by Sandra Hill
“You got me there,” Harek agreed with a smile, raising his horn of mead high in salute.
One of the good things about Vikings is that they could laugh at themselves. The sagas were great evidence of that fact.
At least Cnut was smart enough not to take on any wives of his own, despite his twenty and eight years. Concubines and the odd wench here and there served him well. Truly, as long as Cnut’s voracious hunger for all bodily appetites—food, drink, sex—was being met, he cared little what others thought of him
When his brothers were departing two days later (he thought they’d never leave), Vikar warned him, “Jesting aside, Cnut, be careful. One of these days your excesses are going to be your downfall.”
“Not one of these days. Now,” Cnut proclaimed jovially as he crooked a chubby forefinger at Inga, a passing chambermaid with a bosom not unlike the figurehead of his favorite longship, Sea Nymph. “Wait for me in the bed furs,” he called out to her. “I plan to fall down with you for a bit of bedplay.”
Vikar, Trond, and Harek just shook their heads at him, as if he were a hopeless case.
Cnut did not care.
But Vikar’s words came back to haunt Cnut several months later when he was riding Hugo, one of his two war horses, across his vast estate. A normal-sized palfrey could not handle his weight; he would squash it like an oatcake. Besides, his long legs dragged on the ground. So, he had purchased two Percheons from La Perche, a town north of Norsemandy in the Franklands known for breeding the huge beasts. They’d cost him a fortune.
But even with the sturdy destrier and his well-padded arse, not to mention the warm, sunny weather, Cnut was ready to return to the keep where a midday repast, a long draught of mead, and an afternoon nap would not come amiss. But he could not go back yet. His steward, Finngeir the Frugal (whom he was coming to regard as Finn the Bothersome Worrier), insisted that he see the extent of the dry season on the Hoggstead cotters’ lands.
Ho-hum. Cnut barely stifled a yawn.
“Even in the best of times, the gods have not blessed the Norselands with much arable land, being too mountainous and rocky. Why else would we go a-Viking but to settle new, more fertile lands?”
“And women,” Cnut muttered. “Fertile or not.”
Finn ignored his sarcasm and went on. Endlessly. “One year of bad crops is crippling, but two years, and it will be a disaster, I tell you. Look at the fields. The grains are half as high as they should be by this time of year. If it does not rain soon—”
Blather, blather, blather. I should have brought a horn of ale with me. And an oatcake, or five. Cnut did not like Finn’s lecturing tone, but he was a good and loyal subject, and he would hate the thought of replacing him. So, Cnut bit back a snide retort. “What would you have me do? A rain dance? I can scarce walk, let alone dance. Ha, ha, ha.”
Finn did not smile.
The humorless wretch.
“Dost think I have a magic wand to open the clouds? The only wand I have is betwixt my legs. Ha, ha, ha.”
No reaction, except for a continuing frown, and a resumption of his tirade. “You must forgive the taxes for this year. Then, you must open your storerooms to feed the masses. That is what you must do.”
“Are you barmy? I cannot do that! I need the taxes for upkeep of my household and to maintain a fighting troop of housecarls. As for my giving away foodstuffs, forget about that, too. Last harvest did not nearly fill my oat and barley bins. No, ’tis impossible!”
“There is more. Look about you, my jarl. Notice how the people regard you. You will have an uprising on your own lands, if you are not careful.”
“What? Where? I do not know—” Cnut’s words cut off as he glanced to his right and left, passing through a narrow lane that traversed through his crofters’ huts. Here and there, he saw men leaning on rakes or hauling manure to the fields. They were gaunt-faced and grimy, glaring at him through angry eyes. One man even spat on the ground, narrowly missing Hugo’s hoof. And the women were no better, raising their skinny children up for him to see.
“That horse would feed a family of five for a month,” one toothless old graybeard yelled.
His wife—Cnut assumed it was his wife, being equally aged and toothless—cackled and said, “Forget that. If the master skipped one meal a month, the whole village could feast.”
Many of those standing about laughed.
Cnut did not.
