Viking in Love

by Sandra Hill

  Viking In Love

  Sandra Hill

  This book is dedicated with love to the source of

  all the humor in my life…my husband, Robert.

  With more than thirty romantic humor novels under my belt, I must confess that I don’t have a comedic bone in my body.

  Or at least I didn’t until I met Robert, who was a professional softball player at the time (I kid you not!) He even makes me smile in these dire financial times, despite his being a stock broker. Need I say more?

  Years ago, when I had a very sexy, romantic stepback cover depicting barely clad (except for a silk sheet) cover models John D’Salvo and Cindy Guyer in the sack, Robert wanted to have the artwork enlarged and framed to hang in his office.

  He planned to put a plaque under it which read: “She lost her shirt in the stock market, but does she look like she cares?” You gotta love a man with a sense of humor.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Oh Lord, from the fury of the Norsemen…uh, Norsewomen, deliver…

  Chapter Two

  Home, home on the range…uh, motte…

  Chapter Three

  Home, not-so-sweet home…

  Chapter Four

  Beware of women with barbed tongues…

  Chapter Five

  Oink, oink…there are pigs, and then there are PIGS!…

  Chapter Six

  And then the other shoe dropped…

  Chapter Seven

  Can’t we all just be friends?…

  Chapter Eight

  It was raining…babies…

  Chapter Nine

  The highs and lows of love…

  Chapter Ten

  If kisses could talk…

  Chapter Eleven

  Partings are such sweet sorrow…

  Chapter Twelve

  It was a hairy situation…

  Chapter Thirteen

  A wall banger, for sure…

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hide-and-go-seek, medieval style…

  Chapter Fifteen

  When dumb men hear dum-dum-dee-dum…

  Chapter Sixteen

  I can do WHAT with a candle?…

  Chapter Seventeen

  Some knots are harder to unravel than others…

  Chapter Eighteen

  Help came from the lone stranger…

  Chapter Nineteen

  Daddy knows best…

  Chapter Twenty

  The path to true love is mighty rocky…

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The army was a mite on the young side…

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The games children…uh, adults play…

  Reader Letter

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Other Books by Sandra Hill

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  NORTHUMBRIA, A.D. 965

  Oh Lord, from the fury of the Norsemen…uh, Norsewomen, deliver us…

  “Is he dead yet?”

  Breanne asked the question before glancing around the earl’s bedchamber at her four sisters, all of them daughters of King Thorvald of Stoneheim in the Norselands. As usual, each had an opinion and did not mind speaking over the others.

  “For the love of Thor! How would I know?”

  “We will ne’er find husbands if we keep killing men.”

  “This is the first one we have killed, you lackbrain.”

  “Well, how was I to know that? The rest of you performed the task with ease.”

  “The rest of us? Hah! We are all responsible for this…this happenstance.”

  “Happenstance?”

  “Oh, gods! We shall all hang.”

  “Or be drawn and quartered.”

  “Or have our heads lopped off.”

  “I, for one, do not feel guilty. Not one bit. He was a beast.”

  “What is that green substance coming out of his nose?”

  “Snot, you halfwit.”

  “Oh. Are you sure? Methinks it might be his brain oozing out.”

  “Yecch!”

  “Brains do not ooze. Do they?”

  “Something stinks. Dost think he soiled his braies?”

  “For a certainty. Ooooh, look. I have ne’er seen so much blood.”

  “Tsk, tsk! Do you not know that head wounds always bleed profusely?”

  “Then mayhap he is still alive. Someone should check to make sure.”

  “Uh-uh! I get a rash around dead people.”

  “I am not going to touch him.”

  “Me, neither!”

  “The very thought makes me bilious.”

  “I would not know a dead body from a salted lutefisk.”

  Much nervous laughter erupted.

  Momentarily silent, they all stared down at the body of Oswald, earl of Havenshire. Except for one sister, who was huddled in a chair in the far corner, whimpering as she held a possibly broken arm against her chest. Ofttimes referred to as Vana the White because of her Icelandic white-blonde hair, she had more than earned that title today with her fair, deadly white skin contrasted against a blackened eye and a cracked lip, seeping blood. The finger marks about her neck, old and new, resembled a black and blue and yellow torque. Vana was the wife of the late Oswald…late as of five minutes ago.

  Breanne’s back went rigid with anger. Truly, she would gladly kill the brute all over again for what he had done to her gentle sister. She could only imagine what a nightmare Vana’s one-year marriage had been. If only they had left the Norselands earlier to visit her in her Saxon home!

  There was a light knock on the door.

  Everyone stiffened with alarm.

  They must needs dispose of the body, but Breanne had no idea how they could manage the feat in a keep filled with housecarls and servants, all loyal to the beastly nobleman. Now it was too late.

  Breanne stood and motioned for Vana to step forth. Despite her condition, Vana would have to answer. Limping toward her, Vana stood bravely and faced the closed door. “Who is it?”

  “Rashid.”

  Five sets of shoulders sagged with relief. Rashid was the assistant to Adam the Healer, a physician, Breanne’s sister Tyra’s husband. With a snort of disgust, Tyra—who was extremely tall for a woman and very strong, having once been a warrior—jerked the door open, grabbed Rashid by the arm, and yanked him inside, shutting the door behind him.

