The Outlaw Viking

by Sandra Hill

  “Did you have to scare the women off?”

  “Spineless half wits,” he grumbled. Leaning over the simmering cauldron, he sniffed deeply, then helped himself to a heaping bowl of the stew. He sat down next to her on a large boulder and wolfed the food down ravenously, ignoring her presence.

  His hunger touched her oddly. Although he wore the same stained tunic, Rain noticed that he’d bathed and shaved. His pale, platinum hair shone like spun silver down to his shoulder blades. Scrutinizing him more closely in light of the women’s harsh appraisal, Rain noticed many scars, old and new. Especially gruesome was an old scar running from his right eye to his chin, a pale jagged line in his deeply tanned face. And the raised white scar tissue on his forearm spelling out the word rage—well, Rain shivered at the thought of what horrifying events had prompted Selik to carve the letters in his own skin. At least, she presumed he had.

  “Keep your roving eyes off my flesh, Sleetling.”

  “What?” Rain jerked to attention, embarrassed to be caught examining him closely. “I was admiring all your battle scars.”

  “Liar.” His eyes impaled hers contemptuously, then turned away in disgust. “Have a caution, wench. I am in no mood to humor your airs today. Go off and leave me alone.” He used the fingers of both hands to rub his eyes wearily.

  Selik’s curt dismissal offended Rain, so she persisted foolishly. “How did you get that scar on your face? Was it in the midst of some silly battle where you slaughtered men right and left? Or did the husband of one of those women with whom you rutted come after you? No, let me guess. I’ll bet you tripped and fell when—”

  “Nay, wench, ’twas none of those.” Selik’s icy gray eyes held hers coldly, speaking of horrors of which Rain suddenly knew she didn’t want to hear. She stood to depart, but Selik shoved her rudely back down to the boulder. “You asked, lackwit. Now you shall stay and hear.

  “Your father Thork and I were Jomsviking knights together. When Thork was a child, his brother Eric—Eric Bloodaxe, they call him—pursued him bloodily. He even chopped off the smallest finger of Thork’s right hand when he was only five. Eventually, Thork ran off to become a Jomsviking, the only way open for him to escape the ambitions of his ruthless brother.”

  “Selik, stop. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up these painful memories.”

  But Selik continued with his punishing explanation. “In the final Jomsviking battle afore your father’s death, our enemy Ivar—Ivar the Vicious—cut off the remaining fingers on your father’s hand and kicked open the fatal sword wound in his side. And that, sweet lover of peace, was after he chopped off the heads of a dozen of our comrades.”

  Tears streamed down Rain’s cheeks. She didn’t want to know these horrid details of her father’s or Selik’s life. She didn’t want to feel there was any justification for the violence of their lifestyles. There was no excuse for fighting, or wars. That was what she’d always believed. She still did. She had to.

  Selik’s lips curled cynically at the changing emotions he must have seen reflected on her face. “I was luckier than most that day. Ivar tried to pluck out my eyes and succeeded only in gracing me with this memento,” he said, touching the long scar.

  Rain reached out a hand to touch his forearm in comfort, but he shrugged her away defensively. “Save your pity.”

  “I’m just trying to understand you and the strange time I’ve landed in, Selik. I know I appear condemning, but—”

  “Spare me your explanations, wench. I care naught what you or any other thinks of me. My head was on the chopping block that day, and I have ne’er feared the face of death since. In truth, I welcome it.”

  “Your head was on the chopping block?” Rain choked out.

  “Yea.” A cruel smile thinned his lips mirthlessly. “Wouldst like to hear the tale?”

  When Rain stared at him in horror, Selik went on ghoulishly, “I was godly handsome in those days, just as your mother said, and vain as a rooster. When it came my turn, I taunted Ivar, asking that my fair hair be held back during the beheading so as not to stain the wondrous strands with my life’s blood.” He ran his fingers sensuously through his long hair in remembrance.

  “Selik, I don’t want to hear any more. Stop.”

  He ignored her pleas. “The crowds who came to watch the execution of the famed Jomsviking knights admired my daring and urged Ivar to grant my wish. He called a noble soldier forth, one of his bravest hesirs, to stand in front of me and hold the twisted coil of my hair forward, baring my neck for the executioner’s blade. At the last moment, I jerked back deliberately, and the blade sliced off the hands of Ivar’s hesir.”

