The Pirate Bride

by Sandra Hill

  Medana shook her head at the women’s foolish competitiveness. “The men’s presence here is creating disharmony amongst you women. We are friends, not rivals. This island has been a sanctuary of peace and safety for all of us, but it is fast becoming a beehive of bickering and unrequited yearnings.”

  None of her women looked at all guilty. In fact, they cast surly scowls her way.

  “We have not coupled with them yet,” Bergdis whined.

  “Not at all?” That surprised Medana. The way her women—leastways some of them—were parading their charms afore the men, you’d think at least one of the walking penises would have succumbed to the temptation.

  “None!” Solveig exclaimed with disgust. “Although they do engage in a bit of sexplay.”

  “A bit?” Medana asked.

  “Kissing, fondling, that kind of thing,” Elida answered for Solveig with a wave of dismissal, as if that was nothing.

  “And the leader . . . is he, too, doing his little ‘bit’?” Medana could scarce believe she’d asked that question. She did not care what that loathsome lout Thork was doing. He was becoming a thorn in her backside with all his complaints. And constant harping on having known her before, or someone who closely resembled her. She feared he would leave the island and tell folks that Geira of Stormgard was alive and thriving. Her brothers, and the king’s guardsmen, would be after her quicker than a fox on the scent of a hare. Not for one moment did she believe that ten years would have lessened their fury.

  Even worse were Thork’s rude surveys of her body followed by strange smiles. Like a bear licking its lips as it studied the hive of honey it was about to consume.

  “Nay, and I really tried,” said Siobhan. “I even showed him my bosoms, and everyone says I have magnificent bosoms.”

  They all stared at Siobhan’s bosoms, which were indeed magnificent. Big and firm and without any sag, despite her having seen more than thirty-five winters.

  Medana was only a few years from thirty herself, but she was not worrying about having a child. Mayhap not all women had the maternal yearning. As for bosoms . . . Medana had to restrain herself from glancing downward at her own breasts, which were small, but plenty big enough in her opinion; an asset, really, when having to be bound on those occasions when she pretended to be a man. But mayhap their size would be considered lacking when it came to men and their lustsome preferences.

  “The issue for us to decide is how to let them go with the least repercussions on us,” Medana said.

  Forget repercussions. The women were still grumbling amongst themselves about how little attention they were getting.

  “What is the sense of having captured the men if we cannot milk their seed from their bodies with our woman-channels?” asked Siobhan, who should know about milking, being in charge of the cows, among other things.

  Still . . . milking? Now they see men as cows with udders? One-teated udders?

  “The man with slanted eyes likes me, I think,” Lilli went on. If anyone could attract a man it would be the voluptuous Lilli, whose waist was enticingly small compared to her generous hips and chest. “But Henry—that is his name—he is restraining himself for some reason.”

  “They are all restraining themselves,” Bergdis complained, “and I do not understand why.”

  “Could it be because they do not favor being put to stud?” Medana asked with arched brows.

  “Hah!” Olga the cook, mistress of the kitchen, a short, plump woman who enjoyed her own foods overmuch, had just waddled in with a trencher of hard cheeses, oatcakes, and wild grapes to break the noonday fast. One of the few boylings on the island, Samuel, followed after Olga, carrying two pitchers of ale. “Men stud themselves out all the time,” Olga continued. “My husband, may he rot in Muspell, certainly did it enough.”

  Samuel’s eyes widened at the cook’s words. Medana did not like the women speaking so freely in front of the child, who was only eight and would learn soon enough what the women thought of men. Well, some women, and some men. She raised a cautioning hand to halt speaking and asked Samuel if he would mind helping with the new shipbuilding this afternoon.

  “You can help me sand the wood planks,” offered Solveig.

  Samuel’s eyes lit up. It was a job he relished, unlike his usual chores around the kitchen, helping Olga.

  Once Samuel was gone, Gudron asked, “Is it true that Malik begat twenty-two children?” Malik had been Olga’s husband until his untimely death a few years back.

