CHAPTER FIVE

What tortuous logic had decreed that Malice should huddle here on scorched, blackened earth, beneath a grey sky, emptied of birdsong, emptied of everything? Even the sun’s rays? Her body shivering in the wind gusting up from the silver river? The ground hard underneath her? Every pore, every inch of skin not just covered in a film of grime, but reeking of smoke? She sighed, gathering her knees tighter against her forehead. A logic that obviously wanted to punish her for all her misdeeds by visiting thunderbolts, smoking earth and Vikings upon her, that was what. Agnes should be bringing her hot tea and burnt, buttered crumpets by now. That she wasn’t didn’t mean Malice couldn’t conjure it. Melting butter droplets. Smooth and golden, even if the rest was awful. And the tea, her sworn start to the day. Hot and heady with a dash of orange zest and tangy lemon, served in her favourite bone china rose-leaf patterned cup.

“Water? Frog’s piss more like. Oh . . . all right, I’ll drink it. Might as well. Don't look like I'm going to get nothing else."

She shrunk down further. Oh God, oh God. Obviously she was in hell. She might as well stop kidding herself and face it. But when the ropes on her wrists bit through her skin and blood trickled down her neck from the gash on her forehead, must Gentle be her extra special present from the gods? After all, not all the women whose marriages she’d wrecked were nice women. Some were quite horrible. Like this one.

At least the whey-faced hippopotamus hadn’t spotted her and started on her again. Of course she’d prefer hot tea and crumpets served on her favorite bone china plate but one must be thankful for any mercy, even one so pitiful and miniscule, her eyes stung to consider it. Although her arms felt as if they’d been shattered in twenty six places, she hugged her knees even tighter. She wouldn't want to be recognized, now would she?

If she said so herself, chopping off her hair last night had been something of a stroke of absolute genius on her part. Of course she’d have sooner swallowed a river of crocodiles than do it, but it had its advantages. Yes, the Vikings may have burst into the infirmary—another stroke of genius to hack off her skirt and petticoat in the blind confusion, find a tunic to bundle on herself. Yes, they may have done all the things Vikings do—at least, she supposed they had, she’d been too busy making out she was one of them to notice—they hadn’t done them to her. Everything else perhaps, from tying her hands, to dragging her across the burning grass and throwing her down here with such force she’d split her head as she’d crawled out of their way, but that was it. But, at least Gentle, slurping whatever it was she was slurping, from whatever it was she slurped it from, didn’t recognize her. Small mercies. Heaven sent. Her sacrifice had not been in vain even if she was almost bald.

It was especially worth it now the smoking, blackened turf resounded with heavy footfalls and the shadows lengthened beneath the coiling mist rolling up from the river because the last thing she wanted was Gentle piping up and saying she was a woman.

Ignoring the cold claw of cramp encircling her stomach, she inched her gaze higher. Then she huddled behind her aching knees again. Not just shadows. Silver helmeted shadows trampling the charcoaled ground of what had been the church floor last night. My God.

Last night was so real to her. Now these Vikings approached. Shouldn’t she stop kidding herself she was in hell?

If it was somehow possible—and let’s face it, her palms were black from pinching herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming—she had landed in Viking times, then it must also be somehow possible to land back in her time. A kiss could not possibly control this. Yes. She had sometimes seen her mother kissing different men but she hadn’t always vanished. There must be some kind of portal, a hallowed spot in Cyril’s bedroom that she’d passed through. Well? So the thing was to find it here and pass back the first chance she got.

“The pick of the crop, drottin. Just what you ordered.”

Malice closed her jaw with a snap. Unlike their other guards who’d muttered things she didn’t understand, this one spoke English. Like a native. Imagine that? There were people here like her? People who did anything to make money? Kissing Cyril had obviously raised such unfortunate things in her, she’d actually thought a spot of pillage might not go amiss, especially with a Viking as attractive as the one in that picture in Aunt Carter’s book, too.

“Just what I ordered? What’s this? And this?” Another voice gritted. “A crop of crows? I’ve seen dead cows that were better looking, you maggot-faced weasel. You’ve sold us short. How about I cut off your nose to even the score?”

“P-please drottin, put me down, I beg you. I swear I never sold you anything.”

“You can say that again.”

“T-they cut off their noses before. Before any of us here could stop them.”

“Horse piss!”

“It’s not, good drottin. It’s –“ Thump. "Thank you for putting me down."

