The Pirate Bride (4 page)

“Come now, when have men ever been so discriminating as to care whether they spill their seed hither or yon?”

“I care.” And that was the truth. As wild and careless as he might have been in the past, there was one lesson his father had taught him well. Do not breed bastards. Or, leastways, a real Viking man takes care of his own.

She shrugged. “Then you are the exception.”

“And you sanction this halfbrained idea?”

“Of course not.”

He crossed his eyes. “Then release us. At once.”

She shook her head. “I cannot do that.”

Crossing his eyes had accomplished nothing; so he tried glowering. “Why not?”

“You will kill us, or take us captive.”

“There is that,” he agreed. After a pause, he asked, “So what is your plan?”

“Plan?” She shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

“Pfff! You have no plan,” he guessed. “Listen, unless you want us to die in captivity, you must give us food and water. And an immediate concern is the need to piss.”

“You do not need to be so crude.”

“ ’Tis a fact of life, M’Lady Pirate. What goes in must come out, and we men were drinking last night. Some more than others.”

She pondered his words, tapping those lush lips thoughtfully. “Well, we could bring you, one at a time, to the rail to relieve yourselves.”

“What . . . you plan to tug down our braies and take our cocks in hand, aiming seaward?” He had to laugh at the look of horror on her face.

“What would you suggest?”

“I would suggest that you release us and let us take care of the matter ourselves.”

She shook her head.

In the end, four women were assigned to each man, and they did in fact help the men take care of business, even down to the shaking of their staffs to remove any excess drops. It would have been undignified if it weren’t so funny, especially when half of them got thickenings on being handled thus, causing the women to be more embarrassed than the men. And Brokk developed a shy bladder, requiring some coaxing, which mortified the boyling.

A short time later, after being fed chunks of manchet bread and dried lutefisk, the eight men were left alone while the women went about their chores.

It was then that Bolthor decided the occasion called for a saga. “The Lady Was a Pirate,” he announced.

“She was a lady,

Or should I say matey?

Arrr! Ahoy! Thar she blows!

Shiver me timbers, and by jingos!

No frail lass could she be,

Once the lady took to sea.

But the biggest mistake

This pirate lady did make

Was to tweak the tails

Of some Norse males

Because if there’s aught

A Viking cannot bear

It is a dare

Especially when it comes from the fairer sex

Which challenges his self-respect.

So beware and await,

Yon female pi-rate.

Your fate is in the hands

Of fierce Viking bands.

Especially Thork the Great

Who will use you as bait.

Or even worse,

Take you on a different course.

Didst know our chieftain is looking for a bride?

And marriage to a pirate might just heal his pride.

On the other hand . . .”

Bolthor hesitated and frowned, unsure what could come next?

Thork could only imagine.

The female crew, who’d been listening while pretending to work industriously paying them never mind, laughed uproariously, while Medana looked as if she’d swallowed a whole lutefisk.

So Thork finished the poem for Bolthor:

“On the other hand, a pirate crew

Would make a tasty stew.”

Chapter Four

Johnny Depp, they were not . . .

I
f Thork had been amazed before by the nerve of this crazy band of female would-be pirates, he was in for even more of a shock now.

They had been rowing steadily within viewing distance of the shoreline for most of the day, a not uncommon practice for longships, but then, after much mysterious conversation of female heads bent together glancing furtively at the men to make sure they weren’t listening, the ship was turned around and circled back from whence they’d come. That evening, they dropped anchor.

Despite his constant questions, Thork remained ignorant of what was amiss. His men were equally puzzled. The consensus was the women, the weaker sex, needed a rest from all their rowing. Poor things!

“Now what?” he asked Medana as she approached him with a length of cloth in her hands. She wore men’s braies and a belted tunic, and on her head a red linen scarf tied off to one side of her neck. The only thing missing was an earring. He hoped she didn’t decide to “borrow” that as well. Other women, attired the same, also carrying strips of cloths, headed toward his men.

Uh-oh!

“I need to gag you.”

“Why?” He strained his head to the side to avoid her hands.

“We are stopping for a bit of pirating, and we cannot risk your raising an alarm to the poor monks of St. Alban’s.”

“A bit of pirating? There is no such thing as a bit of pirating. You either pirate or you don’t. And poor monks? Why not target a richer monastery? Barmy as beetles in a vat of mead, that’s what you all are!” He was talking fast, trying to forestall that damn cloth she was wringing in her hands. It probably wasn’t even clean.

“Barmy or not, we do what we have to do. And right now we want . . . nay, need what this poor monastery has to offer.”

Taking a deep breath, he tried a different argument. “Your timing is not so great, if I may voice an opinion.”

