He smiled, a smile that lit the world if he only knew, and said, “Thank you m’lady.”
Chapter 15
Of unicorns and clueless men . . .
Steven and Oslac, fully armed in chain sherts, nosed helmets, and sword and lance, rode horses toward the bottom of the small valley . . . more than four hours from Norstead near the North Sea, the designated spot where he was to meet with Brodir and one of his men.
He was not stupid enough to come unguarded, however. Nor was Brodir. They both had troops lined at the top of opposing hills, ready to battle, if need be. And he had to admit, Brodir’s pirates were an organized bunch, not at all the raggedy band of cutthroats he had expected.
“I noticed you and the sea wench having a heated discussion before you left this morn,” Oslac commented idly.
“She wanted to come with us.”
“In the gods’ names, why?”
“Thinks a woman’s perspective would be helpful.”
Oslac shook his head with disbelief. “She is a willful one.”
“That she is.”
“You raise her above her station.”
“Hard to determine what her station should be.”
“And the time-travel nonsense. Surely you do not believe that flummery.”
He shrugged. “What other explanation could there be? You have not heard all her tales of modern marvels. They are too detailed and imaginative to be a fabrication.”
“You are becoming too close to her, my friend.”
Steven bristled, but then he relaxed, knowing Oslac only had his best interests at heart. In truth, he had been thinking the same himself. His strong sentiments for Rita were troubling and unexpected and posed all kinds of problems for the future, both hers and his.
But he had engaged in the most amazing sex play with her yesterday . . . and through the night. Best of all, she had been with him every step of the way, and ahead of him, betimes. He smiled at some of the memories. It would be hard to give that up. As for it being more than amusement, he could not think on that now.
“You will be leaving Norstead after the Althing,” Steven pointed out. “I must needs have a companion to while away the hours.”
“A companion. Not a woman! And do not forget, you are still betrothed to Olaf’s daughter.”
“That was always a tenuous bargain betwixt my father and Olaf years ago. She may already be wed, for all we know. Furthermore, what has my marriage to do with Ree-tah?” That last statement rang false even to him, but then, by the time he finally took a wife, she might not even be here.
But he had no time to ponder that now. Approaching them, also on horseback, were Brodir and his guardsman.
Brodir was fully armed but without a helmet. Clean-shaven, long blond hair with war braids, slightly taller than him but slimmer. A fine figure of a Viking man, most women would say.
Beside him was that giant troll of a Norseman, Gerleff the Bull, so named because of his massive height and barrel chest. The onetime berserker sported a shaggy beard and unkempt hair. He was as ugly as Brodir was handsome.
“Frigg’s foot! I hope you do not expect me to take on Gerleff if it comes to a fight,” Oslac said. “He would crush me just by giving me a push and standing on my chest.”
Steven laughed. Oslac was an excellent swordsman, and he knew it. Size had naught to do with skill.
The four men dismounted at the same time and tethered their horses to nearby trees. Steven and Oslac removed their helmets as they sat on a boulder facing Brodir and Gerleff on another boulder. In fact, the entire flat bottom of this bowl-like valley was littered with huge rocks, carved out by glaciers aeons ago, according to the sagas. This area had been a meeting place for many over the years, even some Althings.
Steven took the initiative. “You have my sister Disa.”
“I do.”
“Why did you not bring her?”
He arched his eyebrows as if Steven were daft.
“If she is harmed in any way—”
Brodir raised a halting hand. “Disa is well, and as disagreeable as any woman can be. If we come to some agreement today, I will return her to you, gladly.”
“I have not seen my sister in four years, afore her husband died. She ever was one to speak her mind,” he admitted.
“She calls me a loathsome lout with the brain of a dwarf and the manners of a troll. And that is the least of her insults.”
