The Pirate Bride (9 page)

He shook his head slowly from side to side. “I do not think I ever met him, though I did hear stories from time to time. Hardly credible stories.”

“Credit them! They were true. Freyja, my nursemaid at one time and later my companion, learned from servants in the jarl’s household what an evil man he was.

By the runes! She heard from someone who heard from someone. How like a woman!

“Some men enjoy inflicting pain, did you know that?”

Yea, he did. But women tended to exaggerate. Men sometimes needed to wield the whip when laggard servants failed in their duties. Or wives, he supposed. It was not unheard of and not even frowned upon.

Before he could voice that opinion, he mind-whispered,
Yea, Mother, I know that is not true of men in our family. Yea, I know you or Aunt Eadyth would whip the man who did such to any underling of yours for small infractions.

“Every girl or woman under the age of fifty on his estate had been raped at least once by Ulfr, if not his vicious men. He had a special chamber with chains and methods of torture that he employed on men and women alike, often for no more reason than a whim. It gave him pleasure to hear screaming. You do not believe me, I can tell.”

I do not want to believe you, truth to tell. I do not want to believe there are men so evil. It makes me uncomfortable, especially when women judge all men by the same measure.
“I ne’er heard such said of him, but then I have not lived in that part of the Norselands for many years.”

“He raped me when I tried to back out of the betrothal, but”—she raised a hand when he started to sympathize with her plight—“but that was not even the worst of it. He laughed at my weeping after the rape, and tried to force me to lick my maiden blood off his ugly manpart. It was too much. Without thinking, I raised a nearby poker and smashed him over the head.”

He drew her into his arms, and though she struggled, he held fast. “Dost think anyone would blame you for such? You were only defending yourself.” He kissed the top of her hair, an instinctive act, he told himself. It meant nothing. Bloody hell! He was supposed to be seducing her, not consoling her. Yea, she had a tragic past, but that did not excuse her present crime.

“You are a fool if you think I would be given fair hearing,” she stormed, burrowing her face into his neck, where he was oddly touched to feel the wetness of her tears. He knew without being told that she did not often share her tears. “My brothers were depending on the huge bride price, which included my dower estate, Snow Pines, which is in the far north, too remote and cold for any purpose other than the harvesting of soapstone, which is plentiful there. They would have been the first to cast stones my way. And, remember, the jarl was the king’s cousin. I would not have stood a chance.”

Without a strong man, or men, at her back to support her, she was probably right. Although men, whether husband or betrothed, could hardly be accused of rape. Could they? “You might be right, although my cousin John’s wife, Princess Ingrith of Stoneheim, killed a man one time, without any consequence. Well, actually, it was Ingrith and her four sister princesses who did the killing, and their victim was a Saxon nobleman, not a Viking. Equally as vile as you say Ulfr was, though.”

“You made that up!” she accused him, shaking her head at what she must consider a lackwitted attempt to make her feel better.

If she only knew! His family was every bit as outrageous as what he’d just related to her. In fact, Princess Tyra, Ingrith’s sister, had once taken Adam, another of his cousins, captive—
Is there an irony there?
—but he did not think he would mention that to Medana. Nor the fact that the two ended up married.

Once Medana had her emotions under control, they resumed walking.

“I do not know why I’m telling you all this,” she said after a period of companionable silence.

“Perchance you hope it will lessen your crime.” When she scowled at him, he urged, “Finish, now that you have started.”

”I fled Stormgard, where the assault took place, but I had no specific destination. In shock, I was. I found myself down at the wharves where the small longship was anchored, the one that would have been part of Ulfr’s bride-gift to me, which would have no doubt been taken back once the ceremony was over. Little did I know that Freyja and some of the women followed after me, no more wanting to be part of Ulfr’s household than I had. And after that came some of Ulfr’s much-abused servants. Before I knew it, there were more than a dozen women huddled on the ship, none of us knowing what to do next.”

“Surely you would not have me believe that a dozen untrained women rowed a longboat through a fjord and out to sea.”

“Of course not.” She looked at him as if he was half brained.

He knew the look very well. His mother had perfected . . . aaarrgh!

“It was Solveig, whose father had been a shipwright, who suggested we release the anchor and raise the sails to see where we would go.”

That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. Something a boyling would say. Like my brother Selik. “Let us jump off the cliff, Thork, and see if we can fly. Why can’t we take a longboat down the fjord, Thork? Why, why? If fish can swim the length of the fjord, why can’t we?”
“Do you have any idea how dangerous an ill-manned longship can be? At best, you could have tipped over the light vessel and drowned,” he noted. “At worst, you could have found yourself out to sea in the midst of a storm, and drowned.”

“Which would have been a more favorable outcome than staying behind to face what I had done.”

Death by stupidity.
“A suicide pact then? You women were planning to die? You preferred that to the executioner’s blade, assuming that would be the king’s verdict.”

