Herbed beets
Creamed turnips
Peas with leeks (and turnip)
Boiled onions served in bear gravy
Lentil pottage (with turnip)
Vinegar and smoked pork over endive
Mustard
Pickles
Raspberry-flavored frumenty
Horseradish
Manchet bread
Sourdough rolls
Honey-egg custard
Apple and currant nutmeg tarts
Honey oatcakes
Cream-filled doughnuts (just a few)
Assorted nuts, glazed and salted
Ale and mead (for all)
Wine (for high table only)
Here comes the bride . . . and the devil in disguise . . .
Cnut could almost be happy living here in the past, considering his present mood. Of course, it was the Jól spirit that pervaded his keep as everyone worked to make tonight’s feast and Thorkel and Dyna’s wedding a success. Cnut had even invited all the farmers and villagers to attend.
Of course, first he had to break up the fight between his cook and the lovely Reynilda. Apparently, Reynilda had returned her porridge to the kitchen, complaining that milk and not cream had been used in the making, and the butter had not been freshly churned. When no new bowl had been sent to the hall, Reynilda had gone storming in, demanding her due.
Cnut separated the two of them and motioned for Reynilda to speak first. “All I wanted was my usual morning meal. Cooked oats with honey and cream. Is that too much to ask?” Reynilda’s blue eyes filled with huge crocodile tears as she glanced up at him.
“Hah! I served her majesty the usual porridge what we all eat here. I even put in some milk and butter.”
“The butter was rancid.”
“Was not!” Girda countered. “Methinks ye wouldn’t know bad butter from pig lard.”
“Oh, oh, oh! Didst hear that rudeness, Cnut? You should whip the woman.”
Girda put her hands on her hips, daring him to raise a hand at her.
Not in this lifetime, or any other!
“Where is that other cook? The skinny one who was stealing cloth from your treasure room.”
Unfortunately, Andrea chose that moment to enter the kitchen. While she might refer to herself as skinny, being described thus by a woman she did not admire clearly did not sit well with her. Before she could speak her mind, Cnut interjected, “Wouldst care to take a walk, Reynilda? The snow has stopped, and it’s beautiful outside. Mayhap the fresh air will heighten your appetite, and by the time we return, porridge to your satisfaction will be prepared.”
“Oh, that would be nice,” she cooed, and went off to gather her cloak.
Meanwhile, he glared at both Girda and Andrea. “Is it asking too much for you to prepare a special bowl for her?”
“I have too much ta do preparing fer tonight’s feast,” Girda said stubbornly.
“I’ll do it,” Andrea offered.
Really? He hoped she wouldn’t spit in it. But then, he really didn’t care.
At that moment, Thorkel came in, encouraging him to go out for the yule log, or yule tree, or whatever you wanted to call it. So he and six men, including Thorkel, went out with axes. And took Reynilda with them for the walk, and what a mistake that was! She did nothing but complain. Or offer him false compliments.
“My boots are getting wet.”
“Cnut, I can’t get over how handsome you look.”
“It’s so cold.”
“Cnut, you are so good at picking out yule logs. I never would have chosen those.”
“How far are we going? My legs are getting tired. Can I lean on you?”
“How strong you are in wielding an axe, Cnut. I warrant you are just as capable at lopping off enemy heads.”
“Do you think I can break fast when we return to the keep? My stomach is rumbling with hunger.”
“You could pick any wife you wanted now, Cnut. Best you get rid of that Andrea woman first, though. Her lack of comeliness makes you look as if you have no choice.”
“Why do we not ride horses? Isn’t there a sleigh we could hook up to the horses? Oh. Do we have to go into the forest where the horses cannot go? Why not go down in the village and take some of their logs? Cotters have no need of yule celebrations, especially during a famine. You have invited them to tonight’s feast? Why?”
“What a generous man you are, Cnut! How admirable!”
Twice, she’d picked mistletoe off an oak tree and held it over her head for Cnut to kiss her. He did, once on the cheek, and once on her mouth when she turned quickly. The overpowering scent of lemon almost made him gag.
Cnut’s men just rolled their eyes at all Reynilda’s chatter. Personally, he’d like to stick a plug in her mouth.
