“Oh, good gods! That is all we need. Another war! Over women!”
“You worry overmuch. They promised to use stealth in making raids only in the night. In and out. No one need know who or what hit them.”
“Dost jest? I daresay those two lackbrains do not even know what the word
stealth
means. This is a disaster, pure and simple.”
“Now, give them credit. They fought good and well for Bear’s Lair,” Tork reminded him.
“That they did,” Brandr admitted. “But that does not relieve my concerns. Misguided as they may be, ’tis not a good time to be on the high seas. Look at the sky. I expect the ground will be snow-covered by morn.”
“Come, let me show you the work we have done in rebuilding the ramparts. And, truth to tell, I must accept some blame for your brothers’ misdeeds. I might have mentioned I liked my wenches with big bosoms.”
“You are a lackbrain, too.”
As they walked across the great hall and through the double doors to the bailey, Brandr sighed. “You are right. I cannot waste time gnashing my teeth over what Erland and Arnis might or might not be doing. ’Tis in the hands of the Norns of Fate by now. Besides, there is still so much that must needs be done here.”
“I and the other men are here to do your bidding.”
“And I do appreciate that.”
When they had all—minus a dozen Jomsvikings who returned to their fortress—come back to Bear’s Lair, a massive cleaning operation had taken place. The great hall very much looked the way it had under his father’s care, and his father afore him. Clean rushes had even been laid down yestermorn, complete with the sweet lavender his mother had gathered last spring. Every time he stepped forth, the scent wafted up, and he thought of her. It took great effort to make that mind picture be of her laughing self, as he’d last seen her, not the horrific image Sigurd had planted in his brain.
Even though the Sigurdssons had burned hither and yon around Bear’s Lair, Brandr’s main dwelling, of which his mother had been so fond, had survived fairly well. No doubt the villainous Gorm Sigurdsson, head of the clan, had hoped to keep it for one of his sons. More a castle in the Frankish style than a traditional Norse longhouse, it had fireplaces for cooking and warmth with chimneys, rather than the traditional open-hearth fires and smoke holes in the roof down the center of the longhouse. In addition, it had two floors, rather than one, and upper sleep bowers for several of the chieftain’s family, unlike most Viking dwellings, which relied on wall benches or closets for night slumber. Some of the wattle-and-daub longhouses with thatched roofs that surrounded the castle, as well as the outbuildings, had succumbed to the fires and were in the process of being rebuilt.
He also thought of his mother when he viewed her empty looms in the half-framed weaving shed. There was no wool for the women to spin this winter, because there were no sheep to provide the wool. They would purchase lambs and piglets after the spring thaw. Hopefully, his lackwit brothers would bring finished cloth and salted pork when they finally showed their fool faces.
The dairy shed was empty, too. Big wooden vats sunk in the ground should be filled with milk, and the wooden shelves should hold many rounds of cheese and slabs of butter.
He would have said that his heart ached for his mother and all those lost, but in truth he did not think he had a heart anymore. Mostly, he was just angry. And empty. All the time.
Much would he have to complain about when he attended the Althing at Trondheim this summer. King Olaf would not ignore his grievances this time, despite his call for peace amongst the Norse families.
Thank the gods that a dozen or so Jomsvikings had stayed behind to join his hird. Sven the Scowler. Dar Danglebeard. Baldr the Braggart. And other far-famed warriors. These were battle-keen men, but even they needed a respite betimes, and the long, dark winter, mostly spent indoors, was the best time to hone and repair weapons afore going a-Viking or off to war in the spring.
In addition, women, children, and housecarls who had somehow escaped before Sigurd’s attack returned to the keep. So the numbers here now approached more than a hundred . . . more than a hundred hungry mouths to feed. Nowhere near the three hundred that had called Bear’s Lair home at one time, but a goodly number nonetheless.
Aside from making a funeral pyre of the bodies when he’d returned from Trelleborg, he and his retinue had left immediately to pursue the Sigurdssons. On return, they had to prepare for the icy, indoor-bound months ahead.
As they walked across the bailey toward the timber palisades, they passed men and women busy at work. Some of them were dragging large deadwood trees toward the wood-sheds, where they would join the mountains of wood already chopped and stacked to provide not just for the cooking fires but for heat. It got colder than a polar bear’s ballocks inside the keep, and toe- and finger-dropping cold outside. In fact, Brandr had seen his breath when he went outside to relieve himself this morn.
No domesticated animals had been left at Bear’s Lair, so men had been sent out to hunt for boar, reindeer, elk, and small game, which were plentiful. Nets had been cast here and farther up the fjord to catch fresh- and saltwater fish, even more plentiful than the game. Eels, trout, turbot, lampreys, pike, herring, cod, sturgeon, and the like. Also large seabirds. Across the courtyard, he could see women already setting these out to freeze or dry. Even a giant brown bear, which had attacked one of his cotters, would provide much winter provender with its meat. Taller than two full-grown men, it had taken six hunters to bring the aggressive beast down. Right now, its fur was stretched out on wooden forms to cure and would eventually make its way into the lining of several cloaks or bed coverings.
At one time, bears abounded in this region, thus the name Bear’s Lair. Hundreds, mayhap thousands, of them had lived here afore men settled in. Even now, there were a good enough number to pose a threat to those who wandered far afield without weapons. They were mostly brown or black ones, but betimes one of the white ones wandered down from the frigid north.
Children gathered eggs of passing geese and ducks, storing them in straw. The grain needed to make manchet bread was weevily and about to run out. Missing also were spices, even salt, which could make the worst meal savory.
Sleep came hard for Brandr, and so he worked from dawn to well past dark, pushing himself more than any others. If he was too bone-weary to think, then that was well and good.
