Page 13 of The Caged Viking

Hours later, Kirstin was packing up the fabrics and display boards from her workshop in the great hall, a massive long house in the Norse style that could hold up to two hundred people, easily. Her seminar, held at one end of the hall, had gone exceptionally well. In fact, what should have been a one-hour talk before fifty attendees had run into almost two hours with the lively question-and-answer period afterward.

Her family members, true to form, had added humor to the event. Her father, for example, wearing a belted, thigh-length, leather tunic over tight leather braies, and his gray-threaded, light brown hair adorned with war braids sparkling with colored crystals, told the crowd that he was once known as “The Very Virile Viking.”

Then Madrene and Ian had come out together. With a twinkle in her blue eyes, Madrene proceeded to embarrass her husband, but had the audience howling with laughter, when she said that Ian had plans for her in that outfit later that night. Ian surprised his wife, though, when he told the crowd it was the other way around, that his wife was looking forward to being seduced by a fierce Viking warrior. Ian had winked mischievously after he spoke, in case anyone missed his meaning.

And then, Kirstin’s brother Torolf had added to the hilarity by announcing that he was the new breed of Norseman, a Viking Navy SEAL. Like Scots Vikings of old, he didn’t mind telling them what he wore under his short tunic. Nothing. His wife Hilda shook her head at his antics.

Afterward, most of her family and audience members had rushed off to the fields beyond the fairgrounds so they could witness Dagny’s kulning demonstration. Kirstin would have liked to go, too, but since her workshop had run over its time slot, she needed to get her stuff out of the way. Rosestead staff were scurrying about to set up the trestle tables and benches for the evening’s dinner and entertainment. And members of the public, those dressed in Viking attire and those all touristy in shorts and jeans and summer dresses, were coming in early to get the best seats.

Once she was done, she stood for a moment and was momentarily taken aback when she stared about the massive room. Its construction was so authentic, exactly like some royal hall, even a Saxon one, would have looked like at the turn of the century, the tenth century, that was. Made of half logs, not stone, with a turf roof. There were no central raised hearths like there would have been in a Norse household, used for cooking as well as heat. There were hearths at either end of the hall, and a number of raised daises, or high tables, for the “nobles” or special guests, instead of the usual single one. Meals were prepared in a separate kitchen building.

“Hey, sis! I thought you were going to stop by my booth.”

Kirstin turned to see her brother Storvald approaching. In many ways, he resembled their father when he was younger, especially in the belted Viking tunic over slim braies and with his light brown hair pulled off his face low on his nape in a long ponytail. The rimless glasses, which he wore for close work because of a longtime vision problem, didn’t detract at all from his attractiveness. He was only a year younger than Kirstin and had never been married.

“Sorry. I didn’t have time.” She made a little moue of apology. “How’s business?”

“Wonderful! That’s why I wanted to talk to you. The idea you gave me last spring turned out great. I must have sold a couple thousand dollars’ worth of arm rings and brooches and belt buckles with that design, just today.”

“Really? You mean the chasing hawks?”

“Uh-huh. I have a special gift for you, a belated birthday present, to thank you.”

She arched her brows in surprise and took the box from him which was imprinted with the Rosestead logo. In it were two arm rings in sterling silver with the intertwined hawk motif etched around all the sides. “Oh, Storvald! The design is beautiful. Exactly the way I pictured it in my dreams, although his arm rings were all tarnished and drab.”

“So, still dreaming about your Viking, huh?”

“Actually, no.” But then, she put on the bracelets, which seemly oddly warm, pushing them up until they fit snugly on her upper arms. She jerked when she felt sparks, almost like electricity where the metal touched her skin. And the room seemed to spin. But maybe it was her imagination.

“Kirstie! Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I got dizzy for a moment. Haven’t eaten since this morning, and it’s really getting hot in here.” Summer temperatures in Maine weren’t all that high, not like Southern California, but with all the people crowding inside, the air was getting thick, and someone’s perfume was rather cloying. Hopefully, the air conditioning would kick on soon.

“Come on outside. I’ll buy you a hot dog…a boar hot dog.”

She laughed and said, “No thanks. I can wait till dinner. You go ahead. And Storvald…” She gave him a quick hug. “…thank you so much for the gift. The bracelets are exquisite.”

“Arm rings,” he corrected her.

She smiled and said, “I’ll treasure them always.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sure,” she told him, and he went back outside to his booth which he’d left in the hands of one of their cousins.

But she wasn’t all right. Something strange was happening to her, and whatever it was seemed to emanate from the arm rings.

She tried to take them off, but they wouldn’t budge. She could understand her feet swelling from all the walking she’d done today around the village, but upper arms? That was a new one. They just wouldn’t move, and they were growing warmer and sending some kind of electrical impulses through her body. She felt lightheaded once again and leaned back against the log wall, closing her eyes.

When she opened her eyes, it was a good thing she had the wall against her back for support because she might have fallen over with shock. The hall was the same, but different. Larger. More elaborate, even with the rushes on the floor, unlike Rosestead’s oak planks. And there were antique weapons and tapestries on the walls. Only one high table, not the four that were at Rosestead. All of the people who milled about talking and laughing and drinking wore period clothing. Even the serving guys and girls, who were clearing away remnants of the evening meal, wore homespun garments, while there were exquisite silks and brocades and brushed leather on the upper classes, of which there were many.

Kirstin blinked several times to clear her head.

Now I’m dreaming in the daytime. Standing up. She tried to laugh, but it came out as a choke, especially when she pinched her arm to wake up and touched the hot metal of an arm ring.

Her eyes widened with sudden understanding. In her mind, she was picturing that popular Netflix series, The Last Kingdom, and how its creators had depicted a royal residence. What she was seeing before her looked very much the same. Not exactly. But similar.

She frowned as she studied the furnishings, the people, the clothing, the language.