Undercurrent (11 page)

Magnus shook his head, his bushy brows disappearing under a mop of sandy hair. “It is Ragnar who tells Magnus no one is perfect. No one good. Only Jesu. Did you not tell Gerlaich?”

“
Of course I did, but…” Accusations pummeled against his faith as steadily as the waves rocking the faering. Maybe he hadn’t used simple enough terms.

The big man’s lips wavered as if he sucked on a sour plum, and he reached out to stroke Ragnar’s head once again.

This time he did not shrink from the touch. “For the rest of my days, I am condemned to wonder if I will see his face when I reach heaven.”

Seagulls screeched overhead, and Magnus’s watery blue eyes followed their circles before he spoke again. “Is it Gerlaich’s face you will seek, or Jesu’s?”

Magnus smacked his lips together, wiped spittle from his chin with one hand, and dug through a pouch with the other. His hand came out empty. “Sweetmeats. Sweetmeats. Magnus need some sweetmeats.” He turned and clumped back onto shore, taking his sing-song chant with him.

Ragnar’s eyes filled, but whether from sorrow or gratitude, he couldn’t be sure. He collapsed into the bow, too stunned to coherently sort through such jumbled emotions. Only one thing was certain—in the midst of his grief, a burden had been lifted.

The acrid smell of smoke increased in proportion with Cassie’s fatigue the farther Alarik led her down the narrow road. As if it could be called that—more like a goat trail. After one skirt-ripping tumble, she learned to keep watch for ruts and rocks. Her shin yet stung from the last nasty scrape.

She’d given up asking him where they were going. Either he didn’t understand, or he flat-out ignored her. His good humor had vanished after they’d left the cover of forest. A stony-faced determination replaced his winsome smile.

No matter. By the smell of it, they’d soon be at a large campground. He could find his hippie buddies, and a few phone calls would restore her life to normal.

A sharp bend to the right, and the path opened onto a stretch of flattened dirt covered with a smattering of gravel, not unlike many English rural roads she’d traveled before. In the distance, a pale gray haze floated above an expansive rock wall. Interesting set-up for mere camp sites, more the size of a small town, but Brits could be that way.

She slowed as she neared the gaping gates of the wall, lagging behind Alarik. Homeless vagrants clumped near the entrance, begging with outstretched hands. Alarik continued on, but she stopped, speechless.

This was no campground.

Except for Caucasian features beneath layers of dirt, she might be gazing upon the untouchables of Calcutta. Open sores glistened with pus on the face of one man. Another inclined his head toward the sky, an empty eye socket charred and shriveled. Only one woman sat amongst the group, half dressed, a patch of wriggling maggots eating at a leg wound that looked like raw hamburger.

Cassie’s stomach heaved. She turned away, doubling over, and focused on the pebbles, the soil, an anthill off to the side. Anything to take away the horrible image.

A pair of men’s boots, scuffed and worn through near the heel, stepped within her circle of vision.

“
Cass-ee?”

She straightened and shuffled through her pathetic Old Norse vocabulary. “What is this place?”

One of his brows rose. “Jorvik.”

“
Sure. A city that hasn’t existed for a thousand years.” She spoke in English, ignoring his puzzled expression. Maybe he meant the Jorvik Viking Centre, sponsored by the York Archeological Trust, and this was some kind of back way in. That’s it. Had to be. Kudos to their costume and make-up department.

“
Køm.” He angled his head, signaling her to follow, then strode through the entrance.

Averting her eyes, she followed. Fake or not, those wounds grossed her out.

Twenty paces inside the wall, her feet stopped again. She gaped at gable-ended houses sardined in rows along the road. A free-ranging pig snuffled near her foot while humanity scurried like cockroaches in all directions. Sweat, boiled cabbage, rotting meat, and human waste all combined into one malodorous stink.

And the noise—a baby’s squall, barking dogs, fires crackling. But the most terrifying sound came out of the mouths of those around her. No wonder Alarik spoke Old Norse. Others did as well, and those who didn’t conversed in Old English. Even the best Shakespearean actors couldn’t speak this fluently.

