Sandra Hill (30 page)

“I love you, Merry-Death,” he said, “but sometimes you make it sore hard. And know this, I’ll not pursue you forever.”

Biting her bottom lip, she tried to keep tears from welling in her eyes at his words. She wanted him to say he loved her.

“My time-travel reversal did not work,” he started.

She speared him with a condescending glare.
Tell me something I don’t already know
.

“In the beginning, I contemplated coming back to your keep, but I worried about putting you through the agony of repeated leave-takings. I would have had to try the time reversal, over and over. Then I saw you on the television screen. The news scribes questioned whether the project would be canceled because of the danger. That gave me further evidence that my return would jeopardize not only your well-being, but the Trondheim Venture.”

“So, you went to London?” she scoffed, her upper lip curling with disdain.

“Nay, I went to Norway. Many weeks I searched my homeland, its libraries and museums. Finally, I found the answer. Ah, Merry-Death, ’twas wondrous news I discovered. The famine ended when I entered
the time portal—the night of the Demon Moon.”

Despite herself, Meredith was interested in Rolf’s intriguing story.

“Can you see what that means, dearling? My return to the tenth century is no longer necessary.”

Meredith’s heart expanded at that significant disclosure. Still, there were so many puzzles. And forgiveness for his cruelty in pretending to be dead came hard for her. “Exactly when did you make that discovery?”

He hesitated and avoided direct eye contact, mumbling something under his breath.

“What did you say?”

“Three sennights ago,” he admitted more loudly.

“Three weeks ago!”

“Now, Merry-Death, I still needed to know why I was sent through time, to another country…to you.”

All these endless weeks I’ve suffered, and he stayed away because he needed answers. I’m going to kill him
. “Did you find the answers?” she inquired with icy sweetness.

“Well, some of them. I went to Lindisfarne—Holy Island—to return the sacred relic.”

Lindisfarne? He was sightseeing while I sat here crying my eyes out
.

“There I met a monk. You’ll not credit this, I warrant, but the man claimed to be St. Aidan. In any case, the priest took the crucifix from me, and then directed me to go find my destiny.”

“Destiny?” she sputtered. If she wasn’t so angry, she’d laugh. Or cry.

Rolf released her shoulders and raked his fingers distractedly through his hair. She sat up with her legs still extended behind him on the sofa.

“Yea. At first, I didn’t understand…till I saw a single rose blooming in the ruins.”

The fine hairs stood out on Meredith’s skin as she sensed what would come next.

“And I knew—” his eyes lifted to hold hers with bleak entreaty “—I knew that you were my destiny.”

“Me?” she choked out, her defenses crumbling with each soft-spoken word. Oh, this Viking was a formidable warrior, even in the battle of emotions. She couldn’t stop the tears from brimming over now, but she pushed his hand away when he attempted to brush them off her cheek. No way would she concede this fight yet. “If that’s so, why did you go to London? I presume that’s where you went after Lindisfarne.”

He flinched at her sarcastic tone, and then nodded. “You said once that I’d be unable to live in your modern times, that I couldn’t adapt. I needed to prove that I can make a life for myself here, with you. So, I went to Hair-rod’s in London to purchase myself some business apparel. From there, I journeyed to Christie’s. That’s an establishment that auctions artifacts.”

“I know what Christie’s is,” she snapped. Her fuzzy brain suddenly cleared. “Oh, no! You gave them the talisman belt.”

“Yea, I did. And they assured me that it would bring a half million dollars, possibly more.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Those funds, in addition to the three hundred thousand additional dollars I got from the dealer in Bangor, should be enough. The dealer had a strong craving for
a set
of arm rings.” He smirked at her, obviously pleased with his business acumen.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Enough funds for what?”

“Rosestead: A Viking Village,” he said, beaming.

“What Viking village?” A stress headache kicked in behind her forehead, and she could barely comprehend all the information he was throwing at her.

“The one we’re going to build together, dearling.”

She snarled with frustration at his confusing answers. “You plan on building a village on my property?”
Over my dead body!

“Nay, there is not enough room. That’s why I needed money—to buy more land. Later, I will take you to view the property I am considering. ’Tis a beautiful spot, close to a narrow river leading to the ocean, about thirty miles from here.”

“How much land?” she asked reluctantly. The man had not only been gallivanting all over Europe while she’d been salting the earth with her tears, but he’d been roaming Maine, as well. He must have a death wish.

“Oh, a hundred acres or so,” he informed her, waving a hand airily.

“And why would you be needing so much land?” She braced herself for his reply, fearing the worst.

“The longhouses, farms, shops, shipbuilding wharves, schools. It would be a working village—entirely self-sufficient,” he explained with boyish enthusiasm. “I’m thinking about manufacturing and selling fine sailing boats, along with textiles and soaps in the old style, perhaps Viking-style jewelry…. Do you think Jillian would come live in our community as the master jewelry maker? Herbs, swords, a mead brewery, and, of course, raising animals. Cows, horses, pigs, ducks, chickens…How do you feel about goats, Merry-Death?”

