And they never saw one single boar. The wild pigs, and every other animal with any sense, had probably run for cover when they heard all the chatter.
All John wanted was peace and quiet.
As they ambled back to the keep on their horses, his hirdsmen having gone up ahead, Hamr remarked to Bolthor, “So, you married late in life, did you? And you have a wife and flock of children?”
“I do. I do. Katherine, my heartling. One child betwixt us we have, and four stepchildren from her first three marriages.”
“Uh…shouldn’t you be home taking care of your family?” John inquired, then quickly added, “Sorry. I did not mean to give offense.”
Bolthor shrugged. “No offense taken. We have a thriving poultry business at Wickshire Manor, as you may have heard. Holy Thor, we must have the most lusty roosters and fertile hens in the world, because, I tell you, there are chickens everywhere. Hundreds of the buggers. And chicken shit! Phew! Not to mention the fact that I am somehow the one designated to cut off their heads, gut, and defeather them in preparation for market. What Norseman worth his salt raises chickens instead of going a-Viking, I ask you?”
John and Hamr exchanged grins.
“So that is why you are able to come visiting?” John asked with as much politeness as he could muster. Vikings prided themselves on their hospitality, and John had been raised by a Viking stepfather.
“Actually, it is not.” Bolthor sighed deeply. “I wrote a praise-poem about Katherine’s breasts—”
“Oh, Good Lord!” John exclaimed. He did not want to hurt Bolthor’s feelings, but Good Lord!
“I love it!” Hamr reached over and clapped Bolthor on the shoulder. “Proceed.”
“It was a fine saga. Leastways, I thought so. But Katherine was so angry, I swear there was smoke coming out of her ears. I do not understand. Katherine has very nice bosoms. It was a compliment. Wouldst like to hear it?”
“No!” John said.
“Absolutely,” said Hamr.
That was all the encouragement the skald needed. “This is the poem I call ‘Ode to Katherine’s Breasts.’”
John groaned.
Once was a lady from Wickshire,
With a bosom you had to admire.
Plump and rosy with a bit of bounce.
Caused many a man for her favors to pounce.
Big udders on women are surely a necessity
To give suckle to babes so pretty
And give a man something to hold on to in bedsport.
John was too stunned to speak.
But not Hamr. “Well done, Bolthor.”
They were almost back to the keep by then, thank God!
“Looks like you have visitors,” Hamr pointed out. “With a bunch of children. Could they be your family, Bolthor?”
Bolthor squinted his one good eye, then shook his head. “Nay. Not mine.”
From this rise, they could see inside the palisades of his keep, as well as the surrounding fields. John was appalled at what he beheld.
There were two young girls rolling around in the wildflower patch he had specifically planted for one colony of his bees.
Two little boys, one of them with ungodly green hair, were chasing that ornery bearded goat Wilfred, one of many unwelcome gifts from his mother. Wilfred would no doubt soon butt their bottoms if they kept goading him.
A boy the size of a bucket was leaning over the edge of the inner well.
And there were two boylings, one of them a black-skinned Nubian, approaching one of the conical bee hives of twisted straw he had placed in strategic spots about his estate, this one closest to the keep. Hundreds of thousands of bees resided at Hawk’s Lair under his cultivation. It was no playing field for children. They would surely be stung if they touched any of them, or even if they got any closer.
And a gnome! An honest-to-God gnome was driving a wagon across his back courtyard.
His horse clomped loudly as he galloped over the wooden drawbridge to the inner bailey, where he quickly dismounted, then demanded of Graeme the Stableman, “Who in the name of all the saints is responsible for these bratlings?”
Graeme stuttered, “Mistress…I mean, Lady…um, oh, nay!” Before he rushed off to grab a mite of a boy using a stick to poke a stallion in a nearby stall, Graeme pointed toward the wide-open double doors of his keep.
John stomped inside, through his great hall, through his downstairs solar, creating a path amongst his gawking people, toward the kitchen, where the most wonderful smells wafted out. Fresh bread, roasted meat, and stewed apples would be his guess. Probably a new cook had been found.
But that mattered not at the present. What mattered was finding out which troublemaker had the gall to invade his home and create such chaos.
He came to a screeching halt at the entrance to the kitchen. Bending over the oven to the side of a blazing hearth fire, where there appeared to be a small animal, probably a lamb, covered with some kind of red sauce on a spit, was a tall figure in slim braies and belted tunic. It was a woman. He knew that by the long blonde hair that was escaping from a single braid down her back to her waist, and by the heart-shaped arse deliciously outlined by the taut fabric of her breeches.
His mind went blank. His anger stalled. His heart raced, pumping blood to that other important organ, the one that apparently liked heart-shaped arses and was starved for attention.
Just then, a squeak from one of the scullery maids must have alerted the villainous woman, who turned with surprise, her eyes shining like the light-colored sapphire he’d seen once in an Eastern market. She smiled at him as if it was an everyday occurrence that she came into his home, uninvited, with a herd of children.
