Page 22 of The Caged Viking

The lackwit!

The lady in blue had landed atop Lord Hauk, but already she was raising his bound hands over her back as she shimmied downward to escape his restraint. At one point, her mouth, still spewing forth curses, was aligned above a part of Hauk’s body, which, under other circumstances, he might appreciate. But not now, of course.

Once free, she stood between his splayed legs and straightened the floral circlet on her head. Gazing around, she gave a groan of dismay and kept muttering something about idiots and this being the wrong place and time.

Meanwhile, the master still lay, eyes closed, spread-eagled on the ground.

“Is he dead?” Bjorn asked.

“No. Just unconscious, I think,” the woman answered, nudging Hauk on the hip with the toe of her shoe, at first lightly, then harder. When she got no reaction, she looked over at Egil and Bjorn. “We’re going to have an army of drunk Saxons after us any minute now. Do you think the three of us can get him up onto a horse?”

With all the weight the master had lost these months in captivity, Egil was fairly certain they could manage. Bjorn was stronger than she…he…looked. So, it was with much grunting—and more cursing from the woman, who knew some famous Anglo-Saxon words for fornication—they managed to get Hauk’s body up and over the bare back of a swaybacked mare, arse upward, with his head and arms hanging over one side and his legs down the other. In the process, his open-sided tunic had come undone, and, with the slight breeze that rose suddenly, they all got a good whiff of his still dirty body.

“Eew!” Bergliot said.

“You don’t smell like a flower yourself,” the woman remarked.

“Huh?”

The woman quickly introduced herself as Kirstin Magnusson, daughter of Magnus Ericsson.

“Egil Karlsson here. One of Lord Hauk’s hersirs when he is about fighting wars and such,” he said, then added, “And this is Bergliot, my ward.”

Kirstin nodded, then with a narrow-eyed scrutiny of Bjorn, observed, “Nice disguise, Bergie! Though you ought to cut back on the crotch scratching.”

“Bugger off!” Bjorn replied.

“What a sweet girl!” Kirstin observed.

What? In all the weeks they’d been at Winchester Castle, no one had questioned Bjorn’s gender, and, yet, this woman in one glance knew the truth.

“You make a great pair. The weird witch and the cowardly caged Viking!” Bjorn interjected, still annoyed over the lady’s criticism of his crotch scratching…something Egil had been remarking on for weeks, for Thor’s sake! The boy was stubborn as a fenced bull during the rut season.

Bad enough Hauk would be hearing such comments from others, but it was unacceptable from his son. Egil reached over and smacked Bjorn’s head for calling Hauk a coward. That insult of his master he could not abide.

Then, turning to the lady, Egil wanted to ask her how she could tell the she was a he, as regards Bjorn, other than the cock scratching, but decided to save that question for later. Already, they were hearing a rustle of activity from within the castle.

“I’m not a very experienced rider,” she told him. “In fact, I haven’t been on a horse since I was twelve years old.”

“You’ll have to ride behind the master, then,” Egil told her. “That beast is the tamest of the three horses and shouldn’t bolt when being pursued.” I hope, he added under his breath.

Although she appeared about to protest, she arranged her gown up under her bottom and between her knees, tucking the hem forward and into her belt, before letting him boost her up. And the three of them were on their way. Not as fast as he would like, with Kirstin and Lord Hauk moving at a slower pace, always lagging at least five horse lengths behind. There was a fear that a Saxon troop might close in on them using younger steeds.

“Where are we going?” Kirstin asked when her mare managed to catch up with him and Bjorn. They had been traveling for hours on a dirt road, unoccupied at this time of night. It had been well after midnight when they’d left Winchester. The sun should be rising soon, which would make their travel easier. But also easier for the Saxons to shorten the distance.

“To Jorvik.”

“Hmm. That’s modern-day York.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Why Jorvik? Isn’t there any place closer that would be safe?”

“That’s where Sweyn’s ship army should be arriving, if they are not already on their way here. We could go to Southhampton, of course, where Duke Richard’s ships should have already unloaded an army of fighting men, but, no, Lord Hauk would much prefer to march with Sweyn, I’m thinking.”

“Actually, Duke Richard isn’t coming, but he has sent men to help his daughter Emma and the king to escape to exile in Normandy.”

“What? Who told you that?”