The Pirate Bride

by Sandra Hill

  But then ten days ago, some of Thork’s comrades had arrived telling an unbelievable tale about Thork having disappeared from the market town of Hedeby, leaving his longships and seamen behind. “I told you, I told you,” Tykir had said to her, “it is another of his foolhardy jests.” Alinor wasn’t so sure; it would be cruel of Thork, if true. Nay! She was worried.

  And now this!

  Alinor picked up the parchment and read through the words again.

  We have your son Thork. Send one hundred mancuses of gold to Small Island for his release. Otherwise, we will lop off the loathsome lout’s head. Or slice off his too slick tongue and set the loathsome lout out to sea in a leaky boat. Once the ransom is paid, do not stay on the island, but return in one sennight. At that time, you will find the loathsome lout and his seven comrades, safe and unharmed.

  The Sea Scourge

  “Where did you get this?” Tykir demanded of Mustaf, grabbing the parchment out of Alinor’s hands and crumbling it into a wad that he tossed into the rushes.

  Mustaf, alarmed at the harshness of Tykir’s tone, wiped his mouth and thick mustache with the back of one shaking hand. It would not be the first time in Norse history that the messenger was killed. “On Small Island. A stopping-off place north of Hedeby. A well-known spot for getting fresh water and passing of messages,” Mustaf rushed to say.

  “And my son is being held there?” Alinor pressed a hand to her wildly beating heart. How much worry could one mother withstand? “I do not understand. Who is the Sea Scourge?” she asked.

  “I know! I know!” said Starri, their second eldest of four sons, Thork being two years older. He was the only one of her sons who’d inherited her red hair and freckles, although on him they were attractive, his hair a darker red and just a smattering of dots on his sun-darkened skin. With a grin, he sat down next to Mustaf, poured himself a cup of ale from the pottery pitcher, and informed them, “She is the leader of a band of pirates.”

  “She?” Alinor and Tykir exclaimed at the same time.

  “Yea!” Starri waggled his eyebrows at them. “The Sea Scourge is the leader of a band of female pirates.”

  Tykir slammed a fist down on the table, causing them all to jump and ale to slosh over the rims of cups. “That does it! Now the rascal has gone too far! Captured by females! What kind of man is he? What kind of Viking? He has done some wild and barmy things in his time, but this tops them all.”

  Alinor punched her husband in the arm. “You would blame the boy for being captured?”

  “Captured by women!” he emphasized. “Yea, I blame him for that. He no doubt planned it all as some grand jest. And he is a man, not a boy, though you would ne’er know it by his actions in recent years.”

  “You are being ridiculous. He is in danger whilst you blame him for this and that. Actually, though . . .” Alinor tapped her lips with a forefinger. “Did you notice that she referred to him as a ‘loathsome lout’? Must be she is fond of our son.”

  “Are you daft? What kind of female illogic brings you to that conclusion?”

  “ ’Tis what I called you when you were trying to woo me to your bed furs. ’Tis what Eadyth called your brother Eirik when he was behaving as all lustsome Viking men do. ’Tis just another form of talking foresport.”

  “Oh gods! My parents are going to talk about sex again! Can I gag now?” Starri grinned as he spoke. All their children were accustomed to the open affection between their parents. Not that she was feeling anything near affection for her muleheaded husband at the moment.

  “Send for the scribe. I have a message for Mustaf to take back to that bloody island,” Tykir shouted.

  “Must you bellow?” Alinor complained, putting her hands to her ears. “There is a ringing in my head.”

  “I do not bellow.”

  “Like a bear.” She smiled at her husband.

  “I’m gagging over here,” Starri said. “Next you’ll be kissing and licking each other’s tongues.”

  “Starri!” Alinor chastised.

  Starri shrugged. “Heed me well, I have been living with you two for nigh on twenty-six years. It starts by you insulting each other, then you are staring at each other with cow eyes, then before you know it, the bed furs are shaking so much above stairs that the floor nigh falls through.”

