The Pirate Bride

by Sandra Hill

  He had to admire the way the female crew worked together. It was a small longship with only twenty oars on each side, but the women rowers managed to weave the light craft smoothly over the waves with the aid of a square black and red sail that unfurled to catch the wind. The helmsman—rather helmswoman—steered the side-mounted rudder fastened to the starboard. Others worked diligently at their chores, tasks they’d been well trained to perform. Heaving buckets of water up to swab the deck. Repairing sailcloth. Honing small swords and lances. Keeping an eye on the horizon . . . for pirates? Thork smiled at his own silent jest.

  A tall, slim woman emerged from the doorway of a makeshift chieftain’s quarters wearing a red brushed wool tunic belted at the waist over black braies and tall boots. Her sun-lightened blonde hair was pulled off her face and lay in one long braid down her back. Her violet eyes, under thick, dark blonde lashes, studied him as she stepped closer.

  He studied her right back.

  The nun?

  “I know you!” he declared suddenly.

  Fear flickered in her eyes but only momentarily. “Nay, you do not,” she asserted.

  He frowned with uncertainty. “Are you sure? As I recall, it was at King Haakon’s court nigh on fourteen years ago. You were flirting with me, even though you were only a girling of twelve then, and I a virile fourteen.”

  “I ne’er did!” She did not smile, not even a little. No sense of mirth.

  Well, his appreciation for mirth was running out, too. The humor in this captivity nonsense was wearing thin. “I strongly suspect who you are, and Medana was not the name you were given at birth. Nay, ’twas Geira, daughter of Jarl Edam of Stormgard.”

  “You have me confused with someone else,” she insisted, suddenly engaged in pulling a loose thread from the hem of her tunic.

  Was he wrong? Mayhap. But wait, unbidden, an old memory came to mind. “Lady Geira of Stormgard murdered a cousin of the king on the eve of her wedding, or so the story goes. Then she disappeared. Could that perchance be you?”

  Rosy tints bloomed on the woman’s sun-bronzed cheeks. “I have ne’er murdered anyone, and my name is Medana. I know who you are, though. Your reputation precedes you.”

  He arched his brows.

  “Thork Tykirsson, the baddest Viking in the Norselands.”

  “Me?” He pretended affront. “I am no longer bad. I am on a quest to be good.”

  A small laugh escaped her lush lips before she caught herself. “How long have you been on this . . . quest?”

  “Since last year.”

  “A whole year of being good? You must be suffering sorely.”

  “You have no idea.” He rolled his eyes meaningfully. “You do know that I am going to have to kill you for this crime.”

  “What makes you think you will have the opportunity?” She stared at his restraints with an expression on her face that said clearly: You are in no position to make threats, Viking. “Do not mistake us for the weak females you have known in the past.”

  “No chance of that!” he scoffed, giving her an insulting head-to-toe survey, though, truth to tell, he did not find her body all that unappealing, even in men’s braies. Especially in braies.

  The rose in her cheeks deepened even more. “If you must know, your presence here is all a mistake.”

  “Oh?” This ought to be good.

  “My women were disheartened over our shortened visit to the trading town, and so they decided to . . . to . . . to . . .”

  “Have a stuttering problem, do you?”

  She bared her teeth at him, then visibly made an effort to calm her temper. “They meant only to borrow you.”

  Surely she did not say what I think she said. “Borrow? Is that a new word for captivity?”

  “Captivity? How silly! Ha, ha, ha!” She emitted a false, nervous laugh. “Truly, they only intended to keep you for a short time.”

  “How short?”

  She waved a hand airily. “A few sennights.”

  His eyes widened and his jaw dropped before he managed to ask, “For what purpose?”

  She looked away and appeared to be trying to find the right words. Finally, her gaze met his and he was struck by the violet beauty of her eyes, like a field of lavender he’d seen one time in the Highlands. “Um . . . harvesting.”

  “Um . . . harvesting what?”

