Viking in Love

by Sandra Hill

  “There is one place we could go,” Tyra offered hesitantly.

  “Where?” Breanne and Vana asked as one.

  “A distant kinsman of Adam’s lives in the far north, one day’s travel by horse. Larkspur, his estate is called. Yea, we could go ‘visit’ Adam’s cousin Caedmon, a high-ranking knight. Surely, he would not deny us hospitality.”

  “That might work.” Breanne tapped her closed lips thoughtfully.

  “And, really, it would only be a temporary imposition,” Tyra added. “I will ask Adam to get the support of his Saxon family in our cause whilst we are gone. We have naught to worry about.”

  Breanne was not so sure about that.

  What do we know about this Caedmon?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Home, not-so-sweet home…

  Caedmon had no sooner entered the great hall of Larkspur than he was assaulted from all sides. His steward, Gerard; his castellan, Henry; and what seemed like a dozen children.

  Ominously, one of the serving maids stood nearby holding a wailing newborn babe. The whelp could not possibly be his, but still the hairs stood out on the back of his neck.

  Wulf and Geoff chortled with humor and went off searching for ale. Lucky men!

  First, his steward, Gerard: “Cook has quit. Slipped in the offal on her way from the kitchen, and—”

  “Awful what?”

  “Not awful. Offal,” Gerard gave him a disgusted look, and translated succinctly: “Dog shit in the rushes.”

  “Oh.” Already the turmoil starts.

  “Amicia says she will not return ’til new rushes are put down.”

  “So, why not lay down new rushes?” I feel as if I live in the land of idiots.

  “Because she also wants the dogs put outside.”

  “Ah!” Caedmon knew that the men liked to have the dogs about to catch the odd bone. “What else?”

  “We have run out of meat. The larder is nigh empty. The cotters were late planting spring oats and barley due to the rains. There are weevils in the flour. The sheep need shearing. A half dozen cows are in heat and need to be serviced, but we have no bull at the ready. Lice have infested the chicken flock, and—”

  Mayhap going off to war with Edgar is not so unappealing, after all. Caedmon raised a hand. “Leave off for now.” Then he turned to Henry.

  “We must needs replenish our supply of arrows and small swords. Three attacks by brigands did we sustain in your absence, and our weaponry is sorely diminished. In addition, cattle have been stolen in recent sennights. No doubt by those bloody Scots, the MacLeans. John the Bowman was killed in one of the attacks, and his widow is wanting more than a widow’s share for wergild.”

  Without waiting to hear more, Caedmon exhaled with frustration, then gave his attention to the children he saw running about. Their garments and faces and hands were looking more than filthy. His widowed sister, Alys, who had been given charge of the children, had much to answer for.

  “Where is Alys?” he asked no one in particular.

  “Gone to Jorvik with a passing merchant. She said—” Henry stopped mid-sentence, as if he’d said too much. His aged face, framed by overlong white hair, bloomed red.

  Caedmon arched his brows at Henry in a manner that said he best speak up or suffer the consequences.

  Henry sighed deeply, then revealed: “She said Bowdyn…that is the merchant’s name…has wicked fingers that bring out the sinner in her. And she said she has been a saint too long, that she has waited overlong for you to find her a husband. You should have heard the lewd moans and groans coming from her bedchamber.” He rolled his eyes meaningfully. “Personally, I think the children got to be too much for her.”

  What else is new? Well, one more problem to be dealt with, Caedmon decided, but naught he could do about it at the moment. Besides, Alys was thirty, far from a girling. As for him finding her a husband, she had buried three already.

  Back to Gerard, he hesitated to ask, “Any problems with the children?”

  Gerard rolled his eyes, then put two fingers in his mouth and let loose with a whistle that caused Caedmon to nigh jump, the dogs to bury their heads betwixt their paws, and, amazingly, ten children to scurry forward and stand in a line, at attention, like a troop of grubby little soldiers. There were ten of them—Ten!—ranging in age from one to twelve, or was it thirteen? Gerard introduced each of them in turn, as if Caedmon would not know their names, which was a distinct possibility.

