The Viking Takes a Knight (3 page)

Y
ou did WHAT with my honey?

John had taken his two guests to the far reaches of his estate, along with a small
hird
of his men, to hunt for boar. The real reason was to ease Hamr's boredom—
boar for boredom, he jested to himself, a clear sign of his shattering nerves.
And he hoped to tire out Bolthor so he would be too weary to make up any more ridiculous poems and—
please, God
—go home.

That did not happen.

In fact, John was thinking seriously about lopping off both of their tongues. Did they never stop talking? Jabber, jabber, jabber. Hamr had almost gotten them all killed when he made a lewd suggestion to one of the huntsmen's wives who came along to cook their meal over an open fire, a open fire which, incidentally, was made so large by the two lackwits that John had feared his entire forest would go up in flames.

And they never saw one single boar. The wild
pigs, and every other animal with any sense, had probably run for cover when they heard all the chatter.

All John wanted was peace and quiet.

As they ambled back to the keep on their horses, his
hirdsmen
having gone up ahead, Hamr remarked to Bolthor, “So, you married late in life, did you? And you have a wife and flock of children?”

“I do. I do. Katherine, my heartling. One child betwixt us we have, and four stepchildren from her first three marriages.”

“Uh…shouldn't you be home taking care of your family?” John inquired, then quickly added, “Sorry. I did not mean to give offense.”

Bolthor shrugged. “No offense taken. We have a thriving poultry business at Wickshire Manor, as you may have heard. Holy Thor, we must have the most lusty roosters and fertile hens in the world, because, I tell you, there are chickens everywhere. Hundreds of the buggers. And chicken shit! Phew! Not to mention the fact that I am somehow the one designated to cut off their heads, gut, and defeather them in preparation for market. What Norseman worth his salt raises chickens instead of going a-Viking, I ask you?”

John and Hamr exchanged grins.

“So that is why you are able to come visiting?” John asked with as much politeness as he could muster. Vikings prided themselves on their hospi
tality, and John had been raised by a Viking stepfather.

“Actually, it is not.” Bolthor sighed deeply. “I wrote a praise-poem about Katherine's breasts—”

“Oh, Good Lord!” John exclaimed. He did not want to hurt Bolthor's feelings, but
Good Lord!

“I love it!” Hamr reached over and clapped Bolthor on the shoulder. “Proceed.”

“It was a fine saga. Leastways, I thought so. But Katherine was so angry, I swear there was smoke coming out of her ears. I do not understand. Katherine has very nice bosoms. It was a compliment. Wouldst like to hear it?”

“No!” John said.

“Absolutely,” said Hamr.

That was all the encouragement the skald needed. “This is the poem I call ‘Ode to Katherine's Breasts.'”

John groaned.

John was too stunned to speak.

But not Hamr. “Well done, Bolthor.”

They were almost back to the keep by then, thank God!

“Looks like you have visitors,” Hamr pointed out. “With a bunch of children. Could they be your family, Bolthor?”

Bolthor squinted his one good eye, then shook his head. “Nay. Not mine.”

From this rise, they could see inside the palisades of his keep, as well as the surrounding fields. John was appalled at what he beheld.

There were two young girls rolling around in the wildflower patch he had specifically planted for one colony of his bees.

Two little boys, one of them with ungodly green hair, were chasing that ornery bearded goat Wilfred, one of many unwelcome gifts from his mother. Wilfred would no doubt soon butt their bottoms if they kept goading him.

A boy the size of a bucket was leaning over the edge of the inner well.

And there were two boylings, one of them a black-skinned Nubian, approaching one of the conical bee hives of twisted straw he had placed in strategic spots about his estate, this one closest to the keep. Hundreds of thousands of bees resided at Hawk's Lair under his cultivation. It was no playing field for children. They would surely be stung if they touched any of them, or even if they got any closer.

And a gnome! An honest-to-God gnome was driving a wagon across his back courtyard.

His horse clomped loudly as he galloped over the wooden drawbridge to the inner bailey, where he quickly dismounted, then demanded of Graeme the Stableman, “Who in the name of all the saints is responsible for these bratlings?”

Graeme stuttered, “Mistress…I mean, Lady…um, oh, nay!” Before he rushed off to grab a mite of a boy using a stick to poke a stallion in a nearby stall, Graeme pointed toward the wide-open double doors of his keep.

John stomped inside, through his great hall, through his downstairs solar, creating a path amongst his gawking people, toward the kitchen, where the most wonderful smells wafted out. Fresh bread, roasted meat, and stewed apples would be his guess. Probably a new cook had been found.

But that mattered not at the present. What mattered was finding out which troublemaker had the gall to invade his home and create such chaos.

He came to a screeching halt at the entrance to the kitchen. Bending over the oven to the side of a blazing hearth fire, where there appeared to be a small animal, probably a lamb, covered with some kind of red sauce on a spit, was a tall figure in slim
braies
and belted tunic. It was a woman. He knew that by the long blonde hair that was escaping from a single braid down her back to her waist, and by the heart-shaped arse deliciously outlined by the taut fabric of her breeches.

His mind went blank. His anger stalled. His heart raced, pumping blood to that other important organ, the one that apparently liked heart-shaped arses and was starved for attention.

Just then, a squeak from one of the scullery maids must have alerted the villainous woman, who turned with surprise, her eyes shining like the light-colored sapphire he'd seen once in an Eastern market. She smiled at him as if it was an everyday occurrence that she came into his home, uninvited, with a herd of children.

He knew her, of course. It was Ingrith. Princess Ingrith, truth be told. One of King Thorvald's daughters. Not that John was coming to all these conclusions logically or at once. His brain was still frozen at the sight of a wellborn woman in boy's clothing acting as queen, or rather princess, of his kitchen.

