Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 01] (2 page)

Her problems disappeared. The five extra pounds she’d gained during these past stressful months melted away. She felt twenty years younger.

Even in her sleep, Ruby smiled.

It was the odor that first pulled Ruby from her deep sleep—human body odor. “Okay, Ruby baby,” she muttered to herself. “Go with the flow.” Sense-dimensional dreams! That would be something to tell her therapist—if she ever got one.

Ruby opened her eyes lazily, then shut them quickly in horror. When she peeked out again, she realized she must still be asleep, awash in the most realistic dream she’d ever had. About a dozen wretched-looking people, wearing bizarre, drab clothing, like burlap sacks, crowded her in a long boat, which moved swiftly toward shore. By the smell of them, they hadn’t bathed in weeks.

Ruby wrinkled her nose in distaste and edged away
from one toothless harridan, who resembled her flaky cleaning lady Rhoda. She giggled aloud. Imagine! The dream of the century and she got to take her cleaning lady along. Some women got handsome actors like Kevin Costner in their fantasies with his preference for “long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days” in
Bull Durham;
she got Rhoda. How would Rhoda survive without her tabloids?

“M’God, be you a boy ur a girl?” the Rhoda person exclaimed.

Ruby realized then that everyone in the boat was staring at her—as if
she
were the oddball. Ruby looked down at herself. She saw nothing unusual in her Nike-clad feet, her blue jeans and her son’s oversized Brass Balls Saloon T-shirt. Oh, that was probably the problem. The T-shirt logo offended some people.

She started to explain that her shirt really belonged to her fifteen-year-old son Eddie who had bought it at the shore without her permission, but stopped herself. Really! She didn’t have to defend herself in a dream.

Ruby smoothed the fabric of her shirt over her slim waist and hips, then jerked alert.
Slim!
Dear Lord, she hadn’t been this thin since before her first pregnancy. Not that she was ever fat, but this kind of body tone came with youth, not childbirth and thirty-eight years of easy living.

Ruby discreetly lifted the edge of her T-shirt, peeled away the loose waistband of her jeans and peeked at her skin just above her navel.
Hallelujah! No more stretch marks!
Her wish had come true. She was twenty years younger.

Smiling widely, Ruby looked back over her shoulder…then gasped. Three Viking-style dragonships rode at anchor on the sunny horizon of what appeared to be the confluence of two huge rivers. Hundreds of other ships stretched along the shore or headed in or out of a wider river which must
lead to the sea. She hadn’t seen anything so spectacular since the Tall Ships event held on the Hudson River in New York years ago. They were magnificent.

A loud thud caused her to turn forward. Their boat had hit the dock and was being tied ashore. Hundreds of people swarmed on the wharf, all dressed in strange clothing.

Some of the men wore short tunics that barely reached their knees and left their arms bare, while others wore plain, collarless, long-sleeved shirts down to their hips over tight pants. Belts, ranging from leather thongs to ornate gold chains, cinched in their waists. Short swords and scabbarded knives clanged at their sides.

Long, pinafore-type tunics, mostly open-sided, covered the women’s pleated, linen chemises which trailed on the ground in the back. Ornate brooches, with dangling keys or scissors or small knives, fastened the tunics together at the shoulders.

Ruby noticed an inordinate amount of blond hair sparkling in the afternoon sunlight, from almost-white to fire-red and all the colors in-between. The older women knotted their hair at the back of the neck and covered it with scarves or cloth headdresses, while others braided their long tresses or let them lay loose down their backs. The men’s hair hung shoulder-length and longer, often in braids, too, framing faces that ranged from clean-shaven to heavily bearded and mustached.

Finely wrought, heavy wrist and arm bracelets of solid gold or silver, studded with jewels, adorned the better-dressed men and women. Some appeared to be museum-quality pieces.
Wow!

Fascinated, Ruby asked Rhoda, who still eyed her suspiciously, “
Where
are we?”

“Jorvik.”

“Jorvik? Where’s that?”

“To Saxons, it be
Eoforwic
, but the heathen Vikings call it Jorvik. Be you a Saxon?”

Puzzled, Ruby said, “Huh?” Then she mulled Rhoda’s words. Jorvik? Something clicked in her mind. Hadn’t she read recently about an archaeological dig there, something involving Vikings? Suddenly, remembrance jolted her.

“Oh, my God! You mean York, like in England? And those boats out there—are those Viking ships?”

