Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 01]

by The Reluctant Viking

  “I think that might make great entertainment for the Althing,” Ruby said with a straight face.

  “By Thor’s hammer! Dare you such,” Thork warned Ruby, “and you will spend the rest of your life locked in the barn.”

  All turned suddenly quiet then, remembering Ruby’s and Gudrod’s irresponsible actions. Sometimes, in moments like this, Ruby forgot that these sometimes violent people were not really her friends. Even Thork.

  She and the boys walked Thork to the barn for his horse. Eirik and Tykir went inside to help Ulf saddle the mare while Ruby and Thork waited, leaning against the side of the building.

  “Are you sure you will not reconsider and come back with me?” He ran a finger seductively up her bare arm and left a trail of sensitized goosebumps in its wake.

  She shook her head regretfully. “I can’t.”

  Thork touched the ends of her hair with his fingertips. “Does your husband like your hair thus?” His tone of voice betrayed his lack of appreciation for the short hair style.

  “He doesn’t mind it. It’s much easier to care for, especially since I have to get up so early for work each morning.” Suddenly she remembered something she hadn’t thought of for years and, without thinking, blurted it out, “Actually, when we were first married, I had long hair, down past my shoulders. Jack loved it. He used to tell me to never cut it.”

  That was so long ago. How could she have forgotten?

  Thork cocked his head quizzically. “And you cut it anyway?” He clearly did not understand. “Did you not love him? Did you not want to please him?” Meanwhile, he held both of her hands in his, with his thumbs making sensuous circles on her wrists. Her heart beat so wildly, and her blood pounded so hard, she could barely think.

  “It was such a little thing,” she whispered, moving closer to his warm chest. “I’m sure it didn’t matter much to Jack.”

  Thork said nothing, but he obviously didn’t believe her. She wasn’t so sure herself.

  His roving hands had moved to her waist and were slowly inching up to the undersides of her breasts. Ruby held her breath, her body tingling everywhere he touched. When he stopped just short of his goal, Ruby exhaled slowly before asking shakily, “Thork, do you trust me now, or do you still think I might be a spy—that I have some ulterior motive for being in Jorvik?”

  “Never have I truly thought you a spy, but I cannot trust you completely, either. There are too many unanswered questions, and leastways I have learned the hard way to trust no man—or woman—completely. Too much risk weighs in the balance to allow you free rein.”

  Ruby’s shoulders slumped in weary resignation, and Thork put a forefinger under her chin, lifting her face so she would have to look at him.

  “My opinion matters naught,” he continued. “Besides, I will be gone to Jomsborg once the Althing completes its business next month.”

  “And how long will you be gone?”

  Thork shrugged uncertainly. “Two years.”

  “Two years!” Ruby’s heart felt like a lead weight in her chest, and her next words could barely pass the huge lump in her throat. “Why so long?”

  “Two years have I devoted to my grandfather’s affairs, but I took a Jomsviking oath long ago. Honor demands my immediate return.”

  “What honor is there in killing?”

  Thork’s shoulders stiffened. “A man does what he must to protect his people.”

  “Have you killed many people?”

  “Yea, that I have. More than I can count.”

  “And you choose this life-style?” Ruby shook her head, unable to understand Thork’s harsh attitude.

  “Sometimes men have no choices.” A tense muscle twitched in the hard plane of Thork’s cheek.

  They could hear the children getting closer, and Thork quickly bent down to her. “Will you favor me with a kiss to comfort me on the long ride back to the castle?”

  “Not so long,” Ruby countered with a smile, putting aside her concerns over Thork’s ruthless nature. She could no more stop herself from leaning into his kiss than halt the wild beating of her heart.

  With a hand looped round her neck, Thork pulled her closer. His lips were a hairsbreadth from hers when he hesitated, looking into her eyes in an all-too-familiar way, then kissed her deeply, turning slightly from side to side to mold their lips just right.

  With a sigh of resignation, Ruby relished Thork’s kiss. It felt so right to be in his arms. Somehow, some way, she knew this was where she was meant to be. She put her arms around Thork’s neck and moved closer.

