Sandra Hill (30 page)

The nuns at St. Anne’s would be used for nonviolent activities, because they were reluctant to take anyone’s life, even a man as evil as her father. Caring for the wounded. Preparing arrows and boiling oil, a contingency plan.

Closer to the abbey, they maneuvered and reined their horses in at the far end of a tight pass where there was a hillock on one side and a rocky cliff on the other. Laughing, they taunted the hirdsmen, rode off, then did a double-back to the other side of the pass, thus blocking them in. With the element of surprise, they managed to kill one brother, Trond, and three other men, which left her father, two brothers, and one hirdsman. Looking down at Trond, all Britta could see was her brother laughing as he held up her skinned cat all those years ago.

No longer able to ambush, the eleven of them faced the men, full-on, swords and spears raised. The men probably thought these split-tail bitches, as her father ofttimes referred to females, would be easy pickings. But they had not counted on their expertise, as meager as it might have been in comparison to the battle-hardened warriors. Their downfall was overconfidence and surprise.

Her father smirked at the nerve of these women thinking they could best him. But then he recognized Britta, and his eyes narrowed with hatred. “So, Daughter, you think to send your own father to Valhalla?”

“Not just me, but my sister, Angelique, as well. Your other daughter.” She indicated with a jerk of her head Angelique at her side. “And know this, you scurvy cur who does not merit the name father, you will not go to Valhalla. That is for noble warriors who die in battle. Today you will burn in Muspell.”

It was an even fight, despite the odds of eleven to four. In the end, both Britta and Angelique put their swords through their father’s chest, coming at him from two sides.

Some of Angelique’s band were retching at the side, now that the fighting was over. It may very well be true that warfare was contrary to a woman’s nature.

“Do you have any regrets?” Britta asked Angelique as they both knelt before a small pond, washing the sword dew from their arms as well as their blades.

Angelique shook her head vehemently. “He was a bastard. He needed to be put down like a rabid dog. Do not tell me you are feeling sorry after all he has put you through.”

“Not sorry, exactly. Just sad. He was our father. They were our brothers. Blood kin. Why were they so…mean?” She had told Angelique about their father’s pressure to wed, her one brother’s attempt at rape, and another’s displaying her private parts to his friends.

“Some men—some women, too—are just born bad, to my way of thinking.” Angelique shrugged. “Methinks our killing them was a good thing. Leastwise now other women, not just us, will be spared their cruelty.”

Britta nodded. “Best we get back to the abbey. There is much work to be done.”

The nuns and novices had already brought all the dead back. Father Caedmon would be performing death rites for the men, a service Britta and Angelique declined to attend.

Later, having bathed and eaten, Britta and Angelique were sitting on benches in the back garden, sipping from horns of Margaret’s mead.

“I have an idea,” Britta said.

“Should I be afraid?”

Britta punched her playfully on the upper arm. “Nay. You know that Everstead and all the surrounding estates now belong to me?”

Angelique nodded. “So I am in the exalted company of a wealthy woman. Shall I bow?”

Britta said a foul word rarely used by women.

Angelique just laughed.

“I want naught to do with Everstead, and yet I know not where my place in life is now. Let us go to Everstead and rule it together.”

“Huh?”

“I have not been to Everstead in more than fifteen years. It is in the far northern reaches of the Norselands, but beautiful, as I recall. We could put it forth that we are both of my mother’s line, and the odal rights belong to both of us. It is my understanding that all the old retainers are gone; none will know different. Let us go there till we decide what our future holds for us.”

Angelique eyed her warily. “Are you thinking to leave me at Everstead and go off to find that lost love of yours?”

Britta shook her head. “That is impossible, I think.”

“In truth, now that my mother is avenged, I have no desire to continue fighting…or be a nun.”

“The frightening thing is, I no longer see myself as a warrior, either. There are other roles I must needs play now.”

Angelique put her hands on her hips and glowered at her. “What is it you are not telling me?”

