Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 01]

by The Reluctant Viking

  After the preliminary greetings, Byrnhil, a big-boned, Amazon-like woman, whose size probably suited Sigtrygg well, got directly to the point.

  “I sat in the hall the first night you arrived and saw those scanty underthings you wear. Could you show them to us again, here in private?”

  Ruby and Gyda exchanged looks of surprise.

  “Why?” Ruby asked.

  “I like nice things,” the obviously vain mistress said, pointing around the room where luxurious garments lay haphazardly across chairs and chests. Fine tapestries adorned the stone walls and a Persian carpet hid a portion of the rush-covered floor. “Also, I saw the look in some of our men’s eyes when you disrobed. Mayhap such garb would suit me, as well.”

  “I guess it would be all right,” Ruby said hesitantly. “I own a business that makes fine lingerie, you know.”

  Byrnhil and her ladies clapped their hands in delight.

  “Wonderful,” Brynhil declared. “You can make some for me. We will raid Sigtrygg’s treasure room for fabrics.”

  When Ruby modeled her black silk and lace panties and bra for the ladies, they oohed and aahed, touching the fine lace, asking what other fabrics could be used and whether different styles would suit.

  “Why are your legs so prickly?” one lady asked with distaste.

  “I haven’t shaved in two weeks.” Ruby grimaced.

  “You shave your legs? Why? What is your meaning?”

  “In my country, most women shave their legs up to the top of their thighs. Some even shave a bikini line,” Ruby explained, demonstrating with a slash of her hands.

  “Oh!” several of them gasped. “Does it not hurt?”

  “Not at all—when you use soap lather and a sharp blade. And the legs feel as smooth as silk.”

  The skeptical women questioned the wisdom of such a habit, especially when Ruby told them it had to be repeated every other day.

  The treasure room overflowed with bolts of fabrics, laces, braiding and threads from all over the world, in every color imaginable. She’d known the Vikings’ reputation as traders but never had she imagined such fine taste.

  Realizing that paper was at a premium, Ruby pulled aside a bolt of stiff white fabric to use for patterns. She restrained the women from being too greedy and selected only a half-dozen silk fabrics—black, bright red, green, white and two shades of blue—along with matching trims. She had an especially hard time convincing Byrnhil that wool would not be a good choice for underwear, even for winter.

  “I can only work on one set today,” Ruby asserted. “Perhaps if the others watch carefully, they’ll be able to make their own patterns.”

  Without hesitation or modesty, Byrnhil stripped to the buff and stepped forward to the middle of the room. The woman’s magnificent body rivaled the finest female athletes Ruby had ever seen, and she told her so. “What do you do for exercise? Do you ever jog?” Ruby had to explain jogging then and was pleased at Byrnhil’s unfeigned interest.

  “In Dublin, I practiced for battle with my brothers. Twice have I gone a-Viking with them.” She beamed proudly. “’Tis harder here. Sigtrygg forbids my joining his men on the practice field. Afeard he is that I will best his men with the short sword, I wager.”

  She added slyly, “Little does he know I take my servant Hedin to the outskirts of the city where I make him train with me.” Then she advised Ruby, “A woman must protect her own interests.”

  Tell me about it!

  “Mayhap I will join you in this jogging one day.”

  “Not if Olaf has anything to say about it! He’s forbidden my jogging.”

  Ruby wasn’t about to risk more punishment, even to satisfy the whim of Sigtrygg’s mistress. She told Byrnhil about the jogging episode.

  “Many times have I been locked in my chamber,” Byrnhil boasted. “Sigtrygg even takes a hand to me occasionally. ’Tis naught, imprisonment or a beating, unless a bone be broken or the face marred. That I will never abide.”

  Ruby used ribbons to take the place of hooks and eyes on the bra and of elastic at the gathered waistband and legs of the panties. After three hours of measuring, cutting and sewing, Byrnhil stood resplendent in flame-red bikini pants trimmed with black lace. The bra, also of red silk, teased the eye with peek-a-boo black lace in strategic places.

