A Twist in Time

by Susan Squires

  He peered down at his own shoulder. “Ne yfel,” he said.

  That was pretty clearly “not evil.” She looked up at him, her panic receding. Funny. Just the fact that he understood her made her feel not quite so alone in all of this.

  “Ic cnwe wundes.” He grimaced.

  She took a breath. It sounded like he said he knew wounds. With a pronounced accent, of course. Surprising that the words were the same, or almost. He said “ic” for “I.” But not surprising that he knew about wounds, what with all the scars on his body. She soaked some gauze with Betadine and daubed at his shoulder. It made the skin around the stitches a sickly yellow-orange.

  “Hwet thes es?”

  That was pretty clear, too. “For infection?” He didn’t understand and she didn’t know the word in Latin. “For rot?” That word she knew.

  Rot he understood. He nodded again. “Ilca acetum.”

  Yeah. That was what the Romans used on wounds. They might just be able to communicate in English sooner or later. What a relief that would be. Her Latin sucked for actually talking. Reading and translating were entirely different from speaking. Where could she get a Latin dictionary? Jake had said she couldn’t go online. A library? She couldn’t apply for a library card. Maybe she was no longer destined to own any kind of identification, even a library card. Sad, really. If she didn’t know herself, no one else would know her, either.

  She daubed at the wound. Nothing she could do about the sticky gray streaks of adhesive the tape had left. She used the Betadine to loosen the tape on the bottom of the bandage. They’d shaved some of his right pectoral, or ripping off the tape might have hurt even more. How long until the stitches could come out? How would she know? Could she pull them out? Her stomach threatened rebellion and she pushed down the thought. Time enough for that later. She made a pad with the bandages and put it over the stitches, then took his good hand and pressed it against the pad so he could hold it in place while she taped it. She was going to need a lot more gauze, for sure. Target had a pharmacy. Definitely a trip to Target tomorrow.

  Now for his thigh. She took a deep breath and pulled back the covers. God, did she have to blush at every turn? Another curse of red hair and fair skin. Target had boxer shorts, too. This bandage was bound with strips of gauze. She rose and went to rummage in the galley. She couldn’t find a scissors, so she got a paring knife. That would have to do. She tested the edge, but she needn’t have bothered. Of course Jake’s knives would be sharp. She stalked back to the bedroom. She was not going to let the fact that Galen was naked get to her anymore.

  His eyes widened as he saw the knife. She glanced down. What was the Latin word for cut? She couldn’t remember, so she just pointed to the bandage on his thigh. “Be calm.” That was as close as she could get to “relax.” She stalked over and sat beside him. Vowing to keep a firm hold of herself, she cut the bandages and pulled them away. But she could feel herself getting redder and redder. She knew he was staring at her. She would not look at him. But when she saw his flat belly shake ever so slightly, her head jerked up in anger.

  “You think this is funny?” She didn’t bother with Latin.

  His lips straightened, but his eyes refused to sober. “An wif nedeth an gd mon.”

  “I am not your wife, and I do not need a good man. And in case you haven’t noticed, you are wounded and in pain, and you should act like it. Am I going to have trouble with you?”

  That sobered him up, though how much he understood was doubtful. She saw again that look of chagrin. No, more than chagrin. It was shame.

  Finally he shook his head. The words he might not have gotten, but he sure understood that she was angry with him.

  “Good.” She was ashamed herself for speaking sharply to a man in pain. But really! He had a disgustingly high opinion of himself. She pulled the bandage back with a little less concern for his comfort. The long, straight line of stitches was much less swollen than his shoulder, though this wound was draining, too. The skin around it was inflamed. Was that okay? She daubed at it brusquely. They had shaved the whole front of his thigh. The rest was dusted with light, curling hair. Sheesh. She was going to have to wrap his thigh. She wouldn’t be able to avoid having to touch him, his inner thigh, right next to his . . .

  Her lips tight, she made a pad with fresh gauze and laid it lengthways over the stitches. “Hold it,” she ordered. He put his hand over the bandage gingerly. She pulled up his knee and wrapped the gauze around his thigh. Yep. Her knuckles brushed his flesh. His genitals were in clear view. It was awful.

