Sandra Hill (13 page)

He nodded his head. “Yea. The business about not wearing undergarments. I liked the mind-picture that gave me. A lot.”

She did, too, truth to tell.

“I just don’t understand why. You could barely abide me afore. Why this sudden turnaround?”

She should tell him, but did she have the nerve? Would he understand her desire to give her beloved father a grandchild? Would he be offended that it wasn’t his masculine good looks that tempted her…or not entirely?

“Do you wish to make love with me, sweetling?”

“Do you have to be so blunt?”
And do you have to call me by those enticing endearments? I am trying to think here
.

“’Tis like a giant wall looming betwixt us…whatever it is you hide from me…the mysterious reason for your pursuit. I would like to knock the wall down and proceed from there. No secrets. No games. So I repeat. Do you wish to make love with me?”

“Mayhap.”

“
Mayhap?
” he practically shouted. “What kind of answer is that?”

“I want a child,” she blurted out, and could have bit her tongue.
Too soon. It is too soon for him to know that
.

“What?” he exclaimed softly, then more loudly, “What?”

Well, now I’ve done it. I must tell all now. Let us hope he is a man who values honesty
. “I am twenty and eight years old, Vagn. So long on the shelf I no doubt have cobwebs coming from my ears. I do not regret never marrying, but I have decided to have a child…to please my father…and for myself, of course.”

His eyes narrowed and his jaw went rigid with anger. “A marriage trap…that’s what this is all about. I have been in this situation afore, but I thought better of you, Helga. I really did. You and your father in cahoots!”

“You dimwitted oaf! I do not want to wed with you. And my father knows naught of this.”

“You just said you wanted a babe.” His mouth dropped open and his eyes went wide as understanding dawned. “You want a child outside of marriage? An illegitimate child?”

She felt herself blush, but he could not see it in this lighting. Lifting her chin defiantly, she said, “There are worse things in life.”

“You would be shamed.”

“I care not.”

“Your father would kill me.”

“He would not know…till you are long gone…and even then I would not have to name you.”

“You have this all worked out in your mind, don’t you?”

She did not like the hostility in his voice, but she nodded.

“What kind of man do you think I am, that I would abandon my own child?”

“I…I did not think you would care.”

“What kind of man do you think I am?” he repeated.

“Oh, please! Spare me all these offended sensibilities, Vagn. Surely you have bedded women afore…
many women
…without a care for any child you left behind. I would not be surprised if you had dozens of children.”

“Dozens?” A grim smile cracked his face. “I am not aware of one single child I have begotten. There are precautions men can take to prevent childbirth…not foolproof, to be sure, but I have been careful. If any babe has been born of my loins, I would have recognized that child immediately and taken him or her under my shield.”

He stood abruptly and stepped out of the pool. She could see by the condition of his manpart that he was no longer “humming” for her.

As he began to pull on his garments, she told him, “Vagn, I’m sorry if I insulted you. I did not think—”

“That is right,” he snapped. “You did not think.” He’d already pulled on his loincloth and
braies
and was reaching for his tunic.

“Let me make it up to you.”

He paused and looked at her. The hurt in his eyes tore
at her heart, and she deeply regretted that she had put it there. “How?”

She stood, naked as the day she was born, and held out her arms to him.

Vagn said nothing, just stared at her with continuing anger. But there was a part of him humming again.

Still, he left.

A moveable feast…

“Stop moving.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Something’s moving.”

Toste laughed. And that part of him where Esme’s face was pressed moved some more. “Just whistle some more,” he suggested.

“I only whistle when I’m nervous.”

“You’re not nervous now?”

“I’m furious, not nervous.”

“Now, now, Esme. Just relax.”

I am going to kill the lout. I swear I am
. “That’s it! I’m getting up.”

Toste pressed his hands down on his lap, forcing her to remain between his legs under his nunly robe. “Not yet. Your father’s guardsmen aren’t out of sight yet. And
this last bunch looked at us with a little more suspicion than the others.”

“What’s not to be suspicious about? Two giant, troll-like nuns, one of whom has leprosy, and a giggling little nun betwixt them who appears to have drunk too much of her own mead…sounds suspicious to me.”

“Uh…would you mind not speaking quite in that direction?” Toste said in a suffocated voice. “I can feel your lips moving
there
.”

“And I take offense, m’lady, at your description of me as a troll,” Bolthor said, but she could hear the mirth in his voice.

“And I am not drunk,” Sister Margaret said. “Not in the least.” A loud hiccough belied her words.

They’d all been sipping the mead to keep them warm on this second day of their cold, uncomfortable journey…especially uncomfortable for Esme, who’d had to duck under Toste’s robes every time a Blackthorne soldier approached. The fur blanket spread across all three of their laps in the seat of the wagon drew the attention of all who stopped them, and the guardsmen were quick to flip it up, fully expecting to find the errant daughter hiding there.

“If anyone should be offended, ’tis me,” Toste said. “That last soldier—the one with the missing front tooth—was eyeing me like a tasty morsel. And me a nun, at that.”

“You are not a nun,” Esme pointed out from under his robe.

