The Pirate Bride

by Sandra Hill

  Osten picked up where his brother left off. “And the food! The roast boar is rancid, and I saw dead weevils in the bread.” He glanced around the small, meticulously clean summer kitchen and picked up an oatcake, popping it into his mouth. “ ’Twould seem you know how to care for yourself well enough, though.”

  Now they are going to blame me for their filthy cook? What next? The garderobes?

  Sigurd’s attention turned to Agnis then. “Go prepare a chamber for me and my brother, thrall. And wait for me in my bed.”

  Agnis, who a short time ago had been an independent, happy merchant in Hedeby, cowered and scurried off to do Sigurd’s bidding. And Medana felt helpless to do anything about Agnis’s position. She would grab a knife and stab her brother in a trice if that would save Agnis, or herself. But that would only cause more problems for them. Nay, she needed to act docile and accepting until she could come up with a plan.

  Gathering all her courage, she motioned for Sigurd to sit down at the table. “We must talk, brother.”

  “Must we?” Sigurd arched a brow with scorn, but he sat down.

  Meanwhile, Osten was already seated on the same bench and stuffing bread and honey and oatcakes into his mouth.

  “What do you want of me?” she asked, sitting across from the two brothers.

  “Not what I want of you, but what you will do. We leave in the morning for Vestfold. The Althing will start in five days, where we will present a case for pardon of your crime against Ulfr and permission to wed Leistr. Throughout this whole process, you will act repentant and humble. And you will do everything in your power to make yourself agreeable to your betrothed. In fact, if he chooses to test your wares afore the wedding, there will be no talk of rape this time.”

  Inside, she cringed, but she would not show her brother how repulsed and frightened she was. “Is that all?”

  Her sarcasm fueled his anger even more. “Dare you take an attitude with me, you demented bitch?” He half stood and reached across the table with an open palm raised high, about to slap her, hard.

  Osten pulled him back just in time and cautioned, “No marks. Remember. Leistr must believe she comes willingly.”

  With a sigh of resignation, she looked directly at first one brother, then the other. “You cannot sell Agnis. She and Egil must come with me after I wed. I will not cooperate, otherwise.”

  “You have no choice,” Sigurd snapped, and she could tell he was barely restraining himself from doing her some bodily harm.

  “Wait, Sigurd,” Osten said. “If giving up Agnis will ensure Geira’s compliance, then let it be so. As for the boy . . . you have sons aplenty. A thrall son will make no difference.”

  Idiots! My brothers are callous idiots.

  Sigurd hesitated and then nodded. Gods only knew if he would keep his word, but his concession would give them time. For what, she wasn’t sure.

  “Why? Why do you go to all this trouble?” she asked then. “Take Snow Pines. I’ll go away, and this time you can have me declared dead.”

  Sigurd laughed and it was not a nice laugh. “You lackbrain split-tail! Snow Pines is of little importance to us. Leistr will die soon after your marriage, and we will get our hands on his vast wealth. After that, we will find you another husband. A graybeard again, of course. And from there, at your age, we figure you may manage at least three more marriages afore you lose your comeliness.”

  “Comeliness?” she choked out, the least important of all the filth her brother spouted.

  “Yea. Men seem to find you attractive,” Osten explained. “I cannot see it myself.”

  “Me neither,” Sigurd said with a shiver of distaste.

  Medana sat there, stunned, in the face of her brothers’ leering looks. Their plan for her was so much more evil than she ever could have imagined. She suspected they weren’t talking about natural deaths for her husbands.

  And she knew in that moment that her nightmare was about to get much worse.

  It was like a giant festival, except he wasn’t feeling very festive . . .

  Thork had run into so many dead ends he no longer knew where to search for Medana anymore. He was beyond worried about her condition, with the vicious nature of her brothers.

  One of the first places he had gone after regaining his men and longships at Hedeby was Stormgard, where he was told on arriving that Medana’s brothers Sigurd and Osten were in residence. After ascertaining from some guards they’d captured that Medana was not there and hadn’t been for more than ten years, he had stormed into the great hall, uninvited.