Yep, it was the worst
. Her eyes were so wide she
feared they might pop out. “G-g-goats?” she sputtered.

“Now, sweetling, do not distress yourself. We don’t need to have goats, if you do not favor them. In truth, they are smelly beasts. And contrary.”

“Aaarrgh!”

“I knew you would be pleased, dearling,” the blockhead said, leaning down to kiss her lightly on her gaping mouth. The fact that her lips tingled in no way mitigated her heightening anger. “You could assist me in managing this working village. Or else you can scribe that book you once said you yearned to relate about outrageous medieval women. I could help you, especially if you seek data on medieval women.” He jiggled his eyebrows at her, undaunted when she didn’t smile.

“You’ve been a real busy bee, haven’t you, Rolf? Making all these plans…all on your own. But the big question is ‘why’? Surely, all this isn’t just to prove you can adapt. In fact, you’d be doing just the opposite, trying to establish a Viking community in modern times.”

“Destiny…it’s my destiny.” He took her hands in his and spoke with heartfelt sincerity, his voice raspy with emotion. “Oh, don’t you see, Merry-Death? I finally realized why I was sent to your time. There is no Viking culture today. By blending into all the societies of the world, we Norsemen lost the most important thing—our own identity. You referred to me once as The Last Viking. Well, that’s just what I am. And it’s my mission to teach future generations all the good things about my people and our way of life.”

Meredith was about to tell him then that he wasn’t The Last Viking, that his line would endure with the small child growing already in her womb. But her
throat choked over with emotion as she fought for words.

Rolf stood and walked over to the patio doors, staring out at the ocean. “There is another reason I want to establish this village,” he said softly. “In my travels, I saw so much poverty and despair. So many homeless people. Homeless children, even. Can you credit that, Merry-Death? There are children wandering your streets with no one to care for them. Do you not think it would be a good idea to bring those children here…at least, some of them? Do you not think they would benefit from living the simple Viking life?”

A soft sob escaped her lips. She unfolded herself from the couch and moved up beside him. “You’re doing this for me, aren’t you? So I can be surrounded with children?”

“For both of us, sweetling.”

Geirolf was soul-weary from all he’d been through these past six sennights…and fearful. He’d tried his best to do the right thing for Merry-Death, but mayhap he should have consulted her first. ’Twas not the way of his people or men of his time, but modern men apparently shared decisions with their women. No doubt, he had much to learn yet on adapting.

Mayhap she would have preferred that he be a male profess-whore, like Jeffrey, or a race-car driver, or a cowboy—though he did not think he could jam his feet into those high-heeled boots. Truly, he had studied all the possibilities, and this had seemed his destiny. Had he been wrong? For a certainty, he cared not a whit for his destiny if he could not share it with Merry-Death.

He turned and took her by the upper arms, staring
down at her. Her emerald eyes glistened with tears, but they gazed up at him with love.

Love?
For the first time that evening, he felt a surge of hope in his heart. “I love you, Merry-Death. Can you forgive me? Will you share my destiny with me?”

She let out a little hiccoughing sob, and then blurted out, “You are an overbearing, arrogant, domineering man.”

“Whate’er you say, dearling.” Despite her insults, Geirolf could see the love glowing in her face and he was encouraged.
Hmmm. Her face is glowing. Well, no doubt ’tis with admiration for all those qualities she claims to loathe. Truly, women think they want a weak-sapped man, but what they really crave is a real man, like Tim Taylor, and me. But now is not the time to point that out. I wonder if I look meek enough
.

“You shouldn’t have made all these decisions without consulting me first.” She was still frowning at him, but her body leaned unconsciously closer to him, her breasts under her silken
shert
brushing against his chest.

“Whate’er you say, dearling.” Were her breasts fuller? He didn’t recall her being quite so buxom afore. Now that was a nice homecoming surprise. Did modern women’s breasts grow? Or mayhap ’twas one of those Victory’s Secret wondrous bra things. He restrained himself from putting a palm out to test his theory.
Slowly, slowly
, he cautioned himself,
let her set the pace for surrender. But, please, God, let it be soon
.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for pretending to be dead all that time.”

“Whate’er you say, dearling.” He did feel terrible about that. But, he swore, he would spend a lifetime making it up to her. And, no doubt, she would spend
a lifetime punishing him in the nature of all women.

“I love you, Rolf,” she said then, and looped her arms around his neck.

He let out a long sigh of relief, and blinked away the tears that stung his eyes. Despite his outward bravado, Geirolf had been scared to the bone.

Just before he pulled Merry-Death into his embrace, she tilted her head saucily and informed him, “You’re not The Last Viking, you know.”

He didn’t grasp her meaning, at first, till she took his palm and placed it over her flat stomach. When comprehension dawned, his heart lurched.

