The Pirate Bride (10 page)

Chapter Nine

Now she was in BIG trouble . . .

M
edana was nervous. Very nervous. And she hated it.

She felt as if she were walking a narrow precipice, always checking right and left and over her shoulder to make sure she did not slip. Just like the old days back at Stormgard when she had to be constantly on guard lest she cross the path of her half brothers. Danger had lurked around every corner.

Same was true now, though it was danger of a different sort. Captive Vikings. They lurked everywhere. Asked too many questions. Pretended to be compliant visitors whilst waiting for an opening to pounce.

Her biggest fear wasn’t physical violence, though that was always a possibility, she supposed, especially when Thork had taken to grinding his teeth every time she told him it would be one more day before they could return them to Hedeby. First, she’d told him, “The bull needs to be acclimated to his new home.”

“If that randy beast gets any more acclimated, he’ll wear his cock down to a nubbin.”

Each day, she’d had to come up with another reason for delay. “The fall oats need to be planted from the seeds we purchased in Hedeby.”

“Give me the damn seeds. My men and I will plant them in one bloody day and be done with the job.”

“ ’Tis is a new field we are clearing. Before we can plow, we must clear all the rocks. And we have no mule to pull a plow. So . . .”

“Muleheaded women abound here. They could easily pull a plow, especially if you hitch them together and give them a good kick in their donkey arses.” He’d stared pointedly at her backside.

Foul man!
“The sheep need shearing.”

“I can think of something else that needs shearing.”

Is he looking at the joining of my thighs? Frey’s bones, he is! Foul, foul, foul!
“Five of my best rowers have developed stomach ailments.”

“I know of a purge that will cure them in no time. From both ends.”

Foulness must come naturally to some men.
“Many of my women are having their monthly flow. Terrible cramps. Bloody rags. Bad moods. Whew! Your men would not want to be around them now.”

Usually men fled when a discussion about women’s cycles came up, but not Thork.

“They have all begun at the same time? Remarkable! And how is it that this happenstance is not affecting their efforts to lure us men to their beds? A little blood ne’er repels most warriors, you know, but women are usually more squeamish about engaging in—”

“Aaarrgh!” she’d said to cut off the brute’s crude talk and stomped off, his laughter following in her wake.

She was running out of excuses.

And always, like a wolf baying at her door, was the fear of disclosure. Once the men found the cave entrance and left Thrudr, only one of them needed to engage in a bout of ale blather, and the safety and security of the island hideaway would be lost forever.

Oh, how she yearned for the peace of mind she’d come to cherish as chieftain of this island sanctuary!

And there was another thing. She and her crew should have been off a-Viking, or rather a-pirating, again by now. With almost two hundred inhabitants, there was a constant need for goods that they could not provide for themselves and the treasure to purchase them.

In fact, there was a particular nunnery off the coast of Ireland, a small but rich one that they had been aiming to hit sometime soon in the usual hit-and-run type invasions the women of Thrudr had perfected. Not being as strong as male pirates, they had to rely on creative methods of attack . . . in other words, slyness. Besides goods and produce, that nunnery had a nice peach orchard. Medana yearned for fresh peaches, and decided that they would somehow dig up some of the fruit tree saplings there to bring back and plant on Thrudr.

Medana did not feel guilty going after holy places because, really, hadn’t the Christian One-God preached humbleness in his Holy Book? What need was there for nuns devoted to a simple life to hoard gold chalices or mules or fine samite silks or silver crosses? Or peach trees?

It was the waiting that made Medana twitchy.

When would they hear from Thork’s father? Two sennights had passed already. What if they got no reply? Mayhap they needed a second plan for getting the men off the island.

Worry, worry, worry.

Going into the kitchen, she grabbed a piece of manchet bread and a thin slice of hard cheese, having missed the morning meal. Olga didn’t pay her presence any mind as the big woman towered over Henry, the slant-eyed Viking, who was arguing with her about the correct spice to use with lamb.

Medana munched as she walked across the grounds, noticing the activity here and there. The young Viking, Brokk, sat on the ground under the shade of an evergreen tree playing the board game
hnefatafl
with some of the children. Supposedly, the youthling had been taken under the wing of Thork when he’d been discovered on the streets of Jorvik, half starved and homeless after the death of his parents.

The giant, one-eyed Viking, Bolthor, was teaching some of the women a better way to heft a broadsword that would put less strain on their shoulders, the whole time composing a saga titled, “Why Women Should Not Try to Be Men.” Talk about foul! Bolthor had a tongue that was earthy to say the least. The beginning of his poem went something like:

If women could grow cocks,

They would, not to mention stones

. . . male stones, or rocks.

And decorate the balls and staff

With lace and trim of golden chaff.

’Til the package would be so heavy

’Twould more resemble a Yule tree . . .

That was as far at the poet warrior got before Medana left. Truly, he must be the world’s worst skald.

Then there was Alrek, the clumsy one, on the roof of one of the longhouses helping to replace a rotted section of thatch. Every time he moved, Medana feared he would slip and break his leg. Then they’d never be rid of these men.

Finn, the vain Viking, stood behind Liv, who sat on a stool outside the weaving shed. He was demonstrating to a half dozen watching women how to make an intricate braid in her long hair, the kind that was worn by men and women alike in some far-off country.

Two other men were dragging an enormous dead log down from the forest to be chopped into their never-ending supply of firewood. The hearth fires required vast amounts of fuel for meals and for heat during the long winter months.

The air of cooperation was misleading, but not to Medana. It was the lull before the storm that was sure to come.

