“We got a bear,” he announced again as he shrugged out of his cloak and did a little fist-pumping, hip-thrusting dance toward her unlike anything these gap-jawed, incredulous Vikings had ever seen, but would be good competition on Dancing with the Stars. Who knew the big guy could dance like that! If he put the wolf head back on, he could call it Dancing with Wolves.
She set down the ladle she’d been using to scoop flour into her sourdough mix, and he lifted her by the waist high in the air. Flour scattered from her hands, which were braced on his shoulders for support. He laughed and twirled her about, then kissed her full on the mouth. A delicious, wet, peppermint kiss.
She would have protested, or kissed him back, but he’d already set her down, and was doing the same to Girda. Well, maybe not a wet kiss and not directly on Girda’s mouth. “We got a bear! We got a bear!”
“A bear fer the yule feast? What luck! Mayhap it will be a happy Jól, after all,” Girda said, back on her feet.
Andrea hadn’t a clue how to cook a bear. Was it even edible? Must be, or everyone wouldn’t be so happy. If nothing else, she could try to make bear soup, she thought with silent humor.
“And we got a small boar, too. We’ll give that to the villagers,” Cnut announced. “Now we know where the boar herd is wintering, we can go back out on the morrow and get more.”
On the morrow. Andrea repeated Cnut’s words back to herself. The longer he was back in this century, the more he was beginning to sound just like his people.
The atmosphere in the castle, which had been grim, turned suddenly joyous. The famine wasn’t over, but there was hope now.
“What about the others?” Cnut asked. “Have they returned?”
“Arnstein and Ingolf come in every other day with fish. Mostly smaller fish, but they are trying to cut the ice in a different spot today,” Girda told him. “The gods may bless them with bigger fish there.”
She noticed Cnut flinch slightly at the mention of multiple gods, but he didn’t correct Girda. Instead, he inquired, “And the others? Those who went afar, to the ocean? Those who went to our neighbors for help?”
Girda shook her head dolefully. Andrea knew the cook was worried, just as she’d been worried about Cnut and all the game hunters.
Cnut told them about the demise of Igor and how they didn’t even have a body for funeral rites. Then Thorkel, who’d come in by then, too, related some wild tale about Igor being devoured by Lucky Bears, huge, scaly beasts with fangs and tails that Cnut had then destroyed with a special sword. Andrea’s eyes connected with Cnut’s in question, and he nodded.
Lucipires? In the Dark Ages? What next?
“Ah, well, Igor must be in Valhalla by now with his very own Valkyrie, drinking mead with the gods,” Thorkel said. “Odin be praised!”
The look in Cnut’s eyes disagreed with Igor’s fate. What was the name of the place Cnut had told Andrea about? Ah, yes. Horror.
Despite the death of one of their own, the people had much to be thankful for, and they celebrated in the way Vikings knew best, by breaking open one of the few remaining kegs of ale.
But first, Cnut and the returning hunters went to the bathhouse, which was fed by a steam-filled hot spring, to wash off the detritus of animal blood and remains, not to mention a week of sweat. One of the channels leading to the spring had been clogged with leaves and other debris, just like a bath pipe, and hadn’t been useable until it was fixed yesterday. Since then, people had been taking turns bathing. Vikings, unlike many cultures of this time, valued bodily cleanliness.
While Cnut and his comrades were bathing, two other groups of hunters returned. They were preceded by the loud yipping and yapping of the hunting dogs. The hunters weren’t quite as successful as Cnut’s group, but still they brought more game for the larder. Two reindeer, another boar, and several beavers, whose fur was desirable and the meat edible if not appetizing. Aslak came back from his snaring with a brace of small animals. Rabbits, squirrels, possums, and quail.
An air of festivity swept through Hoggstead then. Even the villagers who came for their daily rations were not their usual gaunt, grim-faced selves. And when given one of the boar and a deer, the men, as well as the women, appeared teary-eyed.
