Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 01] (3 page)

“So…you carry a message to us from Ivar that his men have superior male parts made of metal?” He spoke loud enough for all the people to hear. Good Lord! She’d landed in some kind of Bedlam.

“Know you the male parts of Ivar’s men from experience, wench?” he baited snidely.

“Shut up, Jack. You’re embarrassing me.”

He took hold of her sore chin and squeezed, looking her directly in the eye. “Thork. Mark my words well, wench. My name is Thork.”

Ruby whimpered in pain, but still he didn’t relent.

“Say it.”

When she refused, he squeezed harder, and Ruby gasped out, “Thork, you jerk! Thork! Thork!”

“‘Jerk’ best be a title of respect,” he warned.

“Oh, yes, it means something like ‘lord and master.’”

Jack looked unconvinced but, nevertheless, released her chin and addressed the mob. “Ivar sends the boy-woman to challenge us, methinks. Yea, he taunts us to war again. Bad enough he raids our lands whilst we are gone a-Viking or trading. Now he sends this insulting message.
Brass balls! Hah! Shall we show Ivar now and forever who the best men be?”

A roar rose like thunder through the crowd. Good grief! Who ever heard of a T-shirt causing a war? Ruby tried to express her opinion on their mistaken notions, but Olaf clamped a smelly palm over her mouth. She stomped on his soft leather shoes, and, to her chagrin, he didn’t budge an inch. Looking over her shoulder, she saw his smirk as he stated with smug self-satisfaction, “Not Oaf. Olaf.”

Maybe the guy wasn’t as dumb as she’d thought.

“We must bring this spy to King Sigtrygg,” Thork said. “Let him decide the fate of the thrall and whether or not we go to war with Ivar.” Another roar of approval went through the crowd.

“Now ya done it,” Rhoda whispered in her ear. “Sigtrygg One-Eye be a mean buzzard. Prob’ly lop off yer head. Or pluck out yer eyes. Or—”

“Give me a break, Rhoda. You’ve been reading too many tabloids again.”

“Come, thrall,” Jack commanded. “The other slaves stay.”

“Just who do you think you’re calling a thrall?” Ruby protested, finally squirming out of the giant’s grasp. “I’m no more a slave than…than you are.”

Jack had the gall to grin down at her. He was really enjoying her discomfort. Then he surprised her by putting a protective arm around her shoulder and saying, “Hold your tongue if you have a fondness for your fair head, sweetling. This crowd smells blood.”

Sweetling!
Ruby smiled, hopeful for the first time that day of a possible reconciliation between her and Jack. But she had only a moment to enjoy Jack’s quaint endearment.

“Chop off ’er head here ’n now,” one man shouted with perfect timing. “Send it to Ivar in that shirt she wears.” Ruby looked over at a nodding Rhoda, whose expression said, “I told you so.”

Another person yelled, “Why wait? Chop off ’er head now. She be a spy. Mebbe even Ivar’s woman. What better way to send a message!” If the roar of the crowd was any indication, a lot of people liked that idea.

Instinctively, Ruby moved closer to Jack. Why wasn’t he revolted at the idea of beheading her? She’d been on enough camping trips with him to know he couldn’t even gut a trout without gagging. He should be her knight in shining armor. He should gallantly rescue her so they could ride off into the sunset. Wasn’t that the way it was supposed to happen in dreams?

Instead, Jack asserted loudly, “Nay, the king must decide. Mayhap he will await a vote of the Althing when it meets next month.” Then he turned abruptly and confided to a well-dressed man standing beside him, “Selik, we malinger overlong whilst I carry important messages for Sigtrygg from King Athelstan in Wessex—more important than a mere thrall.”

Jack turned to Ruby once again and grabbed her arm, pulling her through the people who stepped back to make a path for them. “I will take this spy to my bedchamber later for a private examination,” he disclosed suggestively with a wink to those companions closest to him. “Mayhap the women of Ivar’s land have metal parts also.”

The men laughed at his words, and someone suggested lewdly that he make his examination then and there. Jack stopped, his arm still resting possessively on her shoulder, and he actually seemed to consider the prospect of a public stripping.

Humiliated, Ruby tried to kick Thork’s bare legs. She no longer thought of him as Jack. Jack would never be so cruel.

Thork laughed as Ruby hammered his immovable chest with clenched fists, then picked up her struggling, screaming body and deftly slung it over his shoulder, giving the crowd more fodder for laughter. He ordered one man to
go ahead to the castle to inform King Sigtrygg of their arrival and another to ride to his grandfather’s home in Northumbria and tell him he would be there late the next day. He told yet another man to supervise the unloading of his ships and to report to him that night.

