The Last Viking

  "I've spent the whole afternoon in the archives of a museum library. That belt clasp is magnificent! What materials are used? Oh, don't even try to describe it to me. I'm coming back to the States. I've got to see this in person. We could have the breakthrough of a life-time. As big as the Dead Sea Scrolls or King Tut's tomb. Well, maybe not that stupendous. But we're talking major fame here, hon."

  Meredith held the phone away from her face and stared at it, dumbstruck. Her sister was interrupting her museum work in London, not to come help her child, but to case out some ancient hunk of jewelry? And what was this we business?

  "Are you listening to me, Mer?"

  "Huh?" Apparently her sister had been jabbering away.

  "I should be able to get away from here in two days. In the meantime, could you take photographs and wire them to me? Or more detailed sketches, if photographs would make the guy suspicious. Whatever you do, don't let that guy, or his belt, get away. Steal them if you have to. "

  "Are you crazy?"

  A dial tone was her only response.

  Meredith glanced toward the kitchen where Thea was twittering gaily with Mike and Rolf as they stacked the dishes in the dishwasher and cleaned off the table.

  Thea's mother hadn't even asked to speak to her, or asked about her well-being.

  She was blinking rapidly to prevent tears from brimMing over in her eyes when Rolf walked toward her.

  Waving the two videotapes in her face, he said, "Stop looking so weepish, sweetling. We are going to learn all about power tools." Meredith put her face in her hands, but not before Rolf added, "And I've got dessert." Somewhere he'd found another bag of Oreos. Maybe they sold them in the hardware store. Thea and Mike followed with four glasses of milk.

  Jeffrey would have a heart attack if he could see her eating junk food. He was a devout advocate of the 'good nutrition feeds the brain" mantra. And junk TV was an even worse no-no. Unlike her parents, she and Jeffrey had had a television in their home, but he would have put a block on any channel showing anything as lowbrow as Tim Allen.

  Meredith cringed at that sudden, unwelcome memory, and then straightened with resolution. Starting right now, she was going to stop that creep Jeffrey from ruling her life. "Great!" she said, plopping down to the couch. "I can't wait." And she really meant it, too.

  An hour later, though, Meredith's stomach churned. And it wasn't just the Oreos and milk on top of chili and sourdough biscuits. It was Rolf and the effect TV had on him. The Viking stared, transfixed, at the TV screen, howling' with delight, along with Thea and Mike. Oh, Bob Vila had held his attention, but the Home Improvement klutz was the true hit.

  "Look at this, Merry-Death. Tim is building a man's toilet. It has a reclining La-Z-Boy seat and a footstool and a built-in stand for his mead and cigar. Is that not hilarious?"

  Yeah, hilarious.

  "What's a cigar? Can we buy some cigars tomorrow, Mike?"

  "Sure," Mike said.

  "Yeah," Thea said.

  "Absolutely not," Meredith said.

  On and on, the episodes went. And Meredith realized that she'd created a monster—a Viking whose hero was Tim Allen of Home Improvement.

  Rolf turned to her and sighed, "I think Tim must be one of your modern gods. Even his companion, Al... he is surely one of the lesser gods."

  "Hardly."

  Rolf finally clicked off the switch on the remote and looked directly at Meredith. "I have a wonderful idea."

  Meredith's queasy stomach roiled in foreboding.

  Mike and Thea waited expectantly; they treated Rolf as if he was a god himself and the words he spoke were golden pebbles of wisdom.

  "Let us invite Tim Allen to come here and help us build our longship."

  Chapter Eight

  It was ten o'clock, and Meredith was still on the telephone—this time with her mother and father.

  Seated at separate desks in the office they'd fashioned for themselves years ago in the walnut-paneled library of their Princeton home, her parents managed to harangue her with a three-way phone conversation.

  How many times over how many years had Meredith been called into that inner sanctum to account for her frivolous ways? As if she'd known how to be frivolous!

  Had she ever really lived up to their high standards of personal and academic excellence? No matter how hard she tried to please them, she was as much a failure in

  their eyes as Jillie, who didn't try at all.