Girda was practically orgasmic with delight over all the work to do. Yelling out orders like a drill sergeant, she soon had an assembly line of workers outside, skinning and gutting and defeathering the animals, and cutting up the massive bear. The dogs were equally ecstatic over the feast of stray parts, in addition to the entrails they’d eaten while in the woods. Girda would have liked to make black pudding, or blood sausage, but the hunters had drained the animals while in the field, by necessity.
Soon, everyone was crowded into the great hall, anxiously waiting for the hunters to finish their quickly prepared meal of fish chowder and venison with manchet bread. There was also a bowl of skyr, the Norse cheese product similar to yogurt and modern cottage cheese. No one seemed to mind the plain fare. In fact, they raved about Andrea’s soup, and she preened. Was there any greater satisfaction for a cook than an appreciative diner?
Finally, stomachs as full as they were going to get, the men leaned back on their benches—Cnut was sitting below the dais with them—and began to regale the crowd with tales of their brave expeditions. Andrea barely listened to the details; she was more interested in Cnut, who was content to sip from his horn of ale and let others take the glory.
He looked every bit the Viking warrior in belted tunic over slim pants as he sat there with a slight smile on his face. He’d shaved his face, but he’d left his head bristly where it had been bald before, and he’d undone the braid that ran from forehead to nape and beyond. Instead, he now had a swath of hair down the middle of his head, tied with a leather thong, like a low ponytail, similar to her own long blonde French braid. She assumed he was going to let his shaved hair grow out. Too bad. She kind of liked the Ragnar look.
Andrea was wearing Viking attire, too, after bathing in the steam house last night. A long, pale blue gown, called a gunna, minus the apron, which she’d left behind in the kitchen.
Cnut noticed her looking at him and motioned with his fingertips for her to come join him. Finn had just vacated the chair on one side of him. She hesitated, then walked over.
He watched her through slitted eyes as she approached. “I want to thank you for all your help while I was gone. Girda tells me you have worked hard and given her ideas for better ways to use what we have. Though she did have some complaints about an excess of soup.”
“Soup is the poor man’s caviar.”
“Whoever said that has never eaten caviar.”
“Or maybe whoever coined that phrase knew that a good soup makes a wonderful meal.”
He motioned with a forefinger in the air as if giving her a point. “You’re looking very Viking-ish today.” He gave her a full-body survey before she sat down.
“So are you. Very Chris Hemsworth Thor-ish.”
“I had to borrow clothing from Thorkel. My old garments are twice my size now.”
Glancing downward, she said, “I’m not totally Viking-ish.” She still wore cowboy boots, there being no extra Viking shoes for her.
“Actually, it’s rather a nice mix of old and modern,” Cnut observed. “Cowgirl Viking vintage. The only thing missing is the cowboy hat.”
She smiled and sat down beside him. “Someone confiscated my hat. I think it was Girda. It might be her sun hat come next summer.”
“I’d like to see that!”
That possibility filled her with alarm. “We won’t be here that long, will we?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “By the way, I have news for you. Good news.” He pulled his cell phone out of a leather placket hanging from his belt. “While we were hunting, up high on the mountain, I noticed that I had an e-mail message.”
“What? Give me that? I didn’t know you had a cell phone. Let me call my father, or someone who can help us . . .” Her words pet
ered off as she realized she didn’t know anyone who could aid them in reverse time travel. In fact, all the people she knew hadn’t even been born yet, and wouldn’t be for hundreds and hundreds of years. Aaarrgh!
Cnut held the phone out of reach and said, “It would do you no good to try. Obviously, there is no reception here.”
“Then how did you get an e-mail message? And who was it from?”
“It must have been sent before our time travel was completed. It’s from Vikar.” He noticed that they were drawing attention. She’d like to see how he explained cell phones, or even plastic, to Dark Age people. So he handed her the phone. “Look. You can read it.”
