last moment and putting an arm around her waist, tucking her to his side, to keep her from falling again. When she still sagged, he picked her up in his arms.

  She couldn’t remember the last time anyone, especially a man, had picked her up, but she had no energy to protest. In fact, it was kind of nice.

  Holding her cradled to his chest, he was still able to lift the fillet off her head. “You look like an angel with a fallen halo.”

  “I’m no angel.”

  “Thank the gods for small mercies!” He sniffed deeply. “You smell like roses.”

  “It’s the soap I was using to wash my clothes.”

  “Rose-scented soap?”

  “Uh-huh. I found it in Luta’s chest.”

  “Um . . . I do not think that soap was intended for laundry. It is too precious, coming no doubt from the Arab lands.”

  “Uh-oh!” she said weakly, her eyelids already drifting shut.

  Once again inside the keep, he approached the stairs.

  “I feel like Scarlett being carried up the stairs by Rhett,” she said with a giggle, and she never giggled. All this time-travel nonsense and the horror of what it might portend for her future was finally catching up with her.

  “Scarlett and Rhett, huh?”

  “Yep. His famous words to her were, ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’”

  He smiled down at her. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. ”

  “Oh, God! Did you have to say that? Now I have to start all over again.’ ”

  “Start what all over again?”

  “Not being attracted to you.”

  His smile was wider now, and he lifted her higher in his arms so he could whisper in her ear. In a voice so sexy he could have said, “Boo!” and she would have melted, he murmured, “Frankly, Ree-tah, dearling, I do give a damn.”

  With those words, she was a goner.

  The ultimate bartering tool . . .

  Steven left his bed reluctantly the next morning, having slept through the night without the usual aid of mead or female pleasuring. Not that he would not have welcomed pleasuring from the sea siren beside him, but his instincts told him ’twas too soon.

  After breaking fast, he met with his chief hersirs, the commanders of his various troops, to discuss the demands made by the pirate Brodir. How dare the outlaw Viking suggest that Steven meet with him afore releasing his sister? And what did Brodir hope to accomplish by further alienating him?

  “I do not like the idea of negotiating with pirates. It sets a precedent,” Steven told the hardened comrades-in-arms.

  “Agreed,” said Sveinn the Stalwart, a grizzled, gray-bearded warrior of forty and more years. His scarred body and one missing front tooth gave evidence of his battle worthiness. The arm rings that circled his upper arm muscles were so large they would fit nicely around a child’s waist. “I say we storm all of Brodir’s known strongholds and take no prisoners.”

  “Those are wise words,” Oslac said, “but what of Steven’s sister, the lady Disa.”

  Sveinn shrugged. “The pitfalls of war.”

  “Mayhap you could barter for her release,” suggested another hersir, a cousin four times removed, Aldin of Norsemandy.

  “I do not think ’tis gold Brodir has in mind. For some reason he has some grudge against those of us at Norstead,” Steven mused.

  “If not gold, mayhap something else,” Oslac contributed. “How about the sea siren? You could put her back in that fish garment and tell Brodir she is a mermaid.”

  For some odd reason, the idea of giving up the wench did not sit well with Steven. Leastways, not until he had swived her a time or twenty.

  “It is not as if the wench is any kith or kin of yours or Norstead,” another hersir agreed.

  “I will consider the idea,” Steven said, knowing it was not too much to ask in the greater scheme of things. “I have another idea, though. Methinks we should call for a Thing, a meeting of all the clans in closer jarldoms to discuss the pirate threat. Two sennights from now should be enough time.”

  They all decided it was a good idea, especially since an Althing had been planned for later this summer in southern Vestfold. They would just be moving up the date and changing the location.

  Still, Sveinn persisted, “Does that mean you will not offer the sea wench for barter?”

  Steven knew his standing amongst his men was being tested. Would he be swayed on this important decision by the lure of a strange female? “We will abide by the decision of the Althing. If the council says that she should go, she shall.”

  As he left his council room, Steven shuddered to think what Rita would think of her fate being in the hands of a group of strange Viking men. In truth, he did not like the idea himself, and that was a sign of weakness he must control.

  Furthermore, he had told her she was under the protection of his shield. His agreement to possibly barter her to the pirate felt like a betrayal of sorts.

  “I think I liked my life better when it was bleak and uneventful,” he told Oslac.

  Chapter 8

  You could say it was a Viking version of the Big Bad Wolf . . .

  Rita awakened that morning to a warm bed, every bone and muscle in her body rested. She was renewed and hopeful that today she would figure out what was happening to her and how to find the key to getting back home.

  Turning to the right, she saw that she was alone, but that someone had been sleeping there. Even worse, peeking under the blanket, she saw that she was naked.

  Yikes!

  He hadn’t made love to her, though. After two years of abstinence, she would know. Besides, he was the kind of man who would want his woman wide-awake and participating.

  Yikes again! Where did that “his woman” thought come from?

  She noticed, on rising, that not only had her tunic and tights been washed and dried, but they were neatly folded and lying at the foot of the bed. On top of them was a new bar of rose soap.

  Just then, the door opened a crack, and Sigge peered in. Seeing that she was awake, she slipped in and smiled shyly. “What kin I do fer you, m’lady? The master said I was not to wake you, but it is ever so late, and so much is happening.”


  “Did you put these here?” Rita asked, pointing to the clean clothing and soap.

  Sigge shook her head. “Nay, the master did, and he tol’ me ta do yer bidding.”

  If Rita hadn’t already been fighting a fierce attraction to the big lug, she would be now.

  “Some water to wash my face and clean my teeth?”

  Sigge nodded and stepped outside the chamber, coming back immediately with a bucket of water, some of which she poured into the pottery bowl. Then she laid out a bone comb, along with several twigs with shredded tips and a small cup of salt . . . medieval toothbrush and paste, she assumed.

  “While I’m cleaning up, could you find me one of those Viking apron thingees, Sigge?”

  Off Sigge went, happy to do her bidding. By the time she returned, Rita had put the red gown back on with her boots. Intending to go outside, she had no intention of ruining those cloth slippers.

  Sigge showed her how to attach the long, open-sided apron at the shoulders with silver brooches. “Mayhap later we could go visit my aunts. They have much to tell you.”

  “The witches?”

  The tone of her voice must have offended Sigge, because she raised her chin and said, “I be a witch, too.”

  “I know that. Where do your aunts live? Here at the castle?”

  “Nay. They live in the mountains where there is solitude and space to do their spells and potions.”

  That is just great.

  “I grew up there until I was twelve and came here to the castle to work the herb gardens. I may be an inept witch, but I have a talent with growing things.”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” she said, hoping Sigge would forget by then.

  The two of them headed out the door and downstairs, outside the kitchen, to the midden where they emptied the slop bucket of waste from her room, then went to look for food. Breakfast, or whatever they called the first meal of the day, was long over. Apparently, there were only two full meals served each day. Morning, about two hours after everyone had started work, and then in the evening after all work was completed.

  “So, what’s going on?” she asked Sigge as they went outside again, each with a slice of manchet bread, a hunk of cheese, and a cup of cold water, to watch all the activity. Dozens and dozens of men were scattered in this back area of the castle, setting up tents and small fire rings.