  Byrnhil pirouetted in front of a large sheet of framed polished metal, proclaiming Ruby’s creation a huge success. “You will make me a dozen more of these garments tomorrow,” Byrnhil directed two seamstresses at the edge of the room.

  Byrnhil walked over to a lacquered Oriental chest in the corner and dug deep, tossing aside one object after another before she found what she wanted. Returning to Ruby, she handed her an emerald the size of an almond, hanging from a fine gold chain. “With my thanks.”

  “Oh, my goodness! I couldn’t accept this. It…it was my pleasure to make the lingerie for you.” But Gyda nodded her approval, and Ruby accepted the priceless gem. On the way home, Gyda and Ruby giggled like young girls over their strange afternoon.

  “I must thank you for this, Ruby—never have I been invited to the palace by any of the royal misses or mistresses.”

  “It seems a dubious honor to me.”

  Gyda smiled, their earlier difficulties forgotten for the moment. Then she sheepishly asked, “Do you think you could show me how to make such garments for myself?”

  Ruby broke into a fit of laughter, and Gyda reddened.

  “’Twould be foolish I would look in such garb, is that not so?” Gyda peeked up at her shyly.

  “Of course not, Gyda. I know just the design that would be perfect for you. I laughed because of my ludicrous situation. Here I am in a strange country, worried about keeping my head on my shoulders, and still I’m drumming up business for myself. My husband Jack would say my priorities are out of kilter, as usual.”

  “’Tis hard for you, is it not,” Gyda asked kindly, “being away from your family? I know you have your own business and could probably start another one here with no trouble, but family—well, that is everything, is it not?”

  Ruby thought about Gyda’s words, then offered hesitatingly, “In my country, women are liberated. They believe that no woman should be defined by a man—or by the children she bears. She should have her own identity.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Women used to feel that their goal in life was to get married and have children. Now they’re free from that bondage. Many women choose not to have a man in their lives, and some married couples choose not to have children—ever.”

  “Well, ne’er have I heard such ridiculous nonsense in all my life! Of course, each woman has her own identity. When Olaf goes a-Viking or trading with Thork, I handle all his business affairs. I can supervise the unloading of a ship, keep accurate accounts, run the farm and home, but when my husband returns, I gladly defer to him the role of head of our household.”

  “Haven’t you ever resented giving up that authority?”

  “Nay. A man needs to feel he is taking care of his wife and children. If a woman wants to pursue some talent or even own a business, that would be acceptable, as long as it did naught to interfere in his role as provider and head of the family unit. Surely it is so in every country. I cannot imagine otherwise.”

  Ruby thought about her words before admitting, “We’ve made tremendous gains for women’s rights in my country, but perhaps we’ve made some mistakes in our haste.”

  “Forsooth! What glory could there ever be in a woman acting the man, of carrying that burdensome job all the time? What woman could live with herself if she makes her man feels less than a man?”

  What woman, indeed!

  “She may as well cut off his male parts, like that song you sing about the man wounded in the Asian War.” Gyda pondered a moment and then turned abruptly to Ruby, her forehead creased in concentration. “Is that why your husband left you? Did you make him feel less the man?”

  Ruby closed her eyes wearily. When
she opened them, she looked at Gyda bleakly. “I think so. Honest to God, without thinking, that’s just what I did.”

  With a heavy heart, Ruby entered the front door of Olaf’s home. She stopped suddenly. Thork sat at the table with his two sons playing the Viking board game Hnefatafl, similar to checkers. They laughed and joked and acted like any normal father and sons.

  What was going on here?

  When Thork looked up and saw Ruby standing in the doorway, his heart skipped a beat. For the love of Freya! After dozens of battles, endless women, so many he had lost count years ago, his stupid damn heart jumped at the sight of a lackwitted, skinny woman with boy-hair and the attitude of a shrew.

  It was that kiss! Thork couldn’t forget the delicious, bone-melting, soul-shattering kiss. Nor his anger over Ruby’s refusal to follow through on the promise inherent in such a kiss. But he blamed himself, as well. He never should have allowed the kiss to happen. He had been lax. Just like today. He should not be here. Thork could not let anyone know that Eirik and Tykir were his sons. It was too dangerous. It would be so easy for his enemies to use the information against him.