She waited for a light-headed faint feeling to carry her into oblivion. Where were the sparkles to signal the mind-bending migraine that surely must be about to start? She massaged her temples, but every jarring odor and foreign sound remained sharp and keen.

A sickening feeling sank low in her belly, and she cast a wild look around for Alarik. Hairy men of all manner strode past her, but none with his familiar swagger. She stood alone in a horde of alien people.

Suddenly short of breath, she gasped for air and arched to her tip-toes. In the distance, a set of broad shoulders and dark hair marched on. She sprinted to catch up.

“
Wait!”

Alarik turned, and she barreled into him.

Setting her from him, he frowned. “What is the matter, Cass-ee?”

“
You said…this is…Jorvik.” She panted between words.

“
Ja.” He eyed her like he would a lunatic.

“
But Jorvik, the real deal…when? Who’s in charge? Now, I mean. Anglos? Saxons? Danes?”

His frown deepened, and he said nothing. But that didn’t stop the others around her from talking. The mix of Old English and Norse would date this era to sometime in the late 900s. Her heart beat double-time. Though she’d battled fiercely with reason thus far, she had to concede all her wild instincts had been correct. That forest had been virgin. Alarik was a Viking. And that skirmish in the woods…in the tenth century, life and death were separated only by the thin edge of an axe blade.

“
Truth is bigger than time.
”

Old Salty’s words hit her broadside. Sucking in a breath, she clutched Alarik’s arm. Unfortunately, he was the only constant in this upside-down world.

His frown softened into half a smile, easing her apprehension enough that she relaxed her death-grip into a simple hand hold.

“
We go now, ja?”

Dazed, she let him lead her in what seemed a helter-skelter route up one street, down another—a confusing maze that crossed over a river at one point. No great cathedral graced the dirty city as she expected. A stone church, admittedly large compared to most buildings, comprised the sum total of the Great York Minster. Definitely not the magnificent tourist attraction as in her day. Her shoulders slunk in defeat. What if she didn’t make it back to ‘her day’?

Twilight arrived by the time Alarik halted at a timber-framed two-story. Lantern light spilled out the open door, along with men’s voices and women’s shrill laughter. A carved and whitewashed wooden placard hung above, picturing a mug. Great. A pub. Her already upset stomach would not survive foamy ale or the sour breath of those imbibing.

She freed her hand from his clasp and leaned against the outside wall. “You go. I’ll wait here.”

“
Nei.” He shook his head then angled it toward the door. “Køm.”

“
Alarik go. Cassie wait here.” She sounded like a two-year-old, but it was the best she could manage right now.

He raked a stray wisp of his dark hair behind an ear and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. For once it appeared Mr. Viking Man might be unsure of what to do.

“
Go.” She forced a smile, and he apparently accepted her at her word, for he disappeared through the door.

Cassie expelled a gigantic sigh, glad for the solid wall holding her upright. The past week—had it been a week already? Hard to tell. No matter. Somehow life as she knew it had become a dream.
God, is this really happening? What am I doing here, and where are you?

The earnest, unplanned prayer startled her as much as her surroundings. She generally relegated prayer to church on Sundays—when it fit into her schedule to attend, but if ever there were an occasion to break tradition, this was it.

She pushed away from the building and paced its length, hoping the rhythm might relieve some of her stress. When she pivoted for another lap, a raggedy young boy stood in her path. Enormous brown eyes shone beneath a mop of messy hair, and he motioned with an urgent arm sweep. The boy rattled off something incomprehensible, but he communicated his dire need well enough.

Maybe one of his friends was hurt. Or his mother was sick. Could be any number of crises. Like she could do anything—she needed help herself.

“
Sorry, little buddy. You’ll have to find someone else.” She shrugged and turned to resume her pacing. The second she faced away from the lad, something pulled at her wrist, and her bracelet snapped loose.

Rotten thief!

