Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 01]

by The Reluctant Viking

  In her selfishness, she hadn’t wanted to give up any of it. She’d pretended the problems didn’t exist. Then look what happened. She’d lost it all.

  Ruby put her face in her hands, but the thoughts wouldn’t go away. Was Jack having these same self-recriminations? Was he sitting on the back-porch swing at the lake house missing her, remembering how good their marriage had been before it started splintering apart, bit by precious bit?

  “Is something troubling you?” Gyda asked from the doorway, interrupting Ruby’s painful reminiscence. “Olaf and I heard you moving around.”

  “Do Vikings allow divorce?” Ruby asked suddenly.

  Gyda looked surprised at her question but answered, “Certainly. ’Tis not a common occurrence, but, yea, ’tis permitted.”

  Ruby motioned her to sit on the chair. In the dim candlelight, Gyda looked much younger with her unplaited hair hanging thick and straight down to the waist of her loose nightdress. Gyda sat silently, apparently sensing Ruby’s troubled mind, waiting patiently for her to speak.

  “My husband has left me. He wants a divorce,” Ruby confided miserably.

  Gyda’s shoulders sagged wearily, and she put a hand to her forehead. “Which husband? Thork? Or the other one?”

  “Jack. After twenty years of marriage, Jack left me. Well, actually, Thork left, too, in a way, when he locked me up, and now again in abandoning me here to go to his grandfather’s.”

  “Do you really believe all these things you say?”

  “Of course. Do you doubt that Jack wants a divorce?”

  “No-o-o,” Gyda drawled out hesitantly. “Why did this Jack leave you?”

  “He said I neglected him and my sons, that I loved my career more than I loved him.”

  “Was he right?”

  Ruby sat looking at Gyda dolefully before she whispered, “Yes. Yes, I think he was right.”

  Gyda took Ruby into her arms then. Ruby cried out her pain on the Viking woman’s shoulder.

  Chapter Six

  Three days later Thork and his companions rode their horses into the side yard of Olaf’s home.

  Thork’s brows shot up at the sight of Ruby sitting like a bloody queen in the shade of a tree near the river. A dozen giggling children surrounded her adoringly, like loyal subjects pleading for “just one more story.” Ulf stood watchfully off to the side.

  After dismounting, Thork handed his reins to Selik, who annoyed him with a pointed smirk in Ruby’s direction before riding toward the barn. He’d already warned the hot-blooded youth to stay away from Astrid if he valued his neck. Cnut followed close behind, barely stifling a laugh.

  His friends knew that Thork chafed at the abrupt interruption of a pleasant visit at his grandfather’s manor and had been rubbing it in at every turn on the way back to Jorvik. The forced celibacy of his lengthy sea voyage had fueled his appreciation for the insatiable appetite of a Viking widow, Linette, who lived there, but, more than that, she’d helped him forget the troublesome wench awaiting him in Jorvik. Little did he relish being summoned back to attend a feast at Sigtrygg’s court, especially when he hadn’t yet tired of Linette’s charms.

  Hell and Valhalla! It wasn’t so much the absence of Linette that rankled. There were plenty of women in Jorvik. One was much the same as the other to him and ever had been. It was the fawning atmosphere of the Norse court he abhorred.

  As he approached the group of children in Olaf’s yard, unnoticed thus far, Thork observed Ruby arranging the children in a line with two of the children standing in front, facing each other with linked, upraised hands. Thork’s heart ached when he saw Tykir at the end of the line, watching him longingly, unable to rush to him in normal childish greeting. He followed his father’s instructions well.

  “I know you children will love this game because it’s based on a famous Viking battle…”

  What Viking battle? Thork wondered, furrowing his forehead.

  “Anyhow, in this battle,” Ruby went on with her amazing tale, “these fierce Vikings not only captured the city of London but they tore down the London Bridge to keep the Saxons from recapturing the city. Wasn’t that clever?”

  London Bridge? A Viking occupation of London? What mischief did the witch brew? Thork’s eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. The woman truly was an enigma. To Thork’s mind, women were ever simple creatures, like cats. Selfish. Little intellect. Definitely lacking in honor and loyalty. This mysterious woman did not fit the mold, and that bothered him sorely.

