The Pirate Bride (2 page)

“We should make a good profit on all the goods you brought this time,” Agnis remarked as she removed the wooden platters from the table. They’d just finished a simple meal of cold slices of roast venison, hard cheese, manchet bread, and weak wine. On the way to the low chest that held a wooden pail of dishwater, she patted the head of her nine-year-old son, Egil, who was carding wool in the corner.

Even though Agnis resided here in Hedeby and did in fact weave and sell fine wool cloth, she was also Thrudr’s agent, offering all the products produced or harvested on the rough, mountainous island—furs, honey, leather shoes and belts, soapstone pots and candles, wooden bowls and spoons, bone combs, and such. A pregnant Agnis had been among the women with Medana when first she’d fled Stormgard all those years ago. They’d barely survived that first winter. And the next two years had not been very easy, either, as more and more women somehow found their way to their hidden sanctuary. Now they were independent and self-sufficient, but there were things they needed that they could not grow, catch, make, or steal. Like grains, spices, metal weapons and implements, rope, needles, a bull to serve their milch cows, and vegetables they were unable to grow in their northern region.

“Your visit is short this time,” Agnis said, topping off Medana’s cup of wine.

“Yea, a necessity. Our old bull Magnus died, and two of our cows are about to go into heat. We needed to buy a young bull, which I did, and get it back home to do . . . his duty.”

Agnis laughed. “The things a woman must do!”

“As for the short visit, believe you me, my women are full of complaints. This is their time for”—she arched her brows meaningfully at Agnis—“you know.”

“Same as the cows,” Agnis jested, laughing, then glanced toward her son to make sure he wasn’t listening. Egil had put aside his carding tools and was playing with a pet cat.

“Exactly!”

“Why are you not out there enjoying yourself?” Agnis asked, waving her hand to indicate the town.

“That is not my idea of enjoyment,” Medana said, not after the experience that led to her departure from Stormgard. “But I do not begrudge my women their bedsport, even if their time is limited.”

“Hopefully, some of the man seed will take root,” Agnis said.

“Pray Frigg it does.” While they did not have men at Thrudr since they were not willing to trust their lives to the brutish actions of the male species, they still yearned for one thing that only men could provide. And that one thing wasn’t just sex. It was children. After any trip a-Viking, or a-trading, there were always a few women who found themselves breeding. Once, an amazing ten got with child on a trip to Kaupang, no doubt due to their extended stay when their longship took on water and had to be dry-docked for repairs. Of course, infant mortality and childbirth fever took a good number of babes and occasionally the mothers, as happened everywhere in the world.

Medana and her crew had gone a-pirating on their way to Hedeby, and their plunder had been exceptionally tradeable. That on top of the goods they’d produced at home and brought to market should mean a good year for the women back at Thrudr. No gnawing on roots and moldy bread as they had the first winter in exile when there had been no meat or stored vegetables for the cook fire.

Medana and Agnis talked long into the evening, dividing the profits of this latest endeavor, discussing plans for the future, and relating news of the people they both knew.

“Is Gregor still pursuing you?” Medana teased.

“Always. The man does not give up.” Agnis grinned. ’Twas clear to one and all that Agnis had a fondness for the Russian goldsmith who visited the trading center several times a year.

“Mayhap you will give in one of these days?” Medana suggested.

Agnis shrugged. “Mayhap, but then I am enjoying the gifts he brings me.” She lifted the neckline of her gown to show Medana a fine gold chain. “How is Olga doing?”

“She rules the kitchens like a hardened warrior.” Olga was Agnis’s aunt, who’d come to them two years past when her husband died.

Agnis shared some stories about her aunt that had them both laughing, but then she turned serious. “Your brother Sigurd was here two sennights ago.” At the look of concern on Medana’s face, Agnis immediately added, “I had Bessie take over the stall for me.” Bessie was the shortened name for Beatrix, a Saxon holder of a nearby pottery shed. “I am certain he did not see me.”

