In fine poetic detail, the man told of Ruby’s ancestor Hrolf, whom Harald had declared an outlaw in Norway, despite his friendship with Hrolf’s father, Rognvald, the Earl of More. The skald traced Hrolf’s descent for eleven generations from a king called Fornjot in Finland. He droned on with his story, finally concluding, “…and the Frankish king, Charles the Simple, gave him the province of Normandy.”
Ruby found the tale absorbing, but wished it hadn’t been told. It called Sigtrygg’s attention to her.
“Where’s the wench that claims kinship to Hrolf?” the king demanded to know, scanning the crowd for her. “Has she been beheaded yet?”
Geez! This guy had a decapitation fixation.
Ruby tried to slide over on the platform so she’d be hidden by Olaf’s massive frame. No such luck! Olaf turned and lifted her down, telling her to go forward.
Oh, great! Here we go again!
Ruby walked forward with chin high, trying to keep her knees from knocking.
“Your attire improves since last we met,” the king commented snidely, seeming to forget that the last he’d seen her she hadn’t been wearing much at all. Ruby wasn’t about to remind him.
“Why have we not seen you at court?”
He’d apparently forgotten that he’d ordered Thork to take her away.
“I stay with Olaf’s family.”
Sigtrygg nodded his shaggy head, remembering now, and looked shrewdly at Thork. “How fast did you rid yourself of the troublesome wench?” He didn’t wait for an answer before turning back to Ruby. “What name do you answer to?”
“Ruby. Ruby Jordan.”
“Like the gem?”
“Actually, my mother was a country music buff. She thought Ruby and Lucille… that’s my sister… sounded like good country-sounding names. Of course, she was proven right when songs with those two titles later became country music legends.”
The king’s good eye lit up with interest. He probably didn’t understand most of what she’s said, except for the music part.
“You will sing for us,” he declared imperiously.
“I don’t sing that well.”
Thork choked on the wine he’d been drinking, and a friend pounded him on the back to stop the fit of laughing that followed. Ruby shot him a look of disgust.
” ‘Tis of no importance,” Sigtrygg said. “Sing.”
Embarrassment flushed Ruby’s face. At home she could accompany herself with chords on her son’s guitar to cover her mistakes. She picked up the lute sitting on a table near the king, wondering if it would work. She strummed it a few times. Definitely not the same, but better than nothing.
“I’ll try,” Ruby told the king, “but don’t expect much.”
He said nothing but looked as if he did, in fact, expect much. What could he do? Chop off her head? Ruby quipped morbidly to herself.
“Before I start, I have to explain a few things about words you might not understand in this song. There was a famous war in my country that’s referred to in this song as the Asian War. It’s about a man, a brave warrior, who was injured in that war so severely that his legs are paralyzed and he’s lost his”—Ruby sought for the right word—”manhood.”
She saw several men in the audience nod knowingly and went on, “His injuries are so severe that he expects to die soon, but still he’s hurt by a young wife who wants more out of life than marriage to a handicapped man.”
The room was deathly quiet. She had the Vikings’ full attention.
Ruby strummed on the lute, singing hesitantly and softly at first of this poor man seeing his wife leaving him to be with another man. Whenever she sang the refrain, in a lower husky octave, where the ex-soldier begs his wife Ruby not to take her love to town, she saw smiles of appeciation dimple some of the fierce Vikings’ faces and tears mist the eyes of others. Inadvertently, Ruby had chosen a song that struck a chord in the hearts of these sensitive warlords. They understood too well the price of battle, knowing it could happen to any one of them and already had to some of their comrades.
The room was totally silent when Ruby finished.