The Caged Viking

by Sandra Hill

  Whatever!

  Pouring some water from a pitcher into a bowl, she gave herself a quick sponge bath, using a piece of linen and the one and only bar of Dove lavender soap that she’d brought with her. After that, she put on her gown. It was made of silk in a shimmery silver color, with a green and red band along the edges of the rounded neckline and wrists and hem. Clearly a Christmas garment. A luxurious one, at that.

  Luckily, it had a side zipper, which allowed her to fit the tight bodice over her breasts and abdomen, with a silver-plated belt cinching her waist. She would have to wear her athletic shoes, but they wouldn’t be visible under the long skirt.

  Next, she worked on her hair, combing out the tangles, then brushing the long platinum strands until they shone like…yes, silver, she decided, checking her reflection in the small compact mirror. She let her hair hang loose over her shoulders, held off her face by a pearlized, comb-style headband. Only the tiniest bit of mascara and cherry lip gloss completed the effect.

  She picked up the arm rings and slid them to her upper arms, on top of the tight sleeves.

  She was ready.

  Or as ready as she would ever be.

  She unlatched the door, inhaled and exhaled to steady her nerves, then stepped forward into the heat and raucous party noises. She almost turned back but decided it was do or die time, literally. She made sure to leave the door open to let some heat in.

  As she walked along a far aisle bordering the fully occupied trestle tables, she greeted people she recognized here and there. But, mostly, like a domino effect, the hall became increasingly silent, everyone becoming alert to her presence and watching to see what her husband’s reaction would be.

  Hauk was sitting in the middle of the high table with Jarl Ingolf on one side beside his wife and one of his daughters. On his other side was Egil, Bjorn, and the other daughter, presumably the fair Gisela.

  Hauk was laughing at something Ingolf said when his eyes wandered the hall and latched on her. He froze for a second, and in that second she saw the pain she’d caused him. But then, he covered that hurt with a sneer and turned to say something to Egil, who shook his head vehemently. He’d probably ordered Egil to get rid of the wench, meaning her.

  Instead, Egil whispered something to Bjorn, who in turn whispered something to Gisela. They all slid down the bench, making room for Kirstin beside Hauk, who was clearly not happy about their actions, but seemed to decide against countermanding the order. Probably didn’t want to make a scene, which was to her advantage.

  Instead of going up the short set of stairs at Bjorn’s side of the dais, she went to the other side, where she introduced herself to Jarl Ingolf, his wife Revna and her older daughter, Gertrud. “Greetings! Welcome to Haukshire!” she said.

  “Happy Jul!” the guests replied.

  The beautiful red-haired woman was clearly about twenty years younger than her husband, only a few strands of gray showing in her red hair, whereas her husband was totally white, from his prettily flowing hair to his intricately braided, forked beard. His clothing befitted a king, more suited to a royal court than a rustic northern estate. A vain man, to be sure.

  “What marvelous embroidery you have on your gunna, Lady Revna!” Kirstin said. “Is that orphrey? I detect a gold thread in the pattern.”

  “It is,” Revna said, her tone showing surprise and pleasure at the notice. “Do you do needlework, Lady Kirstin?”

  “No. I wish I had the talent. But I am a great admirer.”

  “Come to the hall tomorrow afternoon, and I will show you some interesting pieces.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  “Your gown is beautiful, as well,” Revna observed.

  Kirstin thought about saying something flip, like, “This old thing? I got it from a secondhand shop,” but, instead, she nodded and said, “Sorry I couldn’t be here on your arrival.” Including Revna’s husband and daughter in a sweeping glance, Kirstin added, “Is there anything you need?”

  They all demurred.

  Out of her side vision, she saw Hauk raise his eyebrows at her taking on the role of “lady of the manor.”

  Big deal! He should have come to her by now, not the other way around. He should be happier to have her back. He should stop acting like the wounded party, or the only wounded party.

  She skirted around him, deliberately saying nothing, and spoke to Egil and Bjorn…and Gisela, after being introduced. “Have you eaten already?” she asked.