  Rain gasped and held a hand over her mouth in horror. She heard the echo of her exclamation from the women behind her who had moved closer to listen to Selik’s words. Selik didn’t seem to notice any of them, so lost was he in his horrifying reverie.

  “Instead of being angry, the crowd cheered my bravery and demanded that Ivar spare my life and the lives of the remaining Jomsviking knights who awaited execution, your father included.” Coming back to the present, Selik lifted his chin proudly and taunted, “Now you know the story of my scar. Art thou happy, Sleetling, that your prickly words drew the blood of my memories?”

  “No, Selik, I’m not. Sometimes I speak rashly. You seem to bring that out in me,” she said wearily, then touched the word rage carved on his muscled forearm. “Is that when you mutilated yourself with this scar?”

  A deep rumble, like the bellow of an enraged bear, started in Selik’s chest, moved up his throat, and emerged from his mouth as a roar of anger. He jerked upright and grabbed Rain by the upper arms, raising her until her feet dangled off the ground and her eyes were level with his, noses practically touching. She could feel his breath against her lips as he jerked out furiously, “Ne’er, ne’er ask about that scar. If you value your life, you foolish spawn of Loki, do not even look at it, for I swear I will wring your neck like the scrawny chicken you are.” He shook her until her brain practically rattled. “Dost understand, wench?”

  Rain could not speak over her chattering teeth but nodded her numb assent.

  “Master, master!”

  Selik froze as the shrill greeting penetrated his fury.

  “Bloody, stinking hell!” he cursed, dropping Rain carelessly to the ground as he turned to face a gnomelike man scurrying crablike toward them on bowed legs. His gnarled hands and stooped shoulders bespoke an arthritic condition. He could be no more than forty years old, despite his aged appearance.

  “Thank the gods, I have finally caught up with ye, master,” the trollish man said breathlessly when he reached Selik.

  “Ubbi, what the hell are you doing here? Did I not order you to stay in Jorvik?”

  You-bee. You-bee Rain rolled the strange-sounding name on her tongue silently.

  “But, master, I heard of the battle and thought ye might have need of me.”

  “I am not your master, Ubbi. Endless times have I told you that afore.”

  “Yea, master. I mean, yea, m’lord. Oh, ye know my meaning, master,” he stumbled out.

  Selik groaned and raised his eyes wearily to the skies. “Just what I need—a servant I do not want or need and a guardian angel.”

  Ubbi looked at Rain for the first time, and his eyes widened with surprise. “In truth, master, be she a guardian angel?”

  Selik’s eyes, no longer angry, but twinkling with weary amusement, caught Rain’s. “Yea, she claims her Christian god sent her to save me.”

  Ubbi’s rheumy eyes darted from Rain to Selik, then back to Rain. “From what?” he asked dubiously, apparently figuring a mere woman wouldn’t do Selik much good in battle.

  “From myself,” Selik answered flatly.

  But Ubbi surprised them both by nodding sagely and saying, “’Tis about time.”

  Selik threw both hands in the air, as if he gave up on the two of them. Then he turned to Rain. “Show Ubbi to my tent.”

  “And whe
re should I put Fury?” Ubbi asked sheepishly.

  “Fury! You brought Fury here?”

  “Yea. Methought you might have need of your horse.”

  “Fury! That figures. Only you would give your horse such a morbid name,” Rain commented.

  Selik swept her with a contemptuous, dismissing glance. “Go stick a needle in someone’s eye—preferably a Saxon’s.”

  “I did not stick a needle in Tykir’s eye,” she asserted defensively, “but I’d like to stick one in yours. And a few other choice places. Have you ever heard of a vasectomy?” she asked innocently. At his dumbfounded look, Rain explained just what a vasectomy entailed. She was pleased to see Selik’s face pale at the idea of needles pricking his precious manhood.

  “Needles? Eye?” Ubbi sputtered, pivoting his head back and forth from Rain to Selik as they exchanged insults.

  “You stuck them everywhere but his eye,” Selik accused.

  “He’s alive, isn’t he?”

  “Humph! You no doubt waved your bloody angel wings over him.”

  “You just can’t admit that a mere woman is a physician.”

