“Pffff!” Toste said, whether in regard to Eirik’s observation or his own awkward situation, he was not sure. It was an all-encompassing “Pffff,” he supposed.
While he stood there with a tub on his head, Bolthor of course launched into one of his poems, sure to be a jest-arrow directed at him.
“Viking men are very clean,
wasting much time on daily hygiene.
Yea, Norsemen are rarely stinksome,
which is what makes them so winsome.
‘Tis why Saxon women think them nice,
unlike their own men infested with lice.
But there are times wenches like a man dirty,
and it’s not in a tub with water squirty.”
“Is that it?” Toste asked Bolthor.
“For now. Methinks I will add some more verses later, when the ladies are nearby to appreciate my sentiments,” Bolthor explained. Eadyth and Alinor were off somewhere preparing for the huge yuletime celebration. Toste hoped to be gone by then.
“Come have a drink with us afore you cart your tub hither and yon,” Tykir invited.
If Toste declined, they would just tease him more. So he sat down, placing the tub and bundle on the rushes at his feet. They all waited till a housecarl poured them fresh mugs of Eadyth’s famous mead before speaking.
“So, how is Esme?” Tykir inquired with a waggle of his eyebrows.
“Just fine.”
“Really?” Eirik asked. “She does not mind being locked in the woodcutter’s hut?”
“She loves it.”
“Naked? Is she naked?” Tykir wanted to know.
“And tied to the bed, as you were?” Bolthor added.
He declined to answer, but Tykir answered for him. “Of course she is.”
Toste felt his face heat with a blush, which was rare for him.
“Eadyth and Alinor are livid over this, you know,” Eirik pointed out.
“Over what?” he asked before he had a chance to bite his tongue.
“The way you are treating a highborn lady,” Eirik said.
They were all grinning at him, clearly not sharing their womenfolks’ outrage.
“Hah! ‘Twas a highborn lady who treated me in the same way. Ah, let me think. Yea, ’twas the same highborn lady.”
His friends continued to grin.
“She deserves to be punished. Surely you recognize that.”
“Toste, Toste, Toste,” Eirik said with a sad shake of his head. “Was there ever a punishment intended for a woman that did not backlash onto the man?”
“Whatever the hell that means!”
“It means that men never win in a battle with women,” Tykir explained.
“I will handle this in my own way.”
“Yea, I agree. Let Toste handle this his way,” Bolthor said.
“You just want more fodder for your sagas,” Eirik commented with a hoot of laughter.
“There is that, of course,” Bolthor admitted, “but in the end, every man must make his own mistakes.”
“She is not so bad off,” Toste argued. And a feeble attempt it was, too. “When I returned to the hut last night, she was whistling.”
Three jaws dropped open, then clicked shut.
“Methinks she likes you,” Bolthor said.
I cannot believe I am sitting here listening to this drivel. “I don’t think so. She bit me.”
“Where?” The smirk on Tykir’s face was pure… well, Tykir.
“What you need is advice from men more experienced in the art of charming women—like me,” Eirik said.
He told Eirik what he could do with his advice. Then, “What I need is to get out of here.”
“Anxious to get back to your punishing, eh?” Bolthor inquired.
“I have a whip I can lend you,” Tykir said.
“What I meant about getting out of here was something entirely different. Number one, I think I should be gone when your Saxon notables arrive. I may have fought against some of them at Stone Valley. Saxons hate Vikings, ’tis a fact of life. No offense to you or your wife, Eirik.”
“This is a rare peaceable time in Britain, Toste,” Eirik said. “Yea, I know many died at Stone Valley, but mostly the Saxons and Norsemen are at a truce, if not peace. In truth, much of Northumbria is overridden with the Vikings who have settled here. We are a mixture here now—a melting pot of the two cultures.”
“Bloody hell, Toste. I am as Viking as you are,” Tykir said. “If you are leaving for that reason, then I should go, too.”