Synopsis |
Reviews |
Excerpt
A fun, romantic romp yule love! Meet a sexy tenth-century
Viking hero and a modernday hero with a Vikingheritage who both
have the knack for making womenmelt . . . with holiday cheer. Merry
Christmas from the Norse Pole.
Bolthor's Bride
Bolthor the Skald has been there for his fellow
warriors, both in battle and as a friend. Always the bridesmaid, never the
bride, so to speak. This gentle giant, now scarred and retired from the fray,
has never found a woman who loves him despite his rough appearance—and his
poetry, which is woefully bad.
Enter the sexy, Saxon widow Katherine of Wickshire Manor, a
woman in need of a strongman to take care of her,her four children,
not to mention about two hundred chickens,in the style none of her first
three husbands could manage.
When Viking meets Saxon, the sparks do fly.
A VIKING FOR CHRISTMAS
Bodyguard Erik Thorsson, a fiftieth generation
Viking,meets Jessica Jones, dressed as a cute Santa Claus,when
she stages a righteous attempt to rob the local Piggly Jiggly. All Jessica
wants is a refund for a Burping Bear toy, which the store refuses to honor.
Fortunately, or unfortunately,Jessica takes hostage another
Santa in the store, Erik himself, after accidentally shooting the Little Debbie
cupcake display. For the first time in five years, since his beloved wife
died, Erik finds himself head over Santa boot heels in love, but how to
convince Jessica that he's not her Christmas curse, but instead a Christmas
miracle.
Sandra Hill is the bestselling author of more
than thirty romantic humor novels. Whether they be historicals, contemporaries,
time travels, or Christmas novellas, whether they be Vikings, Cajuns, Navy
SEALs or sexy Santas, the common element in all her books is humor. Visit her
at www.sandrahill.com.
"…amusing and fun, with entertaining characters and interesting stories… If you are looking for a bit of love and laughter, Santa Viking is a humorous diversion with a Norse twist." -- Julie Johnson, Booktrib
Chapter One
Did Vikings get writers'
block...?
’Twas the yule season in the icy
Northlands, best known as Jól, a time for good Norsemen to cocoon
themselves in warm timber keeps over the dark winter months. Come the spring
thaw, they would be off a-Viking once again.
Animals had already been
slaughtered... pigs, cattle, and such... so
they would not have to be fed over the dark months. Vegetables had been
preserved. Firewood cut. Mead brewed.
A time for celebrating at leisure, with tuns of mead, both for the pagan
solstice and Christ’s birth. And, of course, many a Viking child would be
conceived in the bed furs by Viking men and women who were bored and lustsome.
But not everyone was merry this yule
season. Bolthor the Skald, for one, was not in the mood. Not for good Jól.
Not for the mead madness. Not for bedsport. Not for the exchange of manly
boasts of daring adventures in far-off lands or betwixt a woman’s thighs. And
he was definitely not in the verse mood, which was sad for a skald, but, truth
be told, his brain was blocked for any new poems.
In early days, he had been called Bolthor the Big because of his uncommon
size. In his prime, he had also been known as Bolthor the Berserker, a
far-famed warrior, but that was before he lost an eye in a long-ago battle. Not
that he could not fight if need be, just not with the skills he had in the
past. Still later, some referred to him, behind his back, as Bolthor the
World’s Worst Skald. Despite the change in status, from warrior to poet, he had
not been unhappy. For a certainty, he had come here to Dragonstead, home of his
good friend Tykir Thorksson for that very reason... to
entertain the guests with his praise-poems and sagas.
"What is amiss, my friend?” Tykir asked,
coming up to him at the back of the Dragonstead great hall where he had been
sitting on one bench, leaning back against the trestle table, with his booted
feet propped on the other bench. Tykir carried two horns of mead, handing one
to him.
"Naught of concern.”
"You seem gloomy of spirit.”
Gloomy? Viking men do not get gloomy.
Viking women, mayhap, but I am too manly for such brooding emotions. "I am not gloomy. Can a man not be
quiet and contemplative on occasion?”
"Did someone say something to offend
you? Just say the word, and I will lop off the lout’s loose tongue.”
"Dost think I would let words wound me?
And I can do my own lopping, thank you very much.”
"Perchance you have a bad case of the
rumbling bowels.”
"Aaarrgh! My bowels are in fine shape.
Go away, Tykir. If I was not gloomy afore, I will be now under your bothersome
questions.”
"Mayhap you need to tup a maid, or five.
Have I ever told you about the famous Viking S-Spot?”
"Lackwit! I was the one who taught you
about the famous Viking S-Spot. And, hear me well, the answer to every problem
is not a roll in the bed furs.”
"It works for me.”
The two men grinned at each other then.
Bolthor had seen forty-two winters.
Tykir was older than him by a half dozen years or more, but Tykir was still a
comely man with long, silver-threaded blond hair, beaded war braids framing one
side of his face only, exposing a thunderbolt earring. Whereas Bolthor had
ne’er been considered a prime specimen of male beauty. He was not ugly, but he
was too big, too rough-skinned, and, of course, there was the missing eye, ever
covered by a black patch.