  And she certainly looked different than she had that day he’d first seen her at the harbor. Her hair was still abysmally short and boyish, but it shone like burnished mahogany in the summer sun, accenting a flawless, creamy complexion, high cheekbones, a straight, slightly upturned nose and full, sensual lips.

  Gone were the offensive shirt and braies, replaced by a soft, clinging green tunic, probably Astrid’s if he was any judge of women’s sizes. Every time she moved to straighten a child’s arm or to position the youngsters in line, a different part of her tall, slim body was outlined—long, nay, extremely long legs, a waist his two hands itched to span, high, firm breasts, and a round bottom that invited the palm of a man’s hand.

  She was not beautiful—nay, far from it—but her attractive, sensual aura drew him involuntarily. Thork frowned at his gut reaction to the wench he sensed could be dangerous to his future. Thor’s blood! He should have stayed in Northumbria longer—until Linette had appeased his hunger.

  “London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down,” Ruby sang while the children filed under the “bridge.” She chanted merrily along until her gray-green eyes lifted and connected with his in surprise—at first with welcome, then switching to cool reserve. This woman hid much. He must be careful.

  Ruby told Tyra to supervise the game and walked a short distance to where Thork stood. Tyra protested at first, wanting to go to Thork, but obeyed when Thork promised her a surprise later. He nodded imperceptibly to Tykir that he had something for him, too.

  “It’s about time you got back,” Ruby accused him.

  “What trouble do you stir now, witch?”

  She assessed his figure with deliberate disdain, but Thork could see in her clear eyes, now more green than gray, that she reluctantly liked what she saw.

  He grinned.

  She glared.

  Embarrassed, Ruby took the offensive. “I have a few things I would like to tell you about your neglect of our sons. I can’t believe—”

  Thork raised a hand to halt her shrewish words.

  “Do you never yield? Your refusal to heed Sigtrygg’s warning, and mine, as well, about lying and the future bodes ill for your fate. We are not wed, and my sons are no one’s business but mine.”

  “And so you take no one’s advice about their suffering?”

  “Suffering!” Thork slitted his eyes cynically. “Who harms them?”

  “You do.”

  Thork threw up his hands in resignation. “Say one more word and by the sacred sword of Thor, I swear, I will—”

  “What? Imprison me?” Her eyes flashed a feisty challenge.

  Thork gritted his teeth, willing himself not to rise to her baiting. Finally he said stiffly, “You deserved the punishment and will get that and more if you do not change your ways. Go play your children’s games now and think not of trying to escape again…or goading me into rage.”

  As Ruby turned to go, she tossed back at him over her shoulder that famous Anglo-Saxon vulgarity that even Thork in all his travels had rarely heard used by a woman.

  The woman was beyond belief!

  Thork grinned and shook his head. He would show the saucy tart! Reaching out a long arm, he did what he’d been dying to do ever since he had seen her bending over with the young children by the river.

  He tweaked her enticing behind.

  Ruby yelped and practically shot off the ground, shooting daggers at him with her fuming eyes. “How dare you?”

  “I dare much,
wench. And remember it well afore you try me farther.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve done that to me,” she raged. “The next time I just might do the same to you, and it won’t be your backside I’ll pinch. You would do well to remember that.”

  Thork threw back his head and laughed heartily at the wench’s quick retort.

  Ruby continued her games and stories with the children, all the while rehearsing in her mind the tirade she intended to unload on Thork once she got inside. She was disappointed, however, to learn that Thork and Olaf had gone to the harbor and that Thork would be staying at the palace while in Jorvik.

  “Ruby, come quickly. We must find garments to wear tonight. We go to the palace for a feast,” Astrid told her excitedly. This was the first warmth she’d shown Ruby since her punishment.

  “Me?”

  “Yea, the king asked specifically that you come. Father could not refuse. And I am permitted to go, too.”

  “Why does Sigtrygg want to see me again?” Ruby asked nervously. Even though Thork would probably be there and she might find an opportunity to discuss his sons with him, Ruby preferred to stay home. “I would rather not go.”

  Gyda overheard and advised sternly, “’Tis not for you to decide. We go.”

