Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 01] (4 page)

“Have you ever heard of Kevin Costner?” she asked abruptly in a husky voice, hoping she wouldn’t lose her nerve.

“Who?”

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I was just wondering…how do you feel about long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days?” she asked brazenly.

That got his attention!

Ruby recognized the bright flame of desire in Thork’s sapphire eyes before he deliberately shuttered them, but he couldn’t conceal their quick blink of surprise. He opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it, swallowed, then stood abruptly. She and Jack had seen the Kevin Costner movie together. The screen words had aroused them both. At a glance, Ruby saw that Thork was no different.

Their eyes locked. Acutely aware of Thork’s scrutiny, Ruby parted her lips unconsciously in unspoken invitation.

But Thork ignored the temptation of her lips as he regained his composure and swore explicity. “Fine words for a whore, mayhap. Be that what you are? If so, name
your price and be done.” He stood and paced, deep in thought, before confronting her again. “Mayhap, though, you really do spy, after all,” he concluded with narrowed eyes. “For a certainty, methinks you treat your situation much too lightly and hope to divert my attention. Your life hangs in the balance, wench, and you speak of…of…”

“Kisses?” Ruby offered impudently. “Don’t Vikings kiss?”

Thork blushed. He actually blushed. Ruby loved it.

“We like kisses fine,” he rasped thickly. Suddenly realizing her game, Thork twitched his lips sensuously as he offered, “Mayhap you’d like a demonstration?”

He obviously expected her to demur. Instead, Ruby decided to play along. “Perhaps. Of course, there wouldn’t be much attraction for you in kissing such a
bony-arsed
female as me. That is what you called me, isn’t it?”

Thork grinned provocatively, then watched with fascination as Ruby slowly wet her suddenly dry lips with the tip of her tongue. He moved enticingly close. Ruby thought he was about to kiss her, and she parted her lips reflexively. Instead, he placed his lips a hairsbreadth from hers and blew softly until the dewy wetness evaporated.

Ruby’s senses reeled. Thork’s tantalizing sensuality ignited a flame in Ruby’s midsection which hopscotched to all the sweet spots in her body that only Jack had ever touched before. Held prisoner by the magnetic pull of his drugging almost-kiss and the compelling masculine scent that was Jack’s alone, Ruby leaned forward, her heartbeat playing a rapid counterpoint to the hammering pulse in Thork’s neck. Ruby recognized the white-hot sexual desire she hadn’t felt for months with Jack.

But Thork soon jolted her from her carnal reverie as he brushed her cheek with his warm lips, then whispered into her ear an answer to her earlier comment,” ’Twas not your bony arse I was of a mind to kiss.”

At first, the insulting words didn’t register on Ruby’s muddled senses. She pulled away abruptly when sanity returned to jar her from her seductive trance.

Thork followed his outrageous comment with a suggestive wink.
The cad!

The only salve to Ruby’s wounded pride was the fact that Thork couldn’t hide his obvious male reaction to her.

“Oh! You always were crude.”

Thork cocked his head quizzically. “Your manner of speaking—’tis strange. Not Saxon. Nor Norman.” A look of determination altered the thoughtful expression on his face, and he warned her, “Before this day ends, by Thor’s blood, I’ll know your whole story or else…”

He pulled her to her feet and put an end to their conversation. “Enough foolery! Too much time I have already wasted on such as you. Important business do I bring to my king. Tell me your tale…or tell Sigtrygg. Little difference it makes to me.”

“I’ll tell you, but I don’t know if you’ll believe me.”

His face showed wary interest but nothing more.

“Thork, this is a dream,” Ruby explained tentatively.

Thork stared at her, expecting more. When she remained silent, he snarled in disgust and turned to go. “That is all? ’Tis your explanation? Enough! We are off to Sigtrygg where I will be well rid of you.”

“Thork, listen to me,” Ruby pleaded, pulling on his arm as she realized how important his understanding might be when they got to the palace. He held himself stiffly, unyielding, but Ruby plunged ahead anyway. “Thork, I come from the future, the year nineteen hundred and ninety-four. I know, I know. It sounds unbelievable. It
is
unbelievable. But it’s only a dream.”

