Dark Viking

by Sandra Hill

  They all turned to look at the ancient woman, who was cackling with laughter.

  “Now, Mother,” Brighid chided, “you are too old for love, and Uggi is twenty years younger than you.”

  “What? No one’s too old fer love, and what has age ta do with it? Yer juices must be more dried up than mine.”

  Brighid looked at Rita and rolled her eyes.

  “The Althing sounds like fun,” Rita said. “Maybe I’ll have my deodorant invented by then.”

  “Ya could always sell those chastity belts,” Bergliot said, eyeing her speculatively, especially the region below her waist, as if she could see through the gown. “We heard how ya were sewin’ ’em up in the ladies’ solar.”

  “They’re not chastity belts. In fact, some of them in my country are designed to entice men, not repel them.” Seeing that the women didn’t understand and noticing there were no men in the room, she stood and lifted her gown to demonstrate. She even turned to show them the back.

  “Holy Thor!” Brighid exclaimed. “I want one of those.”

  Every other woman in the room echoed her request, including Ceara, who said hers should be purple with see-through lace.

  After all the laughter died down, Rita said, “Actually, the best seller in my opinion would be condoms, as I told Steven . . . I mean, your master . . . yesterday.” She explained what condoms were, and then, hard to believe, she had to explain what birth control was for.

  “Why would anyone wanna not have a baby?” Bergliot asked.

  Before Rita could answer, Brighid said, “I know some women who have too many. They doan care proper fer the ones they have. Plus, some women jist are not made ta bear that many children. That is why they die early.”

  Wow! That was some lecture from Brighid. Rita was impressed.

  “But is it not a sin?” Brighid wanted to know.

  “I don’t think so,” Rita replied. “Now, abortion . . . that’s another story entirely, and I don’t want to engage in that discussion. But preventing birth . . . no, I think that should be a woman’s choice.”

  She could tell the women were divided on the issue.

  “Bet some men . . . includin’ my Arne . . . would object,” Solveig, the nut-cracking lady, said.

  She was right. Some men did object, even in her time. Irresponsible jerks!

  “I still doan understand how those condoms would work,” Brighid said.

  “Do you have any clean animal intestines around, ones you’re saving to make sausages?”

  Brighid nodded hesitantly, then made a motion to her daughter, Deidre, who went down into a cold cellar and brought up a large tray covered with a damp cloth.

  “Good grief!” Rita exclaimed when she saw the vast variety of widths and lengths. They must come from all kinds of animals . . . sheep, cows, bears, deer, whatever. Picking up one of the medium-size ones, she gave an explanation of how a condom would work, emphasizing how important it was that there be no holes, not even pin size, and that it would have to be firmly secured at the base. “Hey, I’m not really recommending anyone make these. It was just a silly thought.”

  Bergliot picked up one of the narrow ones and said with a giggle, “Eydis is about this size. A straw cock he has.”

  There was much giggling.

  “Skarp the Blacksmith,” Brighid said, holding up a huge one. “Bull cock.”

  Groa took one short length of a medium-width one and held it up by the middle, with both sides drooping down. “Hedin. String cock.”

  Herdis took the same length from Groa, held by both ends, then moved one slightly to the right. “Lazy-eyed cock.”

  Good Lord, the man must have a bend in his penis.

  They were all laughing uproariously by the time the sausage casings were put back in the cold cellar.

  “Well, I’m off to make deodorant. Anyone want to help?”

  To her surprise, several of the women, besides Sigge, followed her. They probably wanted to see what outrageous thing she did next.

  The scary thing was, Rita didn’t know what that was going to be.

  Chapter 16

  The Grand Ole Opry, they were not . . .

  No sooner did Rita step into the open-sided laundry shed than Kraka and Grima arrived in full witch gear . . . wild tangled hair, black gowns, “necklaces” of colored rune stones and unidentifiable objects hanging from their scrawny necks, carrying thin sticks that she assumed were supposed to be magic wands. And they were cackling to beat the band, mumbling such drivel as “Abba cre, solum met, arsk, arsk, arsk!” which they translated to “Darkness begone, light welcome, hail to the bringer of the light.”

