The Last Viking

  "Truly?" he asked with amazement. "Whene'er my brothers and I go a-viking, women always fall over themselves to get to us, no matter the country. Especially Saxon women. They claim we are much taller and more comely than their ugly English men."

  "Hah! The way I hear it, Vikings washed more often than Saxon men. That's what attracted the women. You didn't smell quite so bad."

  He grinned. "Well, there is that, too."

  Four hours later, Meredith sat back in her chair in the library and stretched.

  They'd made incredible progress. Rolf was rapidly learning how to read English, thanks in part to her grandfather's numerous English-Old Norse texts and software programs. Rolf must be very intelligent to grasp all the principles so easily, but Meredith sensed that it was more than that. She almost believed his assertion that the talisman had magic powers. How else could he already have mastered the alphabet and rudimentary grammar? How else could he have managed to work the computer keyboard as he studied data?

  His childlike enthusiasm for learning touched her. He didn't balk at any of her instructions, even the boring, rote drawing of the alphabet.

  "Why are you so eager to learn all of this so quickly?" she asked finally. "And don't give me that nonsense about being dedicated to the god of wisdom."

  He glanced up with surprise from the third-grade reader he'd been studying—one that had been hers as a child. "So I can return home," he answered simply and went back to his book.

  Meredith's heart stopped at his declaration, and she wondered how she could feel such desolation at the idea of losing a man she'd just met. He meant nothing to her, other than as a shipbuilder. He was a means to an end. Once that project was completed, it would be good riddance, right?

  Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  She didn't know how it had happened—perhaps she was pathetically lonely—but Rolf had burrowed his way into her life and possibly even her heart in one short day. And his absence would leave a gaping hole, she just knew it would. She would have to protect herself.

  "That's enough for today," she declared, reaching over his shoulder and abutting the book. "How about some lunch?"

  He nodded his agreement and stood, stretching his arms wide and arching his back to remove the kinks from sitting for so long. She refused to look, already embarking on a plan of self-protection.

  A short time later, Rolf leaned against the kitchen counter while she opened a can of tomato soup and made grilled cheese sandwiches. She really needed to go to grocery shop this afternoon.

  As she moved around the tiny kitchen, he watched her every move, as if memorizing them for future reference. Maybe he was an alien come to study earthly civilization. Hey, it was no more implausible than Rolf's time-travel story.

  His constant scrutiny made her unnaturally nervous. Probably because she kept remembering how he'd looked in her bed last night, how they'd almost made love.

  "Tell me about that talisman," she finally said, seeking something to distract her thoughts. "How do you figure a belt clasp has magic powers?"

  "Huh? What magic clasp? Oh, nay, You misunderstand. 'Tis not the clasp that is the talisman. The clasp is just a protective covering."

  She turned the soup on low and put two more grilled cheese sandwiches in the frying pan, after removing two that were done. Then she gave him her full attention. "What do you mean?"

  He removed the belt and demonstrated. In the back of the large, circular disc clasp was a secret lever that he sprang, releasing the back side and exposing an exquisite gold cross inside. About three inches at its widest point, the crucifix wasn't a pendant, although it probably could have been used as such. The back of the cross was rough; obviously it had broken off from another piece.

  "Oh, it's beautiful! May I hold it?"

  He nodded, handing it to her. As soon as he placed it in her palm, she felt its pulsing heat. She glanced up at him quickly, and she saw that he understood what she was feeling.

  "'What is it?" she asked.

  "A gilt frontispiece that my father tore off a Bible three years past whilst pillaging Lindisfame—Holy Island—in Britain."

  Meredith put a hand to her forehead in confusion.

  "Wait a minute. The famous Viking attack on the Lindisfame monastery took place about two hundred years before that, in the late eighth century."

  Rolf frowned at her interruption. "This was the second attack on Lindisfame, and—"

  "Aha! You said you weren't into raping and pillaging."

