“The other men have gone ice fishing, or rabbit snaring. Still others have gone to neighboring estates to purchase foodstuffs. Praise the gods for this is the first time our jarl has been willing to release coins from his treasure room to help with the famine,” Dyna confided. She was moving about the room, tidying up while she talked, making a pile of Cnut’s dirty clothing, wiping off the washstand, sweeping ashes off the floor near the fireplace. Andrea could have done these small chores for herself—in fact, she’d cleaned the room herself last night—but she refrained from saying so until she got the lay of the land, so to speak. She didn’t want to offend or take away someone’s job.
“A bit tight-fisted, was he?”
“That is not for me to say.”
Yeah, right.
“Handsome as a god he is now that he has shed half his weight. In just a month! How is that possible?”
Andrea shrugged. As far as she knew, from Cnut, he’d really been gone more than a thousand years, not just four weeks.
But Dyna must have thought she was being skeptical about Cnut’s weight loss because she went over to a wall peg and took a pair of male pants which she spread out wide to an almost grotesque size. Andrea assumed it was an old pair of Cnut’s.
“Wow!” was the only thing Andrea could think to say. Was “wow” even a word in this time period? “I mean, that’s amazing.”
“’Tis not just amazing. It’s nigh impossible to believe. Mayhap our lord was taken captive by one of the gods who wielded magic powers over him to make him change in appearance. The jester god Loki would do just that kind of thing.” She looked to Andrea for corroboration of her theory.
“Uh . . . I don’t know anything about gods and magic.”
“Do you know where the master has been for the past month?”
“No. I just met him recently.”
“Really?” Dyna wasn’t buying it. She, like many of the others, thought they were lovers or something close to that. Especially after last night. “I’ll tell you something else, m’lady. Jarl Sigurdsson is a different man now. He cares. Perchance all that fat was making him selfish.” Dyna clapped a hand over her mouth, belatedly realizing who she was speaking to. “Sorry. Betimes my tongue runs faster than my good sense.”
“It’s all right. I won’t repeat what you’ve said.” But maybe Weight Watchers would be interested in a new slogan. Go on a diet and become a saint. No, not a saint. An angel. They could call it Holy Weight Watchers.
Suddenly, she thought of her sister, who had gone to a Weight Watchers meeting one time when she was sixteen to lose five pounds. She’d come away gaining five pounds. Didn’t matter. Celie had been a perfect size six, but some boy had made a snide remark about her “bootie.” Where are you, Celie? I am so worried about you, and I feel so helpless.
“Even when the master was fat, he was a good lover, I have been told.”
Andrea realized that Dyna had continued talking while her own mind had been wandering.
“But then, all Viking men are skilled in the bed arts. Many a fault do they have, the sweet louts, but bedsport is not one of them.” Dyna paused in straightening some of Cnut’s clothing that hung on wall pegs. “Do you not agree?”
At first, Andrea didn’t understand, but then she said, “Oh, it’s not like that with us. We’re just companions. Travel companions.” And, whoo boy, wasn’t that the truth? As for sweet louts. Andrea wouldn’t go that far, but then Cnut was the only Viking she’d ever met . . . before being slingshotted back in time.
Maybe I should hike on over to Scotland and compare notes with Claire Beauchamp Fraser. Fellow time traveler and all that. But, no, that was a different time period.
Yep, I am losing it here.
“Not for the lack of his wanting, though,” Dyna assured her.
“Huh?”
“You said the master was not your lover.”
“I did?” Of course I did.
“And I said it wasn’t for his lack of wanting to be. I saw him staring at your rump when you left the hall yestereve.”
Men were always staring at women’s behinds, when they weren’t ogling their boobs. It was an inborn testosterone trait. Didn’t mean a thing. But she didn’t have a chance to expound on that to Dyna, who wouldn’t know testosterone from turnip juice, anyhow.
Kugge had returned with the clean chamber pot, and Dyna ruffled his hair, gave him a quick kiss, and told him to go down to their sleep nook and change his tunic. He’d spilled something on it. Andrea could guess what.
Dyna was younger than Andrea had first thought, probably no more than twenty-five, possibly not even that old. Her pale blonde, almost white hair was tucked neatly into two braids that she’d wound into a twist at the back of her head. She wore the same apparel Andrea had seen yesterday on many of the women. A long, open-sided apron over a full-length gown, both of a plain homespun material in two shades of faded green. Bronze rosebud brooches held the shoulder straps on the apron to the bodice.