“Well, he didn’t know that.”

“We nuns get accosted all the time,” Sister Margaret remarked. “Doesn’t matter if we’re young or old, comely or homely as a hog. Men seem to think we are wild for
their bodies from being confined in a convent so long. They expect great things in the bedsport from nuns.”

Everyone was too stunned to speak at first by Sister Margaret’s forthrightness.

“Really?” Bolthor commented finally. He was probably composing a saga in his head about nuns and their wicked appeal.

“There’s only one nun I’ve ever been attracted to,” Toste confessed.

And Esme knew by his twitching member which one he referred to.

“But how about those Saxon soldiers back near Jorvik?” Bolthor said with a hoot of laughter. “I thought they would fall all over themselves trying to get away from a leper.”

“And one of them said you were giving him the evil eye,” Sister Margaret added gleefully. “Little did they know you look at everyone that way.”

Esme wondered if Bolthor was offended by Sister Margaret mentioning his damaged eye, but, nay, he quickly replied, “Mayhap I should leave off my eye patch all the time. The evil eye could be a weapon as sharp as my battle-ax, Head Splitter.”

“Methinks you are all enjoying this far too much,” Esme grumbled.

“Hmmm. I should create a poem to celebrate this adventure,” Bolthor said.

Everyone was too tired and cold to protest. Besides, nothing ever seemed to stop the skald once he started.

“This is the saga of ‘Toste’s Great Adventure.’”

“Great,” Esme heard Toste say, but she wasn’t sure if it was a question or an observation.

“Bolthor, if I hear you even once repeat that particular saga at Ravenshire, I will make you wish you were a real leper, living in a leper colony far, far away from my menacing presence,” Toste said.

There was a short silence. Then a wounded voice inquired, “Dost not like my sagas, Toste?”

“I like your sagas in general,” Toste lied. Esme didn’t have to see his face to know it was a lie. “But I do not like that one in particular. It makes me out a pathetic, whining kind of man.”

“So?” Bolthor said. Then, “Ouch! Why did you clout me on the head? You almost knocked Sister Margaret’s head rail off.”

Which prompted Sister Margaret to say, “I liked your saga, Bolthor. Do you think you could write a short one that I could use in the selling of my mead in the Jorvik markets?”

“Hmmm. Mayhap.” Within seconds, Bolthor was saying:

Sister Margaret repeated the poem several times to commit it to memory and promised to have her agent in the Coppergate markets of Jorvik use it as a selling ploy. Bolthor practically sputtered with pride.

“Toste, I have to get up now,” Esme said. “I’m getting a cramp in my back.”

“Not just yet,” he cautioned. “We’ve already entered Ravenshire lands and should be at the keep within the hour. We must be especially careful for a little longer. Keep in mind that Eirik, the lord of Ravenshire, is half Saxon, half Viking, while his wife, Eadyth, is full-blooded Saxon. Many of their guests are Saxons. We do not want word to get out of your whereabouts till we are ready to face your father again.”

“St. Bridget’s breath! I am weary to death of all this chaos. I yearn for peace and quiet. Sad, isn’t it, that a woman of my age wants only a peaceful life? Is it possible this madness will finally be over soon?”

“Well, you will be out of danger for a while, till after the yule season is past, but peace is the last thing you will
find at Ravenshire. And as for chaos—well, I suspect chaos reigns there.”

“What mean you?” Esme asked.

“Have you never been in a Viking household over the yule season?”

“Nay,” she answered hesitantly, though she could not imagine anything out of the ordinary in the well-ordered Ravenshire keep. Both its lord and lady were renowned for their hospitality and well-run affairs.

“Sweetling, you may never be the same,” Toste promised, with a pat on her head which pressed her closer to his twitching manpart.

That is for sure
.

Let the good times begin…

“Swive me silly, you luscious Viking, you. Awk!”

Four heads in the upper solar of Ravenshire turned to look at the caged bird in the corner. Then three of those heads turned toward Tykir Thorksson.

By the bones of St. Boniface! Will my brother ever grow up?
Eirik Thorksson, the lord of Ravenshire, wondered. He couldn’t help smiling, even as he shook his head ruefully. “Have you been teaching Abdul perverted sayings again?”

“What’s perverted about swiving? And everyone knows we Vikings are luscious,” Tykir answered with a grin.

God, I have missed my brother and his warped sense of humor. With all the bad news lately, a bit of mirth is more than welcome
.

“Isn’t that so, Alinor? You think I’m luscious, don’t you?” Tykir asked his wife, who had the good sense to ignore him. Tykir and Alinor had come from the Norse
lands to spend the yule season at Ravenshire this year, along with their four children, who were off somewhere being entertained by Eirik’s seventeen-year-old twins, Sarah and Sigrud.

“Of course, Eirik is only half Viking; so, he is only half luscious,” Tykir continued, ducking away when Eirik tried to swat him with an open palm.

“Show me yer legs, Al-i-nor. Awk, awk.”

“Tykir!” Alinor exclaimed with a laugh.

“Kiss my arse and call it pretty. Awk, awk.”

