Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 01] (11 page)

Servants arranged dozens of chairs at the bottom of the steps for the most elite. Olaf pulled her and Gyda to the edge of the crowd and lifted them both by the waist so they sat on the edge of the platform. Many people dropped onto the wide, low benches built into the sides of the hall. Other Vikings talked softly in small groups.

The entertainment began with a young Viking woman who sang a beautiful ballad, accompanied by her brother on a lute. Then a
skald
, or poet, related stories of Viking bravery in battle. His sagas told of a brave people driven
from their homeland by bloody politics and overpopulation, forced to seek new lands for their families—certainly a different motivation than the bloodlust that historians claimed drove the Norsemen to go a-Viking.

One of the sagas told an interesting story about Thork’s father, King Harald of Norway, and how he got the name Harald Fairhair. The
skald
started by telling of Harald’s feats, the greatest of which was the unification of all Norway.

“’Tis said that his greatest success resulted from the taunt of Gyda, daughter of the King of Hordaland.” Ruby looked over to Gyda to ask if she was named after this woman, but Olaf’s wife was totally engrossed in the tale and didn’t notice her. Ruby also cast quick peeks at Thork who sprawled, legs outstretched, in an armchair near the king, his lips curled cynically. Perhaps the story wasn’t entirely true.

The
skald
claimed that Gyda refused to marry the young Harald until he united all Norway, as Gorm had done in Denmark. Harald swore never to cut or comb his hair until he achieved his purpose. It took him ten years to become high-king. After he bathed and trimmed his hair and beard, his name changed from
Harald lufa—
Harald Mop-Hair—to
Harald harfagri—
Harald Fairhair. Gyda then went willingly to his bed, joining what the
skald
described as a royal harem of wives and concubines.

“Dragon shit!” Thork’s rude expletive echoed loudly through the hall, where the crowd had been following the
skald’s
saga with silent appreciation.

Sigtrygg turned to Thork and asked, “Do you scoff at the
skald’s
saga?”

“Yea, that I do. The end results wax true, but think you, who know my father’s cunning, that the whim of a mere maid steered him ever?”

Sigtrygg thought a moment, then agreed. “’Tis right you are, Thork, but it makes for a good telling.” Then
he turned to the embarrassed
skald
and asked, “Know you more?”

“Yea, but naught do I know of the sagas’ truth,” he whined. “I only relate what has been passed on to me.” The
skald
looked at Thork, wondering if he would find fault with this story, too. When Thork ignored him, staring disinterestedly into his cup, he went on.

In fine poetic detail, the man told of Ruby’s ancestor Hrolf, whom Harald had declared an outlaw in Norway, despite his friendship with Hrolf’s father, Rognvald, the Earl of More. The
skald
traced Hrolf’s descent for eleven generations from a king called Fornjot in Finland. He droned on with his story, finally concluding, “…and the Frankish king, Charles the Simple, gave him the province of Normandy.”

Ruby found the tale absorbing, but wished it hadn’t been told. It called Sigtrygg’s attention to her.

“Where’s the wench that claims kinship to Hrolf?” the king demanded to know, scanning the crowd for her. “Has she been beheaded yet?”

Geez!
This guy had a decapitation fixation.

Ruby tried to slide over on the platform so she’d be hidden by Olaf’s massive frame. No such luck! Olaf turned and lifted her down, telling her to go forward.

Oh, great! Here we go again!

Ruby walked forward with chin high, trying to keep her knees from knocking.

“Your attire improves since last we met,” the king commented snidely, seeming to forget that the last he’d seen her she hadn’t been wearing much at all. Ruby wasn’t about to remind him.

“Why have we not seen you at court?”

He’d apparently forgotten that he’d ordered Thork to take her away.

“I stay with Olaf’s family.”

Sigtrygg nodded his shaggy head, remembering now,
and looked shrewdly at Thork. “How fast did you rid yourself of the troublesome wench?” He didn’t wait for an answer before turning back to Ruby. “What name do you answer to?”

“Ruby. Ruby Jordan.”

“Like the gem?”

“Actually, my mother was a country music buff. She thought Ruby and Lucille…that’s my sister…sounded like good country-sounding names. Of course, she was proven right when songs with those two titles later became country music legends.”