  He made a warning sound at being interrupted again. "I said that my family, personally, does not indulge in rape. I ne'er said we do not pillage. Pillaging is an horrorable Viking endeavor. In truth, Saxons and Franks also are quite adept at pillaging and plundering. And I did not say my father attacked the Lindisfame monastery. The good monks left the island a century ago. Nay, my father took the frontispiece from a villager whose family had stolen the holy book afore the priests left. So, you see, 'twas not really stealing since the item was stolen to begin with."

  "Go on, then," she said with a sigh of resignation. The man had an answer for everything.

  "Three years past, in 994, my father joined his brother Olaf..."

  "The king of Norway?"

  "Yea, Olaf Tryggvason, the king of Norway. If you keep interrupting me, wench, I will ne'er finish my saga. "

  It was becoming a saga, all right.

  "My father, a Norwegian jarl, along with King Olaf and Sven Forkbeard, the king of Denmark, banded together for a grand invasion of Britain. Ninety-four warships there were in the combined fleet—many of their ships I had built. 'Twas the most formidable Viking attack on Britain in more than a half century."

  "Who won?"

  Rolf shrugged. "Many of the British nobles were prepared to accept Sven as ruler, but London was defended stubbornly just the same. And, as always, there was much bickering in the Danish and Norwegian ranks. 'Twas an unnatural alliance, you see, betwixt two Viking milers who'd been trying for years to gobble each other up. In the end, Aethelred bought their allegiance with a danegeld of sixteen thousand pounds."

  Meredith was more confused than ever. "What does all this have to do with the talisman and the holy relic?"

  "Sore angry was my father when he left Britain three years ago. Angry at his brother Olaf who stayed behind at the Saxon court, promising Christian conversion of all Norsemen. Angry at the weak-spined Aethelred who can be trusted only so far. Angry at the gods who failed to watch over the dead warriors. Mostly, he was angry at the Christian God since my mother had talked my father into baptism afore sailing. "

  "So, in retaliation, he plundered a Christian monastery on the way home," Meredith offered.

  "That he did... except that he did not realize the monastery was no longer there." He waved his hand in a careless gesture. "So, he raided some homes instead and found their hidden riches."

  Wealthy churches had been the targets of many Viking raids in the tenth century; Meredith knew that from her studies. That didn't mean she believed Rolf's story. "Go on," she encouraged, nonetheless. "Why do you refer to this particular object as a talisman? What's so special about it?"

  " 'Tis not the crucifix itself that is important, but the relic buried in its depths during the forging."

  "Relic?"

  "Yea, three eyelashes from the lid of St. Cuthbert, a former monk at Lindisfame, wrapped around a sliver of wood. The splinter comes from the staff of Moses. He was the holy man in the Christian Bible who savedd the ancient lands of pestilence through the powers of his staff."

  "I know who Moses was," she snapped. "Lord, you do tell a good story. Not that I really believe there is such a relic in that cross, but assuming it's true, what is its significance to you or your father?"

  "Much guilt has my father suffered for taking the sacred relic, largely due to my mother's nagging. She believes, and has convinced my father, that the great famine that now plagues Norway can be halted only if the relic is returned to its rightful place on Holy Island
. Mayhap it must be buried under the ruins of the monastery, if none of the monkish order be about. When the frontispiece is returned, the curse will end. My mother had a vision in which an angel told her so."

  Meredith couldn't stop the derisive sound that erupted from her throat. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

  "I am wont to be skeptical, too. About the stolen relic of Moses causing a famine, and its return miraculously ending the pestilence. But I cannot take the chance of being wrong. And I am honorbound to complete the mission for my father."

  "So, on the way to return the crucifix to Lindisfame, Storr Grimmsson... the guy you told me about... attacked you and stole the relic, right?"

  He nodded.

  Meredith was getting a headache from all this puzzling information. "So you followed Grimmsson to... ?"

  "Iceland."

  "Iceland. Of course," she said sarcastically. "And from there you chased him to these waters and got shipwrecked. "

  "Yea," he said brightly. "Now you understand."

