Chapter 8
Back to the future, in reverse . . .
Cnut began to climb up the path built into the motte toward the wood castle that had been his home for more than ten years long, long ago. He had mixed feelings about returning home.
One, he didn’t know if this was a teletransport mistake on his part, like the brief spurt into the Old West had been. Or was this something deliberate planned by Michael? It had to be the latter. Nothing happened without Michael knowing about it. On the other hand, Michael liked nothing better than seeing a Viking fall on his arse, so to speak.
Two, was it a punishment or a second chance for him to make amends for his sins of the past? How did he feel about that? Well, he’d been making amends for a thousand and more years already. Didn’t that count for something?
Three, he had an obligation to help Andrea, who kept swatting at him every time she caught up with him, and calling him various names, like moron, idiot, and the more imaginative nincompoop, whatever that meant, something to do with shit, obviously. Probably shithead. “What about Celie?” she kept asking. Over and over and over.
At the moment, he had no idea where he would be five minutes from now, let alone where her sister was. He could handle only one problem at a time.
Four, he wasn’t sure where they’d land if he tried the teletransport again, considering his first two efforts today. Possibly a cave in prehistoric times. With Andrea along as his very own Ugga. And the only food an occasional dinosaur bone to gnaw on. Michael did have a warped sense of humor betimes.
Five, Cnut had come to enjoy all the modern conveniences of the twenty-first century. How could he now live without them? Cars; restaurants; television; good, plentiful food and alcohol; indoor plumbing; doughnuts (preferably cream-filled); electricity; cheeseburgers; bottled beer; delivery pizza—the list was endless. On the other hand, there was something to be said for the simple life. He couldn’t think of a thing at the moment, but there surely was.
Six, he wondered if he was even a vangel anymore. Had everything that had happened these many centuries been for naught, wiped out, and he was back where it had all begun? But no, evidence of that stood beside him reeking of iced coconut. Besides, he thought, running his tongue under his upper lip, the fangs were still there. And he would bet the wing bumps were still on his shoulders. What did it mean?
Seven, Cnut’s stomach rumbled, and he felt a voracious hunger and thirst come over him. He wanted . . . needed food and drink. Just like the old days. A horn of ale and a hunk of manchet bread dunked in honey would do in a pinch, until something more substantial could be found. Mayhap Andrea could whip up one of her—
“Oh my God! Bears!” Andrea squealed suddenly and grabbed on to his arm, almost toppling him over.
“I wish you wouldn’t swear,” he said instinctively. Then, “What bears? Oh, those bears up on the motte.” He laughed.
She swatted him again. “What moat? Do you see any water or a drawbridge? There is no moat, idiot!”
“Motte, not moat,” he corrected. “I’ll explain the difference later.” To the “bears,” he yelled out a greeting, “Hail!”
Andrea repeated, “Idiot!”
They’d reached the flat-topped surface of the motte where they were confronted by three heavily armed hirdsmen holding forth swords and spears and battle-axes. They wore long bearskin cloaks and pieced–squirrel fur hats with ear flaps and gloves of reindeer hide. Their faces were heavily haired with winter beards and mustaches.
“They’re not bears,” he told Andrea. “They’re men.”
“Why don’t I feel better knowing that?” she said. “They smell like bears.”
“Well, yes, it’s winter, and bathing—”
“Halt!” one of them said.
“Begone, you villains. There is no food for you here,” the second one yelled, raising his spear.
Still another said, “Was it you who killed the master’s prize horse? We could smell it roasting in yon village, all the way up to the castle.”
Andrea shivered like a wet kitten, and put her hand in his. She was probably frightened. Well, of course she was. She thought she was in the presence of three bears.
He squeezed her hand in reassurance and drew her closer to his side. Despite the cold and shock, he had to smile at the sweet scent of coconut that wafted around her. Snow had begun to fall in big flakes that he imagined were coconut flakes come from the sky. Mocking gifts from Michael. He barely caught himself from sticking out his tongue to catch a few.
“Is that you, Ivar?” he asked the young fellow who’d mentioned the dead horse . . . an issue he would address later, but he could guess which horse it was. His other Percheron. For some reason, loss of a horse, albeit a very expensive one, didn’t seem important right now. “Why is your father not here doing sentry duty?” Ivar Jorsson was the son of Jor Snaggle-Tooth, his chief hersir, head of all the Hoggstead housecarls.