“Very foreign sounding,” Marit said. “Almost Roman. But it does seem to suit him.”
Veris grinned.
Taylor held up her hand. “I have an objection, though. I don’t have anything to wear nearly suitable enough for a king’s court.”
Marit ran her gaze over Taylor’s breasts and hips. “I do, though. Come with me. Come along.” She turned and strode back along the trail, her dress and cloak fluttering in the moist breeze moving through the thick shade.
Taylor glanced at Veris. “Now what?” she said softly, forcing herself to use English and whispering behind Marit’s back as they followed.
“This is my
sister
,” Veris replied just as quietly. “This hasn’t happened in over four years of jumping. Let’s play it out.”
“And what if we jump back in the middle of the party tonight? Your younger version will go on with his memories intact and wonder why he’s in the king’s hall. He’ll be okay. But I’ll suddenly poof out of existence right there in front of the king. Or so we’ve theorized and so you guys have remembered it. I don’t exist in these times. You do.”
Veris shrugged. “For right now, I don’t care,” he said. “I’ll let my younger self deal with the crap and the fallout.”
“That’s not nice,” Taylor chided.
“Why? A night in the king’s court, good food, wine and music. He’ll wonder how he got there and he’ll have a headache in the morning. He’ll be fine.”
“Why will he have a headache?” Taylor asked suspiciously.
“Ah, as to that…” Veris reached to his hip and pulled out the dagger once more. He flipped it in midair and caught it with a quick midair snatch and nodded. “That confirms it,” he muttered.
“Confirms what?”
“It confirms it for me, but you’ll want visual proof. You always do. Look.” He held up his left hand and ran the point of the blade over the pad of his thumb. The small wound began to bleed. “Oh, fuck, that hurts,” Veris muttered. “I’d forgotten pain.”
Taylor caught her breath, staring at the little nick. It was still bleeding. Still open.
“You’re human,” she breathed.
He nodded. “I wasn’t made until about ten years from now,” he said softy. “Not long before I left for Britain.”
Taylor caught his arm. “Food. Drink…” She smiled up at him. “No wonder you don’t care what happens tomorrow.”
Veris grinned. “Not just food and drink, Tyra my love. I intend to savor you from the tips of your toes to the ends of your fingernails and every inch in between. If we have time, I’ll do it over and over again. Then I’m going to sit with Marit and share a cup of wine and tell her how proud I am of her and…”
He stopped walking. Taylor turned to him, concerned, for he was staring at his boots.
Marit turned back as they faltered. “What is it?” she asked.
“I’m happy,” Veris explained, switching back to the Norse of his childhood. He lifted his head, revealing eyes that glittered with tears. He shifted his shoulders, clearly embarrassed. “So why am I crying?”
Marit laughed and began hurrying down the path again. “Men!” she said, as if that explained everything.
Taylor stretched up to hug Veris. “You cry when you’re happy,” she said softly in English. “Don’t you remember that?”
“I never did,” he said harshly.
“Well, maybe you’ve grown up a bit.”
“Maybe I was never happy,” he said grimly. He kissed her cheek and lowered her to the ground. “Let’s go and see the king.”
King Herleifr was elderly. He looked nearly seventy, so Taylor scaled his age to somewhere around the mid or late fifties for this era. Perhaps a bit younger, if disease had been unkind to him. But he was hearty for his age and there was nothing wrong with his mind.
With Queen Ingvild’s
permission, Marit presented Taylor to the King as a cousin from a neighboring kingdom. As an afterthought, Marit present Tyra’s husband, Veris, who bowed from his position at the back of the big fire burning in the center of the room.
Herleifr nodded at Veris before turning his gaze back upon Taylor. “Most remarkable,” he murmured. He glanced at his wife, who sat upon the much smaller throne several steps down below the tier his grand chair was placed upon. “Have you ever seen such beauty before?”
Taylor glanced at Marit, who was smiling with a self-satisfied expression, standing next to the queen. She had predicted this. She had also warned Taylor not to argue with the king. Taylor could feel the need to explain pushing at her lips and gritted her teeth.
How could she tactfully tell these people that where she came from she was considered quite average? That her height and bone structure were the result of generations of genetic adaptation and selection for “attractiveness” over “breeding stock” that had been a luxury that mankind had enjoyed for the last two hundred years?
Or that it was the benefit of clean water, healthy diets and modern chemicals that made her skin look like it did?
But she couldn’t explain any of it. So Taylor stayed silent. She found herself gripping the edges of the cloak Marit had draped about her shoulders as the finishing touches to her court dress, her palms abruptly sweaty.
The cloak was made of a material more finely woven than any of the rough garments she had seen today, as they had walked through the cluster of fifty or so round huts, stables and animal shelters that made up the tiny town clustering thickly up against the stout walls of the king’s hall.
The hall itself was surprisingly stately. It was made of massive, well-hewn and crafted local trees and built to withstand just about anything but fire. With roots tapping the rock shelf it was built upon and branches running back into the mountain it perched upon, the king’s hall was a fine fortress that had stood for five generations and continued to grow with each succeeding generation.
Tonight the giant oak doors stood open to guests and lights blazed from the unglazed windows. The king was entertaining.
