Page 59 of The Caged Viking

“A poet now!” she scoffed. Then, “Would you really want me to fall in love with y…your castle?” she asked. He had to know what she meant. And, really, would he want the impediment of a clinging, love obsessed wife?

“I do not know,” he answered honestly. “’Tis like you said, we need time to see where this attraction leads us.”

Again, he was trying to lay the blame on her for this fiasco. “How do you know that I won’t be able to teletransport from another place…like your castle?”

Her question made him uncomfortable, as evidenced by the tic in his jaw, which she’d noticed had a tendency to emerge whenever he was frustrated or exasperated with her and was fighting an outburst of anger. “Tell-a-tramp-sport? That is a new word for your time-travel business?”

“Yes, it must have come to me when I was in my drugged state. It’s a made-up word my brothers used occasionally for our experience based on `teleport’ in the Star Wars movies. Oh, never mind, it’s too hard to explain. Suffice it to say, it describes perfectly what happened to me.”

“Suffice it to say,” he muttered under his breath.

It was an expression she used a lot, a bad habit, but she was giving him no leeway after what he’d done. The lout! She began to stomp away toward the other end of the boat, holding onto the rail of the swaying boat with one hand for balance, when he asked, “Where are you going?”

She paused and turned to address him. “I don’t know. Anywhere away from you. The sight of you turns my stomach.”

“Now, sweetling, you don’t mean that.” He started to follow her.

“Wanna bet?” She put one hand over her belly and pretended to gag. “Do you really want to come closer?”

He stopped in his tracks.

She spun on her heels and started to walk away again, still holding onto the rail, though the waves weren’t rough, more like rolling. Thus, her rolling stomach. Kirstin had never been prone to sea sickness or motion sickness, but this had to be a combination of the red wine and poppy juice, on top of the rocking sensation.

But if she’d thought she had the last word, she was mistaken.

“By the by, you might want to grab a cloak or something,” he called out to her back.

The sun was out and the air was comfortable with a warm breeze. In fact, the square red and white sails were partially unfurled and the rowers were standing about, or sitting on their sea chests honing weapons or carving pieces of wood. The breeze and the current were doing their work, for now. In any case, she had no idea why she would need the warmth of a cloak.

“Your pretty nipples are showing,” he answered her unspoken question. With a smirk.

She glanced down to the front of her soaked gown and, yep, her nipples were standing out prominently. Looking right and left, she also confirmed that the men were enjoying the view.

“But then, mayhap you want to give my seamen such a treat. Mayhap modern women do such. I do not like sharing my wife’s charms, but I am an enlightened Viking. ’Tis your decision.”

She recalled then how she’d mentioned that her father, in adapting to his new land, was an enlightened Viking. “Aaarrgh!” She turned her back on him and pulled the bodice away from her skin, fluttering it a bit to air-dry the damp fabric. Making her way to the back of the boat where Egil was manning the rudder which controlled a huge steering oar, she pointed to the waterskin that hung from his belt. “Can I have a drink of that?”

“Of course, m’lady.” He unhooked the skin from its leather loop and handed it to her.

She walked over to the rail and took a drink, gargled, then spit over the side. She did that several times before actually taking a long swallow of the tepid water. Then she poured some into the palm of one of her hands, tossing it over her face. Using the hem of her gown, she rubbed her eyes and face. She repeated that procedure several times before returning the water skin to Egil. “I used most of it. I’m sorry,” she apologized and sank down onto a pile of coiled ropes.

“’Tis no problem. I will refill it shortly.”

For a while, she said nothing, just watched Egil’s expert maneuvering and took in the scenery. The sea was a gorgeous clear green and the sky a brilliant blue. Kirstin knew from her youth in the Norselands and from her research as a historian that the Viking longships were nautical marvels, especially for their time. Works of art, really, with finely carved figureheads and trim work, not to mention the painted shields which hung on specially designed racks over the rails pointing toward the seas. The shallow vessels could travel in both ocean depths and inland fjords, by rowing or sailing, or a combination of both. And they were light enough that they could be carried over land for short distances when necessary.

And, oh, but the fjords were works of art, too! God’s works of art. The coasts of Norway were pitted with hundreds of deep streams, branching off the seas, surrounded by majestic mountains and cliffs, all created by glaciers which covered the earth millions of years ago.

This vessel of Hauk’s was a fairly small one with only twenty rowers, ten on each side. Some of the boats could man more than thirty rowers, with another thirty or so seamen on board to provide alternate shifts of the brutally tiresome work. The oars could be as long as the boat itself.

Wherever possible, the longships followed the land lines, often beaching at night to sleep on sandy shores. Since she could see no land at the moment, she assumed they were making the cross over the North Sea that separated Britain from the Scandinavian countries.

“Were you a part of this plot to kidnap me, too?” she finally asked Egil.

“Me? Hah! I tol’ the master he was barmy fer doin’ such.”

“Oh?”

“Best he left ye to go back to where ye came from, I tol’ him. No offense meant, m’lady, but the master has enough problems on his hands without a wife to deal with.”