  “Which of you is lord of this keep?” Thork had bellowed.

  “I am,” said one of the men sitting at the high table on a dais with another man and two women, probably their wives. Both men stood and proceeded to come down the steps toward him. People throughout the hall stopped eating and drinking to see what was happening.

  “I am Sigurd Torsson, and this is my brother Osten.”

  “Where is Vermund?”

  “How would I know? I am not my brother’s keeper. Ha, ha, ha. Who the hell are you, and how did you get in here?” Belatedly, Sigurd had glanced toward the back of the hall and saw a dozen of Thork’s men, along with Guthrom, in full battle gear, lining up to block the door, in the event someone might make a foolish attempt to escape. If they failed to find Medana here, Guthrom would be off to Northumbria for assistance.

  “I am Thork Tykirsson of Dragonstead. You may have met my father Tykir Thorksson . . . or his cousin King Harald.”

  Sigurd had cocked his head to the side. “Why did you not say so? Welcome to Stormgard. Wouldst care to share a cup of ale?”

  Was he serious? The lackbrain! “I would not share a cup of anything with you. Where is Medana?”

  “There is no one here by that name.” Sigurd had turned to his brother. “Is there, Osten?” Osten shook his head.

  “You know very well who I mean. Geira. Your sister.”

  “Ah,” Sigurd had said, about to give a signal to some of his housecarls to come to his assistance.

  “I would not do that if I were you.” Thork had put a hand on the hilt of his broadsword. “You and your brother would be headless afore they could reach me.”

  Sigurd had gasped, and Osten blanched, putting a hand to his neck.

  “Geira is not here, as you well know if you managed to get by my guardsmen outside,” Sigurd had said. “What do you want with our sister, anyhow?” Osten had asked.

  “She is my betrothed.” Well, almost. If I ever catch up with her, she will be. Mayhap. Nay, she definitely will be. After all, she called me a loathsome lout that last day.

  “She never is!” Sigurd’s already florid face had filled with color. “She is betrothed to Jarl Leistr Adilsson.”

  Ah, so that was the latest puppet they’d lined up. “Is that so? Has the king given his permission? The king who is my father’s cousin?”

  He had thought about telling the men that Medana carried his child, but he did not know if that was the case now, or if it had ever been the case. Or if they might mistreat her even more if they suspected her of having shared his bed.

  “Where. Is. She?” he had gritted out.

  Sigurd had shrugged. “Probably off pirating or whoring, from what I hear of her recent activities.”

  Sigurd’s ill-chosen comment had caused Thork’s fist to fly to Sigurd’s lackwit mouth. “That was for the scars on your sister’s back.” When he broke a stool over Sigurd’s head, he had proclaimed, “And that is because you are a nithing of a man who feels big only when overpowering women.”

  A melee had broken out then with Thork taking on Sigurd, Guthrom going after Osten, and the rest of Thork’s hird fighting the Stormgard warriors who had been seated. It had not been a fight to the death. Thork needed the foul Torsson brothers alive if they were to find Medana’s whereabouts. There had been numerous injuries on both sides, though.

  After that, Thork had gone to King Harald’s court, then to Hedeby and Kaupang and
Birka, trying to get news of Vermund’s whereabouts, figuring his absence to be telling. He’d even approached Leistr’s holdings in the Danish lands, but the old man was absent. Lacking success in those places, he’d gone to Dragonstead, where his father had reported equal failure, though he was gathering support from his neighbors for the upcoming Althing. Then Thork had gone back to Stormgard, where he had posted guards to watch for the Torssons’ doings and any travels they might be making. Eventually they gave up.

  It was as if Medana had disappeared from the face of the earth.

  So now Thork was about to arrive at Vestfold, where he would meet up with his father and all their supporters to await the Althing. He and his father had tried submitting petitions to the king for an audience, but the king was overburdened with preparations for the Althing and kept putting them off.