Although he had to admit that he did
look better than usual in the fine raiment that Tykir and his wife Alinor had
given him as a Jól gift... soft brown wool braies, an
overtunic in a darker brown wool with neck and sleeves embroidered with gold
thread in a writhing dragon design, and a gold link belt. Vikings loved to give
gifts, no matter the season. He had brought a barrel of fine Frankish wine as
his gift for them.
But now, Bolthor took a long swig of the
cool mead, which came from Tykir’s sister-by-marriage, Eadyth, and his brother
Eirik, who had yet to arrive from their Northumbrian estate, Ravenshire. Eadyth
was renowned for her honey trade, which included the sale of honey itself, but
also candles and very fine mead.
"Why do you keep yourself apart from the
others?” Tykir persisted.
That’s it! I give up! Bolthor exhaled with whooshy surrender.
"I know they will ask for a saga or praise-poem, and I have none to offer.”
"None at all?”
Bolthor was not sure that was dismay or
exhilaration that flashed on Tykir’s face at the news of no poem reciting.
"Not one single ode can I think of.”
"All ode-ed out, eh?” Tykir joked.
Bolthor was not amused.
"I invited you here for your company,
not just for your... um, talents. We have been friends and
comrades-in-arms for more than twenty years, my friend. Your presence is
enough.”
Bolthor nodded, then conceded, "I could
recite some of the old praise-poems I created about you over the years.”
That was definitely dismay on Tykir’s
face. "You recall them? All of them?” he choked out, then drank half his horn
of mead in one long gulp.
"Yea, I do. Some from memory, but others
I wrote on a wax tablet to remind myself,” he said. "Hmmm. There is ‘Saga of the Proud Viking,’ ‘Tykir the Great and the Raging Bowel,’ ‘Dumb Vikings,’ ‘The Bewitched Viking,’ ‘Manly Rules of Love,’ ‘Advice to a Dumb Dolt,’ ‘A Viking View of Life,’ ‘Tykir and the Horny Sheep,’ or ‘Viking Men and Jiggling Bosoms.’ For a
start.”
"Oh, my gods!” Tykir did not even try to
hide his dismay now. "You would not!”
Bolthor grinned.
"Yea, Bolthor would, if I have my say.
Mayhap I will learn more about my dearling husband,” Alinor said, coming up and
giving Bolthor a quick kiss on the cheek.
"Hey! How about me?” Tykir asked with
mock affront, pulling Alinor onto his lap and kissing her with vigor and
smacking lips.
Tykir and Alinor were smitten with each
other, even after more than ten years of marriage. But they were the most
mismatched couple... everyone said so... he
being godly handsome and her not so pretty, with bushy rust-colored hair and
hundreds of freckles. Then there were the rumors of her being a witch. Of
course, Tykir considered her beautiful, and that was all that mattered. He
cared not a whit if she was a witch or a sorceress as long as she shared his
bed furs, Tykir told one and all.
"Did you find out why he is so gloomy?”
Alinor asked Tykir, as if Bolthor were not there to ask directly.
"I am not gloomy,” Bolthor repeated. I
wonder if there is a cave somewhere that I can burrow in for the winter. All by
myself. With a barrel of ale.
"I did ask why he had such a long face,
but I do not think he gave me an answer. Did you?” Tykir turned to him.
These people were barmy. Nice barmy, but
barmy still. "Nay, I did not. There is naught wrong with me. Must I be smiling
and spouting drivel all the time?” Now that is an image of myself I do not
like. Is that how people see me? A jester, no less!
Ignoring what Bolthor said, Tykir told
his wife, "The verse mood has suddenly left him, like the prick of a bloated
sheep bladder. Ssssssssssssssssh!”
Some comparison! First a jester, now a
stinksome animal!
"Really?” Alinor appeared genuinely
concerned. "I was hoping to hear a new poem about you, husband.”
Tykir pinched his wife’s buttock.
She squealed.
They kissed.
Same as always. They were like children,
even though they had four children of their own.
Straightening in Tykir’s lap with her
holding onto his straying hands, Alinor gave her attention back to Bolthor.
"Methinks I know the cure for your sad state.”
Bolthor groaned. I know what is
coming. For my sins, they plague me with the same old subject.
"A woman.”
"That’s precisely what I told him,”
Tykir said. "A good swiving of a
dozen or so young maids with jiggly bosoms, and he will be right as rain.”
"That is not what I meant, you crude
oaf.”
"But I am your crude oaf,” Tykir
asserted.
"That you are, heartling.” Alinor gave
Tykir a fleeting kiss of apology. "I meant a wife. We must needs finds a bride
for Bolthor.”
That is even worse. Bolthor put his face in his hands and
counted to ten, then reminded Alinor, "You tried this afore, milady. Remember
the Saxon thrall with a bottom the size of a bishop’s arse.”
"Well, appearance is not everything,”
Alinor replied huffily, though a smile twitched at her lips.