She shook her head. “We had not thought that far.”

Stupidity, for a certainty.
“Did you bring coins to bribe guardsmen, or weapons for defense, or food to maintain yourselves whilst in hiding, or extra cloaks to weather the cool night air?”

She stared at him dumbly.

The answer was, obviously not. Some of the old ones claimed that women had smaller brains than men. He was beginning to think they had the right of it.

Except women like my mother
, he quickly amended.

“You are smiling. Do you find humor in my story?” Rather than be offended, she seemed rather annoyed with him.

He chucked her under the chin playfully. “I find humor in myself, not you, sweetling. As you have been talking, my mother’s words of wisdom keep coming back to haunt me. A rascal of a boy I was.”

“A rascal of a man, as well,” she observed.

He smiled. She considered him a rascal. He was making progress.

“And stop with the endearments. You cannot sweeten me up with false expressions of fondness.”

Maybe not so much progress.

“Finish your tale, Medana,” he encouraged as they both sat down on a bench on the far edge of the village near the entrance to an orchard. The air was filled with the pleasant scent of fruit. Possibly plums. Or cherries. “I cannot wait to hear how a band of barmy seawomen landed on this island.”

She swatted away his hand that was attempting to loosen the thong on her braid. “Must you sit so close?” She shifted her bottom along the bench. He shifted his bottom right after her. “If you do not behave, I am not finishing my story.”

He pretended to wipe the smile off his face and sat up straighter. “I’m listening.”

“The gods were with us that night, although it did not seem so at the time. A storm came up suddenly with strong winds and blinding rain . . . yea, I know, just as you mentioned, except we did not drown, though we no doubt looked like it. Soaked to the bone, we were. It was morning before it cleared, and we ‘barmy seawomen,’ who’d been clinging together in a huddle mid-ship, discovered that we were indeed asea, bobbing on waves with no land in sight.”

His eyes widened more and more as she went on. This was the stuff Bolthor would love to embellish into a saga.

“We had no seafaring skills, of course, though Solveig did know how to manage the rudder. All day the ship took us where it willed with only a slight breeze to guide our sails. By evening, we saw land. The island. And that is the end of the story.”

Even in the moonlight, he could see her eyelids fluttering. She lied, or leastways, she did not tell the whole truth.

He made a sweeping motion with one hand to indicate the village. “And was this all here, just waiting for you women to arrive?”

She made a snorting sound of disagreement. “Nothing was here. Everything you see was dug or built by our own endeavors. Suffice it to say, the first two years, there were many times when we might not have survived. And that is all I will say.”

For now.
“You are to be admired then, like our early settlers are. Or those Norsemen who settle in far-off lands beyond Iceland.”

She slanted him a sideways glance, not sure if he was sincere or not.

“Truly. What is not to commend when people, women at that, take the poor lot that life hands them and make something of it.” He chuckled, then added, “My mother would place you in high regard. In fact, she would say . . .” His words trailed off as he realized exactly what his mother would say. She would tell him to marry the lady, that she would be a perfect match for him and his wild ways.

Horrified, he stood suddenly. “We will talk more in the morning. I am suddenly in need of my sleep.”

But the nagging idea stayed with him. Wouldn’t this solve all his problems with his father . . . and mother? Forget about the merchant’s daughter in Hedeby. He could marry Lady Medana of Stormgard and leave her here after the wedding. He would have all the benefits of marriage, including his father’s goodwill, and none of the disadvantages.

It was definitely his mother’s voice in his head now. Laughing hysterically.

Chapter Eight

A mother’s heart is the same, even back then . . .

L
ady Alinor read aloud the missive that had just been delivered by Mustaf the Arab. The traveling trader, who sat across the table in Dragonstead’s great hall from her and her husband, Tykir, was quaffing down ale like a sailor too long at sea.

We have your son Thork. Send one hundred mancuses of gold to Small Island for his release. Otherwise, we will lop off the loathsome lout’s head. Or slice off his too slick tongue and set the loathsome lout out to sea in a leaky boat. Once the ransom is paid, do not stay on the island, but return in one sennight. At that time, you will find the loathsome lout and his seven comrades, safe and unharmed.

The Sea Scourge

Alinor was thoroughly confused, as were others listening to her read the letter. But then, her eldest son ofttimes baffled her and enraged his father with his wild and disappointing ways. More so, of late.

First, they’d gotten word from Thork sennights ago that he was on his way home. She’d been ecstatic, making preparations to welcome the prodigal son home. In fact, she’d invited her other sons to come home for the welcome celebration. Well, Selik was already here, being only sixteen and not yet having his own estates, but Starri and Guthrom had come from afar at her urging. Meanwhile, her husband had done naught but scowl at the prospect of Thork finally deigning to honor them with his presence. In Tykir’s defense, Alinor had to concede that Thork had done much to hurt his father.