“Hey, I didn’t teach the lousy bird that one,” Tykir protested.

“Eirik did.” It was Eadyth speaking now, Eirik’s lady-wife. “And don’t call my pet lousy. He has no lice. And remember, Tykir, you are the one who gave me Abdul as a bride-gift at my wedding.”

“Who would have thought it would have lived this long?” Tykir said.

“Dumb lackwit Viking!” the bird said.

They all laughed then, but were soon cut short.

“M’lady…Eirik…you have got to come see this,” Wilfrid, the seneschal of Ravenshire, urged breathlessly as he rushed into the room. It was late afternoon, and Eirik had thought his friend and comrade would be in the great hall enjoying a cup of mulled ale by now. “A cart just pulled into the courtyard.”

Eirik did not immediately rise. He’d spent the entire day working on battle exercises with his men in the bitter cold, then helping to dig a dung cart out of a snowbank, followed by a bath, and, frankly, his forty-nine-year-old body couldn’t take much more. He was very content indeed to sit before the hearth fire with his feet propped up and a cup of mead in his hands, listening to his
brother’s nonsense. Eirik was getting too old to keep going at this rate, but he had no sons to take over for him, other than his adopted son John who had work enough on his own estate at Hawks’ Lair. And none of his four daughters seemed about to bring any new male blood into the family.

“A cart?” Eadyth inquired indifferently. She did not rise, either. At forty and three, she was still a beautiful woman, even though her silver-blond hair was mostly silver these days. “’Tis probably those new candle molds and pottery jugs I ordered from Jorvik.” Eadyth was a successful beekeeper and merchant, renowned for her time-keeping wax candles, honey and mead. Not for the first time, or the hundredth, in the past eighteen years, Eirik told himself how fortunate he was to have her.

“The…the cart,” Wilfrid stammered. “It’s filled with barmy folks.”

“Uh-oh! Big trouble coming!” Abdul squawked.

Eirik and Eadyth immediately looked at Tykir and Alinor. They were equally ensconced in comfortable chairs before the fire, awaiting the bell announcing the evening meal. Their two-year-old son Selik slept soundly on Tykir’s lap. Tykir was forty-seven, and his bones probably ached as much as Eirik’s after their grueling day of work, though he would never admit to such weakness.

“What? Why are you looking at us?” Tykir said with mock offense. “Every time something goes awry you think I had something to do with it.”

“You usually do,” Eirik responded.

“Shhh,” Alinor cautioned. “Do not wake the child.”

“Uh-oh! Big trouble coming!” Abdul repeated.

“Did you order more gifts to be delivered here?” Eirik narrowed his eyes menacingly at his brother. Tykir was
ever up to some deviltry or overindulgence. “Do you not think you are overdoing the Viking gift-giving custom?”

Tykir told his brother to do something vulgar, the whole while grinning at him. “Didn’t you like the leather boots with bells on them that I ordered for you from the Eastlands?”

“They are red, Tykir.
Red
. And I do not much relish jingling when I walk.”

“Really? Alinor has a garment that jingles, and I like it a lot.”

Alinor made a tsk-ing sound with her tongue.

“You could always wear the jingling boots and naught else. Eadyth would like that, I wager.”

His wife, the traitorous wench, said, “Hmmmm,” and winked at him.

“On the other hand, I did like the amber navel ornament you sent for Eadyth,” Eirik said, waggling his eyebrows at Tykir. His brother was a far-famed merchant in the Baltic amber trade.

“Will you two never stop teasing each other?” Alinor shook her head ruefully at the two brothers.

It always amazed Eirik that Tykir had chosen Alinor for his wife. With her bright orange hair and rust-colored freckles dotting her entire body…well, she was not the beauty he would have expected his womanizing brother to pick. But Alinor had turned out to be the perfect foil to Tykir’s personality. And Tykir considered her the most beauteous woman in the world, which was the important thing, of course.

“They’re like two small boylings,” Eadyth agreed.

“Milords, ladies, I must insist,” Wilfrid interrupted with a pained expression. “The cart. It contains three
nuns, and two of them are most unusual…big as oak trees they are, and one of them a leper.”

“Uh-oh! Big trouble coming!” Abdul repeated.

“Would someone kill that bird?” Alinor said.

“Bowlegged harpy!” Abdul opined.

“A le-leper,” Eadyth faltered, ignoring the interchange with the bird.

“But that’s not all,” Wilfrid went on. “Eirik, the two big ones told me to give you, personally, a message. ‘Sister Tostina and Sister Bolthora have arrived.’ That’s what they said.”

“Huh?” Eirik, Tykir, Eadyth and Alinor all exclaimed at once.

“Uh-oh! Big trouble coming!”

“I have a wonderful recipe for parrot stew,” Alinor said sweetly.

“Bowlegged harpy!”

Then of a sudden an idea seemed to come to Alinor. She gasped and put a hand to her mouth. “Bolthora…could it be Bolthor?”

Eirik’s heart went out to Alinor, and his brother, too, for that matter. They still had trouble accepting the death of their longtime friend, Bolthor the Skald.