They came back to the keep, not with a yule tree, but with three huge logs, cut from an enormous dead oak tree that must have been felled by lightning some time ago. Each of the logs was six feet long and two feet in diameter. They would burn long and hot this evening and into tomorrow.
Reynilda went off to eat her newly prepared porridge, after which, she announced, she and her maids would take over the bathhouse for an hour or two.
Andrea talked Cnut and the woodworker, Hastein, into building a simple trellis for Thorkel and Dyna’s wedding ceremony. Cnut was impressed to see the array of wood animals that Hastein had carved as yule gifts for the children, at Andrea’s request. Horses, cows, deer, dogs, cats, bears, and so on. Cnut should have thought of gifts himself, but hadn’t. He would have to find something for Andrea . . . and for Reynilda, he supposed. After they brought the trellis into the great hall and placed it by the fragrant Christmas tree, Andrea and Dyna decorated it with trailing pine and holly boughs. He had to admit, it looked lovely. The whole hall did.
Succulent odors of cooking food permeated the keep, along with the evergreen. Roasting meat, sweet cakes, and the like. Festive smells. Stomachs rumbled with anticipation for the special treats that would be on all the tables tonight, his included. In the old days, he would have been unable to stop himself from gorging on a five-pound slab of pork before it ever left the kitchen. He was still tempted. Best he think of other things, he chided himself. Like his other appetites. How soon could they tap the barrel of ale? How soon could he tup Andrea again?
Speaking—rather thinking—of Andrea, the witch must have invaded his treasure room again, he realized, scanning the large room and seeing all the small candles on the tree, and the dozens of thick candles sitting here and there along the trestle tables surrounded by Christmas greenery, and, yes, red silk bows. They would be lit ceremoniously before the evening meal.
He had some plans for all those red silk ribbons. Later tonight.
Some of the youthlings were practicing songs, accompanied by the lute player. Younger children were singing anachronistic “Jingle Bells” and “Here Comes Santa Claus,” thanks to Andrea, no doubt.
Finally, he had a chance to talk with Farle in private. They were out in the bathing house, about to change into their yule finery—his borrowed once again from Thorkel. He’d given all his old garments to the sewing women to remake into more normal-size apparel. Some for himself, assuming he would be here long enough to avail himself of their use, and others to be dispersed among men in need of such.
“So, tell me everything you learned at Storm’s Lair.” Cnut was sitting in the pool up to his chest, and Farle was doing the same on the other side.
“Ah, a snake pit of intrigue it is there, master. Ye wouldn’t want to spend any more time there than necessary. Rumor is that Princess Reynilda poisoned Jarl Esgar when he refused to take her to the Althing last summer and then declined King Halfdan’s invitation to celebrate the yule season at his southern palace, claiming diminished funds due to the famine. There is no proof, but Esgar’s eldest son by his first marriage, Bjorg, holds the odel rights of inheritance and is said to be coming from the Scottish isles to take over the jarldom. Needless to sa
y, there is no love lost betwixt the princess and Bjorg.”
“And so she comes here . . . why?”
Farle shrugged, but the answer was obvious. “I am to be her latest victim?” Cnut guessed.
“That is not for me to say.”
Yeah, right.
“The group that come with her are jist as bad,” Farle said. “A brother and sister what are swiving each other. A maid with loose fingers that steals anything she can lay her hands on. A man who rapes young girls, sometimes fer his mistress’s enjoyment. And a cobbler who’s been makin’ more than shoes with the princess, if ye get my meaning.”
Cnut put his face in his hands and sighed. He looked up then. “I don’t understand. She seemed to come out of generosity. She brought plenty of goods with her.”
Farle nodded. “As much as she could carry off before Bjorg gets there and cuts off her supply. Every bit of jewelry and clothing she owns, even some of Esgar’s. A chest so heavy with coins it took two men to carry it. In truth, anything of value that wasn’t nailed down or locked up. She would have taken Esgar’s longships if she could have pushed them down the fjord.”
“You mean she has no intention of returning to Storm’s Lair? No! She can’t stay here,” Cnut said with dismay. “Mayhap she’ll go back to her father’s home in Lade.”
