Down and Dirty

  “I can’t say.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t say?” His grandmother’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. Then she turned and glowered at his grandfather. “Did you have something to do with this?”

  His grandfather’s cheeks flushed, but he raised his chin. “Zach asked for my advice. This isn’t what I would recommend, but if it’s what he wants, I can point him to the right people for help.”

  Pandemonium broke loose, everyone talking at once.

  “Hear me out, people. I’m leaving. Until Arsallah is out of the picture—and I mean dead—I can’t give Sammy a normal life. And he deserves that. So we’re going to disappear.”

  “Will we see you sometimes? Can we call?” his mother asked.

  He shook his head. “Cold turkey.”

  “For how long?” His father’s voice was cold with disapproval.

  “As long as it takes.”

  “Years?” His mother looked as if she was going to cry.

  “I hope not, but yes, maybe it will be a long time.”

  “When are you leaving?” Danny’s face was expressionless, but he was clearly upset. He would talk to him later.

  He couldn’t tell them that it would be in a mere three days. Otherwise, there would be a flurry of suspicious activity around his house. They wouldn’t be able to stay away.

  So he just shrugged.

  Later, he told Sammy of his plans.

  The boy was frightened, but more frightened of losing him than losing a familiar home. He became more enthused once Zach mentioned all the things they would be able to do together in the downtime till he found a new job…or they were able to return, whichever came first.

  Before they went downstairs, though, Sammy tugged on his arm to stop him. “Does…does this mean Britta is dead?”

  Zach closed his eyes briefly. “Yes. Yes, she is, Sammy.”

  Sammy gulped, probably having already suspected the worst. “Now can I tell you what she said?”

  Bracing himself, he said, “Sure.”

  “She said, if she didn’t make it back, I should tell you,” he slipped his hand in Zach’s, “that she loves you.”

  It was probably the worst moment of Zach’s life.

  Who says medieval ladies didn’t have balls?…

  Britta and Angelique got along like…well, sisters.

  Turns out that their mutual father, whilst on a trip to Frankland some twenty-three years past, went into the Frankish countryside where he raped a number of women, including Angelique’s mother. Like Britta, Angelique had trained to become a warrior, but unlike Britta, she had trained to be a nun as well.

  While Britta had reason to want her father dead, Angelique had even more. Not only had he planted his seed in her mother, but he’d also planted a disease in her nether parts…a disease that led to her death at the age of fifteen. Angelique’s life had been hard, to say the least, but Britta loved her already for her wonderful sense of humor despite her travails.

  “So, you are like Boudicca?” Britta asked her as they sat on a stone wall surrounding the abbey courtyard. They were both panting and sweating, having just completed some swordplay. “That’s not very nunlike, is it?”

  Angelique grinned as she wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her gunna. “We are a different breed of nuns…nuns who enjoy the bedsport.”

  Britta’s eyes went wide.

  “Do not look so shocked. Are you a virgin?”

  “Well, nay, but—”

  Angelique wagged a forefinger at her. “Judge not, lest ye be judged.” She grinned as she spoke. “In truth, I am not really a nun. ’Tis a disguise that has worked well for me and my followers.”

  Britta laughed and slapped the forefinger out of her face. “I was not judging, and you well know it. I was just surprised. But, believe you me, I know how to wipe that smirk from your face, Sister.”

  A short time later, Angelique’s jaw dropped nigh to her bosom. “Multiple orgasms? Clits? You jest with me?”

  “’Tis no jest. The women of our time are being cheated.”

  “Our time?”

  “Let us save that story for later.”

  “One last thing. Was it some special man who taught you these things?”

  “Yea, but he is far, far away, and we will ne’er meet again.” Leastways, Britta did not think they would meet again. “Let us speak of our battle plan instead of lost loves.”

  “I like your idea of gorilla warfare, though I ne’er heard that word afore. Nor ‘Look and See,’ ‘Growl and Prowl,’ ‘Escape and Evade,’ ‘double-backs.’”