Good thing they did not know how many mancuses it had taken to purchase Hugo and the other Percheon. It was none of their concern! Cnut had a right to spend his wealth as he chose. Leastways, that’s what he told himself.
Now, instead of being softened by what he saw, Cnut hardened his heart. “If they think to threaten me, they are in for a surprise,” Cnut said to Finn once they’d left the village behind and were returning to the castle keep. “Tell the tax man to evict those who do not pay their rents this year.”
By late autumn, when the last of the meager crops was harvested, Cnut had reason to reconsider. Already, he’d had to buy extra grains and vegetables from the markets in Birka and Hedeby, just for his keep. Funerals were held back to back in the village. And he was not convinced that Hugo had died of natural causes last sennight, especially when his carcass had disappeared overnight. Cnut had been forced to post guards about his stables and storage shed since then. Everywhere he turned, people were grumbling, if not outright complaining.
That night, in a drukkinn fit of rage, he left his great hall midway through the dinner meal. Highly unusual for him. But then, who wouldn’t lose their appetite with all those sour faces silently accusing him? It wasn’t Cnut who’d brought the drought, even the most insane-minded creature must know that. Blame the gods, or lazy field hands who should have worked harder, or bad seed.
He decided to visit the garderobe before taking to his bed. He was not even in the mood for bedplay tonight. He nigh froze his balls when he sat on the privy hole, and was further annoyed to find that someone had forgotten to replenish the supply of moss and grape leaves for wiping.
When Cnut thought things could not get any worse, he opened the garderobe door and almost tripped over the threshold at what he saw. A man stood across the corridor, arms crossed over his chest. A stranger. Could it be one of his desperate, starving tenants come to seek revenge on him, as Finn had warned?
No. Despite the darkness, the only light coming from a sputtering wall torch, Cnut could see that this man was handsome in appearance, noble in bearing. Long, black hair. Tall and lean, though well-muscled, like a warrior. And oddly, he wore a long white robe with a twisted rope belt, and a gold crucifix hung from a chain about his neck. Even odder, there appeared to be wings half-folded behind his back.
Was it a man or something else?
I must be more drukkinn than I thought. “Who are you?”
“St. Michael the Archangel.”
One of those flying creatures the Christian believed in? This was some alehead madness I am imagining! A walking dream.
“ ’Tis no dream, fool,” the stranger said, as if he’d read Cnut’s mind thoughts.
“What do you want?” Cnut demanded.
“Not you, if I had a choice, that is for certain,” the man/creature/angel said with a tone of disgust. “Thou art a dire sinner, Cnut Sigurdsson, and God is not pleased with you.”
“Which god would that be? Odin? Thor?”
“For shame! There is only one God.”
Ah! Of course. He referred to the Christian One-God. Vikings might follow the Old Norse religions, but they were well aware of the Christian dogma, and, in truth, many of them allowed themselves to be baptized, just for the sake of expediency.
“So, your God is not pleased with me. And I should care about that . . . why?” Cnut inquired, holding onto the door jamb to straighten himself with authority. He was a high jarl, after all, and this person was trespassing. Cnut glanced about for help, but none of his guardsmen were about. Surprise, surprise. They are probably still
scowling and complaining about the lack of meat back in the hall. I am going to kick some arse for this neglect.
“Attend me well, Viking, you should care because thou are about to meet your maker.” He said Viking as if it were a foul word. “As are your brothers. Sinners, all of you!”
“Huh?
“Seven brothers, each guilty of one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Pride. Lust. Sloth. Wrath. Gluttony. Envy. Greed.” He gave Cnut a pointed look. “Wouldst care to guess which one is yours?”
No, he would not. “So, I eat and drink overmuch. I can afford the excess. What sin is that?”
“Fool!” the angel said, and immediately a strange fog swirled in the air. In its mist, Cnut saw flashing images:
—Starving and dead children.
—Him gnawing on a boar shank so voraciously that a greasy drool slipped down his chin. Not at all attractive.
—One of his housecarls being beaten to a bloody pulp for stealing bread for his family.
—Honey being spread on slice after slice of manchet bread on his high table.