A heap of glinting baubles lay two or three yards to her left. Was that the spot where the portal was? Or was it nearer to the blackened church door? A yard to the right maybe? The thing was, she couldn’t afford to be mistaken. Not when this Drottin was dragging up chins nearby. She hadn’t taken the trouble to disguise herself as a boy to be thought useful because she had a mouth. And a nose. She couldn't afford to be taken from here either.

“Faen take it, rasshol, this one hasn’t even got a mouth.”

“True. They cannot all be perfect, drottin. But think of the bliss. No nagging. And so long as they have other places to put it . . . On a dark night . . . Who is to care . . . ?”

“Is that what you think, Faen take it and you? Sell them, you troll-toothed poker? I can’t sell them. Who’s going to want to buy a useless bunch of fire-faggots with faces like this? Well? They’re worthless and you know what that means.”

“Bioa.” Another man spoke. In what? Norse? Footsteps thudded towards her. “Hverr of sa—”

“Anglo-Norse, Ari, so these rat-faced dogs can understand us. And know when we’re going to slit their lying throats. As in right now.”

“Sorry, Sin.”

Malice’s heart somersaulted in her chest. Sin? How interesting. She edged her glance up a notch. Slim-hipped, long-legged, a leather tunic clinging to his perfect shoulders and chest, his wrists encased in leather bands. Every article of clothing drably indistinguishable from the others and yet all the more distinguishable because he wore them. Sin? Well, maybe if she could see his face but his helmet covered it. “What about that one?”

“What one?”

“This one here. Look . . .”

She dropped her gaze. Oh God, please no. She couldn’t afford to leave this place

“Troll’s teeth, Ari . . .” Unless he thought she was nice ..? “Are you mad? She’s a cart horse.”

“Oh, some men like big women, good drottin.” The maggot-faced weasel was all crawling deference. “Think of all that’s to be gotten hold of in the dark, especially by a fine War-Lord like you.”

Oh God, oh God, oh thank God. They meant Gentle although it didn’t mean she was in the clear. She must get out of here. But if she ran, if she ran now, when she didn’t know where she was running to and she could only hope whatever force had brought her here, spirited her away again, what would happen if it didn’t?

This Sin's patience was hardly that of a saint. Then there was the cart horse sitting next to her. Discretion was not a word to apply to her.

“Are you meaning the pitch dark?”

“Better the pitch dark than with some pitiful virgin in the light. Think of sparing your bride by slaking your lusts . . . On this ‘un, d-drottin.”

“I’d sooner be celibate.”

“But Ari now . . . wouldn’t Ari here, be interested? Eh? She’s got a nose. She’s even got a mouth.”

“Ari?”

“Ari noticed her, didn’t he? Out of all them women here. His eyes were driven straight to her. Cupid’s arrow I’d ven—”

“I’m a very good cook, sir. All plain food but very, very good.”

Malice's jaw dropped. Did Gentle want to go with the Vikings, or something? Not only was she standing up remarkably well to this exchange, she didn’t sound even remotely fazed by the insults.

“Poisoned by your own fat hand? Is that it? No. I’d sooner feast on Maggot—”

“Sin, what about this one here? Look at these teeth, will you? Think of the gold we’ll get for him at auction.” Auction? Her? She didn’t have to fight to muffle the squeal because she couldn’t squeal. Ari's fat fingers had into her mouth.

“Shit! The little bastard’s bit me. Frigg’s wig, let go of my hand, you little—“

“Like I said, sir, I’m a very good cook. I done it for all the ladies in the priory. And they never once complained, nor experienced the slightest sign of upset …”

Oh God, oh God, the pity wasn't Gentle opening her big mouth, the pity was Malice opening hers, especially now the breath charged like a bull down Ari's nose and he stared at the row of scarlet pinpricks. As for the downside of pretending to be a man, when it wasn't as if she needed Gentle's help anyway? She braced.

“Ari . . . Ari . . . No . . ." Sin leapt forward impressively. He impressively staggered several feet backwards, as Ari smashed into him, steel flashing as he straightened and yanked his sword from his belt too. My God, was she wrong to think Vikings didn’t have a shred of decency about them? That, despite not knowing she was a woman, he was duty bound to protect her? “Corpses don’t fetch any gold. Kill him and we’ll get even less.” No. No, she wasn’t. “You know that better than me.” He fumbled for the dagger hanging from his belt. “Now, I don’t know about you but I’d say we’ve been here long enough. You . . .”

Dread careered along her veins instead of blood. Did he mean her?