  It was an impressive exercise…Gerard calling Caedmon’s children to order with a whistle. He would have to try it himself. So angelic did the wee mites look, he would not be surprised if they burst into song.

  But it did not last long.

  First, nine-year-old Beth launched herself at him. He caught her about her tiny waist, and she clung to him with her skinny legs wrapped halfway around his hips. He could feel her tears wetting his neck. This oldest and only child of his first wife, Elizabeth, ever was the sensitive one. Elizabeth had died way too young, after being thrown from a horse a year after their marriage. Beth kept whimpering, “Father,” over and over. The sweet girling always was overly needful of affection.

  One of the six-year-old twins, Alfred, or was it Aidan, clutched his thigh and held on tight, cutting off blood flow to an important region of his body. Much more and he would have no need of apples. The other twin kicked him in the shin. These were his second wife, Agnes’s, contributions to his flock before succumbing to the child-bed fever.

  Eight-year-old Mina was an incredibly pretty, black-haired, cat-eyed girl, born of a brief liaison with an Arab houri, Nadiyah. Being a favorite of a sheikr, Nadiyah had not wanted the babe, especially with Caedmon’s blue eyes, for fear of losing her hierarchy in the royal bed. It had not signified that the sheikr was short, stout, and of a mean spirit. Reminded him a bit of a certain Saxon king, except Edgar was blond haired and much younger.

  Piers, a one-year-old tow-headed rascal, was waddling around with a thumb in his mouth. He wore only little half boots and a sagging nappy. And he reeked. Sad to say, Caedmon could not even recall who his mother was.

  Just then his eyes narrowed as he noticed his twelve-year-old son Hugh skulking away. His oldest, born of a serving maid prior to his first marriage, was supposed to be in Mercia, fostering with a distant cousin, Ealdorman Aldhelm.

  And there were other children. Five-year-old Angus with flaming red hair and a temper to match. And wasn’t that name a clue? Caedmon seriously doubted that Angus was of his blood, though his mother swore that he was, before taking off for the Highlands. Highlands? Hah! Another clue! Likewise, two other boys and one girl, Oslac, Kendrick, and Joanna, all seven years old, born on almost the same day. They bore a striking resemblance to some former comrades-in-arms, all brothers from Wales, who had been visiting at the time. He would like to confront them about their responsibilities, but they had been conveniently absent of late.

  And, God help him, there were even more children he could not name. Hell’s teeth! Someday they could make up his very own army.

  While he had been perusing the children, they had been jabbering away at him.

  “Father, I need a horse.”

  I need a horn of ale.

  “Father, I have a boil on my bottom.”

  And you expect me to do…what?

  “Father, Aidan hit me.”

  “Father, I only hit Alfred because he ate my custard.”

  My head hurts.

  “Father, I want a sword.” This from five-year-old Angus.

  For the love of God!

  “Father, you need to change Piers’s nappy.”

  Not if I can help it!

  “Father, why do you have a frowny face?”

  Because my head hurts.

  “Father, how old do I have to be to tup a maid?” seven-year-old Oslac asked.

  What…WHAT did he say?

  “Oslac’s cock thickened one night,” Kendrick took delight in informing him.

  He probably
had to empty his bladder.

  Oslac punched Kendrick for divulging that private fact, which caused Kendrick to punch him back. Soon they were rolling around in the dirty rushes getting dirtier than they already were.

  With one last survey of the jabbering children, he remarked to Gerard, “How long since any of them have bathed?”

  Gerard straightened with indignation. “M’lord!” Gerard always called him a lord, even though he was far from it. “M’lord, they are alive and none are missing any limbs.”

  “All appears to be in order then. And I must compliment you on that great trick…whistling them into order.”

  “I am still working on it,” Gerard muttered.

  Caedmon grinned.

  Gerard, who had more gray hairs than when Caedmon had last seen him, did not grin back. Children would do that to a man, especially Caedmon’s children. Apparently Caedmon had insulted him by adding child minding to his duties. Ah, well, he would calm his feathers later.

  Kissing Beth on the cheek, he set her down.

