The Caged Viking

by Sandra Hill

  “I must needs rent a wagon for the master, in case Bjorn recovers enough that we are able to take him to Jorvik for better care at the minster hospitium there and, please gods, eventually the longship, Sea Wolf, to Haukshire. There should be coin enough in the pouch he left behind.”

  While Egil went to the campsite hospitium to get those supplies, she entered the tent to get Hauk’s travel chest containing spare clothing and she picked up the bed furs, assuming they would not be coming back here. To Egil’s chagrin, she insisted on taking her cauldron of chicken soup which she arranged carefully in the back of the wagon.

  “Ye’re barmy ta be takin’ such with us. There’s plenty of food in the castle.”

  “But not chicken soup.”

  “Chicken slop?” He rolled his eyes.

  “Soup is what I said, not slop. And, just so you know, chicken soup could very well be better medicine than any other stuff you have around here.”

  “Holy Thor!” he muttered under his breath. “The demented lady ’spects ta cure the master’s son with chicken slop.”

  Shortly after, they were on their way to Winchester, with her seated beside Egil, bare-assed except for her gown under her butt, she noted. She hoped she didn’t get any splinters. But she couldn’t think about that now.

  Her attention was drawn, with horror, to their surroundings as they traveled the five miles back to the castle, so different than when they’d passed this way the previous day. Here and there, more and more the closer they got to Winchester, lay dead men, both Vikings and Saxons, but mostly Saxons. She even saw a few headless bodies and turned away quickly as bile rose in her throat.

  Overhead, black vultures were already circling.

  Was it a sign?

  Is this how her time in the past would end?

  Chapter 11

  Sometimes prayer is the best medicine, even for a Viking…

  Bjorn awakened from unconsciousness, finally.

  For that, Hauk was happy.

  But Bjorn awakened from unconsciousness behaving like a spoiled bratling.

  For that, Hauk was not happy.

  “I need to get up,” Bjorn insisted, trying to rise from the pallet in the servant’s quarter of Winchester Castle where he’d been taken from the bailey after he’d fallen, a Saxon sword pinning his body to the bloody ground…not all of the wound dew being Bjorn’s, thank the gods. The room, as sparse as it was, must belong to a higher-level servant because most underlings slept in the great hall on broad, low benches built into the long walls or enclosed bed nooks, or sleep bowers, if they were fortunate. Even nobles rarely had their own private bedchambers. “All the loot will be picked over if I don’t get out there.”

  “Loot? What is loot?”

  “Spoils of war. Rewards for service. Treasures, like gold, silver, jewels, even slaves. Lady Kirstin told me…back at campsite…that loot is another name for battle treasures.” All this he gasped out, then added with a whine, “I…want…my…loot.” With that effort, he fell back on his bed.

  Kirstin! He should have known. She who was an expert on everything, and blathered about them at the least prompting, or lack of prompting. He couldn’t imagine the context of that subject coming up, but his wife didn’t seem to have a reason for many of her actions. “Forget the damn loot. And forget about slaves. I do not deal in slaves, ever. Look at you. Just sitting up and talking has caused the blood to start surging again.” A pile of red-soaked rags rested on the rush-covered floor in the corner, a testament to how much blade flow his son had already lost. “Your life is more important than some gold goblet or silver-embossed sword hilt.”

  “You…go…get us some…loot…while I…rest.” Bjorn coughed and, with a groan, succumbed to unconscious again.

  As if I would leave you, son, for even a moment in this condition!

  Two more times, Bjorn awakened for a short period, jabbered on about the loot, lost more blood, than sank back into oblivion. One thing Hauk grew to suspect in the course of these events was that it wasn’t the wound that was causing these lapses in consciousness, it was the bump the size of a plum on the back of his head. Apparently he’d hit a rock when he fell in the battle.

  The way he’s talking about loot, though…Holy Thor, he must have a rock for a brain, Hauk thought. Vikings liked the spoils of war, of course they did, but a good Viking fought for the love of fighting itself. If a man fought for profit alone, he might as well sign on to some rogue band as a mercenary. No future in that! Or go off and join up with the Varangians and live in foreign lands.

