Rough and Ready

  She misliked the endearment “sweetie” almost as much as she objected to “Hildy,” and the lout did it deliberately. “I was picturing you with a bowl of creamed onions on your head, upside down.” She gave him a sugary smile.

  “Isn’t that a coincidence? I was picturing you, too. Without that dirty gown . . .”

  She gasped.

  “Get your mind out of the moat. I meant, in a clean gown of silk and fine wool, as I recall seeing you before.”

  She misdoubted that was what he’d meant.

  “And I was picturing you without that sheep shit in your hair.”

  For the love of Frigg! She put a hand to her head. “Oh, you! I do not have . . . that in my hair.”

  He leaned closer to her, so close she could smell Effa’s pine-scented soap on his skin. Peering closer, he said, “Ah, I must have been mistaken. It’s just bits of wool and leaves and . . . What is this?” He picked something from her hair and laid it in front of her. It was a cream-coated onion.

  “Oh, you!” She jabbed him in the arm. “I should have remembered your knack for sleight of hand games. But last time, ’twas a dead mouse you put in my hair.”

  “Me?” He slapped a hand on his chest with mock affront. “You have a long memory. But then, all women do.”

  “Your memory appears to be long, as well.”

  “Longer than you could imagine.”

  The last time Hilda had seen Torolf, she had been only eleven and he an almost adult at fourteen. He and his father and his brother Ragnor had come to visit her father at Deer Haven. A grand hunting party had been planned, but Torolf had stayed back at the lodge due to an injured ankle. That had given him the opportunity to pull one prank after another on Hilda.

  “Dost recall the time you took me fishing, whilst the men went boar hunting?” She cast him a sideways glance while she idly picked apart a piece of manchet bread.

  “And we both landed in the fjord, dripping wet.” He laughed, and when he laughed his eyes, warm brown like clover honey, crinkled at the edges. “I built us a fire, though, handy fellow that I was . . . am.”

  “And then, rascal that you were, and no doubt still are, you talked me into removing my wet gunna whilst you took off your own wet garments. You promised not to look.”

  He was laughing out loud now.

  How nice that she could still be the source of his amusement!

  “And what makes you think that I did . . . look?”

  “Because your brother Ragnor told me later that you said my breasts were so small they looked like bee stings.”

  “He didn’t!” Reflexively, his gaze flitted over her bosom, as if he could see her breasts through the thick fabric . . . breasts that were still small, though bigger than bee stings now. “My apologies if I embarrassed you . . . then.”

  “Liar! You enjoy teasing me.”

  “Yep,” he said without apology.

  “Are you never serious?”

  “You asked me that before. Yes, I am. But life is too short and full of so much pain.” He shrugged.

  “And that is why you take every opportunity to make merry?”

  “I suppose. It’s not a bad philosophy of life. Besides, in my opinion, God must have a sense of humor to have created men and women the way they are, with all our foibles.”

  “You speak the same language I do, and yet I fail to understand what you say by half.”

  “Okay, here’s a good example of what I’m talking about. Consider Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. You’ve heard that biblical tale, right? Well, what’s not to laugh about with good ol’ stud muffin Adam being tempted by sexpot Eve? Toss in the apple and the snake, and it’s damn funny.” He was picking fleece out of her hair as he spoke, making a small pile on the table.

  “The One-God of the Christians? That is who you are saying has a sense of humor?” she asked, disconcerted by his touching her, even if it was only her hair. She swatted at his hand, but he just moved to another part of her head.

  “Uh-huh! Where I come from . . . the country where I now live . . . doesn’t worship the Norse gods.”

  “Stop your wandering fingers!” She took his wrist and placed his hand on the table.

  He just grinned. The lout!

  “And what country is that?”

  “America.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Far away?”

  “Too far for you to come back and help your countrymen . . . to help Madrene. And, by the by, where is Madrene now? Last I heard, she was in the Arab lands.”

  “Yes, America is too far away. Madrene is safe now with our father in America.”

  She nodded. “That is good.” His explanation raised as many questions as answers, but they could wait. “How many wives have you in Ah-mare-eek-ah, Torolf?”

  He laughed. “None.”

  “Have they all died? Or left you? Or did you cast them aside?” It was probably the latter. He is too comely by half and no doubt dipped his wick hither and yon, as his father had.

  “None of the above. I’ve never been married.”

  “Really? A man your age?”

  “I’m not that old. I’m only thirty-one.”

  She arched her eyebrows. That was old enough to have had several wives. “And children?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Is there something wrong with you?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “One of my husbands, Gudrod, had a problem getting his dangly part to do anything but . . . dangle.”

  Torolf choked on the mead he had been sipping from a wooden cup. “Hildy! No, I have no problem getting it up. I must say, I’m surprised at your bluntness.”

  “Well, ’tis the truth about Gudrod.”

  “So, you’ve been married?”

  “Three times. After all, I am twenty and eight years old.”

  “That old, huh? Can I assume, since you’re living like a nun here with your . . . uh, coven . . . that you’re no longer wed?”

  She nodded. “All dead. They were short-lived marriages.”

  “How short?”

