Mrs. Claus and the Viking Ship

by Laura Strickland

  Now she tried to read her husband’s expression while blinking against the stinging sleet. The ship began to climb yet another wave, a great swell that thrust the reindeer’s head into the gray sky, and Tinnie’s stomach tightened in terror. Claus had tried to warn her of this. How he must reproach her!

  Yet his strong arms came around her, held her and Frost tight as the ship reached the top of the swell and began its terrible plunge down the other side. He drew her against his heart even as they waited to see if the reindeer would succeed in struggling above the waves, and his big body blocked the worst of the icy spume that reached for her.

  Surely mere wood and mere flesh and bone could not withstand such an onslaught. Why had God sent this fury, if Tinnie’s intention had been good? Did He seek to punish these pagans? Yet her people needed the wonderful cargo on board this ship.

  “We are going to die,” she gasped.

  Somehow he heard her above the screaming wind. “Nei, Missus. You must believe.”

  The words tumbled into her ear even as one of his men, forward, hollered to him. His arms tightened for an instant before he released her.

  “I must go. You hold fast, Missus. You, of all the things on this ship, are most precious to me.”

  He loves me, Tinnie thought quite clearly even as Claus stepped away forward. How can he love me, when I have been nothing but hard and cold and resentful of him? Yet she could not deny the truth of it. The touch of his hands did not lie. And surely only love could bring a man on such a terrible voyage.

  Her heart quailed within her then, for she understood what it meant to be loved by such a man. And she feared she could never love him in return—a pagan, a savage, an enemy to all she was. Yet his emotions were like this storm that beat at her—impossible to endure or to turn away.

  Another cry came from forward, echoed by a score of voices. Tinnie’s heart seemed to seize in her chest. Had someone been lost to the water? What if it were Claus?

  Then, surely, she would be free.

  She tried to contemplate it even as Frost trembled in her arms. She strained to see through the wall of snow, and failed. She bent her head and spoke a prayer, this one not for the ship or even her people or herself.

  As if in response, she heard Claus’s voice, like a clarion, call through the storm. Her heart quieted and, along with it, almost imperceptibly, the wind slackened. Had they weathered the storm? Did they begin to come out the other side?

  Had she?

  Chapter Eight

  “Mother!”

  Claus watched as his wife threw herself into Mistress MacAieth’s arms. They stood all on the shore at Straithaidh where his ship had been met by what looked like every able-bodied man of the clan, a pitiful showing. He could not imagine that he or his men were welcome here. Yet he had seldom been more relieved to step ashore.

  A miracle they had come through that storm in one piece, and all alive. He tore his gaze from his wife’s happy tears and looked at the ship, which rode in the bay behind him. It bore only superficial damage—a chip to Dasher’s antler, and some snapped lines. His men were similarly wounded—rope burns and an abundance of bruises. The worst of it had been the blow Magnus took from his own oar when it got away from him. Claus had been sure they would lose him then, just before they began to come out of the storm.

  Now they stood on this shingle beach with hard looks directed at them and hatred he could feel. The whole world around Claus looked gray—gray waves shushing and sucking at the gray shingle, iron-gray frost everywhere, gray sea and sky.

  His wife’s joy made the only splash of brightness anywhere.

  Nels stepped up to him. A livid bruise decorated Nels’ brow and uneasiness filled his eyes.

  “You think we will survive two nights here without taking a dirk in the back?” he asked ironically. “I do not.” He nodded at Tinnie and her mother. “And about what do they jabber?”

  Claus could not catch it all—the words came too quickly, and tainted by strong emotion.

  “My wife, she explains our purpose in coming.”

  Nels lifted his brows. “She tells her mother you seek her favor in your bed? It still seems a small reason to risk all our lives.”

  “You did not have to come.” Claus reminded him. Of course, he acknowledged silently, the men who had chosen to accompany him so loyally had not wagered on that terrible storm. Quite possibly they had since changed their minds.

  “You do realize how near we came to being eaten by the dragon at the bottom of the sea? And we need still to get home again—that is, if we survive these folk who long to slit our throats.”

  “Ja.” Claus hoped Tinnie’s mother would give his men lodging, but could not count on it. “I am sorry for your risk. I will pay you handsomely.”

  Nels scowled. “I doubt any of us came for the pay. Claus, we want to see you happy. But”—he eyed Tinnie and her clansfolk, now flocked around her—“I have my doubts.”

  ****

  “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” Tinnie told Claus. He could hear excitement in her voice. “Will we have the ship unloaded by then?”

  “Even now my men work at it. I go thence to help them.”

  “I will come with you.”

  “Nei, you visit with your mother. I cannot tell when you will see her again.” By spring, Odin willing, she would be great with his child and unable to sail.

  But instead of rushing off to join her mother in the hall, she turned to him. Her gaze appraised him slowly and with care.

  “You are injured there, on the side of your face.”

  He would not tell her of the rope burn on his arm, how the line had nearly pulled him overboard, nor of the countless bruises and the flap of skin loose on one leg. He longed for her to step into his arms so he might have the healing balm of holding her, but this she did not do. Only her gaze touched him.

