“Don’t get too cocky,” Brede replied. “That grunt means trouble.”
The grass thinned as they neared the open gate of the enclosure. The pig looked up at the mostly muddy pen, evidently decided there wasn’t enough grass, turned around and shuffled back towards the men, munching all the while.
Brede waved his arms with more gusto. Magnus did the same. The pig didn’t stop. The grunting became louder, but her snout remained in the grass.
Brede produced a sound from deep in his chest that Magnus at first had trouble imitating. He’d got the hang of it when he noticed the pig had stopped munching and was eyeing them. The grunt died in his throat and his lungs stopped working when she lowered her head and charged.
Standing his ground armed to the teeth and confident of his abilities in the face of an enemy was one thing. An angry, charging pig was a whole different matter. He glanced at the other men, determined not to be the first to run, though his knees threatened to buckle as the massive sow galloped towards him with surprising speed.
Brede suddenly let out an ear-piercing yell, waving his arms. The other men did the same. Magnus waved frantically but producing a sound from his parched throat seemed to be beyond his capabilities.
The irate animal slid to a halt, snorting and squealing. Then Brede did something startling. He waved the other men off and walked slowly towards the sow, murmuring soft sounds. “You’ve had your fun, but now it’s time to do as I ask and get into the pen.”
Magnus held his breath when his cousin came within a yard of the animal. The pig stopped snorting, chewed the grass dangling from her mouth, then turned and trotted back towards the enclosure.
Brede grinned, motioning for the others to resume their progress. “Slowly now, she might still turn.”
Apparently disgusted by the lack of sweet grass in the enclosure, the pig rolled onto her side in the muck.
“Shut the gate,” Brede yelled.
One of the peasants strode through the mud toward the gate, but one boot became mired.
The pig was on her feet in the blink of an eye, running for the open gate.
Brede yelled an obscenity and dove at the fleeing animal. Magnus rushed to his aid, his feet sliding from under him. Soon seven men were wrestling the stubborn pig to the ground while the eighth struggled to close the gate.
“Don’t hurt her,” Brede pleaded, his face bedaubed with muck. “We need her and her piglets.”
The enraged animal snorted, squealed and struggled. She kicked Magnus hard on the thigh, too close to his groin for his liking. It would bruise badly, but he gave thanks to Freyr, the god of fertility, that the blow hadn’t landed on his male parts.
“Closed,” the peasant at the gate yelled.
“Let her up,” Brede panted.
The men scrambled away from the distraught pig like ants fleeing a ruined anthill. She got to her feet, thrust her nose in the air and waddled off towards the barn.
Brede pushed himself upright, laughing. “She knows there’s food in there.”
Magnus’s heart pounded as he sat in the mire, surveying his fellows. Everyone, including him, was covered from head to toe in mud.
Brede strode over and offered a hand. “Thanks for your help, cousin. Sorry it went awry.”
Magnus laughed as Brede pulled him to his feet. “Haven’t had so much fun for along time,” he said, rubbing his upper thigh as they walked towards the fence.
“Did she kick you?”
“Aye.”
“My mother will make a poultice to ease the pain,” Brede said. “Mayhap your friend can help apply it.”
Magnus looked up. Judith stood on the other side of the fence, clutching the wooden slats, her mouth agape, her eyes fixed on the hand at his groin.
GATHERING EGGS
Judith had never seen a pig. “It’s huge,” she said to Micheline, gasping as a pungent stench assailed her nostrils.
“She’s pregnant,” Brede’s wife replied shyly. “See the teats? Her piglets will nurse from them.”
Judith stared, disturbed by a sudden tingling in her breasts. Adela had consigned her babies to wet nurses, and Judith recalled thinking how wonderful it would feel to nurse a child. A hankering tugged in a private place. “Look at her curly tail,” she babbled as the pig ambled into the enclosure.
Judith had never seen a half naked man either; now she watched eight of them stalk the pig. But it was Magnus who held her gaze. She knew he was big and strong, but the sight of his broad chest and wide shoulders, the rippling muscles of his torso and the bulging power of his arms turned her bones to liquid.
