Thork
Ruby screamed over and over and over, then fell unconscious to the floor. She awakened hours later in her bed, surrounded by Dar, Aud and Ella.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked Dar accusingly.
“Thork did not want you to know. He said you would blame yourself.”
“It is my fault. He warned me over and over about the danger to his family, but I wouldn’t let things stand. I insisted he leave Tykir with you, and Eirik at Athelstan’s court. It’s all my fault.”
“Then we are just as much to blame for wanting Tykir here with us,” Aud asserted. “Nay, ’twas the right decision. Thork could not live his entire life looking over his shoulder. These are dangerous times. All Vikings live with the possibility of death every day. We cannot stop living because we fear dying.”
“Haven’t you had any news from Thork since that note?” Ruby questioned fearfully.
Dar shifted his eyes, and Aud exclaimed, “Dar! Have you heard something and not told me?”
He shrugged forlornly. “I did not want to worry you. Two days past, ’twas word in Jorvik of a fierce battle that took place weeks ago.” He inhaled sharply before continuing, “’Tis said that Ivar won and many Jomsvikings died, along with hundreds of other fighting men. Fifty Jomsvikings were captured and are to be executed.”
Oh my God oh my God oh my God! Ruby clamped a hand over her mouth in horror, not wanting to hear more, yet needing to know the truth.
“I know naught of Thork or Eirik. Nor Selik and Olaf,” Dar choked out.
“Sweet Jesus!” Aud wailed and fell into Dar arms.
Ruby watched in shocked silence, tears streaming down her face, with both hands over her stomach as if to protect her baby from the shock of these latest events.
Chapter Twenty-one
The battle had been a bloody nightmare and a resounding defeat for the Jomsvikings, thanks to Ivar’s devious tactics. He’d lured them into a vulnerable position with promises to exchange Eirik for a king’s fortune in gold. Thork had been prepared to pay it.
Thork slumped his head in weary remembrance of the carnage. So many men dead! So many friends gone on to Valhalla, or the Christian heaven. In truth, he did not know if he believed in the existence of either after what he had witnessed the past few weeks.
Worst of all, Olaf was dead, slain by Ivar’s own sword. Damn his evil soul! Thork would gladly have exchanged his own life for his good friend’s. He would probably die anyway. The hole in his chest, just below the heart, festered and continued to bleed. And Ivar, the vicious bastard, refused treatment for any of his prisoners, especially the Jomsvikings.
Today, Ivar promised, the real torture would begin. Hah! As if they hadn’t been tortured enough. Thork looked down at the three additional fingers that had been chopped off his left hand and grimaced. His lone, swollen thumb stood out grotesquely.
“Good thing you can still swing a sword with your right hand,” Selik said dryly from his position next to him on the ground. All fifty of the Jomsvikings were tied together with one long length of rope. “Think you that you can still please your wife with all those fingers missing?” Selik teased morbidly.
Thork closed his eyes on the painful thought of Ruby and the fact that he would never see her again. When he got his emotions under control, Thork tried to grin at Selik over the intense pain in his chest.
“Is that all you can think of? Ivar starts the executions today and you have a woman’s parts on your mind! Thor’s balls! What woman will look at you with that ugly scar on your face now?”
“Do you think it ugly?” Selik countered arrogantly. “Methinks it makes me look the rogue. Methinks the women will love me more.”
“Mayhap you are right,” Thork conceded, examining the unhealed scar which ran from Selik’s right eye to his chin.
“Well, at least Eirik is all right. Ivar does not seem to plan any more harm to him.”
“Yea. Pray he will not,” Thork sighed. Lord, ’twas all he lived for now, to see Eirik safe. He no longer hoped to save his own skin. “Selik, if we should not make it through this day, please know that you have been a good and true friend.” He had trouble swallowing over the lump in his throat before he continued, “Perchance we will meet again in heaven—or Valhalla—whichever it may be.”
Selik appeared to choke up but then gathered his usual wits about him. “’Tis sure you are we are headed in that direction? Mayhap you have been more the saint than I have.”