Andrea could tell right off that there was little battery life left on the cell phone, but she pressed a few buttons in order to read the most recent message. It came from
[email protected]:
Lucies overrunning ranch. Out of here. For now. Cecilia Stewart rescued. Where the hell are you?
Tears filled her eyes.
“What? I thought you’d be happy.”
“I am. I mean, I’m relieved, somewhat, but I’m not sure what ‘rescued’ means. Does it mean she’s injured but out of ISIS hands? Or she’s uninjured but still in ISIS hands? Or she escaped the demon thingees, but is still at large?”
“I think you’re overthinking this.”
“I need to see Celie for myself, Cnut. Can we go back now that there’s food for your people?”
He shook his head. “The hunts were good, but that’s not nearly enough to last through the winter. I have a hundred and twenty or so people here at Hoggstead to feed, and another fifty in the village.”
“It seems odd that you have more people living up here in the castle than you do in the village and farms.”
“Not so odd. This is just the winter occupation. During spring and summer and early autumn, the blacksmith, weavers, and various workers move into outbuildings. It’s too difficult to heat them all during deep winter.”
She nodded hesitantly. He still hadn’t answered her question about going back to the future.
“To answer your question, no, we do not have enough food or supplies yet. Soon we’ll be snowbound until the spring thaw. There will be no opportunity then for hunting or anything else.”
“That’s what Girda said. A month at most is what she predicts before the food is gone, even with rationing. Is that possible?”
“Probable.”
“How could this happen? Not the famine, but the shortage. Why didn’t they plan ahead?”
“Not they. Me,” he told her. “I could have prevented the dire circumstance Hoggstead is in now, or at least forestalled the worst by letting loose of some of my hoarded coins and treasures to buy goods where there is no famine. There was time. But I am a selfish glutton. I ate, nay, gorged myself while others starved. I cared more for my wealth than for those under my shield. My appetites rule me.”
“You’re different now.”
“Not all that different. Not totally. I still want to devour a whole haunch of boar when no one’s looking. Before we returned to the keep today, I was tempted to eat the bear’s heart raw. I fear how much ale I will drink afore I fall into my bed furs this night. And you . . . ah, spare me Lord, but I want to ravish you so bad I can taste your coconut. I have fantasies about . . . you do not want to know!”
She blinked at him. Was he kidding? No, that smoldering look in his silver-blue eyes was no joke. She licked her lips, and inhaled his peppermint scent. Delicious. Intoxicating. No, no, no, she couldn’t succumb to this insanity. “How long? How long before we can leave?”
He shrugged. “If we make it until spring, all should be well. I can empty my treasure room, if necessary, or sell a few longships.”
A few longships? How many does he have? Never mind. That’s not important now. “That could be as much as four or five months!” she wailed.
He nodded. “There’s one thing you must understand. Like most deluded people, you believe you can control the path of your life. I know better than most, through a thousand and more years of living on the Earth, that only the Lord steers our destiny. We cruise along in life thinking we have done all the proper planning—education, righteous living, good jobs—therefore ensuring a certain future, but then God, or St. Michael, sticks out his big toe, and bam, we are flat on our faces, wondering how our carefully laid plans could go so awry.”
She had to laugh at the image. But then she realized something. “Let’s cut to the bone here. Are you trying to say you have no control over when, or if, we go back?” She felt herself panic at the prospect of being stuck here forever.
“Yes.”
She swatted him on the arm. “You idiot! You led me to believe—”
“No, no, no! You assumed I could wave a magic wand, or sprout angel wings, or something, and we would suddenly be back in the future in the exact time and space I wanted. It doesn’t work that way, or exactly.”
“How does it work, exactly?”
“Sarcasm ill-suits you, m’lady,” he said with a grin.
She swatted him again and muttered, “M’lady, my ass.”
“That, too.” He winked at her and tried to hold her hand in his, but she tugged it away. She wasn’t going to be soft-soaped by winks or sweet touches.