  And her reaction to the whole situation was worse. Was she becoming some kind of sicko that a wounded man could make her feel like this? She’d have to go change her underwear if she wasn’t careful. As if she had any to change into. When she had taped the ends of the gauze in place she rose, thankful to put some distance between them. She was about to leave as quickly as she could when she spotted the sling on the floor. She sighed.

  Picking it up, she turned back to him. He had pulled the covers up. He was looking more relaxed. The Vicodin must have kicked in. She held up the sling. How did this thing work? Okay, this strap over his head. Lay his arm in here and buckle this little strap around his torso to keep his arm close. She pushed a breath out through pursed lips. Couldn’t do this from across the room.

  “Ready?” she asked. Was she asking herself or him? He was looking mulish. “Don’t start.” He didn’t have to understand the words to realize the meaning.

  He nodded, disgusted.

  She laid his arm in the sling, then leaned over, very conscious of how close her breasts were to his face as she lifted the strap over his head. She heard him hiss in a long breath. Was he inhaling her scent? For God’s sake, was the man an animal? Or maybe she was hurting him. . . .

  She pulled him forward. There was nothing for it but to rub against him as she reached for the strap to fasten around his ribs. Surely he would feel how her nipples were peaked. She fastened the little buckle with fingers that weren’t quite steady and practically dashed from the room. And to think she was stuck here on this tiny boat with him until he healed.

  Whoa. And when he healed she might have an even bigger problem. Good thing she had a sword under her mattress. Now if she only had the skill and the stomach to use it . . .

  Chapter Seven

  Galen’s body relaxed against the pillows as the pain receded. It was not gone, but it was better. Her tablets were more effective than the best valerium. The boat rocked against the dock, sealed against the biting wind outside. The blankets were warm, the bed soft. The glow of the strange lamp that did not burn at least wasn’t the stark light of the white room where he had first wakened. But his mind could find no comfort. He could hear the woman moving around in the area with the washbasin and the table. The sound of chopping drifted into his room. Occasionally she passed in front of the open door as she looked inside cupboards, sometimes retrieving a brightly colored container. She was barefoot, her red braid swinging. She had taken off the strange, tight jacket she wore and her arms were bare. Her skin was fine and pale. She must be rich to have skin so white. She had never worked outside. What would the soft flesh of her upper arms feel like in his hands? She carried a good weight, not like a starving peasant. She must be a noblewoman as well as a witch. He could not deny she was beautiful.

  The battle seemed far away. Too far. The woman said that this strange and fearful place, full of so many things he could not understand, was in the future and beyond the great sea from his life in the Danelaw. At first he was sure she lied. But what else could it be? This place might have carts that needed no horse to pull them and halls might be made of glass that stretched into the air, but this was not Valhalla or the realm of Hel. It was just . . . just a place where people lived. The woman’s friend Jake had swords and made food, though he could turn the fire on and off without a flint. That was not natural. But they had boats and clothes Galen mostly recognized. And there was the language. It was the
same as the Saxons in the Danelaw spoke, but changed.

  As though by time.

  It was the very fact that this was familiar and yet strange that argued she told the truth. And if she did, then . . . what was to become of him?

  He had left behind the battle to unite the Danes that he was sure was his destiny. He had not inherited his Saxon mother’s magic. His mother had told him, even unto her death, that someday his gift would come to him and he must be on the lookout for it. She had special hopes for him, since he had been born a boy and all the priestesses of the horse goddess Epona, like his mother, gave birth to girls to take their place. She had said that one day he would do great things.