  Thork stood and signaled silently to the boys. They understood that he could not stay when a stranger was about. At least, he thought they understood. Sometimes when he caught a hurt look in their eyes, he wondered if he should not follow his only other alternative—to take his sons on a ship and disappear to some faraway country, mayhap even that Godforsaken Iceland where so many Vikings fled of late.

  “Don’t you even think it!” Ruby told Thork as she stomped up to him, placed a palm on his chest and pushed him back down into the chair. “You’re not leaving here until we’ve had a chance to talk.”

  “Do you give me orders, wench?” A smile twitched the corners of Thork’s lips, despite his apparent disbelief over her nerve in pushing him around.

  “You bet I do! I’m so mad I could spit nickels.”

  “Nickels?”

  “It’s not important. Suffice it to say, I’ve had enough of your avoiding me.”

  Eirik and Tykir giggled at the sight of their fierce father being bullied by a woman.

  “Do you seek my company, sweetling? Wouldst you try my charms, after all? I had not thought my wordfame had spread so far.”

  “Wordfame? Charms?” When understanding dawned, Ruby spurted out, “Why, you insufferable slime-sucking frog!”

  “Frog?” Thork croaked out on a choked laugh.

  “Yes, frog! Leave it to me to land in the dream of a lifetime where I get the frog instead of the prince.”

  Thork grinned insufferably, probably not even understanding what she meant.

  Ruby clenched her fists tightly to get her emotions under control. Then she turned back to him, calmly. “I want to talk to you about our sons.”

  They both glanced immediately to Eirik and Tykir who stared at them, wide-eyed and wide-eared.

  “Leave,” Thork ordered his sons. “We will talk afore I depart.”

  “Will you stay for dinner, Father, now that Ruby knows?” Tykir pleaded.

  Thork scrutinized Ruby speculatively.

  She understood little—only that she wasn’t supposed to be aware that a relationship existed between the father and sons. Why?

  “Mayhap.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Stay. I’m not going to spoil your little charade.”

  When the boys left, Thork motioned Ruby toward Gyda’s private solar. Everyone else had conveniently disappeared.

  “Afore you think of chastising me again,” Thork warned, “not that you have any right to do so, let me assure you this is not a charade. ’Tis important no one knows I cherish my sons.”

  Cherish? Ruby’s heart warmed suddenly toward her Viking “husband.” Perhaps she’d misjudged him.

  Thork continued brusquely, “Much trouble have Olaf and I gone to in the past ten years to create an image that one word from you could ruin.”

  “Why? Why must people think they aren’t your sons?”

  “’Tis not for you to know,” Thork replied stubbornly.

  “Really! I think you’re being overly dramatic.”

  “Dramatic, am I?” Thork leaned his handsome face close to her, almost nose to nose, and jabbed her pointedly in the chest for emphasis. “My enemies murdered Eirik’s mother, Thea, shortly after his birth. He only escaped death himself because an old midwife in attendance switched babes. The poor bonder’s son was not so fortunate.”

  “I thought Eirik’s mother died in childbirth,” Ruby gasped.

  Thork dismissed that explanation as nonsense with a wave of his hand. “’Tis the story we passed about.”

  “I don’t understand any of this. Why can’t you live as a family with your sons?”

  “’Tis not for you to understand. Just stop your bloody interfering.” He held her eyes stonily until he was sure he’d made himself clear.

  Finally, Ruby’s confused mind accepted all that Thork had told her. “I want to help.”

  “Naught do we need of you except silence. Think you that is a possibility?”

  Affronted, Ruby stated, “I would never do anything to hurt those boys.” Nor you, for that matter, not that you deserve it. “They remind me of my own sons. Eirik and Tykir probably satisfy some maternal need in me.”

  “Satisfy your needs elsewhere, wench,” Thork ordered flatly. Then he stepped away and sat down, directing puzzled blue eyes at her. “When first we met, you said your husband left you. Why? Did he take your sons with him?”

