Page 5 of Viking in Love

“K-A-D-mon!” Geoff exaggerated the pronunciation of his name, as he was wont to do when making jest of him. “Forget sleep. Me, I prefer mead, bath, and a good tup. A pillow is not where I intend to rest my head tonight.”

Caedmon had already sent riders ahead with just such orders. Well, not about the women. He would never order women to open their thighs to a man, not even a thrall, especially having been in the company of their King Edgar and his sordid proclivities these many months.

It had been bad enough when Edgar and his closest guard had stormed a convent at Wilton Abbey, and Edgar had taken captive one of the nuns, Wulfhryth, her screams heard throughout the camp that night and many nights thereafter. No matter that Wulfhryth was of noble birth or that she later gave birth to a daughter, Eadygth. No matter that Edgar was married to Eneda, the “white duck.” Edgar just went on his merry, wicked way. And Edgar had allowed those of his men so inclined to make sport with the other nuns.

The last straw had come when Edgar put a javelin through his half-brother Aethelwold’s back for want of his beauteous wife. That was when Caedmon and his hirdsmen had decided to part with the royal company and head for home. If Edgar did not like it, then so be it! Thus far there had been no repercussions, but then Edgar was probably having to deal with the rage of Dunstan, Archbishop of Canterbury, who was sure to levy a huge penance on the king’s overzealous cock. Then again, mayhap not. The only penance he had levied for Edgar’s rape and impregnation of the nun was that he could not wear his crown for seven years. It was probably too heavy for his little head, anyway.

“Well, my castle is still standing,” Caedmon said as the mist began to part and they could see Larkspur in the distance. A pretty name for an austere fortress. Calling it a castle was an overstatement, but that is what his childless uncle Richard had named Larkspur before passing it on to Caedmon on his death ten years ago.

It was a stone-and-timber garrison built in a motte-and-bailey fashion. Sitting atop a high, natural flat-topped mound, or motte, of great size and height, the castle itself was surrounded by double walls of palisades and ramparts, as was the vast bailey on the ground level with one wide gate in front, opening onto a drawbridge. A majestic wooden tower atop the keep stood watch over the land in four directions. At the bottom of the motte and still within the bailey were the exercise fields set off by neat hedgerows, castle gardens, and outbuildings: stables, blacksmith’s forge, weaving, leatherwork and milk sheds, bakehouse, brewery, cow byre, pigpens, chicken coops, and sleeping quarters for his guardsmen who chose not to reside within the castle. The outer palisades were surrounded by a moat.

Beyond that were the cotters’ huts and fields of oats and barley. Inside, the bailey had enough room for all the villagers to gather in the event of an attack, not uncommon here in the wilds of Northumbria, where brigands abounded and Scotsmen came raiding from the North. Just past the village was a peat-infused river, only twenty paces wide, fed from the Cheviot hills runoff, wending its way toward the North Sea, a mere trickle of a burn, or creek, in dry, high summer but a torrent after a storm.

Northumbria, so called lands north of the Humber, was a land unto itself. To the southern Brits, the mixed breeds of British, Anglian, and Norse, with a bit of Scot thrown in, appeared wild, uncouth, hard-drinking, and annoyingly independent of spirit. This high country was just too bleak…and dangerous, wedged in as it was by the English kingdoms in the south, and the Scots, Cumbrians, and Strathclyde Welsh to the north and northwest. They saw only endless moors, like a wilderness of sorts, and the occasional hills and fertile dales. And remains of the ancient Roman walls.

Caedmon, on the other hand, saw beauty in its clean air and icy streams. The sweetness of wildflowers and new grass being crushed by their horses was like the finest perfume from the eastern lands. To him, leastways. In a few short months, vast areas would be covered with purple heather.

For many years, Caedmon had been a landless knight, like his two close comrades, and he knew too well how blessed he had been to inherit his uncle’s estate. He would do everything in his power to keep it for himself and his heirs. Even if it meant service to his depraved king.

A tangled mess awaited him at Larkspur after his lengthy absence, but Caedmon felt peaceful here in his homeland. And lonely. But it was a good loneliness. One he cherished. He smiled to himself at that ill logic. A cherished loneliness! He must be going barmy.

“Leaving Henry as castellan was apparently a good decision, despite his advancing age,” Geoff observed, interrupting his reverie.

Caedmon nodded. “Yea, reports are that the keep itself is in turmoil, but the troops are in good order, having suffered only a few minor attacks within the estate boundaries.”

“Turmoil?” Wulf arched his brows…He had removed his helmet and his hair stood out in unruly spikes.

“It appears the children are running wild. Amicia is refusing to serve food in the great hall, where the dogs have made a mire of the rushes. A chambermaid was caught in bed with two men. Some of the housecarls have taken to swordplay in the solar. Father Luke has locked himself in the chapel and refuses to come out, not even to say Mass. A loose goat ate all the herbs in the kitchen garden. Other than that, everything is normal.”

There was a momentary silence before one of the men behind him yelled out, “What was the name of that chamber wench?”

Both Wulf and Geoff grinned at him, and Caedmon could hear more chuckling behind him.

“Is Father Luke that half-brained fanatic who is always mumbling about fornication and the fires of hell?” Geoff asked.

“He said I was a dreadful sinner. Can you imagine?” Caedmon made a moue of innocence.

“And is he not older than Adam’s rib?” Wulf added.

Caedmon had to laugh. “Yea, Father Luke has passed more than eighty winters, I would guess, and he was half brained afore he came to us. Think on it, what priest worth his salt would want to preside over the souls of such a small keep in the northern wilds, inhabited by ‘sinful soldiers,’ as he ofttimes calls us?”

“All your bratlings did not help any,” Geoff noted.

“You have heard about the wagers, have you not?” Wulf inquired.

By his teasing tone, Caedmon decided he did not want to know.

But that did not stop Wulf.

“We are wagering on how many children you will have by now.”

“Pfff! There were ten last time I counted, but God only knows how many are really mine. And, yea, I am certain there will be more by now.” Caedmon had wed and buried two wives, leaving behind three legitimate children, the nine-year-old Beth and six-year-old twins Alfred and Aidan, but he had also had his fair share of unfortunately fertile mistresses and bedmates over the years. He was, after all, thirty and four. He grinned then. “Can I help it if I am a virile man?” And dumb as dirt when it comes to keeping my cock in my breeches.

“Methinks your virility is going to come back and bite you in the arse one of these days,” Geoff said.

It already has, and that is why I gird myself with resolve. I will ne’er marry again, I vow, and I will exercise caution in the bed furs. God willing.

He could swear he heard laughter in his head. It was probably God.