The Pirate Bride (11 page)

Samuel looked conflicted, gaping at the huge trough being filled with water, no doubt envisioning himself taking a leap inside, and salivating at the prospect of a sweet treat dripping with honey. His growling stomach won over. He skipped, then ran off, back to Olga’s domain.

Medana looked down at the scroll with a dragon seal on it, then tore it open, and read the brief message inside.

To the Sea Scourge:

Keep him!

Tykir Thorksson,

father of the loathsome lout

Dismay must have shown on her face because Solveig, still standing before her, inquired, “What is amiss, m’lady?” Despite them all being mistress of this or that, the women could not seem to forget her higher social status in regular society.

Medana read the message to her.

Solveig gasped. “How sad for Thork! But what does it mean?”

“Clearly, the father will not be coming to the rescue.”

“I do not understand why.”

“Perchance Thork’s father has no high regard for him.”

“Or he might think it is a jest,” Solveig suggested.

Medana shrugged. “Perchance.”

“Actually, now that I think on it . . .” Solveig let her words trail off, and her face turned red.

“What?”

“Just a tiny memory I recall. Naught of importance. Time for me to go sweat some more,” Solveig said, having a sudden need to go back to work.

“What?” Medana insisted.

“The young boy traveling with the Vikings said that Thork was headed back to Dragonstead to make peace with his father after a life misspent. Before we captured him, of course.”

“He’s not that old to have a misspent life.”

“Apparently, he crammed a lot of misspending in those few years,” Solveig commented with a jiggle of her eyebrows.

“Oh my gods!” Medana realized in that instant that, if what Solveig said was true, Thork was going to be furious with her for having caused further problems with his father.

Just her luck that Thork approached them then.

“Mistress of Shipwrighting,” Thork said with a nod of greeting to Solveig, and “Mistress of Every Other Thing,” to Medana. The oaf got an inordinate amount of pleasure over the titles the women had assigned themselves here. Personally, she did not think it was so funny.

Solveig, the traitor, smiled at Thork and scurried off, giving Medana a moue of apology over her shoulder.

Before Medana had a chance to scurry off herself, Thork dipped a ladle into a bucket of water he was carrying and took a long drink. Then he dumped the whole bucket over his head and shivered, whether from the cold or the delight, she wasn’t sure. In truth, she sat frozen in place watching with fascination as droplets traced interesting paths down his neck, over the exposed section of his chest, before blazing a trail down, down, down.

He chuckled, then winked at her.

Mortified, Medana realized that she’d been practically drooling.

“Do you mind?” he asked, but sat down beside her on the stack of boards without waiting for her permission.

Regaining her senses, she quickly laid the parchment on her other side. “Thank you for assisting Solveig. You were of great help to her.”

“I really do not know much, just what I have observed in passing. How long have they been working on this boat, anyway?”

“Three years.”

“What?” He started to laugh.

“You may find mirth in our struggle, but believe me, it is the way we have accomplished everything here. If we do not know how to do something, we try, and try again, until we get it right.”

He shook his head at her, as if she and her women were hopeless. They weren’t.

“What was that you were reading?”

“Nothing.”

“It could not have been nothing by the expression on your face and the guilty manner in which Solveig hurried away.”

“Um . . . naught of importance,” she said.

He tilted his head to the side. “You are blushing and your eyelids are fluttering. What is it?” He reached across her lap for the missive.

She did the only thing she could think of. She lifted her rump and slid the parchment under her.

He arched his brows with amusement and before she had a chance to rethink her position, saw his hand pressing against her chest, tipping her backward. While she found herself on her back on the ground behind the pile of planks, he grinned and picked up the parchment.

She scrambled to her feet and tried to grab the damning letter. “Give that to me. It’s private.”

He held it high over his head. “What is it? A love missive?” Suddenly, furrows of confusion deepened on his brow as he stared at something on the back of the parchment. “
What?
” He yelled out his question, the ice in his voice ominous.

She dusted off the backside of her braies, trying to give herself time to come up with an explanation. None came.

“This is my father’s seal.” He tapped the red wax and cut her with a sharp glance. Then he turned it over and read the short message.

For a brief flicker of a moment, she saw hurt in his green eyes, but it was immediately replaced with an anger that turned his skin livid from the neck upward to his forehead. “What . . . have . . . you . . . done?”

She started to back away.

“Answer me,” he shouted, coming forward menacingly.

“I sent a letter. Naught to be in such a temper about.” She stood her ground, deciding it was useless to keep backing up.

He came up to her, almost nose to nose. “Tell me.”

“I . . . we . . . the women of Thrudr . . . asked for a little reward for taking such good care of you. Rather, putting up with your annoying ways.”

“Reward?” He arched a brow.