“I am with child.”

Home, home on the range…the very cold range…

“Holy crap! It’s colder’n a pig’s butt in a poop parade.”

“Sammy! What have I told you about your language? No video games tonight.”

“Daaaaad!”

“No video games.”

“Maybe I shouldna said it like that, but, geez, Dad, you gotta admit, movin’ to Alaska wasn’t a great idea. Even my snot is frozen.”

“You do have a colorful vocabulary.”

“If I had a dog, I prob’ly wouldn’t be so cold.”

Zach pulled the ear flaps on his son’s cap down lower, then handed him two more pieces of firewood. Once he loaded up, as well, they walked back to the cabin that had been their home for the last three months. And, yeah, it
was
really cold—twenty below today—but chances were Arsallah and his men wouldn’t be dogsledding out here any time soon.

The cabin was actually a two-bedroom log house, with all the modern conveniences—electric heat, plumbing, updated kitchen—but it was still nice to have a fire in the fireplace at night. Cozy.

And there was a school two miles away that Sammy went to every day via the county school bus. He balked and claimed to hate it, but his mind was like a sponge, and he was learning so much. Zach suspected he liked school. And he’d made some friends there. They were almost a normal, single-parent family.

Of course, they’d changed their names to Smith, and Zach was using his middle name of Frank. Frank Smith and Sammy Smith, whose mother had died last year. Sammy never slipped with his real name. He knew how important their hidden identities were to their safety, which was sad, really, that a child would have to worry about such things.

That evening, Sammy lay on the floor doing his homework before the fire.

Zach was working on his computer at the desk by the window. He’d decided to try his luck at writing a suspense novel while in hiding. About Navy SEALs, of course. It might never sell, but he was enjoying the writing…for now.

“Will we ever go back?” Sammy asked suddenly.

Zach sighed. “Yes, I think so. Eventually.” And actually, he didn’t want to get Sammy’s hopes up, but Arsallah hadn’t been heard from in weeks, and rumor had it that he’d been murdered by one of his followers.
I can only hope!
Zach’s only link to his old life was a secure phone line to Commander MacLean’s office that only the two of them knew about.

“I miss Danny,” Sammy said.

I miss Britta.
He didn’t say that aloud because he didn’t want to add to Sammy’s misery. Though, truthfully, Sammy had adjusted better than he had.

“But I prob’ly wouldn’t be so lonely if I had a dog.”

Zach shook his head. “Give us a chance to settle in ourselves first.”

“Then can we get a dog?”

“I didn’t say that. A dog is a big responsibility.” Especially when they might have to pack up and go on a moment’s notice.

“I’m responsible.”

“You don’t even know what that word means.”

“Are we gonna go to the Thanksgiving dance at the Grange barn on Thursday?”

Great! A diversionary tactic.

“A party in a barn?”
Hoo-yah!
“Do you wanna go?”

“There’s nothin’ else to do,” Sammy grumbled, then glanced up at him with a crafty gleam in his eye. “’Specially without video games.”

“Forget about the video games. What does a person wear to a dance in a barn?”

“How do I know? I’m just a kid.”

“When it’s a convenient excuse.”

“What does convenient mean?”

“Maybe I should buy us some new clothes?”

“No. You always buy me dorky stuff.”

“I resent that.” He laughed. “What have I bought that’s dorky?”

“Kermit the Frog pajamas with web feet, for a start.”

“It was all they had in your size.”

“A bow tie. When am I ever gonna wear a bow tie?”

“That was your great-grandmother who bought that, not me. Besides, maybe you’ll go to a wedding or something where you have to dress up.”

His little eyebrows arched. “Are you gettin’ married?”

Hardly.
“What do you think?”

He shrugged. “You could marry an Eskimo, and we could live in an igloo.”

“And you’re complaining about the cold now. Besides, how many igloos have we seen since we arrived?”

