The Viking's Captive

  “I do not enjoy it either, you know, but it is a fact of my life.”

  “I do not judge you, Tyra. I really don’t. It’s just that I have chosen a different path.”

  She nodded her understanding. “And so you will never take a life again.”

  “I did not say that.”

  She arched her brows in question.

  “If I needed to defend myself, I would fight to the death. If the lives of Tykir and Alinor, Eirik and Eadyth, or their families were in jeopardy, I would not hesitate to take up the sword.” He reached out a hand to her chin and raised it so that she would meet his gaze. “I would kill in a trice to save you.”

  Tyra was touched by his regard, but the fact remained that they were opposites. She sighed at the hopelessness of the attraction that thrummed between them.

  “Will you take my shield Brave Wolf as a token?” Adam asked, looking down at the shield that she still held in her right hand. “It belonged to my grandfather, Dar. He claimed it carried much battle luck.”

  “I will be honored to carry it, Adam.” The words came out hoarse over the lump in her throat.

  He leaned forward, kissed her lightly, and whispered against her mouth, “Be safe.”

  Then he was gone.

  But not from Tyra’s mind … or heart.

  It was a smelly, stinksome business…

  Ingrith sniffed the air that morning, noticed the frost on the herbs in her kitchen garden and a few snow flurries in the sky. Clear signs that winter was almost here.

  Satisfied, she gave a hearty shout of “Butchering day!” in the great hall where everyone was breaking fast.

  She was not the least deterred by the equally hearty communal groan, nor by the few youthlings who attempted futilely to escape.

  Tyra and Rafn and a hundred soldiers were off on patrol. Adam and Rashid were engaged in doctoring duties. But everyone else was forced to heed Ingrith’s call to arms.

  It was only early October, but already there was frost on the ground at night. Soon the days would grow shorter. In fact, this far north, there were long periods of time when daylight appeared only one or two hours a day. And so frigid cold was it that a person could not venture outdoors unless they were covered with numerous layers of furs.

  It was a harsh land, but one which suited the Vikings well.

  Throughout that day, everyone at Stoneheim, regardless of age, except for the guardsmen on duty, was enlisted to help with the fall butchering of the pigs … one hundred fat acorn-fed hogs. Eventually, the animals would hang by their tied hind legs from long poles suspended across tripods, which had been constructed by Breanne. The poles extended the length of one of the far fields. Huge cauldrons of boiling water were ready to scald the skin for scraping, then to make the various dishes that would be savored on winter nights far distant.

  A gruesome, smelly process it was, but one of many that were necessary for their survival during the winter months. Hay was already stored for winter silage. Massive amounts of wood had been cut to fuel the many hearths. Fruit and vegetables had been preserved. Hundreds of fish had been dried or salted. There were many other jobs to be done before snow and ice cut them off from the rest of the world, but the hog butchering could not wait.

  By the end of the long day, every part of the hogs was put to good use, even the tongues and brains. The skins would be dried for leather. Hams, shoulders, and sides were cut and salted away in the smokehouse. The ears, head, and feet were boiled for many hours, then chopped and put back into the liquid to gel and be sliced into a delicacy called souse … an acquired taste, some said. Intestines and the stomach were cleaned and used to make sausages. Rendered lard that settled on the top of the boiling liquids was scraped off to be saved for cooking or making soap.

  The air was decidedly cold that day, but the people were hot, sweat dripping off their faces and arms. By the end of the afternoon, everyone was satisfied with a job well done, but they were dirty and greasy, men, women and children alike.

  Because of the large number of people who required a bath, the bathing house and sweat rooms were set aside first for the women’s use, then the men’s.

  It was there that Ingrith finally rested her weary bones next to Breanne, Vana, and Drifa, along with Lady Alinor. Naked, the women sat up to their necks in the bubbling, steamy water of the natural spring that came up from the ground into the stone pools. Later, after they’d soaped themselves off, they would move to the clear, cool water of the pool in the next room. There was also a separate steam house for those who were interested.

  “And so, one job completed. What shall we do about the next one?” Ingrith asked with a long sigh of contentment.

