Viking in Love

by Sandra Hill

  Digging into a melt-in-your-mouth apple tart covered with sweet cream, Caedmon closed his eyes to relish the flavors.

  “There is an even worse problem,” he said then. “What if word gets out that I set a finer table than the royal house of Edgar the Greedy?”

  “He will be here faster than a dog on a bone. But think, Caedmon, what will he do when he sees four beautiful princesses here?”

  “Bloody hell!”

  “Edgar the Depraved will take them to bed, sure as sin. All of them. Mayhap even all of them together. Willing or not.”

  They both observed a moment of silence, taking in that mind-picture.

  “If Edgar had no qualms about raping a nun and keeping her captive, princesses would pose no obstacle,” he concluded. “We have to get them out of here.”

  “We?”

  “We.”

  “When?”

  “On the morrow.”

  “I cannot wait to see this. Wake me if I oversleep.”

  “By your leave, m’lords, I could not help but overhear,” Rashid injected from Caedmon’s other side. Caedmon had forgotten he was there. “Remember, after the game, the king and the pawn both go in the same box.”

  “Thank you for that wisdom,” he said politely to Rashid, then turned to Wulf, mouthing silently, “What does that mean?”

  Wulf shrugged, then smirked at him.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “’Tis not nothing. What amuses you so?”

  “You.”

  “The princesses will need more than one day to depart,” Rashid interjected again.

  “Why?” he and Wulf both asked at the same time.

  Bypassing their question, Rashid went on, “May Allah weep, but the princesses are in need of a friend. After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  “Huh?” he and Wulf asked together, again. Like minds and all that. Or like lackwits, more like.

  Caedmon frowned, trying to figure out what the Arab was implying. “Are you saying that the princesses and I have an enemy in common?”

  “As you say.” Rashid stood, seemed to touch his forehead, nose, mouth, and chest in one quick motion, then bowed from the waist at both of them, before walking away.

  He and Wulf looked at each other, then both gasped.

  “Edgar,” Wulf guessed.

  “Bloody hell!” Caedmon exclaimed, pounding his empty cup of ale on the table. “Bloody, bloody hell!”

  And then the you-know-what hit the medieval fan…

  Breanne awakened slowly in a dark room, except for the light from a single candle on a nearby low table and the embers glowing in the fireplace hearth.

  She should feel guilty, having slept all afternoon and into the evening, but she felt wonderful. As she sat up, raising her arms high to stretch, the thin sheet covering her fell, revealing her nakedness.

  Her nudity was of no concern. Most folks slept that way, except in the harsh winter cold. But how she got to be unclothed was a puzzle. Last she recalled was the loathsome lout picking her up from Pier’s bedside and carrying her here. Is it possible—

  Just then, the door flew open and said loathsome lout stood there, legs braced in a defiant stance, fury dancing in his hard blue eyes.

  “Eeeeek!” she yelped, pulling the cloth up to her shoulders. “Get out of my bedchamber.”

  “’Tis my bedchamber.”

  She glanced around. “Oh. Then, get out of your bedchamber whilst I put on some clothing.”

  He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the door frame. “I think not.”

  “Well, I am not getting out of this bed until you do.”

  “Mayhap I will join you.”

  “You would not dare.”

  “I would dare much in my present mood.”

  “What has your bowels in a knot this time?”

  “Do not push me, wench. I am beyond angry.”

  “Why?”

  “Get your arse out of that bed. I want you and the rest of your princess brood out of my keep and on your way.”

  “Brood?”

  “Brood, horde, troop, herd, flock, passel of trouble, whatever you want to call yourselves, it matters not to me. Just begone.”

  “That is not nice.”

  “I am not trying to be nice.”

  “Are you not even a little bit grateful that we nursed your children and servants back to health?”

  “I am very grateful. That is why I will provide six men to guard your way to wherever you want to go.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Something has happened.”

  “You could say that.”

  “What?”

  “I know your bloody secret.”

  Her heart skipped a beat, then began racing. “You do? Who told you?”

  He shrugged.

  Well, he was bound to find out sooner or later if they remained here. “You could at least offer sympathy for our plight.”

  “I could also turn you over my knee and paddle your arse.”

  “You are such a coarse creature.”

  He just stared at her, waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

  “We did not mean to kill him.”

  “What?” Caedmon’s eyes nigh bulged with horror, and his jaw worked, unable to speak, at first.

  Oooh, this was not good.

  He sank down into a chair and stared at her as if she had sprouted horns. “You killed the king?”

  “Do not be silly. Of course not.”

  His shoulders sagged with relief. But then, his still angry gaze stabbed her. “Who did you kill?”

  “You rat! You told me that you already knew.”

  “I knew that you had done something to annoy the king. How was I to guess your secret was murder?”

  “Well, that is not exactly true.”

  “Why is that not exactly true?” he asked wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  How to make our dilemma more palatable? Hmmm. I hate pleading our cause to this lout. “The king might not know…yet. Perchance, if the gods shine favor on us, he will ne’er know.”

  “Firstly, who is ‘us’?”

  “Me and my sisters.”

