The Pirate Bride (20 page)

Startled, the two guards jerked around and noticed them for the first time. “Foemen! Foemen!” one of the guards yelled, not recognizing him.

Oops, Thork had forgotten to mention his name.

Too late!

His father’s other men were rising, too. Out on the longship, torches were being lit. His brothers, naked as the day they were born, emerged quickly from one of the tents. All of them drawing weapons.

Which caused Medana to cut him with a killing glance, as if he’d led them into a trap. She let loose with one of her two-fingers-to-the-mouth whistles. A call to arms.

“Are you demented?” he barked at her.

Guthrom raised a battle cry. “Weapons! Weapons!”

Others were clamoring about in a rush to arm themselves.

“Death to the pirates! Hew them down!”

“An ambush . . . we are being ambushed!”

Guthrom was closest, so Thork roared at him, “Lower your sword, Guthrom! It is me, Thork.”

Guthrom didn’t hear him apparently because he not only failed to lower his sword but he grabbed a pike as well.

Selik was trying to pull on a pair of braies one-handed while he held a broadaxe in his other hand. And he was yelling, “They came from the sea. Must be underwater warriors. Water gods . . . and, bloody hell! Goddesses, too. Must be they are Valkyries.”

He heard Jostein mutter something about, “If these are Valkyries, I do not want to go to Valhalla.”

“Is it possible the Water Valkyries are the pirates who took Thork?” Guthrom asked no one in particular.

My family!
Thork thought in the midst of the chaos.
I should have expected that things would not go smoothly.
How anyone could mistake the women of Thrudr for Valkyries was beyond Thork.

In the confusion, one of the women shot out an arrow, and hit a member of his family high on one thigh. Guthrom! No wonder! He’d been standing there making a fool of himself with those ridiculous speculations about the women. But whoa! A little higher and his brother’s manhood would have been in peril.

Guthrom dropped his sword and gaped at the arrow sticking out from his thigh. The stunned expression on his face was one Thork would relish telling him about. Later.

The whole time Thork was shouting, “It’s me. Thork! You bloody idiots!”

Starri picked up several of his throwing knives. Thork recognized him immediately by his red hair and freckles, noticeable even in the half light. If Starri released even one of those knives, someone was going to be dead, so expert was his brother at this particular skill. Thork was about to rush forward and tackle him to the ground, but just then, a loud, booming voice bellowed, “Halt! Lower your weapons, you bloody lackbrains. It’s your lackbrain brother Thork!” Emerging from the tent was his father, who was tying the cords on his braies. Peeping out from behind him was his mother in a night rail, covered with a shawl over her shoulders.

Everyone froze in place, even the women. His father was an imposing figure. And, gods be praised, Thork could see by the torchlight that his father was remarkably the same since last he’d seen him, except for a little more white in his long, sleep-mussed hair. If he’d expected to see a graybeard bent over at the shoulders as some aged folks tended to be, or if he’d thought that old war wound would have deemed his father a cripple by now, Thork was sorely mistaken. And pleasantly so.

The frozen tableau seemed to go on for an hour, but it was probably only a moment before a feminine voice said, “Thork?”

It was his mother.

She took one step forward.

He took one step forward.

Like a whirling dervish, his mother then nigh flew through the air and launched herself at him. Lifting her off her feet into his embrace, he felt her tears against his neck “My son. My son,” she kept crooning as her hands patted his back, as if he were a babe and not a full-grown man. When she drew away from him to study his face, she chastised, “How could you have stayed away so long? Do not ever do so again.”

It was time to face his father, who’d come up behind Lady Alinor. He’d managed to don a belted tunic, and around his neck was the familiar chain with the hanging star-shaped amber pendant. From a young age, Thork and his brothers had been fascinated by the bloodred drop caught in the yellow stone centuries ago.

Nothing had changed and everything had changed.

“I should knock you to your sorry arse,” his father growled.

There was silence all around. Even the women pirates waited with bated breath to hear what the high jarl would say.

“You should,” Thork agreed.

“Are you well?”

“As well as can be expected having been captured by a
hird
of dangerous female pirates.” Thork was trying for a tone of levity.