Bolthor rolled his one eye. "She had a
wart on the tip of her nose, Alinor. A big wart.”
"Oh. Well, there was the tradeswoman
from Jorvik,” Alinor reminded him.
"She preferred women to men.”
"Huh?”
Tykir whispered an explanation in his
wife’s ear.
She went wide-eyed at whatever he said.
"There were others that were good prospects,” Alinor insisted.
"I would like to know which ones. All I
can think of is the former nun who liked to have her toes sucked. Or the
warrior woman who wanted to arm wrestle with me. Or the harlot with the strange
rash. Or the Arab girl who could not have seen more than twelve winters. Or the
noble lady from Norsemandy who loved her ale, all day long. Oh, the Saxon wench
was comely enough, but—”
Alinor raised her hands in surrender.
Tykir, of course, was laughing like a
fool.
"Leastways you are wearing the garments
I had specially made for you, Bolthor.” The devious gleam in her green eyes
caused warning bells to go off in Bolthor’s head.
Uh-oh! Methinks the witch has another of
her plans afoot.
Shoving herself off her husband’s lap
and wayward fingers, Alinor brushed the wrinkles out of her gunna and said, "I
still say a good woman is the cure for your melancholy. ‘Bolthor’s Bride,’ that
is the name of my new venture.”
He would like to tell Alinor what he
thought of that idea, but it would not have mattered. Alinor did what Alinor
wanted.
To distract them from this unpalatable
subject, Bolthor said, "Methinks I might have a small poem. I will call it ‘Ode
to a Norse Winter.’”
’Tis
oftimes said of Viking men
when icy winds blow down
’Tis best to stoke the fires in hearths,
As well as manly fires below.
"That was horrible,” Alinor
said in an undertone to her husband.
Does she think I have hearing problems
just because I have only one eye?
"All his odes are horrible,” Tykir
replied, also in an overloud undertone. "But at least he’s creating the bloody
things again.”
Yea, they think I am weak of ear. And no
doubt weak of brain, as well.
"Very well done, Bolthor,” Alinor lied,
a belated response to his poem. "But I am still going to work on my ‘Bolthor’s
Bride’ venture.”
Bolthor bit his tongue to prevent foul
words from escaping. He would like to tell Tykir that his time would be better spent
chasing after his four sons, the oldest of whom, Thork, was surely the wildest,
most mischievous youthling in all the Norselands. With his father’s blond hair
and his mother’s green eyes, he strutted about Dragonstead like lord of the
manor, leaving havoc in his wake. ’Twas enough to make a Norseman glad to be
without cubs of his own.
All thought of gloom or Alinor’s
machinations or out-of-control children fled his mind then as a young stableboy
rushed into the great hall. His hair and clothing were covered with snowflakes.
His nose and ears were red, and green snot was frozen above his upper lip. The
floor rushes came billowing up as he came to an abrupt halt in front of Tykir,
who stood now, along with Bolthor. The boy panted for breath, then blurted out,
"The cold outside is nigh unbearable, jarl.” Jarl was a title of nobility in
the Norselands, similar to a British earl. "The fjord is startin’ to ice up,
and the outer guard tol’ me that yer brother’s longship is stuck ’bout three
hides from here.”
"Why didn’t you say that to begin with?”
Tykir snapped. He was already donning his fur-lined boots, gloves, mantle and
hat. Bolthor was doing the same, following after him, as were dozens of other
men about the hall as word passed quickly. They needed no orders. All knew the
danger of the cold and freezing fjord this time of the year. It could change
from very cold to a deathly cold within the span of an hour, the kind of cold
where body appendages froze and broke off like icicles. Many an ear or nose or
finger had been lost thus.
They rushed down the incline toward the
fjord, each carrying a torch to light the way, along with blankets. The air was
so cold it hurt to breathe. What had Eirik been thinking to cross the waters
from Britain this late in the season? Eirik was half Saxon, half Viking,
sharing a father with Tykir, but his wife was full-blooded Saxon.
The women and a handful of children were
huddled around a fire near the shore, whilst some men were breaking the
fast-forming ice atop the fjord, and other men were attempting to pull the
longship aground over log rollers. He saw Eirik standing in the center, calling
out directions.
Seeing them, Eirik came over and gave
his brother Tykir warm greeting kisses on each cheek, followed by a tight hug.
Then he did the same to Bolthor.
"What can we do?” Bolthor asked.
"I brought men with me. Do you need
more?” Tykir asked.
"This should suffice. Bolthor, can you
help get this bloody longship aground? And, Tykir, take the women and children
up to the keep as soon as possible. The chattering of their teeth and constant
nagging is driving us men nigh demented. They think they could do a better
job.”
He and Tykir grinned at Eirik,
understanding perfectly, then turned to glance at the huddled group before the
fire. There was Eadyth, Eirik’s wife, and their four daughters, who gave them
little waves, and many more women than Bolthor would have expected, some of the
noble classes, if their fine attire was any indication. Eadyth’s son James was
missing; he must have stayed home at Ravenshire, or at his own estate at Hawk’s
Lair. Smart man!
