The battle seemed far away. Too far. The woman said that this strange and fearful place, full of so many things he could not understand, was in the future and beyond the great sea from his life in the Danelaw. At first he was sure she lied. But what else could it be? This place might have carts that needed no horse to pull them and halls might be made of glass that stretched into the air, but this was not Valhalla or the realm of Hel. It was just . . . just a place where people lived. The woman’s friend Jake had swords and made food, though he could turn the fire on and off without a flint. That was not natural. But they had boats and clothes Galen mostly recognized. And there was the language. It was the same as the Saxons in the Danelaw spoke, but changed.
As though by time.
It was the very fact that this was familiar and yet strange that argued she told the truth. And if she did, then . . . what was to become of him?
He had left behind the battle to unite the Danes that he was sure was his destiny. He had not inherited his Saxon mother’s magic. His mother had told him, even unto her death, that someday his gift would come to him and he must be on the lookout for it. She had special hopes for him, since he had been born a boy and all the priestesses of the horse goddess Epona, like his mother, gave birth to girls to take their place. She had said that one day he would do great things.
That had just been her desire to fill the hole in her heart left by his older brother’s death. It was Eric who was special. He had their mother’s magic. All Galen had was what he could push a mere man to be. He had always been on a quest of one kind or another, looking for his value. He went vikingr up the Volga River with the Rus and up the Seine. He learned to read and write from monks, that he might serve his people better. He drew the plans for a system of dykes and ditches that drained the fenland though they had not yet been built and invented the bridge that hung from towers and ropes. He had figured out a new way to smelt iron, so the steel for swords and plows was stronger. In honor of it, his mother engaged an artisan to make the sword lost now to the army of this time and carve on it the runes that haunted him. He bound the Saxons and the Danes of his corner of the Danelaw together with strong leadership and fair, in the manner of his father. He was magistrate and defender of their territory. Even though he was so young, skalds sang of his prowess in battle, in judgment, and in a woman’s bed.
Thus had he found a purpose. The battle from which he had been snatched was fought in the name of the second King Guthrum to keep the Danelaw strong. Egil Ingvansen wanted to break the Danelaw into North and South. The Danelaw occupied the entire eastern half of the island, the part closest to the shores of Gaul. One day the Northmen who had settled in Gaul would attack the island. They were Norwegians. You could never trust Norwegians—greedy bastards who were bound to covet the green island sooner or later. But if he was stuck in this time Galen couldn’t even win the battle that would keep the Danelaw united. The Danelaw, split, would be vulnerable. His people would be subjugated. And he, who should be their defender, would have failed even in this most mundane of unmagical efforts.
He must get back his strength and return to his own time. Here he had no value. He did not speak as these people did. No one wore swords, not even Jake, who owned one, so Galen’s skill with one would not be valued. Maybe those men he had seen so far were only peasants who owned no swords. But they did not act like peasants. No one bowed or pulled his forelock, even to the man who wore soft green, who was clearly giving orders. Galen did not understand this place.
The smell of food wafted into his room and he realized he was famished. That stabbed a knife into his belly. He was totally dependent on the woman. She cared for his wounds. She had practically carried him to the boat. She translated for him. She was about to feed him. Was this the way of a Danir warrior?
She obviously despised him for his weakness. Her tone was clearly ordering. She had actually threatened him with starvation if he didn’t take her hellish tablets. He had to admit that he was grateful for the surcease of pain. But to be forced to submit . . . He normally liked strong women. Danish women could inherit property, and many a widow who ran her holdings without the advice or dominance of a man had beckoned him to her bed. But in this woman independence was most annoying. She treated him with such disdain.
She did covet his body. Her blushes were certain proof. That was natural. All women wanted a strong and well-made man. It was a point of pride that he had never paid for sex or taken a woman against her will. What need? But this one resisted her attraction. She grew angry when he laughed at her struggle not to admire his male parts.
She came into the room, holding a bowl heaped with steaming food and a glass of water. “Hope you’re hungry.”
“Ic eam hungrig.” The food smelled wonderful. His eyes strayed from the bowl to her face. She was . . . soft. He liked that. He pushed himself up to sitting.
“That sounded just like ‘I’m hungry.’ ” She placed the bowl on his lap. It was a glazed pottery, not wood or pewter. A stew of carrots and potatoes and beef steamed in the center.
“I’ll go out and get bread and salad stuff tomorrow.” He didn’t understand that, but she handed him a spoon and he dug in, left-handed. The stew was strangely spicy. Probably to cover how bland the meat tasted. And the carrots and peas did not have the sweetness of the land in them—almost as if they had not ripened before they were harvested. He could taste the salt. And was that pepper? Only the richest could afford pepper on their food. It came from the farthest trading posts. She must be very wealthy.
She went away and got a dish of her own and a glass of water. She sat with one foot tucked under her on the very end of the bed and ate. But he could feel her watching him.
“More?” she asked.
He hardly had to translate to ma. He got it from the context and nodded.
She set her bowl aside and left to fill his. “Bring meodu,” he called after her. She poked her head back in. She obviously didn’t understand. “Wn? Bor?” He’d rather have mead, but they would do. A man didn’t drink water except if he was on a fast march or was too poor to afford a better drink.
She shook her head. “The boat does not have beer or wine.” She seemed too tired to speak Latin consistently, but even in her strange Englisc he got the meaning.
He could not hide his disgust. It looked like it was water or nothing.
By the time he was halfway through the second bowl and had drunk the glass of water she brought, he was able to slow down and watch her eat. She was very dainty. She wiped her mouth with a fragile piece of cloth. Was it cloth? He couldn’t help noticing that her neck and her chest were bare since she’d taken her jacket off, as well as her arms. Her skin was almost translucent. Her hair was the color of banked coals. If she would but let it loose down her back it would flow like a river at sunset. Her lashes were thick and dark. They only made her skin seem whiter. The fact that she seemed not to care that her legs and arms were bare argued that she was a prostitute as he had first guessed. Yet wantons did not blush in embarrassment about their desires. She was a puzzle. A beautiful puzzle.
She glanced up from her food to find him watching her. Her eyes were gray-green like the sea now, but in the morning light at the docks today they had startled him with the green of rich summer grass. This woman could have any man she wanted. Would she stay with a wounded man?