But then ten days ago, some of Thork’s comrades had arrived telling an unbelievable tale about Thork having disappeared from the market town of Hedeby, leaving his longships and seamen behind. “I told you, I told you,” Tykir had said to her, “it is another of his foolhardy jests.” Alinor wasn’t so sure; it would be cruel of Thork, if true. Nay! She was worried.

And now this!

Alinor picked up the parchment and read through the words again.

We have your son Thork. Send one hundred mancuses of gold to Small Island for his release. Otherwise, we will lop off the loathsome lout’s head. Or slice off his too slick tongue and set the loathsome lout out to sea in a leaky boat. Once the ransom is paid, do not stay on the island, but return in one sennight. At that time, you will find the loathsome lout and his seven comrades, safe and unharmed.

The Sea Scourge

“Where did you get this?” Tykir demanded of Mustaf, grabbing the parchment out of Alinor’s hands and crumbling it into a wad that he tossed into the rushes.

Mustaf, alarmed at the harshness of Tykir’s tone, wiped his mouth and thick mustache with the back of one shaking hand. It would not be the first time in Norse history that the messenger was killed. “On Small Island. A stopping-off place north of Hedeby. A well-known spot for getting fresh water and passing of messages,” Mustaf rushed to say.

“And my son is being held there?” Alinor pressed a hand to her wildly beating heart. How much worry could one mother withstand? “I do not understand. Who is the Sea Scourge?” she asked.

“I know! I know!” said Starri, their second eldest of four sons, Thork being two years older. He was the only one of her sons who’d inherited her red hair and freckles, although on him they were attractive, his hair a darker red and just a smattering of dots on his sun-darkened skin. With a grin, he sat down next to Mustaf, poured himself a cup of ale from the pottery pitcher, and informed them, “She is the leader of a band of pirates.”

“
She?
” Alinor and Tykir exclaimed at the same time.

“Yea!” Starri waggled his eyebrows at them. “The Sea Scourge is the leader of a band of female pirates.”

Tykir slammed a fist down on the table, causing them all to jump and ale to slosh over the rims of cups. “That does it! Now the rascal has gone too far! Captured by females! What kind of man is he? What kind of Viking? He has done some wild and barmy things in his time, but this tops them all.”

Alinor punched her husband in the arm. “You would blame the boy for being captured?”

“Captured by
women
!” he emphasized. “Yea, I blame him for that. He no doubt planned it all as some grand jest. And he is a man, not a boy, though you would ne’er know it by his actions in recent years.”

“You are being ridiculous. He is in danger whilst you blame him for this and that. Actually, though . . .” Alinor tapped her lips with a forefinger. “Did you notice that she referred to him as a ‘loathsome lout’? Must be she is fond of our son.”

“Are you daft? What kind of female illogic brings you to that conclusion?”

“ ’Tis what I called you when you were trying to woo me to your bed furs. ’Tis what Eadyth called your brother Eirik when he was behaving as all lustsome Viking men do. ’Tis just another form of talking foresport.”

“Oh gods! My parents are going to talk about sex again! Can I gag now?” Starri grinned as he spoke. All their children were accustomed to the open affection between their parents. Not that she was feeling anything near affection for her muleheaded husband at the moment.

“Send for the scribe. I have a message for Mustaf to take back to that bloody island,” Tykir shouted.

“Must you bellow?” Alinor complained, putting her hands to her ears. “There is a ringing in my head.”

“I do not bellow.”

“Like a bear.” She smiled at her husband.

“I’m gagging over here,” Starri said. “Next you’ll be kissing and licking each other’s tongues.”

“Starri!” Alinor chastised.

Starri shrugged. “Heed me well, I have been living with you two for nigh on twenty-six years. It starts by you insulting each other, then you are staring at each other with cow eyes, then before you know it, the bed furs are shaking so much above stairs that the floor nigh falls through.”

“Starri!” It was his father speaking now.

Truth to tell, Tykir was still a virile man, despite his mostly gray hair, despite his fifty and more years, despite the limp from an old battle wound that had become more pronounced over the years. And Alinor was a woman who appreciated her husband’s virility, despite being close to fifty herself, her flaming red hair now muted with silver threads.

Father Peter, the resident monk, had just arrived with parchment, quill, and a pot of ink. “You wanted to send a message?” he inquired of Tykir.

“Yea, I do. Very simple.”

To the Sea Scourge:

Keep him!

Tykir Thorksson,

father of the loathsome lout

“Do. Not. Dare,” Alinor seethed.

“Do not interfere in men’s work, wife. I am the head of this family, and—”

Alinor stood and dumped the contents of the pitcher over her husband’s head.

Everyone including her loathsome lout of a husband was laughing as she swanned out of the great hall, chin held high. She was not laughing, though, as tears leaked from her eyes. She was worried about Thork.