“None. Okay, another dorky thing. The hat with the ear flaps.”

“You’ve got a point there, but they do keep you warm.”

“At least I don’t have to wear those dorky superhero underpants anymore, now that we’re wearin’ long johns.”

They were both quiet then as they returned to their respective work. Zach’s mind had drifted, though, and he logged off the computer. Overall, he should be thankful. They were safe. Sammy accepted him as his father. And they were alive. And someday, he was sure, they’d be able to return to family and friends.

“Sammy…”

“Oh, no! You’re gonna say somethin’ mushy. I can tell by your voice. It’s all soft and gooey.”

“I love you.”

“Yeah, I love you, too,” he finally said. But then he added, “I’d still like to have a dog.”

Maybe she should go a-Viking…

Britta was cold, and damp, and lonely, and miserable, as she stared out over the vast, snowy estate that was Everstead. Being landlocked here for more than a month in deep winter, she began to understand why Norsemen went a-Viking every year at first thaw.

“Britta! Britta, is that you?”

Britta rolled her eyes. As if it would be anyone else! Why did Jarl Rolf Thorsson, a visitor from a neighboring estate, continue to pursue her when she had made it more than clear that she was not interested?

And he was not the only one. It was strange, really, what had happened on her journey here with Angelique from Northumbria. For years, she had held no appeal to men. Too tall, too big-boned, too manly. But now, ’twas like she was honey and the entire male race a horde of randy bears. She suspected there was something in her bearing since she had engaged in bedsport with Zachary that shouted to men: Here is Britta Asadottir. She is one hot bedsport companion. And she had not even mentioned multiple orgasms to any of them.

“Yea, I am here, Rolf,” she said with a long sigh.

“What are ye doing, wench?”

He only called her wench to get a rise out of her, so today, she refused to rise to the bait.

“Just admiring the fjord.”
Trying to evade you.

“Why?”

Wondering how I might escape.
“Does there have to be a reason?”

“Well, I would think so.” His handsome face brightened. “Have ye given any more thought to my proposal? Really, dearling, it makes sense for us to wed. We could merge our two estates and—”

Rolf was a fine-looking man. Huge in stature. And fairly young, having seen only thirty winters. If her father had offered him as husband, mayhap back then she would have accepted. But her father had never chosen him because Rolf would not have played puppet to her father. Rolf’s first wife had died childless five years past. He would be a prize catch for most women. Perchance Angelique would be interested.

“I have gifted Angelique half of Everstead.”

Rolf inhaled sharply. “Why would you do that?”

She had not told Rolf she was increasing. She would have to soon. Being five months gone, she did not yet show much because of her height and size, unless she was naked, and she had not been naked in many a month. Not since…
I must stop myself from dwelling on the past. ’Tis not healthy for me or the babe.

“’Tis only fair that I share with Angelique. I owe her much.”

In truth, marriage to Rolf might not be so bad. And speaking of fairness, she had not given him a chance. She leaned up and gave Rolf a gentle kiss, to test the waters, so to speak. Both of their lips were ice cold.

Rolf was surprised, but not for long. He was a Viking, after all, and Viking men did not have to be invited twice. When she started to pull away, he yanked her into a tight embrace, taking command of the kiss, which was no longer gentle but devouring.

Britta tried to be objective, which was telling in itself. It was not a bad kiss. His breath was sweet. Fresh-shaven, his skin smelled of hard soap and the outdoors.

And she felt nothing.

She was not repelled, but she was not aroused, either.

Had Zachary ruined her for other men?

That thought caused her blood to rise, and she shoved Rolf away gently. Truly, not only had Zachary got her with child, but now it appeared she would never find joy in the bedsport with another man.

Rolf’s head was tilted to the side in question. “Come back to my bed furs with me, dearling, and we will warm each other up.” He was not being forceful in his request. More like inviting, as any virile man would do in the circumstances.