  Olga nodded and showed her disdain by spitting into the rushes, a distasteful habit that Medana had tried to break her of, to no avail, thus far. “No sooner did the old goat die, in the process of swiving yet another maid, than his many worthless, illegitimate sons descended on our keep, pushing me out the door. Sad it was that none of my own sons lived past infancy.”

  “Worthless men may be, but they do serve their purpose betimes,” Gudron said. “I, for one, like the old one.”

  “Um, could we get back to the subject of—”

  “The one with an eye patch? Gudron! His hair is threaded with white. Are you sure his staff can still rise?” Solveig inquired.

  “You know what they say about snow on the roof but fire in the hearth,” Gudron replied with a rare giggle.

  Even Medana had to smile at that old saying, one that was no doubt perpetuated by men. “I thought you were interested in the leader,” Medana said to Gudron. “You mentioned showing him your breasts.”

  Gudron waved a hand dismissively. “That one is too pretty by half. Nay, I want a man with more meat on the bone. And I mean one particular bone.” She waggled her bushy blonde eyebrows for emphasis.

  Oh good gods!

  “When the Scots one drawls with that sexy burr, my inner parts nigh melt.” This from Freyja, speaking for the first time in this meeting. In truth, Freyja rarely spoke, being more comfortable out of doors. The quiet Danish woman from Jutland had been sold by her father to a passing trader for a gold coin. Gods only knew what travails she’d suffered before finally being sold to Stormgard, where she cared for a young Medana, known as Geira then.

  Medana cleared her throat. “As I was saying—”

  “The clumsy one is adorable,” Bergdis said, and sighed. “Have you noticed the bulge in his braies?”

  “This is getting way off the subject at hand. Really.”

  But it was as if Medana was talking to air.

  “I saw the pretty one plucking some loose hairs down below after bathing,” Elida told them, “and what he worked around was nigh like a marble pole.” She made a rude gesture over her lap.

  “His man-hairs?” Olga asked incredulously.

  Medana hadn’t realized that Olga was still there.

  “I ne’er heard of such a thing,” Olga said. “Mayhap I should have him shave this wild hair on my chin. Ha, ha, ha!”

  “He was not shaving,” a red-faced Elida told them. “Just trimming and a little plucking. Must be why his thatch down there was oddly clipped and neat. Hmm.”

  Olga chuckled as she waddled off, carrying some empty trenchers. The news of man-hair trimming would be spread about the entire island by nightfall. The women of Thrudr, like women everywhere, did like a juicy bit of gossip.

  “How about Jostein, the blond, brooding one?” Bergdis asked.

  “That one is scary,” Elida said with a shiver.

  Gudron nodded. “When Gert tried to seduce him by bending over in her tightest braies, he told her to go bugger herself.”

  Medana choked on her ale. She couldn’t imagine any woman wanting to display her backside before a man.

  “Did you notice—” Solveig started to say.

  But Medana thumped both fists on the table. “Enough! We have serious issues to discuss.” Now that there was silence, she said, “The men must leave. The question is how . . . and when.”

  They debated the various solutions.

  “We are agreed then,” Medana said after a while, “whether it happens tomor
row or a sennight from now, that whilst we could return them to Hedeby with no problem, providing the good weather holds, what we have no way of knowing is the outcome when we reach Hedeby. Will they want recompense or revenge, even though no great scathe has been done? Will they just let us return home?”

  Seven mouths turned down. Not a single one of them believed that would be the case.

  “Mayhap we could negotiate their release,” Elida said.

  Medana was surprised that Elida even knew the word negotiate.

  “Before we ever put them back on a longship, they would have to agree not to punish us in any way once released in Hedeby,” Elida explained.

  The others nodded their heads and turned to her with anticipation of approval.

  “That would be based on the assumption that men never lie.” Medana hated that she was the one who always dampened their hopes.

  “Can we trust their word, assuming they would agree to begin with?”

  “Nay,” each of them said.