  Hilda could feel her face heat. How did they get on this subject? “Very short.” She exhaled with a whooshy breath. “One died on the wedding night. The second died on the fifth night of our marriage. And Kugge lasted six months afore he also died . . . at night. Alas, all were straw deaths.”

  Straw deaths were abhorred by Viking men, who preferred to die in battle, guaranteeing a sure welcome to Valhalla.

  But then he frowned with confusion. “They all died at night? Why is that relevant? And one of them on your wedding night . . .” His words trailed off as understanding seeped into his thick skull. “They died in bed with you?”

  “I would rather not discuss this any further.”

  “It must have been awful for you, but I can’t help but wonder. Hell, you must be something else in the bedsheets if you could knock off three husbands in the act. I’m impressed.”

  “Oh, please! They were old men. They could as easily have died of excessive snoring or breaking wind in bed.”

  He choked on his mead again. “How old?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “How old?”

  “Fifty, sixty, and seventy, if you must know.”

  “And how old were you?”

  “Aaarrgh! You are like a dog with a bone. Fourteen, sixteen, and twenty. And that is the end of it.”

  “Hildy, Hildy, Hildy.” He sighed. “You deserved better.”

  “Yea, I did, but my lot was no different than many others. Better than some.”

  “I can’t imagine you being so compliant. Agreeing to marry men you didn’t choose.”

  “I was different then. A good daughter.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, I do as I choose.”

  “And that choice is . . . no man?”

  “Exactly. I have a roof over my head, food to eat, and blessed safety. There is much to be said for a peaceful life.”
br />   “What about passion? Doesn’t sound like there’s much passion in your life.”

  “I have passion for the land, for my ladies, for a self-sufficient living.”

  “That isn’t the kind of passion I meant.” He rubbed his chin with a forefinger thoughtfully. “Wait a minute. You said Kugge. Surely not Kugge Big Wart.”

  “Yea, the selfsame.”

  “Holy hell, Hildy. How could you stand to kiss him when that big wart was sticking out from the tip of his nose like a giant booger?”

  She was fairly sure she knew what a booger was, and it would be an accurate description. “Kugge wasn’t much for kissing.” Thank the gods!

  “That’s a shame. Not a shame that you didn’t have to kiss Kugge, but that you have been deprived of good kissing for such a long time. By the way, have I told you I am a very good kisser?”

  “You are incorrigible.”

  “It’s one of my best qualities.”

  “And the others?”

  He grinned. “I don’t know you well enough to tell you . . . yet.”

  Their conversation was cut short then by a bustle of activity just below them in the cleared area between the high table and long tables. To her amazement, Dagne was taking out her lute, something she had not done these past five years. Encouraging her was the young man named Geek. What an odd name! Sounded more like what a person said when stepping in sheep droppings. Geek had his leg in a splint, even though his knee was just sprained, not broken.

  Dagne adjusted the strings and leaned her head down, checking the tones. Then she began to strum softly. Once the room was totally silent, except for the sizzling of the fires, the clack-clack-clacking of the hand loom being worked by one industrious weaver, and Frida clanging some pots in the scullery, she began to sing one of the old saga songs. It was the tale of two twins, Toste and Vagn Ivarsson. She told how inseparable these two twins were from birth, even when they went to war together, where they presumably died together. But each had been rescued and began different life journeys, each thinking his other half had long gone to Valhalla. In the end, the two brothers found each other again. It was a love story, of course, which held the women in thrall, even though most of them had heard it many times before, but it was also a poignant story of the love two brothers had for each other.

  Hilda glanced at Torolf to see his reaction to the music. He appeared stunned, but then he stood and began clapping. His men did the same, and soon the women followed suit, realizing that the clapping showed their appreciation.

  When Torolf sat back down and Dagne began another song, Hilda glanced at him, noting the serious expression on his face.

  Sensing her scrutiny, he said, “I feel the same connection with my brother Ragnor who, you know, is the same age as I am, though we had different mothers. I suffered the same loss as those twins when we were separated for more than ten years.”

  Hilda decided that mayhap there was another side to Torolf. She wasn’t altogether happy with that prospect. It would not do for her to be attracted to the rogue. As one of the old proverbs said, “If a rogue woos you, count your teeth.” Not that Torolf would ever woo me.

  “Your lips are moving. Are you talking to yourself again?”

  She made a face at him. “Why are you here?”

  “Steinolf.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him.

  “I’ve come back to avenge my family honor and to rid our land of this heinous villain.”

  “How?”

  “By killing the bastard and returning Norstead to its rightful people.”

  “And who would rule there? You?”

  “Not if I can help it. I’ll find someone to take my place. I intend to go back to America, if I can.”

  “Perhaps you are not aware of how powerful Steinolf is. He has not only overtaken Norstead and Amberstead, but many other estates in the northwest.”

  Torolf was not pleased with that news, but then he shrugged. “Whatever. Steinolf is a dead man, that I promise.”

  Hilda’s heart lightened at his words. “You cannot fight Steinolf with a mere five men . . . unless you have an army following you. Do you?” she asked hopefully.