Britta thought briefly of telling Rolf of her pregnancy to test how great his yearning was to wed with her, but, really, it made no difference. She would not have him in any case.

She shook her head. “I am sorry, Rolf.”

He was about to argue but then caught himself. Pride was great in Norsemen, and he was no different.

She watched him go, then decided to walk down to the fjord. It was a clear day, and exercise was supposedly good for breeding women.

Was it really only five months since she had last seen Zachary? Did he miss her as much as she missed him? Hah! A man as pretty as him would have women lining up to take her place. Not that she had had a place, precisely, other than as a bedmate.

Aaarrgh! Always it comes back to Zachary.
Placing both hands over her stomach, where even now a part of him grew, she wondered if motherhood would be enough. Well, it would have to be.

A niggling thought tugged at her mind, though. Zachary had laughingly said that he had “wish-prayed” her to the future.

Could I do the same?

Nay, I could not risk the babe.
Whether in the womb or already born, a human life would be in her hands. Whilst she could step freely into the magic of time travel herself—not that she had a clue how to do that—a child was frail and dependent on her. It was selfish of her to be unsatisfied with her lot. A small part of her wondered if mayhap sometime in the future, when her child was born, they might both travel to the future. But, nay, that was wishful thinking, and she must needs be practical, resigned to her fate.

Tears filled her eyes, a common and vexing malady of her pregnancy, and she decided she’d best go back to the keep where cook would have a hearty broth prepared. Angelique, who loved Everstead already, was doing inventory of all the supplies for winter.

And yet she lingered, miserable beyond bearing.

Britta eased down to her knees and did pray then, whether to the One-God of the Christians or to the Norse gods, it mattered not. In truth, they were probably one and the same.

“Please, God, help me. I know not what to do. A miracle, that is what need. Barring that, help me to be content with my lot.”

She stood and, as if in a trance, began to walk closer to the water’s edge. In fact, she placed a booted foot into the icy water and shivered. What kind of lackwit put a booted foot into a winter fjord?

But wait, it did not feel so cold. It was rather warm. And soothing. Without thought, Britta walked into the water, which first seeped over her ankles, then knees, then hips and bosom.

Have I finally, truly gone barmy? Am I going to take my own life? The babe! Remember the babe. I must go back.

A voice in her head whispered to her,
You are taking your
own life, yea, but into your own hands. Go home, Britta. Take the babe home with you.

Where is home?

You know, Britta,
the voice said.
You know.

And she did.

Standing stock-still, she was like a statue, unmoving, as a wave lapped up and covered her head. There were no waves in this fjord, or never had been before.

Amazing!

With a sigh, she sank into a deep, seagoing sleep.

And that was that.

God was calling her home.

I see dead people…

“I saw Britta today.”

“What?”
Zach slammed on the SUV’s brakes and pulled over to the side of the road. They were on their way to the grocery store, but that could wait. “That was not funny.”

“I wasn’t jokin’. The school bus was goin’ down that road by the sea, and I saw this lady walk out of the water. She was soakin’ wet, an’ her hair looked like snakes, an’ she wore this long fur coat, and—”

“Stop it, Sammy! Just stop it!”

Sammy awakened from dreams at night on occasion, crying. Apparently, Britta was alive and well in those dreams and holding out her arms for him to come to her. But those were dreams. Was he now fantasizing in the daytime? That was not healthy. “Britta is gone.”

Sammy ducked his head. “I know,” he said in a small voice.

“Besides, no one could survive a dunking in the cold Bering Sea, even for a short period. It’s frigid.”

“I know,” he repeated, “but it sure looked like her. Honest. She even had a frowny face on, like she did sometimes.”

Zach shook his head but couldn’t suppress a grin. Britta with her frowny face. Yeah, Sammy had gotten that right.

“Maybe it was just a walrus.”

Yeah, right.
“Can we change the subject?”

“Can I have a dog?”

The ice woman thaweth…

For two days Britta lay shivering in a cot piled high with woolen blankets.

