One of them, Jamie the Scots Viking, spoke up now. “Salt air gives me a rash, Wulf. I canna stop itching. A bath would be welcome to me braw body.” Jamie’s deep, rolling brogue was known to cause women to melt, according to his own assessment, and men to cringe ... like fingernails scraping on a rock.
“I was going to tell you about that. Your braw body is ripe, m’friend,” offered Thork Tykirsson of Dragonstead, the most untamed, outrageous Viking ever born to ride a longship. Thork pinched his nose as he spoke, giving his voice a nasal whine.
Jamie elbowed Thork, who elbowed him back. This went on for several long minutes. You’d think they were youthlings instead of grown men of twenty and more who happened to be seasoned warriors. Her father would not have entrusted her to their care if they were not. When her eyes connected with Wulf’s, she could tell that he was thinking the selfsame thing.
But then Alrek, another Viking hersir, tripped over a coil of rope and got thrown betwixt the two dumb dolts at the ship’s rail. The young man was not known as Alrek the Clumsy for naught. Luckily his sword was still in its scabbard and he had not stabbed himself in the leg, as he’d done more than once in the past. Or worse, had launched himself over the rail into the Sea of Marmosa. Drifa’s sister Tyra, a woman warrior, had trained Alrek herself, and had scars to show for it.
Ignoring Wulf’s continuing glower, Drifa said, more to herself than anyone else, “I cannot wait to see the Imperial Gardens.”
“Huh?” Alrek said after straightening. “Me, I want to go to the chariot races at the Hippodrome. I heard they have teams of four colors who compete against each other for grand prizes. Gold coins usually, but betimes a solid silver helmet. Mayhap I could enter a race, though I have no use for a solid silver helmet. Mayhap it could be melted down.”
Alrek’s words seemed to stun them all. Alrek on a chariot with spiked wheels was a horrifying prospect.
“Och! I prefer to watch the dancing girls in the Pleasure Palace. ’Tis a fact, fair maidens, no matter the country, like to see what I wear under me pladd. Not you, of course, m’lady.” This from Jamie, of course, who winked at her with mischief in his dancing eyes. He wore the traditional léine and brat—the léine being a saffron-colored shert that hung down to his knees, leaving bare his hairy legs, and the brat or pladd, which could only be described as a blanket attached at the shoulder like a mantle and wrapped around his body, leaving his sword arm free. It was secured with a thick leather belt around his narrow waist. Quite a sight! Especially when he now flicked up the back of the strange Highland garment to demonstrate, thus exposing the hard globes of his buttocks to the rowers who sat on their sea chests along both sides of the ship. Not to her, of course, but to everyone else.
While the crew burst out in laughter, and Wulf was still muttering about the reference to “fair maidens” in a “Pleasure Palace,” Thork put in his two pence. “Forget dancing. ’Tis other body activity I have a yen for.”
“A yen?” Jamie hooted. “Doona be daft, man. ’Tis more like a full-blown, goat-worthy lust.”
“Goat? What goat?” Alrek wanted to know.
“Bloody hell! Have you men no sense, speaking so coarsely in front of the king’s daughter?” Wulf chastised the lot.
The three hersirs ducked their heads and mumbled their apologies.
Addressing Drifa, Wulf said, “I have ten years on these lackwits, but betimes it feels like fifty.”
It was true that Wulf appeared much more serious than the others, but she knew that they shared a hatred for the Saxon king Edgar, fed by a long list of personal injustices and downright crimes. Rumor was that they had sworn a blood vow two years ago to make the monarch’s life as miserable as possible, which they did by acting as outlaws on land and pirates on sea, doing whatever they could, barring murder, to harass the king.
Still addressing her, Wulf added, “We can spend three days here, at most, if we want to intercept any of the royal shipments being sent for Edgar’s coronation.” Wulf spoke freely to her of their “illegal” acts because he knew that her father supported him wholeheartedly.
“Coronation! Pfff!” exclaimed Jamie. “The scoundrel has been king for more than ten years now. Why he needs a crowning at this point is beyond my ken.”
“Money, pure and simple,” Thork proclaimed. “It always comes down to more coin and treasure for the royal coffers, which give him more power to continue with his brutal acts.”
“Actually, he could not be crowned afore now. ’Twas a penance handed down by Archbishop Dunstan for one of Edgar’s many lecherous sins. No crown on his head for ten years. Plus he picked a time when all the rulers of surrounding countries could come pay him homage ... or else.” Alrek might be clumsy but he had a sharp head on his shoulders, in Drifa’s opinion.
“I wish my penances were so simple. I would gladly go without a crown ... or a hat for a few years,” Thork complained. “One little lecherous act and my family has exiled me ’til I get my life in order.”
Many sets of eyes turned on him.
“All right. Several lecherous acts.”
“We can attack Edgar where it hurts, but only if we are in time to waylay some of those emissaries.” Wulf was back on the subject of his continuing gripe.
Drifa felt her face bloom with color. “This side trip to deliver me to Miklagard was not a side trip at all, I am well aware, but I had no idea how long it would take. It has caused you a huge delay.”
She suspected that her father had issued a request that was more like a threat. Not quite “Do this or die,” but close. “It is always good policy to have friends in high places,” she asserted defensively.
“Me ... I prefer friends in low places,” Thork said, “if you get my meaning.” He waggled his eyebrows at her with exaggerated licentiousness.
Wulf took her by the elbow and steered her away from the others. “It’s not too late, Drifa.”
Drifa was not offended by Wulf’s using her name in such a familiar fashion. She’d known Wulf ever since her sister Breanne married his best friend, Caedmon. Although he’d only been to Stoneheim this one time, and then just to pick her up, she’d met him on occasion in the Saxon lands at family gatherings.
“I worry about abandoning you in the middle of that snake pit court in the Golden City.”
“You aren’t abandoning me.”