The Caged Viking

by Sandra Hill

  “I did,” he admitted, “and may the gods help me.”

  He heard that annoying “ahem” noise in his head again, and he self-corrected, “May God help me.”

  “Thou art on thy own, Viking.”

  Chapter 13

  Not the trip she’d expected…

  Kirstin was nauseated, and her eyes seemed to be glued shut. It felt like an axe was imbedded in her skull. Like the worst hangover. Not that she’d ever experienced many of those, not being much of a drinker, but red wine tended to affect her in that way, or at least with a bad headache, or some vomiting.

  No wonder! Now that she thought on it, she had drunk that cup of the grape in a farewell toast, hadn’t she? She should have expected this.

  Back and forth, back and forth, the contents of her stomach sloshed. She licked her lips, expecting the fuzzy-tongued yucky taste of stale booze, but instead she tasted…salt?

  She kept her eyes closed, at first, trying to make sense of what had happened.

  I was about to go to the hall to make my trip back to the future.

  Am I in the future?

  If so, it’s final. I’ve left Hauk…my husband…behind. Her heart squeezed at that prospect. It’s over. All chances of a happily ever after with him, gone!

  Not that he ever promised that.

  Or that I expected it.

  But still…

  Or was it all a dream?

  If so, I need to see a therapist. These dreams are getting out of hand.

  Is there such a thing as a dream therapist? Bet there is. Gotta go Google that.

  She tried to get up, but realized she wasn’t lying down. She was standing up, but…she tried to wipe the sleep gunk from her eyes…and discovered that she couldn’t move her arms from her sides. Alarmed, she squeezed her eyes several times, creating moisture, and was able to open her eyelids a bit.

  That’s when she let out a scream. A loud scream. A loud unending scream.

  Hauk came over to stand before her where she was tied to the mast pole of a ship.

  A moving ship.

  On the open frickin’ sea.

  That explained the salty crust on her lips and eyes.

  Panic overcame her as she realized where she was, soon supplanted by anger. She sputtered with disbelief, “You…you…”

  He hunkered down a bit so that he was eye level with her. “Shhh, dearling! You’ll scare the sea birds.”

  He jokes? At a time like this? She screamed louder.

  “Now, Kirstin, hold your screeching. Let me explain.”

  “Explain? Explain? You kidnapped me. How do you explain that?”

  He batted his eyelashes and had the nerve to look offended. “I only did what you wanted.”

  “What? Here’s a news flash, dumbbell. I never asked you to kidnap me.”

  “You missay me, m’lady.” He did more of that I-am-unfairly-accused-innocent eyelash batting. “What I meant was, you said you needed time, I have given you time.” He smiled and raised his hands in a voilà! manner.

  She screamed again, then barfed all over her gown.

  “At least it’s you that got the barrage this time. Twice now, you have decorated my boots. I did not think you had anything left in your stomach.” At the look of outrage on her face, he added, “Not that I am complaining.”

  She noticed then that Egil, who was manning the rudder, and Bjorn, who was reclining on a pile of furs nearby, along with the twenty or so rowers, were staring and listening to the exchange between her and Hauk, mostly with amusement. They thought her kidnapping was hilarious, no doubt, and not at all out of character for a Viking. Her rebellion entertained them, as well.

  “Why am I tied up?” she asked.

  “We had rough seas yestereve, and this being one of my smallest longships, thus light on the waves, not an attribute to be desired in a storm, well, I did not want to risk your falling overboard. Is that not considerate of me?”

  “Release. Me. Now!” she demanded through gritted teeth.

  “Are you going to hit me?” he asked with a teasing grin.

  “As many times and as hard as I can.”

  He pondered her reply, then nodded. “But first I must wash you off.”

  Before she had a chance to tell him that she would do her own washing, he picked up a big wooden bucket and dumped several gallons of water all over the front of her gown.