Thork’s eyes widened in surprise at her pathetic story. When she didn’t elaborate, he exclaimed in disgust, “’Tis outrageous that you would try to dupe me thus. Can you
be so addlewitted that a dream is the best excuse you conjure up for your presence in our land? A dream! The future!” He shot her a haughty look of disdain and laughed snidely. “Fortunate for you that you did not mention this to the harbor mob. ’Twould be food for the vultures you would be by now.”

“You must believe me, Thork,” Ruby urged, speaking rapidly to forestall him and make sure she got a chance to explain everything. “In the future, your name is Jack and you’re my husband. In fact, we’ve been happily married for twenty years—that is, we
were
happily married until lately. You left me today. And that’s why this all happened. At least, I think that’s why it happened.”

At first, Thork looked incredulous that she’d spout such an outrageous story; then a slow-burning rage flushed his cheeks.

Ruby rushed to complete her rambling explanation. “I was really upset when you left…to think our twenty-year marriage was over. I was crying and I wished that I was twenty years younger and could start all over again.” She raised her palms in a helpless shrug. “And…and I guess my wish came true, except—did I already tell you?—I’m twenty years younger. Anyhow, I made my wish, but I certainly didn’t expect to travel back in time more than a thousand years.

“The strange thing, though, is this seems so real; yet I know it must be a dream…or something.” She looked up at Thork hopefully when she finished.

“Twen…twenty years of wedlock!” Thork sputtered. Ruby could see his impatience growing to explosive proportions. “Only twenty-nine winters have I seen my entire life. You may dream, but, I assure you, I do not. I swear by Thor’s hammer Mjollnir that I am alive and standing here, not in a damned dream. Explain that. And what would make you think I would believe such a story? Do I strike you as simple?”

“Jack…Thork, it’s the truth. We’re married. We have two beautiful children. Can’t you feel the bond between us?”

“Bond? Hah! Not even a thread!”

He grabbed her by the upper arms and lifted her off the ground and toward him so that her face was level with his. “You dare much, woman, to try such lies on me,” he informed her through clenched teeth. “I told you an hour past and will repeat it one last time. No wife have I. Never have I seen you afore today, nor care aught if I ever see you again. Willingly, nay, joyfully, do I place your fate in another’s hands afore this day fades. Fair warning, though, wench: try this tale on Sigtrygg and ’tis certain few will be able to stomach the results.” The contempt in his harsh voice forbade further argument.

Thork laced the fingers of her left hand with his and pulled her along the still bustling streets, presumably toward the Norse castle. He practically smoked with anger. She knew she’d botched her story but wasn’t sure how she could have done better, considering her extraordinary circumstances. But still she had to try again.

“What if I can prove it?”

He ignored her and dragged her behind him with his wide strides.

“What if I can prove it?” Ruby repeated shrilly.

Thork stopped dead in his tracks and Ruby tripped. His right hand still held her left in a rigid clasp.

“Odin, forgive me,” Thork said, looking up to the sky, then back to Ruby. “I hate myself for asking, but what canst thou prove?”

“Well…well…,” Ruby stammered, not having thought that far. Then she brightened and offered, “…prove that you’re my husband.”

“Pray tell!” Thork exhaled disgustedly, then released her and put both hands on his hips.

She held her breath and asked hopefully, “Do you still
have that mole on your upper thigh?” Thork lowered his eyes but not before she saw the surprise in their blue depths.

“Moles be not uncommon. Your statement proves naught.”

“No? Well, I think yours should be right about here,” she said, touching his inner thigh, almost at the groin.

He looked shaken at her bold gesture and glanced from his thigh to her face questioningly. His baffled expression bespoke the accuracy of her aim. The mole was exactly where she’d said.