She bolted after the boy, now a good half block or so ahead of her. How could a kid run so fast? She gained ground and had nearly caught up when he scooted around a corner and disappeared.

She slid to a stop, stumbling, and strained to see down the narrow lane he’d run into. Or had he?

“
Boy?”

Her voice traveled into the darkness of the alley, but she wouldn’t go a step farther. As much as she yearned to gain back her precious gold chain, she’d not fall for some kind of stupid trick to lure her into—

An arm around her neck pinched her windpipe closed. She clawed and pried, but the strong grip wouldn’t be budged. Giving a sharp kick backward, she hoped to catch her assailant off-guard, but he stepped sideways as if expecting her action.

Her lungs burned. A man’s laughter came on hot breath near her ear, but not the jolly mirth of Alarik.

As her strength flagged, she focused on remaining conscious. Darkness consumed her as her attacker dragged her into the depths of the alley. A hard shove to the small of her back landed her on the ground. Sharp bits of gravel mashed into the side of her cheek. Air rushed into her lungs, then out again as the man forced his weight on top of her, pinning her down. All she could hear was blood rushing in her ears—and the sound of the man fumbling with his belt buckle.

TEN

A cool evening breeze dried the perspiration on Alarik’s brow as he left the stifling confines of the raucous pub. He drank in the air as greedily as the mug of ale he’d consumed. Refreshed from the brew and informed by the pub master of where his mother’s kin dwelled, he turned to collect the girl.

“
Cass-ee?”

No answer, and no woman leaning against the wall. Addlebrained, strong-willed wench. Her ignorance in the woods was barely a notch above survival. She couldn’t possibly have the sense to fare well in these streets. She had no idea of the evils prowling in the dark Jorvik lanes. Or did she? He knew nothing of her past.

Squatting near where she’d stood, he squinted in the fading light. Unsettled dirt showed where a toe had grazed back and forth. Footprints in the softer ground near the building led to the hard-packed edge of the road. Even with well-honed tracking skills, it would be hard to distinguish which direction she’d gone, and each passing minute lent her the advantage. Was a thrall for his Signy truly worth all this trouble? Likely not. He’d search, but not for long.

He reshouldered his pack and went with instinct, setting off in the opposite direction from which they’d come. An overloud huddle of three men passed a skin of drink between them, and Alarik made sure to give them a wide berth. Better to remain unnoticed than to be drawn into their revelry. Bawdy comments about someone named Pox and his woman in the alley had them all laughing.

Using the distraction, he paused undetected at the next crossroad. A whiff of heated horse urine and rotten eggs carried on the night air. Unless she knew someone down tanner’s lane, the smell from the soaking vats would’ve kept her at bay. He pressed on.

Empty market stalls lined each side of the thoroughfare, their skeletal frames awaiting a skin of wares on the morrow. The light of day would see this street bustling with men hawking trade goods and women hunting bargains, but for now his boots echoed solitary on the deserted road.

He livened his step and nearly flattened a lad who darted into his path. Alarik stumbled. The boy’s backside smacked the ground and a coin loosed from his grip. One swift stomp of Alarik’s toe stopped the roll of the silver piece.

“’
Tis mine! Give it back.” The lad grabbed for his foot and tugged with all the might his wiry frame allowed.

Temptation to smile at the boy’s tenacity wavered on Alarik’s lips, but instead he kicked his boot forward and the boy sprawled backward. Danger could come dressed even as a young pup. “’Tis mine now, thief, unless you give an honest report of how you came by it.”

The lad scrambled to his feet but held his distance. His eyes traveled from Alarik’s face, to his hand readied near his throwing axe, then back to meet his eyes. “I earned it fair and square. Pox paid me to lure a lady, nothing more.”

Alarik slid the axe from his belt, and the boy blanched but didn’t run. Either he was daft or desperate, mayhap even brave. No doubt servitude to a man named Pox required a good deal of wit, especially for one so young. He’d make a fine warrior some day—if he lived that long.