At first she feared that the babe would die from the shock of the ice-cold near-drowning, and she believed she was back in the Everstead keep. But neither of them died. Nor was she at Everstead.

Britta had walked out into the Norse fjord, but she came out of the Bering Sea in another part of the world, frozen nigh solid. Out of her mind with fever at first, she’d eventually discovered that she was in a land called Alaska, which was part of America.

A wonderful couple had taken her into their home…Daryl and Dottie Woolever, lawyers here in Alaska. The young couple had even called a doctor to come care for her. To everyone’s surprise, she had not only survived her foolish dunking, but she had not even gotten hypo-therm-ia, a condition where body appendages often fell off. She was rather fond of her fingers and toes and especially her nose.

Once the confusion of her fever wore off, Britta realized that she had time-traveled forward again and survived, along with her unborn child. And if she had her way, this time-travel business was ended for her, in either direction.

The bad news was that she was cut off and isolated from anyone and anything that was familiar to her. Why she was sent here to Alaska, she had no idea, but then she had had no idea why she had been sent to Coronado, either. Mayhap Zachary was here, and he’d wish-prayed for her again.

Almost immediately, she discarded that foolish notion. Already she had asked Daryl and Dottie to inquire if there was a Zachary Floyd or Sammy Floyd anywhere in the region. There was not. The only Sammy was a child named Sammy Smith, and his father’s name was Frank.

“It’s Thanksgiving, Britta, we should celebrate,” Dottie said as the two of them set the dining table.

“I am thankful. I just wish I had been able to contact Zachary by now.”

Daryl and Dottie had helped her dial Zachary’s telephone number, which she had remembered, thank the gods, but when she called, someone told her, “This number has been disconnected.” Her friends explained that it meant he had probably gotten a new number.

Everyone else that Britta tried to call had unlisted numbers: Hilda, Madrene, the other SEALs.

Daryl knew someone who knew someone at a telephone place, and they told him that there was no new number for Zachary, that he must have moved, whereas the other numbers were merely unlisted for privacy and safety concerns.

So her only choice was to travel to California next week, with the aid of her new friends, and see in person what was happening. In the meantime, she was tired all the time, weepy, hungry, and ready to relieve her bladder every other moment.

After a fabulous turkey feast, Britta needed a nap. She was still sleeping on the sofa in front of the fireplace in the solar when Dottie shook her shoulders gently. “Britta, it’s time to get up. We’re going to the dance.”

Britta blinked to clear her head, then sat up, yawning widely. “Methinks I should stay here and tend the fire.”

“Now, you promised,” Dottie cajoled.

“Besides, I doubt anyone but you two would dance with me,” Daryl said.

Britta smiled at the devilry in his dancing eyes. “I have naught to wear.”

“Ta da!” Dottie tossed a pile of clothing at her. Another pair of Daryl’s den-ham braies, a white tea-ing
shert
, a flannel over-
shert
, thick wool hose, and a pair of Daryl’s boots. Daryl was her height and thin, whilst Dottie was short and well-curved. A pair of Dottie’s braies would come only to her calves.

So it was that a resigned Britta went to her first-ever Thanksgiving dance in a barn. These Americans were very strange.

Oooh, wait till I get my hands on you…

Zach and Sammy had been at the Thanksgiving dance at the Grange hall for an hour, and he had to admit it was fun…the first time he’d smiled in what seemed like ages.

Sammy was off chasing some of his friends, rather than dance to the country band playing what he called “dorky music.” Zach had been teaching Sammy how to dance the last few nights, and the two of them had laughed more than learned any new steps. Besides, Sammy said he wasn’t going to touch any stinky girls anyhow, not even their hands.

Zach leaned against the wall and watched. There were at least two hundred people here, of all ages, and about half of them were out on the dance floor. As his eyes scanned the crowd, he saw Francine Doucet, Sammy’s schoolteacher. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.