Santa Viking

  He shook his head. “’Twas my fault. A mistake, but still my mistake. I should have had more control over—”

  “Nay! Do not demean this beautiful thing that happened betwixt us. Leastways, it was beautiful for me.”

  “Me, too,” he said, but he did not appear happy about that fact. And he especially did not appear happy when that soft part of him that was still inside her began to grow not so soft.

  She whimpered, wanting to move against him to indicate how much she wanted him again, but knowing he would resist yet another “mistake.”

  Instead, he groaned and traced her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “May the gods save me! I cannot resist you.” With those words, he made love to her again, and this time it was slow and deliberate and very, very pleasurable. More and more, she was thinking that she and Bolthor were well-matched.

  But what would tomorrow bring?

  Dumb men say dumb things . . .

  He avoided her all that day and the next.

  In return, a confused and disappointed Katherine also avoided him, as did her children, except for five-year-old Luke, who approached him once when his mother was helping Alinor in the kitchen. “Mother says we must not bother you anymore. Do we bother you?”

  Bolthor tousled the boy’s hair and said, “Nay, you do not bother me, but you must needs obey your mother.”

  The boy walked away, feet dragging with dejection, and Bolthor felt lower than a troll.

  Something needed to be done. So, he pulled Katherine aside after the evening meal. “We must talk,” he said.

  “Must we?” the stubborn wench replied, pulling her arm out of his grasp.

  “About yesterday.”

  She arched her eyebrows, not about to make this easy for him.

  “I have always taken precautions with women.” Spilling his seed outside the body was not a perfect method, but better than none. “I did not with you. You must tell me if there are . . . consequences.” The minute the words left his mouth, he knew he’d misspoken.

  “Consequences?” she nigh shrieked. “Is that what they are calling babes these days?”

  “Shhhh.” He tried to pull her farther along the corridor where no one could overhear.

  Once again, she wrenched her arm away from him. “Know this, you fool, if there are consequences, I will take care of them myself, just as I have handled every other consequence in my life. Do not worry yourself that I will makes claims on you.”

  He wanted to apologize for his ill-chosen words. He wanted to say how much her giving herself to him mattered. He wanted to tell her that he might just want her to make claims on him. He wanted to tell her so much.

  But he did not, and that was his biggest mistake of all.

  Was it Christ in the manger, or dog in the manger . . . ?

  By Christmas Eve, Katherine had given up on Bolthor, and that meant that she truly needed to find another mate amongst those here for the yule celebration at Dragonstead.

  A wild boar and two haunches of venison were roasting on spits for the feasts to come. Not to mention twenty chickens from Wickshire. The cook and scullery maids had worked since dawn to prepare a wide assortment of foods and delicacies . . . and to kill and pluck all those chickens. The great hall smelled of evergreen boughs that had been arranged on walls, mantles, and tabletops. Women, married and not, herself included, were kissed numerous times under the mistletoe that had been hung over every doorway. Musicians played lutes. Young maidens sang.

  It was a merry, joyous time. Except for Katherine, who was beginning to feel desperate. She could not think about Bolthor and what had happened betwixt them. How could he disregard that bond that she at least knew they shared? Much as she believed that they were fated to be together, she did not have the liberty of time to convince him. As soon as a longship could travel through the fjord, she would be traveling back to Britain . . . and to the king’s orders, whatever they might be.

  Taking a long drink of mead from her cup, she turned to her dining companion on her right, Finn Finehair. Of all the unmarried men she had met thus far, he was her first choice . . . after Bolthor. “Do you have a home here in the Norselands?” she inquired.

  He shook his head. “I come from Jorvik. My father was a Viking merchant, but my mother was of good Saxon stock. I grew up on a small property of my mother’s outside the trading town. My sister and her family reside there now.”

  Hmmm. That made him an even better choice than some Vikings. He would not be averse to living in Britain. “Have you ever wed? Do you have children?” Katherine blushed at being blunt in her questions. “Forgive me. You do not need to answer. Betimes I am too curious.”

