The Pirate Bride

by Sandra Hill

  “Me too,” Thork admitted with some surprise. Three sennights was a long time for him to go without sex, and it made no difference if it was of the Onan variety or not. Some of the others had already succumbed, and more would join their ranks if they stayed here much longer. Even him.

  “Mayhap we should have used the bratlings on this island from the beginning,” Bolthor suggested, wiping the perspiration off his forehead with the back of a hairy forearm.

  “Nay. Fierce as you might be in warfare, I know that you would not countenance harming children to gain your ends. None of us would.”

  “Some Viking men—Saxon and Frankish men, too, for that matter—wouldn’t hesitate to chop off body parts of young hostages . . . fingers, toes, ears, and such until they gained their ends. They did it to your uncle Eirik when he was a lad. A finger, as I recall. Nigh drove mad your grandsire Thork, for whom you are named.”

  He and Bolthor looked at each other and their upper lips curled with distaste. Nay, that was not the way for Thork and his comrades-in-arms, and that did not make them weak, either, in his opinion. Instead, they’d commissioned Brokk, who’d made friends with the little ones here on the island, to use his game and storytelling talents to gain the information they needed.

  Once they knew how to get off the island, they would leave, even if they had to tie the women to the rowing benches. And Thork would put their leader on the prow to lead the way.

  In the meantime, Thork and his men would stay apart from the village in order to guarantee that any food or drink that passed their lips would not be tainted with the sleeping draught. Just to make sure, they would have their very own taster to ensure their safety. That would be Medana.

  “I know, I know!” Brokk shouted gleefully as he ran into the clearing, coming to a skidding stop before Thork. Once all the men had gathered around the boy, and he managed to catch his breath, Brokk told them, “ ’Tis the pond. That is the means of getting off this island.”

  “Huh?” the men said as one.

  “The pond on that slope above the village is actually a tide pool. When the tide is up, the pond fills. When the tide goes down, it empties to reveal a tunnel through the mountain. Once through the tunnel, there is a narrow strip of land connecting Thrudr to Small Island. Remember that day we climbed to the top of the mountain and we saw a tiny island in the distance. That is how they get the longship from here, out to the sea, and back again. It must all be done with the tides, at exactly the right time.”

  For a moment, there was silence as they all pondered this news.

  “Now that I think on it, the pool water does have a salty flavor,” Finn said. “I noticed when I bathed there a few days past.”

  A few days past? Hah! Finn bathed practically every day . . . more than any man Thork knew. And Vikings tended to bathe more than the average man, so that was saying a lot. In fact, some said it was the reason why women from many countries welcomed Viking men to their bed furs. They stank less than their own countrymen. That and their innate beauty and manliness, of course. His lips twitched with humor.

  But that was neither here nor there. Finn should have realized that something was amiss there. They all should have.

  “And have you noticed that the women keep steering us away from the pond?” Jostein pointed out. “Especially toward nightfall.”

  “Here I thought it was because they could not resist my virility.” Jamie appeared genuinely annoyed, but then he saw them gaping at him with disdain. “What? ’Twas a reasonable conclusion for a braw laddie like me. How was I to know the women were begging to take me in their beds, rather than on the grass beside the pond, for such a reason? Good thing I did not yield . . . what? I did not totally yield. Just a wee bit of foresport.”

  “Lackwit!” Thork muttered.

  “Methinks that would make a good saga. ‘Braw Lads Who Are Not So Braw,’ ” Bolthor said to Jamie.

  “Methinks you would look good with two eye patches,” Jamie replied.

  “I feel such a fool,” Henry interjected. “I engaged in more than a wee bit of foresport with Lilli on the grassy plot near the pond, three bloody nights in a row, and I ne’er saw any evidence of a tunnel.”

  “Now, Henry, men will be men when their enthusiasm is rising,” Finn assured the Asian man. “When the carnal haze covers a man’s eyes, all he can see are teats and arse. ’Tis a fact of life. The gods made us that way.”