—A young Cnut, no more than eight years old, slim and sprightly, chasing his older brothers about their father’s courtyard.
—A naked, adult Cnut, gross and ugly with folds of fat and swollen limbs. He could not run now, if he’d wanted to.
—A family, wearing only threadbare garb and carrying cloth bundles of its meagre belongings, being evicted from its home with no place to go in the snowy weather.
—Warm hearths and roofs overhead on the Hoggstead keep.
—A big-bosomed concubine riding Cnut in the bed furs, not an easy task with his big belly.
—The same woman weeping as she unwrapped a linen cloth holding scraps of bread and meat, half-eaten oat cakes, and several shrunken apples, before her three young children.
Cnut had seen enough. “This farce has gone on long enough! You say I am going to die? Now? And all my brothers, too? Excuse me if I find that hard to believe.”
“Not all at once. Some have already passed. Others will go shortly.”
Really? Three of his brothers had been here just two months past, and he had not received news of any deaths in his family since, but then their estates were distant and the roads were nigh impassable this time of year. The fjords were no better, already icing over, making passage difficult for longships.
“I should toss you down the privy hole and let you die in the filth,” the angel said, “but you would not fit. Better yet, I should lock you in the garderobe and let you starve to death, like your serfs do.”
Ah, so that’s what this was about. “You cannot blame me for lack of rain or poor harvests. In fact, your God—”
Before he could finish the thought, the angel pointed a forefinger at him, and a flash of light passed forth, hitting Cnut right in the chest, like a bolt of lightning. Cnut found himself dangling off the floor. He clutched his heart which felt as if a giant stake had passed through his body, securing him to the wall.
“Let it be known hither and yon, the Viking race has proven to be too arrogant and brutish, and it is God’s will that it should die out. But you and your brothers are being given a second chance, though why, only God knows.”
What? Wait. Did he say I won’t be dying, after all?
“This is thy choice. Repent and agree to become a vangel in God’s army for seven hundred years, and thou wilt have a chance to make up for your mortal sins. Otherwise, die and spend eternity at Satan’s hearth.”
A sudden smell of rotten eggs filled the air. Brimstone, Cnut guessed, which was said to be a characteristic of the Christian afterlife for those who had offended their god. At the same time, he could swear his toes felt a mite warm. Yea, fire and brimstone, for a certainty.
So, I am being given a choice between seven hundred years in God’s army or forever roasting in Hell. Some choice! Still, he should not be too quick to agree. “Vangel? What in bloody hell is a vangel?” Cnut gasped out.
“A Viking vampire angel who will fight the forces of Satan’s Lucipires, demon vampires who roam the world spreading evil.”
That was clear as fjord mud. Cnut was still pinned high on the wall, and he figured he was in no position to negotiate. Besides, seven hundred years didn’t sound too bad.
But he forgot to ask what exactly a vampire was.
He soon found out.
With a wave of his hand, the angel loosened Cnut’s invisible ties, and he fell to the floor. If he’d thought the heart pain was bad, it was nothing compared to the excruciating feel of bones being crushed and reformed. In truth, he could swear he felt fangs forming on each side of his mouth, like a wolf. And his shoulders were being ripped apart, literally, and replaced with what, Cnut could not be sure, as he writhed about the rush-covered floor.
“First things first,” the angel said then, leaning over him with a menacing smile. “You are going on a diet.”
Chapter 1
Sister, where art thou? . . .
“ISIS? Why would any woman in her right mind join that militant group?” Andrea Stewart remarked skeptically into the cell phone she had propped between the crook of her ear and raised shoulder. Her hands were free to stir the chocolate ganache to be spread atop the Opera Cake she was preparing for tonight’s dessert menu at La Chic Sardine.
The elegant gateâu was comprised of mocha buttercream spread over thin layers of cake that had been soaked in coffee syrup, topped with the ganache, then sliced into bars. One of her many specialties at this Philadelphia restaurant. As far removed from ISIS as, well, the Liberty Bell.