Steven swallowed a grin. “I recall one time, when we were young, she said I would wag my tail at a statue if it had breasts. At the time I was smitten with the swine herder’s daughter.” But enough of that. “What do you want, Brodir? What happened to you, a far-famed warrior of honor, to come to this pass? You have to know you are considered a nithing by one and all, an outlaw of the worst sort.”
Brodir’s cheeks heightened with color, and he put a hand to the hilt of his sword, then dropped it. “Two years past, I killed a man. A Dane named Hogar. That I admit. But the man had beaten to death a village maid who spurned his attentions and burned her cottage to the ground to cover his crime.”
“So why did you get charged?”
“Elsbeth was my mistress.” He gulped as if to contain his emotions. “She carried my unborn child. Hogar put it about that I was unhappy about the coming babe, and since Elsbeth was of common blood, no candidate for marriage.”
He recalled then that Brodir’s father had been a high jarl at one time but had been long dead, even by that time. Although of noble blood, Brodir had been landless, being a younger son.
“Did you take your case to the king?”
“Not the king himself. Even if I was believed, the wergild for a serving woman, even a free one who was pregnant, would have been mere coin, and not that much. I wanted a confession and satisfaction beyond some rich man’s purse.”
“Why would the Althing court take the word of Hogar’s family over yours?”
“Because Hogar was a cousin of King Olaf.”
Ah! “And you had no friends to stand for you?”
“I did have a witness. Your brother Thorfinn.”
“That is convenient, since Finn is gone and cannot prove your story.”
“He was there, I tell you. When Hogar’s family started the rumor of my killing him without provocation, that it was me who killed Elsbeth, as well, I took my case to the king’s advisors and was told the law court would listen to my pleas at the next Althing three months hence. But then Thorfinn got a missive from you telling him of a sighting of Luta and his baby in Baghdad. He rushed off to meet you there, promising to be back well before the hearing.”
“And that was when Thorfinn went missing,” Steven finished for him. “What do you want of me?”
“I want your help in removing my outlaw status.”
Steven widened his eyes at that.
“I believe there has to be at least one man in your employ who was with Thorfinn at the time, who can help prove my innocence.”
“Even if that were so, Brodir, there have been so many crimes since then.”
“Such as?”
“Well, you and your men raped those novices at Sudeby and put a blood eagle on the abbess, for sport.”
“Pfff! If you believe that, I have a one-horned horse to sell you. Think on it, Steven, dost honestly think I need to rape a girl? Women . . . even girls . . . approach me, not the other way round. And, truth to tell, I have never blood-eagled an enemy in battle, let alone a helpless female.”
“And you are accused of using your fighting skills to organize pirates and train them to attack in fleets.”
“And this is a crime? Because I fight to survive, I am less than those honored men who go a-Viking for plunder in Saxon lands? Nay, everything of which I am accused is mostly false, and it all spiraled out from the death of Elsbeth and my killing Hogar. If I can have that slate wiped clean, the rest will follow.”
“And now we come back to my sister.”
“Investigate amongst your men for me a
nd set up a hearing for me before the Althing to be held on your lands. I will come willingly and hand over Disa.”
“You would trust me?”
“I would if you give your word.”
Steven wiped a hand over his face.
“This is what Thorfinn would want you to do.”
Steven bristled. That was a low blow, but it was true nonetheless.
They agreed then with a clasp of fists and after several horns of ale. Once notified, Brodir would come to Norstead with Disa and a handful of men only. He would be escorted by Steven’s hersirs and housecarls to Norstead, for his protection on the day of his hearing.
As they were mounting their horses to return to Norstead late that afternoon, Brodir commented, “I hear you have a strange sea wench living at Norstead.”
Brodir heard too much, Steven realized. He must have a spy in his camp.
Before he could answer, Oslac said, “I suggested we exchange the sea wench for Disa, but you might find her even more difficult to handle than Steven’s sister.”
Steven did not bother to correct Oslac’s statement that he would be willing to make such an exchange. He had only ever agreed to consider such a possibility as a last resort.