  “Wise words, Finn!” Jamie was grinning like an idiot.

  “That’s so the mead haze that blinds a man’s eyes when he is in the midst of drukkinn madness keeps him from seeing how unlovely are some teats and arses he brings to his bed furs.” This from Jostein, who usually didn’t have much of a sense of humor, let alone a droll one.

  “That would be good fodder for a poem, too.” Bolthor stared dreamily up into the sky as the verse mood came upon him. “Maids Get Prettier at Alehead Time.”

  “There are maids that are comely,

  And those that are homely.

  They have the same female bits,

  Drawing men to them like nitwits.

  Still, a pretty face and shapely form

  Make it easier for a man to perform.

  Except when in the midst of drukkinn madness,

  Who can blame a man for being remiss?

  Yea, betimes ale causes a man to go blind,

  And in the morn, he does find

  The beauty he bedded and did actually cajole

  Is in fact a wart-nosed, ugly troll.

  The moral of this saga; men should always pick

  Their bedmates with a clear head.”

  “Aaarrgh!” Bolthor’s sagas were getting worse and worse.

  And, to his chagrin, Thork was beginning to understand so many previously confusing details about the women on the island, while his men sat about spouting nonsense and Bolthor found excuses to wax poetic. “Must be that the low tide occurs during the night at this time of the year,” he mused with an abrupt change of subject.

  Brokk nodded vigorously. “Yea, that is what the children say. After midnight when most of them are long abed.”

  Thork recalled immediately the night he had taken Medana for a walk and she had balked at going in the direction of the pond. She must have been laughing afterward with her women friends at the fool she had made of him.

  “It really is a clever idea for a hiding place,” Henry conceded. “I never would have imagined such, especially from women. Methinks I will have to reevaluate the craftiness of the female species.”

  “Hah! You are just now learning that women are born slyboots?” This from Jostein again. Thork once again wondered what had happened to him over the years to turn him bitter.

  “Well, not so much clever, as fortunate,” Thork commented. “No one could have dreamed up or built such a hidden tunnel. Lucky they were to stumble onto it. Yea, luck landed in their path and they pounced on the opportunity, I give them credit for that.” Something occurred to him then. “That is why they want to use the sleeping draught again. If they are going to take us back to Hedeby, they want us to be unaware of how they get in and out of Thrudr.”

  “So that we will not come back to lop off their heads?” Bolthor asked.

  “That, or worse.” Thork would take great pleasure in enacting his own revenge when the time was right. Mayhap he would take the Sea Scourge—better named Thork’s Scourge, if you asked him—as his captive once he left the island. He could keep her chained in the hold of his longship when he went a-Viking or on a trading mission, or chained to his bedpost at night. Naked, of course. Or he could put her in a wooden cage and charge folks to come view a female pirate. Naked, of course. Or he could sell her in the slave marts. Naked, of course. A Viking female pirate in a sultan’s harem would appeal to some Arab men. Or he could just kill her, and be done with it, naked or not. In any case, she would be sorry for crossing wills with him when he was done with her.

  In fact, it was time to begin taking back control of
his life. Time to get their “food taster.”

  An hour later, he and his men approached the village. They were all fully armed with makeshift lances made from tree limbs, slings with small rocks, and small knives and swords they’d pilfered here and there, not to mention the axe Bolthor had been using. Thork led the point of an arrow position, three men spread out on either side of him, and one behind.

  Medana stood in the open double doorway of a large shed, taking a break from the shearing of a dozen sheep. The place smelled of damp wool, sheep dung, and human sweat, the air filled with the sound of bleating lambs and swearing women who struggled to hold on to the squirming beasts. Without forewarning, he walked up to the mistress of everything and announced, “Lady Medana, you are cordially invited to be our guest up on the mountain.”

  She jerked around with surprise, not having heard his approach for the baa-ing and cursing. Then she arched her brows at him. “Guest?”