Medana let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding in. She had reason to fear her brothers, even after all these years and what she had done to thwart their plans, but Agnis also had cause to be wary. Sigurd was Egil’s father. If the child of his loins had been a daughter, Sigurd would not care, but a son, now that would be a different matter. Furthermore, he would be angered at Agnis, a thrall, leaving without his permission.

It was late when Medana returned to
Pirate Lady
, the longship anchored at the far end of the wharf. A guardswoman standing at the rail greeted her with a hearty “Who goes there?” It was Elida, Thrudr’s mistress of threads, who was in charge of all sheep shearing, spinning, weaving, and clothes making. Everyone on the island had a title for the numerous jobs needed for them to subsist: Mistress of hunt, fish, and fowl. Mistress of farming. Mistress of animal care. Mistress of cooking. Mistress of laundry. In fact, there were so many titles these days, it had become a matter of jest, especially when someone had to be called mistress of the privy.

With a smile, Medana replied, “ ’Tis me. Chieftain-ess Medana.” She smiled even wider at the title, which had been assigned to her as a sign of deference.

“Has everyone returned?” Medana asked.

Elida nodded, but she shifted her eyes hither and yon, never quite meeting Medana’s gaze. She was nervous for some reason. Must be because this was the first time she’d been given such responsibility. Also a talented embroiderer, Elida had requested a chance to prove her worth as an archer in Medana’s personal guard. Already Elida’s small hands were calloused and scratched, and, even with practice, the slim woman couldn’t hit a Saxon boar from three paces. It would take sennights for the ointments of her healer, Liv, to restore Elida’s skin to the point where she could once again handle the fine silk threads. Medana doubted that Elida would be going a-Viking again.

Moving on toward her small quarters, Medana inquired politely of Bergdis, one of her rowers, “Did you find a man to mate with this eve?”

Bergdis, who was mistress of buildings and woodworking back home, rolled her wide shoulders—all the rowers were well-muscled on their upper bodies to handle the hard exercise required to pull oars—before replying, “Yea, I did. But only once. There was no time for more.”

It must have been an energetic mating because Bergdis’s tunic was lopsided, half on and half off one shoulder, and the two braids that she normally wore to keep her frizzy red hair off her face had come undone. Her thick eyebrows were more grizzly than usual. Pity the man she’d set her eyes on this night.

That was unkind
, Medana immediately chastised herself. Bergdis was a good woman who’d overcome huge tragedy in her former life. She deserved every reward that came her way, especially if it was a child, please gods.

Medana shrugged. Her crew knew ahead of time that this visit to Hedeby was destined to be short. If they made good speed, they might go a-Viking on the way home, but they must be careful not to visit those places they’d plundered on the way here. Stealth was an important tactic for female pirates, not having the strength and manpower of their male counterparts.

She noticed that Bergdis seemed nervous, too, rubbing the palms of her hands together. “Is something amiss?” Medana asked.

“Nay. Why would you ask me that? I have done nothing wrong.”

Bergdis’s defensive response startled Medana. “It was only a question. I was not accusing you of anything.”

Just then, there was a pounding noise coming from below in the hold of the longship. Bang, bang, bang! Like a booted foot kicking wood. “What is that?”

“Must be the bull,” both women said.

“I hope it does no damage. Mayhap I should go down and make sure the creature is tied securely. I would not want him hurt. After all, his services are sorely needed. I swear Helga is in as much need of a man as many of you.” Helga was one of their most fertile cows.

Neither of the women smiled at Medana’s jest.

Her rudder master, Solveig, stepped up from behind her and said, “Not to worry. I will take care of the matter. You know I have a way with animals.”

That was the first time Medana had ever heard Solveig had a way with animals, seeing as how she was mistress of shipwrighting, but Medana was not about to argue the point now.

Her chief
housecarl
, mistress of military, Gudron, a huge warrior of a woman who could heft a heavy broadsword with the best of men, handed her a wooden goblet. “Have a drink of ale to toast our voyage home.” Medana noticed that Gudron had crystals twisted in the blonde war braids that framed her square face. No doubt she’d been man hunting this evening, like many of the others.

