Rough and Ready

  “I will never hear the end of this,” she moaned.

  “Hah! Neither will I.” That statement didn’t draw any sympathy from her.

  “Why were you in my bed?”

  “It was late. I was exhausted. There was no more space on the sleeping benches. And the thought of a soft mattress was too tempting.”

  “Can you not cover that . . . thing?”

  He looked down. “Yeah, I can. But, man, what a welcome home! I thought you’d be glad to see me back. I thought you were worried about me. I thought you’d want to know what I found.” It’s always good to play the guilt card.

  She closed her eyes and appeared to be counting. “Of course I want to know those things,” she said once she was calmer and her eyes were open, “but I did not expect to get a report from a nude man with a flagpole sticking out from his body.”

  “You do have a way with words, Hildy. My flagpole and I offer our apologies.” He drew on his braies and pulled the tunic over his head. Sitting back on the edge of the bed, he was putting on his boots when there was a scratching at the door. If it was that horny Stig, they were going to be having dog stew for lunch. But no, when the door opened a crack, he saw it was not the dog.

  “Hilda, this is Brynhil. I brought her back with me.” He beckoned with his fingers that Brynhil should come into the room. “Brynhil, this is Hilda. She runs The Sanctuary.”

  He glanced at Hilda, then did a double take. She was looking at him with such hurt in her eyes.

  Huh? Why would Hilda be hurt? Unless she cares about me . . . and thinks Brynhil and I are . . . Oh, no! No, no, no!

  Before he had a chance to explain, Hilda stood with the bed fur wrapped around her from breasts to ankles. She looked like a hot-damn sex goddess of some kind. Penthouse would love her, tiny breasts or not . . . perhaps because of her tiny breasts. Chin pointed northward, she extended her arm with a forefinger pointing to the door. “Out! Both of you!”

  Brynhil began to cry.

  Stig made an appearance then, nudging the door open wider with his nose. Then he leapt on Torolf ’s chest, knocking him backward onto the bed.

  Hilda was screaming again.

  Outside there was male laughter.

  And Torolf tried to remember a time when his life had been simpler.

  Women!

  Chapter 9

  The best laid plans . . .

  Early that morn, after the first meal, they sat down for a “briefing,” which Geek explained was a telling of what Torolf had learned on “reek-on-a-sands” and what to do with that information.

  Hilda sat with Britta and several of the women who had become adept at SEAL fighting skills, or at least not abysmal at SEAL fighting skills. All the men were there, too.

  Torolf spoke first. She’d avoided him like a stinksome midden after he’d been in her bed and seen her naked . . . The bloody arse! “I went to Norstead, then Amberstead and a few of the smaller estates between the two. Conditions were as bad or worse than I expected.” He then went into detail about the number of men, their weaponry, how many guards, the vanquished people who were still there, everything that he saw.

  “Any friendlies?” Geek asked.

  “A few. I didn’t want to push too hard around Norstead for fear I’d be recognized by my family’s old retainers. Then, near Amberstead, those I encountered were distrustful of me. They’ve been burned before by Steinolf’s men pretending to be on their side.” Torolf looked directly at Hilda and added, “Some said that I would have been more believable if Hilda were with me.”

  “I told you so,” she said, but he spoke over her. “I did find a man who’d been a soldier under my uncle Jorund at one time. Hervor. I asked him to go into the mountains and tell people who’re willing to fight to come here where we’ll be gathering forces.”

  “You did what? You told them where we are located?” Britta questioned.

  “You had no right.” Hilda stood, so angry her voice wavered.

  “Cut me some slack, you two. I wouldn’t have entrusted that information to just anyone. This man can be trusted.”

  “I do not doubt the loyalty of this one man, but you do not know how Steinolf tortures information out of people. This man may not be able to help himself.” Hilda was shaking her head at Torolf with dismay.

  “Actually, I do know. There are things I saw that defy humanity. Talk to Brynhil. After I rescued her, she told me what she’s seen and experienced the past year.”

