Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 02] (6 page)

“Truly? Ne’er have I heard of a woman doing such. And the needles? Surely, they were tools of sorcery.”

“No, even in ancient times, acupuncture was a legitimate science practiced by medical men. I must admit, it’s not my specialty, but I felt I had no choice in your case.”

Tykir frowned, “Didst you claim yestereve to be my sister, or was I dreaming?”

Rain put the final touches on her bandages, then turned to smile at the handsome youth. “I’m your half sister, Thoraine Jordan. They call me Rain for short.”

Tykir tilted his head in confusion. “How can that be?”

“We share the same father,” she explained, crossing her fingers at the half-lie. “My mother was Ruby Jordan. Do you remember her?”

Rain couldn’t believe that, after thirty years of disbelieving her mother’s time-travel stories, she now accepted them so readily. Well, what other explanation could there be? It was either time-travel or a damned vivid dream.

“Nay! ’Tis impossible.” Tykir grew agitated and tried to sit up, but she and the guard managed to get him to lie back down. “’Tis cruel of you to missay the truth,” Tykir accused her weakly.

“Oh, Tykir, I wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

Tears misted her half brother’s eyes. “I loved Ruby, but she left afore I had a chance to tell her so. I was only eight years old at the time. Why did she desert us?”

“She had no other choice. She was forced to return to her own world after Thork’s…our father’s…
death. But she knew you loved her, Tykir. She spoke of it often.”

“But Ruby and my father married only twelve years ago. How could they have a child your age?”

“I don’t understand myself, but time must move faster in the future.” Rain had no other explanation for why thirty years in the future would equate with twelve in the past.

“You must tell me more…but later…not now,” Tykir said, slurring his words slightly. “Your pellet truly is magic. I feel wonderful. I feel like…” A soft snore escaped his lips, and Rain smiled, brushing wisps of dark blond hair off his face with loving care.

When she left the tent, Rain realized that more men had arrived during the night. About five hundred soldiers crowded the plain, and a meeting of some type was taking place. In the front, a half-dozen leaders addressed the assembly, each dressed so distinctly they had to represent different countries or cultures. Rain was too far away to hear their words, so she edged her way toward the cooking fires, where a group of women worked feverishly to prepare a meal.

She stepped up to one of them, where a huge cauldron of some stew boiled, wafting delicious odors into the cool morning air.

“What’s going on?” Rain asked the nearest woman, a middle-aged Viking woman with blond hair plaited and wound in a coronet atop her head. Her pinafore-style tunic worn over a pleated underdress was held together at the shoulders with two brass brooches. It was surprisingly neat and clean, considering her surroundings.

The woman jumped back in surprise at Rain’s words. She dropped her ladle and exchanged a quick, guarded look with another, younger woman, dressed similarly but with reddish-blond braids hanging to her waist.

Were they camp followers? Or wives to these fighting men?

“My name is Rain Jordan.”

“Sigrid, wife of Cnut,” the older woman said hesitantly, putting a palm to her chest, then pointing to the younger woman, “’Tis my daughter, Gunvor.”

“I’m starved,” Rain said. “Could I have some of that stew?”

The older woman offered her a wooden bowl of the thick broth in which swam chunks of meat along with onions and carrots. Rain took a tentative bite with a crude wooden spoon, then closed her eyes in ecstasy, her stomach rumbling with content. She had eaten practically nothing in more than twenty-four hours, and dishwater probably would have tasted like fine cuisine.

Gunvor stared at her open-mouthed. “Didst thou truly mate with The Outlaw yestereve?” She shuddered visibly with horror at the thought.

“Huh?”

Rain had thought they were staring at her because of her height, although she didn’t stand out so much among these taller-than-average women, or because of her strange clothing, or even because of her unusual medical skills. But, no, it was her association with Selik that troubled them. Rain faintly recalled Selik, too, referring to himself as The Outlaw yesterday.

Rain frowned in confusion, returning her empty bowl to Sigrid. Several more women had moved closer to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“Yes, I slept beside Selik last night,” Rain admitted, refusing to explain more.

“Oh, how could you bear to have the beast touch you?” Gunvor exclaimed. “’Tis said he is as berserk in the sleeping furs as he is in battle.”

“Berserk?”

“Crazed with lust.”