She finished eating her small repast as she approached the area where Solveig was building a new longship. Well, attempting to build it.

This was a project they worked on only in spare time. They were learning as they went. No one wanted to go out in a boat that might very well leak due to poor construction.

Solveig came up and sat next to her on a pile of sanded boards.

“What is he doing there?” Medana asked, pointing to the center of some new activity. “And what is that thing? The animals do not come over here.”

Thork was working with some women who carried wooden buckets of water to fill a long trough that must have been recently built. A dozen cows could have stood withers to withers to drink there with room left over.

“Even though he is not a shipwright, that Viking knows more about building sea vessels than we do. All those planks we had prepared for the stern and bow must needs be kept wet for a period of time so that they can be easily bent to the curves we need. I should have known. Now that Thork called it to my attention, I remember my father doing such.” She shook her head with disgust.

Medana made a tsking sound. “Solveig! You do the best you can, and look how well you maintain
Pirate Lady
. Without you we would never be able to leave the island.”

Solveig was clearly not convinced. “All that sanded wood wasted!” She looked pointedly at the stack they were sitting on.

Well, at least it could be used as firewood, or possibly some other building purpose, like fencing, or outbuildings.

Today Solveig wore a belted, knee-length tunic with no leggings, and sleeves that had been torn off at the shoulders to accommodate her hard labor in the midday heat. She used a forearm to wipe the sweat from her forehead.

In fact, Thork was attired the same way. Somehow, he looked a lot more tantalizing with the muscles of his arms and legs exposed as he worked. His dark blond hair was pulled back off his face and tied with a leather thong at his nape. The hair on his arms and legs was so fine it appeared almost nonexistent. Truly, he was a fine specimen of a man. Healthy, sun-bronzed, well-muscled.

She glanced away quickly before he could catch her ogling him. Her lascivious interest would amuse him, no doubt. Actually, the man had been avoiding her since the night he’d accosted her and invited her on a “walk.” She wondered if all the men were so easily resistant to the women. Just then, her question was answered, without words.

As Solveig turned her head this way and that to ease a muscle cramp, a bruise mark stood out on the flesh where her neck met her shoulders, the kind men were wont to make when engaged in bedsport. A suck kiss, some called it. Boylings did it apurpose with young maids to show their prowess. Grown men did it because . . . because they were boylings at heart.

“Solveig!” Medana teased. “Dare I guess how you have been spending your nights?”

Solveig put a hand to the spot where Medana was staring and rubbed it with a prideful grin on her face. “You should see Lilli. She has suck marks up one side and down the other on her body from that Henry. Even one here.” She pointed to an area low on the belly. Very low.

Medana gawked and could not stop staring at that spot, even though she could, of course, not see through the cloth. “Your capturing the men has been successful then? I cannot countenance your methods, but if the end result is more babes next spring, well”—Medana shrugged—“it was worth it, I suppose.”

“Hah! First of all, not all the men are having sex. Some still resist. And those that do succumb are following some practice suggested by yon oaf.” She motioned with a jerk of her head toward Thork, who was carrying some long, narrow planks over his shoulder and laying them in the bottom of the trough, which was still being filled bucket by bucket.

“Practice?” Medana frowned with confusion.

“Yea. A method for preventing male seed from sprouting inside a woman’s womb.”

Medana was still confused.

“Spilling the seed outside the body at the last moment,” Solveig explained.

“Really? And the men still get their grunting relief that way?”

“Must be, though most men would not inconvenience themselves thus. These men, though . . . especially that one”—Solveig gave Thork a glower of disgust—“are determined not to leave any children behind. Have you ever heard of such?”

“I cannot say that I have,” Medana answered, though she was unsure if Solveig referred to the method or the reasons behind it.

Thork noticed their regard and gave them a little wave, seeming to be amused by Solveig’s disdain. He must know why Solveig was irritated with him.

“Of course there are other methods to prevent a seed from taking root,” Solveig went on.

Medana shouldn’t be surprised at Solveig’s claim. With her background in a brothel, Solveig was often a font of information for the women.

“Other methods?” Medana couldn’t help asking.

“Yea. In fact, that smaller Viking, Henry, wanted to put a pig intestine on his cock and have sex with Lilli, but she was having none of that.”

“Like sausage casings,” Medana deduced.

“Exactly. In any case, Lilli refused. So they did it the spilling way.”

There were mind pictures here that Medana really did not want to have.

“But we women are not giving up,” Solveig said with determination, standing to return to work. “Freyja is teaching us how to belly dance.”

“Freyja? You cannot be serious. Freyja is more than forty and she has no belly to speak of.”

“You would be surprised. Freyja learned the dance many years ago when she was in a sultan’s harem, afore being sold as a slave to your father. Didst know that belly dancers have better peakings?”

Peakings? What is that?
“Why did she never tell me about belly dancing? She was my nursemaid, you know.”

“The subject never came up, I suppose. In any case, I am having trouble jiggling my breasts and undulating my stomach folds at the same time. But I will learn!”

Medana sat, dumbfounded for a moment, then shook her head like a wet dog to rid her mind of those images. Just then, the young boy, Samuel, came rushing up, a rolled parchment held tightly in his little hands.

“Mistress, mistress! I have a message for you.” He came to a sliding stop in front of her, panting for breath.

“Where did you get this?” she asked, taking the scroll in hand.

“It was left in the message slot by the pond last night.”

“Thank you, Samuel. You may go back to the kitchen and tell Olga that I said you could have an oatcake.”