  Aaarrgh, Meredith shrieked silently and handed the crucifix back to Rolf. After replacing it in its hiding place and putting the belt back on, Rolf sat down at the table. She placed a bowl of soup in front of him, along with a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches and a glass of milk.

  "Blood soup!"

  She laughed. "It's not blood. It's tomatoes."

  "These are someone's toes?" he asked with horror.

  "No, you fool. Just eat that soup. It's from a vegetable, and it's good."

  He did, and although he wasn't too impressed with the meal, he devoured everything, including the milk, despite his having commented, "A good cup of mead would be preferable to this child's drink."

  Meredith made a mental note to buy a six-pack of beer later that day.

  "Okay, listen," she said after she'd stacked the dishes in the dishwasher. She was about to tell him to go back into the den and practice his English exercises while she went to the store.

  "I'm listening"' he drawled against the exposed curve of her neck. He'd snuck up behind her. Damn those athletic shoes, which didn't squeak in warning.

  She tried to step away, but he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and proceeded to release her hair from its knot at the back of her head. "I love your hair," he whispered.

  "So you've said before," she said, relishing the praise. False praise, she was sure. No man had ever taken particular note of her hair before. After all, even on a good hair day, it was only brown—no spectacular color—and it was straight as a poker. No feminine curls or waves.

  Rolf burrowed his face in it with a sigh as he used one hand to spread its strands over her shoulders. And suddenly her hair felt thick and luxuriant and... beautiful.

  No sooner did she register that incredible fact than she noticed that his other hand was placed flat against her stomach, like a brand of possession.

  Meredith couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to.

  And she didn't want to.

  "I'm sorry I fell asleep on you yestereve, Merry-Death," he said sorry, his lips tracing a path along her jaw to the side of her mouth, his hand moving upward from her stomach, under the hem of her sweater, to rub her bare abdomen.

  She made a little mewling sound of distress. Or was it pleasure? She arched her neck back against his shoulder.

  "'But I'm not tired now," he whispered, and cupped one of her lace-covered breasts. "Are you?"

  She practically shot off the floor at the intense, erotic sensations his gentle touch engendered. But she was held pinned against the sink counter by Rolf's lower body, which pressed insinuatingly against the back of her jeans-clad bottom.

  "You need not worry about the possibility of a babe," he assured her silkily as he pulled the neckline of her sweater aside and nibbled at the sensitive curve of her shoulder.

  "Wh-what do you mean?" Had he actually bitten her shoulder blade? Then licked it?

  "Now, sweetling, don't go stiff on me. I just meant that I will make sure you do not breed."

  "And how will you do that?" she said testily, turning in his arms. "Since you claim to be a tenth-century Viking, with no modern methods of birth control, just how will you accomplish that remarkable feat?"

  "Why are you angry, Merry-Death? I think only of your reputation. Most women would appreciate the consideration."

  She lifted a brow in question.

  "I will not spill my seed inside your body," he explained.

  Letting out a whoosh of exasperation, Meredith ducked under his reaching arms. Thank God for the ice-water effect of his words on her impetuous, irresponsible near-capitulation to his seductive efforts.

  "That wouldn't be necessary, if we were going to make love. Which we're not. Because, you see—" she took a breath as she gathered the nerve to disclose her painful secret—"because I can't have children."

  He stared at her for a long moment, and then said only, "Oh, Merry-Death, I am so sorry."

  She closed her eyes briefly to hide her reaction to his sympathy. Why hadn't he said something callous like everyone else? Such as, "It doesn't matter. Having children is no big deal. You can always adopt. It doesn't mean you're less a woman." Or, worse, the remark Jeffrey had made before their divorce, "Maybe you weren't meant to have children."

  Instead, Rolf had understood her pain and shared it. When she finally got her emotions under control, she opened her eyes to see him staring at her intently, waiting out her inner struggle. He put one hand on the belt buckle and the other over his heart, holding her eyes the whole time, and all he said was, "I feel your pain."

  She nodded and forced herself to change the subject. She'd decided in that split second that they both needed a lighter mood. "Good thing you've got your walking shoes on, Rolf"

  "Why?" he asked with trepidation.