  “Please, Ingrith. If you suggest another butchering job, like cattle, I think I may vomit,” Breanne said.

  Ingrith laughed. “Nay, this is a task of another nature altogether. Tyra.”

  “Aaaahhhh!” the other ladies said.

  “I recommend we skip ahead to the last step of our plan. Jealousy. Adam has got to do something to make Tyra jealous,” Vana suggested. “But we cannot go to him for help. He is as bad as she is.”

  “I know, I know,” Drifa said. “I can do it!”

  “You?” the other ladies asked skeptically.

  “Me! Really, it will be perfect. I will go to Adam to discuss my flowers and plants. I will ask for his advice on ways to use my herbs for medicinal purposes. Actually, I have wanted to do so for some time anyway. And then I can mention in passing to Tyra that since she is not interested in any lasting relationship with the man, then I am setting my cap for him. What think you?”

  “It could work.” Alinor tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I must go find my babe, and I must find Thork and have him eat soap for the new word he has been teaching all the children of Stoneheim today, but let me add this thought. Women have swarmed around Adam all his life. Tyra can see he is an attractive man. To be jealous, she must believe that Adam returns the attraction. So Drifa’s suggestion may work. Adam loves to talk about his herbs and he will appear interested.” At the sound of a squalling babe in the adjoining room, Alinor rose from the waters, her breasts heavy with milk, and grabbed for a robe.

  “I could keep offering him tasty bits of food,” Ingrith offered. “You know, show him preferential treatment.”

  “And I could ask for his advice in building a hospitium here at Stoneheim,” Breanne said. “I know he would talk in earnest with me about that. Tyra would not have to know the subject of our conversation.”

  Everyone nodded.

  Vana asked, “What can I do?”

  “Nothing,” the others agreed. “Tyra would never believe you have eyes for Adam when Rafn is anywhere about.”

  “Well, then, do you think we should engage any other women to help in our cause?” Vana asked, not at all perturbed by their assessment of her value in the jealousy scheme.

  The four of them thought for a long moment.

  “ ‘Tis best that we keep this amongst ourselves,” In-grith said, and all concurred, especially when she added, “‘Tis our secret.”

  Like minds and all that …

  “I’m thinking that perhaps it is time to go home to Dragonstead,” Tykir told Bolthor as they rode back to Stoneheim. The patrols had finished early and should be back enjoying a horn of ale by late afternoon. “I am getting too old for this nonsense. Riding hither and yon, freezing my nose and toes and possibly other more important body parts. Pretending to be having a grand time when I would much rather put my feet up before the fire and bounce my little one on my knees.”

  “You are not yet a graybeard, my friend. Nor am I … though you do have five years on me, now that I think on it.”

  Tykir reached over and punched Bolthor on the upper arm, even as they rode side by side. The skald winced as if he’d been hurt, which was impossible with all the furs he wore. In truth, Tykir would never do anything to harm the man. Despite Tykir’s complaining about always having the inept poet at his side,
Bolthor had been a good and true friend through the years.

  Unaware of Tykir’s rambling thoughts, Bolthor continued the discussion of Tykir’s discontent. “Methinks you are just frustrated with your nephew. You are not a man accustomed to defeat, and thus far Adam has not jumped into the wench’s bed furs, as you had hoped.”

  “Mayhap you are right. Am I an interfering busybody just because I want to see the boy happy?”

  “He is no longer a boy, Tykir. He can make his own decisions.”

  “Hah! Two years of chastity! What kind of decision is that? Grief must have turned the boy barmy. And that Arab is no help. Trying to set up a harem for him! Adam needs a bedmate, not a litter.”

  “Do my ears play me false?” Rafn said, trotting his horse up so that they rode three abreast. “You are going to leave Stoneheim, with all these matters unresolved? I thought we had a plan, did we not … a seduction plan for Adam?” He had been riding behind Tykir and Bolthor on the wide fjordside path leading to Stoneheim, along with several dozen other soldiers. And he’d obviously been eavesdropping on their conversation. “If you people leave now, I am condemned to remaining unmarried. Vana and I will never wed. I will no doubt have to live the chaste life as Adam does, except in my case it will be forever.”