“Hawk!” She beamed happily, setting down a tray of oatcakes on the wooden table. “Good tidings, John!”

It is good to see you, too. Especially the view from behind. And the one from the front is not so bad, either.
“Lady Ingrith! What a pleasant surprise!”
Not!

Without a by-your-leave, the lady walked up and gave him a greeting-hug. She smelled of barley flour and woman…and…
oh, my God
, honey.

Setting her back with hands on her upper arms, he asked, hesitantly, “Why do you smell like honey?”

“'Tis the oatcakes. I have a special recipe that calls for lots and lots of honey. Would you like to try one?” She carefully picked up one of the warm oatcakes with a piece of cloth and offered it to him.

Ignoring her proffered treat, he inquired with as much calmness as he could muster, “Where did you get the honey, m'lady?”

“Uh…from the honey shed.”

His eyes crossed with frustration. He breathed in and out, fisting his hands at his sides.
Do not shake the witless woman. Do not kick the witless woman in her heart-shaped arse. Do not think about how she looks under those man-garments.
“Any honey to be used for cooking is stored in the cold cellar.”

“Oh.”

That was all she said. Oh. As if that excused her heinous act.

“And all those children running about, ruining my bee fields, disturbing the hives, in danger of falling in a well, or being attacked by a goat…are they your children, Lady Ingrith?”

“Nay. I am not married.”

He just stared at her.

She gave him a look that pretty much said,
What a dunderhead!

Which he was. He had met her several times in recent years and she had no children then. How could he imagine that she had produced them in such short order?

“They are orphans from Rainstead. Are they not adorable?”

He said a foul word under his breath. “How many children?”

“Eight.”

“Eight!” He cursed again. “And the gnome?”

“Huh? Oh, you mean Ubbi. He is not a gnome. He is my bodyguard.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Uh-oh! Your mother told me that you would welcome us…me and the orphans, but I sense that you are not happy to see us.”

“I get a rash around children,” he blurted out…and could have kicked himself. What a stupid thing to say!

For a moment she stared at him as if he had lost his mind. Then she continued, “And your mother said that you are in need of a cook, or someone to train a new cook.”

My mother! I should have known!

“There are some new types of bees from the Arab lands in swarms over there that your mother asked me to deliver to you. Your thanks are not necessary.” Her biting wit did not amuse him.

Frowning, he glanced over to the far wall, where several oblong crates with screened sides were stacked. “Thank you,” he muttered ungraciously.

“I am a wonderful cook,” she said of a sudden.

As if good food is worth the trouble you bring!

“You will see.”

Nay, I will not.

“Just you wait.”

I would rather not.

“I will tell Godwyn to gather up the children and make them behave. You will not even notice we are here.”

I doubt that.
He decided to try a different tactic. “It is not proper for you to be working in a kitchen, like a scullery maid.”

“I love to cook and experiment with different foods and sauces and spices. You place value on your honey studies, why not my food studies?”

That certainly turned the tables on him. But not for long. “I do not mean to be rude, but why are you here and how long do you intend to stay?”

Ingrith's face, already heated from the ovens, turned brighter. She really was a good-looking woman, despite her age, and height, and brassy nerve. Her figure was nothing less than spectacular, as blatantly displayed in her male attire.

Not that any of that mattered.

Much.

“We are here for a short while to avoid a Saxon soldier who is hell-bent on luring me to his bed furs.”

I would not mind luring you there myself.

Nay, nay, nay! I did not think that.

I wonder if she is beyond childbearing years.

Probably not. She is almost the same as me. Thirty-
one. Women still have children at that advanced age, do they not?

Good heavens! I cannot possibly be thinking of swiving a Viking princess without giving offense to a Norse king, an army, my mother and stepfather, not to mention her gnome bodyguard.

But wait, her eyes were shifting from right to left, as if evading some truth.

His eyes narrowed.

She was lying, or not telling him the entire truth.

“Your seduction, you say. That does not explain why all these orphans are here. And why not go to one of your sisters?”

Ingrith's chin went up. “Loncaster would look for me there, first off.”

“Loncaster? Commander of the king's garrison at Jorvik?”

She nodded bleakly.

“Could you have chosen a more high-ranking man? Loncaster is not known as the Saxon Butcher for nothing. He would rather drink sword dew than ale, so bloodthirsty is he.”

Now she really bristled. “I did not choose him, believe you me.”

He could not help but grin at her indignation. By the saints, the woman was incredibly attractive in her anger. Like a blonde Valkyrie, she was.

“You find humor in my plight? I had not expected such unkindness in Lady Eadyth's son.”

“Guilting again, m'lady.”

“We will depart at once. I am so sorry to have disturbed you.” The expression of disdain on her face belied her apology.

“Where will you go?” Even he knew how bad that sounded and regretted his hasty words almost immediately.

“I have no idea, but then it is of no concern to you, you…you lout.” Going to the outer door leading to the back courtyard, she yelled, loud enough to make John's ears bleed, “Godwyn, gather the children. We must leave immediately. And Ubbi, rehitch the horses to the wagon. Kavil, ask the stableman to saddle the other horses.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” John said, definitely feeling guilty now. Her ploy, if that was what it was, had worked. “You do not need to leave right away.”

“How generous of you! Many thanks, but we do not stay where we are not welcome.”

“I never said you were not welcome.”

She arched her brows at him.

“I was just surprised,” he said defensively, then added with more vigor, “I do not like my honey studies tampered with.”

“Let us make an agreement then. I will not interfere with your honey work, and you will not interfere in my kitchen.”

Her
kitchen? He did not like the sound of that.