Viking in Love

by Sandra Hill

  “You are a lackwit,” Wulf proclaimed.

  “There are three things I will order once we arrive at Larkspur,” Caedmon informed them on a long sigh. “A tun of cool mead. A warm bath. And a hot…”

  “…wench,” Geoff finished for him.

  “Amen,” he and Wulf agreed with a laugh.

  Those men riding close behind them, who overheard, laughed, too.

  Caedmon shook his head with mock dismay. “Actually, I was going to say hot fire to warm my weary bones. Then, I would like to sleep for a sennight in a bed with clean linens and a soft pillow.”

  “K-A-D-mon!” Geoff exaggerated the pronunciation of his name, as he was wont to do when making jest of him. “Forget sleep. Me, I prefer mead, bath, and a good tup. A pillow is not where I intend to rest my head tonight.”

  Caedmon had already sent riders ahead with just such orders. Well, not about the women. He would never order women to open their thighs to a man, not even a thrall, especially having been in the company of their King Edgar and his sordid proclivities these many months.

  It had been bad enough when Edgar and his closest guard had stormed a convent at Wilton Abbey, and Edgar had taken captive one of the nuns, Wulfhryth, her screams heard throughout the camp that night and many nights thereafter. No matter that Wulfhryth was of noble birth or that she later gave birth to a daughter, Eadygth. No matter that Edgar was married to Eneda, the “white duck.” Edgar just went on his merry, wicked way. And Edgar had allowed those of his men so inclined to make sport with the other nuns.

  The last straw had come when Edgar put a javelin through his half-brother Aethelwold’s back for want of his beauteous wife. That was when Caedmon and his hirdsmen had decided to part with the royal company and head for home. If Edgar did not like it, then so be it! Thus far there had been no repercussions, but then Edgar was probably having to deal with the rage of Dunstan, Archbishop of Canterbury, who was sure to levy a huge penance on the king’s overzealous cock. Then again, mayhap not. The only penance he had levied for Edgar’s rape and impregnation of the nun was that he could not wear his crown for seven years. It was probably too heavy for his little head, anyway.

  “Well, my castle is still standing,” Caedmon said as the mist began to part and they could see Larkspur in the distance. A pretty name for an austere fortress. Calling it a castle was an overstatement, but that is what his childless uncle Richard had named Larkspur before passing it on to Caedmon on his death ten years ago.

  It was a stone-and-timber garrison built in a motte-and-bailey fashion. Sitting atop a high, natural flat-topped mound, or motte, of great size and height, the castle itself was surrounded by double walls of palisades and ramparts, as was the vast bailey on the ground level with one wide gate in front, opening onto a drawbridge. A majestic wooden tower atop the keep stood watch over the land in four directions. At the bottom of the motte and still within the bailey were the exercise fields set off by neat hedgerows, castle gardens, and outbuildings: stables, blacksmith’s forge, weaving, leatherwork and milk sheds, bakehouse, brewery, cow byre, pigpens, chicken coops, and sleeping quarters for his guardsmen who chose not to reside within the castle. The outer palisades were surrounded by a moat.

  Beyond that were the cotters’ huts and fields of oats and barley. Inside, the bailey had enough room for all the villagers to gather in the event of an attack, not uncommon here in the wilds of Northumbria, where brigands abounded and Scotsmen came raiding from the North. Just past the village was a peat-infused river, only twenty paces wide, fed from the Cheviot hills runoff, wending its way toward the North Sea, a mere trickle of a burn, or creek, in dry, high summer but a torrent after a storm.

  Northumbria, so called lands north of the Humber, was a land unto itself. To the southern Brits, the mixed breeds of British, Anglian, and Norse, with a bit of Scot thrown in, appeared wild, uncouth, hard-drinking, and annoyingly independent of spirit. This high country was just too bleak…and dangerous, wedged in as it was by the English kingdoms in the south, and the Scots, Cumbrians, and Strathclyde Welsh to the north and northwest. They saw only endless moors, like a wilderness of sorts, and the occasional hills and fertile dales. And remains of the ancient Roman walls.