  “Not at all,” he said, stroking his too perfect mustache. His hair was black and long with colored beads woven into some of the strands, matched by an impeccably trimmed mustache and a short beard that he had trained into a fork. With no stray eyebrow hairs bridging his nose, with teeth as white as snow, with fingernails clipped and clean, she could very well believe the rumor that he also clipped his chest and manhairs. “I have ne’er been married, though I was betrothed at one time. Sweet Millicent died afore the wedding of a lung fever. And I have no children that I know of.”

  “Let us be frank,” she said then, deciding that ’twas best to be honest up front, “I am in need of a husband. I have four sons and three small estates that need protection and coin to replenish their stores. They . . . we . . . would be a good investment for the right man.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “Ah, Katherine my dearling, I do love a woman who speaks her mind.”

  “And?”

  “I might be interested, but when I wed, it will be for life. I would want a wife who offers me other things as well.”

  “What mean you?”

  “I want a bed partner, as well as a business partner.”

  “Oh.” She felt her face heat again. “I think I could provide that.” Especially since her introduction yesterday to the pleasures that could be had in bedsport.

  “But in return I must tell you I am excellent in the bedsport.”

  Even if he does say so himself. Stop it, Katherine. Stop being so picky.

  “It is all in the mustache,” he elaborated.

  “Huh?”

  He grinned and twirled the ends of his mustache. “Bristly hair. Friction down there.” He glanced pointedly at her lap.

  Oh, good Lord! Once she was able to speak without laughing, she teased, “Actually, I might want to test those waters for myself. Men can be disappointments in that arena as well as women, you know.”

  Finn laughed again, then whispered in her ear, “Well said, milady.” Then he kissed her. Right there in front of one and all.

  As far as kisses went, it was more than passable. In fact, before being kissed by Bolthor, she would have said it was superior. His breath was fresh, his lips talented in shaping hers, his tongue a gentle intrusion into her mouth. When he pulled away, he smiled at her and put an arm around her shoulder, tugging her against his side. “I think we may very well suit, milady. But a man cannot be too sure. Will you come to my bed furs tonight? To test the waters, so to speak.”

  She shook her head. “Not yet. I need to proceed cautiously. In deep waters,” she added with a laugh, but what she really meant was that she needed to make sure she was not with child. Not that she would then go to Bolthor if she was, but it would be dishonorable to Finn to bring another man’s babe into his bed furs.

  “Is it Bolthor?”

  “Nay, it is not.” Not anymore.

  He nodded. “I will wait then, but not too long, sweetling. I am a virile man.”

  And full of himself. This is not a man who would be faithful to a wife, much as he proclaims marriage for life and wanting a good sex partner. Can I be satisfied with that if he protects my home and my children?

  To seal their near-pact, she leaned up and kissed him lightly. She could tell that her initiative surprised and delighted him.

  I
t was only then that she noticed Bolthor glaring at them from the next table. He had no right, of course, but even so, she knew how she would feel if he sat there kissing another woman.

  So she just shrugged, as if to say to him, The die is cast.

  Bolthor stood.

  She cringed.

  Someone yelled, “Give us a saga, Bolthor. Ha, ha, ha!”

  Bolthor appeared about to say something rude to the man who had clearly drunk too much mead. But then he just turned on his heels and left the hall.

  Did she hit the nail on the head, or what . . . ?

  On the afternoon of Christmas day, Katherine came up to Bolthor where he was playing the board game hnefatafl with Tykir and Eirik.

  “May I speak with you for a moment?” she inquired with extreme politeness.

  Tykir and Eirik grinned at her too-cordial tone and Bolthor’s obvious discomfort.

  “Excuse me. I will be right back.” Now, why did he say that he would be right back? Katherine would no doubt take that as an insult, as if she were not worthy of more than a little of his time. He who was supposed to be an expert with words was certainly making a mess of them lately.