  He could tell she did not like his mimicking her, but she resisted the urge to make some snide remark. Instead, she revealed, “Man seed.”

  “I beg your pardon. You want us to plant seeds. We are not farmers.”

  “Not harvesting so much as breeding.”

  “Breeding what?”

  “Babes.”

  “Aaarrgh!” If his hands were free, he would be pulling at his own hair. Getting a clear answer from her was like pulling a boar out of quicksand.

  “If you must know, we live on an isla—on a mount—we live someplace where there are only women, and occasionally the women wish to bear children. Thus, they need men to plant the seeds. But they do not want them to be around after that.”

  There is an insult in that statement, I suspect. “Studs? You want men to do stud service? Like yon bull?” He glanced downward for emphasis.

  The hatch door was open, and as if it heard him, the beast in the hold let out a loud bellow. One at a time, his men were being brought up on deck and tied to whatever stationary item the women could find. It took three women to bring up each man, five for Bolthor.

  Jamie, the first one out, exclaimed, “Bloo-dy hell! That cow’s breath stinks like old haggis. Or gammelost.” Gammelost was the loathsome cheese many Viking warriors often took on long treks. So repulsive was it that some said it turned men into berserkers.

  “ ’Tis not a cow, you dumb Scot,” Finn replied, the next one out of the hold. Even as he scanned his surroundings, his eyes going wide with astonishment at the all-female crew, he continued sniping at Jamie. “Do you not know the difference betwixt a bull and a cow?”

  “Cow or bull matters not a whit,” Alrek inserted. He fell on his face before being helped to his feet by the women. “If we stay down here much longer, we will smell just as bad. Whoa! I ne’er saw so many muscles on women in all my life.”

  “We already do smell like shit . . . shitty animals,” Bolthor remarked with his usual honesty. If the men were free, someone would have probably boxed his ears, if they could, which they probably couldn’t, he being as big as a grizzly bear and all that. The five women dragging him out of the hold appeared to appreciate his size, however, if their murmured compliments were any indication. Assuming that “I wonder if all his body parts are as big as his feet” was a compliment.

  Meanwhile his men were fighting their restraints, to no avail. He wasn’t the only one growing more and more frustrated with this ridiculous captivity. He stared at the witch who was the cause of their discomfort and, recalling her comment about wanting them for their seed only, Thork repeated, “Stud service? You women want to be swived?”

  If her cheeks got any redder, she might burst aflame. “Not me, but, yea, some of my women do.”

  “Without the men’s permission?”

  “Come now, when have men ever been so discriminating as to care whether they spill their seed hither or yon?”

  “I care.” And that was the truth. As wild and careless as he might have been in the past, there was one lesson his father had taught him well. Do not breed bastards. Or, leastways, a real Viking man takes care of his own.

  She shrugged. “Then you are the exception.”

  “And you sanction this halfbrained idea?”

  “Of course not.”

  He crossed his eyes. “Then release us. At once.”

  She shook her head. “I cannot do that.”

  Crossing his eyes had accomplished nothing; so he tried glowering. “Why not?”

  “You will kill us, or take us captive.”

  “There is that,” he agreed. After a pause, he asked, “So what is your pla
n?”

  “Plan?” She shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

  “Pfff! You have no plan,” he guessed. “Listen, unless you want us to die in captivity, you must give us food and water. And an immediate concern is the need to piss.”

  “You do not need to be so crude.”

  “ ’Tis a fact of life, M’Lady Pirate. What goes in must come out, and we men were drinking last night. Some more than others.”

  She pondered his words, tapping those lush lips thoughtfully. “Well, we could bring you, one at a time, to the rail to relieve yourselves.”

  “What . . . you plan to tug down our braies and take our cocks in hand, aiming seaward?” He had to laugh at the look of horror on her face.

  “What would you suggest?”

  “I would suggest that you release us and let us take care of the matter ourselves.”

  She shook her head.

