They rushed down the incline toward the fjord, each carrying a torch to light the way, along with blankets. The air was so cold it hurt to breathe. What had Eirik been thinking to cross the waters from Britain this late in the season? Eirik was half Saxon, half Viking, sharing a father with Tykir, but his wife was full-blooded Saxon.
The women and a handful of children were huddled around a fire near the shore, whilst some men were breaking the fast-forming ice atop the fjord, and other men were attempting to pull the longship aground over log rollers. He saw Eirik standing in the center, calling out directions.
Seeing them, Eirik came over and gave his brother Tykir warm greeting kisses on each cheek, followed by a tight hug. Then he did the same to Bolthor.
“What can we do?” Bolthor asked.
“I brought men with me. Do you need more?” Tykir asked.
“This should suffice. Bolthor, can you help get this bloody longship aground? And, Tykir, take the women and children up to the keep as soon as possible. The chattering of their teeth and constant nagging is driving us men nigh demented. They think they could do a better job.”
He and Tykir grinned at Eirik, understanding perfectly, then turned to glance at the huddled group before the fire. There was Eadyth, Eirik’s wife, and their four daughters, who gave them little waves, and many more women than Bolthor would have expected, some of the noble classes, if their fine attire was any indication. Eadyth’s son James was missing; he must have stayed home at Ravenshire, or at his own estate at Hawk’s Lair. Smart man!
Suddenly, one women asked, “Which one is Bolthor?”
Bolthor’s head shot up.
“Yea, introduce us, Eadyth,” another woman said.
“Me, too,” one after another said. Six women in all, and possibly seven including the one standing apart with several children.
“Huh?” Bolthor turned to Tykir and Eirik, who both shrugged, then grinned at him.
“Alinor,” Bolthor concluded with disgust. He sighed deeply and seriously considered a long walk to the land of the Danes.
There are manhunts, and then there are MANhunts . . .
This could very well be the worst mistake that Katherine of Wickshire Manor in Northumbria had ever made. And, saints above! Her short thirty-year life had been filled with plenty of blunders.
—Three marriages to men who had the audacity to die on her, even the middle, young one. Swines, all of them.
—A poultry business she’d started on her estate to replenish the sadly depleted funds left by her last husband, the swine. The business had prospered . . . too much. Wickshire was overrun with chickens these days and no one to kill and send them to market. In fact, she’d brought four crates of the noisesome creatures as a gift for Alinor, much to the consternation of everyone on the longboat.
—A tiny little quarrel she’d recently had with her fourth cousin, that swine King Edgar, which meant he would be finding her another husband forthwith, and, for a certainty, the man would be as unpalatable as the king could find. Therefore, she must find another husband first.
—A sea voyage to end all sea voyages, as the sturdy longship had tried to outrun the onslaught of winter in this primitive land of mountains and a thousand rivers and cold like she’d never experienced before.
—Four precious children, aged three to twelve, who were driving her barmy.
—Hopes raised that this Viking Bolthor might be the answer to her dilemma . . . a strong man with no lands but plenty of coin, who supposedly was in need of a wife. Yea, she had come searching for a husband, but not just any man. He must be strong and able to lead. Small though her holdings were, they were all she had to pass on to her children. But, lo and behold, on the journey here she had learned that six other women were coming with the same expectations. Her friend, the wily Alinor, was going to get an earful this day.
Her mouth dropped open as she watched said Bolthor lift one of the logs himself and carry it off to the side. So, strength at least was one of his assets. It was hard to see in the dim light of the torches what he looked like, except for his massive height, but then handsomeness was not a prerequisite for a husband. She’d had that with her last swine . . . uh, husband, and look where it got her. Widowhood and near poverty.
Bolthor was not young, but neither was Katherine. Thirty years old, four children, a poor estate, and an angry cousin-king did not make for prize bride goods on the marriage mart.
She did have beauty aplenty, however, Katherine noted with no lack of humility, having been told so from an early age. Thick, waist-length hair the color of polished ebony. Full lips that were a natural rose color. Skin like new cream. A body which was too slim for most men’s tastes, but offset by full breasts, narrow waist, long legs and a backside which all three of her husbands had deemed commendable. Frankly, she would be better off with a sizeable dowry than a pretty face.
Well, enough of this dawdling. She motioned for her eldest son, twelve-year-old Matthew, who had been helping move the longship, to come join them on the trek up to the Dragonstead keep.
Then, mindful of that old adage that the slow bird got no worms, she walked up to the giant, her children in tow like ducklings, and pointed a finger in his chest, asking, “Are you Bolthor?”
The man nodded dubiously.
“Take us up to the keep afore we shiver to death,” she demanded.
He looked down at her . . . and, yea, even though she was tall for a woman, she only came to his shoulder . . . as if she’d lost her mind. She no doubt had, considering she was in the damned Norselands in the middle of winter looking for a husband. As if poleaxed, he glanced at his comrades, who just grinned.