“Mayhap.” Farle sounded skeptical. “Be careful she don’t poison yer lady friend.”
“My lady friend? What? Who? Andrea? Why would you even suggest such a thing?”
“Anything or anyone who gets in her way dies or disappears, so they say at Storm’s Lair.”
“But Andrea?”
Farle shrugged.
“She wouldn’t!”
“If ye say so, m’lord.”
On that happy note, Cnut dried off, put on clean clothing, then stomped into the keep, where he sought out Andrea, who was on a wooden ladder hanging holly from one of the rafters. He yelled up to her, “Andrea!”
The ladder wobbled and she almost fell.
“What?” she asked, irritably.
“Don’t eat or drink anything unless I’ve tasted it first.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Maybe.”
“Who’s that handsome guy who just came in?”
“What handsome guy?” he asked. This time it was his voice carrying a note of irritability. He was the only handsome guy he wanted her noticing.
“Over there. By the door. The one who looks like one of the Three Wise Men. Betcha he parked his camel outside. Ha, ha, ha.”
Cnut looked, and then did a double take. True, the guy wore sumptuous, bejeweled garments in the Eastern style, with a turban, of all things, on his lackwit head.
It was Zeb, the most unlikely, and least welcome, Christmas visitor. Cnut could just imagine the conversation among his brothers:
What did Cnut get for Christmas?
Laid?
Besides that?
A partridge in a pear tree?
What would Cnut do with a pear tree?
I know. Six geese a-laying . . . so he could eat the world’s biggest omelette?
No, Cnut’s Christmas surprise wasn’t food. It was a person. Of sorts. Guess which yule visitor came knock, knock, knocking on our brother’s door?
A jolly old fellow wearing a red hat?
No, a demon wearing a turban. Yuck, yuck!
On the other hand, Cnut mused, maybe there really had been a fourth Wise Man, as many historians claimed. A demon vampire. Cnut would know he was right if Zeb was carrying gold, or frankincense, or myrrh. What in bloody hell was myrrh anyhow? And who needed that kind of stuff? Better he bring a fatted calf, or some sheep. There were sheep at the Nativity, weren’t there?
“Who are you talking to?” Andrea asked as she climbed down the ladder.
Oops! He hadn’t realized he was speaking his thoughts aloud. As she stepped off the ladder, Cnut noticed that Andrea hadn’t yet dressed for the upcoming festivities. Instead, she wore what you could call her work clothes: scruffy boots (she’s going to lose her designer creds), tight jeans (oh yeah!), and the “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” T-shirt (yee-haw!).
“Um,” he replied. His brain was melting from whiffing too much holly, or something. Probably coconut overload.
“Greetings!” Zeb the King yelled out, waving his beringed hand, when no one went to give him a personal welcome.
“Oh holy night!” Cnut muttered.
Reynilda perked up from where she’d been sitting by the hearth, bored out of her gourd, while everyone else was working. Seeing the new arrival, she dusted off her gown, a concoction of rose-colored silk and ivory lace, (as out of place in this dark, smoky hall, even with all its greenery, as a butterfly on a pile of dung . . . well, maybe not so bad as that . . . a butterfly in a flock of moths . . . or . . . oh, never mind!), and straightened the silver fillet on her black waves. Then, like a homing pigeon on a wave of lemon scent, she made her way toward the door to welcome the new visitor.
This was not good. Not good at all.
The bride wore blue, the groom wore a grin . . .
Andrea was having the best time of her life. And the worst time of her life.
Cnut had insisted that she sit on his right side at the high table that night, and not be acting the servant. She wore the emerald-green gown, and, actually, she felt rather royalty-like with her blonde hair intricately braided and twisted into a coronet atop her head, thanks to Dyna’s expertise. Of course, any pretensions she might have put on were quickly dashed when Reynilda sat down on Cnut’s left, looking like the Princess in Pink, with her breasts pushed up so high in the rounded neckline that she could just as well be called Princess of Boobland.
That was mean, Andrea’s conscience prodded.
So what! the other side of her brain said.