“Why stop now? Seems to me you have an opinion of everything.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “ ’Tis almost dark, in case you hadn’t noticed. Unless you know the terrain, you will be at a disadvantage.”

“We operate best in darkness when our victims cannot assess our weaknesses.”

“You mean, they cannot tell that you are a band of lunatic women.”

“Among other things.” Her face was flushed prettily. Something she tended to do a lot, around him.

He rolled his eyes. Something he tended to do a lot, around her.

“I don’t see why you can’t wait until some other time, when we men are not tied up here on board. What if your victims fight back? What if they board the ship? What if they set the ship afire? We would be helpless to save our own lives, let alone help you women escape.”

She pondered his words, then said, “Nay, we cannot take the risk. Besides, these are monks. Holy men take vows against violence. And these are cloistered monks. So they are bound to be even more peaceable.”

“Pfff! I’ve known many priests who are as adept at swordplay as hardened warriors. In fact, once—” His words were cut off as she seized the opportunity and thrust the cloth into his open mouth, tying it tightly behind his head.

“If you must know,” she said just before she sauntered off, “we noticed some goats when we passed by earlier today, and our cook, Olga, yearns for goat milk for one of her special recipes.”

“Agfcsk!” he exclaimed. A goat? They were risking their lives for a goat!

Glancing around the deck, he noticed that his men were similarly gagged and bug-eyed with outrage. Except for Jamie, whose eyes were brimming with tears of mirth. The lackwit!

They watched helplessly as a dozen women climbed down a rope ladder that had been thrown over the rail. Some of them carried short swords, which they raised above their heads, floating on their backs toward more shallow waters. Others had knives held between their teeth as they swam toward shore. While some were adept at swimming, others could scarce keep their heads above water as they paddled like puppies who’d fallen into a fjord. There was also a small rowboat that had been lowered with two rowers inside. He wasn’t sure if the boat would be used for all the booty they would steal, or for the goat. Please gods, not goats, as in more than one. The bull was bad enough.

Another thing the women hadn’t taken into consideration. There was a full moon out tonight, and all their activity would be clear as day. Well, maybe they were aware of that fact, and that’s why they hadn’t anchored the longship closer to shore. Too visible.

The melee that followed would have been laughable, if it weren’t so dangerous. Had the women not realized that the goats would not come willingly? Forget about the men setting up an alarm. The goats did the job very well.

Neah! Neah! Neah! Meeeyyyaa! Meeeyyyaa! Behh! Behh! Behh!
The animals, huddled together in a group at the top of a small rise, bleated as one of the women attempted to pull a ram by a rope tied round its neck and another woman tried to shove its behind. The stubborn goat wasn’t going anywhere until someone—it appeared to be Medana—got the bright idea to lead a female goat toward the shore. The randy goat then followed docilely behind, though both goats made an unholy noise of bleating protests. Even more hilarious . . . all the other goats were following, like sheep to the slaughter. There was no way the women could bring back a dozen goats. Was there?

And another female pirate had the bright idea to grab a duck, as well. A huge duck. Maybe it was a goose. Hard to tell from where he was. But the squawking that bird made was enough to wake even the most bone-weary monk from his sleep.

Quack! Quack! Quack! Behh! Behh! Behh!
Somewhere in the distance some dog had been awakened, and added to the cacophony with its
Rfff! Rfff! Rfff!

Meanwhile, several monks had their robes raised knee-high as they chased a woman clutching a huge silver crucifix that was almost as big as she was. Still other monks had torches in one hand and rakes and other garden implements in the other for weapons.

To their credit, he saw one of the women set fire to a hay mow, which diverted the attention of several monks, who tried to stop the blaze with buckets of water from a nearby well. And a few of the pirates stopped to engage the monks in “battle.” No mortal wounds did they inflict, but they knocked two monks unconscious with blows to the head with the flat sides of their short swords. Another monk, shocked to see blood flowing from a slice to his arm, ran squealing back up the hill to the monastery.

The woman with the large crucifix almost drowned herself with the weight of her booty and finally tossed the object into the bottom of the rowboat and helped the others trying to get two goats into the boat and shoo the others back home. The goose escaped when it took a good nip of its captor’s chin, drawing blood, and nigh flew over the water back to its goslings.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was more like a half hour,
Pirate Lady
was once more on its way to wherever they had been headed originally. They’d tried to put the goat and its mate down in the hold, but the bull was having none of that. The ruckus down below was alarming to Thork. If it went on much longer, the bull would kick a hole in the longship and they would all drown at sea.

Luckily, or unluckily, the women decided to tie the goats up on deck. Luckily, because the ship would not sink, and the whole bloody lot of them would not drown. Unluckily, because the goats did not take a liking to Thork and his men, who were still tied and gagged. The bearded billy goat, in particular, was giving Thork the evil eye, and Thork just knew, if the beast got loose, it was going to butt an important part of Thork’s body.