Her mother’s heart ached for the love child she and Tykir had created all those years ago, before they were even wed. He would always be special to her. And now he was in danger, and her husband didn’t care.

We will see about that!
Lady Alinor sent her own message.

War of the Roses, Norse style . . .

Tykir slept in his bed furs alone for the next two nights, and he did not like it. Not one bit. Alinor was being foolish and would not listen to his very logical reasons for rejecting the ransom demand.

Some Viking men would not put up with such willfulness from their spouses. True Norsemen would pick up their stubborn women, toss them over their shoulders, smack them on their ample rumps (though Alinor’s was not so ample but just right), and force them to the bed furs. Or else they would just take another woman to bed.

His marriage to Alinor had never been like that. Not only did he not practice the
more danico
(she would cut off his manpart if he dared try), but he was happy with her alone. They had been outstanding bed partners from the beginning . . . well, not the very beginning when he’d loathed her precious Saxon sheep and she’d loathed his Viking ways. In any case, he missed her sorely.

“Mother is very angry with you,” his youngest son, Selik, told him when they broke fast that morning.

As if he didn’t already know that! He looked at his sixteen-year-old like the lackbrain boyling he still was betimes, though he was of an age to be a full-grown man off a-Viking and married at least once. Some birds needed a good shove out of the nest, though Alinor had told him to leave the bloody nest himself when he’d made that suggestion to her recently. She coddled her sons, if you asked him, which no one did. And it was certainly not a subject he intended to bring up now, not when she was already angry at him.

“I mean, she is even more angry with you than she has ever been before,” Selik went on.

Yea, a good shove, that’s what he needs.

“Even the time you accidentally shot her prized ram in the arse with a stray arrow.” Selik was grinning at him.

Hah! That arrow had not been so stray, truth be known. The smelly beast had butted him one too many times.
And do not think I cannot do the same to you, son of mine, if you keep smirking at me.

“What are you going to do about it?” Selik persisted, meanwhile starting on his fourth bowl of porridge topped with honey and raisins. Where the lean young man put all that food was beyond Tykir. Had he ever had such an appetite? Probably.

“What do you think I should do about it? Best you know now, afore you ever wed, never coddle a woman, or she will have you under her thumb for life.” He turned quickly to make sure Alinor had not overheard him. Luckily, she was nowhere about.

“You could try saying you are sorry,” Selik suggested.

“But I am not sorry.”

Selik shrugged.

“I have a better idea,” said Guthrom from Tykir’s other side. Guthrom—who’d been silent so far as he stared into his morning ale, suffering from a
drukkinn
bout yestereve—was four years older than Selik and considered himself far superior in all ways. “You should buy Mother a new amber necklace.”

“Your mother has more amber necklaces than she could ever wear.”

Starri came up then and added his two pence. “In my experience with women . . .”

Oh gods! Now I am going to get a lecture on women from my son!

“ . . . a man does not have to have done anything wrong to apologize. In fact, an all-encompassing apology sometimes serves best. In other words, say you are sorry but do not specify for what.” Starri beamed at him as if he’d imparted some great wisdom.

“Go away!” Tykir said to his sons.

None of them did, of course. Instead, his sons tossed about several other suggestions, none of which resounded with Tykir. There was only one solution, and he’d known it from the start. Getting up from the table, he went off to set his plan in motion.

It was several hours later when Tykir saw Alinor walking toward the fjord and rushed to catch up with her. “We need to talk, wife,” he said, taking her by the arm.

She shrugged out of his grip and continued walking, him beside her. “You talked. I disagreed. There is naught more to say, except you are a loathsome lout.”

That was surely a good sign, her using that term. It had become a form of endearment for them. Leastways, that’s what he told himself. He limped along beside her, his leg hurting more than usual on this damp day, following a night of rain.

Noticing his limp, she slowed down.

That, too, had to be a good sign.

She stopped suddenly and stared ahead. Three of his longships had been moved off their trestles on the field and into the water. They were being prepared for voyage.

“You are going a-Viking? Now?” she inquired with equal anger and hurt.

“Not a-Viking, oh you of little faith!”

She arched a brow at him and put her hands on her hips. He loved when she took that battle stance with him. Once he made her strike the pose naked. What a night that had been!

“A-rescuing, that is where I am going.”

At first she did not understand, but when she did, she launched herself at him, knocking him to the ground, her atop him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, oh, I knew you were not such a loathsome lout. I knew deep down that you cared about Thork.” She kept kissing his cheeks and chin and mouth and even his nose between words.

He would have told her that he always cared about his son, that had never been the issue, but it was her stubbornness that changed his mind. More specifically, her absence from his bed furs. Mayhap he would save that explanation for later.

Starri came up then from one of the longships, stared down at the two of them, and made a snorting sound of disgust. “Oh gods! They are at it again!”