  Thork jolted away slightly and studied Ruby’s face, trying to understand this innate chemistry between them. He touched her lips lightly with the tip of his tongue, and Ruby moaned, parting her lips for more. The children’s voices grew louder, and Thork forced himself to pull away, holding her firmly by the shoulders until both of their shuddering breaths slowed down. Then he gave her another slight peck on the lips and whispered, “Sleep well, heartling,” before mounting his horse and riding away.

  Ruby tossed and turned throughout the night. Daybreak finally crept through her bedchamber before sleep finally came. She hoped Thork suffered, as well.

  Chapter Eight

  Three weeks had passed since Ruby’s arrival in Jorvik. Ruby had felt at peace since she started attending first-light services at St. Mary’s minster with Gyda each morning. She was surprised to learn that the Viking city hosted eleven Christian churches.

  No longer did she continually question when she would return to the future. Ruby believed this time-travel experience had been ordained by some force greater than man. She wasn’t resigned to the fact that she might not ever go back, but she decided to take one day at a time.

  When she and Gyda returned home from church one day, Ruby ate a piece of bannock and a slice of hard cheese before Byrnhil showed up at her doorstep in a Viking-version jogging suit. Between Ruby’s Brass Balls T-shirt, jeans and Nikes and Byrnhil’s specially made purple silk pants and tunic-style shirt, the two women were a sight to behold as they jogged the two miles that had become their morning routine.

  Byrnhil had convinced Olaf to allow Ruby to jog with her. Ulf, of course, followed after them, his face burning with humiliation. Several of Byrnhil’s ladies had jogged with them the first two days but refused to come anymore.

  “My women are weak,” Byrnhil jeered. “Too much soft living. But mayhap ’twas the butcher’s remark on the size of their rumps. Methinks, though, that the blacksmith’s remark about their jiggling breasts was the last straw.”

  “Poor Ulf! His face looks like a bloody beet.”

  Both women giggled.

  After their return, Ruby strolled through Coppergate with Astrid and the ever-present guard. The craftsmen who plied their trades in the open air in front of their city homes fascinated Ruby, especially the instrument makers who drew sweet, haunting music from the pan pipes they carved so lovingly.

  With their long, flowing manes of hair and belted tunics, the Viking artists—wood and leather workers, jewelers, gold and silversmiths, glass blowers and weavers—resembled the hippies of the 1960s. Unlike those gentle flower children, however, when winter winds blew, these swaggering males turned fierce and rode the North Seas a-Viking in their longships. Finding the difference hard to reconcile, Ruby asked Gyda about it.

  “You have come to us in a rare peaceable period,” Gyda explained. “Just six years ago, when Rognvald captured and became king of Jorvik, the city fair flowed with blood. Every family lost sons, brothers, husbands and fathers.” She shook her head sadly before confiding, “Our oldest child Thorvald died in the battle.” Gyda’s voice cracked as she wept silently.

  “Oh, Gyda, how inconsiderate of me! I never knew you had a son. Please forgive me.”

  When Gyda calmed down, she continued, “The saddest part is the fighting does not end yet. Mark my words, blood will flow again here. The Saxons will ne’er allow us to live here in peace.”

  “Don’t the Vik
ings have their own lands?”

  “Our homelands are small and overpopulated. The Viking leaders there wield their power as viciously as our enemies here.”

  “Like Thork’s father, King Harald?”

  “Just like. Hordes of our brethren have broken away from the yoke of tyranny and seek to settle in new lands as farmers and traders—like here in Jorvik—but ’tis ever a struggle to survive, even when we agree to give up our own culture to blend in the new lands.”

  “Gyda, you may find this hard to believe, but in my country people consider Vikings heathen barbarians who killed for the joy of it. And what is a-Viking anyway, if not raping and plundering other lands?”

  “Some are driven so,” Gyda admitted. “Overcome by the bloodlust they are, like the berserkers, or by the plunder, but mostly they go to seek better lives for their families. Mayhap they conquer unwilling lands in the process, but survival drives them. Nothing more.”