Rain raised an eyebrow doubtfully. He certainly hadn’t been overcome with passion for her.

“Just the sight of him turns the stomach,” another woman added with a shudder. “How could you abide looking at him? He is so ugly.”

“Ugly? Selik?” Rain asked in disbelief. “We must be talking about different men. Selik is brutish and much too prone to killing and war, but ugly? Never! In fact, he’s probably the most attractive man I’ve ever met.”

The women stepped away from her slightly, as if she might be deranged.

“The scars, the broken nose, the cruelty in his eyes, his hateful ways. Why, ’tis said he cannot even tolerate children in his presence, that he squashes them like vermin under his feet. Truly, do these things not repulse you?” Gunvor asked incredulously.

Rain tried to picture Selik in her mind. Yes, there were scars, lots of them, and an imperfect nose, but they didn’t mar the total man with his fine, classic features, his well-developed, muscular body. And the cruelty in his eyes—it was there, but couldn’t these women recognize that it masked a deeper pain? Of course, she could never love a man like Selik. He was too vulgar, too stubborn, too war-like, but neither could she deny his innate beauty.

She started to tell the foolish women just that, but Selik approached, muttering vicious curses, and the females scattered like frightened mice.

“Did you have to scare the women off?”

“Spineless half wits,” he grumbled. Leaning over the simmering cauldron, he sniffed deeply, then helped himself to a heaping bowl of the stew. He sat down next to her on a large boulder and wolfed the food down ravenously, ignoring her presence.

His hunger touched her oddly. Although he wore the same stained tunic, Rain noticed that he’d bathed
and shaved. His pale, platinum hair shone like spun silver down to his shoulder blades. Scrutinizing him more closely in light of the women’s harsh appraisal, Rain noticed many scars, old and new. Especially gruesome was an old scar running from his right eye to his chin, a pale jagged line in his deeply tanned face. And the raised white scar tissue on his forearm spelling out the word
rage
—well, Rain shivered at the thought of what horrifying events had prompted Selik to carve the letters in his own skin. At least, she presumed he had.

“Keep your roving eyes off my flesh, Sleetling.”

“What?” Rain jerked to attention, embarrassed to be caught examining him closely. “I was admiring all your battle scars.”

“Liar.” His eyes impaled hers contemptuously, then turned away in disgust. “Have a caution, wench. I am in no mood to humor your airs today. Go off and leave me alone.” He used the fingers of both hands to rub his eyes wearily.

Selik’s curt dismissal offended Rain, so she persisted foolishly. “How did you get that scar on your face? Was it in the midst of some silly battle where you slaughtered men right and left? Or did the husband of one of those women with whom you
rutted
come after you? No, let me guess. I’ll bet you tripped and fell when—”

“Nay, wench, ’twas none of those.” Selik’s icy gray eyes held hers coldly, speaking of horrors of which Rain suddenly knew she didn’t want to hear. She stood to depart, but Selik shoved her rudely back down to the boulder. “You asked, lackwit. Now you shall stay and hear.

“Your father Thork and I were Jomsviking knights together. When Thork was a child, his brother Eric—Eric Bloodaxe, they call him—pursued him bloodily. He even chopped off the smallest finger of Thork’s right hand when he was only five. Eventually, Thork
ran off to become a Jomsviking, the only way open for him to escape the ambitions of his ruthless brother.”

“Selik, stop. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up these painful memories.”

But Selik continued with his punishing explanation. “In the final Jomsviking battle afore your father’s death, our enemy Ivar—Ivar the Vicious—cut off the remaining fingers on your father’s hand and kicked open the fatal sword wound in his side. And that, sweet lover of peace, was after he chopped off the heads of a dozen of our comrades.”

Tears streamed down Rain’s cheeks. She didn’t want to know these horrid details of her father’s or Selik’s life. She didn’t want to feel there was any justification for the violence of their lifestyles. There was no excuse for fighting, or wars. That was what she’d always believed. She still did. She had to.

Selik’s lips curled cynically at the changing emotions he must have seen reflected on her face. “I was luckier than most that day. Ivar tried to pluck out my eyes and succeeded only in gracing me with this memento,” he said, touching the long scar.

Rain reached out a hand to touch his forearm in comfort, but he shrugged her away defensively. “Save your pity.”

