by Sandra Hill
“So, you are not a witch. That is a relief,” he said as they walked along. “I have no liking for mating with a witch. Afeared I would be that the least misstep and my witchy wife could turn my favorite body part into a black cat.” He was teasing, but she did not smile.
“There’s going to be no ‘mating,’ let’s understand that right away.”
“Oh, really?” He’d only been teasing with the “mating” remark. Holy Thor! He’d had no time in the past twelve hours to even think of sex.
But now...
He eyed his new wife up and down in deliberate scrutiny. As he continued to stare at her, he felt a clutching sensation in his chest, which moved lower. Probably hunger. Of one kind or another.
Until now, he’d had mixed feelings about her. Yea, she was passably pretty. And, yea, he would have no trouble swiving her when the occasion arose. But then, considering the length of his prison celibacy, most any woman would do.
Or not.
Was she insinuating that she did not want him? Hauk knew his worth and she dared to rebuff him? The nerve of the wench! “Are you saying that I am not comely…that you do not find me attractive?”
“Hardly!” she said with a note of disgust. “You’re so hot you would make any girl’s bones melt.”
He assumed that “hot” was a compliment, and a slow smile grew on his lips.
“Not that you don’t know that already.”
Of course he did, or leastways he used to. “And your bones…are they melting?”
“That’s not the point,” she said huffily. “What’s with this sudden interest in me…that way?”
“Which way?”
“You know…sexually.”
Truly, this woman was more blunt and outspoken than he was accustomed to, especially a woman of the upper class. Not that he was objecting. He rather liked the honesty of her words. “’Tis well that you ask that question about my interest! Look around. Dost notice men staring at you with lust?”
She waved a hand airily. “That’s just because I look different from the camp followers.”
He shook his head. “Egil tells me that you were accosted at least a dozen times as you walked, unescorted, around the camping grounds today, despite my orders to the contrary, by the by, that you stay in the tent. He followed you and witnessed several arse pinches, two embraces that lifted you off your feet, a half dozen offers of coin for tupping, and many rude insults.”
“Egil has a big mouth.”
“You are just now realizing that?”
She sighed with impatience. “Get to the point. I can’t stay in hiding forever. What’s going to change their attitude?”
“Consummation.”
“Whaat? Do you mean sex?”
“That is what I said, is it not?”
“Actually it wasn’t. You tossed that out there as if consummating a marriage was an everyday occurrence. You could just as easily have said, ‘We need to bake some bread.’”
“Did you hit your head when we did that whirly dance through the sky and fell to the ground?”
“You know, your attitude is really annoying me. Certainly not a way to woo a woman to your bed.”
Well, she certainly put him in his place. He blinked with surprise.
“So, consummation would change the way men view me?”
“Probably. Word has spread that you and I were just wed, with no chance for the ritual bedding. Until that happens, some consider you fair game. ’Tis a well-known fact that the sap rises in warriors as they prepare for battle. Any willing, or unwilling, female will do. And there you are like a bloody haunch of roast reindeer on a silver platter.”
“Thanks a lot for the compliment. So, we should just do it? Now? Should we duck into some empty tent? Or go behind a tree? Assuming your sap is up and running, like all the other randy men. And, by the way, do women have sap, too?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him in an exaggerated fashion.
“Sarcasm ill-suits you, wife.”
“Likewise, husband. That’s another thing. I’m not really your wife. That farce of a wedding…? Pfff!”
“Oh, that your assumption were true!”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you forgetting that the rites were performed by a priest? I saw him sign a document, which I assume gets a church seal.”
Any further discussion on that subject was interrupted by Egil rushing up to them, huffing to catch his breath. “My Lord, please stop and listen. There is something of importance I must discuss with ye.”
Egil had been trying to speak with him about some “important matter” all day. When Egil had admitted that it was not a matter of life or death, Hauk had put him off. “Later.”
“Nay, m’lord. It must be now,” Egil contended.