Suddenly, one women asked, "Which one is
Bolthor?”
Bolthor’s head shot up.
"Yea, introduce us, Eadyth,” another
woman said.
"Me, too,” one after another said. Six
women in all, and possibly seven including the one standing apart with several
children.
"Huh?” Bolthor turned to Tykir and
Eirik, who both shrugged, then grinned at him.
"Alinor,” Bolthor concluded with
disgust. He sighed deeply and seriously considered a long walk to the land of
the Danes.
There are manhunts, and then there are
MANhunts...
This could very well be the worst
mistake that Katherine of Wickshire Manor in Northumbria had ever made. And,
saints above! Her short thirty-year life had been filled with plenty of blunders.
—Three marriages to men who had the
audacity to die on her, even the middle, young one. Swines, all of them.
—A poultry business she’d started on her
estate to replenish the sadly depleted funds left by her last husband, the
swine. The business had prospered... too much. Wickshire was
overrun with chickens these days and no one to kill and send them to market. In
fact, she’d brought four crates of the noisesome creatures as a gift for
Alinor, much to the consternation of everyone on the longboat.
—A tiny little quarrel she’d recently
had with her fourth cousin, that swine King Edgar, which meant he would be
finding her another husband forthwith, and, for a certainty, the man would be
as unpalatable as the king could find. Therefore, she must find another husband
first.
—A sea voyage to end all sea voyages, as
the sturdy longship had tried to outrun the onslaught of winter in this
primitive land of mountains and a thousand rivers and cold like she’d never
experienced before.
—Four precious children, aged three to
twelve, who were driving her barmy.
—Hopes raised that this Viking Bolthor
might be the answer to her dilemma... a strong man with no
lands but plenty of coin, who supposedly was in need of a wife. Yea, she had
come searching for a husband, but not just any man. He must be strong and able
to lead. Small though her holdings were, they were all she had to pass on to
her children. But, lo and behold, on the journey here she had learned that six
other women were coming with the same expectations. Her friend, the wily
Alinor, was going to get an earful this day.
Her mouth dropped open as she watched
said Bolthor lift one of the logs himself and carry it off to the side. So,
strength at least was one of his assets. It was hard to see in the dim light of
the torches what he looked like, except for his massive height, but then
handsomeness was not a prerequisite for a husband. She’d had that with her last
swine... uh, husband, and look where it got her. Widowhood
and near poverty.
Bolthor was not young, but neither was
Katherine. Thirty years old, four children, a poor estate, and an angry
cousin-king did not make for prize bride goods on the marriage mart.
She did have beauty aplenty, however,
Katherine noted with no lack of humility, having been told so from an early
age. Thick, waist-length hair the color of polished ebony. Full lips that were
a natural rose color. Skin like new cream. A body which was too slim for most
men’s tastes, but offset by full breasts, narrow waist, long legs and a backside
which all three of her husbands had deemed commendable. Frankly, she would be
better off with a sizeable dowry than a pretty face.
Well, enough of this dawdling. She
motioned for her eldest son, twelve-year-old Matthew, who had been helping move
the longship, to come join them on the trek up to the Dragonstead keep.
Then, mindful of that old adage that the
slow bird got no worms, she walked up to the giant, her children in tow like
ducklings, and pointed a finger in his chest, asking, "Are you Bolthor?”
The man nodded dubiously.
"Take us up to the keep afore we shiver
to death,” she demanded.
He looked down at
her... and, yea, even though she was tall for a woman, she
only came to his shoulder... as if she’d lost her mind. She
no doubt had, considering she was in the damned Norselands in the middle of
winter looking for a husband. As if poleaxed, he glanced at his comrades, who
just grinned.
Eadyth, who had not yet gone up to the
keep with the other women and children, walked over and linked her arm with her
husband Eirik. "Everyone, I would like to introduce you to Alinor’s friend
Katherine from Wickshire Manor in Northumbria. Her estate abuts Graycote Manor,
Alinor’s one-time home. And these are her sons, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.”
Eadyth glared at each of the men then, daring them to make a snide remark about
the Biblical names. Turning to Katherine, she continued, "My husband Eirik, you
already know. This rascal here is Tykir, Alinor’s husband, who had best stop
smirking, or his wife will clobber him. And this, of course, is our good friend
Bolthor.”
Bolthor continued to look poleaxed,
gazing at Katherine as if she were an apparition. She did not know if that were
a good or bad sign.
"Take Katherine and her family up to the
keep, if you will, Bolthor.”
Muttering, Bolthor picked up a torch and
was about to proceed, not even waiting for them, when Katherine got her first
good look at the giant’s face. Slapping a hand to her chest, she said, "Oh,
good Lord!”
"What?” Bolthor growled. "Am I too ugly
for you, milady?”
"Ugly? You jest. You must be the mostly
godly handsome man I have ever seen. Do you wear that eye patch for vanity?”