  Once they settled in, though, they attended to serious issues.

  “Groa, did you steep the herbs I gave you to cure your baby’s cough?” Kraka asked.

  “Yea, I did. And it worked after only one day. Thank you.”

  “And your monthly cramps, Herdis?” Grima inquired.

  “I still have them, but not so bad,” Herdis said. “Should I take more at one time?”

  For a half hour the two witches prescribed their own brand of medicine to the small crowd that gathered. Then, almost as quickly as they’d appeared, they were off to set up their Althing tent booth.

  Rita and her helpers then started the laundry fires and set out her various ingredients that would be used in her experiments. Rose, coriander, and honeysuckle oils. Rendered pig fat . . . or lard, which fortunately had very little odor. Aloe, witch hazel leaves, roots, and bark, arrowroot powder, lavender, sage, and several flowers she couldn’t identify. She had no idea where to start, so she just arranged various combinations until she had two dozen piles, which she would cook together or chop together and mix with oil or lard. She wasn’t sure if she was going to end up with a liquid or cream.

  And it was fun. Not just the mixing, which sometimes ended with horrible results, like the clumpy combination of arrowroot powder, oil, and flower petals. Some were too oily, and some were too dry. In the end, after much laughter all around, she had ten “products” to try. She was going to put one on herself, and the others had volunteered as guinea pigs for the rest.

  The most fun, though, had come from the music. When she’d complained about there not being any musical background to their workplace, she’d had to explain Muzak, radios, and CDs. Not that they’d understood. But they did begin to sing some songs, which were pleasant enough but too soft, in her opinion.

  “What we need is some toe-tapping music with rhythm,” she pronounced, which of course put her in the spot of having to demonstrate. Since the only songs she knew all the words to were country from a recent movie she’d stunt doubled on, Cheatin’ Hearts, about a rodeo star, Matthew McConaughey, his two-timing wife, Martina McBride, and the daughter, Taylor Swift.

  The two songs from the soundtrack she would have embedded in her mind forever were “Achy Breaky Heart” and “Boot Scootin’ Boogie.” The Viking women loved, loved, loved the songs and made her . . . not the greatest singer in the world . . . sing them over and over until they could sing along with her, all of them chiming in on the refrain of “Woooo-oooh!” that sounded like a train whistle.

  “What we need now,” she said, still laughing, when everything was cleaned up and the various jars were all lined up, “is line dancing.”

  History was made then. A bunch of Viking women with their gowns hiked up to their knees, along with some young girls, and even children, and, yes, that was Kraka and Grima, lined up in the back courtyard, singing their hearts out. And line dancing. They were good, too. They did the electric slide, they dipped, they wiggled their hips, they shook their butts, they heel-toe-do-si-doed. They bent their knees and did a couple of sexy pelvic thrusts. Who knew they would have such rhythm?

  At one point, Rita looked down the line at all of her new friends and wished she had a camera. Even without, it would be a memory with her forever. Forget Urban Cowboys. She’d created her very own Urban Vikings.

  Now, if they could
only get a couple of men to join them.

  Women never do what you expect them to . . .

  It was approaching dusk when Steven and his hird arrived back at Norstead. Weary. Without Disa. But satisfied with the way his meeting had gone with the pirate Brodir.

  Now, all he could think of was taking a bath . . . and taking Rita. Not necessarily in that order.

  Geirfinn and a number of the stablemen led by Farli met the horsemen in the front courtyard. Dismounting wearily, he asked, “Any trouble while we were gone?”

  Geirfinn shook his head, but a smile tugged at his lips.

  He didn’t need to ask, but he did anyway, “What did she do now?”

  “Nothing.”

  Still the near smile.

  He noticed that the stable hands weren’t bothering to hide their grins, either.