  The male servants brought wooden tubs for bathing while caldrons of water bubbled over the hot fires, stoked up for the occasion. When the three women had bathed, the men dumped the tubs and poured fresh water for Olaf’s bath.

  Upstairs in the master chamber, Gyda clucked over the several gowns she’d laid on the bed for Astrid and Ruby, first selecting, then discarding each in turn as inappropriate—too bright, too dull, too long, too worn, too tight, too loose. Ruby’s expert sewing eye saw that these Viking tunic dresses were little more than two rectangles of fabric held together at the shoulder with brooch-clasped straps.

  Finally Astrid selected a bright scarlet tunic, embroidered with gold thread and cinched at the waist with a belt of gold links, along with two exquisite shoulder brooches studded with blood-red stones.

  Could the thread and belt be solid gold, as they appeared? And the stones! Surely not rubies!

  When Astrid left the room to find Adeleve, who had a gift for fixing hair, Gyda turned to Ruby. “The green, I think,” she said, holding a jade silk tunic up to Ruby. “The color brightens your eyes and calls attention away from that…that…” She pointed disgustedly at Ruby’s short hair. “Let us try it on and see.”

  Ruby pulled on off-white, thigh-high hose, then donned a cream-colored, full-length, pleated underdress with a circular neck and long, tight sleeves to the wrist.

  No underwear! Boy, could these people use some of her creations, Ruby thought. Her lips turned up in amusement. A good underdraft and a Viking woman could get a mighty chill in some private places.

  Gyda helped her slip the green silk dress over her head. As in Astrid’s gown, gold embroidery embellished the hem and sleeves and neck. Chunky gold, animal-shaped brooches fastened the shoulders of the open-sided garment. The twisted dragons had amber eyes. Probably worth a fortune, Ruby speculated.

  “I couldn’t possibly wear anything so expensive. I’d be afraid of losing them.”

  “Nay, be not afeard. Leastways, they belong to Thork.” Gyda pointed to a small wooden chest which lay open in the corner. Ruby examined the runic letters on the box, “Thokkr a Kistu Thasa.” On questioning, Gyda told her the words meant “Thork owns this casket.”

  “Thork keeps some of his treasures here since he maintains no home of his own. He stores many others at his grandfather’s, as well.”

  “Well, then, if they belong to Thork, I don’t mind. After all, he is my husband—sort of. Besides, he owes me, after treating me so badly.”

  Pursing her lips, Gyda frowned at her reference to Thork as her husband. “They are only for loan, you understand.”

  Sure.

  Next, Gyda pulled a delicate gold belt from Thork’s box, which could be adjusted to size. In the center of the waist a matching dragon brooch was placed, similar to the shoulder ones, except this animal had larger amber eyes.

  Elizabeth Taylor, eat your heart out, Ruby gloated. This Viking life-style might not be so bad, after all.

  Meanwhile, Gyda clucked with dismay over the sorry state of Ruby’s figure. “Tsk, tsk! Do you come from poor folks that could not feed you? Fair skin and bones you are.” Gyda nipped and tucked quickly with thread and the precious needle she kept in a tiny cylindrical box which hung from her brooch at all times.

  Ruby looked down at herself. Skin and bones? Not by a twentieth-century longshot! This slender body she now had was the modern feminine ideal, not Gyda’s slightly plump, definitely curvaceous frame.

  “Give you a month of good, solid Viking fare and, to be sure, we will put more padding on those bones.”

  Would she be here another month, for heaven’s sake? And if she were, Ruby determined, she wouldn’t allow these Vikings to tamper with this Raquel Welch figure she’d been fortunate enough to land in, and turn it into a Rubensesque caricature.

  They rode horses to the palace, even though it was a short distance, to protect their soft leather shoes and the hems of their gowns, which trailed fashionably on the ground in back. The three females rode sideways, as was the custom—not an easy feat for Ruby, who held on to her horse’s mane for dear life.

  The overwhelming din of conversation and laughter from the hundreds of finely dressed men and women greeted them on entering the Norse palace. Olaf pointed out to her the parts of the building that remained of the ancient Roman city Eboracum, and those architectural touches which were clearly Nordic additions, such as the intricate carvings and runic messages on the eaves and woodwork.