  "We're going to the mall."

  Chapter Five

  Geirolf sat with his legs braced stiff, belted into the seat of Merzy-Death's horseless, red wagon. They raced along a local road at an ungodly speed, stirring up dust in their wake.

  "Slow down," he gritted out. He was going to wring her foolhardy neck... if he ever escaped from this box. Box! Thor's toenails, this was a land of boxes!

  "Huh?" Merry-Death had been humming along with music that came from a shelf in the box, something she called the class-call station. "I'm only going thirty-five."

  "Well, that explains it," he snapped. All the perplexing words and objects in this new land tired him mightily. He wanted nothing more than to return to his homeland, where life was simple and unmagical. He looked idly through the side window, and then looked again. "Oh, Good Lord! Stop the box, Merry-Death. Make haste. There is much danger."

  Reacting instinctively, she slammed one foot against a lever on the floor and they came to a screeching halt at the side of the road. Despite the seat restraint, his forehead hit the front window and his knees banged against the dashing-board.

  "What? What is it?" Merry-Death asked him in alarm.

  Rubbing the already rising knob on his brow, he pointed up to the sky. "There is a huge shiny bird hovering overhead. Surely one of Loki's vultures is about to attack. 'Tis so big it could swallow an entire troop of soldiers in one gulp. I have heard of such in the sagas."

  Merry-Death scanned the area where he pointed, then giggled. "Oh, you!" She jabbed his arm in reprimand. "That's just an airplane."

  Since she didn't share his concern, he released the breath he'd been holding. After she explained airplanes to him, he stared at her speechless. He could hardly credit her claims—that a machine had been invented that allowed people to fly in the air over long distances—even oceans.

  Scowling at his assertion that he'd never heard of an airplane before, she started the car up again. The woman's belief that he was a liar, or worse, was beginning to annoy him. And he couldn't stop thinking about the amazing metal bird he'd just seen. As he worried his bottom lip with his upper teeth, he tried to understand. "Mayhap we should go back to your keep
. I'm not certain I want to see any more witchly arts today. "

  She laughed gaily. "Too late now. We're there."

  He wasn't exactly sure what constituted "there," something Merry-Death called a shipping mall, but she'd promised it would be amusing. He scanned the area as she drove her box off the roadway into a huge clearing where hundreds of similar boxes, of different colors and shapes, sat side by side. No ships, at all, in this shipping mall.

  As she steered her box into a stall and turned off the key, he let out a whoosh of relief and then peered around with bewilderment. "When does the amusement begin?"

  She ignored his sarcasm and helped unbuckle his seat belt. Grinning mysteriously, she told him to follow her. Which wasn't easy to do since he couldn't figure out how to open the bloody door of the bloody box.

  They began to walk toward the shipping mall structure when Geirolf stopped suddenly and exclaimed, "By the Holy Rood! Of all the things I have seen in this outlandish country, that is the most outlandish of all."

  "What?" Merry-Death craned her neck this way and that, unable to locate the source of his incredulity.

  "There," he said, pointing to an elderly woman walking with a pig on a leash. It was the ugliest pig he'd ever seen in all his born days, with a belly that drooped almost to the ground. "Is the wench taking yon hog to market?"

  Merry-Death laughed. "No, that's a pot-bellied pig. It's a pet. "

  "A pet?" he sputtered. "Like a kitten?"

  "Uh-hum. Isn't it darling?"

  "Have you suffered a head blow of late?"

  Moments later, they entered the glass doors of the shipping mall, and Geirolf jerked back with surprise.

  Every person in this world must have assembled here, and they all chattered and shrieked with good humor as they briskly walked along—singly, in pairs, and in threatening groups.

  He wished he had Brave Friend with him. He felt defenseless without his sword at hand. But Merry-Death didn't appear frightened, so he trailed after her. First, Merry-Death said she had to get some money from an aye-team machine. She inserted a square of some strange material called plays-tick into a slot, and Geirolf scoffed when he saw what came out of the wall.