“One hundred mancuses of gold for your release.”

“Is that all? My father is a wealthy man. Why not ask for a thousand? Bloody hell! You could have asked for a longship, seeing as how it’s taking you so long to build one yourself.”

She wavered uncertainly for a moment. Was he jesting, or being sarcastic, or serious? “Should I have asked for more?”

“Aaarggh!”

That was dumb of me. Why would I ask for more if his father wouldn’t even give a hundred for him?

“You lackbrained, lying witch. All this time you claimed regret for your women taking us captive. All this time you played the innocent. All this time you promised to return us to Hedeby, no harm done. Now I find out there was a reason behind your madness the whole time.” He grabbed her by the upper arms, lifting her off the ground, and shook her so hard her teeth clattered.

“I ne’er lied,” she cried out.
Not precisely. Not at first.
“We are pirates, Thork. ’Tis what we do to sustain ourselves. In the end, asking for ransom seemed the most reasonable thing to do,
for pirates
.”

He set her back on her feet and shoved her away with disgust, wiping his palms on the thighs of his braies, as if just touching her was repulsive.

Righting herself by leaning against the water trough, she tried to calm her racing heart. But when Thork glanced at her, then at the trough, she moved away a short distance, not wanting to tempt him into tossing her into the water, an idea he clearly contemplated.

Meanwhile, her women were watching closely, some of them gathering weapons. Thork’s men were approaching, too, weaponless, but formidable and threatening just the same.

Despite their disparate numbers and weapons, she knew her women would lose any actual battle. She needed to calm the stormy waters. “I can explain,” she said.

“I doubt that mightily.”

“We can come up with a compromise that works for both of us.”

“I doubt that mightily,” he repeated as he paced back and forth, a short distance one way, then the other. Sparks of displeasure shot out at her from his fiery green eyes.

She wondered with what was probably hysterical irrelevance if he got those beautiful green eyes from his mother or his father. Most blond Vikings had blue eyes, and his mother was Saxon. But that was neither here nor there. “Let us sit down with a cup of ale. I am certain we can come to an understanding.”

“The only understanding I want from you is the news that we are being taken off this island. Today!” He tilted his head in question, waiting for her compliance.

Not yet.
“We need to come to terms first.”

His face, which had already been flushed with anger, grew redder, and a vein in his forehead rose with prominence. “Terms? What makes you think you are in any position to dictate terms?” He inhaled deeply and exhaled, as if for patience. “Name one term.”

Ooh, he is not going to like this.
She ducked her head into her shoulders, bracing. “You must let us give you men the sleeping draught one more time so that—”

Thork never let her finish, but instead spun on his heels and began to stomp away, his men following close behind him.

“Hoist your sails, M’Lady Pirate,” Thork called over his shoulder. “This Viking is declaring war.”

Chapter Ten

And then the other shoe . . . uh, missive . . . dropped . . .

A
ll the rest of that day, up until dusk, Thork and his men worked industriously, carrying wood, rush-filled mattresses, foodstuffs, and other supplies up a path into the mountains almost to the top of the valley’s rim. They were building on to and reinforcing a small longhouse that was used by hunters.

Not only did the women hunters catch their prey—boar, rabbits, deer, even the occasional bear—but there was evidence in racks and a smokehouse that they skinned and dried the animal skins here, then preserved the meat in the smokehouse. The primitive, thatch-roofed longhouse was vacant now, probably until the fall when preparations would begin for the coming winter.

As the men came and went, the women watched their movements with interest, but none stopped them, or asked what they were about. Word must have spread about Thork’s fury over Medana’s letter and her suggestion that the men allow themselves to be put to sleep. Medana herself had the good sense to make herself scarce. Otherwise, he might very well have shifted his load of planks—those ruined by the mistress of shipwrighting, which he was using to expand the hunters’ lodge—to her shoulders and steer her like a slave.

Thork worked like a demented person, not wanting to give himself the chance to dwell on what that fool woman had done to him . . . or wanted to do. By her deeds, she’d put the final torch to the funeral pyre of any relationship he might have been able to salvage with his father. How dare she? How bloody hell dare she?

Keep him!
Every time Thork heard his father’s words in his head, his anger grew to the point where he might very well explode, like overfermented ale in a too-tight jug. Medana would pay, and she would pay plenty for her misdeeds, and not just by getting them off this island.

“Has Brokk had any luck yet?” Thork asked Bolthor, who was chopping firewood for their cook fire.

Bolthor straightened and pressed both hands into the small of his back. “By the runes! I am getting too old for this. My back feels as if it’s breaking, from naught but a little axe work.”