  Bolthor and Katherine had gone back to their home in Northumbria. The skald had promised to come back, if he was needed.

  Guthrom and Starri were with Thork, plaguing him at every turn over what he should do when next he met Medana.

  Believe me, I know exactly what to do when next I meet Medana. I am going to grab on to her and never let go.

  There were already a hundred or more longships of various sizes lined up along the wharves of Vestfold and anchored a short distance out in open waters. The Althing was to begin tomorrow. His parents, who’d been there for days—bless their kind hearts—had saved a spot for him, and he and his seamen were able to maneuver the longship into a tight space.

  Once he alighted and hugged both of them, his father said, “Medana’s case will be heard before the law court at the Althing two days hence. You will have a chance to speak after her brothers.”

  He brightened at that. “Do you think Medana will be here?”

  “I haven’t seen any sign of her or her brothers yet, but she is sure to be here for the court. Otherwise, I doubt the king will allow her case to be heard. He was not too fond of my requests that he absolve her in her absence, despite my continually reminding him of our blood ties,” his father related with a chuckle as they all began walking toward the king’s castle and beyond.

  “ ‘Cousin? What cousin?’ King Harald kept saying. ‘This is the first I have e’er heard you brag of any kinship with me, Tykir,’ ” his father related with a loud guffaw.

  The royal castle was a large one, but not large enough to accommodate all the people who were arriving. So a tent city was rising in the grounds beyond the castle for many hectares in the distance. That’s where they would be staying.

  An Althing was a gathering of all noble Norsemen and freemen to discuss issues involving the country, usually their bloody Saxon enemies; to settle arguments; to arrange marriages; and to have a generally fine time with all kinds of entertainment. Thork did not feel one bit like being entertained.

  As they walked through the pathways that had been made among the tents, he saw many wondrous sights. Vendors of all kinds sold everything from silver combs to silk fabrics, animals to longships, exotic fruits to homegrown honey. Craftsmen plied their skills on precious metals and rare woods. Music came from some of the tents, singing and instruments. Games were played. Horse races arranged. Wrestling matches. Gambling.

  Starri stopped at one of them to speak with a very attractive woman with straight, pitch-black hair and a pearly complexion. A widow who had been a friend to Starri’s dearly departed wife, his mother told Thork with a twinkle in her green eyes.

  His father was buying a flagon of wine from a drinks merchant to take back to their tent.

  While they were waiting, his mother said, squeezing his arm, “I have a feeling that all will be over in a few days.”

  “Yea, but will it be to my liking or not?” he grumbled.

  “ ’Tis in the Lord’s hand now,” his mother prophesied.

  He rolled his eyes. “I cannot stand by and wait for some celestial being to handle my problems.”

  “And who said that you should? Pray to God, but sharpen your sword. That is my philosophy.” Even after all the years of living in the Norselands, his mother had never given up her Saxon Christianity.

  “My sword is always sharp,” he grumbled some more.

  “Ah, but there are swords, and then there are swords,” his mother said.

  On that mysterious message, Thork decided to join his father at the drinks tent. He could use a beer . . . or twenty.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Breaking up is hard to do, even back in Viking times . . .

  Medana was in Vestfold. By the end of the day tomorrow, when she would appear before the law court, all would be settled.

  Thork was here somewhere. She knew he was, but she could not think on that now. She girded herself with resolve. She would be strong. She would do what she must, even if it meant an end to any happiness she might have had with “the wildest Viking to ride a longship.”

  She was walking now between her brother Sigurd and her betrothed Jarl Leistr Adilsson. Both handsome, albeit older, hardened men with a slash of cruelty about their square jaws.

  But Medana was not the weak woman she’d been ten years ago. She’d demanded a private meeting with Leistr in which she’d promised to come to him willingly if he would “buy” Agnis and Egil from her brother.

  “Why should I do that?” Leistr had snarled after grabbing for her and pressing hard kisses to her closed mouth.

