Ruby turned her head to the side, trying unsuccessfully to hide her ragged breaths and parted lips at his frankness. Finally, she calmed herself, but obviously couldn’t control her curiosity.
“Enjoy? How?”
Thork took a deep draught of ale and set the goblet on the table with careful deliberation before speaking. “In all ways, wench.” He closed his eyes for a second at the overwhelming emotion that prospect evoked. Then he opened his eyes and held hers captive, almost drowning in the greenish pools, before repeating in a husky voice, “In every way you ever imagined, and then some.”
After the meal, the family moved to the sewing area to continue their conversations. They settled in comfortable chairs or sat upon the large Oriental carpet laid over the rushes. Thork surprised himself by staying.
Olaf told of their journey. They’d expected to be gone for only nine months when they’d left on a trading voyage for Thork’s grandfather Dar, but weather and complications at some of the Eastern trading villages extended their trip. Olaf mentioned trading in the Danish market towns of Hedeby and Birka in Sweden, getting furs and ivory from Russia, silks and fine carpets from Turkey and spices from the Orient. He also spoke disgustedly of a long stay in Jomsborg while Thork joined his Jomsvikings on a six-month foray into enemy lands.
Thork nodded occasionally but added little to the conversation. He stared into his goblet and occasionally glanced surreptitiously over to Ruby. He forced himself not to look toward his sons who sat at the edge of the circle, painfully aware of their isolation even when he was present. It was the only way, he told himself. He had learned that lesson the hard way.
“What is this Jomsviking?” Ruby asked.
Olaf looked at Thork questioningly. Thork pondered how much to tell the wench. After all, there was still the possibility she spied for Ivar, or Athelstan. Finally, he replied carefully, “I have been a Jomsviking since I was fourteen. I lied and said I was eighteen. Jomsvikings are select warriors who swear oaths of loyalty to a brotherhood of Viking comrades. We vow always to think of victory, to never speak words of fear—”
“Oh, my goodness!” Ruby interrupted. “That sounds just like Jack and his positive-thinking philosophies.” She told them about some ungodly things called “Coyote tapes,” and, at the looks of confusion on their faces, she explained, “At one time in parts of my country, the coyotes—”
“Coyotes?” Thork interrupted.
“Wolflike animals. They posed a menace to farmers and ranchers, so the government put a bounty on them, encouraging people to kill them. Well, not only didn’t they kill them off, but the stupid beasts reproduced by the thousands. Coyotes were found alive in the wild with metal traps hanging on their bodies. Some still lived minus paws or ears or despite serious wounds. The whole point was that coyotes survived, no matter what adversity.”
“Sort of like Vikings,” Olaf quipped, and Thork nodded.
“Are you a Jomsviking?” Ruby asked Olaf.
“Nay. They live in fortified towns where no women and only men between the ages of eighteen and fifty may dwell.”
“So that’s why Sigtrygg said Thork would jeopardize his Jomsviking oath by marrying.” Ruby looked at Thork with new understanding.
“If I were not married, ’twould be an honor to be a Jomsviking,” Olaf added. “Much revered are they by Norsemen for their bravery and ideals.”
Ruby weighed the words, then commented with a little laugh, “Jomsvikings seem like a cross between mercenaries and the noble knights of King Arthur’s round table.”
Thork laughed spontaneously at her analogy. “Perchance you are right. I have heard tales of that Welsh lord and his men who fought the Saxons. Now you call my attention to it, mayhap there are similarities, but one big difference—Jomsvikings are mainly unmarried men, with no families.” He put special emphasis on those last words, wanting her to see why her words of marriage had outraged him so.
Ruby silently pondered all he had said, looking over to Eirik and Tykir for their reactions. The stories about him engrossed the boys. Thork somehow knew that Ruby noticed the same yearning in their eyes as he did. They obviously wanted, nay, needed, a father. But that could not be.
When everyone seemed talked out, Olaf asked Astrid, “Will you play the lute for us?” But Tyra interrupted, “Nay, Father, we want Ruby to tell us her tale of Hansel and Gretel again.” Olaf looked indulgently at his daughter and over to Astrid to see if her feelings were hurt, but she appeared as eager for a repeat of the saga as her sister.
