“She would like to be,” Arnis piped up.
“Huh?” he and Tork said at the same time.
“I heard her tell Joy that you would swive anything with breasts. That is a compliment compared to swiving goats, I would think.” That was Arnis’s lackwit explanation.
“And she stares at you whene’er you are not aware,” Erland added.
“And staring is good?” Brandr scoffed again.
“ ’Tis good when she stares with her heart in her eyes.”
Everyone looked at Erland with surprise.
“I did not know you had such fanciful words in you,” Brandr remarked after his teeth clicked together.
“Mayhap you should be our new skald,” Arnis said, clapping his brother on the shoulder with great gusto. The two of them went off to get more logs for the high hearth, with Erland complaining, “Why is it that everyone makes mock of me when I come up with a perfectly good observation?”
“Arnis and Erland are wrong, you know,” Tork said. “If Dagny stares at me, ’tis contemplating new ways to tear me down.”
“Why should you care? Holy Thor! You have a face long enough to eat oats from the bottom of a bucket. Methinks you have feelings still for the wench.”
“Love and hate are closer emotions than many people realize,” said Father Mendozo, who was sucking up a great amount of ale for a priest, in Brandr’s opinion. “Seems to me that the constant sniping between you two is a sort of foreplay.”
Tork looked at the God man as if he had taken a walk down the barmy road.
“ ’Tis like no foresport I have e’er heard of,” Tork proclaimed . . . loudly. He was well into the ale joy tonight. They all were. “And, believe you me, my cock is going nowhere near her female parts. She threatened one time to cut it off when I was sleeping.”
The priest laughed. “A Lorena Bobbitt, huh?” He went on to describe a woman who paid back her no-good husband in the ultimate way. On those ominous words, he ambled off toward the women, and Joy in particular, to discuss the Christmas service she was planning. Leastways, that was what he said. Brandr still did not trust the man . . . nor Joy, either, after catching the two of them huddled together earlier today.
Einar approached him then. The boy seemed nervous, and, yea, he thought of him as a boy, even though he had seen twenty-two winters. Some males matured at twelve or thirteen when they first went a-Viking, some matured when they were thirty, still others never matured. He put Einar in that middle category.
“Brandr, I would speak to you . . . in private.”
Tork made to stand, but Brandr pushed him back down. “There is naught you can say to me that Tork cannot hear.”
“It is about Liv.”
He sat straighter.
“I have a fondness for your sister. I always have had.”
Well, that was good news, assuming Liv still cared for the boy. “Have you spoken with her?”
“I have . . . or I have tried, but she always has that bratling attached to her hip.”
“Uh-oh!” Tork muttered under his breath.
“Bratling?” Brandr asked icily.
“I could forgive Liv for having the bastard, but really, Brandr, could she not put the babe aside now? ’Tis not seemly.”
“Are you saying you would wed with her, if she got rid of Erik?”
Einar seemed startled that he gave name to the little one.
“Yea. You do understand.”
“What I understand, Einar, is that you are a weak, pale excuse for a man.” Brandr stood. “If you cared for Liv, as you say, the babe would not matter to you. In fact, you would take it to your bosom, same as she does.”
Einar stood, too. “You ask too much. There are not many men who would accept a woman who was thus soiled, let alone her child of shame.”
“Uh-oh!” Tork said again, this time louder.
Although Einar was the same height as Brandr, his frame was thinner. Brandr barely restrained himself from knocking the fool to his skinny arse. The only thing that held him back was the recognition that he had felt the same way a short time ago.
“Let us be perfectly clear, Einar. Ne’er would I give my free consent for you to wed with my sister. She is too good for you.”
Einar gasped at the insult and started to reach for the short sword in his hip sheath.
“Do not be a total idiot,” Brandr warned. “I am this close to tossing you out in the cold. No trouble would I have in thawing your cold corpse next spring. But for the sake of the womenfolk here and their fine sensibilities and not wanting to spoil the Christmas festivities Joy has planned, I will let you go. But have a caution, you whoreson, and stay out of my sight.”
Einar raised his chin haughtily and stormed off, swearing under his breath.
Suddenly, Brandr sensed that Liv was watching him. He groaned. Ne’er would he have the girl hurt. But Liv did something surprising. She smiled. Apparently, she was smarter in assessing Einar’s worth than he may have expected.
He smiled back.
“Son of a troll! Do my eyes play me false?” Tork exclaimed.
“What now?”
“Do you comprehend what just happened here?”
Brandr looked right, left, and behind himself.
“To you, Brandr. To you. Do you realize that Einar provoked you in the extreme, but you did not fly into a rage? Not so long ago, you would be smack-dab in the middle of berserkness.”
Is it possible?
“You make too much of little.”
“You have changed, my friend.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Very good.” Tork patted him on the back. “And methinks you have the irksome, blathering, pushy wench to thank for that, much as I hate to give her credit for aught.”
Brandr turned his attention to said irksome wench only to find her head-to-head with the priest, sharing some secret. They burst out laughing, and the lackbrain monk looped his arm over her shoulder.
“ ’Tis a good thing priests are celibate,” Brandr said, gritting his teeth.
“If you mean the good Father Mendozo, I must tell you that I asked him earlier if he did not like sex, if that was why he entered the priesthood, and he told me that he liked sex as well as any other man.”
“You jest.”