  Ruby sat down, as well. “No, he would never take Eddie and David away from me.” How could she explain the complicated mess their marriage had become? She couldn’t. Not in a few words. And so she didn’t try. Instead, she tried to change the subject by teasing, “Perhaps I was too much for him,” and jiggled her eyebrows provocatively.

  Thork leaned back in Olaf’s comfortable chair and smiled languorously. “If you kissed him the way you did me, I doubt you not. Do not think I have forgotten that kiss of yours. You have a knack for turning a man’s bones to honey.”

  A compliment from Thork? That was a first. Ruby felt an annoying blush spread across her cheeks and down her neck. That’s probably why he said it, just to fluster her.

  “Unlike your husband, though,” Thork went on, “I doubt you would be too much for me. Well-matched I suspect we would be.” An infuriating smile of supreme self-confidence spread across his face, and his blue eyes glittered with amusement.

  “Your arrogance knows no bounds,” Ruby sputtered, rising from Gyda’s chair to exit the room before she embarrassed herself by hopping into his arms, as she wanted to do. To her chagrin, he pinched her behind as she turned her back on him.

  “Will you stop doing that?” she snapped, rubbing her bottom.

  “Just checking to see if it still fit in the palm of my hand,” Thork replied in mock innocence.

  Ruby glared at him.

  “It does.” Laughing, he left the room before she could say more, but he did get in a final jab. “I wonder if other body parts fit as well.”

  Thork stayed for the evening meal, at which Gyda regaled the family with an account of the afternoon’s activities in Byrnhil’s boudoir. They howled with laughter, even the children, when Gyda described a stark-naked Byrnhil demanding that Ruby make her a set of flame-red underwear.

  “Seems likely Sigtrygg will be in a good mood tonight,” Olaf said dryly. Then, tongue-in-cheek, he teased, “Methinks my Gyda might look good in one of those outfits, too.”

  Gyda lifted her chin defiantly and told him, “We have already made plans to do just that.”

  Olaf’s mouth dropped open in surprise, then he laughed heartily. “For me, you would do that, Gyda? ’Tis not necessary. I like you well enough in the raiment your God gave you.”

  Gyda blushed attractively and stood up to her husband’s ribald teasing, “’Tis for myself I do this. A woman likes to wear nice things for herself, as well.” Then she looked at Ruby meaningful
ly and added, “After all, a woman has her own identity.”

  Thork and Olaf hooted with laughter at Gyda’s defiant speech, causing her to blush.

  “Shut up, you male chauvinist pigs,” Ruby said.

  “I agree. Shut up, you male chauvinist hogs,” Gyda mimicked.

  Thork and Olaf howled even louder. Ruby couldn’t help herself from giggling.

  After the pleasant meal, they all adjourned to Gyda’s solar. Surprisingly, Thork joined them. Ruby held back from the others slightly and said to Thork, “I thought you’d be off to seduce young Dolly Parton.”

  “Who?”

  “The lady with the big…” Ruby held her two hands about a foot in front of her chest to demonstrate.

  Thork grinned and shook his head at the unbelievable things Ruby came out with. She surprised herself sometimes. She’d never been this bold in her other life.

  “You mean Esle? She visits her family. Mayhap later.” His eyes twinkled at Ruby’s apparent jealousy.

  Ruby sniffed contemptuously.

  “Lest you care to take her place. Seems I made that offer once afore.” Thork teased her, she knew that. And yet his expression held a questioning, almost hopeful, lilt.

  “No, thank you. Unless, of course, you’ve reconsidered my counter offer.”

  “Persistent, you are!” He shook his head in exasperation. “Nay, methinks the bedding would not be worth the price of a wedding.”

  “Methinks you’ll never know,” Ruby retorted with a quick toss of her head. But, oh, how tempted she was to take this man to her bed and make love to him until his arrogance oozed out his ears. She could do it, too, she told herself.

  Thork stayed through Astrid’s playing of the lute, Gunnhild’s exquisite singing and finally Ruby’s storytelling. Oddly silent, he sipped his mulled wine, with Eirik and Tykir at either shoulder. He smiled faintly with amusement at Ruby’s children’s stories but snorted disgustedly at her caricatural retelling of “Thork and the Beanstalk.”