  Tykir had to smile at Rafn’s doleful tone. “What would you have us do, Rafn?”

  “We cannot just give up. What is the next step in the plan, Bolthor?”

  “Hmmm. Let me think,” Bolthor said. “First was hot looks, and Adam gave her those aplenty when she showed up in that crimson dress. Second was compliments. I daresay he tossed a few compliments her way, too, if his tongue was not tied into a twist. Third, methinks, was jealousy.”

  “That’s it!” Rafn exclaimed. “We will make Adam jealous by having various men pay special attention to his lady.”

  “Which various men?” Tykir wanted to know. “I hardly think anyone would believe you are interested in Tyra when your tongue hangs out every time Vana enters a room.”

  “I resent your insinuation,” Rafn said, but he was grinning as he spoke.

  “And Bolthor is not a believable suitor, either.” Tykir appeared to be thinking out loud.

  “And why not?” Bolthor sat up straight in the saddle and puffed his massive chest out.

  “Well, perchance I spoke too fast. You could pay her special attention, Bolthor, but we must have more than one man to make Adam jealous.”

  “Leave it to me,” Rafn advised. “I will line up several of my soldiers. They will be glad to do me the favor, and if Tyra wears garb like that wicked-to-the-bone crimson gown again, I will not even have to pay them. They will court her on their own.”

  “So it is agreed, then. Step three of the plan. We can’t lose this time.”

  What Tykir thought inside, though, was, Dumb, dumb, dumb. We are dumber than dirt, as Alinor would say. Bloody hell, I hope she never hears of this.

  Who knew flirting was so much trouble? …

  I must be losing my mind, Tyra thought.

  Why else would she have donned the scandalous red gown again tonight? Why else would she have taken special care with her hair, letting it hang loose down her back except for thin braids on either side. Why else would she have used Ingrith’s scented soap causing her to reek of roses? Why else would she have searched and searched through her chests till she found a pair of soft slippers to fit her big feet? Why else would she have chewed on mint leaves to freshen her breath?

  On the way down to the hall where the evening meal would soon be served, Tyra stopped in her father’s bedchamber.

  “Any change?” she whispered to Father Efrid, who was counting his rosary.

  He shook his head. “He awakened not at all today, and we were unable to force any gruel down his throat, either. One time, I could swear, he spit it out. ‘Tis almost as if his stomach is full … which is impossible, of course.”

  “What does Adam say?”

  “He does not say it outright, but the message is there nonetheless. The longer it takes your father to awaken, the less chance there is for recovery. In truth, I think the healer fears brain damage.”

  “Br-brain damage?” she stammered. “You mean Father might be like Igor, the village idiot?”

  The monk nodded, a gloomy expression on his face.

  Tyra could have sworn she heard a snorting sound from the bed, but when she and Father Efrid glanced that way, the king was dead asleep.

  She sat down on the edge of the mattress and took her father’s hand in hers. Ignoring the priest’s presence, she began to speak to Thorvald, hoping he would be able to hear her.

  “I have made a decision, Father. I will be leaving Stoneheim soon … certainly before the fjords freeze over. I hope you will awaken before then so that we can say our farewells in person. But even if you do not, Rafn can take over as chieftain in my … your stead. It is time, Father. Past time.”

  She could have sworn her father’s hand jerked in hers. Mayhap he did hear her. She hoped so.

  By the time she reached the great hall, she had wiped the melancholy tears from her eyes. Dinner was already being served, and what a lot of pork it was, too.

  No sooner did she enter the hall than Gunter Storrs-son walked up to her. Gunter was one of the best swordsmen at Stoneheim and a favorite amongst the ladies because of his blond good looks. Tonight he had glass beads woven in the war braids that hung on either side of his fair face. Maids would be fighting amongst themselves to share his bed furs later.

  “Wouldst care to join me for a cup of ale?” Gunter inquired, taking her by the elbow as if to lead her to his table.