  Meredith's queasy stomach roiled, probably portending an ulcer. Coward that she was, instead of fighting back, she took refuge in calling up the invisible wall that screened out their condemnations. If she refused to listen, they couldn't hurt her.

  Meredith instead concentrated on the sounds of Thea moving around upstairs, preparing for bed. Outside, the rhythmic rasp of sandpaper against wood reflected Rolf's obsession to work till he dropped so that he could hasten his trip home. When Meredith considered his inevitable departure, a dullness of spirit weighed her down. Why, she couldn't imagine. Rolf had been in her life only two days, and yet he filled such a need in her... one she still didn't understand and certainly never realized was there.

  Who was he? And why had he come into her world?

  There had to be a reason.

  "Do you hear me, Meredith Ann?" her mother chided. "You were a daydreamer as a child. Apparently you haven't lost the nasty habit. Pay attention, dear. This is important."

  "Now, Lillian, don't upset the girl," her father interrupted. Her father always referred to her as "the girl." She wondered if he knew how offensive that sounded. Probably not. "The girl doesn't understand the importance of the information she transmitted to us this afternoon. She never did take her work seriously enough."

  "She's probably still fixated on that worthless ex-husband of hers. I told you from the beginning, Herbert, that their marriage would never work. Didn't I?"

  "Yes, Lillian, you did."

  "I was never impressed with Jeffrey's Mensa I.Q.—After all, he was only a graduate of a state university. And vain... my goodness, that mustache of his was a clear giveaway."

  "Well, now, Einstein had a mustache, Lillian. We must be tolerant."

  "Hmpfh! Einstein didn't chase after young girls and impregnate them. Einstein didn't toss his wife aside because she couldn't have babies. Einstein didn't—"

  "Enough!" Meredith shouted into the telephone and surprised even herself In a softer tone, she said, "I have to go. Is there a reason for your call?"

  "I don't care for your tone at all, Meredith Ann," her mother said icily.

  "The girl always had a problem with self-control," her father agreed.

  "Just like Jillian."

  "Aaarrgh!" Meredith contributed.

  "The reason we called," her mother said with exaggerated patience, "is that your father and I discussed the conversation we had with you earlier today, after you sent the fax. And while we still think the workman you hired is incorrect in his statements about tenth-century events, he poses some interesting hypotheses."

  "Such as his impressions of Queen Aelfgifu. And details about the courts of the Saxon King Aethelred in Winchester and King Olaf in Norway during the tenth century. Even ship purchases made by noble personages of that time," her father added. "Did you say Ralph came from Norway? Well, there was constant traffic then between the Norse lands and the Northumbrian trading center in Jorvik. Perhaps Ralph stumbled onto some long-hidden documents—"

  "Or Old' Icelandic runic stones that give new data on Dark Age culture," her mother interjected hopefully. "If Ralph can read the futhark alphabet, as you claim, that in itself is remarkable."

  "Not Ralph, Rolf."

  As usual, her parents steamrolled over her. This time they didn't even acknowledge the correction.

  "Workmen often uncover vital artifacts and don't recognize their importance. Remember those ancient scrolls, Lillian? The ones that Egyptian stoneworker had stuffed in his wall?"

  Meredith could hear the ring of excitem
ent in her father's voice. The thrill of a possible new discovery was the only thing that could provoke such ardor. Certainly his children never had. The only time he'd ever shown her any affection was a gruff hug as a teenager when she received 1500 on her SATS, which was immediately dampened by her mother reminding him that Jared had gotten 1550.

  "Your father is right. The man is probably just an illiterate braggart, as many of those workmen at archaeological sites are, but one never knows. The pretentiousness of his calling himself a Viking, though, is so... so... plebian."

  "Huh? I never said he was an archaeological worker. I said he was a Viking shipbuilder," Meredith broke in.

  The collective snicker at the other end of the line was a vocal condemnation of her mental faculties.

  "Did the girl just use that despicable word?"

  "Yes, she did, Herbert. I thought we broke her of that trait long ago."

  "What word?" Meredith asked.

  "Huh?" her father informed her with icy distaste.

  "Father," Meredith said with sigh of exasperation, "I'm thirty-five years old. You can stop correcting my speech."

  "Be that as it may, girl, we'll be arriving on Saturday."