The excited girls urged Ruby to tell the silly story several times. Soon they would be able to relate it themselves and undoubtedly would, Thork mused, as he watched the wench weave her strange magic around them all.
When encouraged to tell yet another story, Ruby said, “Eirik and Tykir, this story is dedicated to you two because you look just like my sons and this was their favorite story.” Both boys jumped in surprise. They apparently weren’t singled out for attention very often, Thork realized miserably. Ruby defiantly faced Thork, challenging him to stop her. A muscle jumped angrily in his jaw, but Thork said nothing, allowing Ruby to begin: “Once upon a time there was a boy named Pinocchio…”
Afterward Tyra delighted them by holding short fingers to her nose, testing. She must have told a fib recently.
“Humph!” Thork said testily to Ruby. “’Tis a wonder your nose does not stretch out to here.” He held a forefinger about two feet from his face. “With all the missaying you do, if noses truly grew with every lie, yours would need a sling to hold it up.”
In truth, Thork marveled at her storytelling talent, surely a harmless activity. And Thork’s heart tugged at Ruby’s delight in the smiles she saw spreading on his sons’ faces. Thork knew Ruby thought of them as her own sons, impossible as that was. The boys sat spellbound, forgetful of their loneliness and other concerns. Leastways, Thork had Ruby to thank for that.
But then Thork’s eyes narrowed as he saw a mischievous light glitter in the wench’s eyes. What now?
“There’s one more story I forgot,” Ruby said, looking directly at Thork. He tried to give her silent warning that she pushed too far, but she barged ahead heedlessly, as usual.
“Once upon a time, there was a big, ugly giant named Thork and a boy named Jack who planted a magic beanstalk…”
Thork frowned at her teasing but let her go on as he sipped from his goblet. Later, he would get back at the wily wench for her audacious behavior.
As Ruby portrayed the giant as a bumbling, stupid oaf, his tolerance level lowered, but he couldn’t protest because of the children. When Ruby lowered her voice to a deep growl, mimicking his voice exactly, and chanted, “Fee, fie, fo, fum. I smell the blood of an Englishman,” the children squealed madly, repeating the refrain three times, and Thork couldn’t help but smile indulgently.
She told the infuriating story three times. At the end, Ruby glanced at him hesitantly. They shared a smile that made Thork’s heart thud wildly. What was the witch doing to him?
Enough was enough! Thork stood abruptly to leave for the palace but pulled Ruby aside first. He whispered in her ear, “I concede this one small battle to you, wench, but do not mistake it for aught but a skirmish. You will pay, and pay well, in the end.” With that, he gave her a quick pinch on her deliciously rounded bottom and left, much pleased with her squeaky yelp of indignation.
Chapter Five
Ruby awakened to dawn light streaming through the unshuttered window in her room. Surprisingly, she’d slept soundly through the night. No dreams. No return to the future, either, she realized grimly.
Ruby used the chamber pot under her bed, next to which was stacked a neat pile of worn linen squares—the Viking equivalent of toilet paper. She’d always wondered about that.
Then she washed briskly with the cold water left in the pitcher on the table and dressed in the same clothes, hoping to slip out of the house for her usual early morning run. She might not be able to return to her norma
l life, but she hoped that adhering to some of her regular routines would put some stability in this shaky world she’d entered, keep her from going totally, over-the-edge crazy.
She tiptoed down the stairs without attracting the notice of the two thralls who already worked at the fireplace preparing the morning meal. The one named Lise ground grain into flour on a stone quern. Bodhil, the other female thrall, kneaded dough in an enormous trough and, without allowing time for leavening, rolled the batter into small loaves and placed them in long-handled, circular metal pans in the hot ashes of the fire.
Ruby slipped out the back door and did some leg bends to warm up. Then she saw Tyra walking out of the barn.
“My goodness, Tyra, what are you doing up so early? And all by yourself!”
“Nay, I am not alone. Helping Gudrod with the horses I am. And the new kittens. Mayhap you would like to see them?” she asked hopefully.