  Caedmon, on the other hand, saw beauty in its clean air and icy streams. The sweetness of wildflowers and new grass being crushed by their horses was like the finest perfume from the eastern lands. To him, leastways. In a few short months, vast areas would be covered with purple heather.

  For many years, Caedmon had been a landless knight, like his two close comrades, and he knew too well how blessed he had been to inherit his uncle’s estate. He would do everything in his power to keep it for himself and his heirs. Even if it meant service to his depraved king.

  A tangled mess awaited him at Larkspur after his lengthy absence, but Caedmon felt peaceful here in his homeland. And lonely. But it was a good loneliness. One he cherished. He smiled to himself at that ill logic. A cherished loneliness! He must be going barmy.

  “Leaving Henry as castellan was apparently a good decision, despite his advancing age,” Geoff observed, interrupting his reverie.

  Caedmon nodded. “Yea, reports are that the keep itself is in turmoil, but the troops are in good order, having suffered only a few minor attacks within the estate boundaries.”

  “Turmoil?” Wulf arched his brows…He had removed his helmet and his hair stood out in unruly spikes.

  “It appears the children are running wild. Amicia is refusing to serve food in the great hall, where the dogs have made a mire of the rushes. A chambermaid was caught in bed with two men. Some of the housecarls have taken to swordplay in the solar. Father Luke has locked himself in the chapel and refuses to come out, not even to say Mass. A loose goat ate all the herbs in the kitchen garden. Other than that, everything is normal.”

  There was a momentary silence before one of the men behind him yelled out, “What was the name of that chamber wench?”

  Both Wulf and Geoff grinned at him, and Caedmon could hear more chuckling behind him.

  “Is Father Luke that half-brained fanatic who is always mumbling about fornication and the fires of hell?” Geoff asked.

  “He said I was a dreadful sinner. Can you imagine?” Caedmon made a moue of innocence.

  “And is he not older than Adam’s rib?” Wulf added.

  Caedmon had to laugh. “Yea, Father Luke has passed more than eighty winters, I would guess, and he was half brained afore he came to us. Think on it, what priest worth his salt would want to preside over the souls of such a small keep in the northern wilds, inhabited by ‘sinful soldiers,’ as he ofttimes calls us?”

  “All your bratlings did not help any,” Geoff noted.

  “You have heard about the wagers, have you not?” Wulf inquired.

  By his teasing tone, Caedmon decided he did not want to know.

  But that did not stop Wulf.

  “We are wagering on how many children you will have by now.”

  “Pfff! There were ten last time I counted, but God only knows how many are really mine. And, yea, I am certain there will be more by now.” Caedmon had wed and buried two wives, leaving behind three legitimate children, the nine-year-old Beth and six-year-old twins Alfred and Aidan, but he had also had his fair share of unfortunately fertile mistresses and bedmates over the years. He was, after all, thirty and four. He grinned then. “Can I help it if I am a virile man?” And dumb as dirt when it comes to keeping my cock in my breeches.

  “Methinks your virility is going to come back and bite you in the arse one of these days,” Geoff said.

  It already has, and that is why I gird myself with resolve. I will ne’er marry again, I vow, and I will exercise caution in the bed furs. God willing.

  He could swear he heard laughter in his head. It was probably God.

  “When I was in Baghdad, I heard about a method for preventing a man’s seed from taking root in a woman’s womb,” Geoff said of a sudden.

  All ears
perked up at that announcement.

  When he just grinned at them, Caedmon prodded, “Well, do not stop now, lackwit.”

  “You take a small, thick-skinned apple. Cut it in half, and pare out most of the pulp. Then you insert it into a woman’s channel, far up, like a tiny cup. And that prevents a man’s seed from entering her womb.” Geoff preened as if he had just gifted them the secret to turning grass to gold. “It is supposed to be done with lemons, but since we have none here, I am sure apples would suffice.”

  There was a lengthy silence as the men digested what he had said, turning it over in their minds. One never knew when Geoff was jesting or not, although he did know a lot about the bed arts, or so he often told them.

  “I would like to meet the woman who would allow you to do that,” Caedmon finally scoffed. Really, I would.