Liv stayed in her upper-story solar day and night. She spoke to no one. Her pain was Brandr’s pain, but he knew not what to do. And so he gave her the solitude she seemed to need.
About to climb the ladder up to the ramparts, Brandr stilled for a moment, staring off into the distance. A strange anticipation filled him, a mixture of apprehension and excitement. Like the blood-pounding sensation he often got afore battle, he sensed that something important was about to happen.
It was probably just the return of the trading longships, which was imminent.
What else could it be?
Chapter 4
Take five, and don’t you dare look at my butt . . .
“Don’t speak. Keep your face down. Pretend to be übershy,” CIA agent Natalie Zekus, a twenty-year, stone-cold-serious operative, advised as she helped Joy dress for her undercover role.
Rather, undress.
Joy nodded and continued to remove her BDUs until she was bare naked,
really
bare naked, standing in the middle of the room, under a bare, hanging lightbulb. Unlike candlelight, it did not enhance the body’s features. They were in a safe house somewhere in northern Germany, preparing for her covert role. The SEALs were in the other room, waiting for her. Those six Special Forces operatives, along with a pig load of CIA field agents, would be protecting her back.
Still, Joy was nervous. Of course she was. But it was exciting, too. Her first real assignment.
“Okay, now put these on.” Agent Zekus handed her a white bra and panties. They were not Victoria’s Secret sexy, nor were they cotton Grandma ones. “We had to come to a balance here. You wouldn’t be comfortable exposing yourself to all those men.”
You got that right.
“But this might be enough to satisfy their curiosity without complete exposure. No worse than a bathing suit, really.”
All those men?
Complete exposure?
Oh, my God!
Joy had a feeling this was going to be one of those Murphy’s Law moments, as in, if anything could go wrong, it would.
“But if you don’t show something, they’ll want you to take everything off. They still might.”
They still might.
Oh, my God!
Was this her worst nightmare, or what? Standing naked in a room full of men remarking on all her body imperfections. Like her big butt.
Agent Zekus stared at Joy in a speculative fashion. “Are you up for that possibility?”
Joy threw her shoulders back with determination. “Yes. Yes, I am.” It was the job the military had given her. It was for a noble cause, she reminded herself. Matt. She was here to vindicate Matt. And, dammit, she was not going to let a little thing like modesty defeat her now, especially since the CIA had lodged several protests over sending a newbie into this highly volatile situation.
Besides that, when she told her brothers last weekend, while home on liberty, that she was being sent on a covert mission, they had laughed with disbelief. That alone had prodded her to go forward, just to prove them wrong.
Once she’d donned the underwear, along with a pair of sandals, Agent Zekus examined her. “Now, before we cover you, I’m going to call Lieutenant Jones in here. Is that all right with you? He needs to know . . . uh, what he’s dealing with.”
Lieutenant Omar Jones was the half-Arab SEAL who would be pretending to offer her for sale to the terrorists. He came in, dressed in Arab attire—a long, white
thobe
with a white cap called a
taqiyah
on his head—and he’d somehow grown a beard since she’d seen him earlier today. He nodded a greeting, surveyed her half-nude body in a clinical manner she couldn’t find offensive, then nodded again. “Put the burka and veil on. We’ll be walking from here through the marketplace,” he told her. “But first, we’re going to do a couple of mock rehearsals in the other room to see how you hold up.”
Groaning, Joy said, “We rehearsed this scenario dozens of times back at the base.”
“This will be a dress rehearsal.”
“You mean, undress rehearsal.”
“For you, maybe. But wait ’til you see the guys. Sheiks R Us.” He grinned. “But listen, there’s still time to abort this mission. If you can’t handle ogling from a bunch of horny SEALs who are only playing a role, there’s no way you’ll be able to withstand a bunch of horny terrorists. Okay?”
Joy realized then that she needed to shape up. After all, she’d learned to treat her body as a well-honed instrument during WEALS training, just like the SEALs. No big deal! If Omar was having second thoughts about using her, then she wasn’t doing her job. And that was unacceptable.
“Remember,” Agent Zekus told her, “speak as little as possible. Keep your face down.”
Joy nodded. “The KISS principle. Keep It Simple, Stupid.”
“Yep. A blind date poses enough risk,” Omar added, referring to a mission with lots of unknowns. “No ad-libbing. Take no chances.”
“Whatever you do, don’t act angry,” Agent Zekus cautioned.
“Well, I’ve gotta disagree a bit. She can let her eyes show anger or resistance. Some men like the idea of . . . you know . . . taming a woman.” Omar blushed as he explained.
Agent Zekus went ahead of them and stood at the back of the room. Joy walked in slowly, Omar propelling her forward to stand in the middle of the room where there were two other heavily veiled women.
“Your chaperones,” Omar said, “to protect your virginity.”
She arched her eyebrows, not that he could see that through the eyeholes in her veil. She hoped they weren’t expecting her to be a virgin or that anyone would ask for proof.
The female chaperones, she soon discovered, were F.U. and Cage, heavily armed and wired. Well, thank God! That must mean that she would have three SEALs in the room with her when the flesh trading took place.
K-4, Slick, and Max, the only light-haired one of the bunch, with his hair and eyebrows dyed black, contact lenses in place, were in flowing white Arab robes like Omar’s. K-4 wore a red and white checked turban, à la Yasser Arafat. Slick’s turban was all white in the fashion bin Laden made famous. And Max just wore a
ghutra
, a square of cloth held onto his head with an
igal
, or black cord.
Indicating with a motion of the hand that she should stand in the middle of the room with the other two “ladies” behind her, Omar, hands gesticulating expressively, began to speak Arabic to Slick, K-4, and Max, all of whom were relatively fluent, as well. Joy was impressed with their language skills. The men’s eyes kept shifting to Joy, who watched surreptitiously, even though her face was downcast.