by Sandra Hill
He shook his head. “I can’t. Not right now.”
“Why not?”
“We were sent here for a reason.”
“What reason?”
“Um . . . I can’t tell you.”
“Do you know?”
“Um . . . yes.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. He was lying, or keeping something from her. “Idiot,” she muttered under her breath. Then aloud, “Will we go back?”
“I think so. Eventually. As for your sister, she might have already left the ranch. For Syria or Pakistan or God only knows where. If she’s still there, my brothers will rescue her. I notified my brother Vikar of the conditions, just before we left. There would have been a hird of vangels there before that bedroom door was broken down.”
“That makes me feel much better,” she said in a tone of sarcasm. But it actually did. Not that she wasn’t still worried about Celie, but it appeared as if her sister would be in capable hands. But that brought up another question. “If your brothers were coming, why didn’t we stay?”
“Because there was that period before they arrived, even if was only ten minutes, when you and I were vastly outnumbered. We had to leave.”
“I still can’t believe what happened back there, not that I really know what happened.”
“I’ll explain it all later when there’s no chance we will be interrupted.” As it was, people kept peering down the hall, staying away only because they sensed their master wanted some privacy. They wouldn’t be put off indefinitely.
She put her face in her hands. “Maybe I’m already dead, and this is my Purgatory, though I don’t think I’ve done anything bad enough to merit such punishment.”
“Hoggstead isn’t that bad,” Cnut said with affront.
She lowered her hands and saw that he was serious. “Hoggstead? How perfect! A pig farm!”
“Hoggson was the name of the original owner of this estate. It’s not a pig farm, though I imagine a pig or two would come in handy in the midst of this famine.”
“A famine? That is just great. Demons, vampires, tele-damn-transport, and now a famine! What else do you have planned for me?”
“I’m not planning anything. And you’re not dead, and this isn’t some Other World. It’s the same world but a different time period,” he tried to explain.
She wasn’t buying it. “Maybe it’s a bad dream. A nightmare. But I’ve never dreamed in such vivid color before. And the detail! And all the different characters! And the smell! Phew!”
“Enough! You’ve made it clear what you think of my home. And, now that I see it through modern eyes, I have to admit, it is a bit of a mess.”
“More like a debacle.”
He looked so dejected that she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
She was trying her best not to recall what she’d seen back at the ranch. Those horrid creatures. And Cnut was apparently some kind of creature, too. With fangs!
“What are you?” she asked suddenly.
“A vangel. I told you before.”
“That explains everything.”
He closed his lips over pointy lateral incisors. “Vangels are Viking vampire angels, created by God and commanded by St. Michael the Archangel to rid the world of Lucipires, demon vampires.”
“The creatures we saw? You called them Lucies.”
He nodded.
“And you’re an angel?”
“Sort of. A vampire angel. Suffice to say, we are the good guys, or as good as a Viking can be.”
“You realize this is impossible to believe.”
“It is what it is.”
“Well, at least there are none of them here.”
An odd expression crossed his face.
“What?”
“There were none when I was here last, more than a thousand years ago. Leastways, none that I was aware of. But I cannot imagine that they don’t exist in this time, too. After all, sin is ageless. Lucifer is older than the Creation, isn’t he?”
“You’re asking me?”
“Just be careful.”
“You are an idiot.” She smacked him on the arm, for about the tenth time.
“You might want to consider toning down the anger. Some might construe that as sinful. And Lucies are attracted by the lemon scent of sinners, like bees to a honeypot.” He sniffed the air. “No lemons. Yet. Just coconut.”
He was probably teasing.
She was in no mood for teasing.
Just then, a man pushed through the crowd, which was blocking the far end of the hallway, still watching them. It was the man who’d fainted earlier on first seeing Cnut.
Cnut turned and smiled at the approaching man, who was smiling as well. He was a head shorter than Cnut and two times his age, but nicely dressed in a belted tunic over slim pants. His long, gray-threaded blond hair hung in a thick braid down his back, and he had a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. More than anything, she noticed that he was clean, unlike many she’d seen here so far.