Eadyth, who had not yet gone up to the keep with the other women and children, walked over and linked her arm with her husband Eirik. “Everyone, I would like to introduce you to Alinor’s friend Katherine from Wickshire Manor in Northumbria. Her estate abuts Graycote Manor, Alinor’s one-time home. And these are her sons, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.” Eadyth glared at each of the men then, daring them to make a snide remark about the Biblical names. Turning to Katherine, she continued, “My husband Eirik, you already know. This rascal here is Tykir, Alinor’s husband, who had best stop smirking, or his wife will clobber him. And this, of course, is our good friend Bolthor.”
Bolthor continued to look poleaxed, gazing at Katherine as if she were an apparition. She did not know if that were a good or bad sign.
“Take Katherine and her family up to the keep, if you will, Bolthor.”
Muttering, Bolthor picked up a torch and was about to proceed, not even waiting for them, when Katherine got her first good look at the giant’s face. Slapping a hand to her chest, she said, “Oh, good Lord!”
“What?” Bolthor growled. “Am I too ugly for you, milady?”
“Ugly? You jest. You must be the mostly godly handsome man I have ever seen. Do you wear that eye patch for vanity?”
Bolthor straightened. “I am not handsome and ne’er have been. And this eye patch I wear because I have no eye. Are you satisfied now?” Without waiting for an answer, he started to stomp off.
“I did not mean to offend,” she tried to say, but he was already moving away. Another swine?
Dragonstead was situated in a bowl-shaped valley known as the Valley of the Dragons. The name stemmed from an old legend that millions of years ago this valley had served as a Dragon’s nest. A timber and stone “castle,” in the Frankish rather than the Norse style, sat perched on the lip of one side.
But she was wool-gathering. She picked up speed with her children scurrying after the swine. They had almost caught up when three-year-old John tripped and fell face first into the snow. Before the child had a chance to cry, Bolthor scooped him up and carried him high against his shoulder as if he weighed no more than a feather. John, who was normally folk-shy, just stared at Bolthor with fascination. Touching his fingertips to Bolthor’s eye patch, John asked, “Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
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“Are you my father?”
“Nay, child, I am not your father.” John pressed his face into the crook of Bolthor’s neck, and Bolthor kissed the top of his head.
The kiss probably meant no more than a reflex, but, in that moment, Katherine knew she was going to love this man, swine or not. He would be her husband by the new year, or she would die trying.
Chapter Two
He was a Viking chick magnet . . .
Bolthor was being overrun with women.
They accosted him in every manner and place they could. One even tried to enter the privy with him. A man was not safe in any nook or cranny of the keep, where all sane persons must needs stay till the ice storm outside died down. He had taken to sleeping with two wolfhounds in a separate sleeping closet near the hearth, which was hot as Muspell with the huge yule logs they kept putting on the fires.
He had cajoled and then threatened Alinor to call off her jackals, to no avail. Finally, he’d had to tell the women themselves in no uncertain terms that he was not interested, not even if they threw in some free bedsport as an enticement. Undaunted, the fickle women just turned their attention to other prey . . . uh, men . . . about the hall.
The only one not participating in the chase was the irksome Katherine, who scarce spoke to him since calling him godly handsome two days past. When she did deign to address him, it was to make some sarcastic remark. One time he had even asked her, “Has no one ever told you that sarcasm ill-suits a fine lady?”
To which she had replied with this enticing remark: “I have been a lady for fifteen years and three husbands. Now, I choose to be something else.” He wanted to ask what she meant by that, but he could not for fear that she might actually give him an honest answer which would make her even more tempting.
And, yea, the black-haired witch of uncommon beauty was tempting, even with her sharp tongue, even with those bratlings of hers who clung to him like barnacles. And the woman actually thought he was good of looks! Was she dimsighted or lackwitted? Truth to tell, he was flattered, despite himself.
In any case, it was one thing to tell a herd of women to Begone! and quite another to risk offending little mites who only wanted the company of an adult male. Like now, little John sat on his lap taking a nap. Twelve-year-old Matthew was polishing his third-best sword on the promise that Bolthor would give him lessons later.
“Will you not tell us another story?” five-year-old Luke asked, a thumb going immediately back into his mouth. He was a nervous boy, unsure of himself. Bolthor suspected he had been mistreated by his father, the second husband of the witch who referred to her husbands and most men as swines. Not necessarily with beatings, but harsh words and demeaning criticism.
“I have already told you three dragon sagas, two troll poems, and an ode to brave boys,” Bolthor said, ruffling the child’s unruly hair. He must have escaped his mother’s comb that morn.
“But we like them ever so much,” nine-year-old Mark interjected. Mark tried to appear more grown-up, but he hung on Bolthor’s words same as the smaller ones.
“Are they bothering you?” Katherine said, coming up behind him.
He turned, carefully, so as not to disturb the sleeping boy in his lap.
Her deep blue eyes rested on the child, then shot up to his face. The expression on her face was unreadable. Dismay, appreciation, surprise . . . he could not tell. Mayhap a combination of all three.
“Nay, they do not bother me.”
Her creamy skin flushed.
“Matthew, take Mark and Luke outside. The men are going for more firewood, and the children will be permitted to ride in the sleigh. Make sure you bundle them up good.”