Rhoda just stared at her, open-mouthed. Then a crazy thought entered her mind. At first, she dismissed it, but then asked tentatively, “What year is this?”

Now Rhoda really did look at her as if she’d escaped from a looney bin. “Nine hundred ’n twenty-five. You bin locked up fer a long time ur sumpin? A dungeon, mebbe? Ur a nunnery, I wager? Them nuns do be barmy sum times. I heared onct ’bout a girl who liked men too much and her mother put her in a convent an’ she went stark ravin’ mad jus’ cuz no man touched her in a year.”

Good Lord! Rhoda didn’t need her tabloids, after all. Even in these primitive times she found sources for the sensational gossip she loved.

Ruby started to laugh hysterically, just corroborating Rhoda’s mental-illness assumption about her. What a dream this was turning out to be! Why couldn’t she dream about cowboys or knights in shining armor? Why conjure up Vikings in a pre-Medieval England? Well, what else did she expect, the way her life was going?

She couldn’t wait to get back and tell Jack his “Mind Over Matter” tapes really did work. Wait. She forgot. Jack wouldn’t be there when she returned. Would he?

A brutal headache began to throb behind her eyes, especially when a giant of a man, who smelled like a bear she’d once whiffed at a zoo, pulled her and her companions out of the boat and shoved them roughly into a group at one side of the wharf.

“Hey,” she protested loudly. “Watch it, buster!” The rest of her motley group looked aghast at her temerity,
as if she were even more daft than they’d thought. The Goliath glared down at her.

“What’s your name?” Ruby persisted, sputtering with indignation. “I’m going to report you to your…supervisor.”

“Olaf,” he snarled and gave her another rude shove.

“Olaf. That figures. The name matches the face.”

Rhoda pulled her back and cautioned, “Shhhh! Ain’tcha afeared? Do ya wanna git kilt?”

Then Ruby saw Jack.

Oh, his brownish-blond hair had lightened and hung down to his shoulders, and his black tunic covered a younger, more powerful body—one that would put Arnold Schwarzenegger to shame—but the face was definitely that of the man she’d been sleeping next to for the past twenty years. Thank God! This dream business got stale quick. She wanted to wake up.

At the same time, Ruby’s heart thudded wildly at this first glimpse of her husband’s new golden, hard body. She felt like a breathless girl of eighteen again.

“Jack,” Ruby called out happily, while Rhoda tried to hold her back. The dolt! He ignored her. He was mad at her, of course. Hadn’t he just walked out on their marriage?

He seemed to have arrived on one of the big ships, and the attention he aroused indicated that he was a man of importance. When he stopped to talk to someone, Ruby realized that his right arm encircled the shoulders of a buxom, blond “Vikingess” in a green silk tunic with enough gold and jewels at her neck and arms to ransom a king.

Ruby’s initial hurt turned quickly into jealousy and then a white-hot anger. Furious, Ruby yelled “Jack” again, but he still looked the other way. Lying pond scum! He’d said there was no other woman.

“Two-timing sonofa…” Ruby muttered on a sob, breaking away from Rhoda and Olaf to approach Jack.
She’d show him. She picked up a clump of mud the size of a cantaloupe, took careful aim and hurled the clod, hitting him square in the face. She smiled widely in satisfaction. She hadn’t been an ace softball pitcher in high school for nothing!

The tall figure swiveled, azure eyes wide with shock, but before he could react, Ruby pointed a finger at his stunned companion and warned, “Stay away from my husband if you know what’s good for you.”

Looking as if she’d seen a ghost, the wide-eyed woman backed away, slipped in the mud and fell flat on her rear.

Ruby laughed at the comical picture until Olaf came up behind her, lifted her off the ground with massive arms wrapped around her like steel bars and squeezed until she thought her ribs would crack.

“Put me down, you oaf,” Ruby shrieked. Then she turned to her husband, demanding, “Jack, tell this goon to put me down. He’s hurting me.”

“Not Oaf.
Olaf
,” the giant corrected Ruby.

Ruby grimaced with impatience and looked up over her shoulder. “Put me down,
Oaf
.” He reacted by lifting her higher in the air, as if she weighed no more than a feather.

Jack studied her icily, his jaw clenched with suppressed violence. He slowly wiped the mud from his face with a square of linen cloth. His girlfriend wailed loudly at his side until one of his companions reached over with a burly arm and cuffed her into silence.