  “No, but we’re Navy SEALs. I know it’ll sound like bragging to you, but five of us can do what fifty men can, in the right circumstances.” Seeing the confusion on her face, he added, “SEALs are elite forces with specialized talents for fighting.”

  “Like Jomsvikings or Varangians?”

  “Sort of.”

  “How are your methods different?”

  “Many ways. The weapons are different, we use strike and retreat guerrilla tactics. In essence, we use our heads as much as our brawn.”

  “Can you teach us those skills?”

  “Huh? Who?”

  “Us women. There are sixty of us here. Despite our poor performance earlier today, we train regularly and thus far have defended ourselves against invaders, though, truth to tell, our defenses have not been tested yet in any serious way.”

  “You want us to train a bunch of women how to use cooking ladles and shepherd’s crooks as military weapons?”

  “Do not patronize me. We have no men to defend us and do not want them for that purpose,” she added quickly. “We must needs learn to defend ourselves better. Are there no women fighters in your new land?”

  “Not in the SEALs, but, yeah, there are women soldiers.”

  She raised her hands, palms upward. “So why can you not help us?”

  “I don’t know. We really don’t have much time. Maybe.” He seemed to be considering the possibility, but then a mischievous twinkle came into his brown eyes . . . eyes that she had already decided were too pretty for a man. “What’s in it for me?”

  She stiffened. “You would want payment?”

  He shrugged. “That’s usually the way, isn’t it?”

  “We do not have much coin.”

  “I don’t want or need money. And don’t you dare offer me sheep or a goat.” He was outright laughing at her now.

  She studied the lout for a few minutes, and he studied her back. “You do not mean . . . oh, surely, you would not want me to share your bed furs?”

  He was clearly shocked by her question. “Would you?”

  She thought a moment. “Yea, but ’twould be an unfair bargain on your part. A few minutes of tupping in the bed furs in return for days and days of military training for us women.”

  “A few . . . a few minutes?” he sputtered.

  “Yea,” she said slowly, suspecting that she had stepped into some hole of his making.

  “Number one, making love with a man should take more than a few minutes. Number two, I am rarely satisfied with one bout of tupping. Number three, you’ve been missing out on a whole lot in your life, sweetheart.”

  Her face felt hot as if she had been standing near a hearth fire. “Number one, do not call me sweetling. I am not your sweetling. Number two, how many bouts? Number three, how long each time?”

  Torolf was shaking his head and laughing. She did not care. This was important business to her. They may never again get such an opportunity to learn military skills.

  “Probably three or four times each night, and, oh, let’s say an hour or two each time.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Hey, I’m virile.”

  “Your self-love is impressive.”

  On the other side of Torolf, the dark-haired man wearing a strange hat and gold ring in one ear, with the odd name of Cage, was blatantly listening in on their conversation, laughing so hard tears were brimming over in his eyes.

  “You have my consent,” Hilda said with disgust.

  “Huh?” It was Torolf’s turn to have his jaw drop.

  “You may swive me for one night, dusk to dawn.”

  Torolf ’s jaw dropped farther, and the laughing rogue beside him said something that sounded like, “Way to go, dude!”

  As she got up to go to the scullery and advise Frida on
the meal to be served when the men broke fast in the morning, she heard Torolf murmur, “Oh . . . my . . . God!”

  Praying . . . the lout is praying at a time like this. Truly, I do not understand men.

  Chapter 5

  MTV it was not . . .

  Torolf watched Hilda walk away, head held high, hips swishing from side to side. If she only knew that he was watching her heart-shaped ass, she would have a fit . . . probably clomp him over the head with a cooking ladle.

  “What a woman!” he murmured. She surprised him at every turn, especially the way she’d taken all the disasters that had come her way and risen above them. Steinolf hadn’t defeated her and these other women . . . not totally. And Torolf couldn’t help but admire that.

  But offering to sleep with me? Holy shit! I was teasing, and she took me seriously. She’s gonna kill me when she finds out.

  In the distance outside, he could hear the dog, Stig, howling his opposition to being locked up. The animal had developed an unnatural attraction to his leg, much to the embarrassment of the women and the amusement of his buddies.

  Hilda was talking now with another woman standing in the circle of people surrounding the lute player. He could tell by the way the other women deferred to Hilda that she held a place of great respect in this community.

  “Hilda hoisted you on your own petard, my friend.” Sitting beside him, Cage passed him another full cup of mead.

  Torolf raised his mug to his friend. “Skál!”

  “Ditto,” Cage replied with a grin. “This stuff is great, by the way. Better than beer.”

  “Be careful. It’s more potent. Its wallop can hit you like a grenade in a Taliban cave.”

  “Hey, after the day we’ve had, I deserve a wallop or two.”

  The guys still didn’t believe that time travel had taken place. They honest-to-God thought this was some kind of loony reenactment place, like that pioneer village that Oprah went to one time. They probably hadn’t thought it through yet; otherwise, they would’ve questioned the shipwreck and the missing people who’d been traveling with them and the unsettled terrain. He would have to set them straight soon.

  “So, you gonna do the dirty with the nun-witch?” Cage asked with a big Cajun grin.