  “Is this feast being held for any special occasion?” Ruby asked Gyda.

  “Yea. A man arrived from Athelstan with the formal marriage documents. We celebrate the official betrothal.”

  Ruby followed Olaf’s family to a table close to the dais where Thork sat with the king and a dozen or more privileged guests. Unlike in the lower area, fine linen cloths and heavy silver graced the tables.

  Resplendent in a midnight-blue tunic with silver braiding over coal-black leggings, Thork epitomized the noble Viking knight. He sipped his drink languidly, looking totally bored. Each time he raised his cup to drink, thick silver bracelets on his upper arms flashed in the reflection of oil lamps and torches scattered around the hall. A round, jewel-encrusted disc hung down to his chest from a heavy silver neck chain.

  His blond hair still hung past his shoulders, but he’d pushed it behind one ear where an…Oh, my God!…an earring hung in the shape of a thunderbolt. Her husband Jack would never in a million years have worn an earring, but on Thork it fit, enhancing his masculinity, accentuating the pirate, rebel image he exuded.

  Ruby wondered if she’d ever be able to talk Jack into an earring. She delighted in picturing Jack in a conservative pin-striped suit and a thunderbolt earring. She loved it!

  When Thork turned his clear blue eyes on her, surprise at her appearance flickered over his face. He nodded almost imperceptibly as his steady gaze held hers for several long moments. Like his thunderbolt, a wave of warm feeling seemed to crack from him to her, nurturing the slender thread of affinity that somehow linked them.

  Then Ruby noticed the woman at his side. The same bimbo from the harbor! Ruby clenched her fists at her sides and forced herself to turn away.

  The banquet lasted more than three hours, with course after course of fine foods, excellent wine and hearty ale. While servants cleared the tables, people moved into clusters, waiting for the entertainment to begin. Astrid talked shyly with Selik under Olaf’s watchful frown. The king and his party moved down off the dais, including the buxom blonde who hung on to Thork’s arm possessively.

  Jealousy ate like acid through Ruby’s bloodstream, and she hated herself for it. Why should she be jealous over this Viking? He wasn’t really her husband. Was he?

&
nbsp; The woman reminded Ruby of someone. Oh, no! Not Dolly Parton! It would be too much of a coincidence if Thork and Jack preferred the same type of woman. Not that Jack had been serious when he spoke of looking for a woman with a Dolly Parton body. He was only teasing, Ruby told herself.

  Servants arranged dozens of chairs at the bottom of the steps for the most elite. Olaf pulled her and Gyda to the edge of the crowd and lifted them both by the waist so they sat on the edge of the platform. Many people dropped onto the wide, low benches built into the sides of the hall. Other Vikings talked softly in small groups.

  The entertainment began with a young Viking woman who sang a beautiful ballad, accompanied by her brother on a lute. Then a skald, or poet, related stories of Viking bravery in battle. His sagas told of a brave people driven from their homeland by bloody politics and overpopulation, forced to seek new lands for their families—certainly a different motivation than the bloodlust that historians claimed drove the Norsemen to go a-Viking.

  One of the sagas told an interesting story about Thork’s father, King Harald of Norway, and how he got the name Harald Fairhair. The skald started by telling of Harald’s feats, the greatest of which was the unification of all Norway.

  “’Tis said that his greatest success resulted from the taunt of Gyda, daughter of the King of Hordaland.” Ruby looked over to Gyda to ask if she was named after this woman, but Olaf’s wife was totally engrossed in the tale and didn’t notice her. Ruby also cast quick peeks at Thork who sprawled, legs outstretched, in an armchair near the king, his lips curled cynically. Perhaps the story wasn’t entirely true.

  The skald claimed that Gyda refused to marry the young Harald until he united all Norway, as Gorm had done in Denmark. Harald swore never to cut or comb his hair until he achieved his purpose. It took him ten years to become high-king. After he bathed and trimmed his hair and beard, his name changed from Harald lufa— Harald Mop-Hair—to Harald harfagri— Harald Fairhair. Gyda then went willingly to his bed, joining what the skald described as a royal harem of wives and concubines.