Page 8 of The Last Viking

“I don’t know. Your hand.”

“’Tis too small.” He grinned.

“Your hand or your…your…?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Which do you think?”

“Aaarrgh! You keep changing the subject. Who is this King Aethelred you mentioned?”

“Aethelred the Unready is the king of Britain,” he explained with measured patience. “Dost recall I mentioned his wife Aelfgifu to you earlier?”

The woman put a hand to her forehead as if she suffered a megrim. “Queen Elizabeth is the queen of England. There is no king. Aethelred was king at the end of the tenth century.”

“I know naught of this Elizabeth, and, yea, you are correct, Aethelred was king at the end of the tenth century…which this is…and he still is.” He started to walk into the keep.

“Hold it. Are you telling me you think this is the tenth century?”

Now it was his turn to be puzzled. What an odd question! But then, she’d been asking many odd questions. “Yea. This is the year 997. That would be the tenth century.”

Merry-Death burst out laughing. He saw no humor in his words. So, he could only conclude that she must be mad, as well as half-witted.

When she finally wiped the tears from her face with the back of a hand, she informed him, “I’ve got news for you, buddy. This is the year 1997. Not only did your boat go off course, but it went through time. Ha, ha, ha! Lordy, wait till I get hold of Mike and Jared. They knew I was desperate, but did they have to send me a crackpot shipbuilder?”

“Nineteen-ninety-seven? Ha, ha, ha!” He mimicked her forced laughter. “My lady, have you suffered a blow to the head of late?”

“No, but I’d like to give you one.”

“Have a caution with your loose tongue, Merry-Death. I sorely resent your referring to me as a cracked pot. In my country, I am a chieftain—a karl—and best you show respect for my high estate.” He raised his head haughtily as he stalked past her. “And Ingrid will adorn the prow of that ship, or there will be no ship.”

Geirolf was having one of the most sensual, self-indulgent experiences of his life. A shower, Merry-Death had called it.

Standing in a cubicle with square pottery tiles on three sides and a foggy glass door on the fourth side, he allowed endless streams of hot water to wash over his body while he soaped himself with a fragrant bar and lathered his hair with a thick liquid.

Truly, the woman gave more and more evidence of being a sorceress. As she’d walked him down the corridor to her bathing chamber, she’d flicked one lever after another on the walls, which immediately set strange candles alight throughout the rooms and on the ceilings. Then she’d explained to him how the bathing room and the kitchen had running water coming into the house out of “spigots.”

Well, that wasn’t so remarkable. The ancient Romans with their engineering marvels had done much the same centuries ago, except that Merry-Death’s spigots also emitted hot water.

And another thing passed all bounds of logic…a toilet. Blessed Thor! The people here had no garderobes, except in the country, Merry-Death had told him, where they called them privies, or outhouses. In this land, people relieved themselves in porcelain bowls filled with water that flushed away, miraculously, at the touch of a silver handle. It seemed a waste to him when bushes abounded outside.

Yea, Geirolf concluded, Merry-Death was, indeed, a sorceress, but everyone knew there were good witches and bad witches. She must be a good witch, he decided, because thus far he’d seen no evidence that she used her arts for evil gain.

Still, he would watch her carefully for signs. It would not do for her to cast a spell on him. Once a Black Witch had cursed his older brother for spurning her favors, and Magnus’s male parts had turned purple and broke out in boils for a fortnight. His mother had claimed ’twas caused by Magnus’s putting his parts where he should not have, but Magnus blamed the witch’s curse.

Geirolf was so clean now that he nigh squeaked, but he poured another handful of the golden liquid into his palm and lathered up again. Then he yelled to high Valhalla for the witch’s help.

Meredith was about to drop some pasta into a pot of boiling water when she heard Rolf’s cry.

“Merry-Death! Help!”

Geez, the guy was loud. Lowering the heat, Meredith hurried down the hall. On the way, she cast a disdainful glance at Rolf’s cooked rabbit, which lay on the kitchen table where he’d put it before going for a shower. No way was Meredith going to eat a little bunny.

“Merry-Death!”

“Hold your horses,” she complained, opening the bathroom door a tiny crack, wanting to make sure he was decent before she entered. Not that the immodest brute had cared about being decent before.

He was still in the shower, groaning like crazy. Oh. no! Maybe he’d scalded himself.

She rushed over and slid the glass doors open a little bit, making sure to keep her eyes averted. “What’s the matter?”