  He rescued her? She is not his bedmate? And that poor woman . . . I treated her unfairly and gave her no offer of sanctuary!

  “Sometimes you have to take a chance,” he insisted. “One more thing. Hervor told me that two of my cousins, Thorfinn and Steven, have been looking for any of my family left from Norstead. They came two years ago, and have been seen in the vicinity a month back.”

  “How is that significant?” Britta wanted to know.

  “Well, my aunt Katla married some noble Viking from Norsemandy before I was born. If any of her sons have come here, it would be to help. And hopefully bring warriors with them. In any case, let’s plan our mission for one week from today. In the meantime, we continue to train and come up with specific task training and simulated tactical situations.”

  JAM said, “That forested area down below this fortress would work well.”

  “Yeah, and during that time, hopefully more men will arrive here to help,” Pretty Boy added.

  Hilda’s blood chilled at the thought. Everything was changing here at The Sanctuary, spiraling out of control. Even if these men . . . these SEALs . . . were the only ones to ever come here, The Sanctuary was never going to be the same.

  “I’ll make a computer-like grid of the various sites and terrains allocating our resources where best needed,” Geek said. “JAM gave me a couple of blank flyleaf pages from his Bible.”

  “I can work with you on that,” Britta offered.

  “Me, too,” Pretty Boy added, to no one’s surprise.

  “We’ve got to be careful of collateral damage,” Torolf emphasized. “Many of the people inside Norstead and Amberstead are there against their will.”

  Hilda did not understand half of what they said, but she noticed how efficiently the men worked together, almost finishing each other’s thoughts. Even if she had not been told so, it was obvious they had worked together in the past. And she had to be impressed the way each man and woman was being assigned a specific role in this mission. She could not help to be impressed with Torolf ’s leadership, as well. How different from his usual jesting self!

  In the end, the group broke apart, chattering among themselves. Britta was slapping Pretty Boy’s hands away as he attempted to put an arm over her shoulders. They made an attractive pair.

  “You’re smiling,” Torolf said. “Does that mean you’re not still mad at me?”

  They were the only ones left. “I am still angry with you. What were you thinking . . . to crawl into my bed furs?”

  “I wasn’t thinking.”

  That is no doubt the first honest thing he has said to me. “Do not do it again.”

  “I won’t . . . unless you ask me to.”

  “Hmpfh! Do not flatter yourself. Oh, I see. You are teasing me again.”

  “That wasn’t teasing.”

  “Yea, ’twas. You have no interest in me . . . that way.”

  “I don’t know about that. After all, I’ve seen you naked.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “I am not enamored of my own scrawny body. Nor are you. So give up this nonsense.”

  “Scrawny?” He pretended to be studying her body and pondering. “Nah. Slim, would be my description.”

  “Let us put an end to this unsavory discussion. I have no breasts to speak of, and everyone knows that men crave big udders.”

  He choked at her crudity, then grinned. “Haven’t you ever heard that the best gifts come in small packages?”

  “Enough!” she said, red-faced and mortified that she’d let
him draw her into such a bawdy conversation.

  He waggled his eyebrows at her before walking away.

  Fool that she was, she refused to let him have the last word. To his back, she said, “There are parts on you that are smaller than normal, too.” Immediately, she regretted her coarse jest.

  He turned slowly. “Tsk, tsk, tsk! Now I will have to prove to you how wrong you are. You should have stopped while you were ahead, Hildy. You definitely should have stopped.”

  “I am not afeared of you, you . . . lout.”

  “You should be.”

  Hilda stared after him in shock and was even more shocked when he spun on his heel and came back to her.

  “I am so sorry, Hilda. That was uncalled for. I shouldn’t bait you like that. I shouldn’t be so crude. I shouldn’t have made intimate observations about your body. I shouldn’t have crawled into bed with you. I honest-to-God don’t know what comes over me when I’m around you.” He put his hands on both of her upper arms and squeezed. “Forgive me?”

