Dark Viking (8 page)

Come up with a plan, that’s what,
 she decided.

On her hands and knees, she examined each of the rough-hewn bars of the cage. Too bad she had no sharp object on her! Deciding she had to find the weak natural bend in the wood, she studied and studied until she found one that might suit. But she couldn‟t do it barehanded or barefooted; so, she took off her tunic and examined the garment carefully. The seams were weakest at the shoulders. In quick time, she had both sleeves ripped off and put the sleeveless garment back on. Now her problem was getting leverage in such a small space. Making a quick sign of the cross, she wrapped one sleeve around her hand and let loose with a quick karate chop.

The wood bar was still intact.

But it was a little loose. Just a tiny bit.

Over and over and over, Rita performed her karate chop, the kind that in some cases could split concrete blocks. She alternated between both hands and feet. She even considered using her head to butt it, but with the lumps she‟d already scored today, that probably wasn‟t a good idea. Finally, finally, finally, she was able to break through the one bar and split it in half. What to do now?

Rita laughed with a sudden inspiration. She had two sticks to make a fire and plenty of tinder . . . straw. Voilà! It was almost laughably easy . . . but ingenious, if she did say so herself. She couldn‟t wait to tell her commander back at Coronado. And the arrogant, full-of-himself commander here, too.

Once she was fully free, holding the tunic sleeves over her face to shield her from the smoke made by the little fire in the cage, she did a little Snoopy dance of glee. Actually, she had hoped to just weaken the wood when she‟d made it hot, but this worked just as well.

Miraculously, her headache was gone.

That was when she glanced up and saw that she had an audience. About a dozen men and women in homespun-type clothing in the Norse fashion . . . men in belted tunics over tights and women in long gowns covered by long, open-sided aprons. They appeared to be servants or household help of some type. They had been attracted by the smell of smoke, no doubt.

They gawked at her as if she was a lunatic.

It was probably the Snoopy dance.

Or the fire. Of course they would be upset about fire in a wood building.

“Oops!” When that didn‟t draw any reaction, she said, “Hi! My name is Rita Sawyer. Can you help me put out this fire?”

“ ‟Tis the fish woman,” one man said incredulously.

“Is she dangerous?” another asked.

“How could she be?” still another spoke up. “She has no weapon.”

“Mayhap she spits venom.”

The group stepped back a few paces, beyond the range of her spit, she supposed.

“Listen, people, I mean you no harm. I‟m just a visitor here. I‟ll be on my way now.”

At first no one moved, but then an older woman smacked a boy on the shoulder. “Move yer arse, Haisl. And you, too, Moddan. Get buckets of water to put out the rest of that fire. Vindr, find a shovel and wheelbarrow to clean up the mess.”

“Ain‟t ye a prisoner here?” one man yelled out, pointing to the cage, which was pretty quickly becoming a pile of cinders.

“Me? Nah! That was just a game to see how quickly I could escape.”

A young girl, not more than twenty, dressed in the same ankle-length, open-sided apron over a long gown, stepped forward. “My name is Sigge. My aunts sent me ta be yer maid.”

Several of the men snickered and made laughing remarks, which caused Sigge‟s face to bloom with color, but she stepped forward, chin high.

At first, Rita wanted to laugh, too. Her? With a maid? But then she decided she could use all the friends she could get in this strange scenario. With a smile, she asked, “Any idea where a girl could get a bath and clean clothing around here?”

Sigge nodded eagerly, and the crowd parted a path for them as they walked through. In fact, she noticed some of them jump away from the girl as if they were afraid of her. Hmmm. She would have to check it out later. Once they reached the great hall, however, a woman, better dressed than the others, informed her icily, “They are mine.”

“Who?”

“Steven and Oslac.”

“Good Lord! You‟re married to both of them? I‟ve heard that ancient Vikings often had more than one wife. But . . . eeeew!” “Of course I am not married to both of them. Or either of them, for that matter. I am Lady Thora, still in mourning for my husband Rolfgar, chief hirdsman at Norstead.” She blinked several crocodile tears in a manner that would do any Hollywood actress proud.

“You have my sympathies.”