“The gods have smiled on us today. You are not dead!” The man opened his arms and hugged Cnut warmly.
That is debatable. Vangels are dead, aren’t they?
“Thank the One-God,” Cnut said and hugged him back.
The older man arched his brows. “A Christian now?”
Cnut ignored the question. “I take it the situation is dire here?”
“Worse than you can imagine.”
“Andrea, I would have you meet Finngeir, my steward and longtime friend. Finn, this is my . . . um, companion. Andrea Stewart of Philadelphia. She is a far-famed cook and expert in kitchen matters. A magician when it comes to food.”
It was a nice compliment, but a clear embellishment of her credentials. The devious lout was buttering her up for something.
“I am hoping that she will be able to help us solve our most critical issue . . . feeding the masses.”
Yep. Butter, butter, butter.
“I welcome any advice you can give me, m’lady.” The steward looked at her, as if he wasn’t sure of her place here.
She wasn’t sure, either, but she quipped, “As long as you don’t expect me to turn five loaves and two fishes into a feast for thousands.”
Cnut understood what she meant, and cringed, but Finn frowned in confusion.
“Like in the Bible. What Jesus did. A miracle,” she explained.
“Ah, the Christian Holy Book,” Finn said, though he gave Cnut another questioning look. Apparently, they weren’t Christians here.
Turned out, once they entered the hellhole that purported to be a kitchen, it really would take a miracle to turn this place around.
The kitchen itself was a massive room, about half the size of a basketball court. Two hearths, each big enough for a person to stand in, blazed with fires in which cauldrons bubbled and haunches of meat roasted. Ovens were built into the stonework on either side of the hearths.
That was the best that could be said about the place. There were no rushes on the floor here, so close to the fires, but the packed dirt floor itself was greasy and squished with unmentionable spoiled foodstuff when stepped on. Here and there were bones left by the dogs, who apparently roamed the kitchen, too, as well as the great hall. The long prep tables were covered with days-old food, maybe weeks-old. The room smelled, and it was not a good kitchen smell, either.
A short, fat woman, who was yelling at a boy who apparently failed to turn the spit rapidly enough, turned on hearing them enter. She wore a blue gown, belted at the waist and covered with a full-length, white, open-sided, apron-type garment attached at the shoulder straps with crude brooches. In fact, most of the women here wore similar attire. A kerchief of some kind tied around her head failed to hold in all the curly gray hair underneath. She was relatively clean, in sharp contrast to the filthy kitchen she supervised.
“There you are!” the woman said on seeing Cnut, as if he’d just stepped out and returned moments later, not a month later. “Frigg’s foot! Wherever you been
musta had famine, too. Yer near a starveling now. And what happened to yer hair? Was it the lice you needed ta shave off?”
Cnut laughed and said, “’Tis good to see you, too, Girda.”
“Would you just look at this mess?” She waved a chubby hand to encompass the kitchen area. “I been gone fer six days ta care fer me sister up the mountain and this is what I find when I return. Half the food stores gone, and not a pot scoured.” She pointed a long-handled soup ladle toward a wide archway into an adjoining room, the scullery, where it appeared as if every pot and wooden platter and utensil owned by this estate was out and dirty. Girda then glared at Finn as if he were to blame.
“I told Freydis to take over your duties,” Finn tried to say.
“That halfbrained wench! The only thing Freydis knows how ta do is spread her thighs fer the menfolks. I swear, the fool has brush burns on her rump.”
Andrea looked at Cnut, who was trying to hide a grin.
“Andrea, this is Girda, the cook and commander of the kitchens here at Hoggstead. Girda, this is my friend Andrea of Philadelphia, who will be helping you fix the food situation.”
“She gonna end the famine?” Girda scoffed.