His father did not smile, but instead scanned the crowd behind him, giving a nod to his friend Bolthor, then Finn, Jostein, Alrek, and Jamie, whom he also knew well. Henry and Brokk had never met Thork’s father.

“Wait here a moment,” Thork said to Medana. “Whatever you do, don’t kill anyone.”

She curled her upper lip with disdain at his lame attempt at humor in such a dire situation.

He went over to check on Guthrom’s wound, which turned out to be nothing more than a scrape. The arrow was already removed, and his mother wrapped a linen strip around the wound, while Guthrom winced and complained. “Stop being such a whineling,” his mother cautioned. She’d tended much worse injuries when they were boys.

Thork couldn’t wait then. He turned to Starri, the brother he’d been closest to, and said, “Sorry I was to hear of Dagne’s death.”

Starri did not acknowledge his sympathetic gesture. At first. Then he said, “You did not come for her funeral. Where were you when I was grieving?”

“In a Saxon prison,” Thork replied.

Starri laughed. “A likely story,” but then the two brothers hugged, and all was forgiven.

Thork took his mother by the arm and led her back to where his father still stood talking to Bolthor and Thork’s other men. Medana and the women still had their weapons in hand, but fortunately they’d heeded Thork’s order not to move. Thork went to stand beside Medana, as a show of support. His mother went to his father’s side and was chatting softly with Bolthor.

“Can I assume you have composed a saga to tell me about this happenstance?” his mother asked Bolthor.

Bolthor beamed. “Several, in fact, m’lady.”

Tykir turned his attention back to Thork. “I am curious to learn how a presumably fierce Viking warrior could allow himself to be captured by females, and how you all seemed to rise out of the sea just now. Are they witches, as well?”

Thork felt Medana stiffen beside him. He squeezed her arm in reassurance.

His father’s eyes latched on to his hand on his captor’s arm. His father didn’t miss a thing.

“At low tide, a narrow strip of land emerges, connecting Small Island with that larger island behind us. See the tunnel that allows entrance, but only for an hour or two each day, depending on the tides.”

His father glowered at Thork . . . and sighed. Before Thork could respond, his father pulled him into a big hug that nigh broke his ribs and had him standing on the tips of his toes. His father was only slightly taller than his sons, but he was massive in the breadth of his chest and the size of his arm muscles. He would not let go for a long time and then only when he said against Thork’s ear, “I am much grieved with you, son, and you will pay for your sins, believe you me. For now, though . . .” He seemed to gulp. “I missed you.”

When finally released, Thork saw tears in his father’s eyes, and that, if nothing else, caused shame to envelop him. “I will never stay away again.”

His father’s fierce expression softened. “Now, introduce us to these captors of yours.”

“This is Medana, the leader of the Thrudr sanctuary.” He winked at Medana to give her a nudge of assurance.

She scowled at his wink.

“She is queen, so to speak, of Thrudr, that mountainous island over there,” Thork continued, knowing that Medana would hate him giving her that title. “ ’Tis where I have been living nigh on three sennights now.”

His father studied the island and the tunnel opening, understanding coming gradually to him.

“I still think they came up from the water,” Selik said from behind them.

“Spare us your youthling wisdom,” his father snapped.

Selik just grinned.

His father gave his full attention to Medana now. With a sweeping glance of condescension, he said, “The Sea Scourge, I presume.”

“Precisely.” Thork motioned her forward.

Her chin was raised high as she stepped up beside him and in an icy voice of equal disdain said, “Welcome to Thrudr, Jarl Thorksson.” In the Norse culture, men took their father’s first name as a surname. Thork had been named after his grandfather Thork, Tykir’s father. “I have heard much about you, as well as your good wife,” Medana continued, nodding at his mother, whose jaw had dropped long ago and continued to gape open.

Catching herself, Lady Alinor spoke up, “I look forward to knowing you better, Medana. Is that permissible for a captor and the captive’s mother?”

His father snorted his opinion as to what would be permissible or not permissible when he was around. “They are pirates, not bloody Valkyries.”

“But I thought—” Selik started to say.

“Hush!” Guthrom said, nudging Selik with an elbow.

“Permissible? Since when, wife, must we extend courtesy to outlaw Norsewomen?” his father grumbled.