Thork looked pointedly at the pile of kindling and logs that was higher than the giant’s head. “Not such a little amount of axe work, my friend. And ne’er let it be said that the man of the far-famed battle-axe Head Splitter is getting too old.”

“Your kind words are appreciated.” Bolthor’s one good eye gleamed with pride. “As for Brokk . . . he has not yet returned, but I wager he will succeed. The clever bugger! Before nightfall, we will know how to get off this damn island.”

Thork agreed.

“Katherine is going to kill me for leaving home in the first place. As if she gave me any choice! But several sennights on an island with two hundred women . . . that will be hard to explain, even though I am more than innocent.”

“Me too,” Thork admitted with some surprise. Three sennights was a long time for him to go without sex, and it made no difference if it was of the Onan variety or not. Some of the others had already succumbed, and more would join their ranks if they stayed here much longer. Even him.

“Mayhap we should have used the bratlings on this island from the beginning,” Bolthor suggested, wiping the perspiration off his forehead with the back of a hairy forearm.

“Nay. Fierce as you might be in warfare, I know that you would not countenance harming children to gain your ends. None of us would.”

“Some Viking men—Saxon and Frankish men, too, for that matter—wouldn’t hesitate to chop off body parts of young hostages . . . fingers, toes, ears, and such until they gained their ends. They did it to your uncle Eirik when he was a lad. A finger, as I recall. Nigh drove mad your grandsire Thork, for whom you are named.”

He and Bolthor looked at each other and their upper lips curled with distaste. Nay, that was not the way for Thork and his comrades-in-arms, and that did not make them weak, either, in his opinion. Instead, they’d commissioned Brokk, who’d made friends with the little ones here on the island, to use his game and storytelling talents to gain the information they needed.

Once they knew how to get off the island, they would leave, even if they had to tie the women to the rowing benches. And Thork would put their leader on the prow to lead the way.

In the meantime, Thork and his men would stay apart from the village in order to guarantee that any food or drink that passed their lips would not be tainted with the sleeping draught. Just to make sure, they would have their very own taster to ensure their safety. That would be Medana.

“I know, I know!” Brokk shouted gleefully as he ran into the clearing, coming to a skidding stop before Thork. Once all the men had gathered around the boy, and he managed to catch his breath, Brokk told them, “ ’Tis the pond. That is the means of getting off this island.”

“Huh?” the men said as one.

“The pond on that slope above the village is actually a tide pool. When the tide is up, the pond fills. When the tide goes down, it empties to reveal a tunnel through the mountain. Once through the tunnel, there is a narrow strip of land connecting Thrudr to Small Island. Remember that day we climbed to the top of the mountain and we saw a tiny island in the distance. That is how they get the longship from here, out to the sea, and back again. It must all be done with the tides, at exactly the right time.”

For a moment, there was silence as they all pondered this news.

“Now that I think on it, the pool water does have a salty flavor,” Finn said. “I noticed when I bathed there a few days past.”

A few days past? Hah! Finn bathed practically every day . . . more than any man Thork knew. And Vikings tended to bathe more than the average man, so that was saying a lot. In fact, some said it was the reason why women from many countries welcomed Viking men to their bed furs. They stank less than their own countrymen. That and their innate beauty and manliness, of course. His lips twitched with humor.

But that was neither here nor there. Finn should have realized that something was amiss there. They all should have.

“And have you noticed that the women keep steering us away from the pond?” Jostein pointed out. “Especially toward nightfall.”

“Here I thought it was because they could not resist my virility.” Jamie appeared genuinely annoyed, but then he saw them gaping at him with disdain. “What? ’Twas a reasonable conclusion for a braw laddie like me. How was I to know the women were begging to take me in their beds, rather than on the grass beside the pond, for such a reason? Good thing I did not yield . . . what? I did not totally yield. Just a wee bit of foresport.”

“Lackwit!” Thork muttered.

“Methinks that would make a good saga. ‘Braw Lads Who Are Not So Braw,’ ” Bolthor said to Jamie.

“Methinks you would look good with two eye patches,” Jamie replied.

“I feel such a fool,” Henry interjected. “I engaged in more than a wee bit of foresport with Lilli on the grassy plot near the pond, three bloody nights in a row, and I ne’er saw any evidence of a tunnel.”

“Now, Henry, men will be men when their enthusiasm is rising,” Finn assured the Asian man. “When the carnal haze covers a man’s eyes, all he can see are teats and arse. ’Tis a fact of life. The gods made us that way.”

“Wise words, Finn!” Jamie was grinning like an idiot.

“That’s so the mead haze that blinds a man’s eyes when he is in the midst of
drukkinn
madness keeps him from seeing how unlovely are some teats and arses he brings to his bed furs.” This from Jostein, who usually didn’t have much of a sense of humor, let alone a droll one.