Hauk groaned. “Egil, please. I must needs meet with Sweyn first about something my wife just told me. Then, Sweyn wants my help with battle strategy, and a map of the inner design of the castle to weed out any stragglers once they break in. You could help with that, Egil, since you moved freely about the lower regions of the castle. After that, he expects me to regale him with a history of all that I suffered under Aethelred’s imprisonment. And, you can be sure, he’ll want an explanation of that Holy Fuck dance I just did up in the air.” He glanced at Kirstin on mention of this last thing. “Sweyn will want to know if you can you do that at will, wife, and if so, he will think that such a skill could come in handy during battle.”
“What will you say to that?” she asked.
“I will say, Sweyn, my friend, if you think I will willingly subject myself to that terror again, I have a bridge to sell you over the North Sea. If he wants to win this battle, he will need weaponed men, the more the better. Not tricks.”
“Speaking of seasoned fighters,” Egil broke in, “some of yer shiphird, who have been hanging about Jorvik these many months manning your longship, Sea Wolf, have arrived and are looking to join the ranks. They need direction on where to gather. There aren’t many of them left, actually, about two dozen or so, but…”
Hauk pointed a hand in the opposite direction. “Find an empty space in my formation for all of them, and I will come by shortly to talk to each of them. Make sure they are fed and have places to lay their furs for rest.”
He could use both of those himself…food and sleep. A short nap somewhere private to prepare for battle. Anywhere would do. Even the hard ground, against a tree if there were any left in this clearing with all the cook fires now blazing, or spooned against some mongrel dog in an open field. Or a wife, he thought, and immediately wiped that idea from his lame brain, but it made him smile.
Egil mistook his smile for agreement to talk with him, now. “It all started about a year ago when I happened—”
Hauk cut him off with a halting hand. “Is this about that bedmate of yours again?” he growled. “I swear, I have seen and heard enough of—.”
“Yea, ’tis about Bergliot, but not what you think,” Egil inserted quickly.
If you only knew what I think! “Where is the maid?”
“Guarding your tent, after you left. You have no idea how scarce such accommodation is, even ones so meager.”
In addition, there was a pouch of gold coins in the chest inside the tent, of which Egil was unaware. “You left a girl to guard my few possessions from a horde of thieves mixed in with this lot?”
“Well, see, that is the thing. Bergliot is not a girl.”
“Well, for a certainty, she is not a woman full grown. How old is she? Thirteen? Fourteen?”
“Twelve. And she is a he…a lad.” Egil ducked his head at that latter announcement.
Hauk cocked his head to the side. Already, various folks were gathered, wanting his attention. One of Sweyn’s hersirs motioned for him to follow, a guardsman from Haukshire who must be newly arrived was waving a greeting, and a buxom wench was inviting his custom with obscene gestures toward her nether region.
“Bergliot is a male, is that what you are tellin
g me?” Hauk asked with not a little consternation.
“Yea, that is exactly what I am saying.” Egil appeared relieved that Hauk understood his meaning.
Now that he thought on it, he could see the signs had been there all along. How could he have missed them? “Good gods! You are a sodomite now?”
“Nay! Of course not. ’Twas just a ruse.”
Hauk put a hand to his face and counted to five, silently, ein, tver, Þrir, fjórir, fimm, before looking at Egil. “Why would you need a ruse?”
“To protect the boy.”
Hauk picked up Egil with hands under his armpits. Staring at the little man face to face, he demanded. “Spit it out so I can get on with the business of this mad day.”
“Bergliot is actually Bjorn. Your son.”
Hauk’s brain went numb for a moment and he shook his head to clear it. “Bjorn?”
“Yea. I found him wandering in a daze outside Oxfordshire the day of the head loppings.” When Hauk continued to gape at the little man, Egil continued, “I saved him. Hid him under a wagonload of headless bodies, I did. Never saw a person vomit so much in all me life. Me, not the boy, who was brave as Thor. You would have been so proud.”