That was nice of Gudron, even if the ale did taste a bit sour. After taking a few sips, Medana handed the cup back to her. She yawned widely then. The two cups of wine, watered down at that, plus these new sips of ale, shouldn’t be affecting her so. “I am off to bed for a few hours’ sleep. We set sail at daybreak.”

Whether it was the wine and ale or the sway of the ship or just exhaustion, Medana slept soundly and did not awaken until the ship was already under way. Which was odd. Her crew had always waited for her orders before setting sail in the past.

It was later, when they were already too far out to sea to turn around, that Medana learned what the noisesome cargo was that they carried below. And it was no bull.

Chapter Two

That’s bull . . .

T
hork awakened from a deep, odd sleep and saw pitch blackness.

Where am I?

He could hear heavy breathing and felt the warmth of human bodies lying next to him. His comrades of the evening, he assumed. Bolthor and Alrek. Thork hadn’t drunk that much ale, but what he had imbibed must have been mighty potent for him to take his rest in such close bodily contact with men.

Something else struck him then. The air reeked of an odorsome musk. Phew! When was the last time his men had bathed? He would have a talk with them in the morning, or else toss them in the nearest fjord for a good wash. Or mayhap it was ale breath or beer wind in the bowels. In any case, the air was gagsome.

Thork ached all over. His arms, his shoulders, his legs. Even his teeth hurt. He tried to open his mouth to flex his jaws, but his lips seemed to be stuck together.

He couldn’t think clearly, especially since his brain started throbbing behind his eyeballs. With a sigh, he succumbed back to the mindless sleep, where he soon had the most delicious dreams as the bed furs undulated under him. Up, down, up down. He had so many peakings he lost count.

Alas, he had to awaken eventually, and it was daylight. Or as much daylight as he could see from the cracks in the wood ceiling above him. It took him several moments to realize that he was in the hold of a seagoing vessel.

“Mghiggt!” he heard from his left.

“Szofftrl!” he heard from the other side.

And behind him he heard a loud bellow that sounded like a moo, but was deeper, more manly. “Mrraaahew!”

Straining upward, peering right and then left, Thork saw with amazement that he and seven of his seamen were in the hold of a longship, trussed up like chickens, hands tied behind their backs and linked to their bound ankles. And it was seal rope, too, he noted, the strongest of all ropes, cut in one long spiral off a seal. Thin scarves across their open mouths were tied behind their heads.

If that wasn’t bad enough, the bellower behind him turned out to be a big-horned bull, which was fortunately tethered by one front and one hind leg to spikes in the plank walls, using the same seal rope. Fortunate because the bull was not a happy fellow and was eyeing them like they were cows in heat. The bull began to paw the rush-covered floor with its free front paw and let loose with one long, angry snort, which resulted in a wad of snot flying in the air, just missing Thork’s face. Then the animal lifted its tail and made one loud splat out of its backside.

Thus, the source of the loathsome odors.

Thork shuffled his body as best he could to put some additional distance between him and the beast.

Glancing from one of his men to the other with questioning eyes, he got nothing but shrugs and equal confusion.

What in bloody hell had happened to them?

He tried to recount the previous evening’s events. He’d been drinking with Bolthor and Alrek in the alehouse. The other men had already gone back to his longships or were off wenching somewhere, including Jamie the Scots Viking over there, who appeared to be laughing behind his gag. Jamie ever was a lackwit.

He recalled walking back to the ship with Alrek and Bolthor, who, by the by, must have been some giant bundle to get down into the hold of a ship. Right now, his eye patch was askew, leaving the open socket visible. They’d put double rows of seal rope on him. And no wonder; Bolthor was strong as yon bull.

Still pondering the night before, Thork remembered that they had all felt rather nauseous and unsteady. Then they’d been attacked by the small people . . . the sodomites.

No! It all came back to him now. Not sodomites. Women! They’d been kidnapped by a group of barmy women. For what purpose, he was uncertain, but the idea of Viking men being overtaken by the weaker sex was beyond embarrassing. It was an outrage! They must have been given a sleeping draught in their ale.