“That would be good fodder for a poem, too.” Bolthor stared dreamily up into the sky as the verse mood came upon him. “Maids Get Prettier at Alehead Time.”

“There are maids that are comely,

And those that are homely.

They have the same female bits,

Drawing men to them like nitwits.

Still, a pretty face and shapely form

Make it easier for a man to perform.

Except when in the midst of
drukkinn
madness,

Who can blame a man for being remiss?

Yea, betimes ale causes a man to go blind,

And in the morn, he does find

The beauty he bedded and did actually cajole

Is in fact a wart-nosed, ugly troll.

The moral of this saga; men should always pick

Their bedmates with a clear head.”

“Aaarrgh!” Bolthor’s sagas were getting worse and worse.

And, to his chagrin, Thork was beginning to understand so many previously confusing details about the women on the island, while his men sat about spouting nonsense and Bolthor found excuses to wax poetic. “Must be that the low tide occurs during the night at this time of the year,” he mused with an abrupt change of subject.

Brokk nodded vigorously. “Yea, that is what the children say. After midnight when most of them are long abed.”

Thork recalled immediately the night he had taken Medana for a walk and she had balked at going in the direction of the pond. She must have been laughing afterward with her women friends at the fool she had made of him.

“It really is a clever idea for a hiding place,” Henry conceded. “I never would have imagined such, especially from women. Methinks I will have to reevaluate the craftiness of the female species.”

“Hah! You are just now learning that women are born slyboots?” This from Jostein again. Thork once again wondered what had happened to him over the years to turn him bitter.

“Well, not so much clever, as fortunate,” Thork commented. “No one could have dreamed up or built such a hidden tunnel. Lucky they were to stumble onto it. Yea, luck landed in their path and they pounced on the opportunity, I give them credit for that.” Something occurred to him then. “That is why they want to use the sleeping draught again. If they are going to take us back to Hedeby, they want us to be unaware of how they get in and out of Thrudr.”

“So that we will not come back to lop off their heads?” Bolthor asked.

“That, or worse.” Thork would take great pleasure in enacting his own revenge when the time was right. Mayhap he would take the Sea Scourge—better named Thork’s Scourge, if you asked him—as his captive once he left the island. He could keep her chained in the hold of his longship when he went a-Viking or on a trading mission, or chained to his bedpost at night. Naked, of course. Or he could put her in a wooden cage and charge folks to come view a female pirate. Naked, of course. Or he could sell her in the slave marts. Naked, of course. A Viking female pirate in a sultan’s harem would appeal to some Arab men. Or he could just kill her, and be done with it, naked or not. In any case, she would be sorry for crossing wills with him when he was done with her.

In fact, it was time to begin taking back control of his life. Time to get their “food taster.”

An hour later, he and his men approached the village. They were all fully armed with makeshift lances made from tree limbs, slings with small rocks, and small knives and swords they’d pilfered here and there, not to mention the axe Bolthor had been using. Thork led the point of an arrow position, three men spread out on either side of him, and one behind.

Medana stood in the open double doorway of a large shed, taking a break from the shearing of a dozen sheep. The place smelled of damp wool, sheep dung, and human sweat, the air filled with the sound of bleating lambs and swearing women who struggled to hold on to the squirming beasts. Without forewarning, he walked up to the mistress of everything and announced, “Lady Medana, you are cordially invited to be our guest up on the mountain.”

She jerked around with surprise, not having heard his approach for the baa-ing and cursing. Then she arched her brows at him. “Guest?”

“Yea. You know what a guest is. ’Tis what you called us men when you brought us to your island home. Now, you will come to
our
island home. As a guest.”

“The hunters’ hut? That is what you call home? Not so grand an estate for a fine jarl as yourself.”

Did she dare show amusement at his expense? Oooh, he could scarce hold on to his temper. “The very same hunters’ dwelling, which we have made ready for you.”

“For me?” No longer amused, she had the good sense to grow fearful.

“Well, you and us.” He waved a hand to encompass all his men.

She noticed the weapons they carried. “What do you want?”

“You. Well, to be precise, you as our guest.”

She narrowed her luscious lavender eyes at him. “Thank you, but nay, I have too much work to do.”

“Uh, mayhap I was not clear. You have no choice.” He extended a hand to her—the free hand, his other having moved to the hilt of his pilfered sword. “Come peaceably, or come unpeaceably. Either way, you will come.”

“Is that a threat?” she asked, extending two fingers up to her lips.

The shrill whistle—a call to arms—pierced the air, causing her women to pick up any weapon to hand, even long-bladed shears. But his men closed ranks, as planned, and he was able to grab the wily witch by the waist and toss her over his shoulder, arse upward, and begin to stomp away.