When he settled her in place like a sack of flour, Ruby bit his shoulder to get his attention. With a gleeful chuckle, Thork whacked her with an open palm across her bottom which arched provocatively across his shoulder, and then he kept the widespread fingers there familiarly, rubbing her with an intimate circular motion. Ruby could feel her face flush, and not just because she hung upside down.

The jerk got another roar of approval when he commented in an aside to his friends, “Mayhap the women of Ivar’s land do have metal female parts, after all. Her arse feels as bony as a winter-starved rabbit.”

He would pay for this, Ruby vowed as he carried her away. Somehow, some way, she would find a way to get back at this crude excuse for a man.

“Ivar is vicious, but not lackwitted. He would never send a simpleminded wench to spy,” Thork stated emphatically, peering over his shoulder at Ruby whose blood-suffused head bounced against his back with each wide stride he took. “Who in the name of Odin are you?”

“Simpleminded!” Ruby protested, but the word came out garbled and unintelligible, considering her position.

A sharp object pressed against her waist, and she shifted slightly, as best she could, to relieve the pressure. Twisting her head sideways and looking up awkwardly, she saw an intricately carved brooch which held together the edges of a short shoulder mantle. The design profiled a writhing animal with limbs contorted out of recognition. Surely it wasn’t a coyote. That would be too much of a coincidence. No, it was probably a wolf. And it appeared to be solid gold! Unable to see it closer, Ruby dropped her head down, laying her cheek against the small of Thork’s back. Her skin prickled with delight at even that
casual touch. The familiar musk of his skin comforted her jarred senses.

Olaf and two other men walked beside Thork, sharing opinions about the unlikelihood of Ruby being a spy. All agreed that Sigtrygg must be the final arbiter of her fate but wondered how he would react to even the possibility of the hated Ivar infiltrating Jorvik. In soft, guarded voices, they also updated Thork on recent events in Jorvik.

“Sigtrygg expected you a sennight past. We have all suffered his wrath,” complained a young man with flowing, silver blond hair whom Thork had called Selik earlier. Even from her position, Ruby could see that the exceedingly handsome, almost beautiful, male drew the admiring attention of many of the passing women.

Thork swore aloud, using a famous Anglo-Saxon word that survived even to the twentieth century.

“Sigtrygg chomps at the bit to return to Dublin and reclaim the throne from his cousin Godfred,” Selik added. “Everyone in his vipers’-nest court suffers his raging temper outbursts as he waits for you.”

“So Sigtrygg still hopes for a united Northumbrian-Irish kingdom?” Thork questioned.

“Yea, and more. He cannot see that the Saxons lay waste our lands while he and his cousins bicker over power among the two countries,” Selik answered.

Olaf added, “He tries to force a pagan government on Christian Danes who have lived here for generations and are no longer content with the old ways.”

“I tell you, Thork, when Viking fights Viking, the bloody Saxon will be the winner,” Selik asserted vehemently.

“I see now why Sigtrygg stews,” Thork said pensively, “and ’twould seem our fair maid here has much to fear if our king rages so.” He swatted Ruby on the behind for emphasis, calling everyone’s attention back to her.

“’Twill depend on Ivar’s mood,” Olaf stated matter-of-factly, with a shrug of unconcern. “If he be of a mean temper, as he is wont at the flip of a coin, he will likely behead her on the spot. Or mayhap flay all the skin off her body just to amuse himself.”

Behead her! Flay her! To amuse himself!
Ruby’s stomach churned.

“Or spread her legs and skewer her on the spot if she appeals,” Selik drawled with a suggestive chortle, “or bugger her like the boy she appears.”

“Thor’s toenails! Too much mead under his belt and ’twill not matter a whit if she be fair or barley-faced, I warrant,” Thork added with unflattering frankness. His deep voice held a trace of laughter. “Sigtrygg can be a man of uncommon appetites, in all ways!”

“Comes of being a berserker, I say. Wild in battle, wild in bed, or so I’ve been told,” Selik interjected lewdly. “But, even so, I cannot fathom Sigtrygg being attracted to this scrawny bird.”

Thork laughed and pinched Ruby’s bottom to halt any protest she might be contemplating. “But you forget, Selik, our king relishes the odd perversion. Didst ye hear of the night Sigtrygg…”

The men laughed companionably when Thork’s risqué story ended. It involved a nun, ropes and a wide variety of feathers.

Ruby was not amused. Thork had probably invented the sexual tale to alarm her before meeting the king. She punched him in the back hoping to stop his laughter, to no avail. It was like pounding a brick wall.