She was seized with an insane urge to lick the sweat from his skin and sift her fingers through the dusting of golden hair on his chest. And he had nipples, lighter and flatter then hers but—
Her heart careened around her rib cage when the pig charged for the gate. Micheline grasped her hand as Brede jumped on the animal, but Judith stopped breathing altogether at the sight of Magnus running through the muck towards his cousin, the muscles in his magnificent body tight, ready for action.
She pitied anyone who ever stood in the way of this athlete. The pig obviously had no chance of victory.
She winced when the sow kicked him during the melee. Behind her, Beatrice sucked in a breath. When the animal finally trotted off into the barn, she breathed again, torn between an urge to join in the laughter at the slippery antics, and a compulsion to kiss away the pain he must be suffering after the kick, though he showed no sign of discomfort. But the pig’s hoofed foot had landed near—
She dug her nails into the wooden railing when it came to her that Magnus had noticed her staring. A splinter drove into the flesh of her palm, but the stab of pain wasn’t the reason for the wave of heat flowing over her. She dragged her eyes to his mud-smeared face. He grinned like a young lad, and she admitted inwardly she had fallen irrevocably in love with him.
~*~*~
Magnus quickly removed his hand from his groin and strode up to the fence. He wasn’t sure if Judith was appalled at the spectacle she’d witnessed or if she’d enjoyed it. She was gripping the wood like a drowning person clings to driftwood.
He spread his arms. “What’s your opinion of Vikings now?” he quipped.
She opened her mouth, staring at him wide-eyed, putting him in mind of a floundering fish. Pain he hadn’t noticed before flared in his thigh.
She took a deep breath. “That was—”
She swayed, her mouth quivering. He feared she might swoon, and was taken by surprise when she doubled over with throaty laughter.
Beatrice looked at her mistress as if she’d gone mad, but her joy warmed Magnus’s heart.
She straightened, her face as red as a pomegranate, tears running down her cheeks. “That was one of the most comical things I’ve ever seen,” she rasped. “I was terrified for you, yet it was funny. And it was good to see you laugh.”
Terrified for me?
“I was thinking the same about you,” he said.
He licked the mud from his thumb, giving in to an unwise urge to brush the moisture from her cheek.
She blinked rapidly but then winced.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she replied, looking at her palm. “Only a splinter.”
He took her warm hand in his. Any attempt to remove the long sliver of wood embedded in her flesh with his muddy hands was bound to fail. He raised her hand to his mouth and sucked, feeling the tug in his loins. Her skin held the aroma of fresh bread.
Only Judith’s sharp intake of breath broke the utter silence. He raised his head, satisfied he’d managed to draw the wood partly out of her palm. “There. Beatrice should be able—”
He wasn’t sure what to make of Brede’s grin, nor Beatrice’s look of outrage, nor Micheline’s red face and downcast eyes. But he had no trouble recognizing the lust in Judith’s gaze. He let go of her hand. Adultery was a serious matter, a sin against God’s law. Their immortal souls were at risk.
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It was Brede who broke the silence. “We’re hungry after our adventure,” he said to Micheline. “You’ll need to fetch more eggs. Mayhap take Judith with you.”
Magnus was concerned when Judith frowned. “Have you gathered eggs before?”
She smiled wickedly. “No, but it must be easier than wrestling a pig.”
He and Brede watched as the women made their way to the henhouse.
“I’m for the river,” Brede said. “Get this muck off then a good meal. The river water might help your leg.”
“Good idea,” Magnus agreed, hoping cold water might put paid to his arousal. “I’m starving.”
Brede slapped him on the back. “And not for food.”
Magnus toyed with feigning indignation, but his cousin would see through the lie. “Ja! Judith is tempting and I can’t deny I’m drawn to her. But she is wed to another, and my wife only recently—”
Brede held up a hand. “Ida’s death was a loss, but life goes on, Magnus. Judith seems as smitten as you. Mayhap Odin has something planned for you both.”