  “Nay. They’re just about to serve,” Egil said, taking a long draw on his horn of ale. “We’ve been toastin’ so far.”

  A lot of toasting, Kirstin decided, if Egil’s boozy breath was any indication.

  Well, the moment was at hand. She slipped awkwardly onto the seat beside Hauk, not an easy matter, being in the middle of a bench and him not helping. He didn’t look at her, even as her leg was half-exposed when she lifted her foot up over her seat, but his jaw was rigid. He must be gritting his teeth.

  Once she was settled, he motioned for two young girls to resume playing their lutes and told one of the maids to bring more ale for everyone. No doubt he wanted the crowd to resume their conversations and drinking and stop gawking at them on the dais.

  And, oh, he was so handsome, she had to work hard not to gawk herself. His blond hair was clean and hung loose, except for the thin war braids on either side of his clean-shaven face that had been plaited with multi-colored crystals. His grayish blue eyes were clear and steady; if he’d been overindulging in alcohol, it didn’t show. He wore a tunic of soft, dark blue wool with silver braiding along the edges, not a match for Ingolf’s regal attire, but in some ways better. He must have raided his treasure room.

  He turned to her then. And raised his brows in a haughty manner.

  “Merry Christmas, husband.”

  “Oink, oink!” he said.

  She could feel her face heat. “I said that when I thought you got married while I was gone.”

  “Pfff! In such a short time? What does that say about me? Nay, don’t tell me. Oink, oink.”

  He was not going to let her forget that. Actually, he was starting to earn the name. “You should talk. How could you have thought I would leave, willingly? Without any warning? With no good-byes?”

  He shrugged.

  Typical man! Couldn’t admit he was insecure. Just like women were.

  Jarl Ingolf said, “You did not tell me, Hauk, that you have such a comely wife.” He leaned forward then and winked at Kirstin.

  Hauk stiffened at the wink.

  Good. She leaned forward, too, and replied, “Thank you for the compliment, sir. Likewise, I did not realize you were so young. From the descriptions I had been given, I pictured a much older man.”

  Jarl Ingolf preened. “Mayhap they spoke of my father, who went on to Valhalla only two winters past.”

  “Are any of his wives still living with you at Stormstead?”

  “Yea, my mother, along with his first wife, and an aged concubine.”

  Holy Sister Wives! “You should have brought them with you,” Kirstin said.

  Revna made a snorting sound which pretty much amounted to, “Over my dead body!” Kirstin could guess what it was like at Stormstead with four females vying for household power.

  “They would have been more than welcome,” Hauk added, as if just now recalling his duties as a host.

  “My mother is ofttimes bedridden,” Ingolf told them, “but I will convey your kind words.”

  Nothing was said about the other two women.

  That was one good thing about Haukshire. There was no strife among the women, although there would have been, for sure, if Zoya had stuck around.

  “I bet you were sorry that you sent Zoya away,” she blurted out to Hauk. “I mean, once I was gone, having another woman to…” Her words trailed off at the glower he cast her way.

  “Is that how you justified bedplay with another man, so soon after leaving me?”

  She gasped. “I did not�
��where did you get the idea…” She paused, then said, “Egil.”

  “Yea, Egil told me of your ‘activities’ with the JAM person.”

  “Activities! Pfff. We merely went out to dinner together.”

  “No swiving?”

  “No swiving.”

  “And that was all? No touching, or rubbing, or kissing?”

  “Well…” She could feel herself blushing. “There was kissing, but—.”

  He tossed his hands in the air in an “I knew it!” gesture.

  “Oh, give me a break.”

  “Do not try to say he kissed you and you did not kiss him back. ’Tis ever the way with women to prevaricate thus.”

  “I did kiss him back, but only to see if he had any effect on me, like you had.”

  He rolled his eyes, and then there was a prolonged silence before he relented. “And…?”

  “Nothing.”

  She couldn’t tell if her answer pleased him or not, or if he even believed her.

  There was another prolonged silence before she asked, “And you? Were you with any other woman? Did you kiss anyone?”

  He gave her a disbelieving look. “As if there were any women here to kiss! Signe is the only passably attractive woman under the age of forty, and Thorkel would beat me bloody if I dared try her charms.”

