A soft sob escaped her lips. She unfolded herself from the couch and moved up beside him. "You're doing this for me, aren't you? So I can be surrounded with children?"
"For both of us, sweetling."
Geirolf was soul-weary from all he'd been through these past six sennights... and fearful. He'd tried his best to do the right thing for Merry-Death, but mayhap he should have consulted her first. 'Twas not the way of his people or men of his time, but modern men apparently shared decisions with their women. No doubt, he had much to learn yet on adapting.
Mayhap she would have preferred that he be a male profess-whore, like Jeffrey, or a race-car driver, or a cowboy—though he did not think he could jam his feet into those high-heeled boots. Truly, he had studied all the possibilities, and this had seemed his destiny. Had he been wrong? For a certainty, he cared not a whit for his destiny if he could not share it with Merry-Death.
He turned and took her by the upper arms, staring, down at her. Her emerald eyes glistened with tears, but they gazed up at him with love.
Love? For the first time that evening, he felt a surge of hope in his heart. "I love you, Merry-Death. Can you forgive me? Will you share my destiny with me?"
She let out a little hiccoughing sob, and then blurted out, "You are an overbearing, arrogant, domineering man."
"Whate'er you say, dearling." Despite her insults, Geirolf could see the love glowing in her face and he was encouraged. Hmmm. Her face is glowing. Well, no doubt 'tis with admiration for all those qualities she claims to loathe. Truly, women think they want a weak-sapped man, but what they really crave is a real man, like Tim Taylor, and me. But now is not the time to point that out. I wonder if I look meek enough.
"You shouldn't have made all these decisions without consulting me first." She was still frowning at him, but her body leaned unconsciously closer to him, her breasts under her silken shert brushing against his chest.
"Whate'er you say, dearling." Were her breasts fuller? He didn't recall her being quite so buxom afore.
Now that was a nice homecoming surprise. Did modern women's breasts grow? Or mayhap 'twas one of those Victory's Secret wondrous bra things. He restrained himself from putting a palm out to test his theory.
Slowly, slowly, he cautioned himself, let her set the pace for surrender—but, Please, God, let it be soon.
"I don't think I'll ever forgive you for pretending to be dead all that time."
"Whate'er you say, dearling." He did feel terrible about that. But, he swore, he would spend a lifetime making it up to her. And, no doubt, she would spend a lifetime punishing him in the nature of all women.
"I love you, Rolf," she said then, and looped her arms around his neck.
He let out a long sigh of relief, and blinked away the tears that stung his eyes. Despite his outward bravado, Geirolf had been scared to the bone.
Just before he pulled Merry-Death into his embrace, she tilted her head saucily and informed him, "You're not The Last Viking, you know."
He didn't grasp her meaning, at first, till she took his palm and placed it over her flat stomach. When comprehension dawned, his heart lurched.
"We're going to have a baby, Rolf."
Merry-Death's words hit him like a battering ram, tilting his world off-center. He inhaled sharply to catch his breath. Finally, when he saw that she was serious, that she was waiting expectantly with trembling lips for his response, he choked out, blood roaring in his veins, "A baby?"
She nodded.
A tear slid out of Geirolf's eyes and ran down his cheek, but he could not care. He was holding his destiny in his hands. Both hands, actually. His one hand caressed Merry-Death's face, and the other was pressed against her belly.
"And one more thing. I do like goats," she informed him with a hysterical laugh. "They remind me of you. Stubborn."
"Whate'er you say, dearling," he whispered. And he meant it this time.
Later, after Geirolf showed her how randy this goat was, and stubbornly insisted on prolonging her pleasures, he grinned at her. "Do you know what I missed most whilst I was gone? Aside from you, of course."
The whole time he talked he kept caressing her bare belly, still stunned by the wonder of her quickening with his seed. A miracle.
"Oreos," she retorted.
"Nay. Hilda got those for me," he remarked idly.
"Hilda!" she shrieked and punched him in the stomach.
"Ouch!" he exclaimed with mock injury. Then he chucked her under the chin. "Tsk-tsk, my suspicious wench. Hilda is eighty years old."
