Page 24 of The Reluctant Viking

As Ruby portrayed the giant as a bumbling, stupid oaf, his tolerance level lowered, but he couldn’t protest because of the children. When Ruby lowered her voice to a deep growl, mimicking his voice exactly, and chanted, “Fee, fie, fo, fum. I smell the blood of an Englishman,” the children squealed madly, repeating the refrain three times, and Thork couldn’t help but smile indulgently.

She told the infuriating story three times. At the end, Ruby glanced at him hesitantly. They shared a smile that made Thork’s heart thud wildly. What was the witch doing to him?

Enough was enough! Thork stood abruptly to leave for the palace but pulled Ruby aside first. He whispered in her ear, “I concede this one small battle to you, wench, but do not mistake it for aught but a skirmish. You will pay, and pay well, in the end.” With that, he gave her a quick pinch on her deliciously rounded bottom and left, much pleased with her squeaky yelp of indignation.

Chapter Five

Ruby awakened to dawn light streaming through the unshuttered window in her room. Surprisingly, she’d slept soundly through the night. No dreams. No return to the future, either, she realized grimly.

Ruby used the chamber pot under her bed, next to which was stacked a neat pile of worn linen squares—the Viking equivalent of toilet paper. She’d always wondered about that.

Then she washed briskly with the cold water left in the pitcher on the table and dressed in the same clothes, hoping to slip out of the house for her usual early morning run. She might not be able to return to her normal life, but she hoped that adhering to some of her regular routines would put some stability in this shaky world she’d entered, keep her from going totally, over-the-edge crazy.

She tiptoed down the stairs without attracting the notice of the two thralls who already worked at the fireplace preparing the morning meal. The one named Lise ground grain into flour on a stone quern. Bodhil, the other female thrall, kneaded dough in an enormous trough and, without allowing time for leavening, rolled the batter into small loaves and placed them in long-handled, circular metal pans in the hot ashes of the fire.

Ruby slipped out the back door and did some leg bends to warm up. Then she saw Tyra walking out of the barn.

“My goodness, Tyra, what are you doing up so early? And all by yourself!”

“Nay, I am not alone. Helping Gudrod with the horses I am. And the new kittens. Mayhap you would like to see them?” she asked hopefully.

“Later, honey. Right now I’m going jogging.”

“Jogging? What is that?”

“Running. It is…” Ruby searched for a substitute word for exercise that Tyra would understand. Failing that, she said, “Running makes me feel good.”

“Oh. I like to run, too, but Mother says ’tis not comely for a girl to gallop around like a colt.” Tyra giggled and added, “But sometimes I cannot help myself.”

“Sweetheart, all little girls like to run. It’s natural. But where I come from women do it, too.”

“Really?” She gaped at Ruby in wonder. “Can I come with you?”

“Well…I suppose,” Ruby agreed hesitantly. Since they would only be gone a short time, Ruby assumed it would be all right. They’d probably be back before the family awakened.

Ruby jogged at a slow pace so that Tyra could keep up. She tried to follow the river as much as possible and steered away from the business district.

Even this early, the industrious inhabitants of Jorvik moved about the day’s business. Thralls and house-wives had already done their laundry and were laying the garments out to dry on bushes and lower tree limbs. Ruby wondered what Gyda would think of a suggestion to put up a clothesline. She didn’t want to overwhelm the Vikings with her modern ideas, although a clothesline hardly counted as an amazing invention.

When they had gone as far as some farms on the outskirts of town, Tyra showed Ruby a plot of land where Olaf kept farm animals. A beautifully maintained vegetable garden occupied a large part of the site, surrounded by an orchid of apple, peach, pear and plum trees. Heavy clusters of purple grapes weighed down a grape arbor.

Olaf’s family—in fact, most of the Vikings she’d seen thus far—were apparently very self-sufficient. Ruby found that domestic image hard to reconcile with her picture of Vikings as bloodthirsty villains riding the seas. Thinking of King Sigtrygg, though, Ruby concluded they were probably both.

Take Thork, for instance. No matter how noble the profession of Jomsvikings, when you got right down to it, he was a professional soldier. He killed for a living. Ruby’s stomach knotted at the thought.

Ruby and Tyra sat on the grass resting as they ate an apple and a peach each and watched the cows grazing contentedly nearby. Ruby spotted a small boy peeping from behind one of the trees. She smiled. Tykir had followed them from Olaf’s house.

“Tykir, come and join us,” Ruby invited warmly.

At first, Tykir hesitated; then he walked forward shyly. Ruby offered him some fruit. He took the peach without hesitation and bit into it hungrily.

Like father, like son, Ruby thought.

When he finished and boyishly wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, he complimented Ruby, “You tell good stories.”

“I’m glad you liked them.”

“Do I really look like your little boy?”