Andrea’s only jewelry was Cnut’s Christmas gift to her, a thin gold chain holding a gold-filigreed pendant that surrounded a piece of amber, inside of which was the fossil of a long-dead, tiny bumblebee. Cnut told her that many people carried amber as protection on long travels. Her travel back to the past, and hopefully her return to the future someday, definitely qualified as a long travel.
Regardless of its symbolism or its ick factor (wearing a dead bug), she loved it, and couldn’t stop touching the stone, imagining she felt heat emanating from it against the base of her neck.
Cnut had given Reynilda an etched silver arm ring, but Andrea didn’t mind. She’d much rather have the amber necklace.
Dyna and Thorkel sat on Andrea’s right. Their wedding would be held soon, before the evening meal. The hall looked fabulous with all the fragrant greenery and candles lit on all the tables, as well as the tree. A bucket of water sat nearby in case of fire.
The pale blue fabric Andrea had given Dyna had been turned into a gorgeous Viking-style wedding gown with gold braiding on the neckline, wrists, and hem, but also edging the long, open-sided apron. Her platinum-blonde hair hung loose over her shoulders. Pretty silver brooches in the Norse writhing wolf design, gifts from Thorkel, adorned Dyna’s shoulder straps.
Thorkel, too, looked roguishly spectacular in a dark blue wool tunic, belted over black breeches. Kugge was wearing a smaller version of Thorkel’s outfit, which had touched Dyna deeply, more than any other gesture her bridegroom could have made.
The handsome new visitor sat on Reynilda’s other side. And that was where the stress came in . . . in other words, bad times.
On being introduced to Zebulan the Hebrew, Reynilda had cooed, “Oooh, is it true what they say about Jewish men?”
Andrea had interjected . . . okay, she sniped, “Is it similar to what they say about Viking men?”
Reynilda had blushed at Andrea’s mockery, but Cnut had grinned. And Zeb had said, with a straight face, “Yes.”
Cnut had yet to explain exactly who Zeb was, but Andrea had a faint memory of him mentioning a demon vampire named Zebulan who wanted to capture him on orders from his evil master. Surely, this wasn?
??t the same person . . . thing.
“Cnut,” she whispered. “Who is Zebulan?”
“Do you mean what? You recall the name, don’t you?”
“A demon? No way! You wouldn’t be sitting here so calmly if he was a demon.”
“What else can I do?”
“Tell him to go home?”
“As in, go to hell?”
“That’s not funny.” Actually, it was. “I don’t believe you. You must be teasing. This guy is so handsome, he doesn’t resemble those beastie things I saw at the ranch.”
“I don’t know about handsome. As for beasties, whoo boy! You ought to see Zeb when he’s in demonoid form.”
Just then, Zeb leaned forward and smiled her way.
“He has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a man,” she observed to Cnut. “And his eyes, so big and brown and sad . . . what woman wouldn’t be drawn to him?”
“Eyelashes are overrated, in my opinion. Now, if you were talking about the longest—”
She put her fingers to Cnut’s lips to halt his next words and he nipped at the tips.
Just then, Njal came to stand at the head of the hall, near the trellis where the wedding ceremony was to be held. Njal, his white beard and mustache having been neatly trimmed, and what hair he had left lying in a single braid down his back, was the oldest of the Vikings here at Hoggstead, and therefore would be acting as “lawspeaker,” performing the marriage rites. He wore a special ceremonial robe of dyed animal pelts in various shades of black and red.
Thorkel and Dyna rose from their seats to go stand before him. Cnut and Andrea, the witnesses, followed after them. The person who had been playing a lute stopped when it became apparent that the ceremony was about to begin. Normally, the lawspeaker would enumerate the oral history of all the Viking laws before certain events, such as an Althing, Andrea had been informed earlier, but they would forgo that lengthy diatribe tonight to save time.
“Come ye, family and friends. Come ye, gods and goddesses on this Frigg’s-day, first night of the winter solstice,” Njal invited in a surprisingly booming voice. “Let us all bear witness to the marriage of Thorkel Long-Limbs to Dyna of the Silver Hair.”
“Hear, hear!” the crowd yelled out, raising high their horns of ale.