THE RELUCTANT VIKING By Sandra Hill

Tykir’s face lit up like a candle. If he had been a dog, he would probably have wagged his tail, Thork thought guiltily. All because he had shown him a tiny speck of attention. Thor’s blood! I cannot allow myself to start feeling guilty over my sons, or I will never be able to leave them behind.

Before he left the courtyard, he called Eirik to him. The boy almost jumped out of his skin at having his father address him in front of his hesirs. “Eirik, I understand you boast of your swimming abilities. Come with us. We shall see what a fish you are.”

Eirik smiled from ear to ear like a dimwit.

Thork’s heart lurched. I better get the hell out of here and back to Jomsborg while I still can. But he was so damned tired of the pretense. Let people think what they would of his taking two orphan boys for a swim.

Thork spent a pleasurable hour with his sons at the pond, for which he was sure he would be sorry later. Dar had many strange knights in his keep these days, any one of which could report back to his half-brother or Ivar or the Saxons.

He turned his back on the boys before entering the water to hide his male parts. He had been in a state of near erection the entire day, thanks to the enticing wench who occupied his mind constantly.

A virgin! By the love of Freya, who would have ever imagined it? Not him! She had the mouth of a seasoned whore and the sexual allure of an experienced woman in the bedding. And all those stories of a husband and two sons had been nothing but lies. He stiffened angrily, to think that he had been so taken in by her guile, that he had thought she might be different from all the other deceitful women he had known. Well, it would not matter much longer. He would be gone from Northumbria soon.

“Is it true that you want to foster at the Saxon court?” Thork asked Eirik on the way back.

His son’s face flushed. “She had no right to tell you.”

” ‘Tis true?”

Eirik hesitated, then admitted, “Yea, ’tis. ‘Twill be hard times coming for the Vikings in Northumbria. ‘Tis logical that we must learn their ways in order to defeat them or to live with them, whichever comes.”

Thork was amazed and proud that his ten-year-old son could express himself so well. Before he could tell him so, Tykir interrupted, “Nay, ‘twould be better to fight them all to the bloody end. We must become better warriors.” He blushed with embarrassment when his father and brother turned to him in surprise.

“So, Ruby was right. You would choose to be a Jomsviking.”

The imp raised his chin defiantly. “Yea, and I will be, too.”

When he got to his chamber, Thork was still towel-drying his hair when he noticed the basket of fresh peaches on the table. He ate one while he dropped his tunic and codpiece on the floor. He ate another as he dressed and combed his hair.

He shaved in front of a square of shiny metal. There were too many days on board ship and on the battle march when filth and fleas bred in a man’s beard. He liked to be clean-shaven when on land.

He reached for a third peach, reminding himself to thank his grandmother for the thoughtful gesture, when he noticed a peach at the bottom of the basket that stood out because of its discoloration and odd bruising. Could it be poisoned? He looked closer. It had been deliberately marked to draw his attention. Then he saw the scrap of parchment under it. The message said, “I’m sorry. Ruby.”

At first Thork picked up the basket, intending to throw the remaining peaches into the chamber pot, but then thought better of it. He shook his head from side to side. It was not such an awful thing she had done, leaving the fruit, but if she thought to make amends for all her lies with a basket of fruit, she would be sore disappointed.