  That had just been her desire to fill the hole in her heart left by his older brother’s death. It was Eric who was special. He had their mother’s magic. All Galen had was what he could push a mere man to be. He had always been on a quest of one kind or another, looking for his value. He went vikingr up the Volga River with the Rus and up the Seine. He learned to read and write from monks, that he might serve his people better. He drew the plans for a system of dykes and ditches that drained the fenland though they had not yet been built and invented the bridge that hung from towers and ropes. He had figured out a new way to smelt iron, so the steel for swords and plows was stronger. In honor of it, his mother engaged an artisan to make the sword lost now to the army of this time and carve on it the runes that haunted him. He bound the Saxons and the Danes of his corner of the Danelaw together with strong leadership and fair, in the manner of his father. He was magistrate and defender of their territory. Even though he was so young, skalds sang of his prowess in battle, in judgment, and in a woman’s bed.

  Thus had he found a purpose. The battle from which he had been snatched was fought in the name of the second King Guthrum to keep the Danelaw strong. Egil Ingvansen wanted to break the Danelaw into North and South. The Danelaw occupied the entire eastern half of the island, the part closest to the shores of Gaul. One day the Northmen who had settled in Gaul would attack the island. They were Norwegians. You could never trust Norwegians—greedy bastards who were bound to covet the green island sooner or later. But if he was stuck in this time Galen couldn’t even win the battle that would keep the Danelaw united. The Danelaw, split, would be vulnerable. His people would be subjugated. And he, who should be their defender, would have failed even in this most mundane of unmagical efforts.

  He must get back his strength and return to his own time. Here he had no value. He did not speak as these people did. No one wore swords, not even Jake, who owned one, so Galen’s skill with one would not be valued. Maybe those men he had seen so far were only peasants who owned no swords. But they did not act like peasants. No one bowed or pulled his forelock, even to the man who wore soft green, who was clearly giving orders. Galen did not understand this place.

  The smell of food wafted into his room and he realized he was famished. That stabbed a knife into his belly. He was totally dependent on the woman. She cared for his wounds. She had practically carried him to the boat. She translated for him. She was about to feed him. Was this the way of a Danir warrior?

  She obviously despised him for his weakness. Her tone was clearly ordering. She had actually threatened him with starvation if he didn’t take her hellish tablets. He had to admit that he was grateful for the surcease of pain. But to be forced to submit . . . He normally liked strong women. Danish women could inherit property, and many a widow who ran her holdings without the advice or dominance of a man had beckoned him to her bed. But in this woman independence was most annoying. She treated him with such disdain.

  She did covet his body. Her blushes were certain proof. That was natural. All women wanted a strong and well-made man. It was a point of pride that he had never paid for sex or taken a woman against her will. What need? But this one resisted her attraction. She grew angry when he laughed at her struggle not to admire his male parts.

  She came into the room, holding a bowl heaped with steaming food and a glass of water. “Hope you’re hungry.”

  “Ic eam hungrig.” The food smelled wonderful. His eyes strayed from the bowl to her face. She was . . . soft. He liked that. He pushed himself up to sitting.

  “That sounded just like ‘I’m hungry.’ ” She placed the bowl on his lap. It was a glazed pottery, not wood or pewter. A stew of carrots and potatoes and beef steamed in the center.

  “I’ll go out and get bread and salad stuff tomorrow.” He didn’t understand that, but she handed him a spoon and he dug in, left-handed. The stew was strangely spicy. Probably to cover how bland the meat tasted. And the carrots and peas did not have the sweetness of the land in them—almost as if they had not ripened before they were harvested. He could taste the salt. And was that pepper? Only the richest could afford pepper on their food. It came from the farthest trading posts. She must be very wealthy.

  She went away and got a dish of her own and a glass of water. She sat with one foot tucked under her on the very end of the bed and ate. But he could feel her watching him.

  “More?” she asked.

  He hardly had to translate to ma. He got it from the context and nodded.

  She set her bowl aside and left to fill his. “Bring meodu,” he called after her. She poked her head back in. She obviously didn’t understand. “Wn? Bor?” He’d rather have mead, but they would do. A man didn’t drink water except if he was on a fast march or was too poor to afford a better drink.

  She shook her head. “The boat does not have beer or wine.” She seemed too tired to speak Latin consistently, but even in her strange Englisc he got the meaning.

  He could not hide his disgust. It looked like it was water or nothing.