Sigge giggled behind her hand, which gained her a sharp look from the uppity lady. “Best you get yourself back to the kitchen garden, witch girl.” The lady stared pointedly at the pentacle-shaped, raspberry birthmark . . . Or was it a tattoo? . . . on the side of Sigge‟s neck, which Rita had failed to notice before. “Do not think I have forgotten that spell you put on Alfr‟s goat. The smelly creature follows me about like a lovesick lover.”

Sigge blushed. “‟Tis not my fault that the spell went astray. The goat and the master were both standing in the same spot when I cast the spell.”

“Just do not do me any more witchy favors. And best you be careful,” Lady Thora warned Sigge. “Some say you are the devil‟s spawn. If you sport hooves one full moon, your master will kill you on the spot.”

Sigge gasped with outrage, and she sputtered to the lady, “I am not that kind of witch. I have no ties to the black arts. You, on the other hand . . . some say you would spread your thighs for Lucifer himself if he had a big enough manpart.” Sigge ducked when the lady attempted to slap her.

Rita stepped between the two, managing to catch the slap intended for Sigge on her shoulder. “So, if you‟re a grieving widow, what‟s this about owning Steven and Oslac?”

Lady Thora raised her chin haughtily. “I did not say that I 
own
 them.”

“Oh? That‟s what I thought you said. Didn‟t you hear it that way, Sigge?”

Sigge nodded vigorously.

“Your impudence knows no bounds. Both of you. Why are you not still in your cage, by the by?” Her outrage was now directed at Rita.

“Because it was a mistake, the cage door being shut on me. I was just testing the bars,” she lied, but then she quickly added, “Personally, I wouldn‟t take Steven or Oslac if they were handed to me on a silver platter. They‟re all yours, sweetie.”

With a huff, the lady swanned off.

Rita arched her brows at Sigge.

“Thora will be wife to Jarl Steven or Karl Oslac when cows with crowns start jumping across the fjord. ‟Tis just that the men will be men when boredom overrides good sense.”

“There‟s a lot of boredom here at Norstead, I take it.”

“You have no idea, m‟lady.”

Rita recalled something Lady Thora had said, and she asked Sigge, “What did she mean by referring to you as witch girl?”

Pink patches colored the girl‟s cheeks. “My aunts are witches, and I am a witch in training, when I am not tending the herb gardens here at Norstead. I do not have the witchy arts perfected yet.” She let her words sink in, then added with disgust, “I cannot even raise a stick, let alone levitate myself.”

“And levitation is something to be desired?”

“Oh, definitely. Lady Thora and the others look down on me ‟cause I carry the blood of witches in my veins, but we do no evil. More good than harm.”

They walked in silence for a bit, heading toward a storeroom where she could get soap and towels for bathing. Several people along the way cast surly looks toward them or went out of their way to avoid their path. “What is that all about?” Rita asked.

“Ulf wanted to get rid of the bald spot on his head. My spell worked, but the hair grew on his backside, not his head.”

Rita put a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“And Sela was flat-chested. Wanted big bosoms, she did.”

“And the problem with that was?”

Sigge held her hands away from her chest, far away. “So big they are that she nigh needs a harness to keep them from hanging down to her belly.” She sighed deeply. “Some of my spells do work, especially those dealing with herb remedies. Unfortunately, folks only remember the bad ones.”

“Honey, if people know you‟re a witch in training, and you‟ve made a few mistakes, they can‟t really complain.”

All of a sudden, Sigge burst out, “I am so glad that you have finally arrived. My aunts will be pleased, too.”

“Your aunts, the witches?”

Sigge nodded vigorously.

“Let me get this straight. You and your two aunts practice witchcraft here, and nobody objects?”

Sigge nodded. “Because we are good witches. Some are more cautious with me, however, since I sometimes make mistakes.”

“You said you‟re glad that I 
finally
 arrived?”

“My aunts predicted your coming months ago. That is why I was able to arrive in time to offer my services to you.”

Rita put a hand to her head where the two lumps were starting to do a drum duo. Da, dum!

Da, do. Da, dum! Da, do! People were staring at her in her strange attire . . . sleeveless man‟s tunic and tights, bare feet, ashes marring her arms and probably her face, sweaty hair plastered to her head. Why Lady Thora would think any man would want her was beyond Rita.