“I do not think there could be a more difficult female than Disa, if you must know.”
For an odd second, Steven thought that Brodir was protesting too much, and he recalled Rita’s advice. “Dost know what my sea wench suggests regarding our negotiations for Disa’s release?”
Brodir frowned with confusion. “Why would you be taking a woman’s counsel on men’s affairs?”
Steven and Oslac both laughed. As if they had any choice where Rita was concerned.
“She thinks you and Disa should marry.”
Brodir started coughing as air went down the wrong passageway. His complexion was rather green when he raised his head. “You jest?”
Steven shrugged. He liked Brodir, and he honestly hoped he could be proved innocent. “Stranger things have happened.”
Like time travel, he thought.
As he and his troop rode home that afternoon, more than half a day since he had left at dawn, he wondered what Rita was up to in his absence. He had told her to stay put inside the keep, and she had promised to obey his order. No doubt she was sleeping after their sleepless night. Resting for another sleepless night, he hoped.
What kind of trouble could she get into inside the keep, sleeping or not?
Men name their penises, why not women? . . .
Rita awakened soon after dawn, happier and more energized than she’d been in years, despite being sore in some intimate places. A soreness she rather liked.
The source of her soreness was gone already, off to meet the pirates. Arg! Ahoy, maties, and all that! Her first inclination was to think, Men and their games! But this could be dangerous, and she would worry until he returned, hopefully this evening.
In the meantime, she had deodorant to invent, she decided with a chuckle. Jumping out of bed, she dressed in an old faded gown, which she figured would be more suitable to the type of work she envisioned. Luckily, Sigge had returned and was eager to help her. Plus, the two aunts were expected to arrive later this morning with more of the herbs and oils she hoped to experiment with.
“Don’t you have work to do here, Sigge? I mean, are you allowed to flit off whenever you want?”
“Certainly. I tend the herb gardens, and whilst at my aunts’ cottage, I replenish stock that has died or run out. Many herbs have to be replanted each year.”
First they went down to the kitchen, where Rita introduced herself to the head cook, Brighid, an Irishwoman of fifty-odd years who had come to Norstead as the child of a thrall. Both mother, Ceara, and child had earned their freedom long ago. The elderly mother sat at the other end of a long table snapping string beans.
The enormous kitchen was a bustling hive of activity, even this early in the morning. At least a dozen people worked to set out the first meal of the day . . . mostly leftovers from the night before, but already a skinned and gutted deer was being put on the spit to cook all day. Some of them introduced themselves.
One cook’s assistant, Groa, was kneading dough. Another, Herdis, was baking the round, flat loaves of unleavened manchet bread. The circular bread had holes poked in the middle so that when baked they could be stored on a long, upright pole. Groa and Herdis moved efficiently, producing dozens of the wheels within minutes. Not so quick was another maid who was using a primitive quern stone to grind grain into wheat. Yet another churned milk into butter.
When she offered to help, the cook’s eyebrows arched. Apparently lowly kitchen jobs were usually done only by servants. And no one was sure just how to classify her. But there was much extra work necessary to prepare for the Althing, a big assembly of Vikings to be held here in a few days, including some specialty dishes, one of which Sigge explained to her in an undertone so as not to offend anyone. The dish in question, called sviâ, sat on a side table, ready to be put in the cold storage room until the day it would be prepared. Sviâ was a sheep’s head, complete with eyes, which would be boiled and eaten after pickling, Sigge told her, giggling when Rita gagged. Rita prided herself on her strong stomach and willingness to try new dishes, but sheep’s eyeballs? No way!
“How are ya at skinning eels?” Brighid asked.
Rita could hear splashing noises from the eel barrel by the door. “Uhm, isn’t there something else?” she asked.
Soon she sat next to Sigge, working on a virtual mountain of clean vegetables, which they began to peel. Turnips and carrots, mostly. The peelings were saved to be put in the soup cauldron, which was always bubbling over the fire.
