Page 37 of The Caged Viking

“And he was raised by…?”

Egil shrugged. “The other wives and mistresses. Mostly he was ignored, ’cept when his father was at home, hollarin’ or beatin’ on him or anyone who got too close.”

Kirstin’s father, bless his virile body, had had a number of mistresses and several wives over the years, though not all at once, thank God! Thus, his twelve children. But he’d treated all of the kids as if they were precious, even the ones who were probably not his, but had been foisted off on him by women who didn’t want the responsibility of a baby. Unfortunately, or fortunately, Madrene and Kirstin, as the two oldest daughters, had been forced to care for all their younger siblings while their father went about the business of farming and amber trading. That was probably why Kirstin had never had a particular interest in having children of her own. In any case, her father might have been careless at times, but never cruel. They’d been a family.

Poor Hauk! She could picture him as a child, hiding in dark corners from the wrath of a hateful father. But always looking to forgive at the least sign of kindness on his father’s part.

“Hauk’s father had no other children, some say because he had a sickness that caused his ballocks to swell when he was a young man a-Viking in some foreign land, some say because he was in disfavor with the gods. For some demented reason, the miscreant blamed Hauk for his sterility.”

“Is he still alive?”

Egil shook his head. “Nay. Died a straw death five years past. Well-deserved, if ye ask me. The beast did not deserve Valhalla. The things I could tell you about what he did to his own son! Oh, I forgot to mention. There was another babe born to one of his mistresses almost a year after his death. She tried to hide the birth date, and claimed the boyling was sired by the old lord, but the months do not match up.” He shrugged. “The child, Gorm, who would be about four now, is still there, but the mother took off with a passing trader two years past.”

“And who cares for the boy…never mind.” Kirstin shook her head with disgust, knowing full well that even in a compassionate household such as her father’s had been, babes could be squalling and toddlers waddling about at will and their care fell to whomever was closest. Usually her. Forget “It takes a village.” To Vikings, “It takes a longhouse,” was the norm, long before that other expression came into popularity.

It wasn’t that Viking men didn’t love their children. In truth, they were great family men, even if the family extended to include other wives, concubines, legitimate and illegitimate children. It was just that care of the little ones fell to the women of the household until they reached age ten or so when they were considered young men, of a suitable age to be taught about weapons and sailing. Or, in the case of girls, skills to prepare them for marriage and managing a household.

As to the boy, Gorm, born posthumously, Kirstin knew all about that, too. At least a few of the babies passed onto her father as his were probably fathered by someone else, but he’d accepted them nonetheless. That’s the kind of man he was.

“So, now Hauk is the jarl?”

“That he is, though he has not been there for many a year.”

Kirstin frowned. “But Hauk mentioned that he has a mistress waiting there.”

“Oh, her! Zoya is a passing fancy, though she counts herself queen of the Norselands in his absence,” Egil said with obvious distaste. “Hauk made one last visit to harvest amber in the Baltics, planning to trade the goods in the markets at Hedeby for coin to make much needed repairs to his estates. He sent many of his men ahead to begin the renovations, along with Zoya whom he’d met in the Rus lands, whilst he sent me to Britain to get his son and bring him home. Alas, when he finally got to the Saxon lands, having heard of the St. Brice’s Day massacre, he did not find me or Bjorn, and, in fact, was told that the boy was dead. That’s when the Saxon soldiers captured him.”

“Aaah!” Kirstin said, understanding more of the man than she had before. “You’ve been a good friend to Hauk, Egil.”

Egil beamed, obviously pleased at her compliment.

But then she yawned widely, apologizing, “Sorry.”

“Ye’ve had a long day, m’lady. Ye should rest.”

“I will.” In fact, Kirstin couldn’t believe that only twenty-four hours had passed since she was back in her own time at Rosestead. So much had happened! So much was about to happen!

Turning away, she toed off her slippers and took off her gown, draping it over the far end of the weaponry wall. With the damp rag she’d used as a washcloth, she wiped over the silk fabric and attempted to smooth out the wrinkles. She dropped down to the furs on her side, wearing only her underwear, but that was okay. Hauk would be sleeping next to Egil, and she could don her gown quickly once she heard them getting ready to leave during the night.

She could no longer see Egil but she told him, “Good luck tomorrow.”

Her answer was a loud snore.

A short time later, she was snoring, too…a soft feminine snore.

Chapter 9

Who is the victor if both parties surrender?…

Hauk and Bjorn returned to the tent later than Hauk had planned. Bjorn was a little bit drukkinn from the small amount of ale they’d imbibed, but Hauk was proud of his son. As Hauk had introduced Bjorn to his comrades-in-arms, he ensured that their loyalty would be for the son as well as the father, which was especially important on the eve of battle. Bjorn helped by being respectful and listening without interruption as many of the more garrulous lot expounded on past victories, often exaggerating, which was of course a fighting man’s right, whatever the country…or time, for that matter, he would warrant.

Hauk was about to tell Bjorn how he felt, but before he could say anything to his son, the boy sank to his knees, fell flat on his face onto the furs next to a sleeping Egil, and immediately added his snores to the old man’s raucous melody. Hauk smiled and stretched widely. It had been a long and eventful day for all of them. And who knew what the morrow would bring? He couldn’t wait. Like all Vikings, he loved a good fight, and he had more reasons than most to anticipate this one with relish.

He noted that Egil, may the gods bless his eager heart, had made a neat pile of all the weaponry and battle gear they would need for the upcoming battle, providing a dividing line across the middle of the small tent. On the other side, his wife slept huddled under a bed fur up to her neck, though the night was not particularly cool. She probably considered it a barrier to any lusty Viking who might drop by. Like him.

He chuckled, and shook his head at her foolishness. As if a mere fur would impede him if he were in a lusty mood, which he was not at the moment.

She, too, snored, but the sound that came from her parted lips was soft and almost like a moan. A moan of ecstasy or a moan of pain at whatever she was dreaming? Loveplay or torture of some sort, maybe even the horrid cage? He preferred the former, he decided with another chuckle, realizing that mayhap he was in the mood, after all.