Page 50 of The Caged Viking

“Nay. I’ve just been laying cool cloths on his forehead in hopes of forestalling a fever,” he told her. “I know, foolish of me.”

“Hey, whatever works. You should have some of this soup while it’s still hot. Maybe we can get some into Bjorn, too. It really does have medicinal value. And it is chicken soup, not slop, no matter what Egil calls it.”

He winked at her to let her know he’d been aware of Egil’s teasing and took the bowl she handed to him, watching while she ladled its contents. He was still reeling from having discovered her near the great hall a short time ago, contemplating a reversal of her time-travel. If he hadn’t found her there, would she be gone by now? For some reason, that possibility was too harsh to contemplate. Instead, he chose to lighten her obviously somber mood. “What are those white things floating on top? Please don’t tell me they are slugs?”

“No!” She smacked him on the shoulder with her ladle. “They’re spaetzle, or dough balls. Would you eat them if they were slugs?”

“Pff! I’ve eaten worse. Gammelost, for example. Since I haven’t put anything in my stomach since last night, I’m not about to be fussy, even spit-cells.” He shrugged and pretended to be holding his nose with trepidation. But then, as he took his first slurp, his eyes widened. “Mmmm. This is good, even if they are made with spit.”

She thought about correcting him, that they were spaetzle, not spit-cells, but decided not to bother. “Why are you surprised? It’s not rocket science to make soup. All it takes is—”

He put his fingertips to her lips. “Not everything has to be a lecture, Kirstin. Just say thank you.”

She blushed prettily and said, “Thank you.”

Egil returned, dragging a burlap-style, coarse-woven bag that clanked metallically on the stone floor in the corridor. “This is the best I could do out in the field,” he said. “Sweyn has ordered any treasures found within the castle to be brought to him and he will decide who gets what. Apparently, some miscreant was caught stealing off with the king’s gold crown. He now has only one hand.”

Kirstin gasped at that news, and he and Egil looked at her with question. “What do you expect?” Hauk asked. “Thievery must be punished. Even in your time, I daresay.”

“Not like that!” she protested. “That’s…that’s barbaric.”

He pondered, then shrugged. “Barbarians…that is what the Saxons call us.”

“You say that as if it’s a compliment.”

“Is it not?” He blinked at her with exaggerated innocence.

“Loot!” Bjorn said, sitting up suddenly and glancing over at Egil’s sack and the castellan’s treasure chest.

Hauk gave Kirstin a meaningful glare at having taught his son that word, but then used the opportunity to get some of the broth into his son’s mouth. Bjorn resisted but Hauk told him that Egil would show them all the “loot” if he ate.

Thus, Hauk sat on the edge of the pallet, holding Bjorn’s shoulders so that he was half-sitting, and Kirstin took over, using a wooden spoon to feed the broth into his mouth. Half of it ended up running down the dusting of fine hairs on his chin, not yet whiskers, onto his neck and tunic, even into his ears.

Egil made much ado out of everything he pulled out and spread about the floor within view of Bjorn’s bed. It was a motley assortment of goods…everything from a heavy cloak embroidered on the edges with gold thread, a fancy short sword and several heavily embossed knives, a leather helmet, a half dozen shoulder brooches, two rings, a handful or two of assorted coins, and that was just from Egil’s battlefield foraging. From the castellan’s chest, he displayed some valuable spices, more coins, a heavy gold chain, two matching brooches with precious stones, a bottle of wine, and a rare book, which Kirstin told him was a gospel or writings by a saint.

As much as he wanted to see everything, Bjorn was weak and soon succumbed to sleep again. Hauk helped Egil put everything away while Kirstin used a damp cloth to clean up Bjorn’s face and neck to make him more comfortable. “He looks just like you,” she observed.

“He does?” Hauk stared at his son, but could not see the resemblance, except mayhap for the hair color and shape of his nose.

She nodded. “He’ll be a chick magnet, just like you.”

He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was fairly certain she meant that he was comely in appearance, and so he winked at her.

She made that tsking sound she was wont to make around him and said, “Don’t waste your charms on me, Viking.”

“Why? Dost deem yourself untemptable?”

“Hah! You know very well that I can be tempted.”

He smiled then, inordinately pleased. Why, he wasn’t sure. He’d never had trouble attracting females, and it was too late for him to claim modesty. But his wife’s admission that he tempted her…ah, it made his heart swell with pride.

Egil had been following their exchange with interest, his head swiveling from one to the other as he spoke. “Dost want me to leave for a while so you can tup?”

“What?” Kirstin squealed.

Hauk just grinned.

“Can you all stop talking? You’re making my head ache,” Bjorn said, then, remarkably, fell right back to sleep, snoring softly.