  He thought about inquiring further but decided to find out for himself.

  “Really,” Geirfinn said. “She has been making pit cream all day. That is all.”

  “Pit cream?”

  Geirfinn raised an arm and sniffed his underarm in an exaggerated fashion.

  Ah, the deodorant.

  He dismounted and began walking up the front steps to the keep. He noticed a bunch of men and boys following him. Not a good sign.

  He undid his chain shert and laid it on a table in the great hall, along with his helmet and gauntlets. Arnstein was at his side immediately, picking up the pieces of armor, which he handed off to a housecarl, directing him to take them into the weapons room. At the same time, Arnstein directed another housecarl to bring Steven and Oslac cups of ale.

  Steven just noticed something. “Where are all the women? I do not see any female servants about.”

  Arnstein motioned with his head toward the back of the castle fortress from where Steven could hear music of some type. Singing. He frowned with confusion and headed in that direction, through the corridor leading to the kitchen, through the kitchen, out to the back courtyard where gardens and laundry and such were taken care of. And that’s when he saw it.

  A line of females of all ages, from adult to children, were singing a loud, raucous song about achy breaky hearts, of all things. And dancing, if it could be called that, most with their gowns hiked up to their knees. Scandalous, really. But they were enjoying themselves so much, he did not have the heart to stop them.

  Someone pushed him from behind, and he realized that he had at least two dozen men watching the same spectacle as he was. And enjoying it immensely. In fact, they began to clap a beat in tune with the music.

  Just then, the leader of this spectacle glanced his way.

  “Steven! You’re back.”

  One by one, the women noticed him and stopped singing and dancing.

  “What in hell is going on?” he asked, coming up to Rita.

  “We were just line dancing. Do you want to join us?”

  Her question startled him. If he had expected her to grovel and apologize for leading the Norstead women astray, he was sadly mistaken. “Nay, I do not want to line dance.”

  “Okay. What do you want to do? Oh. Sorry I asked that. Hey, what are you doing?”

  He had taken her hand and was dragging her out of the laundry shed and farther from the keep. He yelled back to one of the servants, “Clean clothing for me and m’lady.” He turned to her then. “You smell like lard.”

  “That’s just my underarm cream.” She lifted an arm so that he could smell better. “Can’t you smell the roses, too?”

  He shook his head in wonder at the thickness of this woman’s skull. Didn’t she realize how far she had pushed the bounds of propriety? “Yea, I can smell the roses.”

  “Maybe you could try it, too.”

  “So that I can smell like a rose?”

  “No, I have some pine-scented ones for men to try.”

  “Oh, wonderful!”

  Her smile about melted his brain and hardening body parts. “Was your mission successful?”

  “Not nearly as successful as my current mission is going to be.”

  She tilted her head to the side just as they’d headed toward the women’s bathing longhouse. He motioned to a guard to get everyone out, the silent message being that he should stand guard and let no one else in.

  “And what would that mission be?”

  He just smiled. “Did you not mention at one time something about . . . diving for treasure?”

  Love is no joke . . .

  “You’re looking grumpy-faced again,” she said as he continued to pull her along like a recalcitrant child.

  He gave her a look that said she was a recalcitrant child.

  So she decided to act like a child. “I’ve heard that your people have taken to telling you jokes to lighten your mood.”

  He groaned.

  “Betcha I can make you smile.”

  He, of course, refused to smile, though she could see the humor in his eyes.

  “Odin and Thor were up in Valhalla, just hanging around, when Thor said it had been way too long since he’d swived a wench, and the Valkyries weren’t any fun at all, wanting to stay virgins forever.”

  “Oh, good gods! You really are going to make a jest. Now?”

  “Yep! Odin suggested that Thor go down to earth where there were lots of wanton wenches.”

  “I am not listening,” Steven said.

  “Next night Odin saw that lackwit Thor, he was grinning from ear to ear, claimed to have had sex with one woman twenty-one times.”