He knew her, of course. It was Ingrith. Princess Ingrith, truth be told. One of King Thorvald’s daughters. Not that John was coming to all these conclusions logically or at once. His brain was still frozen at the sight of a wellborn woman in boy’s clothing acting as queen, or rather princess, of his kitchen.
“Hawk!” She beamed happily, setting down a tray of oatcakes on the wooden table. “Good tidings, John!”
It is good to see you, too. Especially the view from behind. And the one from the front is not so bad, either. “Lady Ingrith! What a pleasant surprise!” Not!
Without a by-your-leave, the lady walked up and gave him a greeting-hug. She smelled of barley flour and woman…and…oh, my God, honey.
Setting her back with hands on her upper arms, he asked, hesitantly, “Why do you smell like honey?”
“’Tis the oatcakes. I have a special recipe that calls for lots and lots of honey. Would you like to try one?” She carefully picked up one of the warm oatcakes with a piece of cloth and offered it to him.
Ignoring her proffered treat, he inquired with as much calmness as he could muster, “Where did you get the honey, m’lady?”
“Uh…from the honey shed.”
His eyes crossed with frustration. He breathed in and out, fisting his hands at his sides. Do not shake the witless woman. Do not kick the witless woman in her heart-shaped arse. Do not think about how she looks under those man-garments. “Any honey to be used for cooking is stored in the cold cellar.”
“Oh.”
That was all she said. Oh. As if that excused her heinous act.
“And all those children running about, ruining my bee fields, disturbing the hives, in danger of falling in a well, or being attacked by a goat…are they your children, Lady Ingrith?”
“Nay. I am not married.”
He just stared at her.
She gave him a look that pretty much said, What a dunderhead!
Which he was. He had met her several times in recent years and she had no children then. How could he imagine that she had produced them in such short order?
“They are orphans from Rainstead. Are they not adorable?”
He said a foul word under his breath. “How many children?”
“Eight.”
“Eight!” He cursed again. “And the g
nome?”
“Huh? Oh, you mean Ubbi. He is not a gnome. He is my bodyguard.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Uh-oh! Your mother told me that you would welcome us…me and the orphans, but I sense that you are not happy to see us.”
“I get a rash around children,” he blurted out…and could have kicked himself. What a stupid thing to say!
For a moment she stared at him as if he had lost his mind. Then she continued, “And your mother said that you are in need of a cook, or someone to train a new cook.”
My mother! I should have known!
“There are some new types of bees from the Arab lands in swarms over there that your mother asked me to deliver to you. Your thanks are not necessary.” Her biting wit did not amuse him.
Frowning, he glanced over to the far wall, where several oblong crates with screened sides were stacked. “Thank you,” he muttered ungraciously.
“I am a wonderful cook,” she said of a sudden.
As if good food is worth the trouble you bring!
“You will see.”
Nay, I will not.
“Just you wait.”
I would rather not.
“I will tell Godwyn to gather up the children and make them behave. You will not even notice we are here.”
I doubt that. He decided to try a different tactic. “It is not proper for you to be working in a kitchen, like a scullery maid.”
“I love to cook and experiment with different foods and sauces and spices. You place value on your honey studies, why not my food studies?”
That certainly turned the tables on him. But not for long. “I do not mean to be rude, but why are you here and how long do you intend to stay?”
Ingrith’s face, already heated from the ovens, turned brighter. She really was a good-looking woman, despite her age, and height, and brassy nerve. Her figure was nothing less than spectacular, as blatantly displayed in her male attire.
Not that any of that mattered.
Much.
“We are here for a short while to avoid a Saxon soldier who is hell-bent on luring me to his bed furs.”
I would not mind luring you there myself.
Nay, nay, nay! I did not think that.
I wonder if she is beyond childbearing years.
Probably not. She is almost the same as me. Thirty-one. Women still have children at that advanced age, do they not?
Good heavens! I cannot possibly be thinking of swiving a Viking princess without giving offense to a Norse king, an army, my mother and stepfather, not to mention her gnome bodyguard.
But wait, her eyes were shifting from right to left, as if evading some truth.
His eyes narrowed.
She was lying, or not telling him the entire truth.
“Your seduction, you say. That does not explain why all these orphans are here. And why not go to one of your sisters?”
Ingrith’s chin went up. “Loncaster would look for me there, first off.”
“Loncaster? Commander of the king’s garrison at Jorvik?”
She nodded bleakly.
“Could you have chosen a more high-ranking man? Loncaster is not known as the Saxon Butcher for nothing. He would rather drink sword dew than ale, so bloodthirsty is he.”
Now she really bristled. “I did not choose him, believe you me.”
He could not help but grin at her indignation. By the saints, the woman was incredibly attractive in her anger. Like a blonde Valkyrie, she was.
“You find humor in my plight? I had not expected such unkindness in Lady Eadyth’s son.”
“Guilting again, m’lady.”
“We will depart at once. I am so sorry to have disturbed you.” The expression of disdain on her face belied her apology.
“Where will you go?” Even he knew how bad that sounded and regretted his hasty words almost immediately.