  “Because I can be a pleasing bedmate. Because, gods willing, I can give you sons, which you never got from your previous wives. Because I can make your home a pleasant, welcoming place for you to return to after going a-Viking or a-fighting.”

  Adilsson had considered her words and apparently found some appeal because Agnis and Egil were now at Leistr’s estate under Osten’s watch, awaiting her wedding, after which they would become Medana’s thralls. As if she would ever keep slaves!

  Medana was dressed today in fine raiment befitting her station, her brother having generously allowed her access to a trunk with her old garments. A violet gunna covered by an ankle-length, open-sided apron of dark purple samite silk in the Viking style. The gunna was pleated and trailed slightly in the back. The apron had matching gold pennanular brooches attached to the loops of both shoulders. On her feet were gold-embroidered purple slippers. Her blonde hair hung in a thick braid down her back, intertwined with pearls and amethysts.

  She saw Thork before he saw her.

  He, too, was dressed in the best finery. A deep green wool tunic brought out the green in his eyes. The tunic was belted at the waist over black braies and boots. His blond hair was clubbed back at the neck, calling attention to the thunderbolt earring in his one ear. He looked more the pirate than she had ever been. And, oh, she loved him so in that moment, so much that her heart clenched with pain.

  Sigurd’s fingers pinched her upper arm, noticing the direction of her stare. “Remember Agnis,” he hissed at her. “You seal Agnis’s fate and that of her whelp. Some men at the slave marts have a preference for pretty boylings.”

  She got the foul message and nodded.

  It was Thork’s brother Starri who called his attention to her. Starri, the opposite of Thork in appearance, with his dark red hair and freckles, was nonetheless a handsome man. They’d been talking to a dark-haired woman with creamy, English rose type skin.

  When Thork first saw her, his face brightened, but then he turned thunderous when he saw the two men at either side of her. Sigurd’s injuries had not yet healed, and his chin showed a decided dark bruise.

  “Medana!” Thork exclaimed, coming up to her. “I have been so worried about you.” He went to reach for her, but her brother pulled her back.

  “As you can see, my sister is fine. No need to worry. Have you met her betrothed, Jarl Leistr Adilsson? They expect to be wed next sennight.”

  “Medana?” Thork asked. When she didn’t respond, he said, “You don’t have to do this.”

  Yea, I do. “It is my wish,” she lied, and made sure her eyel
ashes weren’t fluttering.

  Thork gasped, and it almost seemed as if he had tears in his eyes. “We need to talk,” Thork insisted.

  She knew he would not give up, so she turned to Sigurd and said, “I will speak to Thork for a moment. No need for concern.” And to her stony-faced betrothed, she said, “He needs to be told of our plans.”

  They allowed her to step away with Thork, but she knew it would be for only a few moments.

  “Thork, I am fine, as you can see. I appreciate all you have done for me, but I must go on now and do what is best for me and . . . for me and those I care for.” She gazed pleadingly at him, wanting him to accept her decision without being told details.

  “What about me?” he asked.

  “You?” She pretended not to understand. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. There is no baby.”

  He flinched. “Did that miserable brother of yours cause you to lose the baby?”

  “I do not think there ever was a baby,” she told him, which was partly true. There might not have been.

  “I am so sorry,” he said, putting his hand on her arm.

  He is sorry. Does that mean he wanted our baby? Oh, I cannot think about that now. She shrugged away. She could not allow him to touch her, or she would be lost.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Acting as if you do not care. I know you do, you called me a loathsome lout in your message to Brokk that last day.” He smiled, trying to cajole an answering smile from her.

  She girded herself not to react to his charm. “Why would you care?”

  “Because I love you, you foolish wench?” he said in a voice low and husky with meaning.

  She moaned softly, then straightened. “Nay, you do not. That is guilt speaking. And I do not love you, either. It is over, Thork.”

  He stared at her, struck dumb by her assertion.

  “There is one thing, Thork . . .”

  He didn’t even respond. Just stared at her, coldly.