Where were the rest of his crew, and what did they think of his disappearance? Would they assume he’d taken off on some wild venture, as he very well might have in the past, before he’d turned a good leaf? Or would they be searching for him?

But women? Captured by women?

Someone was going to pay for this indignity. And inconvenience.

While the bull continued to growl and snort, blow slime, and strain against its bindings to come gore them, his men kept trying to talk behind their gags, resulting in garbled sounds. He shifted his body so that he was up against the side of the ship, where a nail stuck out. Working with painstaking slowness, being careful not to tear his scalp, he finally managed to rip off the scarf, freeing his mouth.

Then, shuffling on his side over to Alrek, he used his teeth to untie the knot in back of Alrek’s head. Yeech! Alrek’s hair tasted like fish oil. Had he been trying to tame down his cowlick again? Thork realized then that while it was nice to have the gags removed, there was no way they could cut or untie the seal ropes.

“Where are we?” Jamie and the others wanted to know as they one by one got their gags undone.

“We have been taken captive. That’s all I know,” Thork replied.

“For what purpose?” asked Brokk, a young orphan who’d seen no more than twelve winters, though he was tall and well-built for his age. Thork had been training him in swordplay with a goal of eventually adding him to his
hird
of soldiers.

“It’s those sodomites we saw in the alehouse, I wager,” Alrek contributed.

“Sodomites!” the rest of the men exclaimed with horror, envisioning no doubt the type of activities they might be subjected to.

“That is an offensive word,” Thork said. “Man-lovers would be more sensitive.”

“That is nah quite true,” Jamie pointed out, “because ‘man-lovers’ could also refer to women.”

“Man-to-man lovers would be better, I suppose,” Alrek decided, and he was serious.

“Och! Since when do we Vikings care who we offend?” Jamie was enjoying the halfbrained discussion immensely.

Not joining in was Bolthor, who looked at Alrek and Jamie with his one good eye as if he’d like to whack them both aside their heads. “Idiots! Those were not sodomites. They were women.”

“Women!” the rest of them exclaimed, even more confused.

Then Finn Vidarsson, best known as Finn Finehair, the vainest Viking to ride a longship, grinned through his neatly trimmed mustache and beard. “Are we going to be love slaves?”

“Good gods!” Thork muttered. That was ridiculous, of course.

Wasn’t it?

“I think they are pirates,” Alrek said.

Thork recalled thinking of pirates back in Hedeby when he’d first heard the name of the ship,
Pirate Lady
. But he’d never thought that the pirates were women.

Everyone turned to look at Alrek. “In fact, there were rumors in Hedeby of a female pirate called the Sea Scourge.”

“Female pirates?” scoffed Jostein, who was almost a graybeard at thirty-five or so. Jostein had joined Thork’s band to escape females, or one female in particular—his wife, who intended to divorce him at the next Althing. For what reason, Jostein had been reluctant to disclose. Jostein had been a mere youthling when he’d traveled years ago with Jamie’s father, Rurik, to Scotland, where he’d stayed and become like an older brother to Jamie . . . until his disastrous marriage. Or so Thork had been told by Jamie.

“The female pirates have been invading the usual spots where Norsemen go a-Viking,” Alrek elaborated. “The leader known as Sea Scourge is said to be the ugliest witch of a woman, with purple hair, horsey teeth, and three breasts to nurse her black cats.”

“Were you a wee bit
drukkinn
at the time you heard this blather?” Jamie inquired, not unkindly. Everyone was a bit gentle with Alrek, whose clumsiness was oddly endearing. Besides, they all admired Alrek for having raised his younger brothers and sisters from when he’d been only twelve years old and they’d all been orphaned.

“Nay, I was not
drukkinn
,” Alrek replied with affront. “ ’Tis true. There
are
female pirates and they
are
ruthless witches. Some say they dress as men and even walk and talk in a manly manner.” He hesitated, then added, “In fact, ’tis said some have even grown cocks.”