Dare he hope it was true?
~*~*~
Judith hesitated on the threshold of the henhouse, wrinkling her nose at another unpleasant smell.
Micheline brushed past her and began pushing hens off their roosts. Straw and feathers flew as the creatures clucked indignantly.
Beatrice rushed in to assist. “Let me hold the basket. I helped my father collect eggs when I was a child,” she exclaimed.
Judith wondered anew at the things she didn’t know about her maidservant. Clutching the rough wood of the doorframe, she lifted her skirts and carefully stepped over the sill. “They’re unhappy you’re taking their eggs.”
Micheline shrugged. “They’re used to it. They don’t like being disturbed from their roosts.”
Much like me.
It occurred to her she’d been reluctant to leave her comfortable life in Bruggen, but would never regret meeting Magnus and his hospitable relatives. Her fear of Vikings seemed childish now.
“Two left,” Micheline sang out, pointing to the last roosting hen, and nodding at her.
Judith pushed the long sleeves of her linen frock up as far as her elbows, and made a shooing motion with her hand. She pulled back when the creature pecked at her.
“Shove her off,” Beatrice said impatiently.
Judith swallowed hard. She’d undertaken a perilous journey through devastated lands and more difficulties lay ahead. Strangely, the prospect didn’t bother her, but a bad-tempered bird had her quaking in her boots.
Beatrice tapped her foot impatiently. Annoyed, Judith pushed the back of her hand against the hen, surprised at the warmth in the bird’s soft feathers, but exasperated when she didn’t move.
“Coax her,” Micheline suggested.
Judith inhaled and shoved again, this time more forcefully. “Shoo, birdie, birdie, shoo.”
Relief washed over her as the hen shook her wings and rose from the roost, revealing two eggs. She grabbed them before the creature had a chance to change her mind. “They’re still warm,” she laughed, placing them carefully in Beatrice’s basket. “How did you know there would be two?” she asked Micheline as they made their way back to the farmhouse.
“Tachi always lays two,” Micheline replied.
“You have names for your hens?” Judith asked with a smile.
Micheline blushed. “Brede says I’m silly, but they sense if you love them.”
The notion of people loving animals was foreign to Judith. Arnulf had his hunting dogs, but she’d never seen him give them any affection. Bruggen was full of cats. They were a necessity to keep rodents under control, but nobody loved them, did they?
She pondered this as they walked together in silence, until the young Viking woman said, “It usually takes me four or five tries before Tachi gives in. You will make a good farm wife.”
Judith of Valognes, descendant of Charlemagne, a farm wife! The prospect was ridiculous.
Yet the notion of working alongside Magnus on the lands he boasted of at Montdebryk filled her with a peculiar sense of longing.
But such longings could lead to despair.
THE POULTICE
The Seine quickly cleansed the grime from Magnus’s body, but he emerged from the water with a throbbing green and purple bruise on his thigh.
“Nasty,” Brede remarked as they rubbed themselves dry with linen cloths brought by a servant, along with clean tunics and leggings. “My mother will insist you use a poultice. She’s probably busy making it already.”
Magnus had learned over the years that his tante Hannelore’s cures were effective, so didn’t protest.
They dressed, and made their way to the house, laughing again at the antics with the pig.
“You’re favoring your leg,” his aunt declared when he entered the dwelling. “I’ve a poultice ready.”
Brede snorted. “What did I tell you?” He pecked a kiss on his mother’s cheek. “We’d have guessed from the aroma of rosemary filling this place.”
Hannelore shrugged her son away, pushing Magnus into a chair. “Come along, nephew. Off with your leggings.”
The mischievous Freyr chose the moment he lifted his shirt and untied the laces to bring Judith and her maid through the door. His body reacted predictably.
Her rosy cheeks flushed crimson as she gaped at him. Beatrice bristled, scowling as he pulled his shirt down over his arousal. Hannelore swallowed a sly laugh.