  Breanne had the good sense to lock it.

  “What are you doing here? Following me?” demanded Tyra, hands on hips.

  “Allah be praised, it is good to see you, too, Tyra.”

  Rashid spoke in heavily accented English, and he still, after all these years, wore the traditional Arab garb of hooded robe with rope belt, over Saxon tunic and braies. “Your husband asked me to follow and see what you were up to…I mean, to offer you protection in the event of…” He slapped a hand over his heart as he noticed the nobly clad body lying in a pool of blood on the stone-flagged floor. “For the love of a camel! What have you done?”

  “When we arrived for a visit unannounced, we found the spineless lout beating our sister with his fists and a whip,” Tyra explained. “When I broke his whip, he came at me with a knife, which I turned on him.”

  They all glanced at the knife, which still protruded from his belly.

  Some of the sisters began to weep.

  Oh, good gods! Not the tears again! Breanne stepped between Tyra and Rashid. “It wasn’t just Tyra. We all played a part. I, for one, hit him over the head with a poker when Tyra’s knife thrust did not immediately fell him.”

  “And I kicked him when he was down,” Ingrith said on a sniffle, her blue eyes sparkling with fury. So hard was she shaking her head
that strands of golden-blonde hair were coming loose from her long braids.

  “I kicked him, too. In the head. Just to make sure he was bloody well dead.” Drifa paused. “Is he dead?”

  Rashid went down on one knee and put his fingertips to a certain spot on the earl’s neck. “Dead as a fly on a cobra’s tongue.”

  Rashid always had a way with words, especially proverbs, one of which he spouted now as he stood to his full height, wiping his hand on his robe with distaste. “Death is a black camel that lies down at every door. Sooner or later every man must ride the camel. Like yon earl.”

  “We are in big trouble, since we brought that camel. The earl is a member of the king’s Witan. He has friends in high places,” Breanne disclosed.

  “But you had just cause,” Rashid said. “They only have to look at Lady Havenshire’s battered body to understand how this came about.”

  “That does not signify.” Vana surprised everyone by speaking up, and with such vehemence. “Dost think they care? His housecarls and servants, friends and foe, all knew good and well how my lord’s temper could be set off at the least thing. He blamed me for not yet breeding him a son, but any excuse would do for his fist or whip. A missing comb. A broken bowl. My monthly courses.”

  “Still,” Rashid argued, “there are laws.”

  All the women shook their heads. The wergild for a woman was ofttimes barely higher than a cow, and less than a horse.

  “Well, then, we must make haste to hide the body,” Rashid said, lifting his hands with resignation.

  Finally, someone is using their head for thinking and not leaking tears.

  “How are we going to hide the body? And where?” Ingrith asked, wringing her hands. And weeping.

  “’Tis impossible,” Drifa said. “We are doomed.” More tears.

  “The difficult is done at once, but the impossible merely takes a little longer.”

  “Are you saying we can cover up this…accident?” Tyra looked imploringly at her husband’s good friend.

  “Do not stand in the midst of rain and ask Allah for a hat. Allah helps those who help themselves.”

  Her sisters looked toward Breanne.

  Even though Tyra was the oldest, her sisters always expected Breanne to lead. “’Tis agreed…we need a plan. Rashid, pull off one of those bed drapes so we can wrap the body. Ingrith, take some linens out of the chest and mop up the blood. Drifa, get the pitcher and bowl of water and try to remove the stain on the floor.”

  In the meantime, Breanne opened the door carefully to check on any guards who might be passing in the hall. There were none. It was late evening, long past dinner. Sounds of laughter could be heard coming from the great hall, where the men were no doubt downing cups of ale and tupping every maid they could get their slimy hands on, willing or not. They probably thought Lord Havenshire was up here in his bedchamber doing the same. For all they knew, Vana’s sisters, come to visit, had been led to separate bedchambers on another level and would greet their sister for the first time in the morn.

  “Mayhap we could put the earl’s body in the chest,” Ingrith suggested.

  “He’s too big,” Vana said, her upper lip curling with distaste, no doubt having suffered for his bigness way too many times.

  Ingrith had a better idea. “We can scrunch him in.”

  “Scrunch? A body cannot be folded like a blanket. Can it?” Drifa pursed her lips in puzzlement. “Oh! Mayhap it gets scrunchy when dead.”

  Breanne rolled her eyes. “Assuming we could fit the body in the chest, where could we hide it that would never be found?”

  “We could burn the chest,” Ingrith suggested.

  Breanne shook her head. “The fire would attract too much attention. And it would smell…I think.”

  “The river?” Drifa offered.

  Again Breanne shook her head. “Bodies tend to rise to the top eventually, no matter how weighted down.”

  “I have an idea,” Vana said brightly. You had to give the girl credit for being able to smile. “Bottom of the privy.”

  They all chuckled.

  “How appropriate! Havenshire always was a piece of…” Ingrith, ever the earthy one, guffawed at her own jest.

  “No, you missay me, sisters,” Vana said. “There is a new garderobe just now being built on the back side of the castle. The hole has been dug and loose stones are being laid down.”