She continued quickly, more sure of herself now, “And you grind your teeth in your sleep. And you like honey on your bread. And peaches, in season. You’re left-handed but can throw equally well with your right hand. And…and those long kisses I told you about earlier…well, you
do
like them. A lot.”

Ruby put both hands on her hips and glared up at Thork, daring him to contradict her.

His eyes widened in disbelief before he exclaimed, “A sorceress! I should have known. Wait till Sigtrygg hears this. There is nothing he likes better than a witch-burning. He blames the curse of a sorceress for his mutilated eye. Too bad I leave on the morrow for Ravenshire, my grandsire’s home in Northumbria. ’Tis likely Sigtrygg will declare a holiday to celebrate your slow demise. ’Twould be a pleasure, I am thinking, to throw a twig or two on the fire myself.”

“You’re scaring me. I’m not a sorceress,” Ruby moaned.

“What then?” Thork asked stonily. “A witch, or a spy? ’Tis one or the other, I wager. But, if you do spy, someone, most likely Ivar, has gone to much trouble to feed you information about me. For what purpose, I wonder?” He looked at her questioningly. “Either way—sorceress or spy—the deed be done. Your fate is sealed.”

She started to speak, but he shook his head with a
finality that Ruby sensed wouldn’t be brooked this time.

“Enough! We go to Sigtrygg.”

Thork’s coldness quickly extinguished any spark of hope Ruby may have been entertaining. She soon developed a stitch in her side, trying to keep up with Thork’s rapid pace. She barely noticed her strange surroundings as they proceeded through the large Viking city.

Stone-cold fear chilled Ruby’s blood. A numbness crept through her veins to her fingertips, down to her toes and up to her brain, which could no longer register coherent thought. This dream-turned-nightmare frightened Ruby to death, but the most worrying thing of all, Ruby began to realize, was a nagging suspicion that it might not be a dream, after all.

What if she really had traveled back in time? What if she never returned to the future—to Jack, or her sons Eddie and David, to the custom lingerie business she’d painstakingly built from a sewing hobby to a thriving mail-order catalog business?

Worst of all, if she were lost in time for good, she would never have a second chance to make things right with Jack. Desolation overwhelmed Ruby.

She and Thork climbed a slight incline to a fortified area and passed through a well-guarded gate. All around the courtyard, nobly dressed Viking men and women stepped aside to make way for them. Thork nodded to those who greeted him. Curious stares fell on Ruby.

They climbed steps to a massive timber and stone building, its wooden eaves carved with intricate Nordic symbols. King Sigtrygg’s castle! At the top of the steps, Olaf stood, holding open a heavy oak door for her and his master. When she passed, Ruby glanced up at the giant and saw a gentle compassion there. For her! The terrifying realization numbed her.

The cold fear which had flowed forebodingly through her blood earlier turned into daggers of ice.

Like Alice in Wonderland falling through the garden hole, Ruby felt as if she’d plunged into another world. Indeed, she had.

Olaf held Ruby back with a raised arm as they entered the great hall of the Norse palace, an enormous room whose stone walls were adorned with magnificent tapestries and primitive weaponry. Selik and Cnut joined a group of well-dressed Viking men who saluted them with hearty shouts and comradely slaps on their backs. She and Olaf followed several yards behind Thork, crushing fragrant rushes in their path. Thork strode toward a raised dais.

“Good tidings, Thork! Welcome to Jorvik.”

“Well met, Sigtrygg. ’Tis good to be home.”

An immense, hairy man stood and lumbered toward Thork, dwarfing his six-foot-three frame by at least a head. A wide chain belt dangled noisily at the waist of his knee-length purple tunic, which was embroidered
exquisitely with gold thread and accented by three jewel-encrusted brooches at one shoulder. Soft leather cross-gartered shoes and tight black leggings covered limbs as big as tree trunks.

Despite the fine attire, the bearlike Viking was ugly as sin. Puckered and scarred skin, devoid of eyebrows and eyelashes, surrounded the one mutilated eye, which stared straight ahead endlessly. Other battle scars marred his face and neck and every area of exposed flesh. God pity Athelstan’s sister, Ruby thought.