  Geoff smirked, as if he knew a few.

  “And how in bloody hell would you get it out?” Wulf wanted to know.

  Geoff fluttered his fingertips at Wulf as if that were an insignificant matter.

  “The woman would be pissing apple juice for a sennight,” Wulf remarked. “And dropping apple seeds hither and yon.”

  “We have all been in the saddle too long. Our brains are melting,” Caedmon concluded. But I wager there will be apples aplenty missing from the larder this night.

  “Little Women” they were not…

  Breanne sat in the Havenshire ladies’ solar, where she and her sister Tyra were sewing on a tapestry stretched onto a large wooden frame.

  The earl rested at the bottom of the now-in-use—Eeeewww!—garderobe, and they waited on tenterhooks for the call to come that he had been found.

  Which had not happened, of course

  And would not happen, they hoped.

  Still, she and her sisters declined to use that particular privy for fear the corpse would somehow come up and bite them in their bare arses.

  Vana, whose face still carried the marks of her husband’s beating despite wearing a wimple and head rail held in place by a silver diadem, was down in the great hall, engaging in the chatelaine’s morning rituals of a great keep. Giving the steward orders for the day’s work. Doling out rare spices and foodstuffs from the locked storeroom for various meals. Raking up and spreading new rushes sprinkled with winter savory and balm leaves in the great hall. Laundering everything in sight, including some oddly stained bed linens. During all this activity, Vana sobbed to one and all that she was worried over her “beloved” husband, who had been missing a full sennight now.

  Ingrith had planted herself in the scullery today, where she was no doubt bothering the Havenshire cook with her own, superior versions of particular dishes. If the past was any indicator of the future, the cook would soon explode over Ingrith’s interference and threaten to quit.

  Drifa remained outside, basking in the unseasonably warm weather, taking cuttings from various plants and flowers. The gods only knew what she intended to do with them.

  Rashid was in the stables extolling the virtues of his Saracen stallion to some of the Havenshire housecarls. His advice before leaving them after breaking fast this morn had been: “The camel senses when a dust storm is coming. Be prepared!”

  Camels be damned! They were already as nervous as nuns in a brothel, except for Rashid, who would probably say he was as nervous as a camel in a harem. That was why Breanne and Tyra were now in this ladies’ chamber, sewing. Sewing! They might just as well have been trying to spin gold from dross.

  Breanne’s calloused hands kept snagging on the silk threads, and she swore under her breath for about the hundredth time since they had buried the hated earl. Truly, she was much more at home building things with wood than engaging in the womanly arts. From a young age, studying a piece of wood, she saw visions in her head of what it could become. Same was true of buildings. Thus, of her very capable hands had been born benches, bedsteads, trestle tables, pretty garden fences, even a pigsty one time, with finely carved runic symbols along its eaves. Her father had nigh had a falling over fit at that one. Yea, it was an odd talent for a woman, but then all of King Thorvald’s daughters had unusual interests.

  Tyra, of course, had been a warrior, forced into that role since she was the eldest in a family with no sons. Smiling at her older sister across the chamber, Breanne saw the look of disgust on Tyra’s face and knew that she was just as uncomfortable in this domestic role as she was.

  They both cocked their heads to the side to study the tapestry picture as it was evolving. Then they burst out laughing.

  “Your peacock looks like a drukkin chicken,” Tyra chortled.

  “Hah! Your fine lady has worms on her face,” Breanne countered.

  “Those are eyelashes,” Tyra said indignantly.

  Breanne squinted closer. “Eyelashes down to her mouth?”

  “I will tell you this, sister,” Breanne said, “if ever I was convinced that I will ne’er marry, I have good reason now. I hate sewing. Besides, men are vicious trolls, like Havenshire. At best, they are just not worth the trouble.”

  “You say that because you have ne’er fallen in love, but someday…”

  “Tyra! I am five and twenty. Hundreds of men have passed through our father’s keep. Dozens more I have met here in Britain. If it were going to happen, it would have by now.”