  “Starri!” It was his father speaking now.

  Truth to tell, Tykir was still a virile man, despite his mostly gray hair, despite his fifty and more years, despite the limp from an old battle wound that had become more pronounced over the years. And Alinor was a woman who appreciated her husband’s virility, despite being close to fifty herself, her flaming red hair now muted with silver threads.

  Father Peter, the resident monk, had just arrived with parchment, quill, and a pot of ink. “You wanted to send a message?” he inquired of Tykir.

  “Yea, I do. Very simple.”

  To the Sea Scourge:

  Keep him!

  Tykir Thorksson,

  father of the loathsome lout

  “Do. Not. Dare,” Alinor seethed.

  “Do not interfere in men’s work, wife. I am the head of this family, and—”

  Alinor stood and dumped the contents of the pitcher over her husband’s head.

  Everyone including her loathsome lout of a husband was laughing as she swanned out of the great hall, chin held high. She was not laughing, though, as tears leaked from her eyes. She was worried about Thork.

  Her mother’s heart ached for the love child she and Tykir had created all those years ago, before they were even wed. He would always be special to her. And now he was in danger, and her husband didn’t care.

  We will see about that! Lady Alinor sent her own message.

  War of the Roses, Norse style . . .

  Tykir slept in his bed furs alone for the next two nights, and he did not like it. Not one bit. Alinor was being foolish and would not listen to his very logical reasons for rejecting the ransom demand.

  Some Viking men would not put up with such willfulness from their spouses. True Norsemen would pick up their stubborn women, toss them over their shoulders, smack them on their ample rumps (though Alinor’s was not so ample but just right), and force them to the bed furs. Or else they would just take another woman to bed.

  His marriage to Alinor had never been like that. Not only did he not practice the more danico (she would cut off his manpart if he dared try), but he was happy with her alone. They had been outstanding bed partners from the beginning . . . well, not the very beginning when he’d loathed her precious Saxon sheep and she’d loathed his Viking ways. In any case, he missed her sorely.

  “Mother is very angry with you,” his youngest son, Selik, told him when they broke fast that morning.

  As if he didn’t already know that! He looked at his sixteen-year-old like the lackbrain boyling he still was betimes, though he was of an age to be a full-grown man off a-Viking and married at least once. Some birds needed a good shove out of the nest, though Alinor had told him to leave the bloody nest himself when he’d made that suggestion to her recently. She coddled her sons, if you asked him, which no one did. And it was certainly not a subject he intended to bring up now, not when she was already angry at him.

  “I mean, she is even more angry with you than she has ever been before,” Selik went on.

  Yea, a good shove, that’s what he needs.

  “Even the time you accidentally shot her prized ram in the arse with a stray arrow.” Selik was grinning at him.

  Hah! That arrow had not been so stray, truth be known. The smelly beast had butted him one too many times. And do not think I cannot do the same to you, son of mine, if you keep smirking at me.

  “What are you going to do about it?” Selik persisted, meanwhile starting on his fourth bowl of porridge topped with honey and raisins. Where the lean young man put all that food was beyond Tykir. Had he ever had such an appetite? Probably.

  “What do you think I should do about it? Best you know now,
afore you ever wed, never coddle a woman, or she will have you under her thumb for life.” He turned quickly to make sure Alinor had not overheard him. Luckily, she was nowhere about.

  “You could try saying you are sorry,” Selik suggested.

  “But I am not sorry.”

  Selik shrugged.

  “I have a better idea,” said Guthrom from Tykir’s other side. Guthrom—who’d been silent so far as he stared into his morning ale, suffering from a drukkinn bout yestereve—was four years older than Selik and considered himself far superior in all ways. “You should buy Mother a new amber necklace.”

  “Your mother has more amber necklaces than she could ever wear.”

  Starri came up then and added his two pence. “In my experience with women . . .”