The king’s good eye lit up with interest. He probably didn’t understand most of what she’s said, except for the music part.

“You will sing for us,” he declared imperiously.

“I don’t sing
that
well.”

Thork choked on the wine he’d been drinking, and a friend pounded him on the back to stop the fit of laughing that followed. Ruby shot him a look of disgust.

“’Tis of no importance,” Sigtrygg said. “Sing.”

Embarrassment flushed Ruby’s face. At home she could accompany herself with chords on her son’s guitar to cover her mistakes. She picked up the lute sitting on a table near the king, wondering if it would work. She strummed it a few times. Definitely not the same, but better than nothing.

“I’ll try,” Ruby told the king, “but don’t expect much.”

He said nothing but looked as if he did, in fact, expect much. What could he do? Chop off her head? Ruby quipped morbidly to herself.

“Before I start, I have to explain a few things about words you might not understand in this song. There was a famous war in my country that’s referred to in this song as the Asian War. It’s about a man, a brave warrior, who was injured in that war so severely that his legs are paralyzed
and he’s lost his”—Ruby sought for the right word—“manhood.”

She saw several men in the audience nod knowingly and went on, “His injuries are so severe that he expects to die soon, but still he’s hurt by a young wife who wants more out of life than marriage to a handicapped man.”

The room was deathly quiet. She had the Vikings’ full attention.

Ruby strummed on the lute, singing hesitantly and softly at first of this poor man seeing his wife leaving him to be with another man. Whenever she sang the refrain, in a lower husky octave, where the ex-soldier begs his wife Ruby not to take her love to town, she saw smiles of appeciation dimple some of the fierce Vikings’ faces and tears mist the eyes of others. Inadvertently, Ruby had chosen a song that struck a chord in the hearts of these sensitive warlords. They understood too well the price of battle, knowing it could happen to any one of them and already had to some of their comrades.

The room was totally silent when Ruby finished.

Uh oh!
Did this mean head chopping time?

Ruby looked at Thork who had set his drink down and watched her intently, clearly mesmerized by her musical story. Ruby smiled at him, and a spot deep inside her moved when he smiled back. His steady, riveting gaze carried a warmth through that thin thread of magnetism that connected them, setting her blood asimmer and her heart racing. With each tension-coiled second their eyes held fast, the bond between them expanded and grew stronger.

Then the whole room burst into excited sounds of approval, and Ruby and Thork were rudely jolted from their seductive trances. King Sigtrygg stood and clapped Ruby on the back so enthusiastically she almost dropped the lute.

“Well met! Well met!” he declared. “Tomorrow you
will teach that saga to my
skald
.” The storyteller didn’t look too happy at that prospect. “Now tell us the other song-story about your sister. What is her name?”

“Lucille.”

The Vikings loved this song, as well, about an adulterous wife whose husband confronts her in a barroom over her leaving him and their four hungry children. By the time she ended the song, the Vikings sang the refrain along with her in deep, deep voices, chastising the flighty Lucille for picking a fine time to leave her husband.

Ruby was a hit. The feet-stomping, beer-drinking Vikings were country music lovers. They demanded she sing both songs again, then asked if she knew any others.

Only Thork didn’t seem to appreciate her songs. His mood had changed from the warm exchange of only a few minutes ago. He grumbled coldly, “’Tis fair odd to me that you sing such songs. I see naught to amuse in a tale which eulogizes the ever-constant lack of loyalty in women.”

The king and a number of men howled gleefully at Thork’s words. They knew of Thork’s bitter attitude encompassing all women. In fact, they probably shared that view.

“No, you miss the point, Thork,” Ruby corrected. “The songs speak scornfully of those
few
women who don’t appreciate a good man of honor.”

What was the use of trying to defend herself with Thork? Ruby began to think she could use a beer herself but knew her fate might depend on keeping to the king’s good side. She racked her brain for another song and came up with nothing.