Thick gold bracelets encircling the bulging muscles of Sigtrygg’s upper arms sparkled in the lamplight as he embraced Thork and drew him to an empty chair beside him, where Thork nodded to the men and women already seated there.

“’Tis overlong we have waited for you, Thork,” the king complained accusingly. “What news bring you?”

“Thank Thor for my delay and mayhap the mischievous Loki,” Thork responded quickly, unbending under the king’s cool question, refusing to apologize.

“More likely wenches from here to Hedeby and beyond still lay with widespread legs,” the king remarked snidely with an unpleasant snort of disbelief.

Thork’s face stiffened, but he wisely chose not to rise to Sigtrygg’s bait.

“I bring you greetings from my father Harald, as well as an important message from King Athelstan in Wessex.”

Sigtrygg and the others leaned forward with interest.

“’Tis naught of importance the Saxon bastard could say to me,” Sigtrygg bragged, taking a deep swallow from his goblet, then holding it out to a servant for a refill.

“He offers you his sister in marriage to strengthen the alliance between Wessex and Northumbria,” Thork blurted out.

Stunned, the king just gaped at Thork dumbly. Then he hooted gleefully and began to laugh loud enough to raise
the roof, joined by the other Vikings. When he finally stopped, tears glistened in the giant king’s one good eye and he held his side.

“By Freya’s tits, the Saxon cub oversteps himself! Thinks he we Vikings are so starved for females in our beds that we drool over the maidenheads of their skinny bitches?” His crude remark drew guffaws from the men and blushes from the women before he continued, “Three wives I cover now. What need have I for another?”

“Nay, Sigtrygg. Think on it. ’Twould be folly to toss this offer in the midden without further thought,” Thork cautioned. “Much there is to be gained in this marriage for you.”

Sigtrygg appeared ready to argue but then demanded of Thork, “Explain yourself. What profit be there for me in the bedding of an English whelp?”

“Even as the Saxons grasp our hands in treaty, they plot our downfall,” Thork lashed out. “Alfred agreed to the Danelaw some fifty years ago, but, at the same time, he launched a plan to fortify towns so that no part of Wessex would be more than twenty miles from a military center.”

“We know all that.” Sigtrygg disregarded Thork’s information with a wave of his hand.

“Know you that Alfred’s son, King Edward, and now his son Athelstan continue that fortification plan? Know you that more than thirty walled military
burhs
dot the Wessex countryside and more are planned?” Thork’s angry voice echoed loudly across the silent hall. He boldly looked Sigtrygg in his one good eye and informed him bravely, “I mislike being the butt of any man’s joke, least of all the bloody Saxons. A favorite saying amongst them these days is, ‘Edward broke the back of the Norsemen. Athelstan will cut off their balls.’”

At those words, Thork looked directly at Ruby’s shirt logo and frowned, as if wondering for the first time if the
Saxons, not Ivar, had sent her. Pensively, he studied her.

“Thor’s lips! You go too far!” Sigtrygg bellowed, standing to his full height like an outraged grizzly. Spittle flecked his thick, reddish beard.

“Nay, ’tis not far enough.” Thork stood, facing off his outraged leader. “’Tis time someone bespoke the truth about the weakness of your position and—”

Sigtrygg let out a bull-like yell that echoed through the hall, and his face turned purple with rage. To Thork’s credit, he didn’t cower.

“Dare you call me weak? You upstart get of a jackal! Be you Jomsviking or the son of King Harald matters naught to me. ’Tis tempted I am to cut out your wayward tongue.”

Ruby couldn’t believe her eyes and ears. King Sigtrygg with his volatile moods was clearly a dangerous man, but suddenly the king started to laugh loudly and clapped Thork so hard on the shoulder he almost fell forward.

“My friend, you do well to warn me. ’Tis certain you think only of my best interests and those of Jorvik. Come. Tell me more.”