Then Thork turned serious, stating softly in a hushed voice, “Actually, Sigtrygg’s mood is sure to sweeten once he hears my news.” He paused significantly to get the men’s full attention. “King Athelstan would strengthen the alliance between Wessex and Northumbria by wedding his sister to our ruler.”

At first, stunned silence prevailed. Then they all protested at once.

“Thor’s blood!”

“The gall of the Saxon!”

“The proposal smacks of trickery! Why would the king give his own blood to mix with a heathen dog? ’Tis what the Saxons call us Vikings, and worse.”

After they all vented their consternation, Selik said, “They say the Saxon king be godly handsome. Did ye find his sister pleasing…or skinny and horse-faced like the other Saxon bitches?”

Thork laughed at Selik’s one-track mind. “What difference? Our power-hungry Sigtrygg would wed a pig if ’twould bring him more lands.”

“So, think you there will be a royal wedding?”

“’Tis uncertain, Olaf, but I trust not these Saxons—even Athelstan who has been fairer than most. Some say he walks the same line as his grandfather, the so-called ‘Good Alfred.’ Still, ’twould be wise of Sigtrygg to proceed slowly…and watch his back.”

All agreed. Then Thork turned to another man, who had not spoken yet. “What think you, Cnut?”

Ruby craned her neck to see him.

The older man spoke slowly, with authority. “The Saxons teach us treachery at every turn. The greedy bastards have chopped away at the Danelaw like bloody berserkers. ’Tis little more than a score of years since I stood with Guthorm when King Alfred agreed to the Danelaw boundary between Viking and Saxon England.”

A respectful silence followed his words.

“Our territory then ran up the Thames to London, along the Lea to its source, on to Bedford, then up the River Ouse to Watling Street,” Cnut went on, “but what have we now? Little more than Northumbria, with Jorvik as our center! A piss ant in the midst of a beehive!”

Ruby heard him spit for emphasis, then add, “Even
that, they begrudge us. The ‘Five Boroughs’ we Vikings founded—Lincoln, Nottingham, Derby, Leicester and Stamford—all taken. Mayhap you forget the lies and deceit, Thork, on both sides, but mark my words, blood will spill soon—wedding or no.”

Ruby interrupted then; she could wait no longer.

“Thork, put me down. I’m going to throw up.”

Thork ignored her complaint and continued talking to his companions as they walked through the ancient walled city, along the bustling narrow streets. Even from her upside-down perspective, Ruby saw the Vikings they passed do double takes at the remarkable spectacle she presented. Long blond braids swirled as young girls turned quickly. Mustaches twitched on men’s hugely bearded faces.

The myriad smells and sounds of the tightly congested market area assailed Ruby’s senses. Church bells rang out the noon hour. Church bells? In a Viking city? How odd!

Pigs and chickens squealed and squawked from their market stalls. Wooden-wheeled carts rumbled by laden with produce. Hawkers cried out their wares. The smell of dung, crated fish, tanned leather and horseflesh mixed with the sweet river breeze. Ruby really did feel sick now. She started to gag.

“Do not dare,” a suddenly alert Thork warned and immediately allowed her to slide to the ground. Ruby’s shaky knees buckled, and Thork grabbed her shoulders to hold her upright.

“Holy Thor! You look peckish. Do you ail?”

Ruby wanted to say something sarcastic, but bile clogged her throat. Thork must have noticed something amiss in her face because he pulled her to the side of the road so people behind them could pass. Then he motioned for his companions to continue on to King Sigtrygg’s palace without them, telling them he’d follow shortly.

“Take deep breaths,” Thork suggested in a surprisingly
gentle voice, which was at odds with his earlier behavior. He took her hand and led her toward the river which ran behind the buildings lining the busy thoroughfare in an orderly fashion, so close that their eaves almost touched across the narrow alleylike streets.

Thatched roofs covered rectangular structures made of primitive wattle and daub—branches interwoven horizontally and filled with clay, straw and hair, then plaster. Long backyards stretched down to the river, distinguished from their neighbors by post and withy fences. Craftsmen worked and sold their wares on tables set up under awnings in front, like a giant flea market or street bazaar.

“Are those homes or businesses?”

Thork pulled her along beside him as they neared the river, her hand still held firmly in his much larger one.

“Both. On Coppergate, many artisans and merchants live and trade. The buildings combine homes, workshops and markets. Where you come from—is it not the same?”

Ruby noticed a slight narrowing in Thork’s piercing eyes as he asked the question and knew his kindness masked a motive. He wanted information from her.