  “Have a caution, Ree-tah, or Thor will strike you down with his mighty hammer.”

  “His hammer was all worn down, if you ask me. In fact, Odin chastised him, saying that mortal women couldn’t take so much sex and that he must go down and apologize immediately.”

  “This is the dumbest story you have told so far, even dumber than time travel.”

  “Tsk, tsk! Thor returned to earth and found the wanton wench, and he told her, ‘Sorry I am to have used you so, but I am Thor, and—

  “ ‘Thor? Hah! You think you’re Thor. I can hardly thit down to pith.’”

  When he didn’t laugh, she said, “Don’t you get it? The woman had a lisp. A lisp is when—”

  They were at the bathhouse, and Steven shoved her inside, closed the door with a boot, and had her up against the wall before she could blink.

  “I know what a lisp is,” he said then.

  “You’re smiling.”

  “Not about a joke.” He already had her gown hiked up to her waist and was undoing the bows on her panties. Amazing how men, no matter the time period, learned how to remove a woman’s undergarments in seconds, whether they be corset or bra, no matter how complicated the fastenings were. Not that bows required a rocket scientist. Still . . .

  “You missed me,” she guessed, and was already unlacing the front of his braies, shoving them down where they pooled at his knees.

  “Is it so obvious?” he murmured against her neck.

  “Oh, yeah!” She pressed her belly against his “obvious.” Then, “You’ve only been gone a half day.”

  “Seems like half a year.”

  “You’re insatiable.”

  “And that is a bad thing?”

  “No, that is a very good thing.” She put her hand to him, then tickled his balls.

  He closed his eyes and probably saw stars behind his lids. “I do not think I can wait,” he gritted out.

  “Does it look like I care?”

  He leaned his head back to look at her.

  She licked her lips, slowly, just the way that drove men wild, according to Cosmo magazine.

  He grinned, bent his knees a bit to align their bodies, and thrust into her welcoming folds, already moist for him. Then he lifted her by the knees and arranged her legs around his waist. With his hands cupping her buttocks, guiding her, the sex jump-started into fast and furious. And very, very satisfying.

  A short time later, she was half-lying along the steps into the bathing pool with Steven behind
her. Her legs were between his legs, her back to his chest. He had just dropped some hot rocks, making the water lukewarm.

  Snuggling her in tighter, he confessed, “I am perplexed by the hold you have on me.”

  That goes two ways. “You mean the insatiable thing?”

  He shrugged. “That and more. I am usually bored by now with a woman.”

  “And you’re not with me?”

  “Not yet.”

  She pinched the hand that was resting on her stomach. She knew what he meant, though, except she knew what the problem was, even if he did not. They were falling in love with each other.

  Love was scary in the best of circumstances, making a person vulnerable, even weak. Its highs and lows made a person reel, as if they were bordering on madness. But love between a man and woman separated by a thousand years, that was the scariest of all. In fact, it was impossible.

  Rita turned so that she was lying atop Steven. Taking his face in both her hands, she said, “Let’s just take one day at a time. Each one a gift . . .” Left unsaid, was: “. . . until we part.”

  But they both knew it was there.

  The poignant, gentle lovemaking that followed was a testament to that inevitable end.

  What’s love got to do with it? . . .

  The days that followed were busy ones at Norstead as folks began to arrive for the Althing. From dawn until the evening meal, Steven was busy arranging accommodations, stabling animals, sending out hunters and fishermen, greeting and visiting with Norse dignitaries. He was not averse to delegating responsibilities and did so with expertise, but still there was always something that called for a leader’s hand. In particular, he had been investigating Brodir’s claims that someone in his hird of soldiers had been with Thorfinn at the time the pirate said there had been proof of his innocence.

  The only time he saw Rita was when he crawled into the bed furs at night where she, thank the gods, welcomed him with open arms and thighs. She was a blessing he feared would slip through his fingers if he were not careful. Nay, that was not quite true. She would definitely slip through his fingers; the question was: How long could he postpone the inevitable?