Despite his excruciating pain, Thork smiled, but he knew they might not have another opportunity to speak and he had much to say yet. “Selik, if you should survive, promise that you will look out for my children…and Ruby.” Oh, God! Ruby! We had so little time together. So little time!
Ivar’s soldiers came and led the Jomsvikings, roped together in a long line like beads on a string, to the bailey outside the fortress. Hundreds of his followers gathered to witness the downfall of the famous Jomsvikings, wanting to see how their renowned valor would withstand death.
Thork saw Eirik off to the side with a group of other prisoners. He lifted his chin deliberately with a jerk to signal his son to be brave. Eirik, God bless his soul, raised his head proudly, his tearless eyes meeting his father’s in youthful courage. Holy Thor! He was too young to have to display such valor.
Ivar’s men released the first three Jomsvikings from their bonds and led them to the executioner, who twisted sticks in their long hair to bare their necks for his sharp blade.
Ivar stepped forward, preening before the crowd. If he only knew what a bloody replica he was of his hated enemy Sigtrygg! Having the same mountainous size, both bore the scars of numerous battles. Both carried themselves with an arrogant, vicious countenance. Both were ugly as sin.
“For years I have been told how brave you Jomsvikings are,” Ivar said loudly to the assembled group. “’Twill be interesting to see if Jomsvikings die different from other mortal men,” he sneered, then turned to the first Jomsviking brought forth. “What dost thou think about dying now?”
Ingolf, a veteran Jomsviking of at least twenty years, curled his lip contemptuously at Ivar. “Jomsvikings do not fear death, just cowardice.” He lowered his head to the block, and it was chopped off neatly in one stroke.
The next Jomsviking, Gaut, spit at Ivar’s feet and snarled, “I die with a good reputation. You, Ivar, shall live with shame.” Gaut, too, was decapitated.
“Ram!” shouted Hedin, the third Jomsviking, then “B-a-a, b-a-a, b-a-a.” Ivar stopped the upraised hand of the executioner, a puzzled frown making his face even more ugly. “What is your meaning?” he bellowed.
Hedin lifted his chin a fraction from the block and stared out at Ivar’s troops, “Are those not ewes who follow you?”
“You bastard!” Ivar yelled, spittle foaming at the edges of his mouth, and motioned for the executioner to continue.
When Ulf, a drinking companion of Selik’s, was brought forward, he commented bravely, “I am well content to die as are all my comrades. But I will not let myself be slaughtered like a cow. I would rather face the blow.”
The executioner hewed him in the face with his bloody sword.
By the time the tenth Jomsviking stepped up to the executioner, Ivar was clearly agitated because the executions were not going as he had planned. Undoubtedly, he wanted to see the elite Vikings grovel for mercy, to cry for salvation. The crowd was turning against him, murmuring with admiration for the brave warriors. Even his own soldiers no longer cheered over the deaths.
But Ivar doggedly repeated his question to the next man, Jogeir. “What dost thou think of dying?”
“I would like to piss first.”
Thork shook his head at Jogeir’s defiant vulgarity. Ivar’s face turned almost purple with outraged disbelief but nodded his permission to do so. When Jogeir finished relieving himself boldly in front of the masses, he commented casually, “Life certainly turns out differently than expected. I had thought to skewer your
wife afore returning to Jomsborg.” At that, he shook his staff arrogantly, to the crowd’s laughter, then pulled up his braies. His head was gone afore the pants were tied.
Thork closed his eyes painfully as Selik stepped forward. A few women in the crowd sighed loudly at his beauty. Apparently, Selik was right. The scar did not mar his handsomeness, after all.
“I have had a good life,” Selik boasted, playing the crowd expertly, throwing his magnificent hair back over his shoulders. “I do not wish to live any longer than those brave comrades who have fallen afore me, but please give me the dignity of being led to my death by a warrior, not a mere thrall.” He contemptuously scrutinized the executioner, who looked as if he might like to decapitate Selik with his bare hands. “Also, spare me that vile stick in my fine hair.” He raked his fingers through the silver strands, and Thork saw several women in the crowd stare at him open-mouthed. “Instead, hold my hair away from my head and pull the head sharply so my hair does not become blood-stained. I wouldst enter Valhalla in all my beauty.”