It happened so fast Ruby blinked disbelievingly. How could Sigtrygg’s temper swing so rapidly back and forth? God help the man who suffered his wrath before his mood switched back. Or woman? she thought, and cringed.

As Thork and the king discussed the pros and cons of the marriage agreement, Ruby noticed the servants pulling out heavy trestles and large boards to serve as table tops. The wide wooden benches lining the walls would be used now as dining seats and later as beds for the lower classes.

The servants, probably thralls, wore undyed wool garments poncho-style with leather thongs tied at the waist—the men’s and boys’ were knee-length, while the women’s and girls’ hung down to their ankles. These contrasted sharply with the fine fabrics of the high-born Viking
nobles and noblewomen. Ruby, with her sewing background, recognized the richness of the bright-colored cloth and the excellent workmanship.

The Vikings were unusually tall, even the women, and surprisingly clean, with sparkling white teeth and well-cared-for hair. Some of the males even sported intricately braided beards, an incongruous, almost feminine vanity at odds with the huge muscles knotting their arms and legs. A few of the women looked as if they could wield battle-axes themselves.

An endless stream of servants placed platter after platter of enticing food on the tables as the men and women seated themselves alternately in some type of predetermined order. The servers put enormous salt cellars midway down each of the long tables: from this came the expression of being seated “below the salt,” Ruby presumed. The better the dress, the closer to the dais, Ruby observed. Olaf, apparently a favorite in this court, sat at the first table near the platform, and, to Ruby’s chagrin, told her to stand behind him. When would she get to sit and eat?

Rhoda sidled up to her then, along with the other thralls who’d been with them in the boat.

“Still gotcher head, I see,” Rhoda quipped.

“Yes, but I don’t know for how long. That Sigtrygg is a mean man.”

“I toldja, din’t I?”

“When do we get to eat?”

Rhoda shrugged disinterestedly. “I be more worried if I wuz you ’bout where I sleep tonight—if you still be alive by then—’stead of whether you sup or not.”

Ruby was about to answer when Olaf turned with a black look and told her to shush. Thork and Sigtrygg were ending their discussion.

“The deed be done then,” Sigtrygg agreed, raising his goblet in a toast before the crowd. “We will discuss
the details at the Althing to be held one month hence, but word goes out today to Athelstan. I will wed his bitch sister.” With a lusty laugh and a vulgar gesture at his genitals, he added, “Mayhap this old body can still father more sons for Odin.” The Viking men offered lewd rejoinders to his toast.

Ruby noticed an odd thing. Not once did Sigtrygg ask the name of the woman he would wed, whether she was young or old, how she looked, if she was willing or being coerced into this marriage. Just as Thork had predicted earlier, Sigtrygg would wed a pig if it was to his advantage.

The king and all assembled turned to the feast being laid before them. The massive serving platters held every type of fish conceivable—cod, haddock, herring, even something that looked like a snake in cream sauce. Probably eel. Ruby recognized chicken and duck but couldn’t identify the other types of poultry, never having eaten pigeon or pheasant or whatever these pre-Medieval people hunted. Of course, the requisite massive haunch of beef held center stage, with its bloody juices dripping over the sides of a gigantic tray.

At the lower tables, couples shared wood trenchers using spoons or personal knives, but at the upper tables big, round slices of manchet bread were distributed, thick enough to sop up the gravy and be eaten. Rhoda whispered that the soggy, leftover manchets were given to beggars at the castle gate. Ruby felt like begging for one herself.

Innumerable side dishes accompanied the main courses, such as onions, cabbage, beets and peas, not to mention a warm, flat bread and butter, custards, pastries, honey, cheeses, nuts and a variety of fresh fruits. They drank a type of beer or ale in vast quantities from animal horns, as well as carved wood or silver goblets.

No wonder these Vikings grew so big if they ate like this everyday, Ruby thought. She wondered what they
would think of the dangers of cholesterol, then decided they probably didn’t live long enough to be worried about natural causes of death.

Ruby prodded Olaf in the back. “Give me something to eat, you selfish lout.”