  Oh gods! Now I am going to get a lecture on women from my son!

  “ . . . a man does not have to have done anything wrong to apologize. In fact, an all-encompassing apology sometimes serves best. In other words, say you are sorry but do not specify for what.” Starri beamed at him as if he’d imparted some great wisdom.

  “Go away!” Tykir said to his sons.

  None of them did, of course. Instead, his sons tossed about several other suggestions, none of which resounded with Tykir. There was only one solution, and he’d known it from the start. Getting up from the table, he went off to set his plan in motion.

  It was several hours later when Tykir saw Alinor walking toward the fjord and rushed to catch up with her. “We need to talk, wife,” he said, taking her by the arm.

  She shrugged out of his grip and continued walking, him beside her. “You talked. I disagreed. There is naught more to say, except you are a loathsome lout.”

  That was surely a good sign, her using that term. It had become a form of endearment for them. Leastways, that’s what he told himself. He limped along beside her, his leg hurting more than usual on this damp day, following a night of rain.

  Noticing his limp, she slowed down.

  That, too, had to be a good sign.

  She stopped suddenly and stared ahead. Three of his longships had been moved off their trestles on the field and into the water. They were being prepared for voyage.

  “You are going a-Viking? Now?” she inquired with equal anger and hurt.

  “Not a-Viking, oh you of little faith!”

  She arched a brow at him and put her hands on her hips. He loved when she took that battle stance with him. Once he made her strike the pose naked. What a night that had been!

  “A-rescuing, that is where I am going.”

  At first she did not understand, but when she did, she launched herself at him, knocking him to the ground, her atop him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, oh, I knew you were not such a loathsome lout. I knew deep down that you cared about Thork.” She kept kissing his cheeks and chin and mouth and even his nose between words.

  He would have told her that he always cared about his son, that had never been the issue, but it was her stubbornness that changed his mind. More specifically, her absence from his bed furs. Mayhap he would save that explanation for later.

  Starri came up then from one of the longships, stared down at the two of them, and made a snorting sound of disgust. “Oh gods! They are at it again!”

  Chapter Nine

  Now she was in BIG trouble . . .

  Medana was nervous. Very nervous. And she hated it.

  She felt as if she were walking a narrow precipice, always checking right and left and over her shoulder to make sure she did not slip. Just like the old days back at Stormgard when she had to be constantly on guard lest she cross the path of her half brothers. Danger had lurked around every corner.

  Same was true now, though it was danger of a different sort. Captive Vikings. They lurked everywhere. Asked too many questions. Pretended to be compliant visitors whilst waiting for an opening to pounce.

  Her biggest fear wasn’t physical violence, though that was always a possibility, she supposed, especially when Thork had taken to grinding his teeth every time she told him it would be one more day before they could return them to Hedeby. First, she’d told him, “The bull needs to be acclimated to his new home.”

  “If that randy beast gets any more acclimated, he’ll wear his cock down to a nubbin.”

  Each day, she’d had to come up with another reason for delay. “The fall oats need to be planted from the seeds we purchased in Hedeby.”

  “Give me the damn seeds. My men and I will plant them in one bloody day and be done with the job.”

  “ ’Tis is a new field we are clearing. Before we can plow, we must clear all the rocks. And we have no mule to pull a plow. So . . .”

  “Muleheaded women abound here. They could easily pull a plow, especially if you hitch them together and give them a good kick in their donkey arses.” He’d stared pointedly at her backside.

  Foul man! “The sheep need shearing.”

  “I can think of something else that needs shearing.”

  Is he looking at the joining of my thighs? Frey’s bones, he is! Foul, foul, foul! “Five of my best rowers have developed stomach ailments.”

  “I know of a purge that will cure them in no time. From both ends.”

  Foulness must come naturally to some men. “Many of my women are having their monthly flow. Terrible cramps. Bloody rags. Bad moods. Whew! Your men would not want to be around them now.”