Bolthor straightened. "I am not handsome
and ne’er have been. And this eye patch I wear because I have no eye. Are you
satisfied now?” Without waiting for an answer, he started to stomp off.
"I did not mean to offend,” she tried to
say, but he was already moving away. Another swine?
Dragonstead was situated in a
bowl-shaped valley known as the Valley of the Dragons. The name stemmed from an
old legend that millions of years ago this valley had served as a Dragon’s
nest. A timber and stone "castle,” in the Frankish rather than the Norse style,
sat perched on the lip of one side.
But she was wool-gathering. She picked
up speed with her children scurrying after the swine. They had almost caught up
when three-year-old John tripped and fell face first into the snow. Before the
child had a chance to cry, Bolthor scooped him up and carried him high against
his shoulder as if he weighed no more than a feather. John, who was normally
folk-shy, just stared at Bolthor with fascination. Touching his fingertips to
Bolthor’s eye patch, John asked, "Does it hurt?”
"Not anymore.”
"Are you my father?”
"Nay, child, I am not your father.” John
pressed his face into the crook of Bolthor’s neck, and Bolthor kissed the top
of his head.
The kiss probably meant no more than a
reflex, but, in that moment, Katherine knew she was going to love this man,
swine or not. He would be her husband by the new year, or she would die trying.
Chapter Two
He was a Viking chick
magnet...
Bolthor was being overrun with women.
They accosted him in every manner and
place they could. One even tried to enter the privy with him. A man was not
safe in any nook or cranny of the keep, where all sane persons must needs stay
till the ice storm outside died down. He had taken to sleeping with two
wolfhounds in a separate sleeping closet near the hearth, which was hot as
Muspell with the huge yule logs they kept putting on the fires.
He had cajoled and then threatened
Alinor to call off her jackals, to no avail. Finally, he’d had to tell the
women themselves in no uncertain terms that he was not interested, not even if
they threw in some free bedsport as an enticement. Undaunted, the fickle women
just turned their attention to other prey... uh,
men... about the hall.
The only one not participating in the
chase was the irksome Katherine, who scarce spoke to him since calling him
godly handsome two days past. When she did deign to address him, it was to make
some sarcastic remark. One time he had even asked her, "Has no one ever told
you that sarcasm ill-suits a fine lady?”
To which she had replied with this
enticing remark: "I have been a lady for fifteen years and three husbands. Now,
I choose to be something else.” He wanted to ask what she meant by that, but he
could not for fear that she might actually give him an honest answer which
would make her even more tempting.
And, yea, the black-haired witch of
uncommon beauty was tempting, even with her sharp tongue, even with those bratlings of hers who clung to him like
barnacles. And the woman actually thought he was good of looks! Was she
dimsighted or lackwitted? Truth to tell, he was flattered, despite himself.
In any case, it was one thing to tell a
herd of women to Begone! and quite another to risk offending little mites who
only wanted the company of an adult male. Like now, little John sat on his lap
taking a nap. Twelve-year-old Matthew was polishing his third-best sword on the
promise that Bolthor would give him lessons later.
"Will you not tell us another story?”
five-year-old Luke asked, a thumb going immediately back into his mouth. He was
a nervous boy, unsure of himself. Bolthor suspected he had been mistreated by
his father, the second husband of the witch who referred to her husbands and
most men as swines. Not necessarily with beatings, but harsh words and
demeaning criticism.
"I have already told you three dragon
sagas, two troll poems, and an ode to brave boys,” Bolthor said, ruffling the
child’s unruly hair. He must have escaped his mother’s comb that morn.
"But we like them ever so much,”
nine-year-old Mark interjected. Mark tried to appear more grown-up, but he hung
on Bolthor’s words same as the smaller ones.
"Are they bothering you?” Katherine
said, coming up behind him.
He turned, carefully, so as not to
disturb the sleeping boy in his lap.
Her deep blue eyes rested on the child,
then shot up to his face. The expression on her face was unreadable. Dismay,
appreciation, surprise... he could not tell. Mayhap a
combination of all three.
"Nay, they do not bother me.”
Her creamy skin flushed.
"Matthew, take Mark and Luke outside.
The men are going for more firewood, and the children will be permitted to ride
in the sleigh. Make sure you bundle them up good.”
After the three children left in a
flurry of excitement and quick hugs and kisses of thanks for this indulgence,
she remained, wringing her hands nervously in front of her. If only she knew
how her actions called attention to her bosom, clearly outlined by her belted
gunna!
"What ails ye, wench?” he inquired.
Her upper lip curled at his deliberate
choice of words.
He barely suppressed a grin.
"I do not think it wise to encourage my
children so.”
He arched an eyebrow in question.
"They yearn for a
father... or leastways a man in their household. If they grow
attached to you, well, when you go off to... well, when you
leave, they will be bereft.”
He did not need her to explain what she
meant. She referred to him not taking her to wife, but instead one of the other
women... or no woman at all.
"Is that how they felt on the death of
their fathers?”