The crowd sighed in admiration at his beauty and bravado. The foolish lackwit! He joked even on the way to death. Thork blinked away the tears in his eyes.
Selik’s daring words and godly appearance pleased the crowd so much that they cheered loudly and banged their shields, urging Ivar to grant the wish. He agreed reluctantly, calling a nearby hesir to assist. In a kneeling position, Selik bent his neck so his forehead touched the block. The soldier grabbed the thick strands of hair and twisted them into a queue, pulling painfully up and over his head. The executioner raised his blade, but at the last moment, Selik deliberately jerked and the hesir’s arm was lopped off at the elbow.
The wounded man screamed as he clutched his bleeding stump. Enraged, Ivar grabbed the executioner’s sword and was about to behead Selik himself. But the crowd loved Selik’s audacity and moved forward in a wave of support.
“What is your name?” Ivar asked through gritted teeth, cautiously keeping an eye on the mutinous mob.
“Selik.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Wouldst you join the ranks of my troops?” Ivar’s eyes shifted uneasily to the mob which was quickly turning against him.
“Nay, I could not, but…,” Selik hesitated, seeming to assess the crowd’s mood before continuing more boldly, “but if you would release me and my Jomsviking comrades, along with the boy, Eirik, I would swear an oath that we will leave your lands and never return.”
Ivar judiciously turned to the angry people, asking, “Should the Jomsviking Selik be spared?” With shouted cheers and clanging shields, they voted to stay his execution.
Thork blinked disbelievingly. Selik would not die. In truth, they were all spared who lay here still on the ground awaiting execution. He started to smile, but then saw Ivar approaching. The hate on his face contorted his features into an ugly, monstrous mass of puffy flesh. He walked directly up to Thork and snarled, “Give this message to Sigtrygg: I will see him dead yet.” For emphasis, he kicked Thork in the chest with his heavy boot.
Thork’s wound opened again, and he fell into blessed unconsciousness.
For weeks, Ruby and Aud only went through the motions with their lingerie business. Orders continued to come in, and they filled them, thanks to Ella’s amazing transformation into a businesswoman.
The next time Ruby was paid with a bag of coins for her lingerie sales, she asked Dar if she could buy Ella’s freedom. He shooed away her offers of money and told her Ella was a gift to do with as she willed.
“I cannot belief you wud do this fer me,” Ella blubbered when Ruby told her she was no longer a thrall. “There be naught in the whole wurld I wud not do fer you.”
“There is something, Ella. If something should happen to Thork…,” Ruby choked out, “and if I should disappear suddenly, promise you’ll always be here to help Tykir…and Eirik. Dar and Aud are old. They may need your help.”
In fact, it was Ruby who needed Aud’s help in assisting her to her room two days later when the message came:
Thork received grievous chest wound. Eirik and I make haste to bring him home. Have healing potions ready. Does not look good. Olaf is dead.
Selik
They traveled the next day to Jorvik to be with Gyda and her family in their mourning and to await Thork’s ship. A red-eyed Gyda told Ruby that night after they’d tucked the frightened girls into bed, “Twould seem that conversation we had long ago is about to come true for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember when you asked if I craved equality, to be partners with Olaf in heading our family? I said that I am more than capable of running all our affairs when forced to do so, but I preferred to defer to my husband.”
“Yes, I remember now. We were talking about a woman’s identity.”
“Yea, that was it.” Gyda raked her fingers distractedly through her unkempt hair which had come loose from its usual braid. “No choice do I have now in defining myself. I am Gyda. I am no longer Olaf’s wife.”
Gyda wept, letting loose all the pent-up sorrow she’d been unable to release in front of the children. As much as she tried to comfort Gyda, Ruby wondered if she wouldn’t be in the same position on Thork’s return. Until that happened, Ruby tried to help Tykir as much as she could.
“I wish I wuz older,” the fierce, frightened little boy exclaimed, trying hard not to cry. “I wud be a Jomsviking and go to save my father. I wud chop off Ivar’s head just like that.” He made a slash with his arm to demonstrate.