  “Yea. You know what a guest is. ’Tis what you called us men when you brought us to your island home. Now, you will come to our island home. As a guest.”

  “The hunters’ hut? That is what you call home? Not so grand an estate for a fine jarl as yourself.”

  Did she dare show amusement at his expense? Oooh, he could scarce hold on to his temper. “The very same hunters’ dwelling, which we have made ready for you.”

  “For me?” No longer amused, she had the good sense to grow fearful.

  “Well, you and us.” He waved a hand to encompass all his men.

  She noticed the weapons they carried. “What do you want?”

  “You. Well, to be precise, you as our guest.”

  She narrowed her luscious lavender eyes at him. “Thank you, but nay, I have too much work to do.”

  “Uh, mayhap I was not clear. You have no choice.” He extended a hand to her—the free hand, his other having moved to the hilt of his pilfered sword. “Come peaceably, or come unpeaceably. Either way, you will come.”

  “Is that a threat?” she asked, extending two fingers up to her lips.

  The shrill whistle—a call to arms—pierced the air, causing her women to pick up any weapon to hand, even long-bladed shears. But his men closed ranks, as planned, and he was able to grab the wily witch by the waist and toss her over his shoulder, arse upward, and begin to stomp away.

  “Give the order for your women to stay back, or I swear, I will tell my men to kill them.”

  “You are outnumbered, you loathsome lout.”

  “Outnumbered we may be, but there will be a dozen female bodies on the ground afore you can whistle again.”

  “Stay!” She braced her hands on either side of his waist and raised her head to yell to the women. “No need for violence. I am just going to visit with Thork for a short time.”

  As short as I decide!

  The women backed up, reluctantly, some of them calling out rude remarks to his men as they did so. His men rather liked the rude remarks, if their chuckles and grins were any indication.

  “You can put me down now,” she said to his back, having lowered her arms. Her lips were nigh about level with the crack of his behind. Not that he would mention it at the moment. He took inordinate pleasure knowing her breath brushed his arse.

  “I’ll put you down when I am ready, though you do weigh as much as a horse.”

  “You overbearing oaf!”

  “I am exaggerating, of course. You are no more heavy than a big pony. Or yon cow.”

  “Very funny! Your shoulders are very bony, you know. I will no doubt have bruises on my stomach.”

  “Not to fear! I will smear ointment on your belly. Seems to me there was some fish oil in that bundle of household goods we brought up this afternoon.”

  “You are not putting smelly fish oil on me.”

  “Hah! You are already malodorous, m’lady. You smell like a sheep that has been wallowing in mud.”

  “You smell like a stinksome Viking.”

  “Ah, well, we will save water then by bathing together this night.”

  That caused her to go silent. He was silent, too, as the strain of carrying her up the inclined path began to take a toll. When he finally got to the clearing before the hunters’ hut, he was panting for breath and at first didn’t recognize the rustling sound as he lowered Medana to the ground. But then he did.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “That rustling sound when the placket of your braies rubbed against me as I lowered you.”

  “Oh. Naught of importance.” She slapped a hand over the side flap while her eyelids went afluttering and color bloomed on her cheeks, even more than had been caused by blood rushing to her head when upside down.

  He reached out a hand. “Show me.”

  “It’s not my fault.”

  He arched his brows. Now that sounded like guilt, pure and simple.

  She pulled a folded parchment out of her placket.

  And he saw red stars dancing in front of his blazing eyes when he noticed the wax seal. “You wrote another letter!” he accused her.

  “Nay, nay, nay!” she said, backing away from him. “ ’Tis just that there were apparently two responses to my one missive. The other was . . . um, misplaced for a short time.”

  “Two responses from my father?” Thork couldn’t help himself. A hope came unbidden in his sorry self that his father had changed his mind and was coming to rescue him. Not that Thork needed rescuing, not any longer—well, not ever—but it would be nice to know that his father cared, that he trusted him to have changed.