  In the end, four women were assigned to each man, and they did in fact help the men take care of business, even down to the shaking of their staffs to remove any excess drops. It would have been undignified if it weren’t so funny, especially when half of them got thickenings on being handled thus, causing the women to be more embarrassed than the men. And Brokk developed a shy bladder, requiring some coaxing, which mortified the boyling.

  A short time later, after being fed chunks of manchet bread and dried lutefisk, the eight men were left alone while the women went about their chores.

  It was then that Bolthor decided the occasion called for a saga. “The Lady Was a Pirate,” he announced.

  “She was a lady,

  Or should I say matey?

  Arrr! Ahoy! Thar she blows!

  Shiver me timbers, and by jingos!

  No frail lass could she be,

  Once the lady took to sea.

  But the biggest mistake

  This pirate lady did make

  Was to tweak the tails

  Of some Norse males

  Because if there’s aught

  A Viking cannot bear

  It is a dare

  Especially when it comes from the fairer sex

  Which challenges his self-respect.

  So beware and await,

  Yon female pi-rate.

  Your fate is in the hands

  Of fierce Viking bands.

  Especially Thork the Great

  Who will use you as bait.

  Or even worse,

  Take you on a different course.

  Didst know our chieftain is looking for a bride?

  And marriage to a pirate might just heal his pride.

  On the other hand . . .”

  Bolthor hesitated and frowned, unsure what could come next?

  Thork could only imagine.

  The female crew, who’d been listening while pretending to work industriously paying them never mind, laughed uproariously, while Medana looked as if she’d swallowed a whole lutefisk.

  So Thork finished the poem for Bolthor:

  “On the other hand, a pirate crew

  Would make a tasty stew.”

  Chapter Four

  Johnny Depp, they were not . . .

  If Thork had been amazed before by the nerve of this crazy band of female would-be pirates, he was in for even more of a shock now.

  They had been rowing steadily within viewing distance of the shoreline for most of the day, a not uncommon practice for longships, but then, after much mysterious conversation of female heads bent together glancing furtively at the men to make sure they weren’t listening, the ship was turned around and circled back from whence they’d come. That evening, they dropped anchor.

  Despite his constant questions, Thork remained ignorant of what was amiss. His men were equally puzzled. The consensus was the women, the weaker sex, needed a rest from all their rowing. Poor things!

  “Now what?” he asked Medana as she approached him with a length of cloth in her hands. She wore men’s braies and a belted tunic, and on her head a red linen scarf tied off to one side of her neck. The only thing missing was an earring. He hoped she didn’t decide to “borrow” that as well. Other women, attired the same, also carrying strips of cloths, headed toward his men.

  Uh-oh!

  “I need to gag you.”

  “Why?” He strained his head to the side to avoid her hands.

  “We are stopping for a bit of pirating, and we cannot risk your raising an alarm to the poor monks of St. Alban’s.”

  “A bit of pirating? There is no such thing as a bit of pirating. You either pirate or you don’t. And poor monks? Why not target a richer monastery? Barmy as beetles in a vat of mead, that’s what you all are!” He was talking fast, trying to forestall that damn cloth she was wringing in her hands. It probably wasn’t even clean.

  “Barmy or not, we do what we have to do. And right now we want . . . nay, need what this poor monastery has to offer.”

  Taking a deep breath, he tried a different argument. “Your timing is not so great, if I may voice an opinion.”

  “Why stop now? Seems to me you have an opinion of everything.”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “ ’Tis almost dark, in case you hadn’t noticed. Unless you know the terrain, you will be at a disadvantage.”

  “We operate best in darkness when our victims cannot assess our weaknesses.”

  “You mean, they cannot tell that you are a band of lunatic women.”

  “Among other things.” Her face was flushed prettily. Something she tended to do a lot, around him.

  He rolled his eyes. Something he tended to do a lot, around her.

  “I don’t see why you can’t wait until some other time, when we men are not tied up here on board. What if your victims fight back? What if they board the ship? What if they set the ship afire? We would be helpless to save our own lives, let alone help you women escape.”