  Now, for Father Luke.

  Caedmon knocked on the chapel door.

  No answer.

  He yelled, “Father Luke. Open up. ’Tis I, Caedmon. You can come out now.”

  Still no answer.

  Exhaling with a whooshy breath, he kicked at the door. Once. Twice. Three times before it splintered open. The smell that hit him was putrid. And there was Father Luke, kneeling on his prie-dieu. Dead as a door hinge. Must have expired weeks ago, and no one had bothered to check, thinking he was still in hiding.

  “Somebody, bury this priest. Now!”

  Gerard and several servants scuttled to do as he ordered, fingers pinching their noses at the stink.

  By the cross! Can things get any worse? Swearing one long stream of curses before anyone else, adult or child, could make demands on him, he walked further into the great hall and yelled, “Where’s the ale?”

  To which his men laughed and yelled back, “Welcome home!”

  Then he slipped on something squishy in the rushes and almost fell on his arse.

  At which his men once again laughed and yelled, “Welcome home!”

  Someone was going to get a piece…of her mind…

  The first thing Breanne noticed on entering Larkspur’s great hall at noon of the following day, after a long, surreptitious nighttime ride through the hills and dales of Northumbria, was the smell. The second was the number of children running about like wild animals. The third was the large number of half-eaten apples lying on the trestle tables, which should have been dismantled after the last meal. The fourth was the lack of activity by those adults who were about, some of whom appeared to be sleeping off the alehead. At the very least, there should be servants about, working.

  Although they had arrived more than an hour ago, it had taken some convincing on their part to get the sentries to allow them entry. A guardsman, who had gone to get permission from the master, came back red faced, saying he could not find him.

  How odd!

  The sentries kept glancing at Rashid and the two Norse soldiers who accompanied Breanne and her sisters, but finally gave in after a quelling lecture by Tyra on military protocol and family hospitality. The brothers Ivan and Ivar, who comprised their two-man guard, were now in the stables taking care of the seven horses they had ridden here, being hovered over by twice that many Larkspur soldiers who were still unsure of their intentions.

  “These rushes must not have been changed in a year,” Breanne commented, waving a hand in front of her nose.

  “Four months,” the steward, Gerard, corrected her. “The master has been gone almost a year.”

  “But he is here now?”

  Gerard nodded hesitantly. “He arrived yestermorn. Does he expect you?”

  She felt her face flush.

  “Not exactly, but I am certain he will welcome us,” Tyra interrupted, standing to her full height, towering over the little man. “After all, he is my cousin.”

  That was a bit of a stretch of the truth, since Tyra’s husband, Adam the Healer, had been adopted by Selik, who had been a distant cousin of Caedmon. But Breanne was not about to correct her sister in front of the steward, who kept gaping at their garments…and appeared to be checking out their breasts. For riding purposes, she and Tyra both wore wool tunics, held in at the waist by gold-linked belts, over slim braises, and boots cross-gartered up to the knees. Fur-lined shoulder mantles with gem-encrusted gold brooches completed their attire.

  Vana was running a fingertip over a greasy trestle table that also had no doubt been without a scrubbing in a good while. She was sniffing at the ill odors. “Why are no servants cleaning up this filth?”

  “They will not listen to me. The master has been gone too long, and they question my authority.”

  “We will see about that,” Vana said, tiptoeing carefully through the rushes as she headed toward a slovenly maid with bosoms the size of cow udders, sitting on a hirdsman’s lap. If there was anything Vana liked it was cleaning. This hall alone should occupy her for a sennight, which could be a good thing, considering all that must be on her mind.

  The maid yelped when Vana grabbed her by the ear and began chastising her. “Where are the other servants? Gather them all here. They will not be given another bite of food or sip of ale if they drag their heels. Now go!”

  Gerard was gaping at Vana, but then he smiled. “Thank God!”

  “We have been traveling through the night,” Ingrith said. “When will the noon meal be served?”

  A blush once more bloomed on Gerard’s face. “Cook has quit. We have been grabbing whatever is about, which is not much. I cannot recall the last time there was bread.”

