Page 12 of The Reluctant Viking

“Dare you call me weak? You upstart get of a jackal! Be you Jomsviking or the son of King Harald matters naught to me. ’Tis tempted I am to cut out your wayward tongue.”

Ruby couldn’t believe her eyes and ears. King Sigtrygg with his volatile moods was clearly a dangerous man, but suddenly the king started to laugh loudly and clapped Thork so hard on the shoulder he almost fell forward.

“My friend, you do well to warn me. ’Tis certain you think only of my best interests and those of Jorvik. Come. Tell me more.”

It happened so fast Ruby blinked disbelievingly. How could Sigtrygg’s temper swing so rapidly back and forth? God help the man who suffered his wrath before his mood switched back. Or woman? she thought, and cringed.

As Thork and the king discussed the pros and cons of the marriage agreement, Ruby noticed the servants pulling out heavy trestles and large boards to serve as table tops. The wide wooden benches lining the walls would be used now as dining seats and later as beds for the lower classes.

The servants, probably thralls, wore undyed wool garments poncho-style with leather thongs tied at the waist—the men’s and boys’ were knee-length, while the women’s and girls’ hung down to their ankles. These contrasted sharply with the fine fabrics of the high-born Viking nobles and noblewomen. Ruby, with her sewing background, recognized the richness of the bright-colored cloth and the excellent workmanship.

The Vikings were unusually tall, even the women, and surprisingly clean, with sparkling white teeth and well-cared-for hair. Some of the males even sported intricately braided beards, an incongruous, almost feminine vanity at odds with the huge muscles knotting their arms and legs. A few of the women looked as if they could wield battle-axes themselves.

An endless stream of servants placed platter after platter of enticing food on the tables as the men and women seated themselves alternately in some type of predetermined order. The servers put enormous salt cellars midway down each of the long tables: from this came the expression of being seated “below the salt,” Ruby presumed. The better the dress, the closer to the dais, Ruby observed. Olaf, apparently a favorite in this court, sat at the first table near the platform, and, to Ruby’s chagrin, told her to stand behind him. When would she get to sit and eat?

Rhoda sidled up to her then, along with the other thralls who’d been with them in the boat.

“Still gotcher head, I see,” Rhoda quipped.

“Yes, but I don’t know for how long. That Sigtrygg is a mean man.”

“I toldja, din’t I?”

“When do we get to eat?”

Rhoda shrugged disinterestedly. “I be more worried if I wuz you ’bout where I sleep tonight—if you still be alive by then—’stead of whether you sup or not.”

Ruby was about to answer when Olaf turned with a black look and told her to shush. Thork and Sigtrygg were ending their discussion.

“The deed be done then,” Sigtrygg agreed, raising his goblet in a toast before the crowd. “We will discuss the details at the Althing to be held one month hence, but word goes out today to Athelstan. I will wed his bitch sister.” With a lusty laugh and a vulgar gesture at his genitals, he added, “Mayhap this old body can still father more sons for Odin.” The Viking men offered lewd rejoinders to his toast.

Ruby noticed an odd thing. Not once did Sigtrygg ask the name of the woman he would wed, whether she was young or old, how she looked, if she was willing or being coerced into this marriage. Just as Thork had predicted earlier, Sigtrygg would wed a pig if it was to his advantage.

The king and all assembled turned to the feast being laid before them. The massive serving platters held every type of fish conceivable—cod, haddock, herring, even something that looked like a snake in cream sauce. Probably eel. Ruby recognized chicken and duck but couldn’t identify the other types of poultry, never having eaten pigeon or pheasant or whatever these pre-Medieval people hunted. Of course, the requisite massive haunch of beef held center stage, with its bloody juices dripping over the sides of a gigantic tray.

At the lower tables, couples shared wood trenchers using spoons or personal knives, but at the upper tables big, round slices of manchet bread were distributed, thick enough to sop up the gravy and be eaten. Rhoda whispered that the soggy, leftover manchets were given to beggars at the castle gate. Ruby felt like begging for one herself.

Innumerable side dishes accompanied the main courses, such as onions, cabbage, beets and peas, not to mention a warm, flat bread and butter, custards, pastries, honey, cheeses, nuts and a variety of fresh fruits. They drank a type of beer or ale in vast quantities from animal horns, as well as carved wood or silver goblets.

No wonder these Vikings grew so big if they ate like this everyday, Ruby thought. She wondered what they would think of the dangers of cholesterol, then decided they probably didn’t live long enough to be worried about natural causes of death.

Ruby prodded Olaf in the back. “Give me something to eat, you selfish lout.”

Olaf looked at her as if he couldn’t believe his ears, then shook his head from side to side. “Methinks Thork has more of a handful than he realizes.” He turned back to the table but not before handing her an apple and a chunk of cheese, both of which she shared with Rhoda.

As she munched, she looked up to the dais where Thork ate heartily. The pig! She caught his eye just as he held a piece of bread in his right hand and was about to put a dollop of honey on it with his left hand.

Honey! His left hand!

Ruby smiled knowingly, and Thork dropped the honey ladle like a hot iron. He turned away sullenly, not wanting to be reminded of her strange knowledge of his body and tastes.

After the servants cleared away the food and tables, the people moved closer to the dais, wanting to hear the rest of Thork’s news. They cleaned their teeth with little slivers of wood. The ale and the wine flowed freely.

“So, I hear you go to Dublin, Sigtrygg,” Thork said.

“Yea. My grandfather, Ivar the Boneless, may he rest now in Valhalla, bred too many children and grandchildren. My cousins and I mistrust each other sorely. I left my Dublin throne in the hands of my cousin Godfred when I came to Northumbria four years ago on my cousin King Rognvald’s death, but I worry now that the power-hungry Godfred may be overfond of my domain.”

Thork nodded in understanding.