  “Do not be ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous! Ridiculous! Hah! I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous. It’s you and all these other Dark Age warriors,” she shrieked, sweeping her arm outward to indicate the battered soldiers flooding the vast fields. “You think that war and the taking of human life solve your problems. That’s what’s ridiculous.”

  Ubbi, Sigrid, Gunvor, and all the other spectators who’d gathered nearby gaped at her in stunned disbelief that she would dare to yell at the fierce outlaw knight, but there was a suspicious quirk at the edge of Selik’s twitching lips. Criminey! She’d fallen right into one of his traps again, Rain chastised herself disgustedly.

  “Oh, I give up,” she said, throwing out her hands in resignation. She turned to stomp back to Selik’s tent and called out to Selik’s sidekick, “Well, don’t stand there like a turnip, Ubbi. Are you coming?”

  “Me?” a slack-jawed Ubbi squeaked out.

  Selik grinned infuriatingly.

  “Yes, you,” she snarled and grabbed his arm so forcefully that she almost lifted his small body off the ground. “Talk about ridiculous names. Who ever heard of a name like Ubbi?”

  “What’s wrong with me name?” Ubbi asked weakly, scampering to keep up with her long strides.

  “Sounds like a stupid Motown song. You-bee, doo-bee, doo.”

  Ubbi chortled gleefully at Rain’s softly sung words. “Oh, mistress, thank the Lord fer yer comin’ to save me master. ’Tis just what m’lord be needin’ to lighten his harsh life.”

  After Ubbi cared for Selik’s horse, Fury, a magnificent black destrier with a temperament mean enough to match his owner’s, they went to Selik’s tent, where Ubbi stowed his pitifully small bundle of belongings.

  Ubbi rolled his eyes mischievously toward the sleeping furs. “Didst find the furs soft enuf fer yer fair skin, milady?”

  Rain laughed at Ubbi’s transparent curiosity about whether she and his master had slept together. “No, Ubbi, I didn’t make love with Selik last night.”

  Ubbi clapped a gnarled hand in exaggerated dismay to his chest. “Oh, mistress, a thousand pardons. I know ye did not mate with the master.”

  “You know?”

  “Yea, ’twould be a far better mood my lord would be in if he had eased himself ’atween yer thighs,” Ubbi said impudently, an impish gleam twinkling in his cloudy eyes.

  Rain smiled and shook her head. She liked this crafty fellow.

  They walked back companionably to the clearing, where large groups of men were hurriedly gathering their weapons, preparing to depart. The Saxons must be getting closer.

  “Where are they going?”

  Ubbi shrugged. He nodded toward one grizzly-haired giant wearing what looked like a long piece of plaid fabric thrown over his shoulder. “Constantine and his Scots will go back north, no doubt, along with his nephew Eugenius and his Strathclyde Welsh.” The two burly warriors in their primitive splendor were ordering their men into ranks. Constantine’s eyes looked red rimmed and despairing. Ubbi told her the Scots king had lost his son, Prince Ceallagh, in the battle the day before.

  Then Ubbi pointed out Anlaf Guthfrithsson, the Viking king of Dublin, commander of all the Norsemen in the Brunanburh battle. Awestruck, Rain hadn’t realized she was in the midst of such historic personages.

  She looked back and saw Selik arguing fiercely with Anlaf. Ubbi followed her gaze and commented, “As to that noble cur, ’tis hard to say. Mayhap he will go back to Jorvik and try to regain his Northumbrian empire, but ’tis more likely he will scoot off to Dublin with his tail ’atween his legs.” Ubbi spat on the ground at his feet to show his distaste, then went on, “’Tis said Anlaf has hundreds of ships anchored on the Humber, awaiting his quick departure. One thing is certain, he will not have enough surviving soldiers to man his longboats.”

  Rain scrutinized the tall man with the neatly braided blond hair. Cruelty etched his craggy features, and Rain shivered with distaste, sharing Ubbi’s disdain for King Anlaf.

  “Where will we go?”

  “We?” Ubbi asked with an arched eyebrow.

  “You, me, Selik. And whichever of Selik’s men have survived. Are there any, by the way?”

  Ubbi shook his head woefully. “Nay, all his hird of faithful retainers were taken in the Great Battle, but there will be others to follow. There always are—those who know his true worth, those brave enough to flaunt Athelstan’s wrath. But pitiful few they will be now.” The little man sighed wearily.