  She pondered his words, then said, “Nay, we cannot take the risk. Besides, these are monks. Holy men take vows against violence. And these are cloistered monks. So they are bound to be even more peaceable.”

  “Pfff! I’ve known many priests who are as adept at swordplay as hardened warriors. In fact, once—” His words were cut off as she seized the opportunity and thrust the cloth into his open mouth, tying it tightly behind his head.

  “If you must know,” she said just before she sauntered off, “we noticed some goats when we passed by earlier today, and our cook, Olga, yearns for goat milk for one of her special recipes.”

  “Agfcsk!” he exclaimed. A goat? They were risking their lives for a goat!

  Glancing around the deck, he noticed that his men were similarly gagged and bug-eyed with outrage. Except for Jamie, whose eyes were brimming with tears of mirth. The lackwit!

  They watched helplessly as a dozen women climbed down a rope ladder that had been thrown over the rail. Some of them carried short swords, which they raised above their heads, floating on their backs toward more shallow waters. Others had knives held between their teeth as they swam toward shore. While some were adept at swimming, others could scarce keep their heads above water as they paddled like puppies who’d fallen into a fjord. There was also a small rowboat that had been lowered with two rowers inside. He wasn’t sure if the boat would be used for all the booty they would steal, or for the goat. Please gods, not goats, as in more than one. The bull was bad enough.

  Another thing the women hadn’t taken into consideration. There was a full moon out tonight, and all their activity would be clear as day. Well, maybe they were aware of that fact, and that’s why they hadn’t anchored the longship closer to shore. Too visible.

  The melee that followed would have been laughable, if it weren’t so dangerous. Had the women not realized that the goats would not come willingly? Forget about the men setting up an alarm. The goats did the job very well.

  Neah! Neah! Neah! Meeeyyyaa! Meeeyyyaa! Behh! Behh! Behh! The animals, huddled together in a group at the top of a small rise, bleated as one of the women attempted to pul
l a ram by a rope tied round its neck and another woman tried to shove its behind. The stubborn goat wasn’t going anywhere until someone—it appeared to be Medana—got the bright idea to lead a female goat toward the shore. The randy goat then followed docilely behind, though both goats made an unholy noise of bleating protests. Even more hilarious . . . all the other goats were following, like sheep to the slaughter. There was no way the women could bring back a dozen goats. Was there?

  And another female pirate had the bright idea to grab a duck, as well. A huge duck. Maybe it was a goose. Hard to tell from where he was. But the squawking that bird made was enough to wake even the most bone-weary monk from his sleep.

  Quack! Quack! Quack! Behh! Behh! Behh! Somewhere in the distance some dog had been awakened, and added to the cacophony with its Rfff! Rfff! Rfff!

  Meanwhile, several monks had their robes raised knee-high as they chased a woman clutching a huge silver crucifix that was almost as big as she was. Still other monks had torches in one hand and rakes and other garden implements in the other for weapons.

  To their credit, he saw one of the women set fire to a hay mow, which diverted the attention of several monks, who tried to stop the blaze with buckets of water from a nearby well. And a few of the pirates stopped to engage the monks in “battle.” No mortal wounds did they inflict, but they knocked two monks unconscious with blows to the head with the flat sides of their short swords. Another monk, shocked to see blood flowing from a slice to his arm, ran squealing back up the hill to the monastery.

  The woman with the large crucifix almost drowned herself with the weight of her booty and finally tossed the object into the bottom of the rowboat and helped the others trying to get two goats into the boat and shoo the others back home. The goose escaped when it took a good nip of its captor’s chin, drawing blood, and nigh flew over the water back to its goslings.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was more like a half hour, Pirate Lady was once more on its way to wherever they had been headed originally. They’d tried to put the goat and its mate down in the hold, but the bull was having none of that. The ruckus down below was alarming to Thork. If it went on much longer, the bull would kick a hole in the longship and they would all drown at sea.