A deathly quiet surrounded Ruby. The crowd stopped all activity to watch the spectacle.

Well, okay, maybe she shouldn’t have hit him, especially in a public place, but he had no right to look at her so angrily. After all, he was the one in the wrong. Adultery was adultery—even in a dream.

With a commanding air, the Viking walked purposefully over to where Olaf still held her with feet dangling
off the ground. His well-developed, massive body moved with an easy grace, not unlike her own modern-day husband. Standing so close she caught the familiar masculine scent of his skin, Jack extended a questioning forefinger to lift her chin in a whisper of a caress. Ruby leaned into his stroke reflexively, but then jerked back at the sensuous shock that shot hot flames through her. Jack’s furrowed brows and intense, puzzled eyes told Ruby without words that he, too, had been affected by the simple touch. The very air around them seemed electrified.

But then anger transformed Jack’s face. She soon found out why. Taking her chin in a painful, viselike grip, Jack snarled, “What manner of fool are you, boy, that you dare to strike Thork, son of Harald, high-king of all Norway?”

Boy?
He thought she was a boy, Ruby realized. No wonder he was upset by the sexual chemistry between them. Well, compared to the way these people dressed, she supposed she might look like a young male in her pants and short Sassoon haircut. And, hey, wasn’t Jack aiming high these days—son of a bloody king? Should she bow or what?

“Who are you?” Jack growled again, bruising her chin with his fingers. “Do you spy for Ivar?”

“Ivar? Who the hell is Ivar?”

“You dare much with your coarse tongue, boy.”

“Jack, don’t you recognize me? I’m Ruby…your wife.”

“Nay, no wife have I,” he declared in a steely voice, shifting indignantly from foot to foot. “Nor am I a sodomite,” he added distastefully, looking at what he obviously considered her masculine attire. Then he released her chin and cocked his head in puzzlement.

What now? she wondered. Was it something she’d said?

Olaf let her slide down his body to her feet, but he pulled her arms behind her back and pinioned them there.
Jack stared at the inscription on her chest and his eyes widened. That stupid Brass Balls logo again!

Jack reached out a hand. His forefinger trailed sensuously over her bare arm as if asking a question, then grazed her quivering lips for affirmation. He smiled wickedly and nodded, as if answering his own question, at the same time pleased with the goose bumps he’d raised on her flesh with a mere touch.

Then her husband did the unthinkable. He reached out with lightning swiftness and outlined the tips of her breasts. He actually touched her breasts in front of all those people! She’d kill him for humiliating her. Outraged, Ruby tried to squirm out of Olaf’s grasp.

“Thor’s blood! ’Tis a wench,” Jack exclaimed, turning with a grin to his companions for confirmation.

“No kidding! This has gone far enough, Jack. Tell this bozo to release me. This joke…or dream…or whatever it is has gone far enough. I want to go home.”

“Explain this ‘jack’ you speak of.”

“It’s your name, Jack. Jack Jordan. And I’m your wife, Ruby. And I’m tired of this stupid dream.”

Tears choked her. Why was Jack acting like this? Ruby squeezed her eyes shut tight. She would have pinched her own cheeks, but Olaf still held her arms behind her back; instead, she bit her bottom lip until she tasted blood, hoping to awaken herself from the nightmare.

It didn’t work.

Some members of the crowd stepped closer, staring in amazement at her bloody lip as if she were truly crazy. She
was
crazy! Only a crazy person would find herself in this situation. Perhaps Jack’s leaving her had pushed her over the edge.

“Nay, my name is Thork,” the Jack clone said. “Heed me well. No wife have I, nor ever want one. I am a Jomsviking.” Jack’s deep voice rang coldly, loud and
clear, through the crowd, which nodded and smiled in approval at his putting this woman in her place.

The people spoke an odd mixture of what sounded like Medieval Anglo-Saxon she’d once heard in an English Lit course and what was probably Old Norse. The languages were very similar. Strangely, she could understand both. Not so strange for a dream, she supposed.

Before Ruby could respond to Jack’s astounding pronouncement, he stepped closer and his forefinger traced the letters on her shirt. He said the words aloud slowly, “Brass Balls,” looked questioningly at a man standing next to him, then back at her and grinned, apparently understanding what the words symbolized. Several men chuckled behind him. However, his amusement turned to anger again.