She released a snort of disgust before
she could stop herself. "My husbands were rarely home, and when they were, they
could not be bothered with children. Nay, they would rather be off gambling,
drinking and fornicating at royal orgies.”
"They are fine boys, Katherine. Your
husbands must have been blind.” Blind where you are concerned, too, my
beautiful lady, if you find favor in my appearance.
"Do you want me to take John?”
He glanced down at the sleeping boy and
shook his head. "No need to awaken him. Sit down. You are making me nervous,
fidgeting so.”
She muttered something under her breath
and sank down to the bench beside him. Not too close, but close enough for him
to smell the lavender of her soap.
"You smell good,” he remarked before he
could bite his fool tongue.
Her gaze that had been centered
somewhere beneath his chin but above his belt jerked up, and the pink of her
cheeks darkened. "Dost tease me, rogue?”
He shook his head. "Nay, I know you are
not in the running.”
"The running?”
"Yea, the ‘Bolthor’s Bride’ lackbrained
scheme of Alinor’s.”
A small smile tugged at her enticing
lips, and a dimple popped out to the left of her mouth. "What makes you think I
am not... what did you call it?... in
the running?”
He shrugged. "Mostly you ignore me or
prick me with sarcastic remarks. Does that sound like a woman on the hunt?”
"Woman on the hunt? Is that how
you view the women that Alinor invited here?”
"How could I not? They ride my tail like
a hunter on a boar’s scent.”
Again, the enticing dimple appeared. "Do
not judge them so harshly. We live in a society that forces women into
matrimony, lest they lose all. They... we...
are desperate.”
He cocked his head to the side. "What do
you lose if you do not wed again... for a fourth time, I
think Alinor said?”
She bristled at the reminder of her
numerous weddings, but then she sighed deeply as she reached over to brush some
stray strands of hair off John’s sleep-flushed face. "Everything,” she
confessed. "I lose everything.”
Bolthor did not like the sound of that,
but then women ofttimes exaggerated. "Explain.”
"I have a small
estate... actually three small estates...
passed to my sons, from their fathers, but they are nigh ruined. As poor as the
holdings are, there are those who would easily take them because of the lack of
protection. In addition, I have made an enemy of King Edgar, my fourth cousin.
He will order me to wed again. Soon. And I wager it will be with the most
unsavory character, just for spite. Thus, I need a strong man for protection,
and one with coin, to replenish the Wickshire coffers.”
"So, you hope to usurp the king’s authority?”
"In a way.” He could tell she did not
like his choice of words.
"Exactly what did you do to offend the
king?”
She grinned, and out came that blasted
dimple, which he had the odd desire to lick. "He invited me to
court... one of those invitations that could not be refused,
and when I refused to attend one of his drunken feasts, he remarked that I was
too old and unattractive for his guests anyways. And I said something about the
size of his... man part.”
Bolthor chuckled. "Yea, that would be
enough to offend any man, let alone a king.”
She eyed him speculatively. "Are you in
the market for a wife?”
For a brief moment, he considered lying
to her. The woman was a tasty morsel. She would without a doubt make a good
bedmate. But, nay, she... and her
children... deserved more. "I will not wed again. Ever.”
"Again?”
"Most people do not know, but I was
married many years ago. When my wife and two daughters died, I vowed never to
marry again or have any other children. Thus far, I have kept that vow.”
"That is ridiculous!”
"You would not think so if you knew the
manner in which they passed to the other world, and, nay, I will not discuss
this further.”
She seemed about to argue, but then
shrugged. "So be it. I will just have to find someone else.”
"Someone else?” he sputtered out. Why
that surprised him, he had no idea. Did he think she would give up her quest
just because he was not available?
"Yea. There are many men here who would
suffice. Mayhap you could help me narrow the field down.”
Holy Thor! She wants me to help her find
a man to marry. When Muspell freezes over! "I do not think so.”
She shrugged again and stood, preparing
to take the now restless John in her arms.
"Just out of curiosity, who are these
other men?”
"Finn Finehair, for one.”
"Pffff! The man is so vain he
trims his manhairs,” he said without thinking aforehead about the
appropriateness of such an observation, even if it was true.
Katherine’s eyes widened. "Well, vanity
does not rule him out as a good protector. Then I have been eyeing Sigurn the
Destroyer. Certainly, he has a fine record for fighting.”
"But have you ever smelled his breath?”
Bolthor scrooched up his nose with distaste. "Smells like gammelost, it does.
And he rarely bathes.”
"Well, I ne’er heard of body odors being
cause to exclude a groom. Surely, there is naught you can find wrong with Bjorn
the Pole. Though what an odd name for a man!”
Bolthor could not help but grin.
"What?”
"The pole referred to is his
sizeable... um, pole.”
She made a huffing sound of disgust. She
had John in her arms now and was patting his back as he whined in his
half-sleep state.
Bolthor rose, too, and was about to go
outside and help gather firewood. A keep this size needed an endless supply to
last through the winter.