“Nay. Not this time. I said that I thought priests were supposed to be celibate, and he said he is not that kind of priest.”
Brandr swore to himself and quickly downed half a cup of mead in one long swallow. “I am thinking about offering a special treat for the Yule feast.”
“What? Boar? A hunt for wild boar would not come amiss about now.”
“Nay, that is not what I have in mind,” he said. “I find that I have a taste for . . . roast priest.”
Chapter 23
Her clock was ticking . . .
“He wants me to officiate at a wedding on Christmas Eve,” JAM told her two days later.
“Can you do that?”
“Probably.”
“Would it be legal?”
“Hey, we’re in the freakin’ tenth century. How legal are marriages performed by some Viking lawspeaker? At least I have some church credentials, limited as they are.”
“You’ve got a point there.”
“Look at that,” JAM remarked suddenly. “Is that a pair of women’s panties I see on that guy’s head?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” she replied with dry humor. “And over there is my bra . . . on the outside of that woman’s gown.”
JAM let out a hoot of laughter.
“So, who’s getting married? It can’t be Einar and Liv. That boy’s turned into a real prick.”
“Joy! Such language!”
“If you’d heard some of the crap he’s been spouting about wanton women who have babies after being raped, instead of killing themselves or the baby, you’d call him even worse. So, could it possibly be Tork and Dagny?”
“I suspect they’re the ones and the reason for the secrecy. Brandr doesn’t want to jinx their reunion, which is tenuous, at best. I did see them making out in his bed closet last night.”
Joy smiled. It did her heart good to see things work out for the couple, especially since the little boy, Sidroc, was just warming up to his father.
“How goes it with you and Mr. Dark and Dreary?”
She grinned, knowing that’s how she would have described Brandr at the beginning, too. They were still sleeping together and enjoying it immensely. But there was this big blinking elephant standing between them, which they did not mention, and that was his stubborn, ridiculous notion that he could keep her, against her will, by marriage or some other means. As if she would marry a man for any reason other than love. And that had not been mentioned, ever.
“The guy’s nuts about you, Joy.”
“I don’t know about that. He likes sleeping with me, but . . .”
“Is there any chance at all that you want to stay here? Because you gotta know, it’s your decision. I’m not gonna force you to go with me or even try to convince you that it’s the best thing.”
“You don’t think I have an obligation to the military?”
“Hell, no! This time-travel crap goes beyond any Navy regulations. The rule book doesn’t cover thousand-year black op trips. That would take ‘boots up’ to the extreme.”
“Would
you
want to stay here?”
“Nah! But then I have no incentive, like you do.”
“I would hardly call Brandr an incentive.”
He arched his brows in disbelief. “I wouldn’t mind staying here, in the past, for a while. It’s interesting, if nothing else.”
“And you think that you can go back anytime you want?”
“No, I don’t expect to be able to dictate when and where or even if it will happen. But I’m still a great believer in God and the power of prayer. Once I’m back in Hedeby, I’m pretty sure that eventually it will happen. And if it doesn’t . . .” He rolled his shoulders as if to say it would be beyond his control.
“Then, are you saying I could wait until I’m ready to go back?”
“I don’t think that’s the way it works. Have you figured out why you were sent back?”
“I think so.”
“Have you accomplished it?”
“I think so.”
“Then your clock is already ticking, babe.”
That’s what Joy was afraid of.
Beware of big men with big plans . . .
Brandr was making plans. Big plans.
And he was afraid they were all going to blow up in his face.
Nay, I will not let that happen. I will succeed.
He was a seasoned warrior. He knew well and good that the best battles were won in the planning, so he would treat his pursuit of the wily wench like a military campaign. With him as the victor.
Nay, nay, nay! That is not the way of it, either. We will both be victors. She just does not know it yet.
“Arnora, did you find the gown yet?”
“I did, and it has been cleaned and aired out.”
It had been his mother’s wedding gown. A red so dark it was almost black and made of wool so soft it felt like silk. The garment had a gold link belt that hung low on the waist, with a matching linked torque to fit tight to the neck. There was also a ruby-encrusted head circlet, which would have been twined with flowers in the summer months. He had advised Arnora to use holly and mistletoe, instead . . . his own private jest. The raiment was completed with black velvet slippers.
“You are doing this backwards, Brandr,” his stepmother said. “You should ask Joy to marry you before preparing the wedding.”
“This is my way,” he insisted.
“Barmy, if you ask me.”
To Kelda, he said, “Make me a wedding cake.”
“Whaaat? I doan know how ta make no weddin’ cake. Do ye mean oak cake?”
“No, a wedding cake. And it should have many layers and be topped with frosting.”
“Frosting? What is that?”
“Some sweet goop.”
Kelda put both hands on her hips. “That is clear as pea soup.”
“Use heavy cream, and mix it with a bit of sugar. I think there is some in the second storage room, locked in a special chest. Arnora will know for sure. Then ask Joy about frosting . . . sneaky like. Don’t tell her why you want to know.”
“Doan blame me if it is all a disaster.”
“It will be wonderful, Kelda. I am depending on you.”
Puffing her chest out with pride, she conceded, “I will do me best.”
Next he asked Osmund if he would make an arched trellis, which could be decorated for the marriage ceremony. In lieu of a church, he wanted something to give a ritual note to the affair. “And a cross. Christians always have a cross or two. Make a cross, as well.”