Page 35 of Viking in Love

“’Twould seem that the lovely princesses are actually cold-blooded murderesses.”

“Oh, please, Caedmon. I cannot wait for your explanation.”

“He exaggerates,” she said. Though not by much, unfortunately.

“Hardly,” Caedmon disagreed. Turning to his friend, he said dryly, “The five princesses killed Lord Oswald and buried him in a privy.”

“How did they get him through the hole?”

“Men!” Breanne rolled her eyes. “We chopped him up into little pieces. How do you think?”

“Well, Oswald always was a piece of shit,” Wulf quipped, then immediately added, “Excuse my language, m’lady.”

“’Tis no more than we have all said of him at one time or another, with gentler language.”

Wulf was silent for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Really, Caedmon, being around you is such fun.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was raining…babies…

Caedmon, Wulf, and eight of his hirdsmen were riding to the far northern section of his property to investigate the further theft of cattle and the burning of a cotter’s hut, leaving one man badly maimed. It did not help his foul mood that driving rain put a chill in their bones and made visibility nigh nonexistent.

His booting the arses of four princesses out of Larkspur would have to wait until his return. He could scarce wait.

It still amazed him, not only that they had the nerve to kill a man, abusive as he had been, but the lackwit women had the nerve to hide out at his estate, subjecting him to the same royal scrutiny they would no doubt get. That he could not tolerate.

And he was not going to be softened by tears, either, which was what he had faced before leaving this morning. Except for the red-haired witch. Instead of tears, she had nigh spat at him, especially when he had remarked that she had a most interesting freckle on her left buttock. Not that he had seen her buttocks, lying on her back as she had been. But the remark let her know in no uncertain terms that he had seen her nude body.

She was probably checking her backside with a brass mirror at this very moment. Oh, to be a fly on her wall!

Angry as she had been, it had not stopped her from suggesting that she ride along with him and rebuild the cotter’s hut. She was no doubt still sputtering over his coarse response.

He did allow Rashid to accompany them, though, and was glad of his offer. The healer would minister to the injured man. Still, if Caedmon heard one more dumb proverb, he might very well throttle the man, despite his healing talents. And camels! The Arab was obsessed with camels. “If a camel gets his nose in your tent, the body is sure to follow.” Or, “The elephant’s track treads out the camel’s.” It mattered not that Caedmon had no clue what he meant.

Wulf just laughed. At everything. Especially him.

But then Rashid chastised Wulf on his behalf. “One camel should not make jest of another camel’s hump.”

To which Wulf had commented that the only hump he had was betwixt his legs.

To which Rashid had tossed out a comment about camel humps and sex that pushed the bounds of even Caedmon’s sensibilities.

Caedmon was drowning in a half-brained world, and he did not just mean rain.

But the sun finally managed to peek out from behind the clouds as they arrived at the half dozen wattle-and-daub cotters’ huts with thatch roofs set out in the open in this remote region, along with the one that had been burned down. The men and women here tended the fields of oat and barley and cared for the fifty or so cattle that ranged free. It should not be a dangerous job. No one cared about the loss of an animal or two. In fact, it was expected of the Scots reivers; they even robbed each other. But now they had gone too far, with the fire, assuming it was the selfsame villains.

While Rashid worked efficiently on the injured man, taking ointments and strips of clean cloth from his leather saddlebag, he and Wulf talked to the men. They could figure no reason for the destructive act, though the shifty eyes of one of his cotters made him think there was more to this than mere deviltry. After he had dispatched Wulf and three of the men to examine the site where the cattle had been last seen, Caedmon was about to go check on the healer’s progress when a youthling—no more than twelve winters, he would guess—signaled with a jerk of his head that he wished to speak with him in private.

“I know how ta trace the animals. Well, one of ’em,” the boy said, right off.

“And you are…?”

“Edric. Me father is Aldhelm.”

Caedmon nodded.

“One of yer cattle was a special beastie ta me. Raised ’im from a calf. Bertie, I called ’im. He has an all-white face, and a shaved patch on his left haunch where me grandsire stitched ’im up after he was gored by a spiky tree limb.”