"Before I depart, I would leave this
thought with you. Not that I have offered myself to you... I
am still assessing the market, but know this, Bolthor. Losing me may be your
greatest mistake.”
Long after she was gone, and he was out
in the biting cold, her words haunted him. He already felt the loss.
That evening, annoyed for some reason by
Katherine flitting around, talking to one knight or hersir after another,
Bolthor stood and announced that he had a new poem to recite to the crowds in
the Dragonstead great hall. "Hear one and all, this is the saga of ‘Fickle
Women.’”
Women
are fickle, that is a fact.
They
knock on your heart, then attack.
Starting
in the Garden of Eden with Eve so supple.
’Twas
she who lured Adam with that sinful apple.
Once
men surrender, the women wander.
Lots
more better men, o’er yonder.
With
swaying hips, they jiggle a breast.
Make
a man think that he is the best.
Once
they have them, meek and mild,
Off
they go in pursuit of men more wild.
Here
is the moral of this ode:
Never
let a woman turn you into a pet toad.
Despite the cheers of the
crowd, he knew immediately that his poem was a mistake. He never should have
underestimated the wiliness of a thwarted woman.
Katherine, now up at the head table,
whispered in Alinor’s ear.
Alinor grinned like a cat that had
swallowed all the cream and stood. "Great news! Katherine tells me that she has
a talent for poems, too.”
The crowd burst into enthusiastic
applause, encouraging her to put aside shyness and share her talent with them.
Hah! This woman had not been shy a day of her life.
Katherine stood and glanced his way,
batting her eyelashes as if in apology.
For what?
He soon found out.
Men,
men, men!
When
will they learn?
Women
know what they do when out of sight.
They
spit, they swear, they belch,
They
gamble, lie, and break wind,
They
swive, swive, swive.
And
all the while, the miscreants
Leave
wives and sweetlings at home.
Weeping
with loneliness, sad of heart.
Hah!
Hear
me well, all you errant men.
Methinks
you would be surprised to learn
What
the mice are doing whilst the cat is away.
The men in the hall seemed
stunned into silence, but the ladies were hooting and cheering with glee.
A red-faced Bolthor looked at Katherine
with new eyes, and began to ponder, Just how ironclad is my vow?
Beauty is in the eye of the
beholder...
"He is the one,” Katherine declared.
"Are you sure?” Alinor asked.
"There are so many men to choose from,”
Eadyth pointed out. "The wisest course would be to take your time and meet them
all.”
"Bolthor is the one I want,” Katherine
insisted.
"Some would say his skaldic skills make
him an object of humor, not desire,” Alinor pointed out in a kindly fashion.
"Do his poems not bother you?”
Katherine frowned. "Why would they?”
"To put it plainly, they stink.”
A gasp was Katherine’s answer to that
remark. "Surely you jest. His poems are wonderful. ’Tis one of the things I
like best about him.”
Alinor and Eadyth exchanged looks of
surprise.
"And what are the other things you like
about him?” Eadyth inquired.
"He is good with children.”
"Ahhhh,” both Alinor and Eadyth said,
acknowledging that fondness for children was a great attribute for a husband,
especially when the children were not his.
"And what else?” Alinor prodded.
"There is a sorrow deep inside him that
calls to my woman sympathies.” Katherine placed a hand over her heart, just
thinking about it.
"There is?” Alinor’s eyebrows were
raised with disbelief. "Other than his recent bout of verse mood blockage, I
have rarely seen Bolthor sad of spirit.”
"Oh, ’tis there, of that I am certain.
No doubt due to the tragic death of his wife and daughters.”
"What?” Alinor and Eadyth
exclaimed as one.
"In all the years I have known Bolthor,
ne’er have I met a wife or daughter, or heard mention of such,” Alinor mused.
"’Twas a long, long time ago, and
apparently their manner of death was soul searing.”
"Hmmm.” Eadyth put a fingertip to her
mouth in contemplation. "It makes sense, though. ’Tis not normal for a Viking
man to go unwed for so long.”
"Do not mention it to anyone,” Katherine
cautioned. "If he has kept it secret, he must not want others to know.”
"And yet he told you,” Alinor said, also
with a forefinger tapping her closed lips.
"Of course, I am no longer a young
woman, and I now know that appearance is the least important attribute for a
husband, but, by the saints! The man is bone-melting handsome.” Katherine nigh
swooned just picturing Bolthor in her mind.
"Good Lord!” Alinor remarked.
"Yea, Bolthor most definitely must be
the one for you.” Eadyth patted Katherine on the hand.
"That settles it. We must needs come up
with a plan,” Alinor added.
"I thought you already had a
plan... Bolthor's Bride,” Katherine said.
"Yea, but now that we have settled on
exactly who that bride will be, we must needs have a new plan to snare the man,
without his realizing that he is being snared.”
"I see,” Katherine said, though she
truly did not. "Keep in mind, Bolthor says he will not wed again.”
Alinor and Eadyth both laughed.
"What?”
"Surely you know that smart women know
how to change a man’s mind,” Alinor explained.
