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.”
“Think you Ivar sends me this message? Tell me what you think it means,” Sigtrygg imperiously demanded of Thork, no longer amused by Ruby’s appearance.
Ruby pinched her arm, hoping one last time that she could end this nightmare and return to the present. Not so! All she got was a sore forearm and a dark look from Thork.
“’Tis unknown how she got here,” Thork said slowly, weighing each word carefully. “Mayhap on my ship. ’Tis hard to believe, but not impossible, I wager, that Ivar would send a woman to spy.”
Sigtrygg started to vent his outrage at Thork’s words, but Thork held up his hand and went on, “And the message, well, methinks it implies that the men of Ivar’s land have superior male parts made of metal. You know Ivar resents your wordfame and ever looks for ways to goad you into battle. What else could it mean?”
Ruby snorted and spoke for the first time, addressing Thork. “Don’t be ridiculous. It was your son who bought this stupid T-shirt in Ocean City.”
Both men pivoted to look at Ruby incredulously.
“My son! I have no sons,” Thork scoffed furiously. “Missay your lies elsewhere, wench.”
“Your son Eddie bought it last year at the shore. And forget about this Ivar stuff. I never heard of the guy.”
Thork and the king exchanged puzzled looks, as if they didn’t understand her words. Then Thork said heatedly, “I have no son, and most definitely none named Eddie who spies for Ivar.”
“Yes, you do. We have two sons—fifteen-year-old Eddie and twelve-year-old David.”
“Says she that you have children with her?” Sigtrygg questioned Thork. “Dares she say such and—”
“He’s my husband, and we have two children,” Ruby interrupted the king and heard some people gasp behind her.
Sigtrygg looked at Thork questioningly. “You would jeopardize your Jomsviking to marry this…this man-woman?”
“Nay!” Thork denied vehemently. “She lies. No wife have I.”
The king locked furious eyes with Ruby and challenged her: “Who are you?”
“My name is Ruby Jordan. I live in America. I come from the future, not Ivar, and—”
Sigtrygg backhanded Ruby so hard across the face her knees buckled and she dropped to the floor. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks at the pain. Her cheekbone felt as if it were broken. She looked to Thork for help but he just stared back at her unsympathetically.
“Stand,” Sigtrygg ordered.
After she awkwardly groped her way to her feet by holding on to one of the steps, Sigtrygg warned her, “Do not ever, ever lie to me with tales of the future or mythical sons or marriages. Now, take it off.”
“What? Take what off?”
“The shirt. Take it off.”
“Do you chop off her head and send it to Ivar in the shirt?” one man shouted out from the back of the hall, and others muttered in agreement.
At first, Sigtrygg frowned at the unasked-for advice but then pouted his lips thoughtfully. “Mayhap. Mayhap.” Turning back to Ruby, he repeated icily, “Take it off.”
Ruby realized, with horror, that the Viking king expected her to remove her T-shirt in front of everyone. She glanced at Olaf who nodded his head up and down vigorously. It appeared she had no choice.
With a burning face, Ruby lifted the shirt over her head and slapped it into Sigtrygg’s extended hand, ignoring his growl of annoyance over her lack of respect. Despite her mortification, she held her head proudly high, not bothering to hide her bra-covered breasts with her hands. She somehow knew she wouldn’t be allowed to do that.
Muted murmuring and shuffling rippled through the crowd behind her while Thork and the king gaped at her black lace bra. Sigtrygg’s one good eye almost bugged out, and Thork seemed to have trouble swallowing. Humph! Ruby thought. He’d seen her custom lingerie often enough in the past!
Reluctantly, Thork’s puzzled blue eyes locked with hers. Despite her dangerous predicament, the smoldering flame in their depths ignited a tenuous fuse connecting them in some odd way and caught fire in her most secret places. Without touching, Thork caressed her body with his eyes. Without speaking, he told her all her heart wanted to know. Ruby yearned to touch this man who was her husband and yet was not. She needed to connect with him in the most basic, intimate way known to men and women throughout the ages. Perhaps then she could satisfy this raging hunger he stirred in her. Perhaps then she could save her marriage. Perhaps then she would understand this crazy free-fall through the time warp.
Their seductive trance was broken by Olaf loudly clearing his throat. At their dazed expressions, Olaf threw back his head and hooted with laughter. “Odin’s staff! You two have raised the heat in this room to a fiery pitch. Best you find a private corner soon afore you drop your braies afore one and all.”