After the three children left in a flurry of excitement and quick hugs and kisses of thanks for this indulgence, she remained, wringing her hands nervously in front of her. If only she knew how her actions called attention to her bosom, clearly outlined by her belted gunna!
“What ails ye, wench?” he inquired.
Her upper lip curled at his deliberate choice of words.
He barely suppressed a grin.
“I do not think it wise to encourage my children so.”
He arched an eyebrow in question.
“They yearn for a father . . . or leastways a man in their household. If they grow attached to you, well, when you go off to . . . well, when you leave, they will be bereft.”
He did not need her to explain what she meant. She referred to him not taking her to wife, but instead one of the other women . . . or no woman at all.
“Is that how they felt on the death of their fathers?”
She released a snort of disgust before she could stop herself. “My husbands were rarely home, and when they were, they could not be bothered with children. Nay, they would rather be off gambling, drinking and fornicating at royal orgies.”
“They are fine boys, Katherine. Your husbands must have been blind.” Blind where you are concerned, too, my beautiful lady, if you find favor in my appearance.
“Do you want me to take John?”
He glanced down at the sleeping boy and shook his head. “No need to awaken him. Sit down. You are making me nervous, fidgeting so.”
She muttered something under her breath and sank down to the bench beside him. Not too close, but close enough for him to smell the lavender of her soap.
“You smell good,” he remarked before he could bite his fool tongue.
Her gaze that had been centered somewhere beneath his chin but above his belt jerked up, and the pink of her cheeks darkened. “Dost tease me, rogue?”
He shook his head. “Nay, I know you are not in the running.”
“The running?”
“Yea, the ‘Bolthor’s Bride’ lackbrained scheme of Alinor’s.”
A small smile tugged at her enticing lips, and a dimple popped out to the left of her mouth. “What makes you think I am not . . . what did you call it? . . . in the running?”
He shrugged. “Mostly you ignore me or prick me with sarcastic remarks. Does that sound like a woman on the hunt?”
“Woman on the hunt? Is that how you view the women that Alinor invited here?”
“How could I not? They ride my tail like a hunter on a boar’s scent.”
Again, the enticing dimple appeared. “Do not judge them so harshly. We live in a society that forces women into matrimony, lest they lose all. They . . . we . . . are desperate.”
He cocked his head to the side. “What do you lose if you do not wed again . . . for a fourth time, I think Alinor said?”
She bristled at the reminder of her numerous weddings, but then she sighed deeply as she reached over to brush some stray strands of hair off John’s sleep-flushed face. “Everything,” she confessed. “I lose everything.”
Bolthor did not like the sound of that, but then women ofttimes exaggerated. “Explain.”
“I have a small estate . . . actually three small estates . . . passed to my sons, from their fathers, but they are nigh ruined. As poor as the holdings are, there are those who would easily take them because of the lack of protection. In addition, I have made an enemy of King Edgar, my fourth cousin. He will order me to wed again. Soon. And I wager it will be with the most unsavory character, just for spite. Thus, I need a strong man for protection, and one with coin, to replenish the Wickshire coffers.”
“So, you hope to usurp the king’s authority?”
“In a way.” He could tell she did not like his choice of words.
“Exactly what did you do to offend the king?”
She grinned, and out came that blasted dimple, which he had the odd desire to lick. “He invited me to court . . . one of those invitations that could not be refused, and when I refused to attend one of his drunken feasts, he remarked that I was too old and unattractive for his guests anyways. And I said something about the size of his . . . man part.”
Bolthor chuckled. “Yea, that would be enough to offend any man, let alone a king.”
She eyed him speculatively. “Are you in the market for a wife?”
For a brief moment, he considered lying to her. The woman was a tasty morsel. She would without a doubt make a good bedmate. But, nay, she . . . and her children . . . deserved more. “I will not wed again. Ever.”
“Again?”
“Most people do not know, but I was married many years ago. When my wife and two daughters died, I vowed never to marry again or have any other children. Thus far, I have kept that vow.”
“That is ridiculous!”
“You would not think so if you knew the manner in which they passed to the other world, and, nay, I will not discuss this further.”
She seemed about to argue, but then shrugged. “So be it. I will just have to find someone else.”
“Someone else?” he sputtered out. Why that surprised him, he had no idea. Did he think she would give up her quest just because he was not available?
“Yea. There are many men here who would suffice. Mayhap you could help me narrow the field down.”
Holy Thor! She wants me to help her find a man to marry. When Muspell freezes over! “I do not think so.”
She shrugged again and stood, preparing to take the now restless John in her arms.
“Just out of curiosity, who are these other men?”
“Finn Finehair, for one.”
“Pffff! The man is so vain he trims his manhairs,” he said without thinking aforehead about the appropriateness of such an observation, even if it was true.
Katherine’s eyes widened. “Well, vanity does not rule him out as a good protector. Then I have been eyeing Sigurn the Destroyer. Certainly, he has a fine record for fighting.”
“But have you ever smelled his breath?” Bolthor scrooched up his nose with distaste. “Smells like gammelost, it does. And he rarely bathes.”
“Well, I ne’er heard of body odors being cause to exclude a groom. Surely, there is naught you can find wrong with Bjorn the Pole. Though what an odd name for a man!”