  “Huh?” Gunter Storrsson had never shown the least interest in her in all the years she had known him, which was practically since birth.

  “You are looking especially lovely this eve,” he said smoothly, seating her next to him on a bench.

  “What a crock of skyr! Is this a jest, Gunter?”

  “ ‘Tis true, my lady. You are a vision of loveliness. Far more lovely than the brightest flower in Drifa’s gardens.” The whole time he spoke, his eyes were nigh plastered to her chest.

  “Stop staring at my breasts,” she admonished. ‘Twas best to be blunt with a too-bold man. Set him straight from the start.

  Gunter started to choke on his ale.

  “You, too, Egil,” she said to the soldier across the table. She took a sip of the strong ale and continued, “Blessed Freyja! You men act as if you’ve never seen a pair of teats afore, and I know good and well that you have. All of you lackwits have been drooling over Inga the chambermaid for years and all because her breasts are the size of cow udders. Never mind that her brain is the size of a pimple.”

  Egil started to choke, too.

  Just then her gaze wandered to the high dais where Drifa was sitting in a chair next to Adam. They had their heads together, discussing some matter intently. Every so often, he would laugh, or she would giggle. And the whole time, Drifa had a hand laid on his forearm.

  Can it be? Is Drifa flirting with my man?

  Aaarrgh! Adam is not my man. I have no man. Certainly not Adam.

  And the healer… has he now developed an affection for my sister? Has he no morals at all?

  A wave of overpowering emotion swept through Tyra. Although she had never felt it before, she recognized it instantly. Jealousy. She wanted to leap over the tables and get to the dais, where her greatest desire was to pummel Adam, the rogue, and to toss Drifa, the flirt, out into one of her flower beds.

  Despite her jealousy, Tyra had to admit that Adam and Drifa looked good together. Two beautiful, dark-haired people. He, godly handsome. She, with her exotic appeal.

  “If they have dancing tonight, willst thou partner me?”

  Tyra turned to Gunter, who’d apparently been talking to her the whole time she had been staring daggers at Adam and her sister. “Why would you want to dance with me?”

  “You are a very attractive woman, Tyra. Surely you are aware o
f that.” He had the nerve then to place his palm on her thigh and squeeze.

  “You never thought so before.” She firmly removed his hand from her thigh.

  He shrugged and gave her his most winsome smile … the selfsame one she’d seen him giving to Drifa during last summer’s Frigg Festival. Drifa, she thought. Mayhap two people can play at this game. But dare I flirt with a man? Do I even know how to flirt with a man? Well, how hard could it be?

  “You have a very nice smile, Gunter.” She leaned in close as she spoke, and batted her eyelashes at him as she’d seen her sisters do. She felt absolutely ridiculous doing so, but the most amazing thing happened. Gunter placed a hand over hers on the table.

  “Dost think so?” he asked in a husky voice.

  Well, for the love of Valhalla! Is he going husky over me? And what a barmy smile!

  “Yea, your smile is bright and … and … big.” Big? Now that is a really half-brained compliment … even for me.

  Egil snickered.

  Gunter simpered. “There are other parts of me that are big, too,” he answered, waggling his eyebrows suggestively at her.

  Does he mean what I think he means? Hah! I know exactly how big IT is. I’ve seen it on more than one occasion while the men bathed in river streams on our journeys. How does one respond to such an outrageous statement?

  “Well, aren’t you lucky!”

  “Nay, ‘tis my women who are lucky.” He waggled his eyebrows at her some more.

  The oaf made the mistake of placing his hand on her thigh again and squeezing.

  To reciprocate, she placed her hand on the giant worm lying at rest between his legs and squeezed, really hard.

  Gunter’s eyes crossed as he tried to speak but could not.

  Really, this flirting business is a lot of botherment. Why can’t people just say what they think? “Do you want to bed with me?” she asked bluntly.

  His face went all red and flustered. Apparently his women were not so forthright in their dealings with him. Or perchance he was all red and flustered because of the “caress” she’d given his cock. “Well, yea, I guess I do.”

  “Nay.”