“Do they have breasts and cocks at the same time, I wonder?” a wide-eyed Brokk pondered. “And do all the pirate wimmen have three breasts?”

The rest of the men burst out in laughter, especially when Henry, a slant-eyed man of Asian blood, said, “If true, the women could swive and be swived at the same time.” Henry’s mother had been a thrall owned by a Saxon nobleman—thus his English name—then later he had been sold at a young age to a Norse chieftain. He’d been raised Viking.

Despite the ridiculous notion, they were men, and as men spent several moments trying to picture that possibility. Triple-breasted women! Ridiculous, of course. But intriguing.

“I knew a man one time who had breasts,” Alrek said, still offended that his comrades had given no credit to his gossip.

“You speak of Dordin of Lade,” Bolthor said. “He is just fat. Not womanly. If he would stop drinking so much ale and engage in a bit more swordplay, he would lose that chest flab forthwith.”

The bull let out another unending mewl of unhappiness, or randiness, which caused them all to look at the huge animal. They couldn’t help but notice its immense ballocks and a cock the size of a battering ram.

They glanced at one another.

Why would women pirates need a bull?

“Surely these lassies are not the kind who . . .” Jamie started to say.

“What?” Brokk asked.

“I have heard of such in the eastern lands. Bestiality, they call it.”

Finn shuddered as he spoke.

“What?” Brokk repeated.

“I think it likes you,” Alrek said to Jamie. “It keeps gazing at you, rather horny like.”

“What?” Brokk again.

“I will tell you one thing,” Bolthor said. “That bull gets anywhere near my arse, and it will be roast bull for dinner tonight.”

“
What?
” Brokk growled with frustration.

“They are just jesting,” Thork told Brokk.
I hope.
Then he looked at Bolthor and groaned. He knew what that dreamy expression on the older man’s face meant. The verse mood was coming upon him.

“Methinks I should compose a saga about this,” Bolthor said.

They all groaned.

But then Bolthor added, “I have not felt the urge to compose a saga since I last saw my Katherine. Mayhap my heart is finally healing.”

How could they protest now? Bolthor had been married late in life to a Saxon lady who owned an estate that raised, of all things, chickens. Lots of chickens. And children. Lots of children. Katherine’s four from a prior marriage and then one of their own. Apparently, Katherine had booted Bolthor’s big arse out the door after he had composed one too many poems about her intimate body parts, the last being an ode to her gray-flecked woman’s fleece. She’d issued an ultimatum to the giant skald. No more poems, ever, on any subject, or leave their marriage bed. She wanted him to settle down as a chicken farmer.

Being a Viking, and thus stubborn to the bone, he’d taken his wife’s order literally and left not just their bed furs, but their home as well. He would show her! Leastways, that’s what he had thought before thinking his actions through.

Bolthor had asked Thork if he could come with him on this trading trip to get away from his troubles and to bring some chickens to market. Apparently, he’d already saturated the Saxon market towns with the pestsome birds. Fortunately, Bolthor had finally sold the last of them in Hedeby and Thork had been able to clean the holds of his longships of the foul chicken shit.

But now they were stuck with a bull. And bull shit.

Is this where being good leads a Viking?
Thork wondered.

But wait, Bolthor was clearing his throat.

“This is the saga of Thork the Great.”

That was the way Bolthor started many his poems. Thork was no greater than the next man.

“A Viking man is born to be bad.

Plundering and pillaging, and might I add,

Wenching and drinking, sailing and a-Viking,

Wickedness untold does a Norseman bring.

But came a day one Viking man decided to reform,

To please his father and new morals form.

No more bad deeds would this sorry soul perform.

Alas and alack, the Norns of Fate stuck out their big toes

To trip up the man and add to his woes.

Mayhap the gods have another life map

To restore the man’s spirit with one last mishap.

Or mayhap ’tis just the gods’ way of saying:

Only a lackwit tries to sing

A hymn

So prim

And bitter

When wild is better.”

“That was wonderful,” Finn said. “Methinks you are improving with age.”