“We’re going to have a baby, Rolf.”

Merry-Death’s words hit him like a battering ram, tilting his world off-center. He inhaled sharply to catch his breath. Finally, when he saw that she was serious, that she was waiting expectantly with trembling lips for his response, he choked out, blood roaring in his veins, “A baby?”

She nodded.

A tear slid out of Geirolf’s eyes and ran down his cheek, but he could not care. He was holding his destiny in his hands. Both hands, actually. His one hand caressed Merry-Death’s face, and the other was pressed against her belly.

“And one more thing. I do like goats,” she informed him with a hysterical laugh. “They remind me of you. Stubborn.”

“Whate’er you say, dearling,” he whispered. And he meant it this time.

Later, after Geirolf showed her how randy this goat was, and stubbornly insisted on prolonging her pleasures, he grinned at her. “Do you know what I missed most whilst I was gone? Aside from you, of course.”
The whole time he talked he kept caressing her bare belly, still stunned by the wonder of her quickening with his seed. A miracle.

“Oreos,” she retorted.

“Nay. Hilda got those for me,” he remarked idly.

“Hilda!” she shrieked and punched him in the stomach.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed with mock injury. Then he chucked her under the chin. “Tsk-tsk, my suspicious wench. Hilda is eighty years old.”

“Oh, well then,” she sniffed, “what
did
you miss most?”

He stood and swaggered in all his nude glory over to the bottom of the steps.

Vikings were renowned for their nude glory, and Geirolf was not above using it to his advantage.

Then he turned and winked.

Geirolf knew that his wife loved it when he winked, though she would never admit it. He would wager she was tingling about now. As he was.

Crooking his finger at her with his usual Viking arrogance, he answered in a lazy drawl, “Drekking.”

“Whate’er you say, dearling,” Merry-Death said.

Dear Reader:

Gwyn Jones had the right of it. You gotta love a Viking.

Recently, on one of the on-line services, a well-known author of medieval novels asked, “What is it about Vikings? Why are people so fascinated by these brutish people? I just don’t get it.”

Well, that writer was deluged with responses from writers and readers alike.

Vikings were renowned for their good looks—long, well-groomed hair; tall, muscular bodies; and they were cleaner in their bodily habits than most men of that time. No one denies that they invigorated the races of those peoples they conquered, by force or seduction.

They were men of many contradictions. Brutal and merciless in battle, they could be gentle family men. The skaldic poetry of that time exemplified their sensitivity and creative souls.

Their greedy appetites and spendthrift ways were deplored by the Anglo-Saxon clerics who recorded their deeds. But maybe those greedy appetites were appreciated in the bedchambers where so many women came to them willingly. And as for spendthrift, well, the Vikings were also generous to a fault.

Early historians described them as rapers and pillagers of innocent people, uncaring of morality or law. Whose morality and whose law? Much of the English legal system stems from the Vikings’ reverence for law codes. In fact, the word law comes from their language. And many of them worshipped both Norse and Christian gods.

They were talented men, skilled in shipbuilding, sailing, weaponry, combat, trading, hunting, trapping, and storytelling. Love of adventure ran in their blood.

The story related in this book about King Olaf having a talent for throwing two spears simultaneously at his enemies is true. And legend says that some especially skilled Viking warriors could do just what I describe my hero doing: catch a spear thrown at them midair, flick it around in their fingers, and thrust it right back at the enemy.

There is a poignancy in these Vikings who no longer exist as a separate people and have no country of their
own. Over several centuries, they melded into the various countries they explored and settled and, yes, ravaged. That’s why, in a sense, I am presenting you with Rolf, The
Last
Viking.

Let me add this disclaimer: The word Viking would not have been used in the tenth century, nor would certain geographical terms for countries, such as Norway. I elected to use them for the sake of my modern readers.

Ironically, no sooner did I mail this story off to my editor than I saw a segment on one of the morning network news shows. Apparently, a Viking ship was being assembled on Hermit Island in Maine, using blueprints modeled after a Viking longship only a few decades older than my tenth-century boat. The project—“VIKING VOYAGE 1000”—was the brainchild of historian W. Hodding Carter. It included the re-creation of Leif Ericsson’s historic trans-Atlantic voyage from the southwestern coast of Greenland to L’Anse aux Meadow in Newfoundland, site of the only confirmed Viking settlement in North America. Unfortunately, the journey had to be aborted due to rudder damage. It will be tried again next summer. For more information about this twentieth-century adventure, check http://www.Viking1000.org/index.html on the Internet.

After reading my fictional story, you must see the romantic coincidence in Carter having said of his project, “What started as a vision of one man became the dream of many, and touched the hearts and imaginations of people throughout Maine.”

Life is truly more fantastic than fiction.

I have taken the artistic license of using Oxley College as the name for a nonexistent college in Maine; likewise the Silver Oak Zoo.

Please let me know what you think of Vikings, in general, and my Viking, in particular.