  When they had stepped a short distance away, she turned abruptly and told him. “You have no reason for concern. There will be no babe.”

  Bolthor blinked his one eye repeatedly to stem the tears that welled there suddenly. He had not realized how much he had wanted his seed to take in her. Then he would have had an excuse to break the vow. How pathetic was that?

  “Not being pregnant . . . that is good, is it not?” He reached a hand out and caressed her cheek.

  She shoved his hand away. There were tears in her eyes, too.

  “Is it to be Finn then?”

  “Mayhap.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Whether I am careful or not is no longer your concern, if it ever was.”

  “I do care.” More than care, truth be told.

  She said a one-word obscenity that her husbands had no doubt used on occasion.

  He grinned, not at the word, but at her embarrassment over having said it aloud.

  “I wish you well, Katherine. I really do.” Even if it feels as if a vice is squeezing my heart.

  She shrugged. “Some of us must make our paths ourselves. Some of us do not have the freedom to wallow in the pain of our pasts.”

  He inhaled sharply. “I do not do that.”

  “Methinks you have been using that vow as a shield from life’s blows much too long. But I cannot help you there. Good-bye, Bolthor.”

  And she walked away.

  Chapter Four

  The best laid plans of mice and conniving women . . .

  It was late Christmas night, and most everyone was asleep . . . on pallets, in sleep closets, on the sweet rushes, in the few separate upper bedchambers. All except Alinor, Eadyth and their husbands, who were sipping at mugs of mead after a long yule celebration which would go on till the new year.

  “They are behaving like idiots,” Alinor said.

  “They need our help,” Eadyth said.

  “What’s wrong with Finn Finehair?” Eirik wanted to know.

  Eadyth slapped her husband’s hand that was reaching for her bottom, yet again. “Nothing, but he is not right for Katherine.”

  “Didst know that Bolthor was married at one time and lost his wife and little girls in some tragic manner?” Alinor asked Tykir.

  He nodded. “He mentioned it once a dozen and more years ago, and never since.”

  “And?” Alinor prodded.

  “And nothing. He told me they died.”

  “And you did not ask how or when or any details about them?”

  Tykir looked at Alinor with horror. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because we might have a clue as to why he has never married again.” Alinor spoke slowly to her husband as if he were thick-headed and dull-witted. Then, she addressed Eadyth. “How like a man! Tykir could spend hours talking with a passing traveler and say naught but that the man came from Hedeby and is a trader in Baltic amber, whilst I could spend five minutes with the same man and tell you his name, if he is wed, how many children he has, what is the latest fashion in Britain these days, and the price of dried venison in the Rus lands.”

  Tykir winked at Eirik, as if to say, Women!

  Eirik shook his head fiercely from side to side. “I do not think we should interfere in Bolthor’s love life.”

  “I think we must interfere, husband,” Eadyth insisted, an odd light of warning in her eyes.

  Eirik of the straying hands was no fool. He knew that particular look meant behave or get no bedplay. “Can we go to our bed furs now, Eadyth?”

  “Yea, Alinor, let us follow. I have a yen to have my yule log stoked.” Tykir yawned widely.

  “Stoked or stroked?” Eirik asked.

  “Same thing.” Tykir shrugged.

  “Tykir! I swear you get cruder by the day.” Alinor chastised her husband, but her dancing eyes told a different story.

  “We must needs come up with a plan to get Bolthor and Katherine away somewhere together for an extended time so they may sort things out themselves,” Eadyth said.

  “Uh-oh!” Tykir and Eirik exclaimed as one.

  “Like that time you and I were locked in your bedchamber here, Tykir,” Alinor reminded her husband.

  “I was the one who locked us in,” Tykir proudly proclaimed.

  “But I was the one who tied you to a chair with your hair, naked,” Alinor added gleefully.

  Tykir did not look one bit embarrassed, even when his brother asked him for details.