  He smiled wryly. “I think I aged ten years during that storm. You see my hair is now more white than yellow.”

  “It never was yellow but far too pale for that.”

  He sobered suddenly. “Your folk, they do not want us here.”

  “They will reconcile themselves as soon as we begin distributing the food and supplies you brought.”

  “They are proud and will accept no gifts from me.”

  “You are right.” She smiled sweetly. “That is why we will give not to them but to their bairns. I know my people, and I understand their want. They do not hate you enough to deny their children what they will need to survive this winter.”

  Half dazzled by that smile, Claus merely nodded.

  She went on, “I have sent word that parents should bring their bairns to my father’s dun tomorrow morning. Och, there will be such joy in it! Thank you.”

  Two words, but they were the softest ever she had spoken to him. She did not call him “Claus” or even “Husband,” but the words spoken sounded sweet.

  He nodded again. “Much work has this been, and the danger of the storm, but all worth it if it brings you happiness.”

  Embrace me, he begged in his mind, but she caught Frost up in her arms, and cuddled him instead.

  ****

  Ah, what a day it had been! Tinnie, to her own surprise, could scarcely remember one better. Her father’s hall was warm with company, good will, and laughter—a measure of relief, also, as clansfolk went away with desperately needed supplies in their arms. No one would perish of want this winter, so long as Tinnie had a say in it.

  Her folk had even left off glaring at her husband’s men so hard. Och, no one felt very happy with each other, but the faces of Claus’s men had brightened as they watched the bairns, ragged and blue with cold, receive what they needed so terribly.

  Claus had even brought along a number of things without her knowledge: there were brightly colored trinkets and balls, and tiny, wooden ships among the other goods. The smallest of the bairns went away with toys as well as necessities.

  Claus… She turned her gaze on him where he s
tood speaking with several of his men, a smile on his broad face. How different he looked when he smiled! And what a great laugh he had, rich and inviting of laughter from those around him. More than once this day had she heard it boom out.

  She could see how happy it made him, to make others so.

  Yet, she had to remind herself sternly, her people would not be in this position were it not for him. Och, what was she to do, how deal with what she felt toward him?

  He caught her gaze upon him and strolled over to where she stood beside the much diminished piles of goods.

  “Well, Missus, and is your heart content? Have I made up in small measure for the great harm I caused your folk?”

  “You have,” she was forced to admit. “Tomorrow, on Christmas morning, the bairns will awake with filled stomachs and glad smiles.”

  “This is important to you.”

  She nodded, but then frowned as a sudden thought struck her. “Aye, but—”

  “What is it?” His blue eyes filled with concern.

  “I have just realized, we have provided for all those who came, but what of my people outlying, who cannot journey so far?”

  “Ah, well, but we will leave the rest of these things here, and when the snow goes they will be able to come for what they need.”

  “But the snow may last many weeks.” Foolish tears welled in Tinnie’s eyes. “And there will be bairns who still wake cold and hungry on Christmas morning.”

  Claus looked away. He seemed to ponder something. “These outlying cottages with bairns—there are many?”

  “Not so many, but enough.”

  “The things they need could be taken to them.”

  “How?” Already the cold dark, so early at this time of year, had come down outside.

  “I noticed when we came in there is a sledge,” Claus began.

  “My father’s sleigh, aye.”

  “If a pony might be found, we could load these things and take them, before morning comes.”

  “Take them?”

  “Ja, so the children will have what they need, when they awaken.” His gaze challenged her. “But you will need to direct me, if you dare.”

  Tinnie thought of the tiny huts nestled out on the cold breast of the land, and the miracle of children waking to a Christmas feast. Her heart rose unaccountably.

  “I think,” she said decidedly, “that is a fine idea indeed.”

  Chapter Nine

  Snow began falling softly as they loaded the sleigh. Claus glanced up into the sky and watched the lazy flakes float down, pristine and beautiful. He found enchantment in such a night, with the white snow lying quiet over the distant hills, and a new crescent moon playing peek-a-boo with the sheaves of cloud.

  A moon like that, he thought solemnly, denoted a new beginning. Dared he hope?

  He turned his eyes on the woman beside him and felt a rush of pure pleasure. She looked happy. Color stood bright in her cheeks and her eyes shone. His heart stuttered in his chest. What was a trip into the fathomless darkness, if it purchased that?

  “Ready?” he asked, and lifted her easily into the sledge. Frost jumped up into her lap, and they both laughed.

  She laughed with him.

  Claus climbed in also and took the reins. The pony—a shaggy beast—was not so different from those back home. Mayhap he and his wife were not so different.

  He chucked to the pony, and they started off, with her people and his men calling good wishes behind them.

  “Which way, Missus?”

  But she was already planning it out in her mind. “We will go out along the coast first, before the snow gets heavy, and then head inland. We should be able to visit them all and get home by morning.”

  He nodded and stole a look at her where she sat beside him, the fur of her hood framing her face and Frost tucked under her chin. He had always thought her beautiful, but never more than this night when lit by gladness at this thing they did together.