  Ingrith, who loved to cook, tsk-tsked and made her way, carefully, toward the scullery, which was separated from the keep itself by a long covered corridor, a necessity when fire was always a concern. Soon, her shouted reprimands could be heard by one and all. Apparently, the kitchen was as untidy as the rest of the keep.

  “What is she doing?” Gerard asked Breanne.

  “Putting your kitchen in order. There will be a meal tonight, that I guarantee.”

  Gerard once again smiled and repeated, “Thank God!”

  “I am going out to rescue Rashid and the men,” Tyra said, then turned to Drifa, who had remained quiet behind them. “Come with me and unload those cuttings you brought with you. Did you see the condition of the garden?”

  Drifa brightened and followed after Tyra.

  Left alone with the steward, Breanne started to speak, but a little boy was tugging at the hem of her robe. The child with unruly, wheat-colored hair could not be much more than one year old. He wore tiny leather half boots and a drooping linen swaddling wrap. That was all. Lifting the boy up into her arms, away from her body, she asked, “And who are you, sweetling?”

  “That be Piers. He does not talk yet,” Gerard informed her.

  She nuzzled him closer, but just his neck. Her heart nigh broke when she saw children who were so neglected. “Whom do all these children belong to, and why are they being permitted to run wild?” A half dozen or more youthlings of various ages were playing tag around the great hall.

  “They belong to the master.”

  “The master?”

  “M’lord. Caedmon.”

  “All of them?”

  “Most of them.”

  “Sweet Frigg!”

  “Caedmon is a good man. He takes care of his children.”

  “Not very well, by appearances. Where is he, by the by?”

  A blond-haired god of a man emerged from one of the sleeping closets, closely followed by another buxom maid, this one much younger and fairly clean, though her bosoms were fair escaping the low neckline of her homespun gunna. The same had been true of the dairymaid outside. Do all the women in this keep have big bosoms? The man was shirtless, wearing only braies, which hung low on his hips. He smiled at her and said, “Greetings, m’lady. Geoffrey Fitzwilliam, chief hirds
man, at your service. And this is Emma.”

  “I am Breanne, daughter of King Thorvald of Stoneheim,” she said, trying to ignore his half-clad body.

  The rogue was well aware of her discomfort.

  She handed the child to the maid and ordered, “Give this child a bath, and put some proper garments on him.”

  The woman looked as if she had been told to stand on her head in a snowstorm. “Make haste now, Emma, and I want to see the boy when you are done.” The woman walked away with the now squalling child. Only then did she turn to the comely man…

  Geoffrey, he had called himself. “Where is your master?”

  “My master? Oh, you mean Caedmon?”

  She folded her arms over her chest and glared at the grinning man.

  Geoffrey motioned with his head toward a stairway, which presumably led to upper chambers.

  Understanding dawned on her of a sudden. “He is still abed?”

  “He is.”

  “’Tis noon!”

  “He must be tired.”

  “I’ll give him tired,” Breanne muttered. “What kind of man breeds children like rabbits, then ignores them and his keep? This place is a pigpen. Nay, that is incorrect. Pigs would not live in this cesspit.”

  Gerard groaned and Geoffrey’s eyes twinkled with merriment. Then Geoffrey called out to a black-haired giant of a man who was approaching. His hair matched a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. He would have been godly handsome, too, if not for a livid scar that ran from his forehead to his chin, causing his upper lip to be slightly raised on one side. This one was at least fully dressed, in belted tunic and braies. “Wulf, come see who has come to visit. A Norse princess.”

  “Actually, there are five Norse princesses,” Gerard corrected him. “The others are outside. Along with a wise man from the eastern lands. Leastways he is spitting out wise sayings. And two Norse soldiers the size of warhorses.”

  “That is even more interesting,” Geoffrey proclaimed. To Wulf, he continued, “This particular princess…” he motioned with his head toward her, his eyes dancing with mischief, “…is looking for our master.”

  They were speaking to her back by now, as she continued on her way to the stairs, trying her best to ignore them. That was impolite, she knew, but she suspected they were making mock of her princess status.