  “Then where will we go? To Scotland? Or Wales?”

  Ubbi shot her a look of disbelief. “Nay, Constantine and Eugenius welcome my master’s mighty hand in battle, but they will not relish him in their lands now. They slither home to protect their own backs.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Scots and Welsh kings will pledge their traitorous allegiance to the Saxon ruler now that they have lost the Great Battle, ’til it suits them otherwise. ’Twon’t be the first time. But Selik is a marked man they cannot risk harboring.”

  “And how about the Viking king?” Rain asked, pointing to Anlaf, who still argued with Selik. “Will he welcome him?”

  Ubbi’s lips curled sardonically. “Welcome, nay. But he cannot keep him away. ’Tis certain that is why they bicker now. He prob’ly tries to convince Selik to take his longship and darken Northumbrian shores no more.”

  Anlaf finally stomped away from Selik, his face purple with rage. He called angrily to his men to follow him.

  Selik’s eyes scanned the area, his back straight, his stubborn chin lifted defiantly, undoubtedly knowing the crowd saw him as an outcast even among his own people. His steely eyes found Rain’s and locked in silent challenge.

  Did he expect her to desert him like all the others? She tipped her chin proudly, matching his gesture, hoping he understood that she supported him, no matter what.

  Ubbi reached out his misshapen hand and squeezed hers tightly. “Oh, mistress,” he said softly.

  Never breaking his visual embrace with her, Selik finally nodded solemnly, indicating his acceptance of her silent pledge of loyalty. Several warriors moved then to his side, as well. Rain’s misty eyes caressed Selik, and her heart swelled in her chest with an overwhelming yearning to ease the pain of this lonely man.

  Rain wished she could erase the bleakness in Selik’s eyes and somehow knew she would have to enter his emotional hell to help pull him out. But what would be her fate then? Could she ever return to her own time? And what scars would she carry forevermore?

  Chapter Four

  Rain watched with dismay as more and more of the soldiers dismantled their tents, gathered their furs and bedding, and left the secluded camp with brisk efficiency. Some departed with military precision under the leadership of Kings Constantine and Anlaf. Others rushed away individually or in small groups, calling out promises to meet lat
er in the northern lands of the Scots, or Dublin where the Norsemen reigned, or Jorvik, the town Rain knew as York.

  Within hours, the flat-topped plain was almost deserted.

  Ubbi tended the cooking fires abandoned by the women who had fled with their husbands. A dozen scruffy soldiers who had chosen to stay with Selik were clearing up the debris and helping Selik to cover the trails of the departing warriors.

  “Why aren’t we leaving too?” Rain asked Ubbi.

  “The master would ne’er leave Tykir, and ’twill be days afore he is well enuf fer travel.”

  “Is it safe here?”

  “Be ye barmy?” Ubbi asked with a mocking snort. “’Tis ne’er safe for me lord when Saxons be about. King Athelstan put a bounty on his head long ago, but now he will no doubt want his eyes and tongue, as well.”

  “Why?”

  “You were at the Great Battle. Did ye not see the Saxon he speared near the end, the one he hoisted on his halberd and stuck in the ground soz the noble prince swung from the pike?”

  Rain nodded uneasily. “A Saxon prince?”

  He shook his craggy head sadly. “King Athelstan’s own cousin, Elwinus.” He wrung his misshaped hands worriedly. “And even worse, Elwinus was brother to that bastard—excuse me language, m’lady—to that wretched Steven of Gravely, who hates Selik with a passion.”

  “Oh, my God! Then Selik should leave now. I’ll stay and take care of Tykir while he recuperates. Even if we’re discovered here, the Saxons have no reason to harm me.”

  Ubbi’s rheumy eyes shot her a look of disbelief. “And what do ye think they would do to Tykir? Coddle him with chicken broth and sweet wine? Hah! They would just as soon cut off all his limbs and let him bleed to death.”

  “Don’t tell me there’s a bounty on Tykir’s head as well.”

  “Nay, leastways, not yet, but he fought on the wrong side in this battle.”

  “I still say Selik should leave us here and escape while he can.”

  “Oh, mistress, ye do not unnerstan’. Even if ’twere not fer Tykir, my lord wud not abandon you here alone. Ye belong to him now.”