  “What is it that you and your sisters have done?”

  She mumbled her answer.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said we killed the earl of Havenshire,” she nigh yelled.

  He put his face in his hands and appeared to be counting under his breath. When he raised his head, he demanded, “Tell me everything.”

  Must I? “I would feel better if I were clothed first.”

  “I would feel better if you had never come here.”

  Me, too. She glared at him, then told him the entire story. By the time she was done, he appeared stunned.

  It was a stunning story, she had to admit. “Someday you will tell this story to your grandchildren, and you will probably laugh about it.”

  “I sincerely doubt that.” He stared at her, then shook his head with disbelief. “You put a Saxon nobleman at the bottom of a privy?” Then, “How did you fit him through the hole?”

  Men! They homed in on the most irrelevant details. “It was a new garderobe, just being built.”

  Caedmon smiled, then went serious. “This is the worst thing that could have happened.”

  Dost think so, lackbrain? “I know!”

  “I was not referring to you. My hold on Larkspur is tenuous at best. Edgar could take it away on a whim. My hiding the killers of one of his noblemen would constitute more than a whim.”

  “I did not think of that.”

  “I daresay you did not think at all.”

  I wonder what would happen if I dumped a pitcher of water over his fool head. Oh, I forgot. I would have to get out of bed first. “There is no need for sarcasm.”

  “M’lady, you have no idea—”

  A knock interrupted what further vitriol he was about to hurl at her.

  Wulf stuck his
head in the doorway. “I was sent up by the three princesses. They are worried about what you are doing to their sister.”

  “As well they should be.”

  Wulf glanced her way and grinned his greeting, amused at her state of undress, no doubt. Then he arched his brows at Caedmon.

  “’Twould seem that the lovely princesses are actually cold-blooded murderesses.”

  “Oh, please, Caedmon. I cannot wait for your explanation.”

  “He exaggerates,” she said. Though not by much, unfortunately.

  “Hardly,” Caedmon disagreed. Turning to his friend, he said dryly, “The five princesses killed Lord Oswald and buried him in a privy.”

  “How did they get him through the hole?”

  “Men!” Breanne rolled her eyes. “We chopped him up into little pieces. How do you think?”

  “Well, Oswald always was a piece of shit,” Wulf quipped, then immediately added, “Excuse my language, m’lady.”

  “’Tis no more than we have all said of him at one time or another, with gentler language.”

  Wulf was silent for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Really, Caedmon, being around you is such fun.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was raining…babies…

  Caedmon, Wulf, and eight of his hirdsmen were riding to the far northern section of his property to investigate the further theft of cattle and the burning of a cotter’s hut, leaving one man badly maimed. It did not help his foul mood that driving rain put a chill in their bones and made visibility nigh nonexistent.

  His booting the arses of four princesses out of Larkspur would have to wait until his return. He could scarce wait.

  It still amazed him, not only that they had the nerve to kill a man, abusive as he had been, but the lackwit women had the nerve to hide out at his estate, subjecting him to the same royal scrutiny they would no doubt get. That he could not tolerate.

  And he was not going to be softened by tears, either, which was what he had faced before leaving this morning. Except for the red-haired witch. Instead of tears, she had nigh spat at him, especially when he had remarked that she had a most interesting freckle on her left buttock. Not that he had seen her buttocks, lying on her back as she had been. But the remark let her know in no uncertain terms that he had seen her nude body.

  She was probably checking her backside with a brass mirror at this very moment. Oh, to be a fly on her wall!

  Angry as she had been, it had not stopped her from suggesting that she ride along with him and rebuild the cotter’s hut. She was no doubt still sputtering over his coarse response.

  He did allow Rashid to accompany them, though, and was glad of his offer. The healer would minister to the injured man. Still, if Caedmon heard one more dumb proverb, he might very well throttle the man, despite his healing talents. And camels! The Arab was obsessed with camels. “If a camel gets his nose in your tent, the body is sure to follow.” Or, “The elephant’s track treads out the camel’s.” It mattered not that Caedmon had no clue what he meant.

  Wulf just laughed. At everything. Especially him.

  But then Rashid chastised Wulf on his behalf. “One camel should not make jest of another camel’s hump.”

  To which Wulf had commented that the only hump he had was betwixt his legs.

  To which Rashid had tossed out a comment about camel humps and sex that pushed the bounds of even Caedmon’s sensibilities.

  Caedmon was drowning in a half-brained world, and he did not just mean rain.

  But the sun finally managed to peek out from behind the clouds as they arrived at the half dozen wattle-and-daub cotters’ huts with thatch roofs set out in the open in this remote region, along with the one that had been burned down. The men and women here tended the fields of oat and barley and cared for the fifty or so cattle that ranged free. It should not be a dangerous job. No one cared about the loss of an animal or two. In fact, it was expected of the Scots reivers; they even robbed each other. But now they had gone too far, with the fire, assuming it was the selfsame villains.