  Egil and Kirstin arrived then, and Hauk found himself surprisingly thankful to see his wife. He wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if she was a healer, but perchance she had some modern ideas that could help him with Bjorn. Besides, he was tired of arguing alone with his son. Let someone else take on that tiresome task. Then, too, there had been that amazing bedplay betwixt them back in the tent.

  “Thank the gods you’re here,” he said to both of them. “What took you so long?”

  “Egil had to hit every pot hole in the road.”

  “She complained every bit of the trip.”

  “Did you know horses can fart? Well, Egil found the one in all of England that does, and I think he did it deliberately.”

  Egil rolled his eyes.

  “What’s in that pot?” Hauk asked, motioning toward the cauldron that Egil held in front of himself with both hands.

  “Chicken slop,” Egil answered with disgust.

  “Chicken soup,” Kirstin corrected, elbowing Egil, causing him to almost drop the pot. “It has medicinal value,” she added as she placed a pile of clean rags she was carrying on the bottom of the bed and went up to look over Bjorn’s inert form. “How is he?”

  “He has awakened a number of times, but he’s lost a large amount of blood,” he replied, looking toward the bloody rag pile. “He has a wound in his belly but it appears that the blade missed vital organs. In my opinion. But what do I know? Methinks that the hit to his head is what might be his bigger problem. Also, my unlearned opinion.”

  “A head wound? That can be serious,” Kirstin said as if she knew what she was talking about.

  That encouraged Hauk. A bit.

  “Well, let’s see what we have to deal with first. Egil, put down that cauldron and go to the kitchen. Get a pot of hot water. As hot as possible.” She gave orders like a Viking chieftain.

  But Egil did as he was told.

  Kirstin immediately got to work, first checking the bump on Bjorn’s head. “The head swelling is a concern, but it didn’t break the skin. That’s good news, but still it needs to be watched. At the very least, he probably has a concussion.”

  “That’s what’s causing the lapses in consciousness?”

  “Probably. Let’s see the sword wound.” She gasped when he pulled the bandages, bloody again, off his belly. “Did it go through the other side?”

  He shook his head. “Nay. And I do not think it hit any organs. Otherwise, he would be sitting in Valhalla by now.”

  “Okay. We’re going to clean the wound thoroughly. Yes, again. Then stitch it up. I assume you can find a needle and thread somewhere in this castle. After that, we’ll wrap it up with clean strips of linen. Any chance there’s any alcohol around…like whiskey? It would be a good substitute for an antiseptic. And get some honey, if you can.”

  Hauk frowned, not understanding half her words. The one, he did. Whiskey. She referred to that potent Scottish brew called uisge beatha, breath of life. One dram of that could knock even a tall Viking to his knees. “I’ll see what I can find. Then…?”

  “…hope for the best.”

  “Pfff! Is that all you can offer?”

  “Sorry. I’m not a doctor, and there are no antibiotics or magical medicines available at this time. Suffice it to say, it wouldn’t hurt for us to pray. Even some physicians claim that prayers perform miracles with some of their patients.”

  “And which god would I pay to?”
<
br />   “There is only one God.”

  “So you say.”

  She thought for a moment then added, “Of course, I could always try to take Bjorn back to the future with me. Treatment for his injuries would be a breeze there.”

  Hauk drew himself up with affront. “Bjorn is going nowhere without me.”

  She shrugged. “Then the three of us could try to go back.”

  He gazed at her with horror. “Let us hope that won’t become necessary.”

  Once Egil returned, lugging a pail of steaming water, Hauk ordered him to go off and find some “loot” for Bjorn. He explained about Bjorn’s ramblings over war plunder every time he became lucid.

  Kirstin made tsking sounds at the mention of loot and plunder, but she immediately began to cleanse Bjorn’s stomach, especially the wound itself which she said might have debris from the sword…dirt, other people’s blood, and something called back-tier-yah. Bjorn flinched at the ministrations but did not wake up.