“Yes. You, boy.” He did. “Even if we’ve been saddled with a lot of fish-bellied, useless-guts I can’t sell, what’s attached to my belt? The bag there. Get up and get it for me. Hurry!”

Right. Not something she was leaping up and down in what was left of Madam Faro’s shoes, waving her pantaloons, about. But if she didn’t get that bag. . . There was no didn’t. As it was she was one of the few sitting here with a face. Imagine if they discovered she’d a woman’s body to go with it? No. It might be that she got the bag for him and he set her free? How golden an op portunity was that? Besides how would he know she was a woman?

Ignoring the pins and needles--in fact the screaming agony--in her thighs and calves, she staggered to her feet and gingerly reached out her bound hands. The bag was tied on his right hip. Sort of anyway. Sort of quite tightly too. In fact so damned tightly she yanked it.

Even then it was stuck fast. Was that why he turned his head and his sky blue eyes looked down into hers? At least she assumed they were sky blue. It was hard to tell actually with that helmet covering his face but she didn't want to upset him, which was why she forced the frozen contours of her own into a smile. A ghastly parody of one.

This was toe-bunchingly embarrassing after all. Men’s waists and belts were not things she touched much as a rule. And he did . . . he did have rather nice buttocks, which her fingertips had sort of nudged once or twice, by mistake. Look, her wrists were tied together after all and the bag wouldn’t budge. How could she help it? She wouldn’t like him to think it was for some other reason.

She lowered her gaze. Another tug. Three actually. And a throat clear. As if she was doing this on purpose. Finally. The string gave. Thank God. She wouldn’t have liked him to have had to get it himself when this was her big chance to be of use.

Actually? The bag was quite heavy. In fact it weighed a ton. It clinked too. Just imagine all the shoes she could buy with this. Any number of pairs actually. In fact the whole shop. Think of the Chinese silk fans too. In fact think of keeping herself in shoes and Chinese silk fans for the rest of her life, especially now she ese silk fans for the rest of her life, especially now she couldn’t lay a foundling on Cyril. Well, she could, but . . . Damn arrived here in everything she’d been holding and wearing, hadn’t she? Suppose she ran now? With this? Right into the portal? Before he could do anything about it?

“Give it to Maggot-face.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Go on.”

My God. Did he know what she was thinking? How many times she’d longed for such a thing? The money that was. Not his buttocks. She raised her chin in time to catch another sky blue glance.

“Maggot-face. Now.” When all she had to do was run . . ? “I won’t tell you again.” “Give me that.” Her dreams of riches, of security and shoes were interrupted by Ari rudely snatching the bag from her. The sheer pity of it tore her heart when a second ago he and Ari had been at such daggers drawn, he’d asked her to get the bag rather than put down his sword. “All right, Pot-licker, what’s your orders?”

“Firstly you, yes you, whoever you are . . . get back over there to where you were before. Go on.”

Oh, how shocking to have been so greedily tempted by worldly things when the opportunity to be of use had been so golden. Still, if he was busily handing out orders right, left and center, she was in with a chance to escape. It was better than nothing. All she need do was tiptoe slowly, slowly, away.

“Secondly.”

She paused, hovering on one foot. At least, she hoped it was. her chance. Unless there was some other bag he wanted her to get?

“And this isn’t an order, it’s advice, whoever told these women—you women—to disfigure yourselves, had better own up now.”

Her scalp froze midway through another step. Of course it wasn’t her. But it wouldn’t be the least surprising if Gentle opened her big mouth and said it was, then all the eyes would be on her and she’d never escape. She dropped down onto knees and averted her gaze. In the circumstances crawling might be easier.

“Because that woman will be coming with me.”

She smothered the shiver of apprehension that stole like the roiling mist over her whole body. His voice only rose a notch for silence to fall? Goodness. Unless? Unless all eyes were riveted on her trying to crawl backwards?

“She owns up and those with damaged faces can go free.”

Go free? She wanted to batter her head off the ground. To think if she had cut off her nose she would be free to go. To wander about here and find her way back to Cyril’s bedroom, where of course, her nose would be intact. Why had she been so vain and silly about it?

“What’s wrong, ladies? Did the knife steal your tongues as well as your noses? Well? Don’t make me choose, because believe me, I will.”

Choose? His footsteps prowled closer, so the toes of his brown leather boots were just beneath her nose. Steel clinked as he . . . what? Edged off his helmet with a deep sigh? Only she didn’t want to look up and see.