“Later, honey. Right now I’m going jogging.”
“Jogging? What is that?”
“Running. It is…” Ruby searched for a substitute word for exercise that Tyra would understand. Failing that, she said, “Running makes me feel good.”
“Oh. I like to run, too, but Mother says ’tis not comely for a girl to gallop around like a colt.” Tyra giggled and added, “But sometimes I cannot help myself.”
“Sweetheart, all little girls like to run. It’s natural. But where I come from women do it, too.”
“Really?” She gaped at Ruby in wonder. “Can I come with you?”
“Well…I suppose,” Ruby agreed hesitantly. Since they would only be gone a short time, Ruby assumed it would be all right. They’d probably be back before the family awakened.
Ruby jogged at a slow pace so that Tyra could keep up. She tried to follow the river as much as possible and steered away from the business district.
Even this early, the industrious inhabitants of Jorvik moved about the day’s business. Thralls and house-wives had already done their laundry and were laying the garments out to dry on bushes and lower tree limbs. Ruby wondered what Gyda would think of a suggestion to put up a clothesline. She didn’t want to overwhelm the Vikings with her modern ideas, although a clothesline hardly counted as an amazing invention.
When they had gone as far as some farms on the outskirts of town, Tyra showed Ruby a plot of land where Olaf kept farm animals. A beautifully maintained vegetable garden occupied a large part of the site, surrounded by an orchid of apple, peach, pear and plum trees. Heavy clusters of purple grapes weighed down a grape arbor.
Olaf’s family—in fact, most of the Vikings she’d seen thus far—were apparently very self-sufficient. Ruby found that domestic image hard to reconcile with her picture of Vikings as bloodthirsty villains riding the seas. Thinking of King Sigtrygg, though, Ruby concluded they were probably both.
Take Thork, for instance. No matter how noble the profession of Jomsvikings, when you got right down to it, he was a professional soldier. He killed for a living. Ruby’s stomach knotted at the thought.
Ruby and Tyra sat on the grass resting as they ate an apple and a peach each and watched the cows grazing contentedly nearby. Ruby spotted a small boy peeping from behind one of the trees. She smiled. Tykir had followed them from Olaf’s house.
“Tykir, come and join us,” Ruby invited warmly.
At first, Tykir hesitated; then he walked forward shyly. Ruby offered him some fruit. He took the peach without hesitation and bit into it hungrily.
Like father, like son, Ruby thought.
When he finished and boyishly wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, he complimented Ruby, “You tell good stories.”
“I’m glad you liked them.”
“Do I really look like your little boy?”
Ruby nodded.
“Are you my mother?”
Ruby’s heart lurched and almost broke at his revealing words.
“He asks everybody that question,” Tyra interrupted with a disgusted snort. “The answer is ever the same. He has no mother.”
Ruby knew that Tyra didn’t intend to be mean, but her childish cruelty hurt Tykir, nonetheless, as evidenced by the tears that welled in his eyes. Ruby put a gentle hand on Tyra’s shoulder and chastised her softly, “That’s not true, Tyra. Everybody has a mother.”
“I know, but—”
“No buts.”
Ruby couldn’t help herself then. She folded Tykir into her arms and pressed his head against her breast in comfort. Thork definitely had a lot to answer for in the neglect of this child—both children, actually.
“Perhaps we better start back now,” Ruby advised. “We’ve been gone longer than I expected.”
The three of them jogged back slowly, with the children answering all of Ruby’s questions about the intriguing sights they passed. When they neared the house, Ruby saw Gudrod and an obviously furious Thork and Olaf approaching while Gyda and the girls stood outside the front door wringing their hands in worry.
“Tyra, Tykir, go into the house—immediately,” Olaf ordered coldly. They both obeyed without question, although Tykir looked back over his shoulder at Ruby fearfully.
Grabbing Ruby’s forearm roughly, Thork pulled Ruby toward the house. Neighbors stood outside on the street watching the spectacle.
“You don’t have to drag me. I can walk.”
“Yea, but will you be able to when I am done with you?” Thork’s voice shook with anger.
“You wouldn’t dare touch me.”