A famine. That’s the second time I’ve heard famine mentioned. If it wouldn’t attract too much attention, she’d like to smack Cnut again. Along the course of this nightmare day, she’d discovered she had a violent streak in her that could only be satisfied by swatting the fool.
“Where do you come from that ladies wear men’s braies? Wanton, it is. Do women wear hats like that in yer land? Or is it jist magicians?” Girda asked. “Bet it keeps you dry when it rains.”
Feeling her face heat, Andrea removed the hat and placed in on a wall peg. “Definitely. And it shades me from the sun, too.”
“Whass wrong with the sun? Wish I had me some more sun.”
Cnut snickered.
If they were alone, she would have hit him again.
She crossed her eyes at him.
And he winked at her.
Yep, a good smack!
“You a witch what’s gonna wave yer magic broom and the famine’s gone?” Girda asked Andrea.
“Well, no,” Andrea said, stepping back at the assault. Why was the old lady picking on her? Did she think Andrea wanted her job? No, thank you! “Although I do wield a mean whisk. Ha, ha, ha.”
The woman didn’t even crack a smile. “What in bloody hell is a wiss?”
“Now, be nice, Girda. You know you need the help.”
Girda made a harrumphing noise of assent.
“Show them what you showed me earlier today,” Finn advised.
They followed Girda into the scullery, which smelled even worse than the kitchen and not just from food-crusted pots and wooden dishes. The scullery apparently also served as the laundry, and dirty clothing was piled almost ceiling high, some of it wet and musty. There were rushes on the floor in here, but not up close to the laundry fireplace, which would be used to heat water.
Beyond the scullery, there was a locked door. Both Girda and Cnut took torches from the wall while Finn pulled a key off the ring at his belt and opened the door into a dry storage room with many shelves, half of them empty. What they did have was stored in barrels, or pottery containers, or baskets, or was hanging from the ceiling. “You can see how depleted our supplies are,” Finn said. “Only five barrels of good flour; the rest is filled with weevils because someone failed to secure the lids.” He gave Girda a pointed look of condemnation, and Girda bared her surprisingly clean teeth at him. “There’s some barley and some raw oats, but not much.”
“We got a hundred and ten people ta feed here,” Girda said defensively. “Not ta mention the village starvelings what come up to beg fer food every day. Even though some folks would refuse them even crumbs from the table.” Her condemnation was clearly directed at Cnut.
Who blushed.
Odd! Did Girda blame Cnut for the starving people?
“All of the pears and dried fruits are gone, along with most of the nuts. Got a barrel of shriveled apples. Lots of cabbages, but the only root vegetables left in any amount are neeps. We got a whole bin full of neeps because nobody likes the buggers,” Finn went on, and ducked his head at Andrea in apology at his rude word.
She’d heard lots worse in the kitchens where she’d worked. Lots! And what was wrong with turnips? She liked them.
“Ain’t but a tun of ale left and no mead. Finn, who has become trollsome of late, if ye ask me, has kept the last of that under lock and key.” Girda glared at Finn again.
He didn’t even flinch.
“Your men are drinking water now, or milk from the three milch cows and four goats what are left, thanks ta guards kept at the barn night and day. We still have enough fer butter and cheese. You know what happened ta yer horse, dontcha, master?”
He nodded, a grim expression on his face.
Andrea guessed that the horse must have been killed for meat. She could understand that if the people were starving.
“We also have fish out in the smokehouse but not nearly enough to last the winter,” Finn went on. “Large trout and bass and cod. Plus herrings aplenty, and even a small shark. And salt pork aplenty. But the eel barrel is empty, and not a single seabird or pigeon.”
Girda said, “We do gots some chickens, though, four dozen at least in the coop, but they’s mostly laying hens, and I ain’t putting them in the pot, lessen I got no choice. Guards are there, too, to keep out wolves and thieves. We need the eggs. I’d like ta kill that bloody rooster, though. Meaner than a cross-eyed cat with the shits.”
“Don’t you need a rooster for the hens to lay eggs?” asked Andrea.