Clearly embarrassed by his intense reaction to her, Thork shook his head to clear his mind, then glared angrily at her as if she had cast a spell on him. One dark look at Olaf ended his ridicule immediately.
Then Ruby’s jeans drew Sigtrygg’s attention. “Take them off, too.”
“Whoa! Wait a minute. Enough is enough. I don’t do public stripteases.” At the questioning tilt of the king’s head, Ruby explained, “Public disrobing. No way!”
“Do you dare say me nay?” the king asked through gritted teeth in a voice that forbade further argument from her. He raised his hand in warning, about to strike her again.
Olaf coughed slightly, signaling her to do as the king asked.
Ruby closed her eyes wearily, wishing desperately that this sleepwalk through time would end but sensing it wouldn’t—at least, not yet. She wondered if this were one of those nightmares people have where they stand naked in a roomful of clothed, laughing people. Anyway, her safest route seemed to be compliance.
“Oh, all right. But that’s all.”
She bent over to remove her shoes, then thought better of presenting her backside to the Viking men behind her. Instead, she sat on the bottom step and took them off.
Oh, Lord, she prayed, please let me wake up before they kill me. Did it hurt to be decapitated in a dream? Ruby wondered with macabre humor.
After removing the shoes, Ruby stood and defiantly faced Thork and Sigtrygg again, refusing to cower. Really, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. After all, her models paraded around in underwear at fashion shows before even larger crowds. Why should she be ashamed?
With reluctant resignation, Ruby unbuttoned her jeans and pulled the zipper down. But Sigtrygg reached out a hand and stopped her.
Was she being given a reprieve?
No such luck!
“Do that again,” he demanded, awestruck.
“Do what again?”
“Open your braies again. With that thing.”
Ruby looked down, not understanding.
Thork pointed to her zipper, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter. “He means that.”
The zipper must intrigue him, Ruby surmised, realizing that, of course, zippers hadn’t been invented yet. She pulled the zipper back up, then down, then up, over and over as the fascinated Sigtrygg ordered, even though she tried to tell him it was just a simple fastener.
Thork grinned in amusement at Ruby’s discomfort and the king’s childlike glee.
The jerk!
Finally, Ruby removed her jeans and handed them to Sigtrygg so he could play with the damn zipper ad infinitum at his leisure.
Thork’s eyes traveled over Ruby’s body with a familiar gleam only she would recognize, spending several long seconds on her black lace panties. Not quite a bikini style, the f
airly conservative, far from transparent briefs rode below the waist to the hip line, while the sides were cut provocatively high.
Thork liked her lingerie. No question about it. He always had. And black was his favorite. Despite the danger she knew she faced, Ruby relished the moment, loving the fact that Thork shifted uncomfortably. He refused to make eye contact, however, probably fearing a recurrence of their earlier spectacle.
Ruby liked the hard body she saw when she looked down. She was still tall, about five-feet-nine, but small-boned and lean, with firm breasts, small waist, slightly rounded hips and very long legs. Definitely twentyish!
The crowd murmuring behind her and the lewd remarks from the men told her the other Vikings noticed her unusual underwear, too, even if Sigtrygg still fooled with the damn zipper. He’d probably break it with his clumsy hands, then blame her for its not working.
When Sigtrygg finally turned back to her, his one good eye narrowed suspiciously. He looked from the zipper to her and said, “What manner person are you? Mayhap you are a sorceress.”
“No!” Ruby exclaimed immediately, remembering Thork’s warning about Sigtrygg’s aversion to witches.
“Methinks a witch-burning could be called for here,” Sigtrygg said with relish.
The crowd murmured louder behind her and not in disagreement, Ruby noted ruefully. They liked the idea.
Good grief! These Vikings were as bloodthirsty as her research had shown her a few years ago when she’d done a family genealogy tracing her roots back to pre-Medieval times. She’d thought then that they were biased accounts of the heathen invaders by the cleric recorders of history. Now she wasn’t so sure.
When Thork said nothing on her behalf at Sigtrygg’s question of sorcery and her possible execution, Ruby knew she was on her own. Her mind worked desperately on a plan to save herself.
Hey! That just might work.
In a final gasp for self-preservation, Ruby proclaimed audaciously, “You know, I’m a Viking, too.”
“Huh?” Thork and Sigtrygg both exclaimed. And the blasted crowd started its murmuring again. But Ruby saw Olaf give her a mock salute, then smile at her with a wink of encouragement. Geez! She was starting to like the brute.
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