  “We must needs take the advantage out of our father’s hands. We will choose the site where the fight will take place. He has left the area, but he will return.”

  So it was that two sennights later, several aged nuns went begging alms to one of her father’s Northumbrian keeps; he had several here and in the Norselands, and still he wanted hers. The aged nuns were performing their own lackwit version of ‘Look and See.’ Whilst there, spying, they spoke of a nunnery in Northumbria where they had stayed overnight…a nunnery where two sisters, Britta the Big and Angelique of Frankland, were plotting the takeover of some castle or other owned by their father. “Is that not odd?” Sister Clementina inquired through rheumy eyes. “Women fighters?”

  “And they with only slingshots and broomsticks for weapons,” Sister Mary added, also blinking her rheumy eyes in innocence. “And they will be leaving the abbey grounds as they march to battle. Imagine!”

  The men in the great hall guffawed and made coarse jests, even in the presence of the good nuns.

  The two nuns reported back to the abbey that even before they had left the bailey, men-at-arms were being called forth. A small band because, as her father had remarked, “How many men does it take to topple a few lackbrained women?”

  A sennight later, her father’s small hird of ten men on horseback, including himself and his three sons, was on the move. When they were several hides from the abbey, Britta and Angelique’s band surrounded the two forward outriders and offered them the opportunity to surrender. The men laughed and attacked. A mistake. The women soon hid the severely wounded bodies and rushed away from the scene. Escape and Evade.

  The nuns at St. Anne’s would be used for nonviolent activities, because they were reluctant to take anyone’s life, even a man as evil as her father. Caring for the wounded. Preparing arrows and boiling oil, a contingency plan.

  Closer to the abbey, they maneuvered and reined their horses in at the far end of a tight pass where there was a hillock on one side and a rocky cliff on the other. Laughing, they taunted the hirdsmen, rode off, then did a double-back to the other side of the pass, thus blocking them in. With the element of surprise, they managed to kill one brother, Trond, and three other men, which left her father, two brothers, and one hirdsman. Looking down at Trond, all Britta could see was her brother laughing as he held up her skinned cat all those years ago.

  No longer able to ambush, the eleven of them faced the men, full-on, swords and spears raised. The men probably thought these split-tail bitches, as her father ofttimes referred to females, would be easy pickings. But they had not counted on their expertise, as meager as it might have been in comparison to the battle-hardened warriors. Their downfall was overconfidence and surprise.

  Her father smirked at the nerve of these women thinking they could best him. But then he recognized Britta, and his eyes narrowed with hatred. “So, Daughter, you think to send your own father to Valhalla?”

  “Not just me, but my sister, Angelique, as well. Your other daughter.” She indicated with a jerk of her head Angelique at her side. “And know this, you scurvy cur who does not merit the name father, you will not go to Valhalla. That is for noble warriors who die in battle. Today you will burn in Muspell.”

  It was an even fight, despite the odds of eleven to four. In the end, both Britta and Angelique put their swords through their father’s chest, coming at him from two sides.

/>   Some of Angelique’s band were retching at the side, now that the fighting was over. It may very well be true that warfare was contrary to a woman’s nature.

  “Do you have any regrets?” Britta asked Angelique as they both knelt before a small pond, washing the sword dew from their arms as well as their blades.

  Angelique shook her head vehemently. “He was a bastard. He needed to be put down like a rabid dog. Do not tell me you are feeling sorry after all he has put you through.”

  “Not sorry, exactly. Just sad. He was our father. They were our brothers. Blood kin. Why were they so…mean?” She had told Angelique about their father’s pressure to wed, her one brother’s attempt at rape, and another’s displaying her private parts to his friends.

  “Some men—some women, too—are just born bad, to my way of thinking.” Angelique shrugged. “Methinks our killing them was a good thing. Leastwise now other women, not just us, will be spared their cruelty.”

  Britta nodded. “Best we get back to the abbey. There is much work to be done.”

