Page 6 of Viking in Love

“When I was in Baghdad, I heard about a method for preventing a man’s seed from taking root in a woman’s womb,” Geoff said of a sudden.

All ears perked up at that announcement.

When he just grinned at them, Caedmon prodded, “Well, do not stop now, lackwit.”

“You take a small, thick-skinned apple. Cut it in half, and pare out most of the pulp. Then you insert it into a woman’s channel, far up, like a tiny cup. And that prevents a man’s seed from entering her womb.” Geoff preened as if he had just gifted them the secret to turning grass to gold. “It is supposed to be done with lemons, but since we have none here, I am sure apples would suffice.”

There was a lengthy silence as the men digested what he had said, turning it over in their minds. One never knew when Geoff was jesting or not, although he did know a lot about the bed arts, or so he often told them.

“I would like to meet the woman who would allow you to do that,” Caedmon finally scoffed. Really, I would.

Geoff smirked, as if he knew a few.

“And how in bloody hell would you get it out?” Wulf wanted to know.

Geoff fluttered his fingertips at Wulf as if that were an insignificant matter.

“The woman would be pissing apple juice for a sennight,” Wulf remarked. “And dropping apple seeds hither and yon.”

“We have all been in the saddle too long. Our brains are melting,” Caedmon concluded. But I wager there will be apples aplenty missing from the larder this night.

“Little Women” they were not…

Breanne sat in the Havenshire ladies’ solar, where she and her sister Tyra were sewing on a tapestry stretched onto a large wooden frame.

The earl rested at the bottom of the now-in-use—Eeeewww!—garderobe, and they waited on tenterhooks for the call to come that he had been found.

Which had not happened, of course

And would not happen, they hoped.

Still, she and her sisters declined to use that particular privy for fear the corpse would somehow come up and bite them in their bare arses.

Vana, whose face still carried the marks of her husband’s beating despite wearing a wimple and head rail held in place by a silver diadem, was down in the great hall, engaging in the chatelaine’s morning rituals of a great keep. Giving the steward orders for the day’s work. Doling out rare spices and foodstuffs from the locked storeroom for various meals. Raking up and spreading new rushes sprinkled with winter savory and balm leaves in the great hall. Laundering everything in sight, including some oddly stained bed linens. During all this activity, Vana sobbed to one and all that she was worried over her “beloved” husband, who had been missing a full sennight now.

Ingrith had planted herself in the scullery today, where she was no doubt bothering the Havenshire cook with her own, superior versions of particular dishes. If the past was any indicator of the future, the cook would soon explode over Ingrith’s interference and threaten to quit.

Drifa remained outside, basking in the unseasonably warm weather, taking cuttings from various plants and flowers. The gods only knew what she intended to do with them.

Rashid was in the stables extolling the virtues of his Saracen stallion to some of the Havenshire housecarls. His advice before leaving them after breaking fast this morn had been: “The camel senses when a dust storm is coming. Be prepared!”

Camels be damned! They were already as nervous as nuns in a brothel, except for Rashid, who would probably say he was as nervous as a camel in a harem. That was why Breanne and Tyra were now in this ladies’ chamber, sewing. Sewing! They might just as well have been trying to spin gold from dross.

Breanne’s calloused hands kept snagging on the silk threads, and she swore under her breath for about the hundredth time since they had buried the hated earl. Truly, she was much more at home building things with wood than engaging in the womanly arts. From a young age, studying a piece of wood, she saw visions in her head of what it could become. Same was true of buildings. Thus, of her very capable hands had been born benches, bedsteads, trestle tables, pretty garden fences, even a pigsty one time, with finely carved runic symbols along its eaves. Her father had nigh had a falling over fit at that one. Yea, it was an odd talent for a woman, but then all of King Thorvald’s daughters had unusual interests.

Tyra, of course, had been a warrior, forced into that role since she was the eldest in a family with no sons. Smiling at her older sister across the chamber, Breanne saw the look of disgust on Tyra’s face and knew that she was just as uncomfortable in this domestic role as she was.

They both cocked their heads to the side to study the tapestry picture as it was evolving. Then they burst out laughing.

“Your peacock looks like a drukkin chicken,” Tyra chortled.

“Hah! Your fine lady has worms on her face,” Breanne countered.

“Those are eyelashes,” Tyra said indignantly.

Breanne squinted closer. “Eyelashes down to her mouth?”

“I will tell you this, sister,” Breanne said, “if ever I was convinced that I will ne’er marry, I have good reason now. I hate sewing. Besides, men are vicious trolls, like Havenshire. At best, they are just not worth the trouble.”