  Usually men fled when a discussion about women’s cycles came up, but not Thork.

  “They have all begun at the same time? Remarkable! And how is it that this happenstance is not affecting their efforts to lure us men to their beds? A little blood ne’er repels most warriors, you know, but women are usually more squeamish about engaging in—”

  “Aaarrgh!” she’d said to cut off the brute’s crude talk and stomped off, his laughter following in her wake.

  She was running out of excuses.

  And always, like a wolf baying at her door, was the fear of disclosure. Once the men found the cave entrance and left Thrudr, only one of them needed to engage in a bout of ale blather, and the safety and security of the island hideaway would be lost forever.

  Oh, how she yearned for the peace of mind she’d come to cherish as chieftain of this island sanctuary!

  And there was another thing. She and her crew should have been off a-Viking, or rather a-pirating, again by now. With almost two hundred inhabitants, there was a constant need for goods that they could not provide for themselves and the treasure to purchase them.

  In fact, there was a particular nunnery off the coast of Ireland, a small but rich one that they had been aiming to hit sometime soon in the usual hit-and-run type invasions the women of Thrudr had perfected. Not being as strong as male pirates, they had to rely on creative methods of attack . . . in other words, slyness. Besides goods and produce, that nunnery had a nice peach orchard. Medana yearned for fresh peaches, and decided that they would somehow dig up some of the fruit tree saplings there to bring back and plant on Thrudr.

  Medana did not feel guilty going after holy places because, really, hadn’t the Christian One-God preached humbleness in his Holy Book? What need was there for nuns devoted to a simple life to hoard gold chalices or mules or fine samite silks or silver crosses? Or peach trees?

  It was the waiting that made Medana twitchy.

  When would they hear from Thork’s father? Two sennights had passed already. What if they got no reply? Mayhap they needed a second plan for getting the men off the island.

  Worry, worry, worry.

  Going into the kitchen, she grabbed a piece of manchet bread and a thin slice of hard cheese, having missed the morning meal. Olga didn’t pay her presence any mind as the big woman towered over Henry, the slant-eyed Viking, who was arguing with her about the correct spice to use with lamb.

  Medana munched as she walked across the grounds, noticing the activity here and there. The young Viking, Brokk, sat on the ground under the shade of an evergreen tree p
laying the board game hnefatafl with some of the children. Supposedly, the youthling had been taken under the wing of Thork when he’d been discovered on the streets of Jorvik, half starved and homeless after the death of his parents.

  The giant, one-eyed Viking, Bolthor, was teaching some of the women a better way to heft a broadsword that would put less strain on their shoulders, the whole time composing a saga titled, “Why Women Should Not Try to Be Men.” Talk about foul! Bolthor had a tongue that was earthy to say the least. The beginning of his poem went something like:

  If women could grow cocks,

  They would, not to mention stones

  . . . male stones, or rocks.

  And decorate the balls and staff

  With lace and trim of golden chaff.

  ’Til the package would be so heavy

  ’Twould more resemble a Yule tree . . .

  That was as far at the poet warrior got before Medana left. Truly, he must be the world’s worst skald.

  Then there was Alrek, the clumsy one, on the roof of one of the longhouses helping to replace a rotted section of thatch. Every time he moved, Medana feared he would slip and break his leg. Then they’d never be rid of these men.

  Finn, the vain Viking, stood behind Liv, who sat on a stool outside the weaving shed. He was demonstrating to a half dozen watching women how to make an intricate braid in her long hair, the kind that was worn by men and women alike in some far-off country.

  Two other men were dragging an enormous dead log down from the forest to be chopped into their never-ending supply of firewood. The hearth fires required vast amounts of fuel for meals and for heat during the long winter months.

  The air of cooperation was misleading, but not to Medana. It was the lull before the storm that was sure to come.

  She finished eating her small repast as she approached the area where Solveig was building a new longship. Well, attempting to build it.