  “You…you…you…,” she sputtered. Glancing downward, she saw that her gown, which was already bedraggled thanks to God only knew what the past two days while she’d been drugged, was now sodden. And the wet fabric molded her body in ways that clearly aroused him. Good! Let him have a hard-on from here to Valhalla before he’ll get it anywhere near me again.

  As he worked at the knots in her ropes, trying to hide the tent in his britches by standing behind her, she asked, “How many days is it since we left Winchester?”

  “Two days. Another day and a half and we should see the Norselands. The gods have blessed us with good winds today.” Now that he mentioned it, she could see that the sailors were sitting on their sea chests which acted as benches positioned before each of the boat’s oarlocks, ten on each side, at ease. No rowing at the moment, with the red and white square sails unfurling in the wind.

  “Two…two days?” she sputtered. “You’ve been drugging me for two days?”

  “Only a little at a time,” he said. “I heeded your warning about using too much.”

  “That was in regard to a seriously ill person, you idiot.”

  “Oh.” He thought for a moment. “Do you think you are addicted already?”

  She made a growling sound and rolled her eyes. Instead of hitting him once she was free, she put her hands on her hips and glared. “Turn this boat around and take me back to England. Now!”

  “Nay.”

  That was all. Just a refusal.

  But then, he added, “Later, if you still want to return to your time, I will take you back.”

  “How much later?”

  “After the winter season.”

  “Aaarrgh!” she said, doing a mental count in her head. This was only late July or August. That would mean eight months or so till spring. “And in the meantime…?”

  “Perchance you will grow to love m…my castle.”

  She could tell he was about to say love him, not his castle. Not that it made any difference. “Do you have a castle?”

  “Nay, but you know what they say…every man’s home is his castle.” He grinned, pleased with himself.

  “A poet now!” she scoffed. Then, “Would you really want me to fall in love with y…your castle?” she asked. He had to know what she meant. And, really, would he want the impediment of a clinging, love obsessed wife?

  “I do not know,” he answered honestly. “’Tis like you said, we need time to see where this attraction leads us.”

  Again, he was trying to lay the blame on her for this fiasco. “How do you know that I won’t be able to teletransport from another place…like your castle?”

  Her question made him uncomfortable, as evidenced by the tic in his jaw, which she’d noticed had a tendency to emerge whenever he was frustrated or exasperated with her and was fighting an outburst of anger. “Tell-a-tramp-sport? That is a new word for your time-travel business?”

  “Yes, it must have come to me when I was in my drugged state. It’s a made-up word my brothers used occasionally for our experience based on `teleport’ in the Star Wars movies. Oh, never mind, it’s too hard to explain. Suffice it to say, it describes perfectly what happened to me.”

  “Suffice it to say,” he muttered under his breath.

  It was an expression she used a lot, a bad habit, but she was giving him no leeway after what he’d done. The lout! She began to stomp away toward the other end of the boat, holding onto the rail of the swaying boat with one hand for balance, when he asked, “Where are you going?”

  She paused and turned to address him. “I don’t know. Anywhere away fr
om you. The sight of you turns my stomach.”

  “Now, sweetling, you don’t mean that.” He started to follow her.

  “Wanna bet?” She put one hand over her belly and pretended to gag. “Do you really want to come closer?”

  He stopped in his tracks.

  She spun on her heels and started to walk away again, still holding onto the rail, though the waves weren’t rough, more like rolling. Thus, her rolling stomach. Kirstin had never been prone to sea sickness or motion sickness, but this had to be a combination of the red wine and poppy juice, on top of the rocking sensation.

  But if she’d thought she had the last word, she was mistaken.

  “By the by, you might want to grab a cloak or something,” he called out to her back.

  The sun was out and the air was comfortable with a warm breeze. In fact, the square red and white sails were partially unfurled and the rowers were standing about, or sitting on their sea chests honing weapons or carving pieces of wood. The breeze and the current were doing their work, for now. In any case, she had no idea why she would need the warmth of a cloak.

