Page 53 of The Caged Viking

An idea came unbidden to him then, and he grinned.

Dare I do such?

Dare I not?

She will be so peeved with me.

When is she not peeved with me?

Having made a fateful decision, he allowed himself to succumb to sleep.

The voice in his head chuckled and pronounced, Man plans. God laughs.

Huh? he said, but got no answer; so, once again he relaxed his body into sleep. The next moment he was aware of Egil was shaking him and shouting, “Master, wake up! Oooh, this is bad! Hurry! Wake up!”

He shot to a sitting position, knocking Kirstin to the side. Apparently she’d been wrapped around him in their joint slumber.

“What? What is it?” Hauk jumped to his feet, grabbing for a weapon, looking behind Egil to see if he’d been followed by some villains looking for trouble.

Egil had a wall torch in his hand, which he must have used to light his way back to the bedchamber. He was waving it about as he explained hysterically, “I jist got back and I suspected there was something wrong when the boy was rolling about on his bed. So, I decided to check on him afore I lay meself down. That’s when I—”

Hauk put up a halting hand. He had no idea what Egil was blathering about, except that his distress seemed to be related to Bjorn, not some troublemakers. He immediately moved over to the pallet, and he didn’t need the light from Egil’s torch to see what the problem was.

His son was burning up with fever.

Chapter 12

Beware lusty men with plans…

For the next two days, all their efforts…hers, Hauk’s, and Egil’s…were concentrated on Bjorn and reducing his fever. Finally, they succeeded, but Bjorn was so weak he could only sit up for moments at a time, and he slept on and off through the day and night, even though they’d reduced the amount they gave him of the so-called poppy juice. Very potent! Now would be the time when her hearty chicken soup would come in handy to strengthen the boy. Unfortunately, Kirstin hadn’t been able to find the ingredients in her explorations of the castle, and, frankly, she couldn’t imagine cooking in the chaos that reigned in the castle kitchen, where Saxon servants had been turned into Viking thralls. She would have been more comfortable cooking over an open fire out by the moat.

Hauk and Egil went to the great hall each evening, claiming a need to mix with their comrades-in-arms and not give offense to Sweyn. They invited Kirstin to accompany them, but she felt too uncomfortable in the heavily masculine, rowdy atmosphere and chose to eat in the bedchamber. Usually a slice of manchet bread, a hunk of hard cheese or some skyrr, which was similar to yogurt, and a mug of ale. Hauk rarely stayed away more than two hours and never came back drunk, although she was sure many of the Vikings were three sheets to the wind before they hit their beds, or fell asleep with their faces on the greasy trestle tables..

Occasionally, during the day, Kirstin crept about the castle, wanting to memorize details for future reference. Winchester was not a crude timber castle like many were at that time, more closely resembling forts, but it was not all stone either. A combination of both. Any splendor it might have had was sorely missing now after the Viking plunder. Precious illuminated manuscripts on parchment being compiled in the castle librarium by monk historians, who had the good sense to make themselves scarce among the men they’d deemed despicable pagans, lay torn or burnt on the floors, which of course was a crying shame. If she could have saved some of them, she would have. Alas…!

The walls of the great hall and solars were mostly bare, any weapons or adornments having been removed by Aethelred when fleeing or Sweyn’s men as battle rewards. There was a stale smell like a beer dive after hours in the hall, and the rushes were ripe with scraps of food and animal waste; the whole place needed a good cleaning. Many of the Winchester servants had been thralls, or slaves under the Saxons, but were all deemed slaves under Viking rule. None of them felt the need to be extra vigilant in their work. The only place where there was much activity was in the kitchens and laundry where a Norse soldier stood guard with his trusty long-handled, twin-bladed battle axe in hand, scowling or cursing out orders.

Sweyn and his troops would be leaving soon to conquer other parts of England, and, as Kirstin knew from her history lessons, to be eventually declared king of all Britain. Not that he knew that. Or that he was going to die soon after.

But Kirstin couldn’t be concerned about that man whom she was convinced was a megalomaniac, half narcissist and half serial killer. His changeable moods were downright scary; he could jump from happy-happy to sword-wielding nutcase with no notice, and beware anyone who stood in his path.

No, Kirstin was more concerned with her own problems. No avoiding the fact that she was going to have to return to the future. Soon. She’d noticed Hauk looking at her on occasion, when he didn’t think she was aware, and she could tell that he was waiting for her to announce her departure. The only question was: When?

“I have a surprise for you,” Hauk said when she came back from the garderobe that afternoon. And wasn’t that an experience, by the way! If the hall was rank, the medieval indoor privy was a nightmare of filthy odors. A modern bathroom would be the thing she missed most if she were stuck in the past, something she had no intention of doing.

“More loot?” Bjorn interjected from his cot, although it had been clear that Hauk was addressing her.

“Nay,” Hauk said, scowling his son’s way. “Enough with the loot!”

Bjorn just grinned.

“Come with me,” Hauk said, his lips twitching at some secret. “Grab some clean clothing. One of those gowns from the treasure pile will do.”

She gazed at him suspiciously.

“You will like my surprise, I promise.”

She was still suspicious, but she let him take her hand, and lead her out of the room. They went only a short distance to another bedchamber, which was empty except for a large brass tub with steaming water more than halfway to its brim. On the floor were a number of toweling linens, a large-toothed ivory comb, and most precious of all…a small bowl of soft soap, which, be still my sybaritic heart, was clearly not made of the usual lye.