“And this?” Ruby asked, disregarding his question about her home and pointing to the river which flowed near their feet. She felt better now although her stomach still churned with nervousness.

“The Ouse. ’Tis a tidal river. It flows in from the North Sea by way of the Humber River,” he explained, pointing to serpentine ships moving gracefully toward the harbor. He answered her questions with consideration, but Ruby had known this man too long not to sense the impatience underlying the even tone of his voice.

With fluid grace, he dropped down to a large boulder and indicated with a jerk of his head that she should join him. Ruby swallowed tightly as her leg brushed his warm, sinewy thigh. His nearness kindled feelings in Ruby that had been dormant much too long.

His narrowed eyes studied her in a shrewd, assessing manner. Ruby could almost see his mind working. If she was a spy, did he really think she would spew out all her secrets so easily? Probably.

“Are you not familiar with the Ouse? It flows through Ivar’s land, too, does it not?” Thork probed blatantly.

Ruby decided to have fun with this overly suspicious Viking. “I don’t really know. The only river near me is the Mississippi.” Then she clamped her hand over her mouth as if she’d just disclosed something she shouldn’t have.

“The Missi…the Missis…whatever you said!” Thork exclaimed. “God’s breath! I have heard naught of it.”

“Really? It’s one of the largest rivers in the world. I thought everyone had heard of it.” Ruby batted her eyelashes at him innocently.

Lord, he was a handsome man—even better looking than Jack had been at that age! Momentarily lost in sweet reverie, Ruby sighed. A kaleidoscope of images flitted through her mind. Jack in a white tuxedo at their senior prom. Jack in a black tuxedo on their wedding day. Jack wearing nothing on their wedding night.

Ruby’s face flushed at the unbidden recollections. She couldn’t think about Jack just yet and what his absence would mean to her life. Later. She would think about Jack later when she was stronger, more in control of her emotions, better able to handle the anguish.

But the resemblance between Thork and Jack disconcerted Ruby. The sharp planes of Thork’s deeply tanned face mirrored her husband’s, even though his long hair glistened like white gold in the sunlight, no doubt due to the bleaching effect of long, sunlit days on board ship. Even his devastating smile, displaying large, white teeth, was the same, right down to the one slightly crooked incisor. The only difference was Thork’s more muscular body, probably strengthened by the necessity for battle
readiness, and an ugly scar above his right eye which cut right through his eyebrow.

Her fingertips ached to touch his rock-hard body, to investigate the differences—intimately. Shivers of delight rippled through Ruby’s body at the enticing prospect, and, without thinking, she blurted out on a whisper, “You take my breath away.”

To Ruby’s mortification, Thork raised one eyebrow questioningly, understanding perfectly what she meant. Good heavens! She’d been gawking at him like a hormone-humming teenager. With supreme conceit, he winked at her knowingly. Criminey! Women probably swooned over him all the time.

Just as Ruby started to turn away from him in embarrassment, Thork raised his left hand to brush a breeze-blown tress from his face. Ruby inhaled sharply. The pinky finger was missing.

She grabbed his hand and tenderly touched the place where the finger should have been. “What happened? How did you lose your finger?”

Thork shrugged. “My half-brother Eric chopped it off when I was five. He aimed for my…male part, but then he always was a poor swordsman.” He grinned at the shock on her face but his eyes told a different, pain-ridden story. “Eric Bloodaxe, they call him. Appropriate, would you not say?”

“Oh, Thork, how sad!”

Caught off-guard at first by her concern, Thork darted her a curious glance, then touched the scar on his face. “He was unsuccessful in removing my eye as well. ’Twas long ago, though. ’Tis no longer important.”

Ruby studied Thork, and her heart ached for the pain he must have endured. She yearned to comfort him, to hold the memory of his ugly childhood at bay. Locked in a private hell of recollection, his expression turned bleak for a moment. It occurred to Ruby then that maybe,
just maybe, she’d been given a clean slate with Jack in this dream or self-hypnosis or whatever it was. What fun it would be to go back to the beginning with Jack, knowing what she did today! She could avoid all the proven mistakes. She could capitalize on all the good things that had worked with them.

A second chance!
Wasn’t that just what she’d prayed for before being hurtled back in time?

Scanning Thork speculatively, Ruby considered flirting mischievously with the fierce Viking to lighten his mood, the way she used to do with Jack. Actually, she hadn’t flirted with Jack in a long, long time. Maybe that was one of their problems. She inspected Thork through lowered lashes and grinned impishly. This dream business might prove interesting, after all.