Olaf looked at her as if he couldn’t believe his ears, then shook his head from side to side. “Methinks Thork has more of a handful than he realizes.” He turned back to the table but not before handing her an apple and a chunk of cheese, both of which she shared with Rhoda.

As she munched, she looked up to the dais where Thork ate heartily. The pig! She caught his eye just as he held a piece of bread in his right hand and was about to put a dollop of honey on it with his left hand.

Honey! His left hand!

Ruby smiled knowingly, and Thork dropped the honey ladle like a hot iron. He turned away sullenly, not wanting to be reminded of her strange knowledge of his body and tastes.

After the servants cleared away the food and tables, the people moved closer to the dais, wanting to hear the rest of Thork’s news. They cleaned their teeth with little slivers of wood. The ale and the wine flowed freely.

“So, I hear you go to Dublin, Sigtrygg,” Thork said.

“Yea. My grandfather, Ivar the Boneless, may he rest now in Valhalla, bred too many children and grandchildren. My cousins and I mistrust each other sorely. I left my Dublin throne in the hands of my cousin Godfred when I came to Northumbria four years ago on my cousin King Rognvald’s death, but I worry now that the power-hungry Godfred may be overfond of my domain.”

Thork nodded in understanding.

“And your father?” Sigtrygg asked companionably. “’Twas ever a man who knew the meaning of power-hungry, ’tis Harald Fairhair. No offense meant.”

“None taken. My father is as he ever was. Vikings flee
Norway right and left to escape his leaden thumb. Many even settle in Iceland.”

“Do you still refuse to be jarl of one of his holdings?”

“Yea. I much prefer the rigors of Jomsvikings to the pincers of his heavy-handed rule. I give him credit, though. He has united all Norway, and ’twas no mean feat.”

Sigtrygg concurred. “I understand you just delivered your half-brother Haakon to Athelstan’s court for fostering.” He shook his head in wonder. “Your father breeds sons like a rabbit, even in his old age, and well he knows the rewards of developing good relations with the Saxons when ’tis to his benefit, even if it means using his youngest child.”

“To be sure. Didst thou know of the tribute he sent to Athelstan?”

“Nay.”

“My father sent a great warship with golden prow and purple sail, replete with row upon row of gilded shields.”

People around the king gasped, recognizing the vast wealth betokened by the grand tribute.

Then Sigtrygg spoke the words Ruby had been dreading. “The thralls out there—are they captives you mean to keep for yourself or will you sell them?”

Uh oh!

Thork looked at Ruby and the other slaves. The closed expression on his face told her nothing of his feelings.

“They will be sold…except one. Methinks you must talk with her. The slave may be a spy for Ivar.”

“
What!
” Sigtrygg roared and jumped from his seat. “You do not mean that snake Ivar sends a spy into Jorvik! Bring the man forward so I may torture his secrets from him.”

“Well, ’tis not exactly a man,” Thork admitted reluctantly, motioning Olaf to bring Ruby forward. “Actually, ’tis a woman.”

Sigtrygg glared stonily at Thork. “Do you try to make the fool of me?”

“Nay. You must see her to believe it,” Thork commented dryly.

Olaf led Ruby to the bottom of the steps where she waited until Thork and the king came down. The other Vikings in the hall moved closer, even those on the dais, all expecting to be entertained in some way. Then Olaf stepped away.

Ruby felt strangely unprotected without the giant by her side.

Sigtrygg gawked at her, astounded by her unusual appearance. “’Tis a woman, you say?” he asked Thork skeptically.

“Yea.”

The king looked her up and down, walked around her, then stood in front of her. First, he touched her short hair, fingered the fabric of her T-shirt, then reached a big paw out and grasped her breast.

Ruby started to protest but saw Olaf signal her to be still. Actually, she was too scared to move.

Sigtrygg grinned lewdly. Up close, he was even more ugly than Ruby had thought. When he smiled, she saw that one front tooth was missing. Then Sigtrygg noticed the words on Ruby’s shirt and said them aloud: “Brass Balls.”