  “I have an idea,” Gudron said. “The leader, Thork, is said to be the son of a powerful Norse jarl, Lord Tykir of Dragonstead. What if we sent a message asking him to come rescue his son?”

  Medana sat up straighter. “I do not like demanding ransom for our . . . um, mistake.”

  She could tell that the women did not like her calling their actions a mistake.

  “We are pirates, Medana. That is what we do,” Gudron pointed out.

  “We do not need to demand ransom, just ask that the father rescue the son,” Elida added as a compromise to Medana’s sensibilities.

  “I still say there is naught wrong with pirates demanding ransom,” Gudron persisted.

  Medana sighed and agreed that ransom would not be such a terrible thing but insisted that care be taken to protect the whereabouts of their island.

  “Once our mountaintop scouts spot dragonships approaching in the distance, we will give the men sleep herbs and place them on Small Island,” Liv said.

  The other women clapped their approval, but Medana groaned. Sleep herbs again? Thork had warned her and warned her what he would do if there was such a repeat. Still, she had to admit, “It could work, but only if the timing is just right. If his father, Tykir, responds in a positive manner. If his father’s seamen are viewed when the tide is down but arrive when the tide is back up, hiding the land road to the caves. If Thork and his men have not discovered the secrets of Thrudr that would enable them to return. So many ifs!”

  “Do we have a choice?” Solveig asked.

  “ ’Tis worth a try, is it not, Medana?” This plea came from Lilli, whose green eyes were brimming with tears.

  Tears? It was untenable to Medana that these men had created such havoc among her women.

  “It will give us several sennights to seduce the men,” Bergdis said, and the matter was settled.

  Later that afternoon, Medana worked painstakingly with parchment, quill, and encaustum, the thick ink prepared from tree sap. By eventide, the scroll was in the hands of Salvana and Sigrun, who told her that the merchant ship that often stopped by for fresh water, which the women gathered in rain barrels, was expected any day now.

  It was late when Medana returned to her longhouse, having had to pretend duties up on the mountains to hide her errand through the caves. Most everyone, except for her guards, was long abed.

  She sensed a presence and put a hand to the knife sheathed at her side.

  Thork stepped out of the darkness into the full moonlight. “M’Lady Pirate, you have been very busy.”

  “A chieftain’s work is ne’er done. You should know that.” How long had he been watching her? What secrets had he uncovered already?

  He stepped closer, and she could smell evergreen . . . the clean scent of one of the hard soaps Lilli was renowned for. He must have recently bathed.

  “It’s late,” she told him, backing up, her shoulders hitting the timber wall. “We can talk in the morning.”

  He shook his head and put a hand to her chin, lifting her face as he moved in, so close she could scarce breathe. “Foolish wench! ’Tis not talk I have in mind.”

  Chapter Seven

  If his mother could see him now . . .

  Thork was a master of sport, whether it be skillful moves in the board game hnefatafl, or the planning of battle strategy, but especially in the seduction arts. And he had Medana the Muleheaded Headmistress of Thrudr as his target now. She was too willful by half.

  Dare to capture him, would she?

  Dare to take him to some misbegotten island, would she?

  Dare to give him a sleeping draught not once but twice, would she?

  Dare to refuse his demand to return him to Hedeby at once, would she?

  Dare to let her women do everything but stand on their fool heads to entice him and his men, would she?

  Dare to act as if he were a guest and not a prisoner, would she?

  Well, he fumed, I have a surprise for you, M’Lady Pirate. I am a Viking, not a weak-sapped pet eager to do your bidding. But slow and easy, that was his plan.

  For a moment, he could swear he heard his mother’s laughter in his head. Lady Alinor, who had endured one misadventure after another in his growing-up years, had warned him that someday a woman would turn the tables on him. He refused to believe that was the case now.

  He’d well earned the reputation these ten years and more of being the wildest Viking this side of Miklagard, but he had not been careless or impulsive in his acts, regardless of what his father, or mother, might think. If he was bad, it was because he’d wanted to be bad and did so with a clear head and conscience.