  Hauk went off to search for a needle and thread, which he found in a nearby room, and a small pottery container of whiskey in the castellan’s private chest of treasures, but there was also an especially welcome prize…a small vial of poppy juice, which he recognized by its milky white appearance and strong scent. If he’d been unsure of his deduction, the vial had two poppy flowers painted on it, with their distinctive black dots denoting seeds. He brought the whole chest with him in hopes of satisfying at least some of Bjorn’s yearning for loot. He also stopped by the kitchen storeroom and grabbed a honeycomb wrapped in waxed parchment, an item overlooked thus far by the “looters” more interested in valuables. When he returned, Kirstin was laying out strips of white linen on the bed, preparatory to closing the wound.

  To his surprise, she did not give the whiskey to Bjorn to drink, but instead she spread the liquid all over his skin from neck to groin. At the end, she did try to get some in Bjorn’s mouth, but most of it dribbled out. Only then did she insert only a single drop of the poppy juice onto his tongue with a warning to Hauk, “It’s important that we only give him a tiny amount at a time, and that we don’t continue it for a long time. What you call poppy juice is pretty much pure opium, and it’s highly addictive.”

  Like Hauk didn’t already know that! He was aware of several Vikings who’d traveled to eastern lands and came back good for nigh nothing except lying about on their bed furs in a daze. Same thing…addiction…happened to those fool enough to love their ale more than life itself. “I hope Bjorn lives long enough for addiction to become an issue,” he muttered.

  “You’re right,” she conceded, patting him on the arm. “Still, we should be careful.”

  “Have you ever done this before?” he asked once she’d threaded the thick needle…a tapestry needle, according to Kirstin, and inhaled deeply for strength.

  “No, have you?”

  He shook his head, then noticed how pale she was looking. “I’ll do it,” he said. “You can catch me if I faint.”

  She smiled at his weak attempt at humor.

  He leaned forward and took her face between his two hands. “Just so you know, I appreciate all you are doing.” He kissed her then, lightly, but with all the emotion he was holding in. He could tell that she was equally affected. First chance he got, he was going to tup her until her eyes rolled back in her head. A good way to sever this odd attraction betwixt them, he decided. It was distracting, to say the least. Besides, he had not had nearly enough of her the one night they’d made love.

  “Maybe this is why I was sent back in time…to save Bjorn, not to save you,” she mused.

  Hauk still wasn’t buying her barmy theories, but he conceded, “Mayhap you were sent to save us both.” And to tup me.

  He began the stitching then. Viking men knew how to sew, or at least the rudiments, often having to mend sails on their longships. Hauk’s sutures were rough but sufficient to hold the flaps of flesh together. The scar would be impressive enough for Bjorn to brag on, assuming he survived this ordeal, please gods.

  Bjorn awakened with a scream of pain at the first piercing of skin with the needle. Then he fell back, unconscious again. At least he wasn’t babbling about loot. Hauk worked quickly to complete the task, fearing he might have to vomit at any minute. He was suffering almost as much as his son.

  Kirstin cleaned the whole area again with a cloth dipped in the pail of water and wrung out, followed by a whiskey wash over the wound section. After that, the two of them worked to bind the wound with strips of linen wrapped all around his body, over and under.

  When they were done, Hauk dropped down into the rushes and leaned back against the wall, his legs outstretched. Bone-weary from lack of sleep, the battle, and the stress over Bjorn, Hauk inhaled and exhaled with relief. “I need to rest for a few minutes,” he told Kirstin. “Can you watch over Bjorn if I should doze off?”

  “Of course,” she said, looking at him with concern. “Maybe you should go off and find a bed somewhere.”

  “Nay. This is sufficient.”

  “Well, relax for now. Bjorn seems to be sleeping normally. If he doesn’t get an infection, there’s a good chance he’ll survive. In my opinion.”