  “Someday…”

  Breanne held up a halting hand. “Nay, I am realistic. Look at me, sister.” She touched her head where red hair hung in one long braid down her neck, tendrils of the hated curls already escaping. “Didst know that a young squire once likened its color to old rust? ’Twas not a compliment.”

  Sympathy immediately flashed on Tyra’s face. “Who was it? I will bash his face in with my favorite sword.”

  I already did, with my fist. “You cannot blame someone for speaking the truth,” she said prissily. “Keep in mind, I tower over many men, even if I am not as tall as you are. And I am too slender, with no bosom to speak of. Believe you me, men do not rush to gain my favor, except when they learn of my dowry. Even then they are easily dissuaded.”

  “You are too hard on yourself by half. I must admit, I am surprised that you would be satisfied staying home with Father. What will you do when he passes to the Other World?”

  “I have plans.” Breanne smiled to herself.

  “You have a secret.” Tyra clapped her hands with glee. “You cannot stop now. Tell me.”

  “You must keep it to yourself for now, but Father told me that if I am not wed by the time I have seen thirty winters, he will give me my dowry to use as I wish. I intend to buy myself a small manor, or an overlarge cottage, near Jorvik, where I will make my fancy chairs and tables and sell them in the trading stalls of Coppergate.”

  Tyra’s mouth dropped open. “A woman merchant! That big vein on Father’s forehead will surely burst with displeasure. You would ne’er do such!”

  “Yea, I would. Rare though it be, there are other ladies who have followed such a path. Like your own aunt-by-marriage, Eadyth of Ravenshire. She sells her honey and time-keeping candles in the markets.” Breanne lifted her chin defiantly. “I have already commissioned Father’s agent to look for a suitable place.”

  Just then, a horn could be heard blaring outside the keep, announcing a visitor.

  “Oh, gods!” Breanne moaned. “Someone else has come looking for Lord Havenshire, I warrant. The flummery begins again.”

  Every day as word spread of Oswald’s disappearance, more and more visitors came, expressing their concerns and offering to help search for him. Thus far, they had only been neighbors and distant relatives. With each of them, though, Vana and her sisters had put on a good act, pretending concern and grief as they nigh gagged over such words as the “great loss” or a “kind and generous man.”

  Not one of them had expressed outrage on Vana’s behalf over the possibility of Oswald’s visiting a mistress. And it had been their good fortune that the mistress in question was nowhere to be found. Mayhap she had run
away from Oswald before knowing of his absence. Would that not be the greatest irony? Whatever the case, her absence made some think there was a connection to Oswald’s absence, as if the two of them were off somewhere engaged in adulterous acts.

  “Just so it is not the king.” Breanne bit her bottom lip with concern.

  Turns out, it was even worse.

  The door swung open and Vana rushed in, tears welling in her eyes. “I have terrible news. Havenshire’s chief hirdsman has requested King Edgar’s aid, and he has just received an answering missive.” Vana paused, her lower lip trembling. “Archbishop Dunstan, King Edgar’s closest advisor, is on his way.”

  “Well, we knew the king would send someone,” Breanne said, helping her sister to sit on a wood bench.

  “But Dunstan is the worst possible emissary. Didst know he is a raging women hater? Truly, he believes all of man’s woes can be laid at women’s feet, or rather betwixt their legs. Eve was the devil’s handmaiden, thus making all females unclean. I heard him say so.”

  “What has that to do with us?” Tyra asked.

  “Whether they find the earl’s body or not, he will blame me. I know he will. ’Twill be my luck if the worst thing he does is confine me in a nunnery.”

  “Could he do that?” Breanne asked Tyra.

  Tyra shrugged. “Many say he is the most influential man in all Britain, more powerful even than the king himself.”

  “That settles it then. We must leave afore he gets here,” Breanne declared.

  Vana’s pitifully bruised face brightened. “Where will we go? Back to Stoneheim?”

  Breanne shook her head. “’Twould be impossible to arrange passage to the Norselands so quickly.”

  “To Hawkshire then?” More hope rose in Vana’s face.

  Now Tyra shook her head. “I would love to have you all come to my home, and Adam would welcome you, too, but I fear that is the first place the king’s men would look.”

  They were all silent, trying to decide their best choice of action.