  "Wh-what?" Meredith squeaked out. This was the first she'd heard of their coming to Maine. Her stomach pitched, and bile rose to her throat. Saturday? Six days from now? Oh, Lord!

  "Please make arrangements for us to have a rental car waiting at the airport, Meredith Ann. And try to find decent hotel accommodations nearby."

  "And whatever you do, girl, don't let Ralph escape until we have a chance to interview him."

  Escape? How could I stop Ralph, the big galoot. I mean, Rolf the big galoot... from doing anything he wanted? "I thought you were off to Bombay."

  "Tsk-tsk, girl. Focus, remember? Bombay was last month. No, we're attending a symposium in Hamburg on Monday. 'The Social and Political Implications of Lime In Tenth-Century Garderobes.' We'll only be able to stay in Maine for two days."

  "No, no, no... wait a minute. This is not a good idea," Meredith protested. But already her parents had tuned her out.

  "Make sure you pack the tape recorder, Herbert, and plenty of cassettes."

  "Yes, Lillian. And don't forget the camera. We might want to take photographs of that medieval belt clasp."

  "Purported medieval belt clasp, Herbert."

  "That goes without saying, Lillian." Her father sniffed.

  They never even noticed when Meredith hung up the phone with a faint good-bye.

  No sooner did she put the cordless phone on the table than it rang again. Meredith pressed a button engaging the answering machine. Enough was enough for one day.

  "Hi, Mer. Jared here. I talked to Jillie tonight, and we agree you've got a live one there. Call me first thing in the morning. I have a million questions for you to grill this guy. He's probably a fraud, but that belt is... well, if it's what I think it is, it could be a missing link in an important segment of history. And the ship's prow sounds equally fascinating. Be careful, though, sis. Archaeological theft has become an international problem. You don't want to mess with criminals. Call me tomorrow. Oh, and did I tell you, I might be able to fly in next week? I'm due for a vacation anyway."

  Archaeological theft? Could Rolf be a criminal? No, she decided immediately. But what had Jard said in the end? He might be coming here, too? Oh, Lord!

  She took a big swig of Pepto-Bismol before heading outside to talk to her criminal-in-residence. Wait till he learned about all the company that would soon be converging on them.

  Better yet, wait till they found out a "blue-collar worker" was living with her.

  "Rolf, why don't you call it a night?" She walked up to Rolf where he worked industriously, sanding the bare-bones framework of a smaller longship that he'd already erected. The pungent odor of freshly cut wood drifted on the wind. "Mike will be here with the student workers by nine A.M. You've been up since before dawn. Come on to bed now."

  He stood in one lithe movement, dropping the sand-paper to the ground. "Is that an invitation?" He regarded her gravely as he swiped a forearm across his forehead. He wore only jogging pants and athletic shoes, and, of course, the talisman belt, but that was all. Despite the coolness of the spring air, perspiration glistened on his face and shoulders and the wide, enticing expanse of his chest. By the light of a full moon, she watched, captivated, as one bead drizzled from his chin down his breastbone, slowly, slowly, slowly toward the belt clasp.

  "Well?" he prodded with a knowing chuckle.

  Snapping to attention, she shoved a glass of cold iced tea into his hands. "No, that wasn't an invitation. That's an order. You need to rest, or you'll be of no use to me."

  He grinned at her inadvertent double entendre as he took a small sip of the beverage, testing. Anything other than mead usually held no appeal to his taste buds. Finding the drink palatable, he tilted his head back and drank it down in several long gulps.

  And Meredith got to admire the sleek lines of his profile. Strong nose and chin. Graceful neck. Full, wet lips. "Love with a Warm Viking" was looking better and better.

  Rolf placed the empty glass on the ship's frame, and then leveled her with a hard glare. "An order, do you say? Hah! I take exception to your assertion of authority over me. In truth, my inclination is to do the opposite just to prove you cannot bend me to your will with mere words. Know this, my lady. Geirolf Ericsson takes orders from no one."

  "Now wait a minute. Somewhere along the line, you managed to convince yourself that you're in charge of this project."

  "Oh?" His jaw went rigid, his voice decidedly tense.