But then she remembered two catchy songs she’d heard playing over and over on her car radio. The Vikings might like them because of the funny words and the deep, deep notes required in parts. When she was done
singing Garth Brooks’s “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places” and Hank Williams, Jr.’s “All My Rowdy Friends Are Coming Over Tonight,” the roof practically lifted off the high ceiling with the raucous laughter and shouts for more. She concluded with the old Mac Davis song “Lord, It’s Hard to Be Humble” and watched the burly Viking men roar with laughter, even knowing she aimed the song at them.

Thork riveted her with a strange, questioning expression. She intrigued him, as she did the other Vikings, no question of that, but there was something more on his devastatingly handsome face that Ruby couldn’t quite identify. His piercing blue eyes held hers, and Ruby tried to understand what it was he was trying to tell her, to no avail. Somewhere deep inside she knew the answer, but it eluded her now. Ruby put a hand to her forehead in weary confusion.

“The wench is fair dropping with fatique,” Thork told the king, having understood her gesture immediately. “Let her go for now.” Thork called the lutist and his sister back to entertain again, not waiting for Sigtrygg’s answer.

Taking Ruby’s arm, Thork pulled her to the side, away from the crowd, where he handed her his glass of wine. She put her lips on the rim where his had been, and drank deeply, watching him all the while, wondering at the searching look in his fathomless blue eyes.

She felt dizzy with the wave of sudden wanting that washed over her, realizing what the strange look had been on Thork’s face earlier, as it was now. Jack wore that same look when he was aroused and wanted to make love. What had she said or done to touch that nerve in Thork?

“Who are you?” he whispered thickly. His eyes raked her hungrily.

“Your wife.”

He shook his head negatively but asked in a hoarse, desire-ridden voice, “Would you bed with me?”

Ruby smiled at his blunt words. Always to the point!

“Would you wed with me?”

He smiled at her quick rejoinder and shook his head, probably thinking she wasn’t serious. “
I want you
.” He put emphasis on each of the three words, trying to make himself clear. As if his ragged breathing and glazed eyes didn’t bring the point home—loud and clear!

“I know,” she whispered, laying an understanding hand on his arm. She jumped back at the jolt of sexual heat that hit her square in her womanly center with just that light touch.

A sensual smile spread on Thork’s parted lips. He sensed what had happened to her, had probably felt it himself.

“You have been teasing me for days, since you first landed at the harbor, sweetling,” Thork rasped out huskily. “’Tis strange this attraction I have for you. I could almost believe we have known each other afore, as you claim. Truly, you seem to know which spots to prick my desire.”

A vast, inordinate pleasure swept over Ruby at his words.

“Are you a sorceress, Ruby? Have you put a spell on me?” Thork asked softly as he took her cup from her and laid it on a nearby window well. With his thumb he wiped a drop of wine from her chin. When he started to withdraw his hand to wipe it on his tunic, Ruby took hold of his thumb. The tip of her tongue peeked out, deliberately enticing him, then licked the wine off the sensitive pad, then licked again.

Thork’s eyes turned dark blue as he shuddered before grabbing her by the waist, turning her back to the wall with toes barely touching the floor. He pinioned her there with his clearly aroused lower body. Expertly he moved his hips from side to side until their bodies fit together—breast to chest, womanhood to manhood.

“O-o-o-h!” Ruby sighed softly, and a low, appreciative
growl rose involuntarily from deep in Thork’s throat.

Ruby shut her eyes briefly to savor the exquisite sensation. All the fine hairs on her body stood to attention, attuned to this man whose body was as familiar to her as her own.

When Thork moved back slightly, then ground himself against her—in just the right spot—Ruby gasped.

“I have shown you what I want,” Thork groaned, panting through parted lips. “What do you want?”

“I think…” Ruby tried to speak but her voice broke with emotion. “…I think I’d love one of those kisses I told you about the other day.”

Thork grinned wolfishly, understanding her words immediately. He lowered his lips until they almost touched hers. “How did it go? Long, slow,…”

When his lips finally touched hers, he moved his mouth back and forth until he shaped the kiss to his satisfaction. The kiss was as electrifying as Jack’s had ever been, and more so. They kissed endlessly, never coming up for air. Ruby savored the feel of lips that matched perfectly, knowing instinctively through twenty years of practice what this man liked and needed. Her lips clung to Thork’s eagerly. Ravenous, she could not seem to get enough of their sweet torture.