Page 90 of The Caged Viking

“Um…yea,” he answered tentatively. “And so?”

“What plans have ye made?”

“Huh?”

“What kind of yule feast are ye plannin’? Will ye be wantin’ the hall decorated? Gifts fer all the children and coins fer all the Haukshire folks? How ’bout guests? Will ye be havin’ any yule guests?”

“Huh?” he said again.

Frida rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath.

“What did you say?”

She mumbled something again.

“Come now, Frida. You’ve never been afraid to speak your mind before.”

Frida clapped her hands together over the table where she’d been doing something with oat flour, probably making the flat, circular breads with the hole in their centers, to be stored on a pole by the hearth, once baked. They were much favored by the Norse people because they required no leavening. Then she put her hands on her hips, and turned to glare at him. “If ye’d quit feelin’ sorry fer yerself, and moved yer arse to see what yer people need, ye wouldn’t be dawdlin’ over the yule feast. Moonin’ about like an orphaned calf, ye are.”

If he wasn’t in such a bad mood, he would laugh at the amusing picture she made. A woman of more than fifty years who was a head shorter than him, skinny as a broom handle, with flour dusting her face and hair. Even the brooches that held together the shoulder straps on the long, open-sided apron were covered with flour. She picked up a long ladle and shook it at him like a weapon. Was she threatening to knock him on the head with it if he didn’t heed her words? ’Twould be like a puppy facing off with a bear.

“Move my arse, huh?” He arched his brows. “Have I not repaired all the cotters’ homes? Have I not filled all the storerooms with more provisions than anyone has seen at Haukshire in many a year? Have I not been a fair judge in matters of dispute? Are we not at peace with our neighbors, or leastways not at war?”

She waved the ladle dismissively. “Yea, ye are to be commended fer doin’ more than yer father did.”

“Thank you so much for your wonderful compliment!”

“Doan be plyin’ me with yer sarcasm. I jist meant that ye need to get yerself in order and stop with yer drinkin’. Another thing…”

He was the one rolling his eyes now.

“Mayhap ye need to find yerself another woman to plow. Mayhap ye shouldn’t have sent Zoya away, gods forbid.”

Nay, he did not regret Zoya’s absence. And he was far from ready “to plow” another woman.

“Another thing—”

“Oh, please, not another thing,” he tried to joke.

She didn’t laugh. More waving of the ladle to get his attention. “Ye need to find someone to perform a weddin’ ceremony. Mebbe during that feast ye haven’t yet planned.”

“Whose wedding?”

“Thorkel and Signe.”

“What? He never said anything to me.”

“And why would he when ye’ve been too fuzzy-brained and snarly these past sennights?”

He was about to argue that Thorkel had had plenty of opportunities to approach him, and that he wasn’t fuzzy-brained or snarly all the time, but just then he was distracted by Gorm huffing and puffing as he dragged a huge, obviously heavy bag across the threshold from outside. His unruly hair and grubby tunic were covered with snow flakes. Someone needed to show that boyling the bath hut again.

“What is that?” Hauk asked.

“I found this.” He wiped his runny nose with the sleeve of his tunic. “Over by the place beyond the boats…you know, where all them purty flowers grow.”

Hauk looked at Frida to see if she understood what Gorm meant.

“There’s a pretty damp patch over by the upper fjord where flowers seem to thrive, without any care. One of yer grandmothers planted them flower seeds years ago.”