  "Maybe it was when you 'led the charge' at the mall. Maybe it was when you bought all those modern tools at the hardware store, against my orders. Maybe it was when you dismantled all my grandfather's hard work, without permission. Maybe it was when you moved into my house big-as-you-Viking-well-please. But understand this, buster... I'm drawing a line in the sand. I'm the employer. You are the employee. And from now on you take my orders."

  Rolf shook his head with disbelief "Have a caution, wench. You pass the bounds of bravery and enter into the realm of foolishness with your lackwit female prattle. " .

  She literally growled. "And stop calling me wench."

  "I'll call you wench and much more, if I choose."

  He leaned down so they were practically nose to nose. "You ask when I convinced myself of my greater authority. Well, I'll tell you, wench."

  His warm breath feathered Meredith's lips as he spoke. A shiver assaulted her, but she refused to back away. Actually, she couldn't have moved if her life depended on it, so mesmerized was she by his nearness.

  "Mayhap I took control because I am Geirolf Ericsson, son of Eric Tryggvason, high jarl of Hordaland, and I was born to lead," he told her, "Mayhap it was when the gods led me through this hellish time hole to a willful lady whose tongue outruns her good sense. Mayhap it was when I saw the half-brain job done on the longship and knew I could correct the mistakes. Or mayhap—" he besitated and ran his tongue over his upper lip with deliberate sexual innuendo, "or mayhap it was when I turned you into a mewling kitten of surrender in that wheeled box of yours yesterday. With a few mere kisses, at that."

  She gasped at his reference to her lapse in sanity. And how like a man to place undue importance on her indiscretion!

  Rolf grazed her trembling lips with his knuckles as he straightened. With a laugh, he added, "Imagine how it will be when we finally couple, sweetling. Do you think then that you will lead the play? Hah! I think not. The man leads, the woman follows. 'Tis the way of nature and e'er has been."

  Meredith sputtered with outrage. Any warm feelings she'd had melted away at his chauvinistic words. "You ... you overinflated macho pig. You arrogant, overbearing, Stone Age Neanderthal. I wouldn't couple with you now if you were the hottest Viking in the world."

  "Oh, you will not say me nay forever," he assured her with supreme self-confidence. "Your protests signify naugh
t when your eyes blaze invitation."

  "They... do... not."

  "You think to gainsay me with peevish challenges of my every directive. You mistrust me when I tell of my past and how I got to your godforsaken land. Well, my lady, you are the false one. You lie to yourself when you say you don't want me. You want me with a growing passion, on that I would wager my long sword. And you will have me and my other sword," he said, gesturing crudely to his groin, "or you may not have me, if I choose."

  That was the last straw. The jerk had crossed over the line. "You're fired, mister."

  "Fired? Oh, I am fired, for a certainty. So fired I could take you now, on the ground, and plow you to Hel and back."

  "Not that kind of fired, you lech. You're dismissed. No longer employed on this project. I don't want you here anymore."

  Meredith inhaled sharply at her own harsh words.

  Her blistering fury had caused her to lash out without thinking. She wished she could take back her words, especially when Rolf drew himself tall with wounded pride. "I didn't mean—"

  He put up a halting hand. "Dismissed, you say? You don't want me, you say?" His words hit her like daggers. "So be it!"

  With heart pounding and eyes misting with tears, Meredith watched as Rolf stormed toward the house.

  And presumably out of her life.

  The wench was looking whey-faced and miserable when she came into her homestead a short time later, but he did not care. No one—man or woman—insulted his honor and walked away unscathed. If she were a man, she would be dead now... or sorely bruised.

  "Rolf, I'm sorry if I offended you," she stammered out.

  He could see that her pride had been damaged as well, and that the words came hard. Good. He'd removed his modern raiment and donned his leather tunic with the talisman belt. Now he was setting aside the comfortable running boots and pulling on his stiff leather, cross-tied boots. Let her be reminded that he was a Viking, not some weak-sapped modern man that she could push here and there like a lump of dough.

  With a sneer of distaste, he realized that already his man-parts felt a chill without a loincloth. And he would no doubt have blisters on his heels from the chafing of his skin boots, which had shrunk in the ocean brine.