  “Thank you,” he said, then yawned widely.

  While she had the needle and thread, she decided to repair her ripped undergarment…what she called pant-hes. Hauk watched with interest while she sewed. A rough job with the thick black thread against the white silky fabric. “At least, my privates will be private again,” she told him.

  Hauk sighed as he nestled lower against the wall, and, wondered how soon he could explore those privates again. Just before he fell asleep, he murmured, “I’m glad you’re here, Kirstin. I’m glad you’re my wife.” He wasn’t sure if he’d spoken aloud or just thought those words. In any case, I’ll thank you later, in my own way. Ha, ha. Everything went gray and then black as he fell fast asleep.

  A thought swam through his dream-state, Only the Norns of Fate know what will happen now. It’s in the hands of the gods.

  Ironically, another voice in his head laughed and said, The One-God guides thy destiny now, Viking. Pray!

  Good idea! Hauk decided to pray to all the gods, and at the same time, there was a plan forming in the back of Hauk’s mind. He was very good at making plans. Gods bless this particular plan!

  Uh-hum! the voice in his head piped in.

  I mean, God bless this particular plan.

  That is better.

  To be or not to be…in love, that is…

  I’m glad you’re my wife. Kirstin repeated Hauk’s words in her head.

  She wasn’t sure how she felt about his declaration. Well, that wasn’t quite true. She was flattered. Maybe a little worried, too, because Hauk might decide to keep her here, or try to. She wouldn’t put it past him. She touched her arm rings, just to reassure herself she was safe, for now.

  The question is: Am I glad that he’s my husband?

  She glanced over to where he half-reclined against the wall, sleeping deeply, his head tilted slightly forward. It had to be an uncomfortable position, but the man was exhausted beyond caring.

  Life in the eleventh century was hard at the best of times, and they’d been particularly bad for Hauk. Loss of his son, imprisonment, escape by a means that was frightening even to Kirstin, finding his son was alive, and then the battle. She couldn’t help but notice the rips in his tunic and braies seeping blood from presumably small wounds, the black and blue marks on his face and arms that would soon turn purple. New scars would surely join those already marring his body…a body still displaying the ravages of near-starvation.

  The poor man!

  Dear God, she prayed, please don’t let him lose his son on top of everything else. He appears to be a good man. Help him, Lord. Kirstin was not an overly religious person, but she was convinced that God had something to do with this time travel of hers. Who else to go to for help, then?

  Well, there was one thing she could do to help. Now that B
jorn seemed to be out of the woods, for the time being, she could feed him…all of them, in fact…her chicken soup. But no one would want to eat cold broth with fat congealing on the top. So, she picked up the cauldron by its handle with both hands and made her way carefully across the room. She needed to look for the nearest fire. Since it was summer and fairly warm, even inside this dank castle, hearths wouldn’t be lit for heat. She decided the kitchen or scullery would be her best bet.

  Before she left, she repeated her earlier question to herself. Studying Hauk in this most vulnerable position she would probably ever find him in, she asked, Am I glad that he’s my husband?

  The answer, to her dismay, was yes. Absolutely yes.

  But that didn’t mean she was in love with the man.

  Did it?

  It occurred to her as she walked down the hallway that she was in Winchester Castle, near the great hall where her time-travel experience began. She was wearing the arm rings. This would be the perfect opportunity for her to attempt to go home.

  Her heart lurched and she felt a humming in her ears. An almost magnetic pull drew her to the archway leading into the great hall. Over there, a mere thirty feet away, was the spot where she’d first emerged from her time travel.

  I could step across the room right now, and within moments be back home, or at Rosestead, or somewhere in the future, wherever I pictured in my mind.

  It’s too soon, the other side of her brain demurred. I have to prepare for this departure.

  Why? Hauk is no longer in his cage. He is free to go home.

  But am I free?

  Depends on what you mean by free.

  It would be cruel for me to just leave without saying good-bye to him, or to Bjorn, who is incidentally not wholly recovered.

  Excuses!