  She stared at his face, no longer twitching with humor, and recognized his sincere effort to correct his mistakes with her. Numbly, she nodded.

  This time, as he walked away again, he muttered the oddest thing. “I am in serious shit here.”

  Welcome all you roosters to the henhouse . . .

  The next day, the select group of thirty women and five men drilled from dawn till dusk preparing for a mission that might very well kill them all.

  Right now, they were jogging from the keep to the fjord and back again, over and over . . . an exercise that was as natural as breathing to the SEALs, but that the women considered ridiculous.

  Inge said breathily, “I do not care how many muscles my thighs get. My breasts are bouncing like a ship in a storm.”

  “Good thing I am not nursing,” Helwig joked. “Otherwise I might be churning butter here.”

  The guys looked at each other and rolled their eyes, knowing any words they said would be taken the wrong way.

  Hilda’s eyes connected with Torolf ’s, and he knew she was thinking about her small breasts and what he must think about their lack of jiggling.

  Lord, how did I get myself in this mess? He decided the best course was to not remark at all . . . and to definitely not look in the region of her chest. He would never tell her, but he thought her breasts were nice just the way they were . . . and, yes, dammit, he had been thinking about them way too much.

  Several of the sentries came running through the woods, downstream from the fjord. “Men coming, men coming!”

  Everyone immediately took their prearranged positions, weapons at the ready, most of them hidden from sight. Torolf and JAM, Hilda, and Britta waited in the open, though, figuring no men would be coming in such an exposed way unless they were friends . . . or pretending to be friends. First came Hervor, raising a hand in greeting. Following Hervor were ten men . . . no, fifteen . . . no, twenty. As they watched, more and more of them came streaming into view. They were a scruffy bunch, almost emaciated, and filthy.

  He saw the panic on Hilda’s face. “Oh, my gods! What will we do with all these men? How will we feed them? And find sleeping space . . . and clothing?”

  “Don’t worry. A hunting party will go out in the morning and get game. And Cage’ll catch a pig load of fish.”

  “I cannot have them inside the keep . . . I just cannot.”

  He saw the wild fear in her eyes. Men had been the root of these women’s problems. In her mind, the walls of her refuge were beginning to crumble. “These men have probably been living outdoors these past few years, anyhow. A few more weeks won’t matter. You don’t have to have them inside the keep.”

  She looked at him and back to the scrawny group, the most nonthreatening bunch he’d ever seen. She moaned and looked at him again. “How can I deny them? These are my . . . our people.” There were tears in her eyes as she stepped forth. “Good tidings, Hervor. I see you have brought us good men to aid in our cause. Welcome.”

  Hervor straightened his body, raising his chin with a dignity he probably hadn’t felt in years. “Good tidings, milady,” he said in a choked voice. The men behind him, many of them sick and crippled from torture and malnutrition, did likewise.

  Hilda walked among them, touching a shoulder here, a hand there, asking soft questions, uncaring that they reeked of long-unbathed bodies and oozing sores. Some she even recognized with small cries, and they her.

  Torolf was so proud of her that he could barely speak.

  They do WHAT to increase their virility? . . .

  Hilda heard some women giggling in the scullery as they helped to prepare the largest meal The Sanctuary had seen in the five years since it had been established.

  She had just come from the weaving shed, which had been cleared to be used as a hospitium of sorts for the injured men. Still others were in her own bedchamber, which she had gladly given up for their comort. For the most part, what they needed was good food and rest before they prepared to go forth and unseat Steinolf.

  “What are you twittering about?” Hilda asked, coming into the scullery.

  “We are talking about bedsport, of course,” Inge said, grinning.

  “Of course.” After five years manless, you would think that the subject of these women’s conversation would have changed. ’Twas an ageless subject, though. In truth, that biblical Eve had no doubt been discussing sex when she gathered with her women friends after being sent forth from the Garden of Eden.

  “These men . . . these SEALs . . . have the most unusual custom when making love.” Dagne put a hand over her mouth as she tittered.