  At the first hut, he drew the pony to a halt and surveyed the scene. Such a humble place, and with evidence of all the outbuildings lying burned. He remembered sending squads of his men up along this very stretch of the shore to raid and destroy what they could. Had he thought then of any children lying within?

  “They will not want to see me here,” he murmured.

  “I will go.”

  So he waited among the spinning snowflakes while she and Frost slipped in through the low doorway and left gifts for the children, and when she returned the sleigh moved on into the freezing night.

  The same scene repeated again and again, so many times Claus lost count. But the extreme want he saw, the glimpses of poor rooms and children gathered to their parents’ sides, seared his heart and mind. And he knew he would never forget this demonstration of his wife’s kind generosity that seemed to make her more beautiful with each step she took.

  Somewhere along the snowy way, and deep into the night, Claus asked for his own heart’s desire, sending the wish up into the white-feathered sky. Who listened? The great gods of the snowy north, whom he had followed all his days? Odin, who walked the world sharing his wisdom and teaching lessons? Ja, for Claus was learning now. At his father’s knee he had learned the benefit of taking, of using force to acquire the means for looking after those he loved. And though he had always enjoyed giving gifts, as well, he now tasted the deep enchantment of providing what was most needed, from a bountiful heart.

  And if he, himself, might be granted but one thing? No need to wonder what that might be: only let her care for him somehow. That one miracle would he choose for his own.

  At least she spoke to him now. Each time she returned from presenting her gifts she told him about what lay within.

  “The bairn there is sore ill with fever; her mother did not know how she would feed her come the morn.”

  Or, “The bairns awoke as I stood above their wee beds with the gifts in my hands. You should have seen their eyes light up.”

  He need only see hers, and hear the joy in her voice, to feel complete.

  And then, at the last stop, Claus had his miracle. He halted the sleigh as before, and his wife looked at him.

  “Claus—come inside with me.”

  The breath froze in his chest. Never before had she used his name, and never had he hoped to hear her speak it in that tone, warm and winning.

  But he shook his head. “I will not be welcome there.” He saw now, in full, what his greed had done to these folk. He did not begin to believe this night’s work would make up for it.

  She gazed deep into his eyes as they sat there amid the swirl of snowflakes. “But I would have you behold their happiness.” She laid her hand upon his arm. “Please.”

  The first time ever she had reached for him, touched him of her own desire, and with such a look in her eyes. Claus’s heart convulsed in his chest. Could he deny her anything?

  “Ja,” he said hoarsely. “Ja.”

  And the folk inside the hut did not think to fear him after all. A woman it was, thin and worn, and an old man who appeared to be blind. Three children were tucked into the single bed against the wall, none surely above five.

  Claus moved softly in the tiny place. Where was the woman’s husband? How did she manage without him?

  His eyes marked the evidence of want everywhere. The shelves on the far wall lay nearly bare, and the fire burned on almost no fuel. The place felt cold even after the chill outside.

  That anyone should live so hurt him—that he had contributed to their need hurt most of all.

  Tinnie spoke to the woman and old man even as Claus stood looking into the faces of the sleeping children. Like little elves they looked, and as innocent as a new day.

  “We have brought things you need. Food, a sack of grain, and some fancies, as well, for the bairns when they wake. We have a bundle of fuel for your fire, and more at my father’s dun for later. ’Tis nearly morning—we wish you and yours a happy Christmas.”

  “It will be, now,�
� the woman replied, with tears trickling down her cheeks. “Bless you, Mistress.” She looked at Claus. “Bless you both.”

  She does not know who I am, Claus thought—quite likely the man responsible for her husband’s death, if he fought against us. To her I am just someone with gifts in his arms, and snowflakes in his beard.

  As he stood there marveling, Frost leaped up on the side of the bed and licked the cheek of the nearest child, a lass. She opened her eyes and saw Claus standing over her, his hair and beard all white.

  Claus prepared himself for her wail of terror. Big as he was, and a stranger, he could not imagine her doing anything but take fright. But her eyes grew wide, and then turned merry. She reached out for him and smiled. A single word left her lips, one he did not understand.

  Ah, and how to respond? Both Tinnie and the child’s mother looked at him, but it was into the child’s eyes he gazed as his heart melted.

  He could not take her into his arms, but he remembered how he had tucked a few treasures inside his cloak, back on the ship. He drew forth the tiny figure of an elf carved from birch wood, a pastime of his on cold, winter nights, and placed it in the child’s hands.

  Her smile became one of delight. Swiftly, he drew out two more toys, for her brothers, and laid them at the foot of the bed.

  And the look in Tinnie’s eyes when he met them rewarded him for all.

  He floated on air as they left the hut and returned to the sledge. He lifted Tinnie inside with loving hands.

  “’Tis well,” she said, when Frost was safely in her lap. “That is the last. We did it all in one night!”

  Claus gazed at the tiny hut. “What happened to the man of that place?” He was almost afraid to hear.

  “Killed last year in the fighting.”

  Grief swamped Claus, strong as the joy had been. “It is my fault. I did not think.”

  “I can see that, Claus.” She leaned close to him, and in her eyes he saw every hope he had for the future. “But you have gone far, this night, to make up for it. Do you not believe in forgiveness?”