  That was one of the more serious conversations she and Gyda engaged in recently. Mostly, they laughed and enjoyed themselves as women gathered in Gyda’s home each afternoon to get Ruby’s expert help in making the frivolous lingerie.

  Today a group of Gyda’s friends from nearby homes arrived once again for a “sewing bee.” Ruby had shown them once before how to make a pattern, but some had run into problems and wanted hands-on assistance.

  She suspected they were more interested in seeing the washboard she’d designed with the blacksmith’s help for Gyda, not to mention the hand-carved clothespins a woodworker in the market area had made to her specifications. Gyda beamed with pride when she looked at her clean laundry hung on the newly strung clothesline between two trees behind the house. She displayed the washboard, when it wasn’t being used, on a special, highly visible wall peg, its rolled metal surface polished to a high sheen. And Ruby suspected that Gyda let her laundry hang out longer than necessary to impress her neighbors with her modern gadgets.

  The lively, outspoken women in Gyda’s solar that afternoon chattered and gossiped as their nimble fingers plied precious needles and rainbow-colored threads.

  “Did you hear that Gunvor is with child again?” one woman confided. The others rolled their eyes meaningfully. Tsk-tsk’s clicked through the women’s teeth as they sympathized with the “poor girl.”

  “Ten babes and her not yet seeing twenty-five winters!” Gyda exclaimed. “’Tis dead she will be by her thirtieth year. She near bled to death in the last birthing, I was told.”

  “Then what will Siegfried do for the care of all those children?” Gyda’s next-door-neighbor Freydis, a rotund, jolly woman, clucked.

  “Probably wed some young, unknowing bonder’s daughter whose father wants one less mouth to feed,” another lady snorted with disgust.

  Was that sort of like a thirty-eight-year-old man looking for a sweet young bimbo after dumping his wife of twenty years? Oh, hell! Ruby thought. I do not need this!

  “’Tis ever a woman’s lot and ever will be. Men lust. Women suffer,” Gyda sighed, with a woman’s eternal resignation to fate.

  “Well,” Ruby volunteered, “why don’t you women do something about it? It’s just as much your responsibility.”

  All the women turned on Ruby, wide-eyed, open-mouthed and very, very interested. Even Gyda.

  Oops! Had she blundered again? Perhaps this was a subject she shouldn’t have broached. But, heck, women needed to stick together, to share information, to bond for their own self-interest.

  The women still gaped at her, expecting her to elaborate.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of birth control, of taking precautions so you won’t have any more children, if that is what you choose to do?”

  Freydis pooh-poohed her suggestion with a wave of the hand. “You speak of those useless powders that promise to prevent conception but never do. Just a waste of coins!” The others nodded in agreement.

  “Actually, there are powders in my country that do work,” Ruby said, knowing they wouldn’t understand birth control pills. “Haven’t you heard of condoms or sponges or douches?” Of course they hadn’t. How silly of her to ask!

  “Condoms? What are they?” Gyda asked. “Do you truly say women have methods to prevent having babes?”

  “Yes, they do.”

  Ruby had the rapt attention of every woman in the room.

  “Condoms are thin sheaths that fit over a man’s male part—so thin the pleasurable sensations aren’t diminished, but so water-tight the male sperm, or fluid, cannot enter the woman’s vagina and join with her egg.”

  A storm of questions followed then, and Ruby gave the standard high school health class lecture on menstruation and reproduction.

  “But these condoms,” one young woman asked, “where might they be purchased? And of what fabric are they made?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ruby admitted, “although I do think they are already being made in the Orient at this time. I think the early ones were made of a soft leather that was rinsed and used over and over, but the ones I’ve seen are thin, transparent membranes, disposed of after every use.” Ruby racked her brain to remember more about a subject on which she was not particularly knowledgeable.

  “And the women can make love and not get pregnant?” an amazed Gyda asked.

  Ruby smiled and nodded.

  “What is a membrane?” another asked. “Is it like the thinnest silk?”

  “No, because that isn’t water-tight. It’s more like the thin skin over some women’s breasts, or the skin of an animal that’s been scraped and scraped until it’s almost transparent and used for window coverings.” Ruby tried to think of a better explanation. “I know, it resembles the intestines of animals when they’re thoroughly cleaned out.”