Oh. My. Gods! Hauk thought for several long seconds before dropping Egil to the ground and putting a boot on his chest, preventing him from jumping to his feet. “Is this a jest?”
“No jest,” Egil said. “I could not tell ye when ye were still in the cage. Afeared I was that ye would attempt to break loose and get yerself killed afore we could escape.”
Hauk grunted his disgust and lifted his leg, letting Egil scramble to his feet. Turning, Hauk began to stomp back toward his small tent at the far end of the field.
Egil continued to talk to him as he ran to catch up. “This is good news, m’lord. A happy reunion. But best ye be prepared, Bjorn has a gripe against ye for years of neglect.”
Hauk stopped suddenly and Egil ran into him. Kirstin had followed after them and was listening with interest, nodding her agreement. “Don’t blame Egil for what was obvious.”
He turned slowly to stare at her. “So, you were aware of this deception, too?”
“Well, any fool could see that she was a boy, but, no, I didn’t know he was your son. How wonderful!”
Righting himself, Egil raised his chin and said, “I did what I thought was best to protect you and yer son.”
“Hmpfh!” was the most Hauk was willing to concede. With a sigh, Hauk said to Egil, “Go, tell Sweyn that I will be there shortly…with my wife. First, I must see for myself that the maid is my…my…son.”
Even as he spoke with reasonable calm over the lump in his throat, Hauk’s mind swirled with this unexpected turn of events.
Bjorn is alive!
My son.
A second chance to make things right?
Bjorn is alive!
Praise the gods!
And, yes, a bit of praise for Egil, too.
Happy at his apparent pardon, Egil scampered off in his crab-like gait, gained after years of riding one longship after another over rolling waves. Thus, Hauk was alone, somewhat, except for his wife who trailed behind him, when he approached the tent and saw his son, clearly a boyling now, dressed in a belted tunic over slim braies and ankle boots. His blond hair was pulled off his face and tied at the nape with a leather thong. There was a strong resemblance that should have been apparent to Hauk before.
“Bjorn!” he called out.
The boy turned abruptly at his greeting, his expression wary. He was skinny as a pike, just as Hauk had been at that age.
“I had no idea…Egil just told me,” Hauk choked out. “By thunder! This is the best news I’ve had in years.”
Bjorn’s chin went up and he backed away from Hauk’s extended arms.
“Son?” Hauk said. “You have naught to be afeared of. I am your father.”
“Hah! You are no father to me.” He spat on the ground for emphasis. “Where have you been these ten years and more? Where were you when my mother was dying? Where were you when the bloody Saxons murdered my foster father, Pallig Tokeson, and his family? And then you let yourself be caged like a tame dog. No matter.” He waved a hand dismissively, as if Hauk and his misdeeds were of no importance to him and continued to back away.
Hauk grabbed Bjorn’s upper arm and yanked him to a halt.
“Bugger off!” The boy tried to squirm out of his hold, to no avail.
His insolence and lack of respect would merit a whomping if they came from anyone else. Should he try to explain his absence? Should he force the squirming Bjorn to stand still, and to hell and Muspell with any explanations? Should he tell him of his regrets and how much he loved him? Should he try to explain how he’d been taken by the Saxons? With a grunt of disgust at his wavering thoughts, he pulled the boy into a tight bear hug, murmuring, “My son! Alive! And you helped Egil rescue me? Praise the gods!”
Bjorn bit his shoulder and muttered, “Kiss my arse!”
Hauk chuckled. He had to admire the boy’s spunk.
But then, said spunky boy kneed him in the ballocks, hard. Reflexively, Hauk loosened his embrace, and Bjorn took advantage of the lapse, running off, laughing.
Hauk was bent over at the waist, cupping his private parts, gasping for breath, when Kirstin came up to him. She dared to grin at his position. “Still think you could handle consummation?”
Not any time soon, he thought, but what he said was, “Betimes, a man must endure a little pain to gain his reward.”
Then he winked at her, just in case she didn’t get his meaning.