“The reason I came down here, actually,” Rita told the cook, “is that I need to borrow a bunch of pots and containers for some experiments. Oh, don’t worry. I won’t take up space in your kitchen. I can work out in the laundry area on the washtub fires, since today isn’t laundry day.”
“What kind of ex-parry-mens?” Brighid asked suspiciously, eying Sigge at the same time. “I doan want no witchy rites bein’ done in my kitchens or kitchen area.”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. I want to create deodorant, and I’m not sure what combination of what herbs and oils will work best.” She went on to explain what deodorant was.
“What? Are ye daft? Folks here are cleaner than any place I know,” Brighid said with affront. “Better than Saxons, fer a certainty. Those folks doan bathe but once a year, I hear. In fact, some say the Vikings take too many baths.”
“I don’t mean to be insulting, but everyone perspires and creates body odor, especially the underarms. Even if you shower or bathe every day, there will probably be odor if you don’t use a deodorant.”
“And ye think that is a bad odor?” Brighid asked.
“Don’t you?”
“Ya get used to it, I guess.” Brighid shrugged. “Besides, I like a man what smells like a man, not a bloody flower.”
Others in the room agreed with her.
“Doan get me wrong, some folks go too far and they turn ripe, if ya get my meaning.”
If you asked Rita, there were a lot of ripe fruits here at Norstead, some of them in this very kitchen. But she was a visitor to this culture and should tread politely, she cautioned herself.
“Ya oughtta concentrate on bad breath,” said Solveig, who was cracking walnuts. “When my Arne has had more than two horns of ale, he ’bout knocks me out when he comes ta bed.”
“Ale breath.” Groa nodded.
“I know what’s worse than that,” Herdis said. “When a drukkinn man breaks wind. Phew!” She waved a hand in front of her face.
“Beer farts!” a boy who had just begun turning the spit pronounced. When his mother made a shushing sound, he hooted, “Beer farts! Beer farts! Beer farts!” and ran away when his mother tried to swat his behind.
“How ’bout moldy rushes when the dogs have been loose too many sennights?” still another woman offered.
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“Didja ever smell pus when it be putrifyin’ in an open wound? Before they cut off Njal’s leg, the stink was enough ta gag a maggot.” This from Ceara, who fanned her face in remembrance.
“Seems there are enough bad smells without worryin’ on underarms,” the cook said, shaking her head at what she considered a frivolous exercise. Still, she went into a storeroom and came back with several pots and pottery jars used to store honey and spices. “Would these work?”
“Perfect! Thank you very much. I’ll wait to start until after things settle down here in the kitchen.”
Talk moved on then to the upcoming Althing, which caused considerable excitement. Apparently, there were only one or two of these events held each year, and while serious business was transacted, it was also an occasion for visiting and entertainment. Music, dancing, games. Like a giant medieval fair.
“Wonder how many babes will be born nine months hence,” Bergliot, a big-breasted woman with a twinkle in her eye, pondered while she piled bread, cheese, and slices of cold meat on a huge wooden trencher. “Last year, there musta been twenty jist here at Norstead alone.”
“One of them yer little Bjorn,” Brighid teased.
The others smiled, possibly at fond memories.
“I like ta visit the different booths where folks bring things ta sell,” a young girl named Deidre remarked. “Remember those candle molds we found two years past,” she said to Brighid, who Rita assumed was her mother, considering the bright red frizzy hair on both of them. “The ones that mark the hours of the day?”
“According to my history books, those time-keeping candles were invented by the Saxon King Alfred,” Rita contributed.
They all flashed her a “Duh?” look.
“There is one whole booth that sells nothing but ribands,” Sigge told Rita. “And of course my aunts have their own booth for healing and love potions.”
“Hah! I bought one of them love potions and it dint do nothin’ ta make Uggi marry up with me,” Ceara said with disgust. “But he did join me in the bed furs afore he realized who I was.”