"They do?” Katherine felt out of her
depth with these two wily women. "How?”
"First off, you must avoid Bolthor, but
not be out of sight. Let him see you with other men. Let him think you are
interested, or even intimate, with other men.” This was Alinor’s advice. "Men
always want what they cannot have.”
"It sounds so...
devious.”
"Hah! I pretended I was a witch one
time,” Alinor said. "Now that is devious.”
"That is nothing. I pretended to be
dead.” Eadyth laughed in remembrance. "Believe you me, that brought Eirik to
heel in an instant. Then, too, I pretended to be an aged crone before that.”
Not to be outdone, Alinor said, "I tied
Tykir to a chair, by his own hair. Naked.”
"But do not think that women are the
only ones to play this game. Eirik told me one time that the best way for a
woman to make a man’s staff stand to attention was for her to stand on her
head, naked.”
Alinor hooted her opinion of that
lackwit theory.
Katherine clicked her mouth shut when
she realized she was gaping.
"You must learn to tease, subtly,”
Alinor suggested. "By dress, for example.” She pinched in the waist of
Katherine’s gunna, then showed her how to pleat the fabric just up to and under
her breasts so that her waist, the flare of her hips, and her bosom were
outlined.
"I would appear wanton.” Katherine had
never dressed in such a provocative manner. Why would she? She had been wed
more times than she would have chosen, to men she would as soon repel as
attract.
"That is the point,” Eadyth said. "But
not in a blatant manner. Tease, but do not flaunt.”
Katherine let out an exhale of
frustration, not sure if she could manage this game of seduction.
"That is not all,” Alinor went on.
Wonderful!
"When you do come into his presence, by
accident, brush against him, then blush and apologize profusely,” Alinor
suggested.
"She could even touch him in
passing... his thigh, a buttock, even his manpart,” Eadyth
added.
"Yea, that would be good.”
"How subtle would that be?” Katherine
observed.
"Believe me, you could do it in such a
way as to appear by chance,” Alinor said. "Stand over here, Eadyth, and pretend
you are Bolthor. We will demonstrate.”
Eadyth stood stiff as a board, frowning,
while Alinor brushed past her, carrying a bundle of linens that she almost dropped,
but in the process of balancing herself, let her fingertips brush across the
groin area. Immediately, she said, "My apologies, Bolthor,” and batted her
eyelashes innocently.
Several other scenarios were played out.
Alinor being pushed against Bolthor in a crowd and "accidentally” grabbing his
buttock. "Bolthor” reaching for a sweetmeat on her tray, which she jerked at
the last second, causing his hand to caress her breast.
"Of course, if all else fails, bed the
man, good and well,” Eadyth advised.
"There is one bedsport trick I have
learned,” Alinor said, "which is guaranteed to make a man’s eyes roll back in
his head.”
Eadyth and Katherine were all ears, not
to mention a few of the passing maids.
In the end, they were all laughing like
lackwits.
Bolthor did not stand a chance.
Katherine hoped.
Viking men aren't as dumb as you might
think...
Watching from across the room where they
were cleaning their weapons, Eirik and Tykir said as one, "Uh-oh!”
"Methinks you are in big trouble,
Bolthor,” Eirik elaborated.
"Huh? Why me?”
"My wife has that sly look in her eyes,”
Tykir noted. "That usually means she is up to no good...
especially regarding men... or me in particular.”
"Why is it not you this time?” Bolthor
asked.
"Because it is Katherine they are
advising, and everyone knows that Katherine wants you.” Eirik continued
polishing his sword as he spoke.
"Everyone does not know that,” Bolthor
protested, putting aside the long knife he had been honing with a hand-held
whetstone. "She is considering the merits of every unattached male here.”
"Keep telling yourself that.” Tykir
laughed at what he must consider Bolthor’s naiveness. He tested the sharpness
of his sword by slicing a thin sliver off the edge of the table.
"Did I ever tell you my ‘Ode to Sly
Women’?”
Tykir groaned before catching himself.
"You have certainly gotten over your verse mood famine,” he grumbled.
"Perchance Katherine is the cause of his
new wordiness,” Eirik teased.
"Hear one and all, this is the ‘Ode to
Sly Women’,” Bolthor began.
Most
men think they are so smart
And
indeed they are,
But
put them in a room with women,
And
all wit goes out the smoke hole.
Women
are sly and not above tricks
When
it comes to catching a man.
Beware
of swaying hips, jiggling breasts,
Bouncing
backsides, slippery tongues,
Proffered
kisses, lewd talk, sloe eyes,
Sweet
scented skin, low-cut gunnas,
Exposed
ankles...
Tykir cut him off with a
laugh. "Well, you certainly covered all points with that poem. In truth, it
caused my juices to boil. Methinks I will go drag Alinor to our bedchamber and
see how sly she can be.”
"Good idea, brother,” Eirik said.
They both got up, their weapon care
forgotten.
Bolthor was left
alone to stare across the hall at the sly woman who was deliberately not trying
to seduce him.