“I need a bed slave.”

As she stared at the blackened blades of grass inches beneath her nose, Malice did her best to stop her jaw from dropping but it did it anyway. Had she ever heard of such a thing? No, although she had a fairly good idea what it entailed. How shocking was that? Worse than anything Strictly had ever done.

Beside her, Gentle lumbered to her feet. “Sir—”

“Yes. I know. You’re a cook—”

“Yes, I am a cook—”

“Who cooks for all the good sisters here. Well, that’s good to know but I don’t need a cook.”

“I’m the cook who gave that order.”

Malice swiveled her head around. Then she swiveled it back. How dreadful to be so desperate. Last night she’d been desperate too, in all kinds of ways. But to go telling a man you’d done something you hadn’t, in order to be his bed slave . . . well . . . she had never been that desperate where a man was concerned.

Of course the poor soul had a face only a mother could love. And maybe not at that. This was certainly proving interesting especially now Sin’s feet halted.

“You? Gave that order?”

“Gentle . . .” Finally Mother Bede spoke, in a honeyed tone too. Was she going to offer herself instead? It hardly mattered, so long as it wasn’t Malice herself. Her sights were on the portal.

“Gentle, you cannot take the blame. It is a sin to lie.”

“Oh I’m not lying, Holy Mothership. You are.”

What? What was this man? Handsome? That women were queuing to get into bed with him? She lifted her head, squinting through the mist.

Holy Mothership. Handsome? Handsome didn’t begin to cover it. Her gaze widened and her mouth dropped open. Cyril was handsome but he didn’t have this man’s raw appeal, the air of confidence and authority that surrounded him.

Take me. Anything me. Her mind shamefully whispered, a pound of waves seeming to crash over her senses at the sight of his perfectly dazzling figure picking his way among them, the fine drizzle of rain dampening the soft strands of his gilt, windswept hair, beneath which his sky blue eyes glinted, the leather scabbard belt criss-crossing his chest. Not that the leather scabbard belt criss-crossing his chest was of any significance to her, except that it clung to his sculpted chest and his sculpted chest was something she wanted to cling to too in that second.

Shock choked her body. For goodness sake, what was wrong with her? How could she regret chopping her hair, regret cutting her gown to shreds so she sat here in her drawers—her best ones—but even so, just look at them, torn, tattered and muddy?

These sky blue eyes, that sensuous mouth were what was wrong with her. And plainly it was wrong with all the other women here whose hands were raised who were saying it was me. I did it. A bed slave? A bed slave with pleasure. And how the blazes could she be a bed slave? She didn’t know the first thing about it. No. But she could always learn.

“For Odin’s sake, Sin, put the helmet back on,” Ari chuckled. “What would Snotra say?”

“Nothing, if she knows what’s good for her.”

Snotra? Who was Snotra? Someone who wanted a marriage wrecked in which case she would be very obliging? At no charge either. Sometimes there were services you gave for free. This was one of these times. How could she have been so stupid as to pretend to be a boy?

Because she didn’t belong here. Had she forgotten that? Well? That little patch of scorched earth right there in front of the smoking wood of what was once a door, was where she belonged. A million miles and as many stars away from here. Any minute. Any minute now. Even despite the fact she’d only one heel on her shoe.

Sin’s boot toed the turf. “But, do you know something? I can’t stand arguments, so put them both on the Raven. The three there too.”

“What did I say to you, drottin?” Maggot–face rubbed his weasely, doubtless festering palms together, the least of her troubles now her gaze was riveted on that spot. “About big women?”

“I don’t trust you, Haddon. You’ve sold us short with this contingent. But my new household needs a cook, a farmer, and of course, women. The rest can go to Jorvik.” Hell in other words? “The ones worth selling that is. Load the boat.”

“Of course, drottin. And a pleasure it has been doing business with so mighty a War-Lord as your good self, yet again. I said to my wife only yesterday these Norse War-Lords, these Norse drottins, that is-”

“Your pleasure because I’d sooner eat cow shit than do it again.” How revolting. Still, thank God, the mighty Drottin’s back was not only turned … finally, so was every other man’s back here. Now was her chance, her only one, even in these shoes to ignore what dried her throat and coated her palms, to leave this place.

“Ulric. Foera inn, I mean, bring the woman on the end.”

The woman on the end? She glanced to her left. There wasn’t anybody. Then she glanced to her right. Then she didn’t glance anywhere at all because then she was yanked to her fancy Madam Faro shod feet.