“I have no idea, but then it is of no concern to you, you…you lout.” Going to the outer door leading to the back courtyard, she yelled, loud enough to make John’s ears bleed, “Godwyn, gather the children. We must leave immediately. And Ubbi, rehitch the horses to the wagon. Kavil, ask the stableman to saddle the other horses.”
“Do not be ridiculous,” John said, definitely feeling guilty now. Her ploy, if that was what it was, had worked. “You do not need to leave right away.”
“How generous of you! Many thanks, but we do not stay where we are not welcome.”
“I never said you were not welcome.”
She arched her brows at him.
“I was just surprised,” he said defensively, then added with more vigor, “I do not like my honey studies tampered with.”
“Let us make an agreement then. I will not interfere with your honey work, and you will not interfere in my kitchen.”
Her kitchen? He did not like the sound of that.
“Ahem!”
Just then he noticed Hamr and Bolthor propping up the door frame, grinning like idiots. He threw up his hands in surrender, then stomped over, pushing them aside, heading for his great hall and about a tun of ale. Halfway there, he stopped and went back. Poking a finger in Bolthor’s chest, he said, “If you dare concoct some bloody damn saga about me and an invasion by a beautiful woman and a tribe of little people, I swear you will be in the stew pot afore morning.”
“Beautiful?” Ingrith stared at him, wide-eyed. “Me?”
He spun on his heel and could not decide whether to go for the mead in his hall, or go to his bedchamber and bury his head under the furs for a sennight or two.
That was when he heard Bolthor say in an overloud whisper to Hamr, “I was thinking more about an Ode to Heart-Shaped Arses.”
John, for one, would not be attending dinner that night if that was on the menu.
On the other hand…
A woman’s work is never done…
Ingrith endeavored with everything she did that day to please the irksome lord of Hawk’s Lair, to no avail. By the time the evening meal was ready to be served, she could have fallen asleep on her feet in the bustling kitchen.
Ubbi was threatening to slit the throat of the “ungrateful troll” if he complained once more. To which John had threatened to hang the “bothersome gnome” from the rafters if he did not get out of his way. Hamr, the outlaw Viking, just stood back enjoying the chaos. And Bolthor, the one-eyed giant, was composing saga after saga about the doings at Hawk’s Lair, which would no doubt embarrass one and all, if their titles were any indication. “When Hawks Stutter.” “The Princess and the Hawk.” “Ode to Woman-Honey,” whatever that meant. “When Norse Ladies Go A-Viking.”
Hawk’s Lair was a small keep, with only a hundred housecarls guarding its borders and another fifty servants or field cotters. She had fed, with ease, five hundred and more at her father’s estate in the Norselands. Apparently, most of John’s hersirs and hirds of soldiers were housed at Gravely, his deceased father’s estate, which was a day’s ride away.
The children had already bathed, for once not protesting, in the wonderful hot spring channeled into a bathing house. They were hopefully asleep, having already eaten. The boys were in a clean stable stall, and the girls in sleep closets along the back end of the great hall.
Now, as she sat supervising, platters and bowls of food were being carried by servants from the kitchen into the great hall, not to mention pottery pitchers of ale and mead and milk. Ingrith had worked her fingers to the bone preparing a meal to please the most particular palate. She doubted she would get any thanks from the scowling Hawk, however. He had made his displeasure over their presence in his keep more than obvious, not just on their initial meeting, either.
She had never met a more infuriating man. He could show the most extreme displeasure with just the arch of one eyebrow. Without ever saying they were unwelcome, he made it obvious how inconvenient their presence was. She would have told him in no uncertain terms what he could do with his backhanded welcome if the children’s safety was not at ris
k.
As it was, Ubbi had finally been banished to the cow barn for having kicked John in the shins. Twice. For perceived verbal offenses against Ingrith.
The whole situation was a mess.
She had not the energy to rise and make her way to the small sleeping bower that had been set aside for her on the second floor. But then she recalled the hot spring bathing house where she could ease her sore muscles. Luckily, when she got to the women’s section, it was empty, everyone either being at dinner, or serving dinner.
It was heaven, as she had known it would be, her father having a similar natural resource at Stoneheim. A long time later, after bathing and then soaking herself until her skin wrinkled, she felt better. As she began to emerge, she heard a loud male voice from outside, shouting, “Where is she? I swear, if she’s hiding from me, best she beware. I am not amused.” It sounded like John. Who else?
The door to the bathing hut swung open before Ingrith had a chance to react. Having just stepped out of the pool, facing the entrance, she froze in place.
A stunned lord of Hawk’s Lair, speechless for once, kicked the door shut behind him with a booted foot. “You…you…” he sputtered.
Realizing belatedly that she was naked…Holy Thor! How could I have forgotten something so important?…she turned abruptly and reached for a drying cloth. Then, she glanced back over her shoulder to see why John was so quiet.
He was staring at her bare backside. Gawking, more like.
CHAPTER FIVE
Oh, baby!
Boiling with chagrin, John yanked open the door to the bathing house…and almost had a fainting fit at what he beheld.
Ingrith had just walked up the steps from the small pool, her body dripping with water, and she was bare-as-a-babe naked. In all her glory. And glorious, she was, too. And…Thank you, God!…not at all like a baby.