The dress Taylor wore to honor the King and his guests was clearly expensive and one of Marit’s best. The underdress was white and there was not a lot of material to spare around her breasts. It clung to her until it reached her hips, giving her enough room to walk—and dance, Marit had explained. It was about four inches longer at the back than the front, forming a simple train and had long sleeves and a simple round neck with beautiful white embroidery.
Over the top of the underdress Taylor wore a deep blue apron dress. It had straps going over each shoulder like a sundress, that fastened with two blue jewels just above each breast. Hanging between each jewel were two chains, one longer than the other. Swinging from the longer chain was a small bronze pendant of a dragon. The apron dress was also form-fitting and surprisingly flattering, especially when Marit fastened a thick leather belt around Taylor’s waist, pulling it in firmly. There was a small leather pouch hanging from the belt from two short tabs. A third loop hung empty.
“That’s for your dagger,” Marit said as if it was obvious, when Taylor fingered the loop.
Taylor held back from saying she was left-handed. It was possible left-handedness was a sign of the devil here.
The cloak was the final layer—a soft wool that seemed to be cool or warm just as Taylor needed it to be. It didn’t scratch at all, which she expected it to. It was long, as long as the white underdress.
Marit had left Taylor’s hair alone. “I can’t improve upon it,” she said simply.
Now the king pushed himself out of his chair and stepped down onto the broad step Taylor stood upon. He was only as tall as she was and wore no crown. But his tunic was white and embroidered at the neck and his boots were whole and clean. He wore a short cloak around his shoulders and there were matching gems where a chain held it together at the neck. Short fur edged it.
The king studied her closely. “There is no artifice about your beauty,” he said shortly. “It is quite natural. How lovely.” He sighed. “Marit teases me with possibilities that are quite beyond my reach.”
He held out his hand to her.
Startled, Taylor looked toward Marit. Now what?
Marit was smiling. She was enjoying Taylor’s discomposure. When she saw Taylor’s glance in her direction, she lifted her hand upward.
Take his hand
, she seemed to be saying.
Taylor hesitantly took the king’s offered hand. The man’s grip was firm despite his apparent frailty. She glanced over her shoulder, back toward Veris.
“Ah, you are right,” the king murmured. “You should ask your husband’s permission first. Go ahead.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” Taylor said. “I am unaccustomed to your ways here. I am not even sure what it is I seek permission for from my husband.”
“Why, to accompany me to the table and after, to dance. That is all. I am long past the age where anything more is required of you. You may even sit next to your husband during the meal as I have political guests to entertain tonight and they will not speak in your presence.” He nodded toward a group of dour warriors standing off to one side, their arms crossed over their chests, wearing beards and swords and shaggy hair. “I must keep them entertained and woo them so that my borders are safe, you understand?” he said softly, so his voice did not carry.
“Perfectly,” she said just as softly. “But wouldn’t more womanly charms put them at their ease…soften them up for you?”
He laughed. “You
are
a delight! Alas, those tough old war dogs are moved by nothing less than money or power. The softer charms ceased to touch their souls a long time ago. They’ll have to reckon with the gods when they reach Valhalla for such an oversight, I’m thinking. The gods didn’t place the gentler arts on the earth only to have them ignored. Come, let us lead this kingdom of mine to dinner and let them gorge. I look forward to dancing with you, Tyra of the godlike beauty. You are a breath of fresh air.”
“Thank you, Highness.”
He turned her and led her down the steps. “Your husband’s name is…Veris, yes?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“He is not a native of your kingdom, is he?” Herleifr said as they swept past the surly visitors and on down the broad steps to the round room at the foot.
“No, he was not born there,” Taylor said.
The room was filled with people standing and watching their king greet and escort her to the dining tables. In the middle of the large rounded area was a huge fire pit. Kitchen staff were busy preparing last minute dishes over the edges of the fire.
As the king walked Taylor across the floor, the crowd made way silently, letting them through.
On the other side of the room, long tables and benches had been set up and the meal was being laid out as the king approached.
Veris stood waiting just before the tables. Taylor could see wariness in his eyes, even though he was wearing an affable, pleasant expression for everyone else. His hand was resting on the pommel of the sword strapped to his hip. It looked casual. She knew otherwise.
He had changed from the foreign-looking European clothes to more local garments, so that he could blend in. Now he looked like someone who belonged here. She corrected the impression in her mind. Veris looked like he might have looked in the real past, before he left. He wore boots, pants and an embroidered tunic over an under tunic. From the thick leather belt hung a leather money pouch. His sword belt crossed over it. Because he was in the king’s court, he’d left off the chain mail and other armor and accoutrements a warrior would normally wear. But he had wide leather cuffs on each wrist and a bronze torc about his neck.
Taylor’s heart skipped a beat. This was Veris in his native element. Väinä at home.
She found herself smiling at him. She couldn’t help it.
“Then it truly is a love match,” the king said. “That expression on your face says more than the best storyteller in the world could ever explain.”
Taylor jerked her gaze away from Veris and back to the king. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I wasn’t paying attention to you.”
The king smiled. “There is nothing to forgive, child,” he said. “For see? We are already at our destination.” He lifted her hand and placed it in Veris’.
“Thank you, Highness,” Veris said.
“Your wife is lovely beyond compare. You’re aware of that, I can tell by the way your hand hovers by your sword,” Herleifr said softly. “Or is it, rather, your discomfort in being back in this hall once more, Väinämöinen?”