Page 33 of The Reluctant Viking

The woman reminded Ruby of someone. Oh, no! Not Dolly Parton! It would be too much of a coincidence if Thork and Jack preferred the same type of woman. Not that Jack had been serious when he spoke of looking for a woman with a Dolly Parton body. He was only teasing, Ruby told herself.

Servants arranged dozens of chairs at the bottom of the steps for the most elite. Olaf pulled her and Gyda to the edge of the crowd and lifted them both by the waist so they sat on the edge of the platform. Many people dropped onto the wide, low benches built into the sides of the hall. Other Vikings talked softly in small groups.

The entertainment began with a young Viking woman who sang a beautiful ballad, accompanied by her brother on a lute. Then a skald, or poet, related stories of Viking bravery in battle. His sagas told of a brave people driven from their homeland by bloody politics and overpopulation, forced to seek new lands for their families—certainly a different motivation than the bloodlust that historians claimed drove the Norsemen to go a-Viking.

One of the sagas told an interesting story about Thork’s father, King Harald of Norway, and how he got the name Harald Fairhair. The skald started by telling of Harald’s feats, the greatest of which was the unification of all Norway.

“’Tis said that his greatest success resulted from the taunt of Gyda, daughter of the King of Hordaland.” Ruby looked over to Gyda to ask if she was named after this woman, but Olaf’s wife was totally engrossed in the tale and didn’t notice her. Ruby also cast quick peeks at Thork who sprawled, legs outstretched, in an armchair near the king, his lips curled cynically. Perhaps the story wasn’t entirely true.

The skald claimed that Gyda refused to marry the young Harald until he united all Norway, as Gorm had done in Denmark. Harald swore never to cut or comb his hair until he achieved his purpose. It took him ten years to become high-king. After he bathed and trimmed his hair and beard, his name changed from Harald lufa— Harald Mop-Hair—to Harald harfagri— Harald Fairhair. Gyda then went willingly to his bed, joining what the skald described as a royal harem of wives and concubines.

“Dragon shit!” Thork’s rude expletive echoed loudly through the hall, where the crowd had been following the skald’s saga with silent appreciation.

Sigtrygg turned to Thork and asked, “Do you scoff at the skald’s saga?”

“Yea, that I do. The end results wax true, but think you, who know my father’s cunning, that the whim of a mere maid steered him ever?”

Sigtrygg thought a moment, then agreed. “’Tis right you are, Thork, but it makes for a good telling.” Then he turned to the embarrassed skald and asked, “Know you more?”

“Yea, but naught do I know of the sagas’ truth,” he whined. “I only relate what has been passed on to me.” The skald looked at Thork, wondering if he would find fault with this story, too. When Thork ignored him, staring disinterestedly into his cup, he went on.

In fine poetic detail, the man told of Ruby’s ancestor Hrolf, whom Harald had declared an outlaw in Norway, despite his friendship with Hrolf’s father, Rognvald, the Earl of More. The skald traced Hrolf’s descent for eleven generations from a king called Fornjot in Finland. He droned on with his story, finally concluding, “…and the Frankish king, Charles the Simple, gave him the province of Normandy.”

Ruby found the tale absorbing, but wished it hadn’t been told. It called Sigtrygg’s attention to her.

“Where’s the wench that claims kinship to Hrolf?” the king demanded to know, scanning the crowd for her. “Has she been beheaded yet?”

Geez! This guy had a decapitation fixation.

Ruby tried to slide over on the platform so she’d be hidden by Olaf’s massive frame. No such luck! Olaf turned and lifted her down, telling her to go forward.

Oh, great! Here we go again!

Ruby walked forward with chin high, trying to keep her knees from knocking.

“Your attire improves since last we met,” the king commented snidely, seeming to forget that the last he’d seen her she hadn’t been wearing much at all. Ruby wasn’t about to remind him.

“Why have we not seen you at court?”

He’d apparently forgotten that he’d ordered Thork to take her away.

“I stay with Olaf’s family.”

Sigtrygg nodded his shaggy head, remembering now, and looked shrewdly at Thork. “How fast did you rid yourself of the troublesome wench?” He didn’t wait for an answer before turning back to Ruby. “What name do you answer to?”

“Ruby. Ruby Jordan.”

“Like the gem?”

“Actually, my mother was a country music buff. She thought Ruby and Lucille…that’s my sister…sounded like good country-sounding names. Of course, she was proven right when songs with those two titles later became country music legends.”

The king’s good eye lit up with interest. He probably didn’t understand most of what she’s said, except for the music part.

“You will sing for us,” he declared imperiously.

“I don’t sing that well.”

Thork choked on the wine he’d been drinking, and a friend pounded him on the back to stop the fit of laughing that followed. Ruby shot him a look of disgust.