  By the time he was halfway through the second bowl and had drunk the glass of water she brought, he was able to slow down and watch her eat. She was very dainty. She wiped her mouth with a fragile piece of cloth. Was it cloth? He couldn’t help noticing that her neck and her chest were bare since she’d taken her jacket off, as well as her arms. Her skin was almost translucent. Her hair was the color of banked coals. If she would but let it loose down her back it would flow like a river at sunset. Her lashes were thick and dark. They only made her skin seem whiter. The fact that she seemed not to care that her legs and arms were bare argued that she was a prostitute as he had first guessed. Yet wantons did not blush in embarrassment about their desires. She was a puzzle. A beautiful puzzle.

  She glanced up from her food to find him watching her. Her eyes were gray-green like the sea now, but in the morning light at the docks today they had startled him with the green of rich summer grass. This woman could have any man she wanted. Would she stay with a wounded man?

  “Es gd,” he said, indicating his bowl. “Thonc to thu.”

  She was even prettier when she smiled. She handed him the cloth to wipe his mouth. But it wasn’t cloth. Could it be very thin parchment? He wiped his beard and mustache, acutely conscious that he had gulped the stew. He watched her brow crease in concentration. “You are very welcome,” she said slowly in her heavily accented Latin. “I have sorrow my Latin is poor. You speak three languages, yes?”

  He nodded and mustered an answer in Latin: “Danir live beside Saxon in the Danelaw. They must learn the words of both. And the priests of the Christ Cult have influence. It is good to know their language also.” A thought occurred. He would give her something to do while he healed, keep her busy so perhaps she would not chafe at staying with him as long as he needed her. And he would become independent of her into the bargain. “You will teach me to speak the Englisc of your time,” he ordered. “My tongue loves words and yours are kin to ones I know. I will learn quickly.”

  Her eyes lighted up. “If I am not . . . having obligation to speak Latin, I am . . . made glad.” She slipped out of Latin to mutter, “No. That’s not right.” She started again. “I want to teach you.”

  “You can tell me of your world.”

  She smiled. “You be . . .” She
searched for a word. “You will be not happy with my world when you know it.”

  “It is good to know your foes.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “I am not your foe.”

  “No, you are not.” He mustn’t frighten her. “But you say foes would keep me from my home.” He wanted nothing more than to go home.

  She heaved a sigh. A crease appeared between her brows. He liked it better when she smiled. “Jake thinks we have such foes.”

  “Jake is a wise man.”

  She rose and took his bowl, spoon, and napkin. “Can you sleep? Did you sleep today?”

  “No.” How could he with so much pain?

  She bit her lip. “I am sorry. I will set the . . .” She apparently couldn’t think of a word. “I will wake in the night to give you . . . to take away your pain.”

  He was very tired. He slid down in the bed. She pulled the blankets up, then put the bowl down on the little shelf next to the bed and adjusted his pillows. The linens were finer than any he had ever seen. He was glad for her tablets. They kept the pain at bay. Perhaps he should not have made her threaten him with starvation before he agreed to take them. . . . There was one more thing he needed. “I would have the sword. Bring it to me.”

  She bit her lip, then gave a tiny shake of her head. “Later,” she said. “You are too weak.”

  He felt his brows draw together. That was true. A fierce fire lighted inside him. He would not be weak long. And then he would show her what it was to serve a warrior leader of the Danir.

  She turned out the light. “Sleep well,” she said in Englisc. He understood. The words were nearly the same now as then. But he didn’t know if he could do as she bid. . . .

  Lucy finished washing the dishes in the tiny galley and put everything back in its place. She took one of the large flannel shirts Jake had sent along for Galen with her into the head just off the salon. She stripped off her knits and she pinned up her hair. In the little mirror she saw her breasts rise as she lifted her arms. She wanted a different body. Now that was a transformation she couldn’t make, short of radical surgery. Maybe it was the comparison between her softness and the Viking’s hard body that made her more wistful than usual. She’d never been a woman a man lusted after. She’d gotten used to that.