She must have because she gave him a look of disgust, which was not the usual reaction he got from women when he winked at them.
He gave her a shove into the tent and followed after her. “Heed me well, you headstrong, willful woman. Before we go to meet with Sweyn, you must needs listen to me. If you speak to Sweyn the way you do to me, he will discount anything that comes from your mouth as that of a barmy person who is wasting his precious time. Or he may deem you a spy for the Saxons, which would be just as bad for you. Believe you me, Sweyn is not known for his patience or kindness. On a whim he could slit your tongue, or strip you naked and let his archers use you for target practice.”
“Blah, blah, blah! I don’t care a fig about Sweyn or what he thinks of me,” the impudent wench said, plopping down on the travel chest. “I came to rescue you, and now that you’re free, there’s no reason for me to be here anymore. Suffice it to say, mission accomplished!”
He paced the small space inside the tent and glanced intermittently at her, trying to figure her out. Why was she not shivering with fear, as any normal female would, or many a male, as well?
“If you hadn’t touched my arm rings and thought of escape to the outside of the castle,” she continued, speaking slowly as if he were a slow-witted youthling, “we could have been far, far away from here. Maybe back in America, which is what I would have pictured in my mind.”
He gave her a glance of horror. Did she honestly believe that was a situation he would desire?
“But do you care? No. You are where you want to be and that is all that matters. So, go off and do your war things.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “I’ll go home on my own, somehow.”
“Barmy as a bat drukkinn on mead,” he muttered.
“Really. Go off and fight your silly war and probably end up dead, defeating the whole purpose of my rescue mission.”
“You are not going anywhere until I discover why you are here, wife.”
“As if you have any say in the matter! As long as I have my arm rings, I can go wherever I want,” she asserted.
But that was her mistake, giving him information to use against her. “Is that so?” Hauk said, and before she could run away, he wrapped his hands in scraps of linen and pulled her arm rings off, tucking the bundles inside his tunic. “For safekeeping,” he assured her with a self-satisfied grin.
She attempted to hit him t
hen, but he ducked and she ended up tossing the shield which she probably intended for his head but instead landed at his feet. He laughed, he couldn’t help himself.
“Where is that cockson Hauk Thorsson?” a male voice boomed outside the tent, interrupting whatever his wife intended next.
It was Sweyn and he was not in good humor, as evidenced by the sounds of Egil trying to explain their delay. “There was a family crisis, which required my master to handle some other priorities.”
“Other priorities? How dare he fail to obey my summons to council? How dare he force me to come to him?”
“I’m sure he will apologize profusely when he gets a chance—”
“Apologize? Apologize? I’ll give the loutling an apology with the side of my sword across his arse. And where is that blonde sorceress? The witch best not have flown away afore I have a chance to examine her myself. Legend says witches have three tits? What think you, Egil?”
“Um,” Egil said. “They are both inside the tent.”
“Praise the gods! I am in the mood to lop off a head, or two.”
Chapter 8
This was “Living History” at its best…or worst…
Kirstin was sitting next to Hauk in the midst of Sweyn Forkbeard’s war council. Under a large, open-sided tent, a huge makeshift table (the bed of a weapons cart) rested on several hastily constructed trestles. Thanks to two sets of planks from the sides of the cart, braced on a number of war chests, a dozen or so Viking hersirs lined both sides of the table. She was the only woman present, except for three maids serving munchies…hunks of flat manchet bread, slices of hard cheese, some ribs or legs of rare (okay, bloody) animals…boar, rabbit, whatever, or pouring many pitchers of mead or ale into wooden goblets or the men’s own horns which they carried on loops at their belts.
Wow! In her wildest dreams (and, yes, this was a dream, sort of, maybe), she…a professor of Nordic Studies… couldn’t have imagined such a living vision of the past. She wished she had her iPad with her so that she could take notes…better yet, a video camera… for when she got back home.
If I ever get back home, she reminded herself.