"Oh, well then," she sniffed, "what did you miss most?"
He stood and swaggered in all his nude glory over to the bottom of the steps.
Vikings were renowned for their nude glory, and Geirolf was not above using it to his advantage.
Then he turned and winked.
Geirolf knew that his wife loved it when he winked, though she would never admit it. He would wager she was tingling about now. As he was.
Crooking his finger at her with his usual Viking arrogance, he answered in a lazy drawl, "Drekking."
"Whate'er you say, dearling," Merry-Death said.
* * *
Authors Letter
"One need not be a lord or prince's son to be a Viking hero. But one must be a man of unbreakable will. For the unbreakable will triumphs over the blind injustice of all powerful Fate and makes man its equal."
—Gwyn Jones, Norse historian, author of A History of the Vikings
Dear Reader:
Gwyn Jones had the right of it. You gotta love a Viking. Recently, on one of the on-line services, a well-known author of medieval novels asked, "What is it about Vikings? Why are people so fascinated by these brutish people? I just don't get it."
Well, that writer was deluged with responses from writers and readers alike.
Vikings were renowned for their good looks—long, well-groomed hair; tall, muscular bodies; and they were cleaner in their bodily habits than most men of that time. No one denies that they invigorated the races of those peoples they conquered, by force or seduction.
They were men of many contradictions. Brutal and merciless in battle, they could be gentle family men.
The skaldic poetry of that time exemplified their sensitivity and creative souls.
Their greedy appetites and spendthrift ways were deplored by the Anglo-Saxon clerics who recorded their deeds. But maybe those greedy appetites were appreciated in the bedchambers where so many women came to them willingly. And as for spendthrift, well, the Vikings were also generous to a fault.
Early historians described them as rapers and pillagers of innocent people, uncaring of morality or law.
Whose morality and whose law? Much of the English legal system stems from the Vikings' reverence for law codes. In fact, the word law comes from their language.
And many of them worshipped both Norse and Christian gods.
They were talented men, skilled in shipbuilding, sailing, weaponry, combat, trading, hunting, trapping, and storytelling. Love of adventure ran in their blood.
The story related in, this book about King Olaf having a talent for throwing two spears simultaneously at his enemies is true. And legend says that some especially skilled Viking warriors could do just what I describe my hero doing: catch a spear thrown at them in midair, flick it around in their fingers, and thrust it right back at the enemy.
There is a poignancy in these Vikings who no longer exist as a separate people and have no country of their own. Over several centuries, they melded into the various countries they explored and settled and, yes, ravaged. That's why, in a sense, I am presenting you with Rolf, The Last Viking.
Let me add this disclaimer: The word Viking would not have been used in the tenth century, nor would certain geographical terms for countries, such as Norway. I elected to use them for the sake of my modern readers.
Ironically, no sooner did I mail this story off to my editor than I saw a segment on one of the morning network
news shows. Apparently, a Viking ship was being assembled on Hermit Island in Maine, using blueprints modeled after a Viking longship only a few decades older than my tenth-century boat. The project—"VIKING VOYAGE 1000"—was the brainchild of historian W. Hadding Carter. It included the re-creation of Leif Ericsson's historic trans-Atlantic voyage from the southwestern coast of Greenland to L'Anse aux Meadow in Newfoundland, site of the only confirmed Viking settlement in North America. Unfortunately, the journey had to be aborted due to rudder damage. It will be tried again next summer. For more information about this twentieth-century adventure, check http://www.Viking1000.org/index.html on the Internet.
After reading my fictional story, you must see the romantic coincidence in Carter having said of his project, "What started as a vision of one man became the dream of many, and touched the hearts and imaginations of people throughout Maine."
Life is truly more fantastic than fiction.
I have taken the artistic license of using Oxley College as the name for a nonexistent college in Maine; likewise the Silver Oak Zoo.
Please let me know what you think of Vikings, in general, and my Viking, in particular.
Sandra Hill
P.O. Box 604
State College, PA 16804
email: [email protected]
or [email protected]
website: http://www.sff.net/people/shill
Sandra Hill - Viking II 03 - The Last Viking Page 31