  “Won’t Finn be upset about losing Katherine?” Eadyth asked no one in particular.

  “Hah! Introduce him to that new maid with the swishing arse, and he will forgive you anything,” Tykir said, then immediately realized he had fallen into their trap.

  Alinor laid out a plan then. When she was done, the two women were smiling with satisfaction, and the two men had their faces in their hands with dismay.

  Bolthor and Katherine were in for a big surprise.

  Nudity: nature’s aphrodisiac . . .

  Two days later, Katherine awakened in the middle of the night to the luxury of a warm bed in a guest bedchamber. This rare extravagance of sleeping alone in a bed without worry for her children was a much-appreciated gift from her friend Alinor.

  The fire had died down, and despite sleeping in the nude, Katherine was not cold, having furs both above and below her body. She stretched and was about to turn over and return to sleep when she heard a muffled sound on the other side of the small room. That must be what had awakened her.

  She lit a candle and stood, uncaring of her nudity. It was probably a mouse rustling the floor rushes.

  “Eeeeek!”

  It was not a mouse. It was Bolthor. A naked Bolthor, who had been gagged and stripped bare and trussed like a chicken. The only thing he wore was his eye patch.

  “What . . . what are you doing here?” she squeaked out, diving for a bed fur to cover herself.

  “Mofghxpt,” was his answer. She assumed it meant, “Untie me.”

  She searched for her bed rail, but could not find it. In fact, her gunna, under garments, hose and every other cloth were missing as well. With foreboding, she wrapped a huge bed fur around her and walked over to Bolthor. Trying her best not to look at his nudity and hold onto her bed furs, it took her an uncommon long time to untie the cloth that had been used to gag him.

  “Will you drop the bloody fur and untie me, for Thor’s sake?” he demanded immediately. “At this rate, I will be a gray-beard afore I am free. And frozen into an icicle.”

  “Do not yell at me.” Oh, my heavens! Is his dangly part really that big? And why is it moving? Is that the icicle he is referring to?

  “I will do more than bloody damn yell if you do not forsake bloody damn modesty and untie these bloody damn ropes.”

  “You don’t have to swear at me.” Katherine did, in
fact, drop the fur and work on his ties, but first she ordered, “Do not look at my body.”

  His only reply was a snort.

  When he was free, the first thing Bolthor did was stomp to the door. It was locked. He banged on it and hollered, “Open this bloody damn door.” That appeared to be a favorite expression of his. Bloody damn. No one responded, even though he kept at it for at least a half hour and had probably awakened everyone in the keep.

  “Is this someone’s idea of a jest?” Katherine asked from under the bed furs where she was burrowed once again.

  “Look at this.” Bolthor was walking around the room, resigned for now to being imprisoned with her. “There’s enough firewood to last for days. And food. And ale. And there’s a chamber pot behind that screen. We could be kept here—”

  “—for days,” Katherine squeaked out.

  Bolthor stood at the foot of the bed, hands on hips, glaring at her. “Did you plan this?”

  At first Katherine didn’t hear what he had said, her mind too dazed by seeing the giant of a man standing before her, his manpart and everything else fully exposed . . . and BIG. And scars . . . Blessed Lord . . . the man was covered with long-healed battle wounds, including one long one which ran from his breastbone across his abdomen and belly and down to the opposite hip. Just missing that BIG part.

  “Could you spare some time from ogling my body to answer my question, wench?”

  “Huh?” She raised her eyes to his blazing one.

  “I asked if you planned this.”

  “Planned what?”

  He growled and swept a hand to encompass the two of them and the locked door. “Everyone saw you and Alinor and Eadyth plotting some mischief. Is this your plan for trapping me into wedlock?”

  “You are an idiot!” She sat up straight, pulling the bed furs up to her shoulders. “You are an insulting, vain, arrogant son of a toad.” She could see by his flushed face that he was reconsidering his insinuation, but she was not about to let him apologize. “In truth, how do I know that you did not plan this?”