  “There was Revna and her daughters.”

  He gave her another disbelieving look. “I would have had to act quickly for that to happen, if I had been interested, which I was not. In truth, I do not like adultery, nor am I inclined toward sex with children.”

  Who said anything about sex? “So, it’s only for lack of opportunity that you’ve remained celibate?” And not because you were faithful to me?

  “Do you deliberately bait me, Kirstin? Yea, I would have swived another woman. I would have swived fifty women if they’d been available and even moderately attractive, anything to wipe you from my mind. Are you happy now?”

  Actually, yes. Well, not unhappy. Instead of answering, she stuck her tongue out at him. As immature as that was, she found herself immensely pleased that she’d rattled his chain.

  Further talk was interrupted by the arrival of the housecarls carrying in the food, first to the high table and then to all the others. Some dishes were brought from the kitchen, under Frida’s supervision, and others were taken directly from the hearth fires in between the aisles, where they had been kept warm since their preparation.

  This being the Jul feast, there was a wider variety of offerings than the usual daily fare. Thick slices of roast boar sat on huge wooden platters, in some cases complete with the actual pig’s head, feet, and tail. For those who did not like pork, alternatives were offered in the form of quail in a baked pastry, sliced venison tongues, a variety of smoked fishes, little herrings swimming in a tart brine, hrútspungar (ram’s testicles pickled in whey and pressed into cakes), and blodpolse (a Viking version of blood sausage). Flat circular breads, similar to modern pitas or naan, were used to scoop up meat scraps or drippings, in lieu of forks or spoons. Tiny, pathetically thin wild carrots swam in a white dill sauce. Dots of butter adorned bowls of mashed turnips. Green beans dressed with hazelnuts, chips of crisp pig skin, and a rudimentary vinaigrette. Boiled and salted sea gull eggs. Condiments, such as horseradish and mustard, were provided, too. Honey oat cakes, and skyrr, a soft cheese with the consistency of yogurt, mixed with dried fruits, completed the feast.

  Kirstin could smell spices like cumin, ginger, and clove on some of the offerings, and assumed Egil had obtained them, as well as some of the vegetables she saw, from his trip to the market town of Hedeby. “Maybe we won’t need to import all this produce in the future. I brought a bunch of hearty vegetable seeds to be planted next spring,” she said before recalling that Hauk wasn’t interested in her plans, not in his present mood. So, she added, “If I’m here next spring.”

  “See, there you go again. No sooner do you arrive than you are threatening to leave again. How can I ever trust you?”

  Kirstin was stunned at the vehemence of his reaction. “That wasn’t a threat. I meant that I might not be here next spring because you don’t want me here.”

  Instead of reacting to her words, he asked, “What is that red substance on your lips?”

  “Cherry lip gloss.”

  “What? Do you bedevil me apurpose?”

  “It’s only lip gloss. Nothing devilish about that!”

  “It is for a man with a passion for cherries.”

  “You like cherries? I had no idea.” She batted her eyelashes with fake innocence, then licked her lips. Kirstin would have continued with her teasing, but Hauk turned away from her toward the food.

  They put a little of each dish on their pewter salvers. Kirstin only picked at her food and sipped at her mead, while Hauk ate heartily and drank like a camel. Obviously, she was nervous. Obviously, he was not.

  The pig!

  No, no, no! She’d already used…rather misused that insult for him. The jerk, then. He was behaving like a jerk.

  “Did you say something, dearling?” he asked with super sweetness, turning the table on her innocence act over the lip gloss.

  “Nothing important…dearest.” She oozed false sweetness, too.

  “It sounded like berserk.”

  Yes, you’re driving me berserk, you jerk. “I said it’s not important,” she snapped.

  “Whoa! I did not mean to stir your feathers.” He smirked, a clue that he was not displeased with the result, despite his lack of intent.

  “I can’t believe you’re behaving so boarishly.”

  “Boarish, am I? I thought you apologized for calling me a pig. Make up your mind, wench. A boar is a pig, in case you did not know.”