Aud came in then, and they both comforted the boy.
“Whatever happens, Tykir and Ruby, you will have a home with us in Northumbria. We are family, and we must stay together. Family. That is everything.”
A distraught Dar brought the first news a week later. “Thork’s ship entered the Humber at dawn and will not stop to camp. He will be here by nightfall, God willing.”
Ruby and Aud went to the Church of St. Mary’s and knelt in hopeful prayer for hours. The entire family walked solemnly to the harbor as evening approached. In fact, little by little, hundreds of people arrived, standing silently, come to pay tribute to the fallen warriors. Even Sigtrygg and Byrnhil stood respectfully at the front with the royal retainers, awaiting the ship.
Stone silence greeted the dragonship as it slid into its berth. Gyda’s keening wail grew increasingly loud at the sight of the first cloak-wrapped body carried off the ship on a litter. Olaf’s trusty sword lay on top. Gyda and her sobbing daughters followed the body to a waiting wagon.
Ruby held tightly to Tykir’s hand as dozens of men came next, some missing limbs, all wounded in some horrible way. Their bleak eyes stared straight ahead.
Finally Thork emerged, supported by Eirik and Selik. He was barely conscious, and blood seeped from a white linen bandage wrapped around his chest. His long, blond hair lay dirty and matted with blood—the same beautiful hair that Ruby had admired, especially when braided off to one side, highlighted by the scandalous earring.
His dazed eyes scanned the crowd anxiously. When he found Ruby, he smiled. At least he tried to smile. It seemed to hurt him to do even that.
Ruby bled inside at the pain in Thork’s bleak eyes, the unhealed scars on his forehead, chin and arms, the bleeding chest wound. Then she saw his fingerless hand, with only a thumb left. She gasped and closed her eyes briefly for strength.
Oh, God, just let him live. That’s all I ask. Just let him live.
Tykir ran to his father and wrapped his arms around his waist, sobbing pitifully. Thork patted his shoulder with painful effort.
Ruby walked up then and put both hands on either side of Thork’s head. She kissed his cracked lips gently, tears streaming down her cheeks. She tenderly stroked the cuts on his face.
“Seems to me you are blubbering every time I see you, wench,” Thork teased in a shaky voice. There were tears in his eyes, too. “I told you I would come back. Did you doubt me?” Then he
pulled her brusquely into his arms, burying his face in her neck.
Her body shook with sobs. She could not speak.
Thork pulled away and examined her face, alarmed at how haggard she looked. His eyes sparkled sadly as he tried to joke, “You look a sight, woman. Mayhap you have had no one to tweak your sweet arse whilst I was gone and that has turned you weepish.”
“Oh, Thork!” Ruby smiled weakly. “Come with me. Let me take you home.”
Several men, including Selik who now had a horrendous scar down the side of his face, helped Thork to the straw-filled wagon which would carry him to Sigtrygg’s palace, there being no room for invalid care in Gyda’s home. Thork’s wounds would never withstand the trip to Dar’s home.
By the time they got to the palace, fever racked Thork’s body. In the days that followed, he alternated between delirious fever and weak consciousness. When he was lucid, he insisted on talking to Ruby, who stayed by his side.
“Thork, we’re going to have a baby,” she told him the first chance she could. “I know you didn’t want any more children, but—”
“Oh, Rube,” he said incredulously, twining her fingers in his good hand, “we made a baby together.”
“You’re not angry?”
“Nay, sweetling,” he said, a gentle smile tilting his lips upward. “’Twas inevitable that some of my seed slip in your womb. I visited so often.” He squeezed her hand to show he jested. “Truly, ’tis wondrous that you and I made a child together. The babe will be magnificent, I wager.”
Even those few words strained his strength, and he fell back on the bed, closing his eyes. But a slight smile relaxed his lips as he slept. Ruby hoped it was dreams of their child that pleased him so.
The next day he told her, “If I die, my brother Eric should relent. No, Ruby, you must listen. Eric would have no reason to pursue my sons if I am gone.”
Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 01] Page 37