“How do I know why your sister does the things she does?” her stepmother, Darla, whined into the phone. “All I know is, I have a picture here in front of me, and she’s wearing some kind of robe that covers her from head to toe with only her eyes peeking out.”
“A burqa?” That was a switch for her sister who was more inclined toward tight jeans and skimpy shirts.
“I don’t know what they call those things. They look like tents, if you ask me. I get a hot flash just thinking about how uncomfortable they must be in this heat. Thank God I’m not an A-rab.”
It was summer, and the city was in the midst of an unusual heat wave . . . unusual for Pennsylvania . . . but Darla would have the AC on full blast? Is she in menopause? At forty-five? Andrea did a mental Snoopy dance of glee. There is a God! But that was mean. Darla didn’t mean to be such an insensitive dingbat. She was just clueless.
Andrea set aside her whisk and adjusted the phone at her ear. Sitting down on a high stool at the kitchen prep table, she sighed and said, “Celie is going purdah? That’s a new one. How is she going to show off all her tattoos?”
“That’s not funny.”
Actually, it was. Celie’s ink, seventeen at last count, had started with a tramp stamp when she was only thirteen. Winnie the Pooh giving the finger.
“Honestly, Andy, this is going to kill your father. How much more of this crap can he take?”
Andrea rolled her eyes. Darla had been saying the same thing ever since she married fifty-year-old widower Howard Stewart fifteen years ago, when Andrea had been fourteen years old and her sister Cecilia a mere four. “Crap” was her universal word for anything the two children did to ruin her life. On Andrea’s part, it encompassed everything from strep throat to a dirty kitchen due to one of her latest culinary experiments. When it came to her sister, it could be bed wetting, a low grade on a math test, or promiscuous behavior as a preteen.
Darla, a former Zuma instructor, did not have a maternal bone in her well-toned body. She’d no doubt thought she’d landed a Sugar Daddy when she met their father, a successful stockbroker, who was brilliant when it came to the market and dumb as a rock when it came to women. Little had Darla known that the Wall Street gravy train also carried some irritating baggage in the form of two kids, who hadn’t been as sweet and invisible as she’d probably expected.
It was only nine a.m., and the kitchen was empty except for Andrea at this ear
ly hour. The restaurant didn’t begin serving until five p.m., but employees would be trailing in soon. Andrea needed to get off the phone and get back to work. “Darla, how do you know it’s Celie?”
“Because it’s a video. Didn’t I tell you that?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Oh, well, I’m looking at it on my iPhone right now. Celie is talking about Allah and the evil United States and that kind of crap. She has black eyebrows. What is her natural hair color anyway? Oh, that’s right. Blonde, like yours.”
Andrea hadn’t seen her sister for months . . . in fact, almost a year. Not for any particular reason. There was a ten-year difference in their ages, and that wasn’t the only difference. Celie was of average height, with curves out the wazoo. Andrea was genetically thin, rarely gained an ounce, and thank God for that with her calorie-laden occupation. Celie’s hair could be any color under the rainbow, from bright purple to an actual rainbow, and styled short, long, or half-long/half-short. Once she even shaved her head. Andrea had sported the same long, blonde ponytail since she was a teenager. It suited her and her work.
Celie was the adventuresome one. Always looking for thrills (Can anyone say zip line off a cliff?), while Andrea didn’t even like roller coasters. As for men, forget about it! Celie drew men, like flies or bees or whatever. Boys had been chasing her since she was ten years old. Andrea didn’t even want to guess how many lovers Celie had gone through in her nineteen years, while she, at twenty-nine-almost-thirty, had had two real relationships. Three, if you counted Peter Townsend. Pete the Pervert. He had the weirdest fetish that . . . nevermind.
Back to Celie. Despite their clashes in personalities and interests, they were still fairly close sisters. They had to be during those early years of their mother’s death, and their father’s grieving. It was just the two of them against the world. Until he married Darla. And then, it was the two of them against Darla. Poor Darla!
They just never seemed to be in the same place at the same time these days. Celie was always traveling somewhere or other. Andrea was an ambitious workaholic with hopes of one day opening her own upscale pastry shop.