  While Rashid worked efficiently on the injured man, taking ointments and strips of clean cloth from his leather saddlebag, he and Wulf talked to the men. They could figure no reason for the destructive act, though the shifty eyes of one of his cotters made him think there was more to this than mere deviltry. After he had dispatched Wulf and three of the men to examine the site where the cattle had been last seen, Caedmon was about to go check on the healer’s progress when a youthling—no more than twelve winters, he would guess—signaled with a jerk of his head that he wished to speak with him in private.

  “I know how ta trace the animals. Well, one of ’em,” the boy said, right off.

  “And you are…?”

  “Edric. Me father is Aldhelm.”

  Caedmon nodded.

  “One of yer cattle was a special beastie ta me. Raised ’im from a calf. Bertie, I called ’im. He has an all-white face, and a shaved patch on his left haunch where me grandsire stitched ’im up after he was gored by a spiky tree limb.”

  “If you came with us, could you identify the animal?”

  “Fer certain, I could.”

  Within an hour, they were riding for the Scottish border. Himself, Wulf, Edric, and four of his soldiers. Two hirdsmen had been left behind with Rashid for protection.

  “Something more needs to be done here,” Wulf remarked.

  “True. Either I build a palisaded village of sorts, manned by a small hird of soldiers, or I pull the cotters and cattle closer to the castle keep.”

  “Yours is not a large estate. Methinks you need all the grazing land you can manage for cattle and sheep, and ploughlands for more grains,” Wulf mused. “Do you have enough men?”

  “I must needs have enough. As you say, every bit of land should be used. If I value my holding, I must protect it.”

  It was nightfall before they entered Scottish lands. A fire was built and cloaks laid about for men to recline, but there would be little sleep tonight in this land, which was not quite enemy, but definitely not friendly.

  As he folded his arms beneath his nape and closed his eyes, the oddest image kept plaguing him. A red-haired witch with creamy skin and a sharp tongue, leaning over him, teasing, taunting. Why he should think of her was beyond him. Little more than a nuisance, she was. Once she was gone, all would be well again.

  The next morning they came upon a small holding where there were several thatch-roofed, conical huts. Fences enclosed horses and livestock.

  Edric drew Caedmon’s attention to a particular cow.

  He nodded.

  A dozen armed men with wild hair of various shades of red and wearing furs and leather breeches approached them on foot, from several directions. One of them—bigger than the rest—had gray hairs mixed with red and numerous scars covering his bull-like body; he broke apart from his comrades or kinsmen and stepped toward Caedmon.

  This was odd, that they were not attacking. Although heavily armed, they seemed to have something to say first.

  Caedmon dismounted and handed his reins to Wulf. He and his men also had weapons at the ready.

  Stepping forth, he said, “I am Caedmon of Larkspur. Those are my cattle over there, and you have burned one of my cotter’s huts, injuring one man badly.”

  “That we did,” the man answered with maddening arrogance. “I be Malcolm, laird of the MacLarins.”

  “Why?”

  “Because one of your cotters planted his seed in one of our lasses’ bellies.”

  Caedmon glanced toward a hut where a young girl with a big belly stood apart from all the others. Her eyes and nose were red from crying. “Against her will?” he inquired.

  The old man shrugged, which probably meant she had spread her thighs of her own choice.

  Caedmon glanced toward Edric. “Do you know who is responsible?”

  The boy’s unwhiskered face flushed, and he ducked his head.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “
Uhtred. Me brother.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Nay, but he has departed for parts unknown. He and me father had a…disagr…disagr…a fight.”

  Caedmon turned back to the Scotsman. “Can we sit down somewhere and talk?”

  Reluctantly, Malcolm bid him welcome…well, not quite welcome, but at least entry into his humble home.

  Hours later—after imbibing vast quantities of that potent amber brew the Scots referred to as uisge-beatha, or water of life, but would surely be the death of him—Caedmon and his small troop were on their way back to Larkspur, his stolen cattle left behind, and no guarantee that there would not be more missing in the future. Reiving was the way of the Scotsmen.

  Traveling with them was the young woman with yet another babe to be added to his Larkspur brood. Her father had said that no man in their clan would have Maire now. The babe’s future was uncertain, at best, unless the wayward Uhtred returned to his responsibilities. Why he should care, with all his other problems, was beyond him. Even in the Saxon lands, the nobility got rid of unwanted children, most often by sending them to a convent or monastery if they had wealth enough, or by abandoning them to woods or cliffs to die.

  Rashid offered this thought: “Sunshine all the time makes a desert.”

  To which he had suggested, sweetly, that Rashid store his advice where the sun never shone.

  Wulf was calling him every kind of a fool.

  He felt like a fool.

  But what could he do?

  A woman will do what a woman’s gotta do…

  Caedmon, Wulf, Rashid, and the small troop of soldiers had been gone for two days. They would not be aware…thank you, gods!…that Ivan and Ivar had returned with a message from Tyra…an ominous message.

  Breanne was on her way to the kitchen now for a meeting with her sisters to tell them about Tyra’s missive and to plan their strategy, in light of the news. Breanne had never thought she would be so anxious to go home to the Norselands.

  Despite their extended trip, Breanne was not worried about the well-being of Larkspur’s master or his minions. They were well-trained fighting men, able to defend themselves. Even Rashid.