“In the past, for many centuries, we vangels went back and forth through time, up to and including the twentieth century. Never at our own selection. Just a sudden relocation when one mission was completed and a new one started. We lived in caves. We lived in castles. We were knights and slaves, gladiators and lion food, Cossacks and pilgrims, wherever there were grievous sinners and Lucipires, we went. But then Michael decided at the beginning of the twenty-first century that there was enough evil there to warrant a permanent detachment of vangels staying there. So now we may move sideways, from place to place in present times, but no more back and forth through the ages.”
“How do you explain our coming back then?”
“I can’t,” he said. “I only know that Michael had to have a hand in this. I’m assuming he wants me to correct my past mistakes. Or rid this region of Lucipires. Or punish me. Maybe all of those, or something else altogether.
“Or maybe we made a wrong turn on the time-travel highway. Maybe it was a mistake, like Ivak getting Gabrielle pregnant, even though he’s sterile, was a mistake that Michael never anticipated.” He shrugged. “It’s hard to tell with Michael.”
“Why can’t he be more clear?”
“I wish! It’s not the way he works.”
“Why am I involved? I mean, I can see how it works for you. You’re a frickin’ vangel. I’m just a pastry chef.”
“I’m not sure.”
“That’s just great. If you don’t know, who does?”
“It may have something to do with that lifemate crap.”
“Um, what’s a lifemate?”
“You know, the sex lures we both apparently exude, just to each other, coconut and peppermint, but those aren’t sent by Michael, I don’t think. In fact, they interfere with his plans, usually, and that annoys him.”
“At the moment, I’m not worried about annoying anyone, even a saint.”
“You should be,” he said. “If we’re intended as lifemates, we’re essentially one person in vangeldom. Where I go, you would go. If I die, you would die. So, it makes a kind of warped sense that if I teletransported myself, you would come with me.”
“That makes as much sense as this whole ridiculous situation.”
“It is what it is.”
“I hate that expression.”
“It is what it is.”
She swatted him. “If we’re going to have to stay here for a while, I would appreciate it if you would stop doing that thing you do to me.”
“And you say I don’t make sense!”
“Tingle. Every time you come near me, I smell peppermint, and my skin gets all tingly. Look.” She drew up the long sleeve on her gown to show him her forearm where the blonde hairs
were standing on end. “See. Tingly.”
He grinned at her, not taking her seriously at all. Or so she thought. Until he extended his own forearm to show her the dark blond hairs raised like a field of erotic antennae.
“Coconut tingles,” he explained.
Chapter 13
A VIKING FEAST (just a little one)
Filet of venison, thin sliced in drippings
Slow-roasted bear flank with horseradish glaze
Poached bear brains in curdled milk sauce
Deer foot jelly
Bass in garlic butter
Turnips and mixed livers in onion butter
Turnips in bear marrow aspic
Mashed turnip custard
Honey-glazed doughnuts
Oh, the appetites of a virile Viking man! . . .
Cnut couldn’t stop thinking about Andrea, ever since he’d returned. Who was he kidding? Before that, too.
He loved the way she’d stepped right up to help him with his problems here at Hoggstead. Girda said she had no airs about her and was willing to take on even the most menial tasks in the kitchen, not just her own culinary creations.
He loved the fact that she hadn’t gone hysterical, like many women would, on realizing what had happened to them. Well, except for the constant swatting and calling him an idiot.
He loved her coconut smell. He wondered if she smelled that way all over. Forget that! He wondered how she tasted. All over.
He’d spent most of the day in the midst of blood and guts, cutting up all the carcasses, putting some pieces in the smokehouse, salting down others, and just hanging some parts in the root cellar to dry and age . . . unless they needed the meat before then.
The other hunters had come in this afternoon with a small amount of game, but they would all go out again tomorrow. Best they get in all the hunting they could before the big snows came.