Page 94 of Viking Unchained

“Mike and I are going to go watch cows get babies with a hand up their arses.”

There was a resounding silence, then, “No!”

So, in the end, Thorfinn set up acceptable entertainment for them all in the clearing between the farmhouse and the barn. He invited the three uncles, plus Torolf and Ragnor, to Mill Pond Farm, after which they gathered every wooden handle or short pole they could find, much to the consternation of Lydia’s parents. Broom, mop, rake, shovel, tomato stake, bamboo fishing rod. He also invited the Hartleys to come over to get away from the stress. They were going to show these fibbies and overweight local law men, not to mention a few full-of-themselves SEALs, how Vikings played.

And, truth to tell, he wanted to impress his son.

With interchanging guards all around the farm, thus began the “games,” so to speak.

The three women prepared an outdoor feast of hot dogs, which were not really made of dog meat, and catsup, which was not really cats’ blood, and various other foods and sweets. So much chicken that he would not be surprised to see the raven flag of death flurrying over the hen house. Boiled and pickled-red eggs. And deviled eggs; he shuddered to think what they might be. Again, those poor chickens!

Delicious slabs of beef, called steaks, were cooked to juice-dripping perfection over an open fire.

Especially appreciated by all the men. Everyone knew that animal blood, like boar, in small doses gave a man vigor, except for pig blood, which just gave a man running bowels, in his experience.

Various breads, but not a manchet round in sight. Not that he was missing that tasteless staple of the Viking and Saxon table. And homemade churned butter, which had a much stronger taste than the store-bought kind.

Even the Gammelost, or old cheese, that Magnus had brought was on display, though much avoided, he noticed. With good cause. ’Twas said some Viking warriors went berserk after eating that horrid stinksome cheese. Magnus insisted that it reminded him of the Norselands. He did not eat it, either.

He especially liked Mistress Hartley’s berry pies and, of course, Mike’s favorite, chocolate-chip cookies, which his very own Lydia had baked afore coming here. Mistress Denton had brought fresh strawberries from her garden, which were served with cream from this farm’s very own milk.

Magnus and Jogeir were in farm heaven, or, rather farm Valhalla . . . if there was such a place.

If the Dentons were not hovering about him, wheedling information from him, which they sadly hoped would prove he was their dead son inside this big Viking body, then the dog Whiskey trailed him with adoration. It was enough to put a Norseman off his mead.

But he would not let that spoil his day. He was here with his son. And Lydia. Life was good, as it had not been for him in many, many years.

He got up from where he had been sitting on a blanket with Lydia and Mike. “Well, Miklof, are you ready to see the Viking spear trick I told you about?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” his son said, jumping up and down, his shoes flickering lights with each bounce. In truth, the boy rarely sat still for more than a moment. “Why do you call me Meatloaf?”

Lydia shot him a glance of alarm.

Ignoring her caution, he said, with a smile, “Not meat-loaf. Mick-loff. Miklof is just another form of Michael, or Mike. I had . . .” He coughed to clear his suddenly tight throat. “I have a son named Miklof.”

“You do?” The boy’s eyes went wide with wonder. “Where is he? Can I play with him?”

“This conversation is getting out of hand,” Lydia interjected. “Mike, go in the house and tell Grandma and Nana to come out and watch a certain Viking show off.”

Mike giggled and ran off.

Thorfinn glowered at her. “I do not show off.”

She grinned. “We’ll see.”

Soon, Thorfinn was in his element. They had two “teams.” He, Jorund, and Rolf on one side. Torolf, Ragnor, and Magnus on the other. With laughter and jeers, they lobbed the makeshift spears at each other, fielding the “attacks” and turning them back on the assailants. More than a few Saxons and Franks had met their deaths due to this particular talent. His uncle Jorund, though more than fifty, was the best of all; even today in the Norselands the old ones spoke sagas about his renowned prowess on the battlefield. Today he ran a business much like Lydia’s, but he taught only folks crippled in mind and body how to exercise their muscles. In the end, to much cheering, Thorfinn’s team was declared the winner . . .

due mostly to Jorund.

Sinking down to the blanket next to Lydia, he said, “Art thou impressed, sweetling?” He nuzzled her neck. Today, she was wearing a blue-flowered white dress, which could only be described as a short, knee-high gunna, or gown, but the arms and shoulders were exposed to the sun. I wonder if she is wearing any smallclothes. Also exposed were her crimson-painted toes in skimpy barely-there white leather shoes. It looks like her toes are bleeding.

She pushed him away with a laugh and replied, “Very.”

“Dost want to sneak inside and do a bit of sw . . . making love?” See, I can be suave.

She laughed again. “I said I was impressed. Not that impressed.”

“Liar,” he said, but he laughed, too. I am laughing on the outside, but not on the inside. If I laugh on the inside, my you-know-what hurts.