  “Aaaah! We throw Havenshire’s body in the hole, then toss loose stones on top.” Breanne had to admit the idea had merit.

  “No one will go down in that cesspit, even in the beginning…um, dry state,” Vana elaborated. “’Tis far too deep.”

  “So, the privy, it is.” Breanne looked to the others for agreement. “What will we say when the earl’s men ask for him or his whereabouts?”

  Rashid glanced toward Tyra, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. “Tyra, you are much the size of Oswald. Mayhap we could dress you in his clothing.”

  “With the fur-lined cowled cape he favored,” Vana added. “And using the back stairway through the scullery.”

  “Somehow you must be able to saddle a horse and ride away from the castle, with the guardsmen seeing you but not being able to identify you as any other than their lord,” Rashid said.

  “Agreed,” Tyra said, “but someone needs to distract the stable hand on duty.”

  “I can do that,” Drifa offered. Half Arab, half Viking, Drifa was a petite, beautiful, well-formed woman with raven hair and slanted eyes who attracted men easily.

  “The sentries will not be suspicious at the earl’s leaving the castle so late. He has a mistress in Whitby. Ofttimes he goes to visit her and stays overnight. Or longer when he is especially lustsome.” Vana did not appear the least disgusted imparting that news, since his mistress had spared her some of his vile attentions.

  “But the day after tomorrow, his riderless horse will make its way back to Havenshire, and the first clue will be planted that he is gone. Perchance killed by villains out to rob peaceful wayfarers.” Breanne thought for a moment. “It just might work, as long as we all stay here to support Vana and act suitably horrified and grief stricken. We must not panic when someone asks, ‘Where is the earl?’ Nothing to attract suspicion.”

  “How will we get the chest to the cesspit?” Drifa wanted to know.

  “The two guardsmen Father sent with us are down in the great hall exchanging glares with Havenshire’s men. They are up to the task, if they have not imbibed too much ale,” Ingrith pointed out. “If one more Havenshire clodpole refers to Norsemen as lacking in battle skills, we will have a war on our hands.”

  Hmmm. That would provide a distraction. “Nay! Our men cannot be involved,” Breanne asserted. “The less people who know about this deed the better.”

  “No matter!” Rashid said. “Ingrith, you stand guard in the scullery. Drifa, up to the ramparts where you will distract the sentries. I, along with Tyra and Breanne will carry the chest down the back stairs, through the scullery, to the outside privy.” Rashid raised his eyebrows at each of them in turn.

  He made it sound so easy. Breanne knew it would not be.

  Still, they all nodded.

  Silence permeated the room then as they contemplated the formidable, almost impossible, task ahead of them.

  Why do my sisters and I always manage to land in the most ungodly trouble?

  “Mayhap we should pray?” Vana suggested in a small voice.

  “To which god?” Ingrith snorted.

  It was a good question. Many Vikings practiced both the Christian and Norse religions, and then there was Rashid’s Moslem heritage. They all bowed their heads for a moment.

  “Prayer is well and good,” Rashid said then. “Even so, trust in Allah, but ride a fast camel.”

  Camels again!

  All Breanne could do was give a mental shout, which was more like a squeak: HELP!

  And then they all said, as one, “Good-bye Earl.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  H
ome, home on the range…uh, motte…

  He was almost home.

  After nine long months in the king’s bloody service, which was supposed to have been only six sennights, Caedmon could almost see Larkspur in the distance through the morning mist. His hauberk creaked as he rose in the saddle. They were still too far away to get a clear view over the rise.

  Two of his fellow knights, landless nobles who had chosen to remain in his troop, rode beside him. Behind him followed four dozen hirdsmen and various others that served a warrior’s needs…armorers, blacksmiths, cooks, and stable hands leading ten war horses. The great destriers—worth their weight in gold, including his own Fury—were a fighting man’s best friend in battle but too high-strung for regular riding. There were even several women who had attached themselves to some of his men.

  “By the rood! You reek, Caedmon,” Geoffrey, his best friend and chief hirdsman, said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  “Well I know it. I had to nigh hold my nose when I slept yestereve.” He glanced over to his right at the blond-haired, lean-limbed knight, who was too pretty by half. Women were known to swoon over his handsome looks, a bounty he took full advantage of, without apology.

  “You are a bit aromatic yourself.” This from Wulfgar, on Caedmon’s left, who craned his neck to see Geoffrey. As fair as Geoff was, Wulf was the opposite. A giant with black hair, dark eyes, and a gruesome scar running from forehead to mustache and bearded chin, causing his upper lip to lift slightly. Still, women favored him, too.

  And, truth be told, Caedmon attracted his fair share of women. He had no complaints.

  “All of our garments will no doubt fall off our bodies in rot once we remove our armor,” Caedmon remarked.

  “I cannot remember the last time I bathed. Mayhap it was last month in Wessex. Or was it the month before in Norsemandy?” Geoff grinned at him, his white teeth stark against his stained leather helmet with nose piece and eye guard. “Methinks my brynja will leave half circle marks all over my body. The women will love it. Like the tattoos those Scots warriors favor.”