“For sennights now, they have spoken of the bright light of the future melding with the blue shadows of the past,” Sigge blathered on. “Opposites will meet and explode, creating a new life for Norstead, which has been like a barren woman for many a year. Beautiful but empty.”

“And I‟m supposed to be that light?” She laughed, too tired to cry. “Well, I better go take a bracing bath so I can be ready for the explosion.”

The explosion didn‟t come for another week.

She’d done some crazy stunts before, but this was ridiculous . . .

With Sigge introducing her as the “light” everywhere they went over the next few days, she was welcomed as some kind of savior, rather than the sea monster pariah the Lord of Norstead had deemed her before his departure.

Not that Norstead needed a savior far as she could see. It was a well-run, prosperous Viking-style estate. A wooden fortress castle, but more than that. The landscape was dotted with well-tended farmsteads and longhouses with thriving fields of oat and barley, fat cattle, poultry, sheep, and goats, all within a valley. Through this valley, and over one palisaded rise, a road led down to the massive Ericsfjord with its wharves, docks, and places for beaching the watercraft over the winter months. You couldn‟t see the water when at the castle, but Rita could smell its fresh semi-saltiness, the fjord being one of thousands of tributaries to the North Sea.

This settlement was unusual for the Norselands, apparently, which was not conducive to farming with its rocky landscape and harsh climate. Someone had worked diligently over the centuries to make this place hospitable for sustenance. Not self-sufficient entirely because they couldn‟t raise their own produce in great quantity, but still pretty damn impressive.

In outbuildings there was a blacksmith, carpenter, cobbler, weavers, dairymaids, sheep shearers, and God only knew what else. Not to mention an impressive stable. The men of Norstead were expert amber harvesters, and once a year they traveled to the Baltic, where they gathered and brought back a shipload of the stones to be marketed in trade for all the goods that could not be produced in the cold Norse climate.

The surly Steven apparently ran a well-run ship, and that didn‟t just refer to longships, of which there were twenty, not including the dozens he had taken with him off to battle pirates.

Largely, he relied on well-placed, designated people to carry out his orders. Arnstein, the steward who ran the keep—that‟s what they called the huge fortress-type home in this neck of the woods—like clockwork, with every single person having a job from chambermaid to raker of hearth ashes. Brighid, the no-nonsense head cook who had a staff of two dozen to help in preparing and presenting the vast amounts of food needed for such large numbers . . . three hundred when all were at home. The castellan Geirfinn made sure there was plenty of weaponry on hand and that fighters were constantly kept up to par with exercise, even those left behind. She and Geirfinn had become great pals once he learned of her WEALS service.

Then there was Farli, who took care of anything dealing with horses, and Haisl who worked with the cotters in making sure all the farmsteads were operating properly. Skar organized hunters, fishermen, and trappers who brought back boar, bear, deer, rabbits, ducks, geese, and every type of fish imaginable. And so many others . . . tanners, seamstresses, a scissor, knife, and sword sharpener, and a cheese maker . . . yes, they had a person whose sole job was to make cheese. Even the children had to work, gathering both chicken and seagull eggs, checking the wicker traps and the nets in the fjord for fish, picking berries, and slopping the pigs.

It was all efficient and tidy and all that, but it was rather sad. No running children within the castle walls. No shrieks of laughter. The people were right. It was kind of dreary here.

The question was: Where did Rita fit into this picture?

Well, as far as the people were concerned, she was here to bring light, however the hell she was supposed to do that. That did not mean they were not wary of her. The original picture of her in the wet suit lingered, and they weren‟t entirely convinced that she wouldn‟t one day suddenly turn into a sea serpent, or at least a mermaid.

Her short hair bothered them, too.

“Are you a harlot?” Geirfinn had asked on first meeting her.

The curious manner in which he had asked the question had saved him from being belted a good one. “No, why do you even ask such a question?”

Geirfinn shrugged. “Women convicted of adultery often have their heads shaved when ordered by the shire courts in Saxon lands or Althings in this country.”

“And the men who commit adultery . . . do they have their heads shaved, too?”

Geirfinn laughed, understanding perfectly what she meant. “Nay, they do not, but best you do not ask that question of the wrong person.”