  “Your pretty nipples are showing,” he answered her unspoken question. With a smirk.

  She glanced down to the front of her soaked gown and, yep, her nipples were standing out prominently. Looking right and left, she also confirmed that the men were enjoying the view.

  “But then, mayhap you want to give my seamen such a treat. Mayhap modern women do such. I do not like sharing my wife’s charms, but I am an enlightened Viking. ’Tis your decision.”

  She recalled then how she’d mentioned that her father, in adapting to his new land, was an enlightened Viking. “Aaarrgh!” She turned her back on him and pulled the bodice away from her skin, fluttering it a bit to air-dry the damp fabric. Making her way to the back of the boat where Egil was manning the rudder which controlled a huge steering oar, she pointed to the waterskin that hung from his belt. “Can I have a drink of that?”

  “Of course, m’lady.” He unhooked the skin from its leather loop and handed it to her.

  She walked over to the rail and took a drink, gargled, then spit over the side. She did that several times before actually taking a long swallow of the tepid water. Then she poured some into the palm of one of her hands, tossing it over her face. Using the hem of her gown, she rubbed her eyes and face. She repeated that procedure several times before returning the water skin to Egil. “I used most of it. I’m sorry,” she apologized and sank down onto a pile of coiled ropes.

  “’Tis no problem. I will refill it shortly.”

  For a while, she said nothing, just watched Egil’s expert maneuvering and took in the scenery. The sea was a gorgeous clear green and the sky a brilliant blue. Kirstin knew from her youth in the Norselands and from her research as a historian that the Viking longships were nautical marvels, especially for their time. Works of art, really, with finely carved figureheads and trim work, not to mention the painted shields which hung on specially designed racks over the rails pointing toward the seas. The shallow vessels could travel in both ocean depths and inland fjords, by rowing or sailing, or a combination of both. And they were light enough that they could be carried over land for short distances when necessary.

  And, oh, but the fjords were works of art, too! God’s works of art. The coasts of Norway were pitted with hundreds of deep streams, branching off the seas, surrounded by majestic mountains and cliffs, all created by glaciers which covered the earth millions of years ago.

  This vessel of Hauk’s was a fairly small one with only twenty rowers, ten on each side. Some of the boats could man more than thirty rowers, with another thirty or so seamen on board to provide alternate shifts of the brutally tiresome work. The oars could be as long as the boat itself.

  Wherever possible, the longships followed the land lines, often beaching at night to sleep on sandy shores. Since she could see no land at the moment, she assumed they were making the cross over the North Sea that separated Britain from the Scandinavian countries.

  “Were you a part of this plot to kidnap me, too?” she finally asked Egil.

  “Me? Hah! I tol’ the master he was barmy fer doin’ such.”

  “Oh?”

  “Best he left ye to go back to where ye came from, I tol’ him. No offense meant, m’lady, but the master has enough problems on his hands without a wife to deal with.”

  “Not that I disagree with you, but aren’t wives supposed to be helpmates, of benefit to their husbands? Marital bliss and all that?”

  “Ye’d think so, but not in my experience. More bother than bliss.”

  “Have you never married yourself?”

  “I have. Three times.”

  “Three?” she exclaimed. “You have three wives? The more danico then.” She shook her head with disgust at the Viking practice of multiple wives.

  “Not all at the same time,” he said. “One died, one divorced me fer being gone a-Viking too much…abandonment, she called it, and the third is in Frankland. I have no idea if Estelle is dead or alive and no interest in finding out; I was forced into that one by an angry papa. I have women aplenty, when I want, but no more wives, thank ye very much.”

  Kirstin had to smile. Picturing Egil as a ladies’ man was difficult, if not impossible.

  “And children…do you have children?”

  “Not that I am aware, though Estelle was big with child when I escaped her clutches.”

  “And you don’t want to find out?”

  He thought for a moment and said, “Nay.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  He shrugged. “Ten years or more.”

