Page 11 of The Caged Viking

“What?”

“I have three horses for you, me, and…Bergliot.”

“What? We can’t be slowed down by some silly maid.”

“She comes,” Egil insisted.

“Stop thinking with your cock, you old fool.”

“She comes, and that is that.”

Hauk rolled his eyes. Later he would deal with Egil’s fanciful notion.

They discussed details for their escape then, until one of the passing housecarls looked their way with suspicion. With their plans set in place, Hauk was hopeful for the first time in months.

But then, early that evening, an unwelcome visitor changed everything.

* * *

It wasn’t Johnny Cash, but there were rings of fire…

It was three months before Kirstin saw her family as a whole again, and this time it was at her Uncle Rolf’s Rosestead village in Maine.

To mark the twentieth anniversary of the opening of the Viking re-enactment community, a week-long Norse Festival was being held. All of the extended family, which numbered more than fifty, stemming from the three Ericsson brothers who’d come from the Norselands to America…Geirolf, Jorund, and Magnus…were pitching in to help the resident staff of twenty-five handle the twenty thousand visitors who were expected from around the world.

Thankfully, term break at UCLA afforded Kirstin a full week away from her duties. After that, she’d be doing research for the next two months for a paper she was writing on “Viking Women in a War Society,” having taken a hiatus on her teaching schedule until the fall.

Maybe she’d even find material here among her Viking clan to add to her scholarly documentation. Madrene, for one, would have a thing or two to say about the popular misconception that Norse women stayed home docilely, “barefoot and pregnant,” while their men went off a-Viking. Madrene often likened herself to Lagertha, that warrior-ess or shield maiden who’d brought Ragnor to his knees in more ways than one, on the battlefield as well as the bed furs, in that TV series.

In fact, Madrene was dressed to the part today in tights covered by a fitted corset made of leather and intrica.te, lightweight chainmail coming down to her thighs. Slouch boots and etched bronze bracers on her forearms completed the picture, along with a round wooden shield decorated with a chasing dragon design and an authentic short sword, which she carried in a sheath attached to a wide leather belt. Her blonde hair had been done up Lagertha style, too, with a dozen elaborately woven tight braids on the sides and on top of her head, leading to a high ponytail, which swished as she walked…in a swagger, of course.

The eyes of her husband, Commander MacLean, who’d reluctantly dressed as a Viking warrior himself today, about bulged out every time she walked by. And he glared at any men who dared ogle her in her form-fitting attire. He could be heard muttering something that sounded like “Holy Thor!” but was probably “Hoo-yah!”

Kirstin was in period Viking dress, as well, though her gown, or gunna as it was called then, was more in keeping with some noble event in a Norse Jarl’s great hall, rather than a battlefield. An ankle-length, royal blue silk, it was heavily embroidered along the scooped neckline, wrists, and hem with a border outlined in metallic silver thread of a Valknut design using a repetitive pattern of three interlocking triangles, sometimes known as Odin’s Rune, against a lighter sapphire blue background. On her feet were flat ballet slippers; she’d chosen comfort over historical accuracy there. Her loose hair was pulled off her face into a single French braid that hung down her back to mid-shoulders, for comfort in the summer heat and humidity. Her only jewelry was the blue amber pendant around her neck, the birthday gift from her father, and a wrist watch which she could tuck into a side pocket of her gown before her talk, pockets being an anachronistic but handy addition she’d insisted on with her dressmaker.

In the old days, hard as it was for most people to believe, especially her students, pockets didn’t exist; they hadn’t been invented yet. Instead, men and women alike carried small leather or cloth bags tied to their belts, sort of medieval versions of fanny packs.

“Kirstin! Hey, wait up!”

Kirstin turned to see her sister Dagny rushing toward her from the parking lot.

“You made it,” Kirstin said with a sigh of relief.

“Am I too late?”

“No. Uncle Rolf changed the schedule. My workshop on Viking fashions doesn’t start for another hour.”

“Good.” Dagny looked her over and then asked, “How come you get to look all fancy and pretty, and I get the dowdy housewife outfit?”

“I’d hardly call that dowdy. Not with those amethyst brooches and all that gold.”

Dagny was dressed in the more traditional Norse woman’s everyday attire. A full-length gunna, in this case a deep violet color, was covered with a long, open-sided white apron, the straps of which were attached over each shoulder with brooches of deep purple stones in gold settings. A heavy gold chain, holding various household-type keys and precious objects, like a thimble and needle case, hung in a wide loop over her chest from each of the brooches. Her honey-bright hair was braided into a coronet atop her head.

“Did you come like that on the plane?” Kirstin laughed as she linked her arm with her sister’s and began to walk through the village fairground toward the great hall where her fashion seminar would be held.

“No. I changed in the airport ladies’ room. Not that I didn’t get lots of strange looks after that at the car rental desk. But then, crazies abound in airports these days.”

“Tell me about it! It’s like doing a gauntlet at some weird convention sometimes, especially in LA. Forget DragonCon or Comic-Con. Did you know there is a con called BlobFest for fans of that old Steve McQueen movie The Blob and BlizzCon for men who are over thirty and live in their parents’ basement. And get this, I heard last week about the World Toilet Summit and Expo for people who celebrate…well, pee-yew!”