“I’m just trying to understand you and the strange time I’ve landed in, Selik. I know I appear condemning, but—”

“Spare me your explanations, wench. I care naught what you or any other thinks of me. My head was on the chopping block that day, and I have ne’er feared the face of death since. In truth, I welcome it.”

“Your head was on the chopping block?” Rain choked out.

“Yea.” A cruel smile thinned his lips mirthlessly. “Wouldst like to hear the tale?”

When Rain stared at him in horror, Selik went on ghoulishly, “I
was
godly handsome in those days, just as your mother said, and vain as a rooster. When it came my turn, I taunted Ivar, asking that my fair hair be held back during the beheading so as not to stain the wondrous strands with my life’s blood.” He ran his fingers sensuously through his long hair in remembrance.

“Selik, I don’t want to hear any more. Stop.”

He ignored her pleas. “The crowds who came to watch the execution of the famed Jomsviking knights admired my daring and urged Ivar to grant my wish. He called a noble soldier forth, one of his bravest hesirs, to stand in front of me and hold the twisted coil of my hair forward, baring my neck for the executioner’s blade. At the last moment, I jerked back deliberately, and the blade sliced off the hands of Ivar’s hesir.”

Rain gasped and held a hand over her mouth in horror. She heard the echo of her exclamation from the women behind her who had moved closer to listen to Selik’s words. Selik didn’t seem to notice any of them, so lost was he in his horrifying reverie.

“Instead of being angry, the crowd cheered my bravery and demanded that Ivar spare my life and the lives of the remaining Jomsviking knights who awaited execution, your father included.” Coming back to the present, Selik lifted his chin proudly and taunted, “Now you know the story of my scar. Art thou happy, Sleetling, that your prickly words drew the blood of my memories?”

“No, Selik, I’m not. Sometimes I speak rashly. You seem to bring that out in me,” she said wearily, then touched the word
rage
carved on his muscled forearm. “Is that when you mutilated yourself with this scar?”

A deep rumble, like the bellow of an enraged bear, started in Selik’s chest, moved up his throat, and emerged from his mouth as a roar of anger. He jerked upright and grabbed Rain by the upper arms, raising her until her feet dangled off the ground and her eyes were level with his, noses practically touching. She could feel his breath against her lips as he jerked out furiously, “Ne’er,
ne’er
ask about that scar. If you value your life, you foolish spawn of Loki, do not even look at it, for I swear I will wring your neck like the scrawny chicken you are.” He shook her until her brain practically rattled. “Dost understand, wench?”

Rain could not speak over her chattering teeth but nodded her numb assent.

“Master, master!”

Selik froze as the shrill greeting penetrated his fury.

“Bloody, stinking hell!” he cursed, dropping Rain carelessly to the ground as he turned to face a gnomelike man scurrying crablike toward them on bowed legs. His gnarled hands and stooped shoulders bespoke an arthritic condition. He could be no more than forty years old, despite his aged appearance.

“Thank the gods, I have finally caught up with ye, master,” the trollish man said breathlessly when he reached Selik.

“Ubbi, what the hell are you doing here? Did I not order you to stay in Jorvik?”

You-bee. You-bee
Rain rolled the strange-sounding name on her tongue silently.

“But, master, I heard of the battle and thought ye might have need of me.”

“I am not your master, Ubbi. Endless times have I told you that afore.”

“Yea, master. I mean, yea, m’lord. Oh, ye know my meaning, master,” he stumbled out.

Selik groaned and raised his eyes wearily to the skies. “Just what I need—a servant I do not want or need
and
a guardian angel.”

Ubbi looked at Rain for the first time, and his eyes widened with surprise. “In truth, master, be she a guardian angel?”

Selik’s eyes, no longer angry, but twinkling with weary amusement, caught Rain’s. “Yea, she claims her Christian god sent her to save me.”

Ubbi’s rheumy eyes darted from Rain to Selik, then back to Rain. “From what?” he asked dubiously, apparently figuring a mere woman wouldn’t do Selik much good in battle.

“From myself,” Selik answered flatly.

But Ubbi surprised them both by nodding sagely and saying, “’Tis about time.”

Selik threw both hands in the air, as if he gave up on the two of them. Then he turned to Rain. “Show Ubbi to my tent.”