  Hilda cocked her head in question, surprised not just by the subject but that it was sweet Dagne who mentioned it. “Unusual? Methought there was only so much a man could do with that dangly part of his.”

  “They put these things over their manparts,” Dissa explained and burst out laughing.

  “Things?”

  “Yea, cone-dumbs. They looks like sausage casings,” Dissa’s sister Dotta said with a snort of laughter.

  Well, that is certainly . . . dumb. “They put sausage casings over their manparts? Why?”

  Several of the women shrugged.

  “I know men are vain about their manly staffs, but really, dressing one up—in a sausage casing, of all things—that does press the bounds between sensible and laughable. ’Twould be like putting a tunic on a dog or a gunna on a chicken.”

  “Methinks it is to increase their virility,” Inge said, and the others nodded.

  “’Tis unbelievable! The things a man will do in the name of his prowess!”

  “I knew a man once who used to slather lard on his cock so it would glisten,” Rakel said. “And another who claimed eating onions increased a man’s virility. Little did he know that he reeked so bad, it mattered not a whit how large his lance was.”

  “There was a Viking man my sister knew who combed and trimmed his man hairs,” Elise told them.

  Several jaws dropped at that news, followed by more giggles.

  “I have noticed that men are sensitive about the size of it.” Inge rolled her eyes for emphasis. “Women worry about clean bed linens, lice in the hair, whether there will be enough boar for the morrow, while men worry about how impressed their bedmates will be when they pull it out of their braies.”

  “And does it—this sausage casing—increase virility?” Hilda asked.

  They all started giggling again, which presumably meant that it did. Hilda wanted to ask if Torolf had lain with any of them, but she could not. They already thought she had opened her legs for the lout. Why else would he have been in her bed furs?

  “Dost your man not use the cone-dumbs?”

  “He is not my man.”

  “’Tis the oddest thing,” Astrid began, speaking with the slight lisp caused by her imperfect tongue. “That evil thing that Steinolf ’s men made me do—putting their horrid manparts in my mouth—well, I did not know that normal men did the
same thing. Cunning-ling-us, they call it.” Her young face flamed with embarrassment, as several of the others nodded.

  Hilda frowned her confusion. “I do not understand. Men can suck on their own man parts?”

  The women burst out laughing, even Frida who was stirring a sweet-smelling custard of eggs, goat milk, honey, and dried bilberries over the fire. “Believe me, they would if they could.”

  “Noooo! I meant with women . . . men using their mouth on women’s female parts.” Astrid’s face flushed with embarrassment at Hilda’s misunderstanding.

  Hilda’s face bloomed with heat, too. “I have ne’er heard of such, and I have been wed three times.”

  “Mayhap your husbands did not care about your pleasure in the bedsport,” Inge remarked, not unkindly. Inge had been with Hilda a long time and knew of the sad state of her various marriages.

  “Hilda!” Speaking of the devil! There came Torolf into the kitchen, calling her name. “Hilda! I need to talk to you about . . .” His words trailed off as he noticed all the women gawking at him. “What? What did I do now?”

  Laughter erupted all around him, even from Hilda.

  After that, she and Torolf helped the women carry tray after tray of food into the hall, where Dagne was already playing her lute. She was being accompanied on the flute by a young man who had arrived that day. Everywhere people, including some of the recent arrivals, were talking and smiling, as if none of the horrors of the past five years had taken place. If the mead kept flowing as it was now, they would soon run out of a supply that would normally last them through the winter. And there were always lines at the privy, which was not intended for such a large number of mead-drinking people.

  “What did you need to discuss with me?” she asked after they set the trays down.

  “Let’s walk back here,” he suggested, pointing to one of the storerooms behind the high table. “More privacy.”

  She followed him, both of them carrying torches, which they’d picked from the wall. She watched as he examined the various wares on the shelves. Of a sudden, she noticed the sparkle of something on the front of his blue braies, reflected from the torch in his hands.