“Would you like to make another wager, wench?” Thork jeered icily.
Ruby sensed he was dead serious. His fingers held her arm in a pincerlike, painful grip. She tried to shrug away unsuccessfully. Ruby tried to fathom the stormy emotions raging behind Thork’s piercing eyes. What happened to the man who’d looked at her so warmly last night at the dinner table, who’d smiled at her children’s stories, who’d pinched her playfully before he left? Was he as unpredictable in his moods as the volatile King Sigtrygg?
“Warned were you repeatedly about attempting to run away. And you dared involve Olaf’s daughter and my son, besides!” he hissed low enough so no one could overhear.
“Don’t be ridiculous. We were jogging.”
“Ridiculous am I? We shall see who laughs when the whip blisters your back from head to toe.”
Ruby lifted her head defiantly, but her hands shook in fear. Surely this man who resembled her gentle husband could never hurt her. She glanced sideways at his rigid profile, seeing no softening of his anger, only a tightening of his clenched jaw.
When they entered the yard, Olaf ordered Gyda to take all the children inside. “Punish Tyra and Tykir, or I will do it for you and the two will be the worse for it,” he told his wife.
Gyda didn’t even flinch.
“No!” Ruby protested to Olaf. “Don’t harm them. They didn’t do anything wrong. We just went as far as your farm. It was my fault.”
“Nay, they know the rules. Neither is to leave this house without permission—ever!”
Then her other words seemed to sink in for Olaf and Thork.
“The farm! Do you know how unsafe it is for children to wander so far?” Thork exclaimed. “Our enemies abound. The Saxons, or Ivar, would love to get the hated King Harald’s grandson for ransom, bastards or naught.” Thork lowered his voice so that no one could overhear his acknowledgment of his sons. He raked her scornfully with his glittering blue eyes, then added, “But then, mayhap this was all part of your plan.”
Thork continued to pull Ruby around the house and toward the barn, with Gudrod and Olaf trailing behind them. When they entered the dark, steamy barn, Olaf told Gudrod in a clipped voice, “Gather your belongings.”
“But, master—”
“Do not dare to beg for mercy, or offer useless explanations,” Olaf said icily.
Not understanding, Ruby watched as the thrall walked fearfully, but with dim resignation on his face, over to the small cubicle where he apparently slept. Just on
ce, he looked up and cast her a look of utter hatred, obviously blaming her for his fate. Then he put his pitifully small supply of clothing and personal items in a large square cloth and pulled the four corners into a knot.
Motioning Gudrod toward the doorway, Olaf addressed Thork, “I will take the wretch to the harbor and sell him to the first slave trader I see.”
Thork nodded grimly.
“No!” Ruby screamed when she realized their intent. She moved in front of the slave and held her arms out protectively. “You can’t penalize Gudrod for my mistake.”
“’Twas his mistake as well. Ordered he was to guard you at all times. No man shirks his duty without punishment. No man! Step back.”
When Ruby refused, Thork pushed her aside roughly.
“Before I come back,” Olaf called over his shoulder to Thork, “I will go to the farm and find out why Tostig was remiss in his duties. Freeman he may be, but I want to know where he was when the children idled there unsupervised.”
“Unsupervised!” Ruby objected. “I was with them.”
The looks of cold disdain Thork and Olaf gave her told what they thought of her supervision.
Ruby watched dolefully as Gudrod shuffled out of the barn with downcast eyes, following after Olaf.
She turned furiously on Thork. “Beast!”
“Not as beastly as I soon shall be.” He shoved her toward the cubicle formerly occupied by Gudrod. Coming right behind her, he ordered, “Take off your garments. All of them.”
“Wha…what?”
“Do not force me to repeat myself. You will not like the consequence.” His blue eyes, so like her gentle husband’s and yet so different, flashed fiercely with anger.
“Why?”
“Do you say me nay?” He began to advance on her into the small room which was barely big enough for one person, containing only a pallet and a chamber pot.
She backed away. “What are you going to do to me?”
Thork suddenly seemed to understand her fear of undressing before him, and his upper lip curled with disgust. “I intend to do naught to your traitorous body. You revolt me.”
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