“No, the hens only need roosters if they want chicks. Jist like people. Women don’t need men unless they wants babies.” Girda gave Cnut and Finn direct looks, daring them to disagree with her.
Not a chance. They both remained silent, though Cnut did wink at Andrea behind Girda’s back and said, “Some people say the lady chicks are more fertile just having a manly rooster around.”
“Must have been a man who said that,” Andrea commented.
“I’m just sayin’.” Cnut grinned at Andrea.
A commotion could be heard back in the kitchen, and Girda made a sound of disgust. “Odin’s eyeballs! You show ’im the rest, Finn. I gotta get these slugabeds aworking if we’re ta have any dinner this eve.”
And off the cook went, shouting orders here and there.
“Bjorn, build up the scullery fire.
“Bodil, get the kettles boiling fer laundry.
“Dotta, sort out the smallclothes from the braies and the tunics and don’t let me hear any complaints about the smell, either.
“Tumi, bring in some firewood. What splinter? I’ll give you a splinter, you lazy sod!
“Why aren’t those rushes raked in the scullery yet? Loki’s liver! Do I hafta do everything?”
Her voice trailed off, and Cnut and Finn exchanged looks that pretty much said, Oh well!
Andrea had so many questions, but Finn was unlocking another door, and Cnut held a torch as they followed him down the steps to what was a root cellar. Very, very cold. Damp and dirt-smelling.
Andrea shivered, and Cnut said, “We’ll just be down here for a few minutes.”
Skinless animal carcasses, covered with green mold, hung from the ceiling like trophies in a macabre serial killer’s den. Several deer, a hog, a few rabbits, and various other animals she couldn’t identify. It was here the turnips and cabbages and some stray carrots and onions were stored.
When they were back upstairs amid the bustle of the laundry and the kitchen, where at least a dozen servants were now working industriously, Cnut asked Finn, “Bottom line, how bad are things?”
“A sennight, two at most, if we continue to dole out some food to the cotters, and I don’t care what you say, master, I could not turn them away.”
“You must think me a selfish bastard based on past behavior,” Cn
ut said. “You were right to do so, Finn.”
“Keep in mind, it’s less than a month until Jól. Some yule season we will be celebrating this year!” Finn continued.
“Things will be different now.” Cnut patted Finn on the shoulder.
Cnut looked at her then and added, “If it’s not too late.”
The despair on his face almost broke her heart. She couldn’t help herself then. She took his hand in hers and promised, “We’ll make sure it’s not too late.”
Chapter 10
A Viking’s work is never done . . .
Cnut was so ashamed.
Who was that man he’d been? And he didn’t just mean the obesity. He had to have been an egocentric bastard, selfish to a monumental degree, to ignore the needs of his people! Hoggstead had been in his mother’s family for generations. They really were his people. But he’d let them starve.
No more! he vowed.
He ordered Finn to gather all the men into the great hall where he was about to address them. He stood at the head table while the rest of them, more than sixty in number, sat on benches or leaned against the timber walls.
At first, they seemed more concerned about the changes in his physical appearance than the plight of Hoggstead. Mostly they were burly, hardened warriors who’d as soon split an enemy’s head with a battle-axe as show any softer emotions, but they were Vikings, and Viking men valued their good looks.
“Why do you wear your hair so, jarl?” asked the bald-headed Igor, who’d been shaving his head since Cnut could remember. In fact, he claimed that women liked him to rub certain parts of their body with his shiny pate.
Cnut had noticed a lemon scent when he passed Igor earlier, further evidence that Cnut was still a vangel. But also evidence that Igor was guilty of some grievous sin, or was about to commit some evil. If there were any Lucipires about, the man would be demon fodder soon, sure as sin.
An expression of disgust had come over his steward’s face, when asked about Igor. “Rumor is that Igor and Red Ranulf have been raping some of the village women, sometimes in exchange for food, sometimes with threats that they will kill their husbands if they tell.”