  He and his men had wasted two days now wandering about this bloody island the women called Thrudr, and what they’d learned had not been promising. The village was in the bottom of a deep bowl, the sides covered with heavy forests and rocky cliffs. On reaching the top, they’d discovered the North Sea surrounding the landmass on all sides, with no noticeable shoreline, just cliffs and woods up to the water’s edge, and a tiny island a short distance away that seemed to be inhabited by two women. Hermits of a sort, he supposed. Thrudr boasted no wharves or even shores for docking a longship. There was no way the women could have portaged the longship, not to mention eight big men, up to the top of the mountain bowl lip and then down the inner side, leastways not overnight. And there was no path discerned by the men . . . so far.

  Could they have been doused with the sleeping draught for longer than he’d thought? Mayhap even days?

  Possible, but still, where was the path?

  He and his men could overpower the women easily, of course, or at the least overpower enough women strategically to take over Thrudr. And they could probably force the women to return them to Hedeby on their lone longship, though gods only knew how, lest he discover a sudden taste for flogging female flesh. They were a stubborn bunch.

  In the end, it was important to Thork that they know Thrudr’s location so that they could return someday, for retribution or to see their children. The latter, planting of male seed, was bound to happen soon if the women, some of whom cleaned up well into comely creatures, got their way. Even Jostein appeared to be tempted, although Bolthor kept muttering, “My wife will kill me, my wife will kill me . . .”

  So the only answer was to work on Medana . . . or Geira . . . or whatever name she chose to go by these days. She would reveal her secrets, or he would die trying. His men would home in on other women. Someone was going to spill secrets, and, yea, they had bets going on who would succeed first . . . without spilling other things, like their seed.

  Medana backed up against the wall and stared up at him as he moved in closer. He still had a hand on her chin, which quivered slightly, before she demanded, “What do you want, knave?” She started to raise a hand, no doubt to whistle for her women, but he grabbed her by the wrist, fighting the inclination to kiss the soft inner area where blue veins could be seen beneath the thin skin.

  Remember, Thork, you are
a Good Viking now. You do not need to swive every pretty maid who comes your way. Good Viking. Good Viking, he reminded himself.

  He pressed her hand against the wall and his hips against hers. Despite two layers of clothing, his and hers, and despite his lack of attraction to the wench, his enthusiasm began to rise.

  Damn enthusiasm! Remember, Good Viking, Good Viking . . . “Do not dare to whistle near my ear again, wench, or you will be sorry.” How, I am not sure, but I will think of something.

  “How would you stop me?”

  You had to ask! He smiled, realizing he’d been given the kind of opening he relished with a woman. “I would tongue kiss you into silence. ’Tis hard to whistle when your mouth is full. Like a cork I will be.” That was good. Where do I get these ideas? Oops, Good Viking, Good Viking . . .

  “Must you be so crude?” Her upper lip curled with distaste. For a pirate, she had the sensibility of a noblewoman.

  He used the knuckles of the hand holding her chin to trace a line along her jaw from one ear to the other.

  She inhaled sharply, whether from outrage or arousal, he could not tell, but he was betting on the latter. Sometimes he was so good he surprised even himself.

  Once again, he thought he heard his mother’s voice in his head with her age-old refrain, referring to his conceit, A peacock is just another name for a rooster.

  Enough with my mother! Why does she keep coming to mind tonight? It is my father with whom I need to redeem myself, and not much redeeming being done here on this bloody island. He moved his hand to cup the back of her neck. The fine hairs of the underside of her braid tickled his fingers, like silk threads.

  “Tongue kissing is not crude. Well, betimes, it can be crude, but in a good way.” I wonder what her hair would look like if let loose. I wonder if it is as silken and golden as it appears in that braid. I wonder what she would do if I loosened it, and . . . Frigg’s foot! Forget wondering, you fool! You are supposed to be seducing her, not the other way around. Aaarrgh! Good Viking, Good Viking . . .