  “Nay, not from your father. From”—she hesitated—“your mother.”

  At first he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. In fact, he hit the side of his head with the heel of his hand to clear his ears. “My mother?”

  She nodded.

  He let out a growl that startled even himself, and Medana backed up more.

  “Do not be alarmed, Thork. It is actually a very nice letter,” Medana said, placing it on a wood stump that stood between them.

  A nice letter? This ought to be good. He unfolded the parchment and began to read.

  Dear Sea Scourge:

  Pay no mind to my husband. The loathsome lout is too proud by half. Much as he loves his son, Tykir has been hurt by Thork’s actions of late. He will regret his hasty reply, in time.

  I notice that you refer to Thork as a “loathsome lout.” How interesting! That has become an endearment of sorts in my family. ’Tis what I call my lackwit husband when he behaves badly, as all Norsemen are wont to do without the greater wisdom of their women to guide them. Is it possible that . . . well, pay no heed to this mother who wants only the best for her son.

  I look forward to meeting you. Please send me news of my son. Does he still grind his teeth when upset? Is he sleeping well? Make sure he changes his smallclothes regularly. Some men need prodding in that regard. Well, Thork’s problem is not changing smallclothes but not wearing any to begin with. Can you imagine? His favorite sweetmeat is figs dipped in honey.

  Give Thork my love and tell him that I miss him sorely.

  Yours till we meet,

  Lady Alinor of Dragonstead

  Thork ground his teeth before he caught himself and would have been amused if he weren’t so outraged. His life had been on the slippery slope to Muspell even since he had come into the clutches of “the Sea Scourge.”

  His men came up then and noticed the parchment in his hands and the new anger flooding his face.

  “Uh-oh!” Alrek said.

  “Someone is in big trouble,” Jamie added, and looked pointedly at Medana.

  “Take the wench and tie her to the bedpost,” Thork ordered.

  “You are a bullheaded, lackbrained dolt,” Medana said. “Threats will gain you naught.”

  “Naked?” Jamie asked Thork hopefully.

  Thork shrugged. “Why not?”

  The struggling Medana fought the men’s arms that attempted to restrain her, prot
esting to one and all that she was innocent. Mostly.

  When her gaze locked with his, pleading, he was unmoved. “You will make a very nice prow head on my longship . . . the one previously called Pirate Lady, which I have decided to rename Viking’s Revenge.”

  “You cannot take our longship. Without Pirate Lady, we could not survive,” she protested.

  “You should have thought of that afore taking us captive,” he said. “I intend to put her out to sea on the morrow.”

  Her shrieks could no doubt be heard all the way to the village, or out to Small Island.

  He did not care. Not even when she threatened, foolishly, “Wait ’til I tell your mother.”

  There was an ancient saying that revenge was a bitter brew not worth its aftertaste, but the old one who coined that phrase had clearly not been a Viking.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hunger games can be effective . . .

  Medana was not naked, but she wished she were. By late that evening, tethered by ankle and bound hands to the bed frame in the tiny, dark, stuffy, windowless room, she was sickened by the smell of her own sweating body, and she’d been well on her way to needing a bath before this monstrous event had commenced.

  Finally, after what must have been six or more hours of having been locked inside the addition to the hunters’ longhouse, the door opened and Thork sauntered in, big as he bloody well pleased, carrying a torch that he stuck into a wall bracket.

  “Good eventide, Mistress of Pirates.”

  “Go to Muspell, Master of Toads!”

  “Tsk, tsk! Someone is not happy.”

  “You would not be happy, either, if you were bound and kept in a close space with no water or way to relieve yourself.”

  “Oh? You mean like the hold of a ship? Except you are spared the company of an angry bull.”

  She hadn’t thought about that. Still . . .

  The lout grinned as he approached her.

  She eyed him warily. ’Twas always best for a woman to be on her guard when a man grinned like that.