  Now the women understood.

  “Does this birth control not anger the men in your country?” Freydis asked.

  “No-o-o, I don’t think so. If a man loves a woman, he wants to protect her, to keep her from having a child when it’s dangerous for her health, or when there are too many for them to feed or she’s past the prime child-bearing years.”

  After the women left, Gyda looked at Ruby oddly. “Who are you?” Gyda asked with a puzzled frown. “’Tis strange you know so much that we do not, even though our men trade ’round the world.”

  “I come from the future, Gyda,” Ruby tried to explain once again.

  “Nay, that I cannot accept. You must come from some strange land we have not yet discovered. That must be it.”

  The next morning, after her jogging routine with Byrnhil, the king’s mistress demanded that Ruby return to the palace with her for a private conversation. Ruby soon learned that the Viking grapevine worked almost as fast as those in modern America. Word had spread already of Ruby’s birth control lecture.

  At least twenty women crowded Byrnhil’s solar demanding that she repeat the words she’d spoken yesterday. When she finished, they asked even more questions than Gyda’s friends.

  “I will tell Sigtrygg to search for some of those condoms when next his ships travel to the Orient,” Byrnhil declared confidently.

  “Do women in your country care naught that those strange objects are inside them?” one young maid asked shyly.

  “Humph! No stranger than some male parts I have seen!” Byrnhil joked. And that led to a discussion of lovemaking, sexual prowess and good lovers these women had known. Ruby blushed at some of the graphic descriptions the Viking women gave.

  Sensing Ruby’s embarrassment, Byrnhil asked, “Do women care naught for lovemaking in your country? ’Tis said the Saxon women consider it a distasteful duty.”

  “Oh, women enjoy lovemaking almost as much as men,” Ruby laughed, “especially since we’ve learned so much these past few decades about woman’s anatomy and what brings her pleasure. Females in my country expect to have orgasms, as well as men. In fact, many have discovered multiple orgasms.”

  The stunned silence that greeted those words stopped Ruby short. Oh, my God! Had she rea
lly said all that?

  “I think I better go home now,” Ruby murmured weakly.

  But no way would she be permitted to escape so easily. The set look on Byrnhil’s face told Ruby loud and clear that she’d opened a can of worms the size of a snake pit.

  “What is an orgasm?” Byrnhil demanded to know.

  When she described that as briefly and succinctly as she could, Byrnhil asked, “And multiple orgasms?” Ruby’s explanation drew surprised gasps from some women and snorts of disbelief from others.

  “I knew that,” Byrnhil claimed arrogantly. “I just did not know your words.” Then she bragged, “Always I come at least three times.”

  Holy cow! No wonder Byrnhil held the fierce Sigtrygg in her spell.

  Two days later the same group of neighbor ladies showed up at Gyda’s door with flushed cheeks and a conspiratorial manner. When they were seated in Gyda’s sewing chamber, Freydis stood up as spokeswoman. “We have something to show you.”

  Was it another pattern for underwear? Some of these buxom Viking women insisted there should be a way to design a push-up bra that fit them without making them look like the masthead of a ship.

  Freydis pulled an object out of her bag and shoved it into Ruby’s hands. The wrinkled, grayish-colored stuff looked like the pig’s intestines used for sausage casings she’d seen on her grandfather’s farm as a child.

  “What is it?” Ruby asked, raising questioning eyes to Freydis.

  “A condom,” Freydis said proudly. “I made it myself.”

  Ruby tried not to smile as she examined the ugly object more closely. Freydis had sewn the end of the clean casing with tiny stitches to hold the sperm inside.

  Before Ruby had time to react, the other women brought forth their creations. One woman had embroidered Norse symbols in red and gold thread down the length of hers. Another had used a pig’s bladder and made it so long and big the husband would have to be immense to fill it. She looked sheepishly at Ruby and said, “My Gorm is fair like a tree trunk when the lust comes, but mayhap I did make it a mite too big.” The women hooted teasingly at her words.