Lady Alinor gave her husband a sweet smile, at the same time warning, “Watch your fool tongue, husband.”

Thork also introduced Medana to his three brothers, who by now were much more interested in the women. They were all fully clothed now, but not before the ladies of Thrudr had gotten an eyeful. Plus, most of Guthrom’s one leg was visible through the long slit in his braies.

“And these are some of the women of Thrudr,” Thork went on. “First off, this is Gudron, mistress of military.” That should be obvious to one and all, with the large woman dressed in full battle gear, including a leather helmet, chain mail, and both a short sword and a pike.

“That is a nice sword,” Selik commented. “Is it pattern welded?”

Tykir reached over and swatted his youngest son aside the head before Gudron could reply.

“What? All I said was—”

“And this is Bergdis, mistress of buildings and woodworking,” Thork interjected before his father and Selik got into a wrestling match. Not an uncommon occurrence. The short woman with frizzy red hair carried an axe, possibly the one Bolthor had been using for firewood. She smiled, showing a space where a front tooth was missing. “Bergdis is an impressive rower when the women of Thrudr go a-pirating.”

“With those shoulders, she could no doubt pull a longship herself,” his father muttered under his breath.

“Delightful to meet you, Bergdis,” his mother spoke up before his father said any louder what he was thinking.

“Solveig is the mistress of shipwrighting, having been trained by her father, who was an expert shipwright.”

Solveig beamed at Thork for the compliment, and for not having mentioned how long it was taking to build their own longship.

“Impressive,” Tykir admitted grudgingly.

“Liv is the mistress of healing. Freyja, mistress of hunt and fish. Lilli, mistress of indoor stewardship . . . cooking, laundry, and the like. Do not be scowling so, Henry. Everyone knows you have first dibs on the fair Lilli.”

“Good gods! The pirate women have been seducing you men,” his father remarked with disgust.

“Not all of us!” Jostein and Bolthor said as one.

“They want our man seed and that is all,” Alrek revealed, then ducked his shoulders when he saw the attention he had garnered.

His mother arched a brow at Thork, wondering exactly what he had done, probably assuming he had spread his man seed far and wide. Nay, just in one womb. Possibly.

“By the by, Bolthor,” his mother said. “Your wife is looking for you. Lady Katherine sent a longship to Hedeby to see if you might be there.”

“I am dead. Dead, dead, dead,” Bolthor moaned, putting two hands to his heart. “If she finds out where I am, on an island of women, I might as well just lie down and die.”

Thork grinned at Bolthor’s dramatics. “Finally, this is Elida, mistress of threads and an archer-in-training. She is the one who managed to shoot you in the thigh, Guthrom.”

Guthrom cut a scowl at Elida, promising retribution later.

Elida just gave him an embarrassed wave and confessed, “I was aiming for your belly.”

Guthrom exhaled with a loud whoosh of disgust.

And his father chuckled, “Good thing she did not hit those manparts you are always bragging on, Guthrom.”

“Then I would ne’er have any grandchildren from you,” his mother added, also with a chuckle.

“Not to fear! You could have hired yourself out as a eunuch in one of those eastern harems,” Starri offered.

“You always said you wanted to check out some harems, Guth.” This from Selik, who had grown into a man since Thork had been gone.

Guthrom was not amused by any of it.

That was the way with his family. A conversation started on one subject and always veered off in five other directions.

The women, Medana included, were astonished by this interplay among his family members. Little did they know that it was the norm, nothing unusual.

“What is all this ‘mistress this’ and ‘mistress that’ about?” his mother wanted to know.

Medana explained, “When I first came here ten years ago, there were only a dozen of us. Now, we are almost two hundred women.”

His father, Guthrom, Starri, and Selik exclaimed as one, “Two hundred women!” Then they turned as one to Thork as if he’d personally amassed such a large gathering of females.

“Go on,” his mother encouraged Medana while scowling at her three sons and husband for the interruption.

“We established the village on Thrudr, through the tunnel there. Over the years, more and more women joined our refuge. From the beginning, we decided that everyone would be equal on this island and everyone must work. Thus, we gave each job, no matter how small, a title. Mistress of this or that.”