  That meant he might have a son or daughter a little younger than Bjorn.

  Seeing her disapproval, he elaborated, “I have no home to speak of. By choice. I like the roaming life. I like the tupping, good and well, but afterward I have not much use fer women. Oh, I know, ’tis not an attractive trait. But, truth to tell, women are too waspish by nature and demanding. ‘Do this, do that, I want, I need, where were you, who were you with?’ What man willingly submits himself to that?”

  Kirstin laughed.

  Midway down the ship, Hauk’s head went up at the sound of her laughter. He smiled, probably thinking that her anger was melting. She scowled his way just to let him know he was still on her shit list.

  “Smitten!” Egil murmured with a decided tone of disgust.

  “What?”

  “The master. Head over arse smitten with ye, he is.”

  “You think so?”

  “Why else would ye be here on his longship, on the way to his broken down, long-neglected estate where a mistress with a witchy attitude awaits yer arrival? A saner man woulda left ye behind to get his affairs in order afore bringing ye home, but, nay, Hauk is too…smitten.”

  She gazed at Egil with horror.

  Then she turned to stare at Hauk, also with horror.

  Not the homecoming he expected…

  Finally, they had almost reached their destination, Haukshire.

  Traveling down Friggsfjord, Hauk noted the stand of ancient blue spruce trees that marked the beginning of his estate. The waterway lapped at the rocks that festooned either bank, leading upward to more rocks. What greenery there was thrived only in the branches of the trees, the soil being too rocky and infertile except for the most hardy plants. But then, the vast number of evergreens here in the north were a boon in that they provided winter cover for plentiful game, like deer, hare, bears, wolves, and other fur-bearing animals.

  One of the first things Hauk would have to do is send out hunters to bring in a goodly amount of meat for the snowbound months to come. Mayhap they would travel even farther north for bear and hreindyri, or what the English called reindeer, if there was time. And the furs would be good for barter in the markets of many countries.

  Soon, around the next bend, his home would be visible up on the rise.

  It had been five years since he been back to his birthplace. His fathe
r had been alive then, and the fight they’d engaged in had turned physical. The subject of the argument was long forgotten, but, no, Hauk recalled that his father had been considering the purchase of several slaves to farm a parcel of land on the western portion of his property. A futile venture as many landowners had learned in this region over the decades. It was slaves, not farming, they’d argued over that day. Hauk had vowed never to return. According to Egil, his father had never gotten around to the slaves, thank the gods for that at least. Mayhap he’d brought up the subject just to provoke him, which had been like him.

  Now that he was approaching Haukshire, he felt an odd lightness. Not the usual heart-clenching dread he experienced on coming home. And he realized that it was because his father would not be there. No tiptoeing around to avoid his volatile temper outbursts. No hiding when a beating was threatened. No criticism of every single thing he did.

  With this realization that he was free to view Haukshire in a different light, he found himself seeing for the first time the stark beauty of his land. It was not pretty as some southern estates were, with lush lawns and vibrant colored flowers. Still, there was a beauty in the stately evergreens and sharp-edged cliffs, the sparkling water of the fjords, the icy blue skies. It was a harsh land which bred strong men.

  He looked to Kirstin at his side to see how she reacted to their surroundings. She had not spoken to him in two days.

  “’Tis the silent treatment,” Egil had informed him last night when he complained about her continuing anger over his effort to give her more time by bringing her to the Norselands. “When men or women are upset with each other in her country, they use the silent treatment until the other person surrenders or makes things right.”

  Was he supposed to say he was sorry for bringing her to his home, even if he was not sorry at all? As for making things right, that would mean returning her to Winchester, which Hauk could not…would not…do. Not yet, leastways. Instead, he’d continued his conversation with Egil. “What kind of weapon is silence?” he’d asked. “A Viking woman would hit her man over the head with his battle shield. Or screech to High Valhalla about all his deficiencies. Or slap his arse with the flat side of a broadsword.”