Beatrice flung an arm around her mistress’s shoulders, dragging her to the door. “We’ll leave till they’re done,” she said indignantly.
Judith acquiesced but cast a furtive glance over her shoulder as they left. He may have imagined it, but she seemed reluctant to go.
“You embarrassed her, tante,” he scolded.
Hannelore chuckled, spooning the rosemary she’d boiled up onto a piece of muslin. “Best you go into the bedchamber then if you’re afraid someone might catch sight of something they’ve likely never seen before.”
Magnus got up and headed to the back part of the house.
Brede shook his finger at his mother. “You are naughty.”
Hannelore folded the muslin, squeezing out the extra liquid. “I’m entitled to be naughty at my age. Besides, nothing wrong with giving Freyja a helping hand.”
Magnus shook his head. His aunt had made no effort to tame her voice. She’d wanted him to hear. But what was a man to do? Judith was untouchable.
He stripped off his leggings, woefully aware his aunt would have something to say about the rigid flesh between his legs when she arrived with the poultice.
~*~*~
When Beatrice deemed it safe, she and Judith reentered the house. Micheline was piling some sort of egg concoction onto Brede’s trencher. He rubbed his hands. “Smells wonderful and I am ravenous.”
Micheline scooped food onto another trencher but Brede was the only person seated at the table. She picked up the second trencher. “I’ll take this to Magnus.”
Hannelore bustled over and took the platter from her, thrusting it at Judith. “I’m sure he’d prefer our guest serve it to him.”
She accepted the trencher. “Where is he?”
Hannelore cocked her head towards the back end of the house. “My poultice won’t be effective unless he keeps it on for a few hours. He’s in the chamber.”
Given her station, the suggestion she serve Magnus was impudent; taking the food to his chamber was completely inappropriate. Beatrice scowled deeply, looking ready to protest loudly.
But Judith acknowledged inwardly that her so-called station in life had changed dramatically, and besides, she wanted to serve him. “Gladly,” she croaked, barely recognizing her own voice.
Ignoring her maid’s astonished gasp, she lifted the edge of her skirt and strode toward the bedchambers before her courage deserted her, hoping her trembling hand wouldn’t tip the egg mixture onto the planked flooring.
She peeked nervousl
y into each bedchamber, eventually locating Magnus lying on his back staring up at the rafters, hands folded behind his head, feet dangling over the end of the bed. A linen sheet covered the lower part of his body; she should have been relieved, but a twinge of disappointment tugged at her.
He frowned and sat up abruptly, pressing a hand to his thigh.
“Judith, you shouldn’t be in here,” he growled.
“I brought food,” she murmured, holding out the trencher. “It smells delicious and I’m sure you’re hungry after the episode with the pig, and they say swimming also whets the appetite.”
Her face was on fire, but she babbled on. The knot in her belly eased when he smiled and held out his free hand.
She passed the trencher, inhaling the aroma of rosemary permeating the chamber. “Is it helping?”
He furrowed his brow.
“The poultice. Is it taking away the pain?”
“Ja. Tante Hannelore’s medicines are magick, but she was wrong to send you. You’re not a servant and we cannot be alone together.”
She tore her eyes away from his thigh. “I would gladly serve you, Magnus,” she whispered before she fled.
SAILING DOWN THE SEINE
“I don’t understand why we cannot go overland,” Beatrice whined. “Bendik and most of the men are traveling across country with our wagon. Why must we go by boat?”
From the shore, Judith watched Magnus organize the oarsmen who would row the longboat sitting at anchor by the dock near Brede’s farm. “Magnus has explained that he and his brothers came to Rouen in the Alexandria. It’s the quickest way, and probably safer than going by land.”
“But we’ll be in the open sea,” Beatrice wailed, chewing her knuckles.
Judith understood her maid’s fear of the water, but the complaints were becoming tiresome, especially since the prospect of a sea voyage made her nervous too. “Again, Magnus has promised we will stay close to shore.”
“But the boat is old, and look at this river. It’s a torrent.”
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