  The nuns and novices had already brought all the dead back. Father Caedmon would be performing death rites for the men, a service Britta and Angelique declined to attend.

  Later, having bathed and eaten, Britta and Angelique were sitting on benches in the back garden, sipping from horns of Margaret’s mead.

  “I have an idea,” Britta said.

  “Should I be afraid?”

  Britta punched her playfully on the upper arm. “Nay. You know that Everstead and all the surrounding estates now belong to me?”

  Angelique nodded. “So I am in the exalted company of a wealthy woman. Shall I bow?”

  Britta said a foul word rarely used by women.

  Angelique just laughed.

  “I want naught to do with Everstead, and yet I know not where my place in life is now. Let us go to Everstead and rule it together.”

  “Huh?”

  “I have not been to Everstead in more than fifteen years. It is in the far northern reaches of the Norselands, but beautiful, as I recall. We could put it forth that we are both of my mother’s line, and the odal rights belong to both of us. It is my understanding that all the old retainers are gone; none will know different. Let us go there till we decide what our future holds for us.”

  Angelique eyed her warily. “Are you thinking to leave me at Everstead and go off to find that lost love of yours?”

  Britta shook her head. “That is impossible, I think.”

  “In truth, now that my mother is avenged, I have no desire to continue fighting…or be a nun.”

  “The frightening thing is, I no longer see myself as a warrior, either. There are other roles I must needs play now.”

  Angelique put her hands on her hips and glowered at her. “What is it you are not telling me?”

  “I am with child.”

  Home, home on the range…the very cold range…

  “Holy crap! It’s colder’n a pig’s butt in a poop parade.”

  “Sammy! What have I told you about your language? No video games tonight.”

  “Daaaaad!”

  “No video games.”

  “Maybe I shouldna said it like that, but, geez, Dad, you gotta admit, movin’ to Alaska wasn’t a great idea. Even my snot is frozen.”

  “You do have a colorful vocabulary.”

  “If I had a dog, I prob’ly wouldn’t be so cold.”

  Zach pulled the ear flaps on his son’s cap down lower, then handed him two more pieces of firewood. Once he loaded up, as well, they walked back to the cabin that had been their home for the last three months. And, yeah, it was really cold—twenty below today—but chances were Arsallah and his men wouldn’t be dogsledding out here any time soon.

  The cabin was actually a two-bedroom log house, with all the modern conveniences—electric heat, plumbing, updated kitchen—but it was still nice to have a fire in the fireplace at night. Cozy.

  And there was a school two miles away that Sammy went to every day via the county school bus. He balked and claimed to hate it, but his mind was like a sponge, and he was learning so much. Zach suspected he liked school. And he’d made some friends there. They were almost a normal, single-parent family.

  Of course, they’d changed their names to Smith, and Zach was using his middle name of Frank. Frank Smith and Sammy Smith, whose mother had died last year. Sammy never slipped with his real name. He knew how important their hidden identities were to their safety, which was sad, really, that a child would have to worry about such things.

  That evening, Sammy lay on the floor doing his homework before the fire.

  Zach was working on his computer at the desk by the window. He’d decided to try his luck at writing a suspense novel while in hiding. About Navy SEALs, of course. It might never sell, but he was enjoying the writing…for now.

  “Will we ever go back?” Sammy asked suddenly.

  Zach sighed. “Yes, I think so. Eventually.” And actually, he didn’t want to get Sammy’s hopes up, but Arsallah hadn’t been heard from in weeks, and rumor had it that he’d been murdered by one of his followers. I can only hope! Zach’s only link to his old life was a secure phone line to Commander MacLean’s office that only the two of them knew about.

  “I miss Danny,” Sammy said.

  I miss Britta. He didn’t say that aloud because he didn’t want to add to Sammy’s misery. Though, truthfully, Sammy had adjusted better than he had.

  “But I prob’ly wouldn’t be so lonely if I had a dog.”

  Zach shook his head. “Give us a chance to settle in ourselves first.”

  “Then can we get a dog?”