The women, soggy wet and some of them battered and bleeding, were congratulating themselves on a pirate venture well done, as the longship skimmed over the waves in a fortuitous wind that had come up of a sudden. Eventually, they got around to ungagging the men.

When he was finally able to speak, he found himself speechless.

“See, all your worries were for naught.” Medana beamed at him. Her head scarf had been lost somewhere, her blonde hair hung in unattractive clumps about her face, her tunic and braies clung to her slim body. No curves in sight. She was a mess. “We did not even have to kill anyone.”

“Oh, that is a wonderful attribute for a pirate. No killing. Pfff!”

She raised her chin proudly. “We got our goat.”

Tongues and feathers and candles, oh my!  . . .

Two days later, Medana huddled in her small sleeping quarters with Elida, Solveig, Gudron, and Bergdis. It was midday, and they were only hours away from Thrudr.

The stop at the monastery to steal the goats had taken longer than they’d expected. Not the pirating itself. But adjusting the goats into the ship life had created mayhem, especially amongst the men, who complained constantly about the smell, the bleating, even the “evil eye,” of all things. More than once, she’d threatened to put the men back in the hold with the bull.

Even worse, her women were making fools of themselves in their attempts to make themselves tempting to the men. Yestermorn, Medana had even had to scold two young females who were trying to impress the men by dancing deftly above the sea waters on the shafts of the extended oars. To their credit, neither had fallen in.

But Medana had more important issues to settle.

“We cannot allow the men to see how we enter our hidden homeland,” Medana proclaimed for about the fifth time. “It is essential that, after we release them, they cannot find us again.”

“I still say that once we sate them in our bed furs, they will be so pleased, they will leave with smiles on their faces.” This from Bergdis, who had taken a liking to the clumsy one named Alrek. The young man had nigh fallen over the rail when she’d handled his dangler in a particular way as she aided him in relieving himself this morn.

The leader, Thork, was not smiling, though. Not that she cared, but then, Medana hadn’t been strolling back in forth in front of him with swaying hips and outthrust breasts. Not that he would smile at that type of attempt at seduction from her, anyway. He would probably laugh . . . with derision. In fact, he did sometimes as he muttered something foul about three breasts. The lout!

“Besides, you have made it abundantly clear that the men must be willing partners,” Solveig added. “So why would there be a question of revenge?”

“Because you took them without their permission. Because you trussed them up like spring chickens about to be plucked. Because they spent a goodly amount of time in the hold breathing bull dung. Because they say the goats are as bad as the bull. Because they must take care of bodily functions with women watching . . . and touching. Because one of them has a shy bladder and has to be . . . coaxed.”

The three pirate ladies ducked their heads sheepishly.

“We will just have to entice them to our bed furs then and hope they will be so pleased they will not want to lop off any body parts,” Elida asserted, arching her shoulders back and her bosoms forward, for emphasis.

“Tempting and pleasing are all well and good, but that does not preclude thoughts of retaliation. I do not want the men to know where we are located. It’s a chance we cannot take. A Viking man with vengeance on his mind would hunt down his prey with his dying breath. It is a game to them,” Medana told the women. “Our safety is secure only because our location has been kept secret all these years.”

“Blindfold them, then,” Solveig suggested.

“It might work, but some men—especially sailing men—develop a knack for sailing directions by instinct. One of my brothers’ seamen once said he could guide a ship home with his eyes closed. Another claimed to be able to sense directions by the changes in the wind, bird chatter, the sun and moon rays,” Medana told them.

“There is only one solution then. Give them the sleeping draught again.” This from Gudron, who wanted first dibs on the giant Bolthor. Apparently he had a large number of children back in the Saxon lands, thus proving his ability to produce babes. Not all his, some of them being stepchildren, but that didn’t seem to matter.

Medana groaned her dismay. Thork had been outraged at having been dosed to helplessness. To do so again would raise his ire even more. But did they have any choice? “So be it!” she concluded. “Put it in their ale during the noon meal.”

When she went out on deck, Thork summoned her in his usual obnoxious way, “Come! Here! Wench!”

She’d learned not to react to his baiting by voicing her annoyance, which was obviously his goal. “What now?” Walking over toward the mast pole, she tried not to notice that he was an especially handsome man, only a few years older than her twenty-six years. And he knew it, too. Even with days-old bristles on his face and his dark blond hair unkempt from the sea breeze, he was a fine specimen of Viking virility.

“Are we almost there?”

“Um . . . another day or two,” she said.
More like another hour or two, but he does not need to know that.

“Liar!”

“What?”

“Your eyelashes flutter when you tell an untruth.”