  She barely suppressed a growl. “I take it back then. You are a pig. And you’re stubborn as a mule. Mean as a bear. Fickle as a bull. Horny as a jackrabbit. Vain as a peacock. Sneaky as a snake. And…and…” She had to stop for a moment because tears were beginning to well in her eyes.

  Hauk was no longer smirking. His head was tilted to the side, studying her with confusion, or concern, or something. He put out a hand, about to touch her arm.

  She slapped his hand away and might have said or done something more to show her opinion of his behavior, but she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to find Gorm standing there. The boy had washed his face and hands, probably on someone’s orders, but he’d only gone so far, leaving his arms and the outer edges of his face and all his neck a different, darker dirt color. He’d plaited his hair into two braids that lay forward over his shoulders toward his little chest, which was commendable, that he’d made such as effort at grooming, except one of them was a good four inches shorter than the other. He was wearing a reasonably clean tunic over slim braies, with a length of rope for a belt. He was barefooted, despite the cold weather, and his toenails looked as if they hadn’t been clipped in a very long time. A candy cane hung from the rope belt on the side, like a dagger. When he smiled tentatively, flashing those two empty spaces, his red tongue showed evidence of what he’d been eating, or overeating.

  In other words, he was adorable.

  “What is it, Gorm?” she asked.

  He looked right and left, unsure of his welcome here on the dais, and Kirstin could see why. Hauk, Egil, and Bjorn had all moved around so they could see what he was about.

  “Don’t worry about them. You can talk to me.”

  “Frida said I should come thank ye fer all the candy crooks ye give me.”

  “It was my pleasure, honey.” Kirstin glanced toward the tree and saw none in evidence. “And they’re candy canes, not candy crooks. Did you share them?”

  He nodded. “Frida tol’ me to ask if ye have any more?”

  That was clearly a fib, she saw as his expression perked up with hope.

  “Nope,” she said. “I see you have one left, though.” She pointed to the one on his belt.

  He nodded. “I’m savin’ it fer my birfday.”
/>   “When is that?”

  “I doan know…mayhap in the summer time.”

  “You’re going to wait all those months?” she asked.

  Hauk snorted his disbelief behind her, and Bjorn said something about how sticky his fingers would be by then.

  “By the way, Gorm, how did your one braid get so much shorter than the other?” Kirstin asked

  “Pff! Ye should ask! ’Twas Ubbi what did it. Three of his friends had to hold me down, though.” The latter was said with pride.

  “What did ye do to cause Ubbi to go after ye?” Egil asked.

  Gorm hesitated, probably trying to figure what answer would serve him best, but then he admitted, “I mighta poured blue woad dye on his ballocks when he was sleepin’.”

  Kirstin put a hand over her mouth to smother a giggle. The others didn’t even bother to hide their appreciation of the boy’s mischief.

  “Y’know, somethin’ jist occurred to me,” Egil remarked. “The bratling looks jist like ye, m’lord. I always disbelieved his mother’s claims, but could he be another of yer father’s get?”

  “Who? Me?” Hauk scowled. “He doesn’t look at all like me.”

  Kirstin wasn’t sure there was a resemblance, except for the grayish blue eyes, but she could see that Hauk was not pleased by the comparison; so, she said, “Spitting image!”

  Hauk directed his scowl at her.

  What else is new? Scowls ‘r Us.

  “By thunder!” Bjorn said. “That would make the little guy my uncle.”

  They all laughed at that, except Hauk who was still scowling. And Gorm, who was frowning with uncertainty. But then Gorm brightened. “Does that mean the jarl is my brudder? Thor’s Teeth! I’m gonna be rich. I’ll have me own longship. When can I get a sword? Oooh, I can’t wait to tell Ubbi.”

  Before Hauk could call him back and correct any misconception he might have about his family ties, the boy vaulted off the dais and ran toward the kitchen.

  “Now you’ve done it!” Hauk said to her.

  “Me? I’m not the one who first mentioned the resemblance.”

  “Everywhere you go, there’s trouble,” he grumbled.

  She was offended at his easy dismissal of her. “Is that all you think of me?”