  “I didn’t say that. A dog is a big responsibility.” Especially when they might have to pack up and go on a moment’s notice.

  “I’m responsible.”

  “You don’t even know what that word means.”

  “Are we gonna go to the Thanksgiving dance at the Grange barn on Thursday?”

  Great! A diversionary tactic.

  “A party in a barn?” Hoo-yah! “Do you wanna go?”

  “There’s nothin’ else to do,” Sammy grumbled, then glanced up at him with a crafty gleam in his eye. “’Specially without video games.”

  “Forget about the video games. What does a person wear to a dance in a barn?”

  “How do I know? I’m just a kid.”

  “When it’s a convenient excuse.”

  “What does convenient mean?”

  “Maybe I should buy us some new clothes?”

  “No. You always buy me dorky stuff.”

  “I resent that.” He laughed. “What have I bought that’s dorky?”

  “Kermit the Frog pajamas with web feet, for a start.”

  “It was all they had in your size.”

  “A bow tie. When am I ever gonna wear a bow tie?”

  “That was your great-grandmother who bought that, not me. Besides, maybe you’ll go to a wedding or something where you have to dress up.”

  His little eyebrows arched. “Are you gettin’ married?”

  Hardly. “What do you think?”

  He shrugged. “You could marry an Eskimo, and we could live in an igloo.”

  “And you’re complaining about the cold now. Besides, how many igloos have we seen since we arrived?”

  “None. Okay, another dorky thing. The hat with the ear flaps.”

  “You’ve got a point there, but they do keep you warm.”

  “At least I don’t have to wear those dorky superhero underpants anymore, now that we’re wearin’ long johns.”

  They were both quiet then as they returned to their respective work. Zach’s mind had drifted, though, and he logged off the computer. Overall, he should be thankful. They were safe. Sammy accepted him as his father. And they were alive. And someday, he was sure, they’d be able to return to family and friends.

  “Sammy…”

  “Oh, no! You’re gonna say somethin’ mushy. I can tell by your voice. It’s a
ll soft and gooey.”

  “I love you.”

  “Yeah, I love you, too,” he finally said. But then he added, “I’d still like to have a dog.”

  Chapter 20

  Maybe she should go a-Viking…

  Britta was cold, and damp, and lonely, and miserable, as she stared out over the vast, snowy estate that was Everstead. Being landlocked here for more than a month in deep winter, she began to understand why Norsemen went a-Viking every year at first thaw.

  “Britta! Britta, is that you?”

  Britta rolled her eyes. As if it would be anyone else! Why did Jarl Rolf Thorsson, a visitor from a neighboring estate, continue to pursue her when she had made it more than clear that she was not interested?

  And he was not the only one. It was strange, really, what had happened on her journey here with Angelique from Northumbria. For years, she had held no appeal to men. Too tall, too big-boned, too manly. But now, ’twas like she was honey and the entire male race a horde of randy bears. She suspected there was something in her bearing since she had engaged in bedsport with Zachary that shouted to men: Here is Britta Asadottir. She is one hot bedsport companion. And she had not even mentioned multiple orgasms to any of them.

  “Yea, I am here, Rolf,” she said with a long sigh.

  “What are ye doing, wench?”

  He only called her wench to get a rise out of her, so today, she refused to rise to the bait.

  “Just admiring the fjord.” Trying to evade you.

  “Why?”

  Wondering how I might escape. “Does there have to be a reason?”

  “Well, I would think so.” His handsome face brightened. “Have ye given any more thought to my proposal? Really, dearling, it makes sense for us to wed. We could merge our two estates and—”

  Rolf was a fine-looking man. Huge in stature. And fairly young, having seen only thirty winters. If her father had offered him as husband, mayhap back then she would have accepted. But her father had never chosen him because Rolf would not have played puppet to her father. Rolf’s first wife had died childless five years past. He would be a prize catch for most women. Perchance Angelique would be interested.

  “I have gifted Angelique half of Everstead.”